by Bijou Hunter
Kneeling next to the couch, I whisper, “Tonight, those awful women said things about Anders. Not just insults but threats. I don’t know if I should tell him.”
Mama considers my problem. “I overheard Bronco saying how he sleeps on big decisions. Rather than leap into a choice, he lets his dreams dictate his answer. Why don’t you do that now?”
“But letting a problem fester corrupts a person’s heart.”
Mama smiles at how I remember the ways of the Dandelions. The Collective with Papa feels so long ago. But I will never forget.
“Not for one night,” Mama promises. “Tomorrow, you can tell me what they said. If you fear his reaction, I can tell him. I think Anders protects his heart better when dealing with me. He drops his shield with you, meaning your words have the power to harm him like mine can’t. We’ll talk more in the morning when you’ve created distance from those women’s hurtful words.”
Hugging Mama, I whisper my thanks to her for giving this life a chance. I leave her to meditate, so she can sleep without stress.
Upstairs, Anders paces back and forth across the wide family room. He looks like a dog I once saw in a cage. Growling, the black beast stared outraged from behind the bars. Does Anders feel trapped tonight?
“I love you,” I say, standing near his anger path. “Why are you upset? Are the beer and marijuana no longer working?”
“I feel as if I should have done something different tonight,” he says, as his fists flex. “I don’t think Bronco would have done what I did. I think he would have handled it better.”
“What part of tonight?”
“When those shitty cunts were ganging up on you.”
Tugging at my loose shorts, I frown. “But you’re the reason they stopped.”
“It should never have happened.”
“You can’t see the night clearly. Your anger blinds you.”
“Then, why don’t you enlighten me?” he demands, raising his voice.
“Do you really not understand, or do you want to argue? I won’t do the last one.”
“Everything has to be your way.”
I refuse to answer. I never respond when someone is irrational. That’s why I rarely spoke to John Marks or his vain sister.
“What would Bronco have done differently?” I ask when Anders returns to pacing.
“I don’t know.”
“Would he have punched those women?” I ask, sitting down on the ground and crisscrossing my legs. “Bronco doesn’t like DeAnna. Has he ever punched her before?”
“No, he wouldn’t have hit them.”
“Would he have yelled at them?”
“Maybe.”
“What would he say?”
“I don’t know.”
“Do you think they care when he yells? They didn’t seem to care when I said they were cruel. They only cared when I hurt them. That was a consequence. Yelling at them is only noise.”
“Look at what they did to your fucking face,” he growls, seeming ready to hit me.
“It doesn’t even hurt much,” I reply while stroking my jaw. “Your punch would have done more than leave bruises on their faces. Your hands are so big and strong.”
Anders stops pacing and glares full of hate. He wants me to fear him, but I know he won’t hit me. He’s just having trouble with his body wanting drugs. Though I don’t know what that feels like, I do remember wanting food and having none. When Future would whine, I wanted so badly to tell him to shut up. He was annoying me. I needed everyone to be quiet and leave me alone.
Instead of yelling, I walked in the woods and sat in the grass near the road. I would think of Anders and imagine his life in the town of Elko.
Those things can’t help Anders tonight, but I refuse to be scared to make him feel better. Lies are for special occasions. Like when John Marks wanted to have sexual intercourse with me. Or people in the Village asked where I went when I took walks. Those lies were okay because the people I lied to didn’t matter. Lying to Anders feels wrong.
“I liked it when you fed me food,” I say while he glares at me. “I felt like a baby. You would eat a bite, and then I would. Like you were showing me it was safe. That was my favorite part of the party.”
Anders doesn’t know how to respond. He deflates like a giant disappointed bear.
“Why don’t you use marijuana to relax?” I ask from the floor.
“I don’t want to spend the entire day stoned.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s not a good way to live.”
“But you gave me the alcoholic drink the first night. And I got sleepy, and I didn’t worry. You were trying to help me through my bad feelings.”
