Faster on My Own: Chapter 4
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Steven spent a few hours on the greyhound regretting. Dozens of shattered windows, a hundred meetings laboring toward consensus, so many supposed friends whose professed love and admiration vanished the moment Steven dropped out of sight. Nighttime blurred outside the bus as the distance grew, but whether it was one mile or a hundred, Steven had no interest in looking backward now. To think, the history of the revolution would filter through a bus which leaked the smell of port-a-potty sanitation through the aisles and out the cracked windows; the sick blue odor fell on the mercifully empty highway which connected Steven to his future.
What would it feel like for a magnet to reverse its polarity? Nature and stone made a promise to each other, surely the stone would feel betrayed as it slid inexorably toward its unthinkable mate. Or maybe it was nature that was betrayed. Either way, Steven clarified to himself that he didn’t mean it as any kind of metaphor. Radical action begins with radical thought, and that meant remaining vigilant against implicit homophobia even within his mind.
Over the last five years he’d forgotten a lot about his family. The sound of his brother’s voice. His mother’s face– surely it had changed anyway. The smell of the flowers in the mansion’s garden. No doubt it would come flooding back once he was confronted with it. But the unnatural evenness of his father’s voice never left him. Not monotone, not robotic; it was perfectly measured, like he had studied his lines for the conversation and could recite them effortlessly. Sometimes Steven imagined his father, walking in his buttoned up suit as time cycled around him, back straight a thousand trips through the bardo. How else could he always make the right business decision at the right time, cut off Steven’s retort before he made it, stare into Steven’s eyes as though he knew what lurked beneath because he’d seen Steven do it all over and over and over again?
No, it had been years since Steven and his father had so much as shared a glance. Time would dull his perception, as it had dulled Steven’s, and the two would finally be on equal ground as mysteries to each other. He cracked the window to let more of the bathroom odor waft past him in exchange for the tickle of the breeze. Not far to go.
No bus would take him directly to the family estate, of course. The prospect of intruders haunted each and every resident, so they cut public transit, eliminated sidewalks, built huge gates and arrayed networks of cameras pointing out so that no one might see in. Every step sunk into the wet grass because Steven refused to walk on the pavement. Let their perfect lawns be stamped to mud; hopefully they would see a lesson in his boot prints. As the sun rose, a jogger rounded a corner far from him. Steven began the act. Straight shoulders, a light smile on his lips, emptiness in the eyes. He’d seen it a thousand times. But before she could even enter speaking distance, she recoiled from him and jogged the other way, double-speed from her approach. No amount of bearing could overcome his ratty black clothes. Soon he’d have the money to deal with it.
His family compound had the biggest, shiniest golden gates in the neighborhood. When he was a child, any time a neighbor attempted to outdo the Williamses, his parents would shell out whatever it took to return to their place atop the podium. Same of the garden lush with roses and peonies arranged in perfect mathematical repetition, the fountain– which depicted crashing waves as Poseidon sent the white bull forth from the foam of the sea– the off-white brick exterior walls which had to be cleaned every month to deter grayness. For the longest time, the security guards had been forced to wear suits and ties, but now had devolved to the gray faux-police uniform. Perhaps a different service. Steven strolled up to the gate, and a voice from one such security guard sounded over the intercom. “You’ve got no business here.”
Steven thumbed the button in on his side and leaned his mouth close to the intercom, eyes locked onto the camera which tilted above him. “Maybe I do.”
“Look, kid–”
“I’m 33.”
“Move along.”
The two jabbed back and forth, neither conceding an inch in their opposing goals, and eventually the security guard stopped responding. As much as Steven had enjoyed irritating the man, he was no closer to getting inside the house. So he tried one last time.
“Look, I’m sorry. I know I’m being a pain. I’m Steven Williams. The estranged son. If Mrs. Williams finds out you sent me away, that’s your job.”
“Sir, I’m going to have to ask you to loiter elsewhere. If you’re trying to assert squatter’s rights anywhere, there are open rooms at the police station that would have you.”
That was it. Steven rattled the gate. Satisfying jangling aside, it didn’t give enough for him to hope that he might be able to wrench it loose. It was fine. That security guard had spent, at most, a couple years on the grounds. Steven had been there for seventeen.
By the side of the house, below the perfect flatness of the hedge walls, there was a gap in the branches. When his spindly fourteen year old body had first discovered this exit, he slipped through it without any trouble. But with time, he grew, and now as he dipped his shoulders to the ground, discovered that time had not left him static in his absence. Branches cracked and leaves fluttered above the violence he committed to those bushes in the dark. Luckily, they hadn’t thought to repair the gap in the wall. The neighbors couldn’t see it, so it required no attention.
He had to come at it sideways, one shoulder through the breach, then his head, and then the broken stone pinned against his other shoulder, grabbing it like a hand demanding no further motion because this damaged wall still knew its purpose; when Steven was a resident, it was happy to let him in and out, but now an intruder was halfway through, and the wall–which could take no pride in its appearance as covered up by hedges as it was– would let him push no further. As Steven tugged, a pair of black sneakers paced into the gap on the other side. His attempts to scoot back got him nowhere, so he pushed forward again. The wall tore his hoodie and sent five deep streaks of pain into his shoulder. When he emerged from the bushes, Steven didn’t have the fight in him to even push the security guard away. With his ruined hoodie bunched in the guard’s hands, he went limp in preparation for being dragged out. No need to meet the guard’s angry gaze with his own. Steven said, “Do what you gotta do,” and a black baton rose in the air, but before it could play the familiar notes of brutality all over Steven’s body, a woman’s voice held it fast.
