The Benders (13 page)

Light on my eyelids draws me out of a heavy cotton sleep. I blink, tryin’ to adjust. My head is thicker than a bull’s dick and my throat’s like desert hardpan. Slowly shapes come into focus. I snap up.

I’m not in the little room with the bed and the beepin’ monitors. I’m not in a piss-covered hospital gown, neither. This room might as well be my old bedroom when I lived with my pa. The dresser’s new, not chipped and cracked on one corner from when I dropped it haulin’ it up the stairs. The sheets are new, too—white, crisp things that slip beneath my hands. But there, on the wall to my left, hangs the framed picture of Derek Jeter that he signed long ago. Not that I loved baseball or anything. Not that his autograph is worth a witch’s damn now, but most art and pictures didn’t survive, so any that do are collected and traded by the well-to-do. And I just liked it. Jeter’s got this look on his face that lets you know he thinks he’s a badass. When I was ten, I thought I was a badass, too. The glass is missing and the mahogany frame’s dented all to hell, but I swear to God it’s the one from my house. And why wouldn’t it be? Nessa must’ve looted the whole damn place and brought it here.

I swing my legs over the side of the bed and realize I’m free to move around. No chains, no handcuffs. My clothes are simple—a white T-shirt that fits perfect and black cotton pants with draw strings. No shoes on my feet, nor any about. I tiptoe over the wooden floor, careful not to alert whoever might be lurkin’ downstairs, and make my way to the window.

A glance to the street below reveals daylight, midmornin’ by the looks of things. The rest of the abandoned houses and the street are dead quiet. There’s a Jeep parked in the driveway, but only one. I see no guards, no sign of my mother. Carefully, I pull up on the window.

Alarms begin blarin’ deep in the house, an awful
bleat, bleat
sound like a dyin’ sheep. Footsteps thunder up the stairs. Panicked, I rear my elbow back and smash it into the glass. Pain blasts up my arm and the glass stays put. I look for something to throw. If I can smash the glass, I can jump—

The door bangs open. Mike, my friendly neighborhood jerkoff, barrels in with a taser. He lifts one corner of his mouth menacingly. “I was hoping you’d try a run for it,” he says, steppin’ forward, the taser out. It snaps with angry electricity.

I ready my body for a fight.

“Now, really, Michael,” Nessa says from the doorway, “is this how we treat our guests?”

Nessa’s dressed like Suzy Homemaker. A frilly apron is tied at her waist and her hair is down in large, bouncin’ curls. She wears a black-and-white polka dot dress and black patent leather flats. The red nails are still there, though. They’re the crack in her façade, the mark of the beast. She ain’t no homemaker.

Nessa takes a step into the room and pushes Mike out. He reluctantly turns off his taser, glares at me, and disappears. My mother takes his place.

“Well,” she places a hand on her hip, “what do you think?”

“About?” I ask. I’m still scannin’ the room for something to throw out the window. The dresser maybe.

“About this house? Your belongings? I’m sure you recognize them.” She points to the framed Jeter poster, then to a stack of novels on the nightstand beside the bed.

“So you got some trash from my old life. Great work. It means diddly.” I take a step toward the bed, sweep my arm down, and knock the books off the nightstand.

She glances at the splayed books and up at me. “You’re being petulant.”

“You’re being psycho. I woke up completely dressed and in another location. Stop druggin’ me. Stop messin’ with my head!”

She purses her lips and sniffs, her hand still clenched around her thin waist. “You haven’t even thanked me for your hand.”

I look down at my mended hand and flex it. It works better, actually, but I don’t want her to know that little tidbit. “I never asked you to heal me.”

“No,” she says, stridin’ in her long graceful steps to the window. “You never asked me to bring you here or take care of you and your brother. You never asked me to save you from the hellish death the warden was planning for you.”

I study her as I think this over. “Warden doesn’t have enough sense to get out of a wet cardboard box. He didn’t stand a chance against me.”

“He had your location all along. He knew about the mall.”

At the mention of the mall, I freeze. “How—”

“I stopped him. I paid him so he wouldn’t draw and quarter you in the town square.”

Suddenly I feel chilled. “My friends woulda—”

“Would have what?” she asks, cuttin’ me off. “Would have come to your aide just like your friend Kimber? Do you know what the warden promised Kimber to betray you?”

I say nothing. My heart beats a tribal chant in my chest.

She eyes me coldly. “A horse. Warden offered Kimber a horse. An old mare with a bowed back and ten teeth in her head. That,” she says with a nod, “is what your life is worth to him.”

