by Bijou Hunter
I slide on loose shorts and one of Anders’s many black shirts. He smiles at the sight of me. I take his hand in both of mine and walk with him to the kitchen. He dumps food, beer, and marijuana on a tray. He never releases my hand while he prepares goodies for outside.
I watch him rather than what he’s doing. Anders is like a wild animal. When he’s calm, I imagine him as a tenderhearted pet. When he’s angry, I’m aware I might die from his ferocious strength. The reality is he’s both terribly kind and kinda terrible. I choose to focus on the first part.
The dark yard lights up when he hits a button. I walk outside to find a mild evening. He rests food on the table before taking the marijuana with him to the spot where I sit in the grass.
“Do you ever sit out here at night?” I ask.
“I’m usually at the clubhouse until it closes at two. I don’t like sitting in the house alone.”
Nodding, I watch him light the marijuana. His gaze holds mine, still trying to intimidate me. If I didn’t know he could be different, I would think Anders was a bad man. Big and scary, he uses his size to scare me so he can get his way.
But I do know he doesn’t always act so hostile. The question is who controls Anders the most—the softer man who opens his heart to me or the angry man who thinks I’m his enemy?
“You should eat more,” Anders says as I sit between his legs and rest my back against his chest. “You’re so thin.”
Feeling self-conscious, I rub my stomach. “Do you think I’m ugly?”
“Of course not. You’re the most beautiful girl in the world.”
Smiling back at him, I caress his jaw. “Your beard is all sticky from my vagina.”
“Call it a pussy.”
“Call what a pussy?”
“Your pussy,” he says, reaching between my legs and cupping my vagina. “And call my penis a cock. When you say the other words, I feel as if I’m talking to a doctor.”
“You have a lot of rules.”
“You’re the one in a cult.”
Ignoring his tone, I explain, “There weren’t so many rules at the Dandelion Collective. People were happier. When they got angry, they fought in ways that didn’t hurt the other person. Then everyone danced and hugged.”
Anders doesn’t say anything, so I turn to look at him. He’s watching me with his pale blue eyes. They aren’t sad right now. Instead, they’re harsh like when he wanted us to leave his house.
“Why didn’t your parents love you?” I ask, trying to understand how Anders became the man he is now.
“My father was the devil.”
Anders wraps an arm around me and forces me back against his body. I don’t fight his need to have me close. In my head, though, I want to push him away and explain how he can’t use his size to browbeat me.
One day, I will tell him those words, but not yet. My family needs peace, and Anders is overwhelmed. When everyone is healthier, I’ll stand up to him. Even if he sends us away, we’ll be strong enough to go.
I think of what he said about his father. “How can that be? The devil isn’t real, but you are.”
“He was a biker with a devil tattoo on his chest and the first leader of the Killing Joes.”
“Why are they called that?”
“The area they took control of was run by a bunch of guys named Joe. So, they had to kill Joes to be in charge. Get it?”
“And your father was the leader?”
“Yeah, he was the president before Lonnie killed him. They called him The Devil.”
“Did you know him before he died?”
“No. My parents weren’t a couple. He saw her walking home from church one day. That was the story my grandparents told me, anyway. Well, first they claimed my parents died in a car accident when I was little. My grandparents never admitted they lied. They just changed their stories and pretended nothing was different. I was never sure what to believe. That’s why I’m not sure about my mother. Like, was she wild or a victim? Even now, I don’t know.”
“Then tell me what they told you, and I’ll understand how it might be lies.”
“In their version, my saintly mother was walking home from church. I always wondered why she couldn’t get a ride. My grandparents weren’t poor. We had friends. But I never asked.”
“So, she was walking home.”
“And my father, The Devil, snatched her right off the street. Dragged her back to a crack house. That was another weird thing. I grew up knowing there were drug dens in our area, but the addicts used meth or heroin. No one used crack. I suspect my grandparents didn’t know what drug was popular at the time.”
