Born Savages

by Cora Brent

  “That sounds good,” I tell my sister when she mentions driving into town for a bottle of wine. When I look up, Ava catches my eye and gives me a tiny smile of sympathy. She opens her mouth to say something but then glances at the nearby camera and shuts it.

  I rub my eyes and see a medley of rainbow color. When I stop rubbing, I see his face. He’s no longer just a painful memory spasm.

  He’s here.

  He’s right out in the yard talking to Cate fucking Camp, likely plotting the next shocking plot twist. At least it doesn’t look like he’s going to follow me into the house. For the time being anyway.

  If Oscar had wanted to find me he could have found me long ago. I was never hiding.

  Why now?

  Of course I already know the answer. Oscar is here for the show. He’s here because someone thought this would be a nice unseemly addition to the story. I’m sure he’s being paid handsomely for showing up. With some bitterness, I think about how his arrival could not have been scripted better.

  “Shit,” I whisper, so softly it could be mistaken for a sigh.

  Alden scurries over and drops a stainless steel pot in my lap. He offers me a delightfully impish toddler grin and announces, rather oddly, “Imma bat!”

  Ava’s still gathering kitchen implements and trying to hide the fact that she’s furtively looking over my shoulder to see what’s going on outside. Meanwhile, I’m at war with myself.

  On one hand I want nothing so desperately as for Oscar Savage, Oz, or whatever he’s decided to call himself now, to climb right back in his pickup truck and return to whatever pocket of the world burped him out. But then the other hand holds out a big stop sign. Because the second I saw him, some shriveled, long dormant piece of my heart swelled.

  This is something I can’t help. This is something that happens despite the fact that I know very well he’s been paid off.

  Ava’s watching me worriedly and trying to corral her son as he starts galloping around the kitchen island carrying a wooden spoon. She looks like she’s scouring her mind for something to say to me and I wish I could let her off the hook. Really though, we’re not the sort of sisters who pour our hearts out to one another. And even if we were, I simply have nothing to say at the moment.

  Then the heavy wooden front door swings open and a second later Brigitte comes flouncing in, all apple-cheeked and bright-eyed. Even though I know I shouldn’t, even though I can see myself in my mind’s eye already in a television promo clip grabbing my sister’s arm in a vice-like grip and hissing in her face, I do it anyway. It’s all I can do not to slap her when I demand, “What the hell have you done?”

  She’s startled, her face frozen in angelic innocence. If a cartoon balloon materialized above her head it would read “Who, me??”

  “I haven’t done anything, Ren,” she pouts and lets her soft blue eyes fill with tears. She looks down at my fingers clamped on her arm, likely wondering what kind of mark will emerge on her delicate skin and how she can capitalize on it.

  I let her go.

  “Damn you,” I choke out.

  “Ren,” whispers Ava with hurt bewilderment. She always has and always will defend Brigitte. Ava is not a good judge of character. Beyond her reputation as a hardcore party girl, she’s really flighty and naive. But she doesn’t have the kind of self-serving nature that our little sister does. She wouldn’t have sold me out in exchange for a few close ups. And the boys wouldn’t have blabbed about me and Oscar, not for any amount of money.

  But all bets were off when it came to Bree. She might have inherited a little too much of Lita.

  I stalk back to my bedroom, ducking in there only long enough to grab my keys and purse. My sisters are exactly where I left them in the kitchen. Bree is traumatized by the way I manhandled her and Ava is patting her injured arm with maternal comfort. It makes me want to scream.

  “Imma bat!” Alden announces winningly when he sees me.

  Even though I’m not feeling especially cheerful I’d have to be heartless not to smile at him. None of this is his fault. He was just born in the middle of it. I smile at the little boy. “You sure are, buddy.”

  “Where are you going?” Ava calls as I head toward the door.

  “Town.”

  Bree practically knocks the kid over as she lunges in my direction. “Wait, Loren,” she calls a little too loudly. “We need to talk. I’ll come with you.”

