Minion

by John David Anderson

  “I made a promise,” he says again. “I should have told you sooner. I thought that somehow I was protecting you. I didn’t want you to grow up hating him. Or me. You had a name. An identity. I didn’t want to take it away from you. Not until you were old enough to make one for yourself. I’m sorry.”

  He leans in, expectant. I know what he wants, but I don’t move. I don’t say a word. I leave him there, hovering, holding his breath. The silence stretches to a minute, then three. Sitting there, in the kitchen above our lair, pamphlets for a half dozen new cities spread out over the table, I think about the last few years. About all the little black boxes we’ve built together and those nights spent on the couch with our shoulders pressed, propping each other up, inhaling popcorn and pretending we were part of something, something remarkable.

  Those moments, they all seem diminished somehow. I can’t put my finger on it. I never hated my real parents. I didn’t know them enough to hate them. But I never loved them either.

  Benjamin Edson was different. At least he was supposed to be.

  I stand up slowly. It takes everything I have just to get my legs underneath me. What do you say to the man who promised to keep you safe and then abandoned you at a hamburger joint? I’ve been passed along from one father to the next to the next. At last I thought I’d settled down.

  And now there’s Winnipeg, and Wichita, and Cheyenne. Dad, Benjamin Edson, the professor looks at me desperately.

  “It doesn’t change anything,” he insists. “We are still who we are. Tomorrow we can get back to normal.”

  And there it is. That word again.

  “Do you really believe that?” I ask. I can see him floundering. He doesn’t know. Not for certain. But he still looks me in the eyes; he gives me that much. I could tell him anything, and he would believe me.

  Instead I push in my chair and head to the hallway, the picture of the two men still in my hand. I stand outside my room. He still sits at the table, watching me, like he has for the last fourteen years.

  “Aren’t you going to say something?” he asks.

  I rest my hand on the doorknob. I think back to the first time we met.

  “Do you want to see a magic trick?” I ask. The question obviously takes him by surprise, but I don’t wait for an answer. I just go into my room and shut the door.

  It takes a couple of hours, but I finally find it, in the archived issues of the New Liberty Sentinel. I guess at the dates based on what he told me, based on the day I was delivered into St. Mary’s clutches. I scan through a thousand bulletins and articles. They don’t give his real name, but it must be him. It’s not much. A two-hundred-word blurb underneath a much bigger article lamenting the departure of the Vindicator, one of the last supers to watch over the city.

  “Wanted criminal,” it says, shot and killed in the early-morning hours by five of the NLPD’s finest while reaching for a gun. A few aliases are given; none of them are Renfred or Renny. A list of outstanding warrants. No officers or civilians were injured in the confrontation. No sense that justice or injustice had been done. No mention of a three-month-old kid. Just another minor criminal leaving a chalk outline on the street. Not even worthy of a boldface headline.

  And in other news, the New Liberty library reopens at its brand-new location on the city’s north side.

  There is no picture to go with the article, but I have one anyway. At least now I know where I come from. I know where my gift came from. I know who even if I’m still not entirely clear on why.

  As I close out the window, I notice the banner headline running along the top of the current local news feed.

  WHERE IS THE COMET? it says.

  Next to it is a picture of the Dictator, pasted from his special televised announcement. I click on the picture and zoom in, letting the man’s silver mask fill the screen. I can see myself in the reflection, and I don’t look good at all.

  THE LAST PIECE

  So turns out I was wrong. It doesn’t start with a favor. It starts with a promise. I should know. I was raised by nuns, and they are all about promises. The Bible’s full of them, though there they are called covenants, which means promises with pretty heavy consequences. If we are good, we will be rewarded. If we aren’t, we are sure to be punished. You can chill in this great big verdant backyard of Mine, but eat one of My apples and all bets are off.

  And the big promise. The one everything hinges on. That if we say sorry and mean it, we will be forgiven. Though to be honest, that sounds more like an escape clause.

