by Sarah Noffke
“Of course that would be your strategy,” he says, stopping his bouncing and directing his attention to a dummy on the nearby wall. “Although you don’t want to train on defense, I will tell you that you need to be focused on someone’s hands in a confrontation or anything that you suspect will become a confrontation. That’s key to outmaneuvering your opponent and delivering a deadly strike. You’ve got to always be vigilant, and watching someone’s hands is usually the best way.”
“Hands,” I say, waving mine at him. “Got it.”
“Yes,” he says, moving his fist back as if he’s about to launch a punch at me. “It’s called telegraphing. You’re used to doing this with your mind, I suspect, watching people’s expressions to determine how they will react.”
Clint, although I’d never tell him this, is pretty astute. The guy must be if he picked this up about me. He has a way of studying people that takes considerable focus. I’ve seen him do it when training agents, breaking down each of their movements until he determines how they need to shift to do it right. And he’s correct. I study micro expressions as well as can dive into the inner workings of people’s minds. It doesn’t tell me what they’re thinking, but rather how they think. This gives me cues about their behavior but not always their actions. Watching for a telegraphed cue will be helpful. As an agent I need to add as many skills to my arsenal as possible.
“If you watch people’s eyes you can detect where they are going to target you,” Clint continues. “Watch their shoulders to determine which arm they are coming at you with. A shift in hips tells you they’re about to kick you. And rapid blinks is probably an indicator they’re about to attack.”
“So they attack,” I say. “I block, is that right?”
“The best block is avoidance,” he says.
“You’re a bloody coward,” I say.
Clint doesn’t grant me a reaction; instead he says, “Blocking sometimes is necessary but then you’d be too busy to plan an attack. Instead, consider pivoting to avoid an attack. Then you’re in a perfect position to counterattack and for you I have the perfect assault. Since you’re practiced at collecting and harnessing energy I’m going to teach you chi pressure points.”
“Harnessing chi sounds like something a barefoot and dirty hippie would do,” I say.
There’s a ghost of a smile on his face. “It’s about absorbing the frequencies around you and by doing that you exponentiate your assault,” Clint says, holding his hands a few inches apart, like he’s holding on to a ball. “You gather this already present energy and then when you strike a pressure point you use this power. If this is done right, the slightest touch will have the power to knock someone out.” He holds up two fingers. “All you need, with a mind like yours, to overpower a giant physically is a lot of focus and these,” he says, waving his pointer and middle finger in the air.
“All right, sounds great,” I say, a bit impatient. I loathe being the student.
“But finding these pressure points in these types of circumstances is difficult. And a failure might result in your death. Especially if you’re unwilling to learn any other form of combat,” he says.
“I’m not a man who knows what failure feels like. Show me these bloody pressure points. I’ll find them if the need arises,” I say.
Chapter Seventeen
In the past week domestic violence has dropped six percent. That doesn’t seem like a big number but that kind of decline has never happened. And it’s all because of Vivian. She’s been able to do what politics and religion have failed to do for centuries. And this is just the beginning. Smart Pods haven’t been out that long and she only started with the initial ten thousand. However, now the company is already on back order, unable to fulfill the growing demands for these devices which people are calling the perfect butler. But they have no idea that these seemingly friendly devices are controlling them. Smart Pods are stopping them when their voice rises and when name calling starts. Stopping the small abuse that breaks down families little by little. These little cones force apologies out of people’s mouths and make them erase the curse words from future conversation. It makes them get along.
And is that inherently wrong? Less violence and neglect does make my job easier. Already I have agents idly sitting by hoping an assignment comes in and yet I have all assignments easily covered for the first time ever. I struggle more and more to find the issue with what Vivian is doing. Is it really any different from what I do, forcing solutions on situations that aren’t my problems? I also have agents intervene in cases related to natural disasters or terrorist attacks, which is me fixing the world in a holistic sense, not just targeting families like Vivian. But in stating this fact am I trying to justify what I do while stating that Vivian is in the wrong? I always know where I stand on everything, and yet I’m being faced with my very first conundrum.
To my dismay it appears that Adelaide has found the way out of her room. She’s mostly been in her room lately, spending her time sleeping. I suspect she’s also spending her time with the thing and the nanny who likes talking to me way too much. I consider cruising past the den and straight to my study but for some odd reason I decide to pop into the den to see her. If I find out that Vivian is using voice control on me to be nice to my offspring then I’ll wring her neck…gently.
With a slippery feeling in my veins I stop in the entryway to the den. My eyes take longer than they should to determine what I’m seeing. Adelaide is stretched out on the sofa, her head back, and mouth wide open. Her long hair looks to be wrapped around her face. It looks like an eye mask used to block out the obtrusive sun streaming through the bank of windows at her back. And lying on the floor, next to one of Dahlia’s pair of French bulldog statues that flank the couch, is the thing. Its eyes are open and it is waving its hands in the air as though trying to catch a fly or cast an incantation.