I swallow hard and turn to the window. Goddamn Kimber. Me and him used to ride out together when we was just kids. He taught me how to drive a stick shift, gave me nudey mags when my pa wasn’t lookin’. Heat floods my body and my knees feel weak.

“Clay,” she says softly, takin’ a step toward me, “life doesn’t always have to be a fight.” She takes another step. She’s an arm’s length away, close enough I can smell her perfume. “I don’t always have to be your enemy.”

“Why?” My head’s all messed up. I don’t know what to think when I look into irises the same color as my own.

“Why do I want this relationship?” she asks, gesturin’ between herself and me.

I nod, slow and heavy. I’m so tired.

“You’re my son.” She takes the final step and puts a hand on my arm. I flinch, but she grips tighter. “I love you.”

I look in her face. It’s soft, even maternal. But, she’s the enemy. She took Riley away. I yank my arm out of her grasp and step back until my shoulders bump into the wall. “No,” I whisper. “I won’t forget what you done. Not until you bring Riley back.”

She sighs. “Stubborn boy.” She turns and walks toward the door. “Breakfast is on the table.”

When she’s gone and I’m alone, I clutch the wall and breathe deep. I’m light-headed, weak. Thoughts and emotions bounce ’round my head like drugged jackrabbits. If winnin’ me over means my mother trusts me enough to let me walk around without chains, I should play along. I hate her hands on me, her simperin’ smile, but if it means freedom, I’ll put on any damn show she’d like.

I walk slowly to the open bedroom door, pausin’ to look at a mirror hung beside it. My face is skinny, my complexion pale, but I look okay. Near my left ear I see a little bald patch and touch it with a fingertip. Am I losin’ my hair? I run a hand over my head and find no others. Maybe it ripped out last night as I was thrashin’ on the ground. Or maybe it got singed by the taser. Either way, it’s the least of my worries. I head down the stairs.

The wooden staircase creaks under my feet, and Mikey, from his position at the front door, looks up at me with a scowl. I smile at him, just lettin’ him know who’s got the real power here. My attention wanders to the framed photos on the wall down the staircase. There’s one of me and my pa leaned up against a red truck with our thumbs in our belts, hats pushed back on our foreheads. My pa looks young, still weather-beaten and sporting his c-shaped scar, but fresh-faced, maybe thirty. I’m nine or ten with my moppy hair and too-big boots that slipped and slid until pa found me a pair of smaller ones. God, I ain’t seen this photo since…when? Years, probably. Same story with the next photo. This is one of me and Cole sittin’ on the back stoop of the house. I got my arm slung over the little guy’s shoulders. He beams up at me like I’m a goddamned god. The picture brings a swell of tears to my eyes. Cole was a beautiful soul. Even in a faded photo, you can see the light in his eyes. An image of his limp body hits me before I can stop it. I pinch my eyes shut and try to banish the image. Cole. God, Cole.

“Clay?” my mother calls from the kitchen. Bacon sizzles down the hall. Smells wonderful.

I swallow down the tears and wipe at my eyes. Mikey watches from the bottom of the stairs, but I don’t look at him. Better to pretend he’s furniture. A spittoon or a ledge to scrape shit off your boots.

In the sunlit kitchen, my mother looks nothing like Nessa Vandewater Breeder scientist. Hummin’ some tune, she sways over and pours orange juice into glasses on the counter. Two brown squares of toast wait in a toaster to the right of the stove. My eyes travel over to the round six-seat table that sits in a square of sunshine. Betsy and Ethan wait with their backs to the window and their eyes on Nessa. Neither speaks, though Betsy mumbles something to herself real low. I look at Ethan. With that haircut, he looks like Cole from the picture. For a moment the two boys blur in my head. But no, that’s Ethan. Cole’s dead.

“Hungry?” my mother asks, whirlin’ around with the frying pan in one hand and a plate of toast in the other. “Soldiers may not be the nicest neighbors, but they know how to eat.”

The smell of the bacon sends my stomach clenchin’ with want. Nessa sets the bacon on a blue plate with a towel to soak up the grease. The toast she sets next to a rectangle of butter and a glass jar of what looks like berry jam. I sit and take it all in.

“They import the butter and bacon from Idaho.” Betsy chews on her lip like it’s a hunk of bacon. “Piggies. Pig farm. Oink, oink.” She squeals before gigglin’ wildly.