  I didn’t think Benjamin Edson even believed in promises. They were too black-and-white for his shady gray world. He taught me that everything was up for grabs, subject to discussion. There’s nothing wishy-washy about a promise. Yet he made one . . . to my father the coward. That’s what my mother called him before she ran away.

  I wonder if she ever promised him anything, except that she was never coming back.

  I’ve decided: Courage is keeping your promises. Good or bad. Rich or poor. Sickness or health. Doesn’t matter. You keep your promise or you risk losing everything you’ve ever believed in.

  And then you’re really in trouble.

  I wake up early the next morning, finally ready to say something. I spent the whole night twisted in my covers, wrestling with my gut, trying to pin down what I was feeling. Was I more angry at my fake dad for hiding the truth, or at my real one for abandoning me? Or at my mother for leaving him? And what did it change? Would I still be here, doing the same things I’m doing now? Would my life be any different? Were there choices I would have made differently had I known? Would I still be on this same side of everything?

  He’s waiting for me at the kitchen table, just like before. The same place I left him. Winnipeg, New Haven, Fort Worth are still spread out, mapping the possibilities. Toledo still lies abandoned on the floor. It doesn’t matter, of course. We could go anywhere. These are just pamphlets he picked up at random. A homeschooled teenage bank robber and his self-employed criminal-genius substitute father with no accounts, no IDs, no forwarding address; we are easily relocated. They have houses with basements everywhere. You can make boxes anywhere. Wednesday night can still be taco night in Wichita. It might be hard to find a supplier like Aziz, but it won’t be hard to find customers for my father’s wares. Somehow or another, they find you.

  We could just pack up and run. Leave it all behind. Logistically, it wouldn’t be that hard.

  Except I’m not ready. I don’t want to run.

  That’s what I have to tell him.

  “Good morning,” he mumbles. It’s clear he hasn’t slept. His eyes are rimmed purple. He’s still wearing the same clothes as yesterday. He smells like sour milk. I think about the big promise. The covenant. I try to choke down the instant flush of anger I get just from seeing him there. It’s reflex. I take a deep breath and begin my speech.

  “Dad, listen. I’m not sure what exactly you’re caught up in, but whatever it is, we can get through it.”

  This is my approach. Mend the bridge. Become a duo again. Then tell him what I want. Not tell him, tell him. Just tell him.

  “I know,” he says.

  “But I can’t leave. Not now. Not yet. There are still things I need to take care of.”

  “I know. I understand.”

  “So let me help you,” I say. I think back to that day at St. Mary’s. To our first conversation. To his question about good and evil and where, exactly, I stood on the matter. Even then he was feeling me out. At the time I thought I had answered incorrectly. Now I realize that I gave the only answer he could have believed. “You can’t do it alone,” I say, even though I’m not even sure what “it” is still. That’s part of what I have to figure out.

  “You’re right,” he answers with a weak smile.

  I’m slightly stunned. It always surprises me a little when I’m right.

  “Really?”

  “Yes. I shouldn’t have left you out, and I could use your help. I’m almost
finished. There’s just one last piece I need.” He hands me a Post-it with a model number scrawled on it. I notice his hands are shaking, and he notices my noticing, quickly tucking them under his arms.

  “And then we can stay?”

  My father nods.

  “And when I get back, you will tell me everything? You will show me what you’ve been working on and you will keep the basement . . . sorry, the lair . . . unlocked?”

  He nods.

  “And no more secrets?”

  It’s not meant to come out as a question, but seeing him sitting there, looking so fragile, as if he might suddenly splinter to pieces, I feel guilty. Everything he did, I know, he did to protect me. His intentions were good. Or maybe that’s not quite the word.

  “No more secrets,” he says. “But you need to go now.”

  “All right then,” I say, folding the Post-it and tucking it into my pocket with the picture from last night. “I’ll go. But I’m serious. When I get back, that’s it. You’re telling me everything.”

  I head to the back door and slip my shoes on, feeling the lucky penny slide up against my big toe. The sky outside is a heavy gray. The clouds just sit there, pregnant, long overdue. It’s as if the whole world is holding its breath.

  “I mean it,” I say, looking back at him. “As soon as I get back.”