I cough loudly, which only makes the thing flinch. Adelaide shows no other sign of stirring.
“Adelaide,” I say loudly.
“Huh,” she says, lifting her head up, but then quickly realizing she can’t see, she fumbles for her face, untangling the red knots away from her eyes. Ungracefully she pulls the mess out of her face and looks up at me with an angry expression.
“Why did you wake me up?” she says once she’s taken me in.
“What is that doing on the floor?” I say, pointing at the still squirming thing.
She jerks her head to the ground and then giggles.
“I’m a genius, aren’t I? I kept worrying he was going to roll off the sofa and on to the ground. So I just stuck him on the ground. Problem solved,” she says. And then she yawns loudly, stretching her arms above her head.
“Not genius. More like moronic. The floor is where people walk with fucking dirty shoes. Someone could also step on it,” I say, realizing I’m actually quite offended.
She shakes her head and giggles again, which is quite unlike her. Adelaide isn’t the giggling type. Usually she just sneers in response to most things. “Nobody is going to step on him. The dog is guarding Lucien,” she says, pointing at the stone statue of the happy bulldog.
“Pick it up,” I say, pointing again at the wiggling thing.
Like a spoiled brat she ties her arms across her chest and shakes her head. “Hell no. He’s finally quiet. I’m not starting him up again.” Then she laughs again. “You still call Lucien an it,” she says like it amuses her.
“I don’t foresee that changing,” I say.
She lowers her eyes and slightly grimaces. “I kind of get it. I mean, why you would refer to him like that and be so unnurturing.” And just then I catch the slur to her words. Before I’d noticed it but chalked it up to her being tired. However, this is no tired slur. I know the difference. And I’m just about to say something when the demon’s mouth pops open and it unleashes a screeching soul-stabbing cry.
“Oh fuck, not again,” Adelaide says and doesn’t rise to make the thing stop. Instead she claps her hands
over her ears and thrusts her head down to her lap.
“Make it stop,” I say at full volume to be heard over the screaming.
She shakes her head, which is pressed into her hands. “No. I don’t know how. And he hates me. That’s all he ever does,” Adelaide says.
I stare down at the thing that is now bright red. “Have you tried feeding it? Every demon needs its proper nutrition,” I say.
She jerks her head up with a laugh. “He is a little monster. And yes, all I do is pump milk for him. My boobs can’t take any more for a while.”
I almost gag from hearing this. “For the love of fucking God, never say anything remotely close to that to me again,” I say.
“What part?” she says with a mischievous grin. “The part about my boobs? I have two, you know, and I also have—”
“Adelaide, don’t you fucking dare,” I say loudly to make her stop before she makes me vomit. “And make that thing—”
And then I’m cut off by the nanny-lady hurrying past me and into the room. She scoops up the thing off the ground, with an exaggerated sigh. Then she whips around to face Adelaide at once, her actions coated in anger. “What is wrong with you, child? Why didn’t you pick up the baby?” she says.
Adelaide actually shrugs in response, no remorse on her face.
“Don’t you know how to take care of a baby?” the lady says.
“Nope, he never taught me,” she says, casting a finger at me. “He never taught me how to tie my shoes, ride a bike, or take care of a baby.”
“I’m about to teach you how to shut your bloody mouth,” I say, which produces another ridiculous giggle from Adelaide.
“The nanny shoots me a glare and then shakes her head. “And you, Mr. Lewis, you’re perfectly capable of picking up the baby as well, but you just left him there.”
“I was letting him cry it out,” I say as guiltless as Adelaide.
“And what was he doing on the floor?” the woman asks me, offense covering her face.
“Look, woman, that’s where I found him,” I say.
“My name isn’t woman, I go by Cheryl,” she says smugly.
“Whatever, and if you want answers to your daft questions then why don’t you ask the drunk over there about her faulty logic,” I say, pointing.
At this Adelaide’s amused expression drops and is covered with real shame.
“That’s right,” I say, nodding to her. “Real classy move breaking into the liquor cabinet.” I then indicate to the armoire on the far wall that is still unlatched although Dahlia and I don’t drink the fine wines inside it. They’re all for Dahlia’s dumbass, hotshot guests. With a jerk I pull my wrist up, yanking my arm a bit to angle my sleeve down so I can read my watch. “Wow, and getting plastered before three o’clock in the afternoon. Motherhood really brought the real angel out in you,” I say.
Chapter Eighteen
I press the mobile to my ear and wait for Dahlia to answer.
“Hey there,” she says, her voice soft and tired. She’s been on tour for weeks now, and probably has been through a few dozen cities or more. I could ask her, but I don’t really care.
“Hey,” I say.
“It’s good to hear your voice,” she says and sounds half asleep.
“You sound like death,” I say, although her voice still brings me an unmatched comfort.