“What did your father do at the crack house?” I ask, hoping to keep him focused.
“Raped her for days, they say. Later, when I was as an adult, and they were dead, I paid a dirty cop to see if my grandparents ever filed a missing person’s report for my mom. If a good church girl goes missing for three days, people call the cops. But there wasn’t anything. I did find out she ran away a lot as a teenager. That’s also why I think their story was a lie.”
“Was The Devil a real man, though?”
“Yes. I saw pictures and videos of him once I joined the club. That was one way that Lonnie and Melanie convinced me to become their muscle. They said I would be following in my father’s footsteps. Of course, Lonnie skipped the part where he killed my dad. People always tell me only half the story. But, yeah, The Devil was real. I didn’t get any blood test to prove he was my dad, but the guy was huge, and I look like him. Not a lot. I don’t look a lot like my mom, either. I guess I got a little from a lot of people in my family.”
“And your mom is dead?”
“My grandparents claimed she hung herself. The autopsy said she OD’d, though.”
“Do you remember your mom?”
“No, she died after the state took me away from her and handed me over to my grandparents.”
“Why would they do that?”
“My mother tried to kill me when I was a few months old.”
“How?” I ask rather than why. Yet, I think why would be a better question.
“Everything I know is secondhand.”
“Of course. You were a child.”
Anders doesn’t speak right away. I hear him inhale the marijuana from his free hand while his left holds me against him. I run my fingers over his knuckles, patient for his answer. I noticed how Topanga talks a lot and enjoys the noise. I grew up where people might not talk all day. I can wait for however long Anders needs.
“I cried a lot as a baby,” he says finally. “Too much, I guess. Maybe because she was hurting me. My grandmother claimed she found little bruises on my legs when I was first born. She claimed my mother pinched me. I was evil, you see?” he mutters, chuckling angrily. “Like that kid in ‘Rosemary’s Baby’ with the devil eyes. That was me, so my mother had to kill me. Wasn’t her fault, really.”
Resting my head against his arm, I think of him as a tiny person. Long ago, Anders was small and defenseless and surrounded by enemies. Is that why he assumes the worst about me?
“She put a pillow over me and started pounding,” he says in a tight, harsh voice. “Her friend walked in on that and called the police. My grandparents claimed her friend was a whore who did cocaine and had babies with three men. I only know she saved me. But my mother broke several of my bones and cracked my skull before her friend stopped her.”
I think to say something reassuring to Anders. Maybe how his mother’s behavior wasn’t his fault, or she was mad after what happened to her. I could blame his grandparents or his father.
Or I can hold him and promise he’s full of sunshine.
Yet, I suspect he doesn’t want me to speak. As if he’s ready for whatever I might say, and then he can claim I’m wrong. Anders wants to argue. Mama always battles with people, even when she knows she can’t win. More than once, she’s told Dove and me to avoid being like her.
“My temper is a little monster inside me,” sh
e will tell us. “I fed it too much when I was young. Now, that monster makes my life harder. Don’t feed your monster.”
I choose not to feed Anders’s monster right now. Rather than speak, I stroke his hand holding me. My lips nuzzle his large bicep. I know he wants affection.
His family never gave him any. Then he got big and strong, and women wanted him for sexual intercourse. They wanted orgasms, and softness doesn’t seem to be necessary to achieve them. No one touches Anders tenderly. His big biker friends won’t hug him. I can do that if he’ll let me.
“The police dropped the charges against my mother in exchange for her signing me over to my grandparents. I think the cops heard my mom’s story about the devil raping her and figured she was crazy. Then my mom hung herself or OD’d, and no one had to pretend to care about what happened to me anymore.”
“Were your grandparents always bad?” I ask when he falls silent for a long time.
“Yes.”
“Did they ever love you even a little?”
