by Xavier Neal
Doing as instructed, I follow suit, grabbing my bag from the back, the tents, and the cooler. In the process, I notice a gas can, a long bag that reminds me of what we store our Christmas Trees in, and a bag full of supplies I can't quite make out.
“This way,” Sir demands hiking towards the right.
I track behind him traveling through the trees until we reach an area cleared and more ideal for camping. So. We really are going camping. I kill someone and Sir's solution is to take me camping. Maybe this is him in shock.
“Set up.” The instruction is precise and without room for question.
I set up the two tents, both black, both large enough for the two of us to sleep in comfortably alone. While I'm working away with that simple task, Sir busies himself with creating a space for a fire. Once we're both done, he reaches into the bag he brought and offers me a fishing rod. Confused but still not willing to question, I take the rod and follow him down another path to an area that's obviously perfect for the action.
He sits on the edge of the dock and waits until I repeat his motions. After doing so, he baits his hook, without words shows me how to bait mine, and tosses the line into the water.
I do so as well, trying to recall the last time he took me fishing. Before I put my childhood memories behind a stone wall, I managed to store quite a few but they tended to be the ones without him. For the first time, I actually feel guilty about it. I haven't kept many memories of him period. His absence in my life should make it easier to recall his presence, shouldn't it? My hands adjust the pole as my brain struggles harder to recall something between the two of us before Haven came into our lives. The images are choppy like a YouTube video that just won't load.
“Do you remember your favorite book from when you were a kid?” Sir asks, the question breaking through the scrambled memories that won't sort themselves.
Clearing my throat, I shake my head, “No Sir.”
His head nods once, “You used to love this book called The Prince and The Snake.” The title starts swirling around my brain, and I feel it sounds familiar. Curious as to why Sir wants to talk about childhood stories, I listen intently. I may wish for him to just go ahead and loose it on me about the choice I made, but stalling the ass chewing of a life time isn't a bad call. “Remember it?”
I shake my head slowly. “Not really.”
To my surprise, his face twitches threatening a smile. “God, you used to have your mother read that thing to you almost every night. At least when I was home. It was about a prince whose princess got taken by an evil wizard who turned himself into a snake to keep her captive. The prince rushes to save her, attacks the thing, but realizes the only way to defeat it is--”
“To cut the head off the snake,” the answer flows from my brain to my mouth without a second to filter. I guess I do remember.
“Exactly.” Sir's eyes meet mine and for the briefest moment I don't feel those blue stones I'm used to seeing gray are judging me. Exactly. Exactly? Exactly...Oh. I cut the head off the snake. Old Man Banks. I guess it's the only way I knew that asshole would never come for her again. The root of the problem. With a stab, with a less fatal wound, he could survive. Imprisoned, he could post bail, break out, hunt Haven down and attempt to take her away again. Attempt to kill her so no one else would have her. He even said she'd always be his. I solved the problem the only way I could fathom. The only way my brain knew how.
He turns to face the water again and so do I, a small weight lifted off my shoulders. This trip isn't about chewing me out. It's not about an ass kicking he thinks I deserve. It's about me knowing he's here for me. He gets it. A situation to build trust between us. Trust that seems like an odd timing considering that my life is over now.
I can't recall him bringing up past memories of me before. Hell, I didn't even know he remembered what I was like as a kid. Or mom. Much like me her memory has stayed dormant until recently. Until Haven. The images of him throwing her favorite vase against the wall, his oversized hands ripping apart a picture of them, our home movies being cracked in half come treading back to me. He didn't wanna remember. That's why he destroyed everything.
The agony from that nightmare starts punching at my brain with sharp hits. Sharper kicks. It's fighting to understand what happened then and what's happening now. The chaos from the past grinding with the chaos of the future. My grip on my pole tightens. I start to shake in rage; the sound of another family photo ripped echoing in my ears.
“Sir,” I speak up.
“Yeah?”