“Yeah, so?”
“So, you’re having bad feelings. Why not take the stuff when you’re feeling bad? Then don’t take it when you’re feeling fine.”
“I already told you.”
“That was heroin. You said it was different than marijuana and alcohol.”
“I don’t want to be spaced out.”
“But do you want to be angry and yell at me?”
Anders looks like a scolded child. His gaze searches the room for something. Then, his sad eyes study me.
“Your life is very different now, Anders,” I say softly as I hold his gaze. “You’re worried about a lot of things that you weren’t worried about before. When you’re used to the new stuff, you won’t be as worried. Then, you won’t need to calm down because you’ll already be calm.”
“How can you know I won’t need to be stoned every fucking day you live here?”
Refusing to look away despite his prickly frown, I explain, “Because your life is better with me than it was without me.”
Anders almost smiles before his face turns sad. “What if I get attached to you and your family? Then if you leave, I’ll know how much I lost.”
“You’re already attached,” I point out. “If I ever leave, you’ll feel bad. You’ll drink a lot. And you’ll smoke marijuana. You’ll have lots of sexual intercourse with the bunnies. I heard they’re really pretty. You’ll do lots of stuff with them. But you’ll still feel bad. For a while, anyway.”
I stand up and study Anders. “Eventually, you’ll feel a little better. Just like when you stopped the drugs, and you felt awful. At first, there was no good, only bad. Then, it was sometimes bad. Now, you rarely feel bad. That’s how it will be if I leave you. It’ll hurt, but you’ll survive.”
“But would I want to?”
“I think you can’t help living. That’s why your mama couldn’t kill you. And your terrible grandparents didn’t break you no matter how hard they tried. And the bad biker club group never killed you. And why you never overdosed on the drugs. The world keeps trying to crush you, but your story isn’t over. There’s always more to tell.”
Sighing and uncomfortable from my bruised body, I decide to sit back down. “Then, one day, your story will end like it does for everyone. Until that happens, you need to find a reason to get up and smile. Whether it’s me or riding your motorbike or drinking beers with your friends. Maybe all you need is the sun on your skin or a good meal. You’re strong enough to focus on those positive moments.”
Anders sits on the ground nearby, wanting to be closer but afraid to give me too much power.
“There are many voices in your head,” I say, imagining the noises tormenting him. “They say you’re the devil’s son and a monster and a junkie and a loser. Those voices resented you, hated you, were jealous of you. But they never loved you. And I don’t think you ever loved yourself, either. That’s your problem, really. Not the drugs or feeling different than the rest of the biker men. You see them comfortable in their skin and hate yourself for being in this skin. But there’s nothing wrong with you.”
“Why would my family hate me?” he asks, sounding like a little boy desperate for answers. “Even when I was a baby, they knew something was wrong with me.”
“There’s nothing wrong with you, Anders V
an Der Haas. You’re not evil or the devil’s son. You are just a man. You have many positive qualities and some flaws. But you’re normal, and you don’t need to stop being you to be happy.”
“Pixie, I know you mean well. But it’s not just one person that saw me that way. It was everyone.”
“It’s all perception,” I explain softly as I watch the storm in his eyes subside. “From the outside, the Collective was a strange place filled with crazy people. Since we weren’t normal, the government hurting us wasn’t like hurting normal people’s friends and family. We deserved it. Besides, they were saving us from ourselves. And all it took was one person to start thinking that way about the Collective. That’s all it took with you, too. Your father was a bad man. Therefore, you were bad. And everything your grandparents did afterward was acceptable. They weren’t hurting someone like themselves. Then, other people learned from them and treated you the same way.”
“Who was the one person to ruin the Collective?”
“His name was Coakley,” I say, fiddling with the seam on my shorts. “When his daughter came to the Collective, she owned a heavy heart. I remember her saying she went to rehab and psych wards. I didn’t know what those places were, but I knew she tried to fix her broken heart. Except she couldn’t let go of her pain like how you can’t let go of yours.”
