by S.A. Bodeen
The guests entered through an awning and red carpet set up for the evening. After they gushed over us for a moment or two, they handed off their coats to the servants. Then they were checked off the list which, I suspected, read like a who’s who of anyone of any technological and scientific importance within a hundred-mile radius of the Space Needle. My mom loved causes, especially the ones that aimed to save the environment or children in developing countries, and was on the board of many charitable organizations. So the other half of the list most likely was a who’s who of prominent local activists.
With all the activists and scientists, many of whom were probably animal-rights people, there must have been plenty of vegetarians in the room. There was no way to tell simply by looking which faction any of them might have belonged to. This was the party of the season, and everyone was in tuxes or long evening wear, mingling around, holding their drinks until a tinkling bell signaled it was time to gather around the overflowing buffet table.
The three of us lined up next to Mom, who wore a red velvet ball gown and held Terese, who wore a smaller version. First Dad made a short speech, thanking everyone for being there. Kind of pointless, in my opinion, since people would have paid good money to attend that function.
The tradition held that Dad was to carve and present the first few servings. So, as Dad sliced with a flourish into the turducken, revealing the layers of varying shades of poultry, the room was still. Except for the enthusiastic and merry orchestra playing “I’ll Be Home for Christmas.”
The smells of the trinity of poultry mingled with the rest of the feast, creating a tantalizing aroma. Thinking about it so many years later, I had to smile as I thought about what might have been going through people’s heads as they lined up.
The people who didn’t eat meat wondered how to get out of partaking in what was obviously the pièce de résistance of the Rex Yanakakis Christmas Eve Dinner.
The animal-rights people cringed, not wanting to voice their objections for fear of pissing off Clea Sheridan Yanakakis, who was very generous to their causes with her husband’s money.
The people who did eat meat tried to ignore the jittery noncarnivores surrounding them.
In his black Armani tuxedo, Dad set the first slice of turducken on one of the expensive china plates in a tall stack beside him and held it up. “Get a plate from me and you can pile on the rest of the buffet. Who’s first?”
He passed out the plates. Murmurs arose until the noise level was back to normal. From my place beside Mom, I glanced around the room as people ate, most avoiding the 430-calorie serving of striated poultry resting in an ominous fashion on their plates. Then, after that first turducken was served, Dad started making the rounds. I watched him make small talk, perhaps asking if they tried the turducken yet. He’d wait while each guest had eaten at least one bite in front of him, ever the dutiful host, making sure his guests were taken care of.
After everyone had been served, the Yanakakis children were ushered upstairs where we changed into pajamas and ate our own turducken dinner. Eddy and I loved the stuff. Grumpy Els brought two huge pieces up to our TV room. Rich and flavorful, turducken was perfect for making Christmas Eve dinner memorable.
Like every year when we’d finished eating, Eddy and I hid in the library, the one room in our mansion where guests thought they could escape to, unnoticed. Eddy and I had learned that during parties the library was where we were most likely to spy someone saying or doing something … well … interesting.
Our social life was sheltered, to say the least. Rare were the moments when we were allowed to go somewhere on our own, without supervision. We lived for the unpredictable moments that Dad’s dinner guests usually provided.
His belly full like mine, Eddy actually fell asleep in our hiding spot in one of the long storage seats along the window. We’d stuffed pillows in for comfort, too much so in Eddy’s case. Though the music was muffled from my vantage point, I heard the orchestra move on to traditional carols.
I stayed awake by humming along softly with the songs I knew. During “Hark! the Herald Angels Sing,” someone came in the library. I lifted the cover to hear better, trying not to make any noise.
I immediately recognized the man by his voice: Dad’s accountant, Phil. He was with a woman.
She groaned. “I ate too much, this dress is tight now.”
“Stupid turducken.”
I heard sloppy sounds.
The woman spoke again. “Do you think Rex realized how many vegetarians had their first bite of meat in like, decades, tonight? I can’t believe no one just flat out refused.”
