The Rules of Burken

by Traci Finlay

  I look at the house and back at Jack’s wistful face. “Did you like it there?”

  He sighed. “It was there that I realized a lot of things about life. I shaped my whole belief system from what we experienced there, and realized almost everything we were taught growing up was bullshit. For instance, growing up you’re told there are two types of people in the world: good people and bad people. ‘Be a good person. Don’t be bad.’ Well, I decided that’s bullshit. We’re all both bad and good. I’ve lived with a lot of people, Charlotte, and I can tell you that for every good trait a person has, they have ten bad ones.”

  “That makes sense.”

  Jack nods toward the blue house. “This family, their last name was Barrett. They took us to church every Sunday. They had a couple of their own biological kids, but they wanted to adopt us—not just be foster parents. They brought us in with open arms. Loved us like their own kids. They put us in a private school. A private school, Charlotte! They spent money on our education!”

  He’s being facetious, and my stomach begins hurting. “That sounds like a lot of good traits.”

  “I was causing trouble in school. I’ll be honest. I was a pretty troubled kid, and private schools took troublemakers a lot more seriously. They still administered corporal punishment, but they had to get permission from the parents first. So they called this guy—Eli Barrett, our foster dad. Not only did he not give them permission, but he drove down to the school and yelled at the administrator. I’ll never forget this: he put his hands on my shoulders and said, ‘no one paddles my son but me.’ Charlotte, I actually started smiling. He called me his son! No one had ever called me their son before. Then we got in the truck and went home.”

  I stay quiet for a moment. “So did he spank you?”

  “Nope!” Jack grins at me, but anger is sparking from his eyes, from his gritted teeth. “Instead, as my punishment, he beat the hell out of Nikka and made me watch.”

  My stomach drops, and I whisper, “Shut the fuck up.”

  “And that’s how it went, Charlotte. That barn right there.” He nods toward the dilapidated brown structure in the backyard across the street. “If I messed up, Nikka got her ass kicked. If she messed up, he’d beat the shit out of me. He’d take us to that barn and subject us to his torturing of each other. I bet you my blood is still all over the floor in there. And look.” He lifts a chunk of hair above his left ear to reveal a two-inch scar. “This was from the handle of a rake when Nikka mouthed off to him once.”

  “My god, Jack. I can’t even wrap my head around this.” I’m closing my eyes, trying to stomp out images of little Nikka—even smaller than she is now—getting beat up by a grown ass man. I think I’m going to be sick.

  “But he called us ‘his gifts from God.’” Jack’s voice has lowered considerably, and he even chuckles at that statement. “He mind-fucked us, Charlotte. It wasn’t the abuse that was the worst, it was that he fucked with our heads. Do you know what it’s like, watching my baby sister get tortured for something I did? Do you know the guilt that sits in your stomach from that? I was supposed to protect her. Or how about getting ripped out of bed at three in the morning, hauled out to the barn, and getting your ass handed to you because Nikka wet the bed?”

  “Jesus Christ.” I want to claw at my ears. To go back in time and ask Jack to be even more standoffish, maybe to yell at me some more. I just need to unhear all this.

  “But they took us on family vacations. We went to Disney World. We had the best birthday parties, took family portraits. Held hands and prayed before meals. We were their kids, and this is how families were supposed to be.” He huffs. “We were mind-fucked.”

  “How did you survive this place, Jack?” I whisper, because tears are streaming down my face.

  “Because of the wife. Sophia. She’s the only reason Nikka and I aren’t totally screwed up; she’s the best thing ever to happen to us. She truly loved us. And she only had one flaw—ignorance. She had no idea what her husband was doing.”

  “How did she not know what he was doing to you? How’d you hide that cut on your head?”

  “Oh, he took care of all of that. He made up some story that I was helping him in the barn and hit my head on something. And I had no choice but to go along with it, for Nikka’s sake. He never hit us in the face or anywhere obvious. Besides, it’s not like he kicked our asses every day. Trust me, it didn’t take us long to straighten up, and after a while, the beatings were fewer and fewer. But if we strayed at all, he was quick to get us back in line. And that’s how the Barretts had a perfect family. Everyone was in such awe that none of their children ever misbehaved.”