  “No, you won’t, Brijeeet.” I slam the door without looking to see if she’s got her fingers on the doorjamb. I need some time with no sisters and no brothers and no wronged, angry ex-lovers.

  However, apparently I can’t have some time without cameras. At least it’s just Rash who trails after me. If Cate Camp shows her face right now I just might gouge her artificially inflated boobs with my ignition key.

  I get behind the wheel and wait for Rash to follow me in there. He has stopped though. He’s standing about ten feet away from the car and he’s got his camera off his shoulder and stares down at it with a frown. He looks up and winks, then jerks his head briefly in what seems to be a ‘Get out of here,’ gesture.

  I get it now. He’s actually being decent, pretending to have technical difficulties. He’s trying to do me a favor. Rash does point to the dashboard though and I notice the tiny camera now mounted to it. I give him a thumbs up and get the car pointed toward Consequences. I think about tearing the camera off the dashboard and chucking it to the side of the road but I don’t. In the end I just crank up Katy Perry tunes and sing in a very loud off key voice, feeling perversely gleeful that someone is going to be forced to sit through the footage of my rotten performance.

  It’s good to be out alone. The ever-present feeling of slow suffocation relaxes a little. Mercifully, Oscar was nowhere in sight when I pulled away from Atlantis. His truck, however, was just where he’d left it in the large clearing between the house and the brothel. So he isn’t gone, just hidden.

  The Consequences Convenience Store is just as I remember it. Beside the door they have the same air freshener carousel with probably the exact same merchandise that was hanging there five years ago. An older man wearing a red smock and a tag that says ‘Kenny’ is dusting off a shelf of fishing gear, which doesn’t make any sense because there’s no fishable water within a hundred miles. He doesn’t look up when I enter.

  The booze is still in the back, exactly where it’s always been. Monty used to make raiding the CCS, as we called the store, something of a hobby. He was always brazen and foolish about it so I don’t know how he managed to never get caught.

  The pickings are rather slim here. I’d meant to bring back some wine but even I know a seven-dollar bottle probably isn’t go win over anyone. I grab a bottle of red anyway and snagged a six-pack of beer on my way to the cashier.

  Once I’m done at the CCS, I drop the bags off in the car and take my time, dawdling around Consequences even though there’s little to see. It’s not that it’s the crappiest place on earth. It’s just kind of a dull void. One that’s been loosely sprinkled with people who seem half asleep.

  There’s too many memories here though. That’s the whole damn problem with this godforsaken wrinkle in the state. It was hard enough to keep Oscar at bay and out of my head when he was somewhere unknown. But now he’s lurking back at Atlantis, waiting to assume whatever role in the Savage comedy he plans on playing. If there was ever a good reason for me to ditch this whole project and drive in the opposite direction until I can’t drive anymore, this is it. Gary couldn’t physically force me to return. Whatever kind of power Vogel Productions has, they still might run into some legal trouble if they try to drag me back to Atlantis by my hair.

  My fingernails are digging into my palms. No, I won’t do it. I won’t run. There must be some feisty blood left in me somewhere. Maybe I can call on the spirit of Margaret O’Leary to spare some of what made her so hot-tempered and indomitable. If I’m weak enough to be chased away by a ghost of old heartbreak, then I’ll never rea
lly make much out of myself. I’ll be another sad drifter, perhaps like Aunt Mina, always confusedly searching and always coming up short.

  Let Oscar Savage do his worst. Whatever scripted part he means to play can’t be any more painful than what we’ve already done to each other.

  No. Lie. What I did to him.

  Oscar walked away from me because I told him to. And as I watched him disappear, a boy alone cast out like garbage, I silently pleaded for the world to be kind to him. I begged him to forgive me, to forgive all of us for being too flawed and cowardly to stand up for anything. My own father had stood by with vague confusion and didn’t say a word because he was too drained to notice anyone else. And then Oscar was gone.