“Why...why did you destroy all of her things? Why did you get rid of them? Why didn't you cry at the funeral!” the emotions attack him instead of me. At least it's not just me they're after. Fuck. I hate emotions. It's not enough that they want to swim around mind fucking my stability; they have to attack Sir who for the first time I can recall might be trying to help me.
To my surprise, instead of unleashing a mouth full of hate, a steady spew of curses coated in hatred, he merely sighs, “I was angry.”
Confused, I look at his profile. He won't face me. I don't think he can. I observe the stubble of a beard trying to come in. His pale skin. The stress lines under his eyes. Wrinkles across his brown line. Stress. Weariness. Anxiety heavy weighing down to cause a droop on his once stone face. When did he get this way?
“I was livid that she left me, Clint. No. She didn't just pack her shit and leave; that I could handle. Knowing she was alive. Knowing she was somewhere else well and breathing, even if it wasn't with me, I could live with. But I couldn't live without her. I had no idea where to start. Hell, I still don't know how. I had no idea what to do with you. About you. I was pissed off she left me alone. Without her.” The words look like they have been waiting to be hatched for years. Slowly, he turns to face me and I notice the slightest tear in the corner of his left eye. I've never seen him cry. Didn't even know it was possible. “I didn't know what else to do, so I let my anger tear through me. Yes. I destroyed some of her things. But not all of them. And I didn't get rid of them. Well, I meant to, but Mindy had other plans. She put your mother’s things in a storage unit where she told me they would stay until I was ready to face it. To face her loss.”
“And when was that?”
“Hasn't happened.” Sir turns back and tugs on his line reeling in a small fish.
Wow. Sir hasn't dealt with mom's death any more than I have. No wonder it's so hard for him to look at me in the face. I'm a walking reminder the one person he loved most left him with nothing. He didn't mourn any more than I did. Both of us are trapped in her memory in completely different ways. He had a life with her before me. Years together. I wonder if Haven were to die would I handle it any different? Would I be any less withdrawn or cold than him? Is he really as cold as I think he's been or has he been trying in the only ways he knows how? Talk about a cluster fuck.
The silence returns. Sounds of light splashing from the fish deciding whether or not to be lured to their death is the only thing keeping my thoughts from eating me alive. Occasionally my eyes drift over to Sir, the man who’s DNA I have coursing through my veins, realizing with each passing glance I'm not just my mother's son, I'm also his. And I don't know much about either of them.
“What was she like, Sir?”
Not looking up, he remarks, “Who?”
“Mom.” His eyes cut over at me a sec before returning to water. “I mean I was just kid when she died, ya know? And she was quite a woman before she had me. At least...at least I like to think so.”
“She was...” his face automatically lifts in spirits, the memories clearly hovering above him. “She was something special.”
Bravely, I state, “So tell me what she was like, Sir.”
“What do you wanna know?”
“How'd you meet?”
His face tightens like the memory is strangling him on the inside. The reaction should warrant me to back off. Back down. Leave this uncharted territory and never return. It's not like I ha
ven't pushed him enough already, giving nothing in return. But I wanna know. I need to know. If this is the last moment we have together before I spend the rest of my life behind bars, I want to take her with me.
“I was 21, been in the Navy for two years at that point. The boys and I were on leave, so we headed out drinking. We ended up at a strip club downtown. Apparently, we picked the right night because within the first few minutes of being there, your mother appeared on the stage in this little white number. Blew me out of the water.”
My mom was a stripper? Do I even wanna know the rest of this story?
“There was something about her, ya know? I mean yeah, it helped she was half dressed, but there was something about the look in her eyes. She didn't look dead on the inside like the others. There was a spark there. A flame waiting to set the world on fire, it just needed the gasoline. And I wanted to be that gas, Clint...”
