Broken, Bruised, and Brave

by L. A. Zoe

  The next morning, after a breakfast of veggie burgers warmed over in their foil wrappers and rice milk fire-defrosted, Rhinegold and I set out for the park.

  “Don’t you have work to do?” I asked when he suggested it.

  “A job for Greco,” he said. “But not until this evening. What about you?”

  “I have to report at four for the dinner rush shift.”

  “Perfect. We’ve got most of the day free.”

  I wanted to check on Mom, but it didn’t seem urgent. She spent plenty of nights without me while in the hospital. I called her on my cell to make sure she took her morning medication.

  When we arrived, the sun shone big and bright as an August noon in a clear, dazzling cerulean sky. The ice reflected it, multiplying it a million times, so it made my eyes sing, and yet brought little warmth. Ice still covered the snow, the playground equipment, the barren tree branches. Nothing dripped, just remained solid as a North Atlantic berg waiting to sink The Titanic.

  I followed Rhinegold to his sacred grove, where small children played hide and go seek. And to his “castle,” where older children played King of the Hill.

  We stood and watched the entertainment, better than any football game on TV.

  To gain any traction on the iced-over hillside, the kids had to run hard, then dig into the ice with their toes or sides of their boots. Not easy.

  And one nudge from a child above sent them sprawling back.

  Yet if they gained the top, its ice offered no stable footing, although it wasn’t so slanted, so a well-timed push from below often sent them sliding back to the bottom.

  “The Children’s Crusade occupies your castle, m’lord,” I told Rhinegold. “Shall we drive them away or send them to the salt mines?”

  “It’s just like the Middle Ages,” Rhinegold said. “Everywhere feudal, I guess. Lords and kings fought hard to be the winners, but they didn’t last long. Always somebody new coming up to invade your country, eat your crops, steal your gold, and ravish your women.”

  I shivered. “You’re cheerful.”

  “Just realistic.”

  We turned, and walked to another area of the park.

  One of the bigger boys whistled at us. “Stick her once for me!” he yelled to Rhinegold.

  “At least somebody thinks we’re boyfriend and girlfriend,” Rhinegold said.

  We walked across an expanse of snow glowing white and yellow under the full sun overhead. By then it was after noon, so if the light warmed any of the landscape, it would be there. And innumerable footsteps broke up the surface.

  Glad for a reason to strike back at Rhinegold for helping me and yet rejecting me, and then seeming to approve of the little punk’s comment, I crouched down.

  Beneath the broken layer of ice, I found snow still moist but not yet sleety. I scooped some out and molded it into a round ball.

  Seeing my plan, Rhinegold laughed, and ran off to the side.

  I threw the snowball, and he ducked it.

  We threw snowball after snowball at each other. The kids playing King of the Hill quit and joined us, and the children playing under the trees.

  One large group of running, laughing, shouting kids pelting each other with snow.

  I threatened Rhinegold with a faceful of snow. “Take it back,” I said. “We’re not boyfriend and girlfriend.”

  “And never will be,” he agreed.

  “Never say never.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Sanders Cunningham

  As he rode the elevator up to the 20th floor of the Castenada office building downtown, Rhinegold felt the weight pressing at his body, crushing his mind.

  Many more law firms than his father’s. Architects. City planners. Delta Airlines. Social Security Administration. First District Congressional Representative Mildred Dawkins. Bank of America¸ Corporate Financing Division. Haselton & Broderick, CPAs. Real estate brokers. Scottrade.

  Bureaucracy. Money. The dead mass of the burdensome past and oppressive present. Choking him, stifling him, drowning him with regulations. Burying his imagination under a pile of toxic waste.

  From tastefully hidden speakers came the soft notes of the all-strings version of Pink Floyd’s Dark Side of the Moon.

  As soon as she spotted him come out of the elevator, Mrs. Vlessy, Father’s private administrative aide for as long as Rhinegold could remember coming to his office, since a Visit Parents at Work Day in the sixth grade, rushed to the wood divider.

