The Rules of Burken

by Traci Finlay

  “What do you mean?” Nikka asks doubtfully.

  “I think Jack takes responsibility for the things you do. I know he’s really mean about it, but I think he’s compensating for the way he beats himself up. He feels like he’s failed you.”

  Her face screws up. “Why would he ever blame himself for my decisions?”

  I shrug. “I’ve kinda gotten to know him a bit the last few days. It’s just the vibe I get, and watching the dynamics between you two—I just felt like you should know.”

  Nikka chews on her lip as she mulls that over. “It sounds like you’re suggesting I should base my decisions around how Jack would feel. No offense, Charlotte, but that’s totally what you do with Ian, and … no, thank you.”

  “Fuck Ian. I’m done with him, Nikka. If he wants to come kill me, fine. But I’m going to live my life in the meantime and not worry about him. I won’t give him that satisfaction.”

  Nikka does a slow clap, and I do a little bow. “Thank you, thank you.”

  “I’m glad to hear that. And thanks for telling me that about Jack. It’s definitely something to consider.” She grins, then her eyes widen. “Oh, Jack! He should be here soon. We gotta get in place!” She swoops off the barstool and bustles down the hall, but I wasn’t finished with that conversation about Jack.

  My foot pushes off, setting the swing into motion. I gaze out past the balcony and across the waters of Lake Michigan, the cool air rippling through my hair and raising goosebumps on my arms. My sandal slides against the tile as I try managing the swing, but the wooden bench is too bulky, the chains squeak above my head, and I know it’s time to relinquish control to the beastly apparatus. I imagine Jack walking onto the balcony to see the bench swing actually beating me up, like the lawn chair does to Snoopy in A Charlie Brown Thanksgiving. Ian always said it wasn’t Thanksgiving until that chair whooped Snoopy’s ass.

  I straighten up and cross my legs when I hear Nikka’s voice waft through the window and the front door slam, and I realize how stupid this all is. Why do I always let Nikka talk me into these pretentious scenarios? And with Jack? The least pretentious person in the world.

  Just like Nikka prophesied, the French doors open and Jack wanders onto the terrace and out toward the water. He runs his hands through his hair in exasperation before leaning against the railing. He missed me completely, and that wasn’t part of the plan. I shift in the swing, catching his peripheral vision. He turns to me and jumps, nearly slamming into the railing. “What are you doing here? You scared the piss out of me.”

  I give him my “mysterious” smile, as Nikka called it during rehearsal (but I think I have one eye bigger than the other so the only mystery here is my eye symmetry), and sit calmly, rocking back and forth. “Come sit.” I pat the bench next to me.

  Jack looks at me cynically. “Don’t micromanage me.”

  I roll my eyes. “Classy, Jack. I see what you did there. See, you took something I insulted you with, and you incorporated it into our conversation—”

  He shoves his hands in his pockets and turns toward the house, but I jump up and grab him by the arm. “Wait,” I say, knowing Nikka will have a heart attack that I broke her only two rules of not getting up and not begging him. Then there’s the unspoken rule of not being sarcastic. I broke that, too. “I’m sorry. Please, sit.”

  He allows me to lead him to the swing and forces himself down, and I perch next to him. “Jack, I’m really sorry for speaking to you the way I did. I know you’re trying to help me, and I know you’re frustrated at my stupidity of giving Ian the benefit of the doubt all the time. I realize you don’t even know me, much less owe me anything, and I know you’ve sacrificed a lot of time and effort and … gas mileage … for my benefit.”

  “Why are you sitting out here?” he asks.

  “Nikka told me this was your favorite spot in your dad’s house.” He’s silent, so I continue. “I borrowed Dana’s car and drove all the way down here to apologize and ask you to forgive me.”

  Silence.

  I clear my throat. “After I hung up with you, I did a lot of soul-searching. And you’re right. I’m finished dealing with Ian, okay? I’m going to live my life, and I’m going to enjoy it. For me. Not for him.”

  He sits with his hands folded in his lap, his feet shifting the swing back and forth. I wait for him to say something, because I’m ad libbing now; I sped through the script, albeit abbreviated some of the larger vocabulary.

