The Fifth Circle (13 page)

I couldn’t imagine how she would ever make it in the real world without me. She startled too easily, became overwhelmed by the slightest stress, and had a difficult time making decisions. All in all, Alex was too sensitive to survive without someone to shield her from life’s cruelties.
She needed me to protect her.

I tore my gaze away from my computer screen and glanced behind me where
she lay sprawled across my rumpled bedspread.  One strand of dark hair had escaped her loose ponytail and dangled over her pale cheek. She made a soft “whoosh” as she blew the offending tendril out of her way. She didn’t even notice I’d paused my game to stare at her. She was too involved in her book.

“Vampires?” I asked. She knew I thought those books were a waste of time.

“No. Classic literature.”

“Old shit?” That crap was a waste of time too, but at least it was for a grade. Of course, she really didn’t need to work so hard. It wasn’t like she was headed for the Ivy League, or anywhere else for that matter. I planned to marry her right out of high school and keep her home as much as I could.

“Yeah. Like seven-hundred years old. Dante. The
Inferno
. You guys don’t have to read this?” she asked, batting her eyes innocently. Oh, so Little Miss 3.6 GPA thought she was better than me just because she was in the Honors Class?

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“What?”

“You guys…what the fuck’s
that
about?”

“What are you talking about?”

“You know, I could have been in Honors English if I wanted to.”

“I know. You’re really smart
, Sean.” Alex spoke slowly just like she did when her dad was drunk and on a rampage. The way someone spoke to a man on a ledge. Or, a dude who just got out of the mental hospital. I wasn’t crazy.

“Don’t talk down to me, Alex. I’m not a lunatic…or your father. Don’t act like you don’t know what I’m talking about, either. You think I’m stupid just because I’m not in your advanced classes. Well, if you think you’re too good for me, then just get the
hell out of my house.” I picked up an empty soda can and threw it at the wall. When I picked up a paperback book and aimed it at her, she flinched.

“Fine.” She scooted to the end of my bed and started tossing her belonging
s into her backpack. “Call me later when you’re not such an asshole.” Red splotches dotted her cheeks and she refused to look at me as she slid her shoes onto her feet.

“I’m an asshole?” I blocked her path to the door and tried to force her to make eye contact.

“Yes.” Her voice shook and her chin quavered as she finally looked at me. Her mouth twisted in the way it always did when she was trying not to cry.

“Sorry, baby,” I said softly, stroking her cheek with my knuckles. “Don’t go.”

“Nice try. I’m leaving.” She tried to step around me, but I stepped back until I was pressed firmly against the door.

Our argument was cut short when my mom
’s nervous voice floated down the hallway. “Alex, your dad’s here.” I moved away from the door feeling helpless. Alex trembled. I clutched her hand and she jerked it away. I followed Alex down the hall and the moment Mr. Elmwood saw me, he began shouting.

“You piece of shit son-of-a…If I find out you’re
screwing my little girl, assuming you’d even know how, I’ll cut your…”

“Dad, stop it,” Alex cried. “Nothing happened. It’s okay. I’m coming home.”

“You hear me, boy?” her dad snarled. He was so drunk, he could hardly stand upright. “Keep your hands off my daughter.”

Mr. Elmwood
’s beer-soaked stench wafted into my house and made me gag. When Alex was younger, she once told me she could smell him coming and tried to hide in her closet. Her resistance made it worse.

My wrath kept me immobile
. My fear for Alex kept me silent. Until she was ready to leave, until she was prepared to move out of her father’s house, I couldn’t help her. I fought back tears of helplessness as she hoisted her backpack on her shoulders and followed her father out the door.

She tossed me a look of despair, and I started after her, but my mother placed a gentle hand on my arm to hold me back. “Don’t honey. It’ll just make it worse.” I watched until Alex went inside, then went into my bedroom to cry alone.

I thought about my mother’s words: “It’ll just make it worse.”

Maybe it was true
. My interference wouldn’t help her unless she was willing to help herself by leaving. Perhaps it was an excuse. What was
worse
anyway? Was it worse to leave someone in an unbearable situation, or to take a risk and help? Which was worse: inactivity or ill-considered action?

I thought about Alex and the pain she’d endured, her broken, damaged
nine-year-old body forced to grow up too soon, and every single person who refused to listen to the pleas of the troubled Droste boy.

“It’ll just make it worse,” my mother said.

That’s just an excuse people use to make themselves feel better for doing nothing.

***

All my problems began when my father left. It wasn’t really the leaving that messed me up, just the general lack of supervision. I never really felt like a child of a broken home. His absence went unnoticed for the most part because he’d never really been a part of my life. Not even when he still lived with us.

He wasn’t a drinker, a womanizer, an abuser, or a bum. He worked a lot, gave my mom his paycheck, mowed the lawn, and did everything expected of him until the day he decided he didn’t want to do it any longer. He wasn’t mean, nasty, or hateful
—just gone. He sent child support payments, birthday and Christmas cards, and even visited regularly for a while.

Sam Droste wasn’t a bad man
, just a bad father. I often wondered how someone could decide they didn’t want to be who they were, but as I grew older, I could understand him better. I think a lot of people find themselves stuck in a life they don’t want to be a part of, but most can’t find the courage to break free.

My father was not a coward. He left when I was six.
I’d never felt angry with him for leaving. Maybe if he’d stayed, the anger would have simmered, boiled over, and molded him into the monster so many fathers became.

After he
moved out, my mom left me to my own devices while she tried to pick up the threads of the duties he’d left behind. There was money to be earned, lawns to be mowed, sinks to be fixed, and while she did all these things, I entertained myself. The other boys on the block didn’t hang out with me. Their micromanaged lives left little room for idle play. In between birthday parties, football practice, and church youth group, they peered at me through the windows of their moms’ minivans as I rode my bike alone.