“After her performance, she disappeared behind the bar to make drinks. According to the other girls, she only stripped on Saturday nights for one show which was why the place was extra packed; the rest of the week she stayed out of sight behind the bar. When we were getting ready to leave, I looked around for her. I wanted her to have my number. I wanted her to know I was more than just some horny bastard looking to bang a stripper. No surprise I couldn't find her. I figured she went to change but when we made it outside and were headed for the car, I heard sounds coming from the alley next to the building. I took off. Jamie was pinned against the wall by some moron's hips; the bastard's hand was lunged up her top. I fucking lost it. Pulled him off her and started swinging. Punch after punch. She was screaming at me the entire time that 'she wanted it!' that 'he paid for it!' that I needed to 'back the fuck off!’ I didn't give a shit. I couldn't explain to her why I couldn't let that jackass use her like that. I didn't even know her. All I knew was she deserved better than that.
“When the frat boy prick tried to say the same thing, I opened my wallet and threw a hundred dollar bill at him. Told him to keep the change and to consider the ass whooping a fair warning not to come around again. As he dragged his body away from us, Jamie started yelling at me, her fists wailing against my chest. And I let her. I let her swing away at me, the entire time just watching her. And let me be first to say, your mom could pack a hell of punch for a woman barely 21.”
With those words, I smile; the realization my mom was selling her body for money still lingering on the front of my mind. Waiting for me to pass judgment. Waiting for me to file it where it rightfully belongs.
“The second she calmed down, she stormed back in the club away from me. A few weeks passed and there were just a couple days before we were to deploy, so I went out again with some old high school pals to a bar not far from the club. The entire walk to the place I couldn't help but think about her. She hadn't stopped popping up on my brain from the minute I saw her, but as I got closer to where we actually met, it just seemed to get worse. Anyway we got to the bar, sat down, and before I knew it, there was a shot of whiskey in front of me. I looked up and there was your mom, leaned on the bar with that smirk she was famous for. The one that let you knew she had you. She said to me, 'Shots on me. And anything else you need.' And I told her, 'The only thing I need is you'. Meant every word.”
His face disappears back towards the water where he pulls out another successful catch. Son a bitch. I can't catch shit, and he's caught two already. He re baits his hook and tosses it back out.
Mom. A stripper? A prostitute? Wait. My mom? Her sweet face comes back to me like photo. She was so perfect. Her bobbed brown hair that shaped her face. Her high cheekbones and perfectly structured face. The freckles on her slender shoulders. The pieces of artwork that covered her body like it was a canvas dying to be painted. Her jeans with slight tears, her white tank tops, his tags lying on top of the ensemble. Nothing about her screams that lifestyle. Sir's right. Her eyes always screamed life and hope. Just like Haven's.
Still feeling brave, I ask, “Why'd we move away from Dixon?”
“Too close to her past. Believe it or not, Clint, your mom wasn't a runner. She wasn't afraid of much. Fearless to her core, but there was one thing that she couldn't live with.”
“What was that?”
“You know the truth. She hated the idea of you finding out about how she survived before we were together. And Dixon was full of men who had seen her dance when she was a stripper, some of them who had met her in the back. Some of them on the teams you played baseball on. The shame was too overwhelming. I came home one night after you had gone to bed and found her on the couch, bawling. Your mother crying was a rare sight, Slugger. She said she couldn't take it. Begged me to agree to sell the house and move far away. Start over somewhere.
“See that's the thing about the village, Clint. We've all been to that place where Haven is, where we needed to start over and reinvent. It wasn't an accident we moved next door to Felix and Anna. I wanted to protect your mom, and I knew they could help. So I called Felix. We met when I was 16. I did some work with their company. We always kept in touched. Within months, we were packed up and moved to Reckonberg.
“You thought we moved to Reckonberg, because I wanted to. You thought it had something to do with my job and boy...did you hate me for yanking you out of your life like that. Your mother wanted to take the blame, wanted to be what you hated because she thought it was her fault, but I told her to let it go. It was better for her to be protected and you to be angry with me, than her. You loved your mom so much already; I couldn't yank you out of your home and away from her too. So I let you pour all that loathing at me...”