  When did her hair go from black with streaks of gray to all-gray? When did those long creases first mark the sides of her face? When she start using a black beaded cord to hold bifocals around her neck?

  “Mr. Cunningham is waiting for you in the personal conference room on your right,” she told Rhinegold. Face flustered. Eyes unbelieving, not accepting the current reality. The cute young boy now a black sheep, an outcast.

  Rhinegold’s back and ribs prickled from the concentration of heat blowing out of the central furnace system. He unzipped his jacket, but arm pit sweat poured out, making him feel street-dirty again despite washing himself with soap and gallons of water before leaving the house. Too grimy for such a grand building, a luxurious suite of offices.

  Red and white Italian marble lined the rooms and hallways of Father’s latest suite of offices. Fine paintings, a mix of copies of old masters and modern art originals, hung from the hallway walls. He walked on carpet so thick he felt his combat boots crush the fabric.

  An automated air freshener wheezed, then squirted out lavender scented essential oil.

  Father sat at the head of a small, round conference table, studying a file. He looked up, smiled, and stood.

  Even hotter there, so Rhinegold immediately took off his parka and gloves, and hoped his father couldn’t get a whiff of the perspiration moistening his underarms.

  Father wore his long silver hair straight back, much like Crazy Georgie, only razor-cut and permed with expensive precision. A big, heavy face with a large nose that detracted from the air of intelligence he wanted to convey.

  Rhinegold suspected the nose, along with the deep lines etched beside it, made Father look pugnacious instead to his clients, and they liked that. They could hire sheer intelligence right out of college. When they needed a lawyer, they wanted someone to fight for them, in court rooms, and government and corporate offices.

  Standing up enhanced Father’s stature. Nearly as tall as Rhinegold, and he held his shoulders straight back like a boot camp Marine, and lead with his large belly. And eyes full of the confidence born of winning numerous fights. Like an aging button man, only dressed with a more restrained style than Mafiosi vacationing in Miami.

  The weak white light the high double windows allowed to leak through the glass and outside frost plating couldn’t compete with the violet-tinged fluorescents overhead.

  “Thanks for coming, Rhinegold,” Father said, waving him to a seat. “Coffee? Tea? Juice?”

  “Just water, thanks.”

  After a harried looking young associate brought Rhinegold a cold bottle of Evian and a glass, then left, they settled into the usual embarrassed silence.

  Father looked longingly at the file, torn between the standard work, which he understood—his life—and his rebellious son.

  If only he could farm Rhinegold out to a cheaper, younger lawyer who needed the business, no matter how dirty.

  Rhinegold knew he should hang back. Whoever spoke first, lost. But, as the younger and less experienced in-fighter, and impatient to leave, Rhinegold couldn’t stop himself. “Everything’s pretty much the same as last month.”

  Father nodded, and stared at the table. “Do you need any money?”

  Always what he asked first. Are you hurting yet? Are you sorry yet? Are you ready to give up yet? Are you ready to let me control you yet?

  “No, I’ve got enough.”

  “But you haven’t rented your own apartment yet? This weather, you can freeze to death, you know it?”


  “It’s got a fireplace, and walls to keep out the wind. I make enough to buy food.” Rhinegold patted his belly. “Maybe I should even lose some weight.”

  Father snorted. “You still protect whores for that piece of shit pimp scumbag?”

  Rhinegold shrugged. “I don’t like him, but the girls don’t deserve to get hurt. It’s terrible how many punk hoods the police allow to stay on the streets. And I do a lot of pro bono work, helping kids get to school.”

  Father rolled his eyes, stood up, and paced to a corner, in front of a large wooden bookshelf overflowing with overlarge law books. “That’s really what I had in mind when I paid for your martial arts lessons.”

  “And I appreciate those lessons with Sifu,” Rhinegold said warmly, conveying his sincerity.

  “You want to help clean up the streets, you could be a prosecutor.”

  Rhinegold shook his head. They played out the same script every month.

  “You want to do good the liberal do-gooder way, be a defense attorney.”