  “Jack, are you hearing me?” I ask softly.

  He sighs. “Yeah.”

  “Well?”

  “Well, what?” he snaps. “What do you want me to say? You really upset me, Charlotte. I’m here researching this stuff for two days straight, getting more and more nauseous as I read, and when I try to warn you, I get my head bitten off.”

  “I understand, Jack. But I said I’m sorry. Are you really going to relive this?” I’m trying to keep my voice calm, and poor Nikka for having to deal with this every time they argue. “It’s not like you’ve never verbally attacked me before. You call me stupid on a daily basis.”

  Jack rotates his head to look at me. “Because you’re constantly doing stupid things, Charlotte! You’re the only person I know who will run—and by run, I mean actually sprint—from city to city trying to escape an axe murderer, then one day decide you’re going to switch things up, and go find him to tell him what a wonderful person he is!”

  I clench my jaw. “Then why were you even helping me? If I’m that ignorant, why do you even care?” My vision blurs as tears obstruct my view of his anger-twisted face, and I drop my head.

  “I don’t even know. Stupidity is contagious.”

  Every syllable of that hurts—each jagged consonant, every poisonous vowel. A sob catches in my throat, causing tears to tumble onto my shorts. I stand and hug my arms around my middle, retreating to the house.

  Once I’m out of his sight, I run to Nikka’s room. I burst in, causing Nikka to jump so high she almost falls off the bed. “What’s wrong?” she shouts.

  “This was a bad idea. I’m going home.” I snatch my backpack off the chair and turn to dart out the door.

  “Wait!” Nikka manages a trapeze act off the bed, somehow landing directly behind me and koalaing herself around my backpack. “You’re not going anywhere. There’s no reason this can’t be fixed.”

  “There’s a perfectly good reason. Because your brother is the most arrogant, childish person I’ve ever met in my life.” I try shaking Nikka off.

  “Just wait, sit down! I’ll handle this.” Nikka fuses onto my backpack as I force myself down the hall.

  “I won’t beg him, Nikka! What I said to him wasn’t even that terrible. He’s said worse things to me, and I’ve never reacted like that! He’s worse than Ian.”

  Nikka’s now twisted into my backpack and attempting to plant her feet into the ground, but her socks, the polished wood floor, and my determination are all dragging her along like a toboggan. “Charlotte, please stay.”

  I stop and turn around, forcing Nikka to release me. “Sorry, Nikka. You can come visit me in Cadillac whenever you want. But your brother…” I shake my head and continue toward the door. I throw it open and drop onto the porch landing, marching toward the stairs and plowing right into Jack.

  “How did you—? I mean, excuse me,” I mumble into his clavicle. When he doesn’t move, I look up at him. “You’re in my way. Move.”

  Nikka stands in the doorway, observing our stare down. She inhales an exaggerated gasp. “Oh, my god! You guys kissed! You kissed, didn’t you? I can totally tell!” Jack and I both shift our hateful glares onto her, and she clamps her jaw and ducks back into the house.

  I turn back to Jack, unable to decipher exactly how angry he still is. I take a step back. He certainly isn’t smiling at me. “Excuse me,” I say again, because what matters here is that I’m angry. Then I’ll be damned if I don’t take another contradictory step backward.

  “Where are you going?
” he asks.

  “Home.”

  “Stay. I’m sorry, Charlotte. Please stay.”

  Dammit all if I don’t step back again! “I can’t deal with your temper, Jack. You’re two-faced. And prideful. And I really, really hate it when you call me stupid. You just heard me say I’m not putting up with it from Ian anymore, so you can bet your sweet ass I’m not putting up with it from you, either.”

  He brings his hand up, and I flinch. But as he props it next to my head against the siding, I realize I’ve retreated all the way to the door. I suck as an alpha.

  “You’re right. I’m sorry.”

  I blink. “That’s it? I made this huge trip out here to try making things better and you chase me out of the house, and … yeah, how’d you get out here before I did?”

  He cracks the slightest of smiles and executes the tiniest of shrugs.

