The Prick Next Door

by Rose Queen

  "Gunner," my father breathes, his tone wistful. "I'm fortunate enough to have some access to the outside world. Our pastor makes occasional excursions for church business. He brought me the news about what happened to your father last year. I'm sorry for your loss."

  "Look. I don't mean to bother you."

  "It's fine. Please, come in."

  Dylan glances at my sister and me. "Can we talk out here instead?"

  My father closes the door behind him and guides the young man to the far end of the porch. Elsie and I peek through the curtain. It's shameless to concern ourselves with other people's business, but we've never encountered outsiders that have some sort of connection to our family.

  We can't hear everything that's said. Only light touches of conversation. The young man looks forlorn and constantly gestures with his hands while he speaks. "...my father said you helped him once...the court...lighter sentence...the condition...don't know what else to do...my little brother...out of control..."

  "Who's out of control?" Elsie salivates.

  "We've heard enough." I skirt her from the window and thrust her onto the sofa, sensing that something big is about to happen. We'll need to be sitting when we hear it.

  Elsie tugs on my braid. I've told her not to do that. "Such a goodie-goodie," she says. I resent the comment, even though I know she's right. I'm the good one. I'm the boring one.

  Well, I'll live. So will she.

  The men stay out there for nearly an hour. Elsie ceases trying to stoke my temper the minute our father returns. We obediently leap to our feet, noting the sound of the young man's car pulling away. Our father scratches his beard, which isn't good. My joints tighten. Elsie begins to fidget.

  "Annabelle," he says to me. "I'll need you to clean up the cabin tomorrow and change the sheets."

  I frown. I don't like where this is going. The cabin is a single-room dwelling that used to be a goat house, back when we still raised goats. Elsie and I were children when this practice stopped, and my father then converted it into a play spot for us, which he furnished with a bed and wood stove after discovering that we'd sneaked out and fallen asleep there one night. But it hasn't been used in years.

  His shoulders are hunched, eyes glinting with concern, resolution, and a pinch of determination. The latter of which means that whatever the stranger beseeched him to do, I have no chance of talking my father out of it.

  I don't have to wait for an explanation.

  "We're having a guest," he says.

  They deliver the man to us in a patrol car. I can't help but pity him for this form of humiliation, even if he has earned it. He grew up in another universe, yet he's been brought here against his will. I wonder what it says about Unity life that confinement to our farm is seen by others as a form of punishment. I don't understand it.

  This man's life proves how dangerous it is to be led astray by too much freedom. This is exactly why I've ignored my desires. In the beginning, I almost embraced it, wanting the freedom to try my hand at archery. It's an unorthodox craft for females in my Order. But the whole thing made David nervous. So I haven’t dared to try.

  David reminded me of the basic truth, which I rely on to steel myself. I don't need to know what's out there. The routine and the boundaries of this life anchor me. I know my place. I never have to question it.

  I don't care for guests. My father says this man has committed one too many acts of delinquency. Instead of locking him up once more, he's been granted release under the disciplinary condition that he works on the farm. With us. Two months of honest labor and quiet service under my father's supervision.

  The man's lawyer argued his case and must have done a good job. The judge had eased his sentence after hearing the lawyer’s proposal, which involved the story of Mr. Gunner and my father, back when they were both seventeen.

  My father got a summer job at the Gunner’s café in the city. Apparently, Mr. Gunner was a loose cannon but managed to turn things around through his friendship with my father. Their bond changed Mr. Gunner for the better.

  He died last year of a heart attack. Enter Dylan Gunner. The delinquent's older brother, who visited us two days ago to ask my father if he would take his little brother under his wing, the way he had with their father. Dylan hopes that Papa can somehow rehabilitate this criminal man. Or, if anything, give him a fair dose of backbreaking work.

  A reckless man who disrespects his elders and welcomes temptation on a regular basis. His conduct is enough to make me look down on him.

  Yet my straightened posture begins to unfurl when I see the police car. The vehicle rolls across the dirt road; bobbing from side to side as though aware it doesn't belong here.