Ashamed, I look down at my rod. He's right. I blamed him day and day out for the move. For everything. At times, I still do. Look at the lengths he went to protect the woman he loved. He gave up a relationship with the only child he had to make sure nothing ever changed my mind about her. Sacrificed something he clearly wanted for her. For me. Mom was right. He was there when he needed to be even if I didn't know.
“Why was mom...” the words taste worse than a shot of fucking vinegar, “stripping?”
“Your mom left home at 17. Her father died when she was a little girl. He was quite older than her mother by a good 30 years. In the beginning, he thought that your grandmother loved him for him, however when he realized it wasn't about him, but his money, he switched everything over to go to your mom when she turned 22. Your grandmother finally got remarried when Jamie was in high school to some man that hated your mom. And your grandmother ignored her. Treated her like garbage, so she left. They had never a great relationship. Her step-father never acknowledged her, even after her mother died in a hit and run. He was pissed off everything she had gone to Jamie. Looks like she didn't trust him either. It wasn't easy for her. But that's the thing about you mom Clint, if you don't know anything else about her, you knew she was a fighter. A survivor.”
Like me. Like Sir. I'm from a family of warriors. None of us have had it easy. None of us willing to just give up. Always moving forward. At the core of it? Love for someone greater than the love for ourselves.
Finally there's a tug at my line and I pull in a fish. He's not big but he's feisty. He's wiggling for his dear life. I have a choice make. Put him in the cooler, keep him, skin him and possibly feed myself what couldn't be more than a snack or let him go like Sir did his brothers. Let him live to fight another day. Return home to his life once more. I let him off the line and toss him back in the water.
Without much emotion in his voice, Sir says, “Good choice.”
The afternoon continues to pass, not many more words swapped between us. At this point what can I say? The wall that we both relied so heavily on to keep us divided, to keep sanity in our lives, has had a sledgehammer taken to it. Demolished. I didn't think when my life shattered to pieces I was going to be responsible for this wall too, but I am.
With the sun finally setting, the two of us head back towards camp, fish-less. Sir starts us a fire and pulls ou
t a couple roasting forks and some sausage.
Sitting on a log across from him, my stick twirling the meat above the roaring flame, in what feels like a mutter, I ask, “Sir...what do you remember about me?”
Puzzled, he raises his eyebrow, shifts around in his seat, and shrugs. “Everything.”
Vague. What else should I expect? Not in the mood to push any more my attention returns to the fire, the exhaustion from the day beginning to slowly take its toll. My shoulders feel like they've been injected with liquid nitrogen, every cell in my body starting to make me immobile. Even breathing seems incredibly difficult. This is another reason why turning off my emotions is critical when in the field.
“When you were a newborn, you barely made a sound. You were so quiet at night I got anxiety that you were alright. I had always heard how much babies cried. How noisy they were. That they fussed all the time, but you...you ever made more than a peep once your mother put you down for the evening. So one night...when I couldn't sleep, I strolled into your nursery and there you were. Bright eyed and wide awake. I lifted you, amazed that you didn't fuss even then. I was always afraid I would drop you. Anyway, I held you close to my chest, my hand cradling your head, and walked around your room just holding you like that. I couldn't believe you were born. All the bull shit we had been through and overcome didn't matter. All the trivial nonsense that gets the better of the world didn't exist. The only thing in that moment was you and me. I was in awe that your mother and I created a living breathing embodiment of perfection. Eventually I settled in your rocking chair, you still clutched against my chest, and rocked us both until we fell asleep. Your mom eventually found us and instead of putting you in your crib, she merely cuddled up beside us. It was then I knew, with the two of you in my arms, there wasn't anything I couldn't do...and there wasn't anything I wouldn't do to protect both of you.”
The words hang in the air along with the smoke coming from his piece of meat. My eyes feel like they're blurry. Most likely it's just the fumes. I sniffle. Once. Twice. There's a giant rip at my gut on the inside and I feel like I'm standing on a new battlefield. But this time I don't wanna fight against Sir. This time I want to be on the same side.