When I turned nine, I began to feel the sting of rejection, the hollow ache of being left behind. The other boys played football
. I spent my time alone or with Alex. The other boys were wiry with thin cords of muscle beginning to develop thanks to their structured, sports-centered lives. My scrawny build stopped about three inches short of my peers. They spoke of team parties, touchdowns, and fishing trips. I talked non-stop about Sim City and Kingdom Hearts. Only Alex understood me.

Alex went to her aunt’s house for a week while I spent
the hot, humid summer days sweltering at home. Our air-conditioner broke the week before, and my mom had to wait until her next paycheck to fix it. I wasn’t supposed to leave the house until she got home and I’d never disobeyed her before. Even with the windows open, the temperature inside the house crept upwards and my shirt stuck to my skin. I finally peeled off my clothes, donned my swimming suit, and used the bathtub as a swimming pool.

Lying back in the tepid water, I closed my eyes and pretended I was Shark Boy. I kicked my imaginary webbed feet and slid underneath the water to practice
my breathing techniques. Swimming through the ocean waves, I set out on a quest to find Lava Girl, for only I had the power to save her. Of course, in my fantasy, Lava Girl possessed chestnut hair, ocean-blue eyes, and a laugh that sounded surprisingly like Alex’s melodious giggle. Opening my eyes, the illusion was shattered. Only clear water and porcelain could be seen.

A trail of water followed me to the kitchen where I rummaged through the cabinets in search of blue food coloring. Better, I thought, as I
prepared to dive in. The bathtub almost looked like a real ocean, only on a much smaller scale. Bare feet slapped against the hardwood floor as I searched for flippers, and when I caught a view of the neighbor’s above-ground pool, there was little choice to be made.

Three hours passed in blue-watered splendor before the Davidsons came home and caught me. No permanent damage was done, but the expense
of cleaning and refilling the pool was enough to ensure our air conditioning didn’t get fixed for at least another paycheck. I cried when my mom told me I couldn’t play outside for a month.

I shouldered the blame for the pool incident
—a boy of nine clearly knows better. The fire incident was truly not my fault. People shouldn’t leave lighters just lying around. And, the thing with the pit bulls…I only let them out because I felt sorry for them. I was going to tie them to a rope and walk them, but they ran. When I chased them and they caused that car accident, it was just a byproduct of my original mistake, not a pre-meditated act of deliberate juvenile delinquency.

By my eleventh birthday, I’d been in the back of three cop cars, visited the family court judge twice, and been dubbed the “trouble
d Droste boy.” But none of it was my fault. According to the neighbors, I was merely a product of a broken home, the result of my father leaving. They said I was a poor, unsupervised kid.

When you’re thirteen and the same things happen, though, pity turns to scorn
and you’re labeled “that little bastard who turned the Davidsons’ pool blue.” Or, “that shithead who set the Olsen’s carport on fire.” Or, “the freak who went to the mental ward.” Nobody feels sorry for you after your baby fat gives way to acne and your knobby kneed innocence fades to gangly awkwardness. Nobody feels sorry for you because people can forgive many indiscretions, but being different is unforgiveable. 

Chapter 13- Alex

Behind them was the forest full of black

(Canto XIII, line 124)

My father glared at me and chugged half a beer in one gulp. “I don’t want you over there anymore.”

“Why? He’s my friend.” 

“Friend
s with benefits?”

“We’ve been friends since
first grade. Why can’t you leave it alone?” Tears pooled in my eyes and overflowed, blurring my vision.

“Find a new friend.” His eyes flickered toward the television, and I knew I’d escape
d this particular argument unscathed. Castigating an errant daughter was way less appealing than a televised sporting event.

“Fine. I’ll go over to Chelsea’s.” I started for the staircase.

“Not tonight,” he replied without looking at me. My mother shook her head a little, and I knew not to push him any further. It was her job to provide him with beer until he passed out while I hid in my room and waited for his dark mood to pass. As I threw my book bag on my bed, I remembered Sean’s warning and quickly locked my door. One could never be too careful.

I changed into a pair of sweats and ripped the scrunchie from my hair. As I reached for a hairbrush, I accidently knocked over a glass picture frame Claire had given me for my tenth birthday. I bent down to pick up shards of glass and pricked my finger. A bead of bright red blood pooled up, then spilled over and dropped on the image of
me and Claire. It looked like an inkblot. I reached down to wipe it off, but instead, the blood smeared across my sister’s thirteen-year-old face, obscuring it in a red haze.

Claire and I were close when we were younger, and I often wondered what had happened to tear us apart. I believed it was jealousy and I wished I could explain to her that her feelings were misplaced, that she should save her anger for someone worth envying.

Up until Claire turned thirteen, she was Daddy’s favorite, and I tried to do everything I could to be like her. I asked Mom to braid my hair so the two plaits fell in twin rivers down my back, but my hair never looked like Claire’s. Her locks were thick enough to stay corralled in their restraints, while my fine strands were forever escaping and frizzing around my face. I tried to sing like her, and dance like her, and play ball like her, but I think she got tired of me copying her, because when I was seven and she was ten, she stopped doing all the things she used to do.

That’s when Daddy started taking her fishing on the weekends. He said I was too young to go, and I cried and begged him to take me. I said I’d be good and catch twice as many fish as Claire, but he said I’d have to wait until I was older. My skin burned with jealousy when Claire packed an overnight bag. Her dark braids bounced with excitement as she left with Daddy on a Friday night to go to the cabin at the Lake of the Ozarks. It hurt me that they got to have special Father-Daughter time while I got stuck at home with Mommy.