  I sigh and rub my lower back. It's been a tough day. "This makes no sense. Why should we have to deal with him?"

  "Hush now, Annabelle," my father says, startled by my outburst. "Acceptance and benevolence."

  I go silent. My head hangs down. Selflessness, amity, and forbearance are what I need to be exuding right now. Especially in front of my sister, who's thoroughly enjoying my discomfort.

  This man hasn't even set foot in front of me, yet I've already done something uncharacteristic because of him. I've spoken out of turn. It makes me dislike him more. In my heart, I know that I'm supposed to be accepting of him. He needs our guidance.

  We situate ourselves along the walkway in front of our house. Hills of caramel-colored wheat on one side, high corn stalks on the other, carpet the property. It's early September. Autumn, my favorite season, is approaching. I treasure it mostly for the food. I should be content, but I'm not. I don't want this man disrupting the time of year I most look forward to. I don't trust someone who breaks the rules. I don't trust people I don't know. I've grown up knowing everyone.

  Elsie is giddy. "I bet he's handsomer than David."

  Does she not comprehend the shortcomings of pride? Besides, her prediction is hard to believe. We shouldn't place value on looks, but no one is handsomer than David. This is not a smug assertion. It is simply a fact.

  Our father sets his hands over Elsie's bony shoulders and gives them a diminutive shake to shush her. "It shouldn't matter to you one way or another, young lady."

  The policeman steps out of the car, opens the rear door, and tugs the man out. No. Not a man. A man. He's wearing jeans, a fitted black t-shirt that looks as soft and worn as an old sheet, and a couple of intricate rings on his fingers. He's larger than I expected. He's taller than me, and his stride is strong. He must feel out of place, but he doesn't act like he cares. His stocky frame makes me instantly uncomfortable, as does the sunglasses he wears, as does his unruly dark hair. He's rumpled, as though he just got out of bed.

  I can't stop staring. I pull at the ties hanging from my headdress. My heart is beginning to hurt. It's pumping too fast. Why?

  The policeman escorts him up the walkway, evidently tired. There's lingering tension there, as if the man has spent a good part of the ride antagonizing the officer.

  My father shakes hands with the uniformed man, who then slaps the man on the back. Hard. "This is Cassius."

  Cassius Gunner.

  The breeze kicks up, and the stalks begin to whir like mad, and the landscape is reflected in the man's sunglasses.

  The officer nudges him. "I'm not going to tell you again to take those aviators off and say a proper hello to this nice family."

  Elsie beams more than if she discovered a talking goat in our yard. My father gazes at Cassius Gunner with familiarity because he's seen this behavior before. Years ago.

  Cassius Gunner pretends he hasn't heard the policeman. I find myself stepping backward, the action causing the man’s strong chin to shift toward me. His head jerks for a second, but then goes still. I see my gray eyes mirrored in the shades. It's impossible to tell what he's thinking. What expression lurks behind that barrier?

  I'm hungry. I have the sudden desire to bite into the nearest blooming vegetable. Chew slowly. Swallow.

  The
officer repeats his order to remove the "aviators." Cassius Gunner merely adjusts them, revealing black letters tattooed on the inside of his arm, beneath his wrist. I tilt my head but can't decipher the word...not that it should interest me. Personal decoration is forbidden and considered vain in our community.

  Annoyed, the cop swipes the sunglasses off the man’s face. It takes effort to stifle my gasp. When I get my first look at those alarming blue eyes, I know one thing: Elsie was right. He is unreal. He is unapologetically beautiful.

  He is dangerous.

  3

  The Good Girl

  I kick Elsie under the dinner table to stop her from gawking at our father. She's dying to ask questions about the outsider, Cassius Gunner. Questions that are none of her business and wrong to preoccupy herself with. She knows better.

  Once the policeman dispatched the man, my father graciously introduced us, a moment that wrested from me every drop of steadiness I had. The man hadn't stopped looking at me—and looking at me funny, no less. Like he recognized me, just as his brother had after showing up on our porch.