  “No lawyer, Father. I can’t be a lawyer. I’m not you, I’m sorry.”

  “No sweat. Doctor. Accountant. Business executive. You like history so much, a professor.”

  “Just something respectable, right?”

  “Get off the streets.”

  “I can’t live at home.”

  “No,” Father said with a long sigh. “But live somewhere. I’ll help you, under the table if I must. You know that. What you did … well, we can’t change the past, so we have to move on.”

  “Still thinking about running for Congress next election?” Rhinegold asked.

  “Thinking about it.”

  “Be bad publicity to have a homeless kid with a history of mental problems.”

  Father didn’t look at him, or reply.

  “And a juicy sex scandal in the family would probably destroy your chances of winning the primary, let alone the general election.”

  “Are you planning to sell your story to the National Enquirer? The other political party?”

  “I don’t want to be in the news. You know that.”

  “Dr. Feldon says you haven’t been in to see him for nearly six months.”

  “I can’t afford his fees.”

  “You know I’ll pay.”

  “I can’t afford his fees.”

  “If you aren’t the most stubborn, most ridiculous excuse for a son—”

  Despite the air filters on the air conditioning, the microscopic dust of yellowing law books irritated Rhinegold’s sinuses.

  “Just what Grandpa used to say about you.”

  Grandpa lived his entire life in Sandusky. He worked nearly fifty years for Cromwell Paper, until the union local and the company’s liability insurers forced him to retire, just before he died of a heart attack.

  “At least go back to school, Rhinegold. Don’t throw your life away. When you’re out slumming, took a hard look around at everyone. How many of the punks, the criminals, the chronically un and underemployed have a college degree, especially a professional one?”

  “Not many,” Rhinegold said.

  “Good. How many do you think wish they’d had the chance to get one?”

  “Some,” Rhinegold said.

  “Right. And would they be better off if they did?”

  “Yeah. Most like. I never said different.”

  “You want to fight for a living, fine. I’ve battled some of the best lawyers, the biggest companies.”

  “But your life wasn’t on the line.”

  “Millions of dollars. Hundreds of millions.”

  “Money.” Rhinegold said, not hiding his contempt.

  “Maybe you don’t want much now, but you want to still be a homeless bum forty fifty years from now?”

  Crazy Georgie’s face flashed into Rhinegold’s mind. “No.”

  “Wait until you meet the right woman, want to have kids.”

  “Maybe,” Rhinegold admitted reluctantly.

  “Helena still visits you, doesn’t she?”

  “I’m sure you know that. Doesn’t she give you a full report as soon as she leaves?”

  Father’s face reddened. “She’s not obligated to see you, Rhinegold. Whatever she does, it’s because she wants to. Out of loyalty. Plenty of guys chase her. She doesn’t need you.”

  Yeah, like Joe Parotti. Not that Helena’s love life was any of his business.

  “I enjoy her violin playing.”

  And she looked almost like Keara’s twin. That was so weird it was frightening. How could you have arranged that? Have you even noticed, or are you using that solely by accident?

  Father didn’t speak for a minute, a variety of emotions battling through his facial muscles. “She’s a beautiful young woman. High class. And not yet attached to another man. You could do a lot worse. And appropriate. Isn’t that the modern word for it?”

  A love and sex object for Rhinegold Cunningham. If only he would grow up, accept his responsibilities, his social roles. The life Father wanted him to live.

  “I did meet one,” Rhinegold said. “We’re not going to get married, but she is a nice person.”

  Hope and contempt wrestled on Father’s face.

  Hope Rhinegold might actually fall in love with a woman who would convince him to go to college and live a conventional lifestyle.

  Contempt because he assumed every homeless woman was a crack ho, a nut who ought to be thrown into a mental hospital, or a welfare mother still on the waiting list for her Section 8 apartment.

  “What’s her name?”

  “SeeJai.”

  “I hope you’re using a condom.”