  I shake my head. “No, I’m sorry.” And I push past him.

  He wraps his fingers around my biceps and backs me firmly into the door, causing my backpack to hit the ground. “Enough with the nonsense, Charlotte. There are serious repercussions waiting for you if you go back to Cadillac looking for your brother.”

  “But I—”

  “Don’t make me tell you you’re stupid!” He shakes me. “Listen to me! Your mom mentioned Ian was a sociopath. I used to live with one, Charlotte, I know how dangerous they are. They manipulate—they play mind games to get control over you, and you don’t even realize it.”

  “But Ian—”

  “Listen to some of these symptoms! They seem charming on the outside but are very domineering.”

  “He only—”

  “He doesn’t have friends. Not real ones, anyway, just victims. And accomplices who eventually become victims. He thinks he’s invincible, Charlotte, he has no boundaries.”

  “But he—”

  “He couldn’t care less about the lives he destroys. The damage he causes. He blames everyone else, then plays games with anyone who tries figuring him out. He loses his temper over the stupidest things, but acts indifferent to stuff that should get him mad.”

  “Jack, you’re scaring me.”

  “He’s like a tyrannist over his victims but still makes people feel sorry for him. The abuse is there, Charlotte—through charm and manipulation. Not violence. So you don’t even recognize the abuse.”

  “Please stop,” I beg. My knees are shaking. He’s describing Ian to a tee. I don’t know what’s worse—knowing Ian is all these things, or knowing I’m the victim.

  Jack tightens his grip on my arms and leans closer. “Listen. This one literally gave me goosebumps. He executes his abusive rage with a balancing act—by alternating it with small, loving gestures. Okay? The result is an addictive cycle for him and his victim, ultimately leaving the victim hopeless. Listen to that again.” He shakes me harder. “Alternating between abusive rage and loving gestures? An addictive cycle? A hopelessness in the victim? What does that sound like to you?”

  Alternating love and abuse. Addictive cycle. Hopelessness. “It’s Burken,” I whisper. “The rules of Burken.”

  “Exactly!” Jack shouts with a loud clap. “Each round began with him saying something to you, right? Something sentimental—that ‘little spider’ shit—a term of endearment between just the two of you from your childhood. These all came right after intense and violent rounds of being chased and wrestled into submission. He alternates rage and abuse with small expressions of love.”

  I stare right through Jack. “An addictive cycle. It was three rounds, it had to be. Always. Not one, not two … I was addicted to every stage.”

  Jack nods vigorously. “And hopelessness in the victim?”

  “I always lost. It was a rule. I could never, ever win.”

  He leans down and looks intently in my eyes. “Then you understand?”

  My eyes click back to reality, tears welling. “So was he protecting me from my dad or not, Jack? What was the point of all this? What was the point!” I shout.

  Jack cups my face in his hands, catching the falling tears. “You were his victim. I’m sorry. But it’s true. You were a sociopath’s dream come true. He controlled your life, and he manipulated you and used you as an accomplice to get to all your friends. He dated them all, and hurt them all, severing your friendships with them and leaving you with no one but him. Think about it, Charlotte. It makes sense. Right?”

  I stare into Jack’s eyes, and I see a truth. And I consider all the truths and the untruths, the known and the unknown, that have led me here, that have led him here, on this same porch, his hands on my face. Life is comprised of a series of truths; life is comprised of a series of lies. My god, but they strike a beautiful and dangerous harmony! “So my whole life has been one big lie?”

  “No, Charlotte. Lots of things are true. Some you don’t know yet, but the answers are there, somewhere. And sure, the truth will set you free, but sometimes … you have to set yourself free from the truth.”

  I draw my knees to my chest, the back of my shorts soggy and the sand nipping at my calves. The chilly wind strokes its gusty arms across my face and through my hair, and I focus on the hint of warmth from the nugget that’s left of the sun before it swan-dives into Lake Michigan.

  Even in this picturesque setting, I don’t feel safe. My back prickles, like it’s receiving the brunt of Ian’s stare. Or the target in his scope. I don’t put anything past him.