“They could have just said no.”
“How do you refuse Rex Yanakakis? Especially when he’s standing right there.”
Phil’s voice was a growl. “He loves that.”
“What do you mean?”
“The meat. He knew half the guests were vegetarian or vegan or PETA. It was a game.”
“A game?”
“Oh yeah. The let’s-see-what-I-can-get-them-to-do-just-because-I’m-Rex-Yanakakis game.”
“He said that?”
Phil laughed. “Of course not. It’s always like this with him. He won’t brag or use his name to get preferential treatment, but once in a while, he has to test his power to see how far his name and money and reputation will go. Or how far they’ll get someone else to go.”
The woman’s dress rustled. “He does so much good with his money.”
“Exactly. Which is why he can get away with this. That’s why we all let him get away with it.”
“I can’t believe he would think that way.”
Phil chuckled. “If Rex is anything, it’s calculating. His whole life is planned. When he was eighteen, he lost out on a prestigious fellowship to a Chinese girl. Of course, by that time his parents were dead and he had plenty of money for school. It still irked him. He told me he swore at the time it would never happen to any kids of his. So what’s he do? Marries a hot Chinese chick.”
“I thought she was Hawaiian.”
“Yeah, she’s Chinese, too. He sends those twins of his to Chinese school.”
There were more sounds, smooching.
She spoke again. “So what do you do for him? I mean, any company secrets you can share?”
“Oh, I’m working on something big.”
“What?” She squealed.
“I could tell you, but then I’d have to kill you.” Phil pushed out a contented sigh. “Let’s just say I’m going to retire a very wealthy man.”
The orchestra began a slow, beautiful rendition of “O Holy Night.” Goose bumps rose on my arms. Suddenly my stomach stuffed with the turkey stuffed with a duck stuffed with a chicken was not as settled as previously thought. I shoved the bench cover as far as it would go, springing up and out, racing past the two adults. They were locked tight in an embrace, and if they noticed me slipping by them, they didn’t let on.
I tried to make it to the bathroom, but my foot caught on the hallway carpet. I tripped, landing on the floor in time to spew my guts on the shoes in front of me—white orthopedic oxfords that belonged to Els.
I hadn’t thought about that night for a long time. Maybe I’d forgotten it.
Well, until that moment after the turducken dream. The memory of that Christmas Eve was so clear, like it had just happened. That totally sucked to hear Phil say those things about my dad. I was eight. Dad was my hero. I thought he was everyone else’s, too. I never doubted it before that night.
But thinking about that night, about Phil, I made a connection. How deeply was he involved in the Compound and the secrecy surrounding it? How far had he gone to keep it a secret?
I tossed and turned, my heart pounding. I must have drifted back to sleep at some point, because the next thing I knew I awoke to warm hands on my face, slapping sweetly.
I tried to see through my grogginess and my hair as my hands automatically formed a shield.
Terese giggled.
M
y eyes snapped into focus. A blond-haired cherub sat on my chest, gurgling as it smacked me again. One of the Supplements. What the—!
“Reese!” I sat up and pushed the thing off me. “Get out of here!” I tried to jump out of bed, but my legs were entangled in the sheets. I only succeeded in falling onto the floor, dragging most of the bedding with me. “Get out!”
“Calm down. He’s just a child.” Terese bounced the Supplement in her arms. “Quinn, can you say ‘Eli’?”
“Get out of here!” I yelled, throwing pillows at her, hard, until I drove them out of my room. I kicked free of my covers and lunged for the door, slamming it behind them.
My legs shook too hard to hold me. I collapsed against the wall, my hair covering my face.
My breath came too fast.
My heartbeat skipped.
Sweat broke out on my forehead.
One of the Supplements had touched me.
For six years, no one had touched me, skin on skin.