  Benjamin Edson nods, and I start to close the door behind me.

  “Michael,” he says, stopping me. I turn. I’m guessing there is a quote coming. Gandhi or Schopenhauer or Oprah. Or maybe he’s going to tell me he loves me. He does that sometimes.

  “Be sure to look both ways,” he says.

  I guess I should have seen that one coming.

  One more piece. I’m not even sure Aziz is open this early, but he sleeps in a loft above his shop, so if worse comes to worst, I’ll just toss a rock at his window. I take my bike to get there faster, hoping to beat out the rain, but it’s a lost cause. The smoke-gray clouds turn angry charcoal, and the sky growls once in warning. Trust me, it says, you don’t want to be out here much longer.

  Nor does anyone else, apparently. The streets are practically empty, save for the cops. That’s all I see, perhaps because they appear in little swarms, like bees around a Dumpster. Probably they are out looking for the Dictator, trying to trace his signal, track him down. Or maybe they are just putting on a show. Either way, I have to take the long path, cutting down alleys and cross streets, doubling back, pausing to hide behind vans as patrol cars pass. I know they don’t know me. I’m not wearing a silver mask or a blue one. But there are too many questions cops could ask that I don’t have answers for. Questions about who I am, what my purpose is.

  Even if I knew, I wouldn’t tell them.

  I pedal as fast as I can, but it’s no use. The clouds unleash. It is pouring before I even get to Main Street. The kind of summer rain that teases you with a couple of big fat droplets before instantly unloading on you in sheets. I’ve got my hood up, but I still have to wipe off my face constantly as I skim across one growing puddle after another. The water splashes up and soaks through my new shoes into my socks. The shops are all closed. There is no traffic. Nobody is coming out today. Maybe they are camped out in front of their televisions already, waiting for six o’clock to roll around. Waiting for the revolution to start.

  Or maybe they are all packing for Winnipeg.

  I take two more detours to avoid the fuzz and circle around the back of Aziz’s shop, parking my bike in the alley. I check the street to make sure it’s clear, then run to his door. The sign says he’s closed, but I knock anyway. It takes a minute, maybe more, before I see his face in the window. I’m soaked to the skin, staring up at the sky, looking for the sorry excuse for a sun.

  Aziz opens and stands there, confused. He smells like licorice.

  “Mr. Morn—what exactly are you doing standing out there in the rain like that?” He pulls me inside and I shake like a dog, wiping my eyes clear. “The store doesn’t open for another hour,” he continues. “Your father must be hard at work to send you out so early, especially on a day like this.” I assume he means the rain. Or maybe Aziz, like all the others, is holing himself up as well. Nobody knows what to expect around here anymore. I reach into my back pocket and pull out the Post-it Dad gave me. It is sopping, like me, and it nearly tears in half as I try to unfold it. The rain has smeared the ink, but the numbers are still legible. 111000111.

  “It’s the last part he needs to finish this big project of his,” I say, handing it over, following the nodding Indian to the front of the store. I consider asking Aziz if he knows what it is my father is working on, but I doubt even he knows. It’s all right. I can wait. I’ll be home soon enough.

  Aziz takes the paper, his brow creased in confusion. “One minute,” he says, circling back around the counter. He types something into the computer. Then frowns. Types something. Frowns again.

  “Where is your father now?” he asks sternly, his whole body rigid. I wonder what my dad could possibly have asked for that would cause Aziz to suddenly act this way, considering all the things he’s helped us with in the past.

  “He’s at home. Why? Is there a problem?”

  I wait for the head jiggle, No sir, no problem at all, but Aziz just continues to grimace at me, biting lip and V-shaped brow. “Did he give you anything else? Say anything else?”

  I shake my head. “Just that he’s almost finished. Why? What’s going on?” Now I’m worried. Cops on every street. A supervillain on the television. A masked hero who comes and goes as he pleases. But it takes Aziz’s fallen face to push me over the edge.