“No. When they lost their jobs and needed money, they had me fight grown men. It was a show, and people would bet on the winner. Everyone laughed and cheered. I don’t know why I didn’t run away. Where could I go? No one wanted me. Not even when I was little. Why would they want me when I was big and ate a fucking feast every night? I guess I should have taken off, anyway. I could have still fought, but the money would have been mine. I don’t know why I never thought of that.”
I consider suggesting how Anders was a child, and children aren’t smart. Or how he was hit so many times in the head that thinking was probably hard.
But those words feel wrong. Anders knows he stayed because he loved his grandparents, even if they didn’t love him. That’s how the Volkshalberd are with John Marks. Not all of them, but some believe he is their messiah and will lead them from the darkness into the light. When he lets them starve and makes their lives worse, they view it as a test of their loyalty. If they suffer enough, they’ll prove their love for him.
I think Anders believed the same about his grandparents. He didn’t know any differently. Just like how the people in the Village don’t. They were never Dandelions. The Volkshalberd have always embraced hardship. They don’t celebrate blessings, instead treasuring their suffering. If they don’t know better, they can’t change.
Somehow, Anders learned better, though.
“How did your grandparents die?”
“I killed them.” When I say nothing, he sighs. “I wish I killed them. Once I had money and pussy and drugs from the Killing Joes, I stopped coming around my grandparents. They offered me nothing, and I offered them nothing. That was my revenge. I don’t think they cared. Or maybe they did. It’s possible they were so poor without me that they starved to death or ended up homeless. I don’t know. Once I started getting high, I didn’t give a shit about them or much of anything.”
“Do you miss getting high?”
“Yes,” he says in a rough, rage-laced voice. “I miss how easy it was not to care.”
“Why can’t you get high now?”
“Is that what you want?”
Glancing back at him, I shrug. “How can I answer when I don’t know anything about getting high?”
Anders glares at me, but I just turn back around. “You don’t know much of anything.”
“I feel as if you think it’s okay to say hurtful things to me, but I’m not allowed to say them to you.”
“Fuck it. Say them. I don’t care.”
“I think you do. I don’t believe you would have visited me or brought me food if I said cruel words to you.”
“I only came around so I could fuck you.”
I feel my heart deflate. All the energy leaves my body. The dream I had earlier feels like a lie. I believed Anders was a blessing. He offered my family food and a home. He was so handsome, and I would provide him with the warmth he craved.
Now, I realize I don’t understand this world or this man. He’s cruel for no reason. I would never hurt him for fun. I threatened him last night to save my family. I don’t know how to make people listen in this world, but I wouldn’t hurt him just to see him suffer.
My tears fall silently. I feel as if I should run inside and find my family. But I don’t move. Anders isn’t the man I thought, and disobeying him isn’t safe.
“I don’t trust anyone,” Anders says, holding me tighter. “Even Bronco. I know he doesn’t trust me, either. But I’ll die for him. He gave me a chance, and I’m trying to do right by this club. But maybe it’ll never be enough.”
Wiping my eyes, I think of Mama curled up with Dove and Future. Their stomachs are full. Today, Dove’s skin got so warm in the sun. She smiled more than I’ve seen in so long. Future seemed alert in a new way. Even with Perry missing and our confusing new home, Mama felt this world’s promise.
And I’ll endure Anders’s cruelty to keep my family safe. That’s the choice I make in this story. In another one, I might push away this big angry man and risk returning to the Village. Or possibly, in a different story, I sneak into my old home and kill John Marks and free the Volkshalberd. Another version of me might be very brave.
But in this story, I choose to submit to Anders’s whims, so my family can enjoy another day of plentiful food, sun, and safety.
ANDERS
Why am I talking about the past with Pixie? Aren’t men supposed to put their best face forward when winning over a woman? I should do pushups and other masculine shit. Show her how much cash I have hidden in the house. Anything to prove to Pixie that I’m a good provider. Is that what Bronco did with Lana?
Instead, I talk about drugs and shitty families and killing people. Almost as if I want Pixie to run away screaming.