  It’s too late now. I don’t even know who he is anymore. I don’t know what kind of revenge he has in mind. I just know that I’ll be taking at least a few cans of that six-pack to bed tonight. I need the edges to be numbed just a little. Hopefully it will be enough. I need it to be enough so that when I close my eyes I don’t dream of him, that I don’t dream at all.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  OZ

  I’ve been here for a week now. A week in this surreal landscape of cameras and crew members and a cast who play-act their daily lives for a fucking paycheck. Ren avoids me and so far I’ve allowed her to. I’ve kind of been skirting around the whole damn lot of them since I arrived, eating alone and refusing to set foot in the big house.

  Yesterday I helped Spencer out, fixing some of the sunscreens that had been knocked loose by a dust storm the other night. Spence seems to regard my presence as nothing out of the ordinary. At least he doesn’t walk around with his head up his hostile ass, like Monty does. But Spence hasn’t asked me what I’m doing here and I haven’t volunteered to tell him. I offered him a hand with some work, which he stoically accepted, and that was that.

  Gary Vogel himself has yet to put in an appearance, although he’s got that insufferable disciple, Cate Camp, following me around. She lurks around corners and coughs up nervous suggestions about what I should say and what I should do and where I might want to think about saying and doing it. I don’t tell her openly to fuck off. I figure silence is enough.

  I watch Ren when she doesn’t realize I’m around. She never really relaxes. She wanders warily around Atlantis looking for something to do and escapes to the nearby town several hours a day to uselessly roam around there.

  Something’s been lost to her these last five years. There used to be an innocent kind of confidence in the way she carried herself. The kind that said even in the midst of her crazy family she at least knew exactly who she was. I’m still furious with her. I still want her like hell, maybe now more than ever.

  Last night I found myself wondering what she would do if I stood outside her window and whistled, just like I used to.

  The temps are still pretty cool early in the morning so I take a hike toward the Harquehala’s to watch the sunrise. One of the bumbling Camera Creeps tries to follow me but I don’t have much trouble leaving him behind. About halfway up a vague trail I search for a flat rock bench that I know is there, close to a cave opening that I also know is there. A few turkey vultures circle overhead for a while and then move on. As the sun climbs to reach its rightful place in the sky I decide I’m done tiptoeing around this Born Savages bullshit.

  The heat is starting to turn fierce. I jog down the rugged trail and nearly topple the huffing and puffing Camera Creep, the skinny one who’s smoking behind the brothel every time he gets a break. I smile to myself as he curses and does an about face, trying to keep up with me. Let him try all he wants. I’m not waiting around for an audience.

  The front door of the big house is unlocked so I stroll casually inside. That pretentious little snot, Brigitte, is sitting in the front room on an ugly chair adorned with grisly animal tusks. She looks up from her tablet where she’s probably scouring the internet for news of herself.

  “Oz!” she exclaims with round-eyed surprise.

  “Where’s your sister?” I answer shortly.

  She gives me an empty-headed look and points down the hall. “She’s in there.”

  I barrel through a swinging set of doors that I vaguely remember lead to the kitchen. Ava is in there, setting a bowl of applesauce on the table in front of her kid. The hand that holds the bowl freezes midair and she stares at me.

  “Imma bat!” squeals the kid.

  Ava sets the bowl down and rests her hand on the boy’s blonde head. “Yes, honey, I know.”

  Brigitte has collided with my back, making an ‘oof’ noise. I swivel around to glare at her.

  “I meant your other sister.”

  “Oh, you mean Loren?” Brigitte says in a stupidly loud voice like she’s got a bucket full of sisters and is easily confused. The years have not made her any less annoying.

  “Ren’s in the barn,” Ava interrupts, watching me curiously as her little boy jumps from one ceramic floor tile to the next. “At least that’s where she said she was going.”

  I mutter a terse ‘Thanks” under my breath and head straight through the side door. I hope Ren’s bratty sister doesn’t follow me. I’ll have to forget how to be polite for a few minutes.

  Ava’s apparently doing the work for me though. I hear her say, “Don’t,” in a warning voice and as Brigitte starts sputtering I let the door close at my back.