  I look at the lighthouse Nikka said was called Big Red. What a terrible color. Looking at it makes my eyes scream; it’s like someone sponged the blood of murdered kittens on it. Yet families pose in front of it, taking pictures... Of all the views to be enamored by, and they piss themselves over a manmade building.

  My phone rings—who the hell would be calling me? I glance at the screen and revel in this moment—this is what it’s like to have your mom call you. Don’t forget this feeling; it may never happen again.

  “Hello?”

  “Hi, Charlotte. How are you, honey?”

  My mouth stretches across my face. I can’t help it. “Hi, Mom.”

  “Everything okay?”

  I reach to hook my finger around my big toe. “Yeah, everything’s fine. How are you? What’s up?”

  She sighs; it’s artificial—a prolonging tactic to think up a lie. “Oh, just finishing up some work. Thought I’d call. See how my gal’s doing. Are you home?”

  “No, I’m in Holland with Jack and his sister. At their dad’s beach house.”

  “Oh, how exciting!” she says, also fake because she hates Jack.

  I’m already irritated, and we’re still at the small talk. “I’m glad you called. Can I talk to you about something?”

  Fanny stutters before she says, “Of course! What’s wrong?”

  “I was just thinking. About us. Our family. How normal I thought we were. As a child, I seemed to have had a … a good childhood. I feel like it was well-rounded, that I was loved and cared for. But it was all one big lie.”

  Fanny breathes deeply. “You really are the baby of the family, aren’t you?”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “You’re so naïve. You’ve always been naïve. It’s so cute.”

  “Goodbye, Fanny.”

  “No, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”

  “I might not be the brightest crayon in the box, but I’m at least a moral person.” My thumb chips at the nail polish on my toe.

  “Yeah, but moral to the extreme of oblivion.”

  “Oblivious to what, Fanny?” I spit.

  “See, you and your dad. You’re the gullible ones. You’re jolly and happy, no matter what. Sometimes I’d try to figure out what was going through your dad’s head, and all I could come up with was a giant ping-pong ball bouncing in an empty white room. Now, Ian and I … we’re just evil.”

  “You think Dad was jolly and happy? Ha! Ian said he tried molesting me. So how can you say Dad was gullible? He was evil, too. You can’t comp
are me to him.”

  Fanny pauses. “He’s disgusting, and he’s gullible because he always thought he’d get away with shit like that. That’s why he’s in jail,” she huffs. “The point is, he always ignored the bad and pretended everything was good. You wanna hear something funny?” she asks, chuckling. “Remember that story he used to tell everyone about his family history? With Olof and all those characters?”

  I roll my eyes. “Please don’t make me relive that.”

  “I won’t. But he always made those guys out to be the founders of who knows what. Of Cadillac and … and cars themselves. Like his ancestors invented the car!” She bursts out laughing, and I wait for her to settle down. “They were so crazy,” she finally sputters through another giggle. “Olof was a hard worker, it’s true, but he was one mean son of a gun. He manipulated his way right up to the top of his company. I’m pretty sure he even killed a couple people to get up there. And Fredrick, well, he was a con artist. He got in a fight with his dad and took off to Lansing.”

  I draw a heart in the sand. “He invented a bunch of stuff for Oldsmobile or something?”

  “Sure did. Until he got fired for swindling money. He talked a bunch of head honchos into investing money in some fund, promising them millions once his inventions were patented and sold. He took their money and went back to Cadillac!” she hoots.

  “How do you know all this?” I ask, a matching heart forming next to the first one.

  “Let’s just say I had a lot of free time on my hands when I was held hostage in Cadillac all those years. I did a lot of research. So Fredrick, right? He got married and had kids—imagine his wife’s surprise when one day the cops showed up at their house and arrested her husband!” She combusts into another round of laughter.

  “Fanny, please. This is not that funny.” A third heart is wedged below the twins.

  “I know,” she says, her laughter subsiding. “But do you see what I’m saying? Your father took a story and instead of properly intertwining the good with the bad, he just disregarded the bad completely and concocted this heroic fairy tale because that’s what he wanted it to be. That’s exactly what you’ve done your whole life, Charlotte.”