  “He did that to their biological kids, too?”

  “Oh, yeah. And they lived with it their whole lives, we only had a couple years. It’s no wonder one’s in prison and the other committed suicide.”

  This story’s getting worse and worse. “When did you finally leave?” I ask, shivering.

  Jack sits up on his elbows. “About a month before my fifteenth birthday, Child Protective Services stopped by for a surprise visit. We hadn’t been beaten in months, but Nikka had burned her arm cooking dinner with Sophia the night before. She accidentally dumped scalding water on her arm.” He runs his finger along the inside of his forearm.

  “The social workers suspected abuse, and they wanted to talk to us. They pulled Nikka and me aside, asked us questions, and—this is where my life changed, Charlotte—I listened to Nikka’s responses and realized … she had Stockholm syndrome. She defended him a little too hard, and it scared me. I ended up confessing what he did to us, and everything exploded from there. It turned out he was sexually abusing Nikka, and I had no idea. I was just as guilty as Sophia—I was ignorant.

  “Nikka was so mad at me. She didn’t want to leave. We were both changed after that, Charlotte. She turned into who she is now, and I … well, this is why I am the way that I am.”

  My head feels like it’s about to explode. “Tell me he went to jail.”

  Jack laughs. “He went to jail. They wouldn’t let Sophia adopt us, though. They took her own kids away. Nikka and I were placed in a couple other homes, but there was a huge rift between us because she was so mad at me for getting her taken away from Eli Barrett. She was taken to New York about a year later. So on my eighteenth birthday, I drove to New York and took legal custody of her. We’ve been by ourselves ever since.”

  “You two were separated?” I feel bile rising in my esophagus.

  “She went to the Bronx with a distant uncle of ours. But listen, she doesn’t talk about it, okay? Those weren’t the best years of her life.”

  I watch Jack shift his gaze back to the green and white farmhouse. “I used to run away from that house and come back here and sit under this tree for hours, thinking about my mom and when life was good. This is where I realized that good and bad run hand in hand. Can’t have one without the other.”

  I clear my throat because I’m about to say something that may make Jack haul me out to the barn himself. But I feel strongly about this. “I think you’re wrong, Jack. I don’t think you have to live with both good traits and bad traits.”

  He looks at me and nods. “Okay…” he prompts.

  “It’s true we all have flaws. Obviously, no one’s perfect. But why can’t you embrace the good, and work every day to change the bad? I mean, is that what you’re doing? Embracing both the good and bad parts of yourself? Because if that’s true, you’re being a hypocrite with Nikka.”

  Here come the dirty looks. “So I’m a hypocrite? My sister’s a whore, and I’m a hypocrite?”

  “If it’s true that people are both good and bad, then you should just let her be. You claim that you’re the way you are because you’re both good and bad, but you don’t address the bad in yourself, just the bad in Nikka. There’s nothing wrong with wanting Nikka to be a better person, Jack. With wanting her to love herself. But you insult her, you’re mean to her, and all she wants is your approval
.” Then I go a little too far. “I think she may have a bit of Stockholm syndrome with you.”

  “Said the girl dead set on finding her murderous brother and thanking him.”

  He might as well have taken that rake to the side of my head—I’m actually seeing stars after that. “I guess I’m a hypocrite, too, huh?”

  Jack looks at me and snickers. “Maybe we should do something about that,” he says, slapping a mosquito. “I’ll address my faults if you address yours. Deal?”

  “Deal.” We fall silent, and I watch the fireflies light up in rhythmic, whimsical glows. “It’s getting dark,” I say, rubbing my arms briskly. “And cold.”

  Jack sighs. “Yeah, let’s get going. You have a long day tomorrow,” he teases, pulling himself off the ground.

  I tense. “Jack, I—”

  “Hush,” he demands as he jerks me off my moss blanket and lumbers toward the car. “You’re going to Nikka’s all-time favorite place, and that’s final. And you will like it, do you hear me?”