“Steven? That’s Steven! Let him go.”
The security guard loosened his grip and swore under his breath. Steven patted him on the chest. “Tough break, big guy. I’ll make sure they don’t fire you.” Rather than thank him for the solidarity, the guard’s face curdled into disgust. If the two of them were alone, Steven had no doubt the guard would pour all his sweat into reducing Steven to blood and bone shards and a few shredded tattoos ripped from their canvas. Was this who Steven was fighting for? The conditions which would change this man into a revolutionary seemed so distant, but they had to exist.
His mother’s relentless fitness wear was familiar– Steven’s dad was always on his way to work, his mother always on her way to the gym– but her face looked younger than when he’d left. Some threshold had been passed which demanded work, and like the gates, the Williamses could afford the best in the neighborhood. Her desperate embrace of Steven barely had the force to move him, and when he returned the hug, his mother’s tiny shoulders felt as fragile as a bird’s. Too easy to break by accident. Easy enough to break on purpose. She was humming with delight that her son had been returned to her, and the longer that went on the harder it felt to say anything.
“You’re back. You’re back… why are you back?”
“I can leave, mom.” Steven feinted toward the gates, arms held at right angles in a rigid pantomime of walking. His mother’s hands scrabbled across his shoulders to stop him.
“No, no. You stay right here. You don’t have to tell me anything. Just come in and…” His mom looked him up and down. “... we’ll find you some clothes to wear before you see him.”
“Him? Mr. Williams is here?” Steven had assumed he’d get to settle in for at least a week before his father made an appearance. It’s a lazy man whose pillow remembers his head. That sentence didn’t sound like his father, but Steven remembered it in his voice. The two entered through the huge oak doors that no person could open on their own, but the hydraulic systems hidden out of view made them glide at the slightest touch. When Steven grew up, the entryway was made of dark cherry wood that hid reds which ran like blood, but they’d been replaced by marble. His mother’s clipped footsteps and his own heavy ones echoed, while the staff filtered past in soft booties that kept them from overwhelming the familial soundscape.
After a shower– at his mother’s insistence– and putting on a dress shirt–again at her insistence– and a few seconds where his mother colored in the circle-A behind his ear with a sharpie–Steven’s idea– he faced the doorway of his father’s study. One turn of the knob and he would face his first test. The revolution demanded this of him, but weren’t demands sometimes unreasonable? No matter. He had nowhere to run to anymore.
The door creaked open. Every other door in the house was regularly oiled, so this door was condemned to screech on purpose. To alert Mr. Williams to entry, to unsettle whoever entered, to combine the two into a tiny bit of conversational leverage in his family home of all places. No reason made much sense, but without a doubt Mr. Williams had one. He always did. As Steven entered the door closed automatically behind him. His father’s eyes didn’t leave the papers he was marking up with a sleek black and gold fountain pen. “Whatever it is, it can wait.”
“Okay. I’ll come back later.”
“Ben? I wasn’t expecting you.” A surprise visit from the good son wasn’t enough to break his concentration. Maybe the bad one would surprise him.
“It’s Steven.” That did it. His eyes rose, inquisitive pupils shrinking in the light. They were the same, but new wrinkles rimmed them. Years of practiced stoicism took their toll. For all Steven knew, his father was 70 already. He couldn’t remember ever knowing his father’s age.
Once, when he was a child, he asked his mom how old Mr. Williams was. She’d laughed and said she couldn’t tell him without approval. Ages could be a kind of secret; disclosure of someone else’s might be rude, or even a crime. He was eight, and the mysteries of the world were still the kind that thrilled him rather than those which brought his hopes to a dead stop. When Steven inquired with Mr. Williams, he brought his head down to Steven’s level and said, “There are people who want to know that in order to hurt me. I can’t trust you not to hurt me, Steven.” The matter was settled, and Steven never knew. As an adult, it became clear: at the top of the company, Mr. Williams was the gate at which dozens of hungry businessmen salivated. The sooner he retired, the sooner one would get to eat.
“That’s interesting. You’re here for money?”
“No. I’m back. I want to rejoin the family.”
“Tell me what you mean by ‘rejoin.’” Those sharp eyes prodded at Steven. They’d certainly noticed the marker behind his ear, that the clothes didn’t fit, that Steven was nervous. However, those nerves were a shield. Whether he was nervous to deceive Mr. Williams or nervous to face him in genuine contrition, it would all look the same. For once, Steven had an advantage, though his father must have known that too.
“I want to see everyone again. I want to be here. I want… remember that job you offered me, way back? I’m ready for it.”
“We’ll see.” Mr. Williams waved Steven off, and the door opened. The little fragment of his father’s priceless time that he’d stolen had run out, but he’d survived it. No doubt the security guards would’ve descended on him in an instant if he’d failed. No, Mr. Williams wanted to test Steven, see if he really was up to the task. Steven had no doubt he could do it, if only to prove Ashwin and Caroline wrong. He wasn’t dumb. He was a genius, and he was going to succeed.