  Only Cassius Gunner's reaction was harsher. His angular jaw clenched as though he resented what he saw. He spent a staggering amount of time probing my eyes for some kind of suspicious agenda. Incredibly ironic coming from him. I'd searched inside myself, wondering what I had done to earn this sort of attention, and came up blank.

  Between his unkempt and deceptively dark hair, his tight but wrinkled attire, his disregard for authority, and his very blue gaze, he'd forced me to glance at my shoes. Cassius Gunner made me uncomfortable without saying a word.

  Our father had escorted him to his cabin, fifty yards away in the woods. A convenient distance that won't cause too much gossip amongst our Order—many won't understand—but close enough to monitor Cassius Gunner's behavior and work progress.

  Papa had been gone a long time. When he returned, a deep crease had etched itself into his forehead. The man must have said something to trouble him. Nevertheless, my father is tolerating it out of loyalty to his old friend. I cannot quell my own curiosity over what the man and Papa talked about, but it isn't proper to invade his ruminations.

  A blush betrays my cheeks when I think of how I'd cleaned the cabin and prepared the bed Cassius Gunner will sleep in. I squeeze my spoon, about to dig into my stew, when Elsie's squeaky voice halts me.

  "What's Cassius eating?" she asks.

  Our father sets a napkin on his lap. "He refused my offer to join us."

  "But—"

  "It's his choice. We show courtesy, and he either accepts or not. Something tells me he hasn't yet learned the difference between kindness and pity. Nor pride and manners. He's stained and needs to let go of his reservations before he shares a table with us. We can steer him toward salvation, but he has to take the steps."

  I hadn't expected Papa to say so much in one breath. It isn't like him to confide in us to this degree, with these many words. There's melancholy in his hushed tone and pain as fresh as a drop of blood.

  Elsie twirls the loose tie of her headdress around her finger. "I didn't ask who he's eating with. I asked what he's eating."

  Papa stops chewing. I glance at him, equally surprised and guilty. We've provided the man with a grill for the fresh meat and vegetables we'll regularly deliver to him throughout his stay. We also plan to cater his non-grill meals, seeing as the cabin doesn't have a kitchen. Yet so soon we've neglected to follow through with these plans. Even if he won't sit with us, it's his first night, and he's unfed.

  Cassius Gunner has burned himself into our lives and left a smoke trail in his wake, which now permeates the walls. It's a noxious scent that won't disappear soon enough.

  Our father sighs. "Annabelle—"

  Elsie huffs. "No. Not fair. It was my idea."

  "Elsie, do not be so insubordinate.” I smirk. “Annabelle, take a bowl to Cassius," Papa instructs.

  My smirk drops onto my plate so quick I can practically hear its thud. I do not want to set foot anywhere near that cabin. Most certainly not alone. I know exactly why he's asking me to go instead of doing it himself. He's concluded the man will more likely accept food from someone his age, which confirms he has so far been uncooperative with my father.

  I want Cassius Gunner out of here. There. I've been uncharitable. I embrace the feeling and give it a big hug.

  "Elsie should come with me," I say.

  "Elsie will not know how to contain herself."

  My sister crosses her arms. "Of course. Annabelle can do no wrong. No danger of her stepping out of line."

  "And come right back," my father warns.

  I cannot disobey. I wish David were here to walk with me. I miss him. I miss the security of him.

  On my way, I take solace in the crunchy sounds and grainy textures of autumn. The world smells like split squash.

  The solace doesn't last as I near Cassius Gunner's lair. Getting closer, I hear the merciless squeal of rock music blasting from one end of the cabin to the other, sharp enough to peel the hide off a cow.

  I'm outraged. Have the authorities allowed this man indulgences during his probation? Does my father know about this?

  Technology. Except for select things our Order permits—lighting and refrigerators and the types of tractors we use—it's another offense hailing from the kingdom of vanity. Particularly whatever apparatus is spewing that noise.

  I lift my chin and pray for the fortitude to endure the next two minutes. Yes. I will endure. This will toughen me against greater challenges in the future. It will—

  The door swoops open. I haven't knocked yet, but Cassius Gunner is standing there, bathed in orange firelight. My mind empties. Heat oozes down my throat and into my stomach.