  “We’re not sleeping together, Father. It’s, it’s complicated. It’s not like that. She doesn’t work for Greco or Ami. She’s so … pure—”

  Father snorted.

  How to explain, in terms Father would understand and accept?

  How could he explain a goddess born on Earth as a mortal? An angel walking instead of flying through the sky? A true lady who didn’t understand her innate nobility? A elven princess in exile, thinking that troll of a woman her real mother? A woman with a sunshine face, a smile that blinded with dazzling light? Who moved with the unconscious grace of a fairy? Whose otherworldly beauty dominated his sleeping dreams at night and suffused his thoughts all day.

  Before meeting SeeJai, he didn’t understand true chivalry. Oh, he thought he loved his first princess, the first girl to capture his heart, and certainly she possessed true beauty herself.

  But SeeJai eclipsed her like the sun a candle.

  Now he understood how knights of old dedicated their fights, their battles, their good deeds, to woman who inspired their finest feelings.

  “Innocent, kind of. She might even be a virgin.”

  Even goddesses could have sexual relations, when they inhabited mortal human bodies. And Rhinegold did not exalt chastity. He was no virgin, and didn’t care if SeeJai was or was not. That did not affect her true, inner, Divine soul.

  All the same, something about her made him believe she might be. Hard to believe a young woman would even consider having her first sexual experience with a stranger who picked her up walking the Red Line, but that hardcore strange was part of SeeJai’s appeal.

  She possessed the inner steel to do what she thought necessary.

  Her practicality drove Rhinegold insane. Her presence in his life redeemed him, gave him a reason to go on living. He felt privileged to even know her, to have the chance to serve her.

  To have a chance to win her love?

  Maybe. He didn’t know. He could hardly believe he deserved such luck.

  She wanted to make love to him, but only as payment for his protection and help. Or out of sheer lust and sexual frustration.

  He couldn’t accept such a deal.

  What he did for her, he did out of love. Until she accepted and returned his love, he couldn’t share a bed with her.

  “I wish you’d go see Dr. Feldon.”

  �
�I’m not delusional.”

  “She’s a street girl, and you think she’s a virgin?”

  “She’s new. And she’s already got a waitress job. And is almost done saving up a security deposit to get her own place.”

  Father returned to his ergonomic chair, and leaned back. “Good for her, then,” he said, grudging respect in his voice.

  “She wants to go to college.”

  “Sounds as though you should learn from her.”

  “We’re friends.”

  “Bring her by sometime. I’d to meet her.”

  “By here?” Rhinegold asked.

  “No, the house. Long as … you know, I’m there and Sybille’s there and—hopefully, she’s not.”

  This was a new invitation. To the house. Rhinegold’s gut quivered with anticipation. To see Hampton Lawns again. Where he grew up. Where he met his lady fair …

  Father must be getting desperate to tame Rhinegold. Get him off the streets. Pack him off to college. Domesticate and chain his ankles to society’s shackles. A heavy iron ball weighing down his ankle.

  “Maybe,” Rhinegold said. He couldn’t speak for SeeJai. Didn’t even know her work schedule. He knew Father probably meant a Sunday afternoon or evening. He couldn’t be found receiving guests at home any other time, unless hosting a Saturday night party.

  He didn’t want to risk offending SeeJai just to satisfy Father’s curiosity. To have him judge her as any less worthy than Helena of the Cunningham name.

  She might bug out at Rhinegold’s family viewing her as more than just Rhinegold’s friend. Of course, Rhinegold already met SeeJai’s mother, but only to help her mother. He hadn’t been formally presented.

  The agony of introducing his high school girlfriends to Father and Sybille—with Keara often present, though quiet—and the embarrassment at going through the same process with their families.

  What do your folks do for money? Do they live in one of the wealthy neighborhoods? Are they respectable enough to attract our child? How much money do they make? Do they belong to the right clubs? Do they have only the right vices?—alcoholism, gambling, and wife swapping? Or do they snort blow, get charged with fraud by the Federal Trade Commission, and pick up underaged girls walking the Red Line?