Little Miss Perfect didn’t understand. She didn’t understand how our circumstances would deteriorate; forcing us to do things no one should ever have to do. Things necessary for our survival. Things that would become impossible to carry out if we ever came to care for the Supplements.
With both hands, I smoothed my hair back from my face, holding it there for a moment as I tried to compose myself.
Still trembling, I walked into the bathroom and didn’t get in the shower until it was steaming hot. I wanted the fragrant soap and the flowing water to wash away the unwelcome touch, the dream, the memory of that long ago Christmas party—everything.
It didn’t work. Because no matter how I tried, I couldn’t erase how fresh and soft those little hands had been on my face. I refused to let myself dwell on how exquisite that warm, innocent touch had felt.
A touch like that was meant for someone good.
For someone who deserved it.
A touch like that was not meant for someone like me.
THAT MORNING WAS ONE WE HAD MUSIC. MOM HAD BEEN giving us lessons since we were little. Lexie played piano, so with Terese’s oboe, my trumpet, and Mom’s cello, we played a lot of group pieces. We weren’t a string quartet, but Mom created her own arrangements for us, based on many classic ones.
We had been working on her variation of Beethoven’s String Quartet no. 15 in A Minor. Mom led us off, the deep tone of the cello setting an eerie aura. Each of us was to join one by one, almost in a fugal pattern, as we gradually repeated the melody in succession. There were leading tones on the strong beat, and then there were quiet, slower half notes that felt mysterious, almost sinister.
Not a picker upper, by any means.
My trumpet took the violin’s part, which had a difficult entrance of running sixteenth notes. I took a breath, pressed my lips to the silver mouthpiece, and began.
Lexie slammed her hands on the keys, the sound loud and discordant. “God, Eli. You were frickin’ late!”
I took my lips away from the mouthpiece. “Was not.”
Mom kept playing. “Watch your language, Lexie. You’re both doing fine; let’s pick it up where we are. Come on.”
Lexie groaned. She started playing again.
Terese and I joined in. Terese’s oboe played the part of the bass, and the rest of us played in opposition to her. The intensity, and volume, grew as we moved through the piece. We were good.
The piece was long, but we had no more interruptions or mistakes. As it came to a close, the harmony strengthened and progressed to the simple ending, which was a solo for me with accompanying chords from Lexie. At least our instruments cooperated, no small feat considering Lexie’s clenched jaw and drilling stare.
For a few moments, I felt like we belonged together, like we had bonded through the music if not through circumstance. At the end of the session, we put our instruments away in silence. Lexie stormed away quickly, while Mom fiddled with the latch on the cello case, distracted. Terese just smiled to herself and didn’t make eye contact with me.
My palms were sweaty and my stomach felt queasy. Music was supposed to be soothing. Like most of our music days, I found myself grasping my trumpet, taking my time as I shined it before putting it back into its case. Despite the discordance, I was reluctant to end the session. But with a click, the case closed and I was back to feeling alone.
In the middle of the afternoon, Dad came into the library where I was reading. “I’m working on inventory and I need you to help,” he announced flatly. Inventory sucked.
I tossed Stephen King onto one of the leather chairs.
Dad sent me to one of the larger storage rooms and left me on my own with a yellow legal pad and a pen. Everything had to be accounted for. Every jar of pickles. Every bottle of laundry detergent. Every box of feminine hygiene products. Lovely.
The task took me about three hours, filled several pages, and yielded few surprises. For five years I’d done this chore, dutifully following my father’s orders. I’d watched the piles of jars, bottles, and boxes slowly shrink. Not to emergency levels, but still.
When I came to the boxes of cleaning supplies, our least necessary inventory in my opinion, I noticed an opening at the back, between stacks of paper towels and cartons of toilet paper. No clue why I bothered moving them aside. Before I’d always just estimated by the height of the stack. But as I shifted them for the first time ever, there was a plastic tub that seemed out of place with all the cardboard containers around it.