  He's bare-chested. He props his bent arm high up on the frame, causing a muscle to pop up like a pale summit. I've never seen an unclothed male before. Therefore, I've never felt the effects, which flutter in my chest and boil my cheeks.

  He jerks his head toward the cabin and turns, indicating for me to follow him. It resurrects my moral stamina. I scowl at his naked back, which brandishes a second tattoo of a broken-up dandelion. The image ripples over his shoulder blade as he moves.

  Clutching the container of stew I've brought, I loiter outside for a moment before stepping inside. I will be humble, but I will not be intimidated.

  Kerosene lamps glow in the room. The wood stove roasts, providing ample heat. One of our old rocking chairs lounges by the flames, a hand-knit woollen blanket tossed over the arm. The bed is plush and covered in a faded patchwork quilt. I must confess, I'm a bit envious of how cozy it is in here, though I don't envy the seclusion.

  Cassius Gunner shuts off the music coming from a small speaker thing—evidently battery-powered—on the floor. Its size surprises me considering how monstrous the noise level had been. As he bends over, his tight jeans span his backside.

  I lose my grip on the container but catch it before stew splatters onto the floor. My yelp alerts him. He rises, his attention sliding from my gaping face to the dish in my hands. Those eyes disturb me.

  "What do you want?" he asks.

  The timing is inconvenient as I chose that precise moment to glance at his torso. He's big, robust. Dark hair trickles down into his waistband.

  I hold out the stew. He doesn't take it.

  I strain my arm farther. He still doesn't take it.

  We watch each other, waiting to see who will give in first. To make himself clearer, he crosses his arms. He's enjoying this. He wants to break me but doesn't realize with whom he's dealing. I have years of faith and restraint on my side. He has years of deviance on his. We shall see who perseveres.

  We stay like this for at least a full minute. As my arm muscles begin to tremble, it occurs to me this isn't fair. My mind is not as strong as my body...a plaguing thought. I scrunch my lips together as the stew gets heavier and heavier. My arm gives out, lapsing to my side.

  Satisfied, Cassius Gunner strides pas
t me. I place the stew on the counter and trail his movements, folding my hands neatly in front of me. I will myself not to scorn his victory. Now that I've completed my chore, I'm about to leave when I see where he's standing. What he's doing.

  He's painting on the wall. A half-finished image—the profile of an unknown child—parades across the wood in thick, wet strokes. Tubes of color and a water jar reside by his feet.

  Cassius Gunner, delinquency incarnate, has defaced our property. I'm shocked by his nerve, his rudeness, his talent. How dare he!

  I march to the door, intending to take this up with my father.

  "So what do you think?" he taunts. "Like my work?"

  I stop and glower at him.

  "You're desperate to say something, sweetcheeks." He drops his brush into the water jar, the red paint dissolving. "I'm all ears, baby. Hit me with it."

  His smug is easy to read. It dares me to reprimand him for his artistic crime and then tell on him, fully aware that I want to.

  Leave, Annabelle. Don't humor him. It's pointless.

  I fail to listen to myself. I intend to lecture him for ruining the wall, but instead I seize on the other offense, the one I have a more controlled grip on: He doesn't want to accept our food. He thinks he's better than us. His lack of appreciation for our hospitality insults my father's generosity.

  "You expect us to believe you have no appetite?" I say, then flatten myself up against the wall when he swaggers up to me and plants his hands on either side of my head. He leans in the way a man might if this were an intimate moment. My heartbeat accelerates but not from fear.

  "Nope." His warm breath travels across my mouth. "None at all."

  If he's trying fluster me, it's working. I'm trapped in a cage of skin and sinew. I'm inflamed and disturbed, but I manage to hide my true reaction and match his stare with a coarse one of my own. Intrigued, he moves back, releasing me from the prison of his arms but also taking the warmth with him.

  I straighten my dress. "You have the gall to consider yourself your own master."

  "What the fuck do you care?" he challenges.