Lowering my voice, I continue, “This woman’s father told people that the Collective tricked Kay into staying with us. She was a victim. Everyone in the Collective was. We were somehow both evil and in need of saving. Destroying our home was for the greater good. Papa wasn’t a person to those men with their demon guns. I doubt any of them ever lose sleep over ending his story. Just like your family didn’t lose any sleep over torturing your body and telling you lies. Your grandparents saw themselves as the good guys. They told themselves lies, too.”
“Then, why do I let them bother me after all these years?”
“I don’t know. I’m not like you or Kay. I’m not sure why you can’t let go of your pain. Maybe you’ve gotten in the habit of thinking negative about yourself. Or maybe your heart hurts less to believe Little Anders deserved to be treated bad.”
“I didn’t accomplish much as a child,” he mutters.
“I don’t know the rules of your world. Are children supposed to accomplish a lot?”
Shrugging, Anders sighs. “I don’t know. Bronco talks about his daughters’ grades. They ride horses. That kind of stuff.”
“What are grades?”
Anders sighs again. “It doesn’t matter, I guess. I feel as if my entire life is a blur. I’m not sure what is real and what isn’t. I have scars,” he says, running his fingers over his forearm. “I know something happened, but my grandparents fucked with my head too much for me to trust the details. Was I ever in any fights? Did I just fall a lot? Why did no one help me if I was always in the hospital with broken bones? Is that normal? My memories don’t feel trustworthy.”
Crawling closer, I take Anders’s hand. “What about your memories of me?”
“They’re more certain,” he says, allowing a soft smile. “But they feel too good as if I’m dreaming.”
“But I’m real,” I say, resting his hand against my chest. “And you’re real. You should focus on what’s happening right now. You have no power to change the past.”
“I don’t know if that’s what I’m doing.”
“Earlier, you were angry that you didn’t do something different tonight. Why would you even worry about that? Did voices from your past say you failed? I certainly wasn’t the one disappointed in you. Bronco didn’t seem upset with you. The only one doubting you was you.”
“Why do I do that?” he asks, sounding young again.
“I think that confused, battered boy you were long ago is telling you lies. But don’t blame him. He was lied to all his life. Treated so poorly by the people he loved. Or maybe you hear your dead grandparents still trying to drag you down. Or that biker man from the Killing Joes who wanted you to be a monster. Or it might be the version of you addicted to heroin talking. But those voices are the past. Their stories are over. Now is your time, and I love this you.”
Looking tired, he asks, “What should I do?”
“Smoke marijuana. Then, when you’re calm, we can have sexual intercourse or talk or watch a movie. There are no rules. Just you and me and right now.”
Anders blinks a few times, and I watch him regain control of himself. He no longer looks like a lost little boy or a raging beast.
As we cuddle on the couch, watching a movie on the regular television while we get stoned, I’m certain the only voice Anders is paying attention to is mine.
PART 6: CUTTING OUT THE CANCER
ANDERS
Back when I was getting clean, the woman at rehab suggested I find a comfort object to focus on when bad memories tried to drag me down. I had nothing of value that didn’t remind me of what I wanted to forget. Even after I built this house and bought a new motorcycle, everything about my present felt connected to my past.
But Pixie is above it all. Her smile has always felt unearthly. As if I was in the presence of someone from a world so far from mine that I would never wrap my head around the specifics. The more I know her, the more certain I am that she isn’t human. She’s an angel or an alien.
When she watches me with her unflinching dark eyes, I feel as if my past drops back into the shadows. I regain clarity and push aside my untrustworthy memories.
In the morning, when I get a message from Bronco saying to meet him at his house to make plans for tonight, I don’t get scattered. I just turn over to find Pixie resting on her back. Her feet are in the air as she studies them. When her gaze notices me, she smiles softly.