I lugged it down from the shelf and read the one word written in black Sharpie on the blue cover:
Eddy
My knees buckled. I dropped to the floor. With one trembling finger I traced the letters. I hadn’t seen his name in writing for so long, hadn’t thought of him for a few hours. Seeing those letters together, so familiar and heartbreaking at the same time … I tore off the cover.
Plastic bags of Jack Link’s. Lots of them. Beef jerky, turkey jerky, sausage sticks. Eddy’s favorite food on earth. I ripped open a bag of jerky and stuck my nose deep inside. I breathed in the one scent that could bring my brother alive to me. Inside the storage closet, I remained on the cement floor for a long time, inhaling my twin.
My stomach rumbled. It occurred to me I might be holding an important find. The wrapper crinkled as I bit off a hunk of jerky.
A bit past its prime. But still tasty. Still meat.
I downed two-thirds of a bag before replacing the top of the tub. I carried it into the kitchen. Terese sat at the counter. Mom sliced tomatoes for a salad.
Despite the deep circles under her eyes and slumped shoulders, Mom smiled when she saw the look on my face.
“What’s that?”
My hands guided the box onto the counter. I slid onto a stool.
Terese read the cover. “Eddy’s box?”
At one time, we all had a box, a box filled with our favorite treat. Snickers for me, plain M&M’s for Terese, coffee-flavored Nips for Mom, Corn Nuts for Dad. I didn’t know what Lexie’s was. She never ate junk food at home, but she must have had a box, too.
Mom lifted the cover and laughed. Her eyes lit up for the first time in a while. “I hated this stuff. It smelled so greasy and smoky. He always reeked of it.”
I held up a bag. “It’s meat.”
Mom’s brow furrowed. “It’s still good? I don’t want anyone getting sick.”
The ingredients list didn’t indicate much. “I’m not sure it was ever good.” Yet moments before, chewing the jerky, I’d tasted the saltiness, felt the weight of it, the substance that vegetables and other foods lacked. “Yeah, it’s still edible.” I realized how much I missed meat.
“But it belongs to Eddy.” Little Miss Perfect looked from me to Mom.
Mom smiled at Terese. “Lovey, I don’t think Eddy would mind.”
Terese opened a bag. She gnawed off a chunk of jerky. “Rather difficult to chew.”
Mom reached for a piece.
Together, they chewed the jerky. Sloppy and loud.
“It’s not so bad.” Mom went back to making a salad.
Terese picked an unopened bag out of the box and ran from the room.
I told Mom, “Be right back.” There was a little business I had to take care of. In the hall, I caught up to Terese and grabbed her by her hood, yanking her back. “How’d you get in my room?”
Her mouth was full and she finished chewing as she tried to wrestle away from me. “Opened the door.”
I gripped harder and pulled, so that she was bent over backward looking up at me.
“You can’t have just opened the door, it was locked.”
“Ow, let go!” She put a hand on the wall to keep her balance.
“Tell me how you got in.”
She rolled her eyes. “I read Oliver Twist.”
“Say what? And he picks locks?”
She twisted as far as she could to one side, but I had such a tight hold of her hood, she only succeeded in almost strangling herself. She huffed. “Not exactly. But it got me interested, so I found a book in the library.”
I shook my head. “On how to pick locks.” You’d think I might have found that one at some point.
She spoke fast, probably figuring I’d let her go as soon as she told me everything. “It was that one for kids that shows how everything is made. It tells how things work and I learned about locks and figured it out.”
I let her go and stepped back, leaning against the wall. I lowered my voice. “So what other locks have you picked down here?”
She stuck out her tongue as she skipped backward, away from me. “I’m not telling you!” And she ran off down the hall.
I went back in the kitchen. “She’s such a little freak.”
Mom shook a finger at me. “You shouldn’t say that about her. And I think she’s better now that she moved in …” She trailed off, like she didn’t mean to say the words.
“Moved in where?”
“The yellow room.”