“Betsy, no animal noises at the table,” Nessa warns.

Betsy lowers her head. “Yes, mum.”

“Enough with the mum,” Nessa says. “She watches one British drama and out comes the English accent. Took me two weeks to break her of calling everyone Nigel.”

Betsy snorts a laugh and her plump cheeks jiggle.

“Really,” Nessa says, drawin’ up a round knife to butter toast. She sets the buttered bread on the plate next to me and then picks up another slice. “So,
Cole
,” she says, exaggerating the name, “what would you like to do with your brother today?”

I place my palms on the table. “Listen, I don’t wanna pretend—”

Nessa cuts me off. “I was speaking to Cole. Wait your turn.” She touches a hand to her perfect hair and clears her throat. “Cole, what do you want to do today?”

Ethan looks between Nessa and me with wide eyes. It takes him a long time to answer and when he does, his voice is barely a whisper. “I wanna drive around in the Jeep.”

“A ride,” Nessa says as if mullin’ it over.

Mike calls from the foyer. “It’s not really regulation, ma’am.”

“If we wanted your opinion,” Nessa calls over her shoulder, “we would’ve asked.” She purses her lips. “A ride could be arranged if we had proper precautions in place.”

I look over at Ethan and smile. I like where his head is at. If we get a tour, we can scout out weak points, exits, vehicles that seem underguarded. “A ride sounds nice.”

But when I look at Ethan, I realize a ride with a boy who’s pretendin’ to be Cole could really jack with my head. A ride is the last thing I did with my baby brother. The image of his dyin’ face flashes before me again. I press my thumbs to my eyeballs.

“Headache?” Nessa places her cool hand on my arm. This time I force myself not to flinch. Playin’ her game means playin’ how she wants.

“My head feels fuzzy,” I say. “Did you knock me out?”

She shakes her head. “The taser really did a number on your central nervous system.”

I study her face for the lie that hides there, but can’t tell if she means it or not. I don’t know my central nervous system from my elbow, so I let this one slide. “I’m ready for the ride, though.”

She butters more toast and hands it to Betsy. “In time. For now, eat. We don’t always get meals like this.”

Plump Betsy, who’s gobblin’ up bacon and toast like it’s her job, makes me think they eat pretty well. I eat four pieces of bacon (wishin’ to God I had half a dozen more) and my toast. The orange juice is so pulpy you gotta chew it, but tastes good nonetheless. All in all, it’s the best meal I’ve eaten since being with pa. I watch Ethan chew, glad he’s here to share it. If only Riley could be.

Since we’re all actin’ like a happy family, I decide to try Nessa again. “So, you never did say where Riley ended up.”

Nessa bangs her fist onto the table so hard the plates clatter and Betsy jumps with a yip. “That girl,” Nessa says through her teeth. Then she straightens her face out. “She’s at a work camp for the time being.”

“A work camp?” Ethan asks.

Betsy stops chewing. “Someone has to make the bullets.”

Nessa shoots her an evil glare.

“Bullets?” I ask. “Where’s this work camp?”

“Enough questions,” Nessa says, her smile so tight any minute it’ll crack.

We eat in silence. When Betsy lifts her plate and begins licking it, Nessa stands up. “Betsy, clear the table and wash the dishes. The boys and I will be going for that ride.”

“But I wanna go,” she whines.

Nessa unties her apron and folds it. “Let me freshen up. Michael,” she calls into the foyer, “we leave in ten.”

Nessa walks off, and suddenly it’s just Ethan and me at the table. Betsy’s at the sink, runnin’ water into the basin with enough noise for sound cover.

I lean in and get Ethan’s attention. “It’s okay, buddy,” I whisper. “I know you ain’t Cole. And I know you gotta pretend cause of her.” I nod in Nessa’s direction.

His eyes go wide. Slowly, he nods.

I glance down the hallway and then back to Ethan. “She didn’t…do anything to ya, did she?”

Ethan’s eyes drop to his lap. I reach for him.

A door opens down the hallway and footsteps march our way. Time’s run out. I lean in and whisper in his ear. “Don’t worry. I’ll get us outta here.”

He doesn’t move, just sits stock still as if my words have no meaning. Maybe Nessa’s gotten to him. Maybe he doesn’t have confidence in my ability to take care of him anymore. I let him down. I let Riley down.

Nessa strides into the room. “Ready?” she asks, her eyes narrowin’ like she knows something’s amiss but can’t put her red-nailed finger on it.

I push up from the table.