  I hug my arms to my chest as I follow Jack through the field, and surrender a shy smile. “You’re right, I don’t like you. But you are my boss.”

  My belly flutters when I realize Jack only reserved one room, but I relax when I remember there are two beds. I really hope I don’t snore.

  He doesn’t talk much the rest of the evening, but gives me a detailed presentation on how to successfully use his gun to blow an intruder’s brain out in one easy step. I suggest we leave the brain blowing to him, and he rolls his eyes and goes to bed.

  I have nightmares all night and shoot straight out of bed in the morning, pulling erratic shots of air in my lungs. Jack’s bed is empty, but his gun is on the nightstand where he left it. I fall back onto my pillow.

  The clock adjacent to the gun announces through blocky green digits that it’s 6:54 a.m., and my body has already decided it isn’t picking up any more REM cycles. Not after those eerily realistic dreams starring Ian and co-starring his axe.

  Groaning, I kick off the blankets and drag myself into the shower, filling the bathroom with the humid smell of strawberry shampoo and Ivory soap. I ponder over the deal I made with Jack—for me to stay away from Ian in turn for him being nicer to Nikka. I can see why Jack and Nikka think I’m ridiculous for putting Ian on a pedestal. Regardless of everything Ian’s done for me throughout our childhood, he’s trying to kill me now. There’s no justifying that.

  At 7:55 I’m anxious and bored. Jack hasn’t returned, and I’ve no idea where he is. My mind wanders, and I start imagining Jack running into Ian.

  I’m perched on the bed like a gargoyle, and my eyes gravitate toward the gun. I don’t have a cell phone. I don’t know Jack’s number, so I can’t even call him from the room. I’m stranded. What if Ian’s pulling a Trevor all over Jack’s face right now, and I’m sitting here like an idiot? My fingers magnetize toward the gun, and before I know it, they’re wrapped around the cold, metal grip.

  Ian has to know about Jack; he’d known about Nikka—enough to effectively swipe her timecard. And if he knows about Jack, he probably knows we shared intimate conversations under a tree yesterday, and that we stayed in the same hotel room. I’m sure he knows I work for Jack, and that Jack likes having control, like he does. I split the metal from the wood and rotate my wrist, eyeing every angle of the cumbersome little contraption. Jack could be dying at this moment, and I’m sitting there, intrigued with this gun…

  The door flies open, and the gun slips from my hands and bounces on the bed as I scream, “I’m indecent!” hoping to catch Jack before he catches me. But he’s already standing at the foot of my bed, lightning bolts shooting from his stormy eyes.

  “Are you serious? Were you playing with the gun?” He swoops it off the bed. “Didn’t you hear anything I told you last night? It’s not a toy, Charlotte! You could’ve killed me just now, or shot yourself in your stupid leg!”

  “Sorry,” I mumble. “And my leg isn’t stupid.”

  “If it’s an extension of you, then it’s stupid,” he snaps as he reaches back and slides it into his belt. Ignoring my glare, he taps the power button on the television and draws his keys from his pocket. “Let’s go.”

  “Where’d you go?” I ask, spilling off the bed and tripping behind him as he throws open the door and emerges into the hall, letting the door almost barrel me over.

  “I had to make a phone call, and the reception in the rooms is not so hot.”

  “Where are we going now?” I ask.

  “Some place that’s going to make Nikka very upset that she missed.”

  “Well, I was wondering if maybe we should check out now. This is the second night we’ve stayed here, and if he’s close—”

  He whirls around and puts his hand in my face. “Stop.”

  I swing his hand away. “What is your problem this morning? Clearly you’re in a terrible mood, but stop treating me like you hate the sight of me.”

  “I’m just saying to knock it off with the Ian stuff and whether you’re running to him or from him!”

  “I’m not talking about running to him! I know Ian, you don’t. I know you think that ‘out of sight, out of mind’ works with him, but I’m telling you, it doesn’t. I’m trying to stay one step ahead of him to stay alive, thank you very much. God forbid your plans get ruined because some crazy maniac tries to kill me.” I shove past him and brisk down the hall, halting at the elevators. Unless there’s a button in that elevator shaft that says Safety or Someplace familiar, I’m screwed.