  The store owner doesn’t say anything. Just walks to the front door and peers through the blanket of rain, making me even more nervous. Then he circles back around to his cash register, opening it and taking out all the money inside, tens, twenties, fifties. He doesn’t even bother to count it. He puts on the jacket that was sitting on the stool behind him and zips it up, stuffing the huge wad of bills inside.

  “Aziz,” I say, “tell me what’s going on!” But I can’t catch his eyes to be any more persuasive, because he’s ducked behind the counter. I hear him fiddling with something.

  He pops back up with a gun in his hands.

  A small black pistol that I’ve never seen before. It’s not pointed at me. Not exactly. My hands shoot out in front of me, like I’m just going to swat the bullets away. As if.

  “Jesus, Aziz! What the hell is that for?”

  I consider diving behind one of the shelves, but before I can, Aziz just checks to make sure the gun is loaded, then stuffs it in the back of his pants Lethal Weapon–style: a five-foot-six, Hindi-speaking techno-geek with a Beretta in his belt.

  “Come on,” he says, motioning to me. “We are leaving. Now.”

  “What? Where?”

  Aziz skirts around the corner and takes me by the hand, pulling me toward the storeroom, musty with dust and smelling of cardamom, past hundreds more metal shelves filled with cardboard boxes. Boxes and shelves. Kindred spirits, he and my father. Best of friends. The only other person Benjamin Edson really trusts, besides me. At least since my birth father died.

  “One one one, zero zero zero, one one one,” the storeowner mumbles, though he isn’t looking at any of the boxes or heading down any of the aisles. He’s not picking anything up. He seems flustered but determined.

  “What is it?” I ask again. “What does my father want?”

  “One one one, zero zero zero, one one one.”

  That’s all he says. Over and over again. Shaking his head.

  Then I realize that it’s not a part number at all.

  It’s a code.

  Aziz throws open the back door leading into the alley and looks around, keeping one hand behind him, resting on the butt of his pistol. The other hand still holds mine, a little too tightly. I’ve never been afraid of this man in my life. Of course I’ve never seen him with a gun before, either.

  “Come on,” he says.
<
br />   But I stop him. Pull hard, wriggling my hand free.

  Aziz knows about my power—the only person my father ever told. I guess we both got to tell somebody. He knows to look away, but he’s distracted, nervous, and he doesn’t do it in time. I manage to meet his eyes, only for a second, but it’s just long enough to grab hold.

  “Tell me what’s going on,” I say. It’s a demand this time. I stay focused, mustering all my concentration, and I watch his pupils blow, black over brown. I’ve got him. I just need to hold on.

  “The number,” he says, just loud enough to be heard over the still-pounding rain that runs in ribbons along our cheeks. “It’s a message. An SOS. It means I’m supposed to get you out of here.”

  “Out of here? You mean out of the city?”

  Aziz nods. I can see he’s trying to look away, but I don’t let him. I am completely locked in.

  “Because he’s in trouble?”

  Aziz nods.

  “What kind of trouble, Aziz?”

  “I don’t know,” he says finally, “but whatever it is, it’s bad enough that he’s afraid for your life.”

  Whatever my father is building, it’s not for Tony. Tony would never threaten my father like that. I know exactly who it’s for.

  And this last favor was just another trick. My father’s last-ditch effort to get me out of New Liberty before the ax came down.

  “He loves you, Michael. He wants to keep you safe.”

  I keep my gaze fixed on Aziz, trying to stay focused, but it’s difficult. It’s happening again. The magic trick. He’s trying to make me disappear. But I’m not a child anymore. I can make my own choices.

  “Give me your gun,” I say.

  I can see the store owner’s mouth twitch, his eyes straining, trying to look away. His whole body starts to shake.

  “Aziz. Give me your gun . . . right . . . now.”

  His hand shakes as he reaches behind him, pulling the pistol free. I concentrate, my voice calm, measured. I know he doesn’t want to, that he is resisting me with everything he’s got, and that makes it all the more difficult. I can feel his mind wriggling, slipping free. In a moment I will lose him. Some minds are stronger than others, and I’m asking an awful lot of my father’s friend.