“Thanks,” she says, not meaning it. “How are you, Ren? Tell me about what you’ve been up to.”
Dahlia always craves normalcy when she’s been on tour for a long time. She’ll beg a commoner to share the monotony of their unthrilling day with her. It’s just more evidence that people always need what they don’t have and the glamour of the famed life isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.
“You know, the usual. For starters, my spawn is neglecting her spawn. And then also America is slowly becoming a nation of healthy functioning families. Oh, and I’m going to sell my soul to the devil to stop her from making a better world. And that’s about it,” I say.
“That’s nice, but what did you have for lunch?” she says, trying to pull out the boring details.
“Oh, who has time for lunch?” I say.
“Everyone but you and me, it would seem,” she says through a long yawn.
“Okay, well, I just wanted to give you a quick call,” I say.
“I’m glad you did. I miss you, Ren.”
I stop my trek down the long corridor and regard the artwork in front of me like it’s done something wrong by existing. “Yeah, well. Same here,” I say, wishing I could say more. Wishing I had words connected to my emotions. But that’s like wishing I was a merman with the power to enchant beasts.
“Ren, are you all right?”
“Yeah, I’m fine,” I say and then there’s a long pause.
“I don’t believe you, but whatever. We can discuss it when I get home,” she says.
This woman somehow has an all-access pass into my head. Thank fucking god she doesn’t abuse her powers. Dahlia is like a girl with a boat. She could take it out all the time but it’s a lot of work and tiring so she only does every other weekend, if that often.
“When do you get home?” I say.
“In about a week,” she says and I hear commotion behind her. It’s probably the stage crew setting up for her next show.
“Perfect,” I say, my tone a little impatient as I continue my trek down the hallway.
“Perfect how? You have never cared when I returned or even asked how long I’d be gone,” Dahlia says.
“I asked because I’ve got a trip. And I say perfect because I will be back by then,” I say.
“Really? Where are you going?”
“Let’s say I’m going on a honeymoon of sorts,” I say and shut off the phone without another word. Then I take a breath and open the door to the office.
***
Vivian has her hands clasped on her desk and is staring up at me when I enter.
“Were you expecting me?”
“No, it’s just that I got the feeling you were coming. Call it lover’s intuition,” she says.
“I’m calling it security camera surveillance,” I say, pointing to the wall cabinet where I suspect she keeps a row of monitors.
“Who were you talking to on the phone?” she says, confirming my suspicions that she was watching me in the hallway.
I think of Dahlia on the phone a minute ago. Her voice. Her exhaustion. My current predicament. I don’t feel bad. I’m not a man who has ever felt guilt. Well, maybe the once for killing Trey’s wife, but only then. Life is about doing what we must to survive, to make a life that has a semblance of happiness. That’s it. We are bloody humans with wrong desires and problems that seep out of us and onto society. We are evil little shits that change into worse versions of our younger selves as we get older. There’s nothing to really feel guilty about in a world where the creator made us fucked up in the first place. I’m sure as hell not going to pity myself for the things I’ve done or what I have to do.
“What brings me the pleasure of your visit?” Vivian says.
“What is it that you want with me?” I say, no snark in my voice, only a mild curiosity.
“Well, inevitably I want us to be together. I think that’s clear. I’ve met many people, been with many men, and no one compares to you. I sense, like I can an elemental force, that you and I belong together,” she says, not even taking a minute to consider her words. The whole set of sentences is rehearsed and I would expect nothing less from this woman. Vivian is nothing if she isn’t practiced.
“That sounds like the logic of a twitterpated teenager,” I say.
“I know you well enough, Ren Lewis, that you’ll never tell me how you feel about me. But maybe you’ll tell me this. Do you even, just a little bit, feel drawn to me?” And the way she asks the question makes me certain she already knows the answer.
“I’m sure that my tiny bit of attraction is just the cleavage you’ve got on display,” I say, pointing to the tigh
t light blue blouse she’s wearing which shows the perfect amount of rounded boobs, cutting off in a place that makes my eyes linger.
She stands, pinning her hands on the top of the desk, and now I’m granted the view of her waist and hips hugged in a tight skirt. “So do you feel that you already know me without knowing me?” she asks.
I fake a long yawn. “That’s the dumbest question I’ve ever heard. There’s no way to know someone without knowing them. Just like you can’t say something without saying it. And you can’t do something without doing it,” I say, but none of it is true. There’s a subconscious mind we’re all linked to that delivers archetypes to us starting before birth. It’s so well documented that intelligent people would never dream of arguing against this point.
“Oh, so there isn’t a series of alternative universes where we’re living parallel lives?” she says, sounding amused, like we’re playing a game. “Where all possible realities are achieved? Where things are done that aren’t done in this realm, but still we can glimpse? Ones we can feel? And are you also going to tell me that we aren’t all connected to the point that we can share parts of our consciousness, thereby linking total strangers in the most mysterious of ways?”