  I turn to see him standing exactly where I left him, at a slight slant with his hands in his pockets and his head cocked, glaring at me amusedly. He finally starts toward me. “Where exactly are you going to go?” he asks.

  I turn in a circle and throw my hands up, letting them slap down at my sides. “I don’t know. I have no idea where I am.” I just want to leave Jack and get back on my own, but I’ve forgotten the name of the town we’re in, have no idea where it is on the map, no place to go from here, and no way of transportation. I’m trapped. Despair overwhelms me, and I start crying.

  Jack shifts. He reaches for me, then drops his hand back down, and just as quickly grabs the back of his head. He looks around the hallway. “What are you doing?” he asks through gritted teeth.

  I plop in front of the elevator and curl up in the fetal position.

  “Oh, come on, Charlotte. Get up,” he says quietly, reaching down and grabbing my elbow. “Come on, people might come out of their rooms and see this. The elevator could open any second, and someone’s going to trip over your … your pile of passive aggression.”

  “Don’t touch me,” I spout, my voice muffled from under my arms. “You’re mean.”

  Jack sighs, crouching down and placing his hand on my back.

  I sniff and sit up, tears smeared down my cheeks like a smudged face painting. “Sometimes I think it’d be better just to let Ian find me and kill me,” I confess. “Just to stop all the nonsense.”

  Two of his fingers find my chin and drive my head up toward him. “Why in the world would you say something like that?”

  “Think about it, Jack,” I chuckle. “I have nothing and no one to live for. I have absolutely nothing in this world.”

  “That’s not true. Nikka really cares for you a lot. You’ve done a lot for her, Charlotte. She needs you. And I—”

  “Please don’t tell me you care about me. You can try to help me feel better, but don’t lie to me.” I bury my head back into my hands.

  “Why don’t you think I care about you?” he asks softly.

  My head tips in haughty laughter. “You? Are you serious? Jack, you treat me worse than Ian does. You’re so mean and hateful.”

  Jack’s shoulders slump. He exhales a guttural sigh and latches onto my shoulders, straightening me and looking into my eyes. “Charlotte. Listen, I know I’m a jerk. I know that. But I was honest with you yesterday, and I’ll be honest with you now.” He dips his face down to sustain t
he intensity of our eye contact, and I think he’s about to tell me more horror stories from his childhood, and I’m not sure if I’m up for that.

  “I have a hard time getting close to people. Think about it. How do you think it felt for us to get attached to someone or someplace just to be taken from there a few months later?” He sits on the floor next to me, dropping his hands in his lap. “It’s also a sort of defense mechanism, I guess. Sometimes, when we’d get to a new house, and there was an intimidating father or other mean-looking kids, I’d build this wall, thinking, ‘Hey, maybe if the dad thinks I’m tough, he won’t hit me as hard,’ or, ‘Maybe those boys will leave Nikka alone if I can scare them off.’ And every day I wake up and try not to be resentful. Every day, Charlotte. But I fail a lot, and I’m really sorry I hurt your feelings.”

  I frown at him. His stories of their childhood make me uncomfortable, not only because they’re vividly disturbing, but because seeing Jack so vulnerable makes me want to hug him, and I don’t know if he wants to be hugged. Then I think maybe he would like to be hugged, and if he would like to be hugged, then maybe he’d like to be kissed, then I absolutely have to stop. I can’t think about that, not while he’s pouring his heart out. So instead, I decide to make this about me. “So does that mean you do care about me?”

  He grins. “Yeah, I do. Now stop this nonsense and let’s go.” He scoops me up to my feet, hitting the down button on the elevator. Then he scrunches his eyebrows thoughtfully. “Did you say you were indecent when you were playing with the gun?”

  I blush. “Maybe.”

  The elevator chimes as the doors slide open. He shakes his head and steps aside to let me in. “For the record, I wouldn’t be offended if you were.”