  Once I’m outside I nearly collide with Monty. He smells like an ashtray and has his shirt off so all the female world can admire his chest.

  “Where’s the fucking fire?” he growls and I brace for trouble. But he just shakes his head and sidesteps me.

  Suddenly Cate Camp’s blonde head peeks around the side of the house. She looks from side to side like she’s a secret agent and then her raspy voice hisses some orders into her mouthpiece.

  The barn is new and smells of paint. Ren is standing in the middle of it, holding a giant hose. It takes approximately two microseconds for her face to change from surprise to alarm when she sees it’s me. I’m done biding my time with her though.

  “I think it’s time we talked,” I say with supreme coolness.

  She blinks. She looks at her feet and swallows hard. “Okay. What do you want to talk about?”

  You. Me. Heartbreak. Your fucked-up family. This ridiculous show. Five years of silence. Take your pick, sweetheart.

  But none of that comes out of my mouth. Instead I laugh at her. “I don’t know Ren, why don’t we talk about major league baseball standings?”

  She turns her head the other way, says nothing.

  There’s a giant push broom leaning against a nearby wall. I grab it and start carelessly moving it across the floor. I sweep a large circle around her feet. “Or we could talk about gluten free dietary alternatives. That’s absolutely relevant. What the hell do you think I want to talk about?”

  She still says nothing so I keep talking.

  “I know. We could discuss that old Savage-endorsed adage that tabloid publicity is the best publicity.” I get right next to her and her breathing quickens. I reach out and tug ever so lightly on the sleeve of her shirt. “Of course once upon a time when you had the chance to test that out you crawled back into your den like a gutless rat.”

  “I don’t blame you for feeling that way.”

  “Good. I do hate to be blamed for things.”

  “Oscar…” she says, her voice trailing off, her eyes full of pain.

  “I’m not looking for an explanation, Loren. After all this time I don’t really fucking care.”

  Her eyes flash. “Well, good for you. But you seem to be going to a lot of trouble for someone who doesn’t care.”

  “And for someone who used to hold all this celebrity crap in contempt, you’re sure going to a lot of trouble to whore yourself out.”

  She whirls around, swatting me away, her eyes flashing. “That’s not fair.”

  “Nothing’s fair, baby.”

  “Fuck you.”

  “Yeah you did.�
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  Ren knocks the broom right out of my hands. It clatters to the floor. “Why the hell are you here, Oscar? Why now?”

  I kick the broom away. “That’s a real bullshit question to ask me.”

  She scowls, then adopts an ominous tone. “I can try a different one. How much cash did Gary promise you?”

  Laughter erupts out of my mouth. I’m mocking her and she knows it. “Honey, just because you’re for sale doesn’t mean the rest of the world is too.”

  Her mouth falls open and her face reddens. I’ve hit a nerve. Good. I’d like to get on every single one of her goddamn nerves with a cattle prod and juice some sense into her.

  “You have no idea,” she spits caustically and throws the rubber hose clumsily toward my feet like she’s all of a sudden going to be tough. But then she backs away as her eyes skate nervously from side to side like she’s searching for something.

  I get it. She’s trying to figure out how she’s being seen right now.

  “Holy shit.” If there was something nearby to punch I would punch it. Instead I glare at her. “The cameras. The motherfucking cameras. That’s what you’re looking for. You trying on a pose for the best angle?”

  “Shut up.”

  “How about you turn to the side? Give ‘em a profile shot. Suck in your stomach and push out those pert little titties. Didn’t Gary give you orders? Sex appeal matters when it comes to ratings. You know, maybe old Gary should have paid for you to have some work done to enhance your assets. Need to grab that male eighteen to thirty five demographic.”

  “Goddammit, shut up!”

  She’s about to lose it but I don’t feel like shutting up. I take a step in her direction. Her breathing catches and her brown eyes widen.

  What the hell does she think I’m going to do? Hit her? I’ve never hit a female in my life.

  But she betrays herself when she looks down. She zooms right in on my cock like it’s just shouted her name. No, it’s not fear that made her gasp. It’s something else.