Of course, she can’t. Her family is downstairs with nowhere to go. Is that why Pixie cries quietly rather than telling me to shut the fuck up? With her back against my stomach and the shadows in the backyard, I can’t tell what her face is doing.
“Back when I was high, I used heroin,” I say and light another joint. Once I inhale, I nudge her with the hand holding it. “It’ll help you relax.”
When Pixie barely moves, I assume she’ll ignore me. Then she takes the joint and inhales in a way that makes me think she’s done this before. After she exhales, she offers no thank you or smiles. I hear her sniffle, and her hand moves as if she’s wiping her cheeks.
I keep my arm wrapped around the front of Pixie, needing her close, fearing she’ll run.
“Heroin made me feel better. I never worried about anything. But that also kept me from caring about anything. I don’t remember large parts of those years. They’re just gone. Days would pass without me realizing it. I’d notice my knuckles were busted as if I’d gotten in a fight, but I didn’t remember being in one.”
I take a hit off the joint and then hand it back to her. She does the same, and I feel her relax a little. Her quiet crying is over. I want her to lean back against me, but she’s holding her body forward. Does she want space in general or just from me?
“I was the muscle for the Killing Joes. No one asked my opinion on anything. They just told me who to hurt. I started wondering if I was killing innocent people when I was high. Did I hurt women like my father maybe hurt my mother? Was I scaring kids like I got scared? Did I break their little bodies like mine had been broken? I didn’t know, but I couldn’t stop getting high. I’d rather be a mindless monster than face how meaningless my life was.”
Pixie pulls her knees up toward her chest. She wants to comfort herself. I know that move. I did it when I was a kid, hiding from my grandmother’s attempts to cleanse the devil from my soul.
“Stopping heroin is painful too. Why would I want more pain? If I got high, I didn’t have to feel bad. But, of course, I had to stay high to avoid the pain. It wouldn’t work forever. That’s how people die. They need more drugs more often to keep hitting the high. Eventually, their bodies give out. I knew that would happen to me one day. I wasn’t scared o
f dying. I figured it was better than living.”
Pixie finally leans back against me, feeling small and frail next to my large body. I press my lips against her head and inhale the scent of her still-damp hair.
“But Bronco didn’t kill me, and I decided that meant something.”
“Why did he want to kill you?” she asks, finding her voice again.
“I told you that on the road.”
“No, you said you had another club. You told me that Bronco didn’t kill you. That’s why you are in this club.”
“I guess I didn’t explain,” I say and then sigh. “The Killing Joes wanted Elko. Or Lonnie did. He was our president, and he got the idea that we weren’t making enough money up north. In the city, we had to fight against gangs and the mafia. Everyone got a piece. Lonnie wanted more. Elko is a nice little setup, and he planned to steal it.”
Nuzzling her head, I chuckle. “Lonnie was so fucking stupid. I didn’t realize that then. I never knew what was happening in the club, really. I understand better now because I follow around Bronco a lot. But back then, I figured Lonnie knew how to run a place like Elko. Now, I realize he wouldn’t have the brains to handle so many little details. His men could sell dope, women, and guns, but they mostly just used the dope, fucked the women, and shot the guns in the air. We were a joke. Violent and evil and fucked up, sure, but small time. Just keeping track of the taxes here would have gotten Lonnie in trouble within the first year. He didn’t know how to do more than hurt people.”
“And you killed him?”
“For Bronco. To pay the price of safety here or to repay him for not killing me. I didn’t have much of a plan. I only knew the Killing Joes ambushed Bronco’s friend and brother-in-law. That was the kind of dumb shit Lonnie did. He had no plan. He saw a chance to kill one of the Executioners, and he fucked up Wheels. He wanted to piss off the Executioners, and he did. Ambushing Wheels didn’t help the Killing Joes take Elko, though. Lonnie only knew how to murder people, so that’s what he did. He was a moron.”
“Like John Marks.”
“Exactly.”