“Do I get you to myself today?” she asks, crawling over me.
“For a few hours, yes.”
Pixie rests her forehead against mine and stares into my eyes. As I sense her searching for something, my fingers pause on her naked body. When she finds what she’s looking for in my eyes, her lips curve into a smile. Without her even speaking, I’m certain she’s thinking about how I’m her blond bear or grand sequoia. Pixie always has warm thoughts in her head about me.
After a morning fuck and a hot shower, we join a house already awake. In the backyard, Dove sits in the grass with Future. Fairuza sweeps leaves from the pool area.
“She doesn’t need to clean. I have maids and a gardener to take care of that,” I say, pouring a cup of coffee from the pot Fairuza made earlier.
“Mama likes to care for her home. She kept the area outside our tabernacle clean, too. Sweeping is her way of saying she doesn’t view this house as a stranger’s home. She values it.”
Nodding, I smile when Pixie presses her face against the glass door and waves at her family. They smile and wave back. The four of them love easily. There’s no competition or resentment.
Sure, I notice them get on each other’s nerves at times. But those small annoyances are normal. Whenever someone is irritated with me, I assume I’m a horrible person. My mind immediately reaches for the worst-case scenario. I thought that might be normal. How would I know? People don’t tell me shit.
But now I watch Pixie and her family. Their happiness feels organic and never for show. I have the opportunity to be part of what they share. Every day, I can wake up to their happy faces.
All I need to do is survive the raid on the Village.
Bronco is already working out plans with Conor and Lowell in the basement when I arrive after lunch.
“I looked at that boy last night,” Bronco says when I join them. “He was rolling around, and I noticed his bones sticking out. We’re starving little kids while John Marks doesn’t miss a meal. I’m done waiting. Fuck the Killing Joes. Tonight, we go in, kill who needs killing, and avoid killing anyone else. If a few bullets hit unintended targets, we’ll need to remember how many kids are starving like that boy. Waiting is no longer an option.”
When Bronco decides on s
omething, there’s no talking him out of it. His certainty is one reason I respect him. Bronco grew up treated like shit, too. He made a decision to take Elko and wage a war with the Marks family. That’s why I know he won’t change his mind about the Village.
“While I didn’t like Conor’s idea about us running shit in the Village, I now realize killing Marks and his sheep isn’t enough.”
Frowning, I glance at Conor. His dark green eyes look to Bronco for permission to answer my unasked question. His uncle gives him a head nod, and I realize the young man’s ego is back in check.
“Personenkult has come to the Village,” Conor says, and I frown darker. “Personenkult means a cult of personality. The Village never flourished, even before Marks. But they had a different kind of leadership. Basically, a committee of different factions who negotiated how to go forward. No one guy or group had all the power. But then their elders died, and Marks made promises. These kinds of leaders are always the same. He saw the people were suffering. He focused them on an enemy. He sold them on the idea of returning to a glory the Village never knew. The older Volkshalberd saw that Marks was full of shit, but the younger ones believed the lies. Those assholes will shoot at us, and they will need to die. If they survive, they’ll look for a new asshole to sell them bullshit. Then, next time, they won’t stockpile weapons. Instead, they’ll send a few martyrs out to kill us. The Volkshalberd have proven they can’t be trusted. To protect our community, we’ll need to run theirs.”
“If we get them organized, the club’s power will expand while also improving things for those people,” Bronco says, having bought into Conor’s plans for the future. “We’ll turn a problem into an income source.”
“But first, we kill Marks and his supporters,” Lowell says, eyeing me.
“Last night, I set off more fireworks and watched their reactions,” Conor explains. “The idiots sent those same dumbasses to walk the perimeter. If the Killing Joes are still around, they’re likely in the Village. The good news is the rest of the Volkshalberd hid in their tents when the fireworks went off. If we start shooting, they ought to stay out of the way.”
