Woods

by Finkelstein, Steven

  Daddy gave a tremendous fake yawn, holding the back of his hand to his mouth. “Ho-hum. I must say, I’m finding this all rather boring just now. And more so than that, I’m feeling that my company is unappreciated. Let’s get to the good part, shall we? I’ve extended my offer again; you have refused.” He spread his arms wide, holding a hand out dramatically toward Tad and speaking now in the phony larger-than-life voice of a television game show host. “Is that your final answer?”

  “You know it is.”

  “Then why don’t we welcome our next guest to the panel. It will be useful to get a fresh perspective on the proceedings.” And with that, he placed the whistle between his lips and blew sharply, giving a short, authoritative tweet.

  Instantly, Casey jogged out from behind one of the tackling dummies to stand next to the beaming Daddy, who clapped his hands delightedly. Tad tensed, his eyes narrowing. He had tried to think of every possible scenario he could on the ride over as to what Daddy might throw at him, but this simply wasn’t one that had entered his mind. Casey was dressed in his workout gear, a sweat stained Feral High football shirt with the sleeves ripped off and a pair of navy blue, lightweight athletic pants with snaps up the sides. He was sweating freely, his hair matted and damp, drops rolling down his face, his neck. His biceps and triceps bulged beneath the skin; the veins in the insertion point between his neck and shoulders were taut and straining. He stood tensely, quivering, full of a pent up energy. But when Tad looked into his eyes, Casey did not acknowledge him. His brother was looking off into the unknowable distance, miles and possibly worlds away. He did not blink or look to either side of him. “Case,” Tad said, hesitantly. He waved his hand in Casey’s field of vision, but there was no response.

  “We’re going to have a very special practice here today, boys,” Daddy crowed. He was animated again now, bouncing up and down on the balls of his feet as he’d been when Tad had first spotted him. “Ahem! Ha! Isn’t that right?” He raised the whistle to his lips and blew another shrill blast.

  “Yes sir, Coach Smiley!” Casey shouted. His voice was husky, and strangely hollow, as though it too came from a vast depth and distance.

  Daddy threw his head back and guffawed. “Isn’t that marvelous?” He patted Casey on the back, then stepped up behind him and began to massage his shoulders, looking over the left one at Tad as he did so. “Your brother has proven much more cooperative than you, luckily enough. And he displays a true talent for the game, an absolute rigor. He’s an asset to the team, isn’t that right, my young friend?”

  “Yes sir, Coach Smiley!” Casey exploded.

  “So obedient,” Daddy said, stepping back and wiping an imaginary tear. “He makes me so proud…”

  “Why don’t you let my brother go? This is between you and me.”

  “Let him go? Let him go?” Daddy furrowed his brow as if puzzled. “But he wants to be here. He wants to make the team. And I’m afraid the only thing standing in the way of that…” he smiled again, waggling his finger at Tad, “…is you. There’s only one spot left, and it will be going to one of you…as for the other…” He shrugged his shoulders. “So let’s be about it, sharply now!” He took a couple of steps backward, raising the whistle to his lips.

  “Case,” Tad said urgently. He closed the distance between them and reached an imploring hand out, and Casey growled at him, seeming to see him for the first time. “Snap out of it, Case!” Tad pleaded, but with a sinking heart.

  Daddy blew the whistle again. “That’s a neutral zone infraction! Get back across the line of scrimmage! Surrey!”

  “Yes sir!”

  “Like we practiced, now, don’t forget to pop those hips! Pop ‘em! Explosive power! Rend that cartilage! Twist those ligaments!”

  “Yes sir!”

  “Casey,” Tad was backing away slowly, his hands held out in front of him. He looked around. There was no help in sight, as he’d suspected would be the case. “Don’t do this! Don’t!”

  “Down,” Daddy cried, and Casey crouched down instantly into a three point stance, one leg extended slightly behind him, two fingers resting on the ground. His eyes locked onto Tad’s. “Set!”

  “I’m warning you,” Tad said, for all the good he knew it would do.

  “Blue torpedo! Blue torpedo! Seventeen! Eighty-one! Hut! Hut! Hike!” He blew the whistle again. Casey flew forward, an arrow launched from a bow, his mouth open slightly. Tad had been backing away, so he was off balance as his brother’s body collided with his own, the powerful arms encircling his midsection and driving him several yards back before taking him off his feet and planting him in the grass. It felt like being hit head on by a small car. All the wind was knocked out of him at the point of impact in one long whoosh, and he lay doubled over, his face a grimace of pain. Casey was back up on his feet and bouncing up and down like a cocky prize fighter. Tad opened one eye to see that hated face hovering over Casey’s shoulder. He recognized the smile; it was the same one he’d seen at Decadence during the dance off, when Whitehall’s maelstrom had swallowed the unsuspecting Much. It was delight at seeing pain caused, and being the catalyst of that pain. “That’s what I’m talking about,” he cackled, patting Casey affectionately on the back again and rubbing at his shoulders. “That’s how you follow through! Ahem! Ha! Yes! You might well make the team with moves like that, my lad. You’re showing far more pluck than this puling, poorly formed specimen.”

  Tad struggled to his feet, his eyes darting from one to the other. What to do here? It was a dilemma. He didn’t want to hurt his brother. Casey was a sadist and a bully, qualities that he shared with Daddy, in fact. Tad had wished him ill in the past, that was for sure, especially when healing from scrapes and bruises incurred when Casey had caught him alone somewhere in the woods, away from the watchful eyes of their mother. Tad had scars at his brother’s hands that he would carry for the rest of his life. We have nothing in common other than blood. It’s always been that way. But do I really wish serious injury on him? He did not. Searching his feelings, he knew that for truth. No matter how much of a creep Casey was. But he harbored no illusions about the trouble he was in, and self preservation had to be a factor. Though he didn’t want his brother to come to harm, if it was a choice between himself and Casey, it was no contest. Casey would be dealt with. By any means necessary.

  He stood, painfully, wiping grass and dirt from his elbows. Casey was lining up again, and Daddy was spouting nonsensical athletic lingo at him. He struggled to pull air into his body, searching for the calm place as he did so, trying to quiet his mind. But Daddy’s presence made it nearly impossible. The voices in his head continued to cry out dire warnings. He could feel the sun frying his brain like an egg inside his skull. And all he could see in his field of vision were those two pale, limpid eyes, so nauseating that he could almost retch, as they swam toward him from out of that contemptible face, closer, closer. “May all the gods damn you,” he said. He scarcely knew what words he spoke. “May you rot in hell with your father.”

  Casey was lining up again. Tad had few options and no time to think them over. Run or fight, that was all he could do; short of that, he could stand still and let this miniature dump truck run roughshod over him again. He gritted his teeth. He would fight. He imitated Casey, bending down into the three point stance. Get to Daddy. That’s what you have to do. Get by the puppet, somehow. Take out the puppeteer. He smiled his own grim smile at the thought. Daddy might have the advantage over him in mental acuity, but he thought that maybe, just maybe, he had the advantage physically. He just had to find a way to live long enough to test that theory.

  Daddy was doing his dance of excitement. Bouncing first on one foot, then the other. Now both together. “Watch the screen! Twenty-eight! Ninety-four! Set! Hut-hut! Hike!” The whistle blew and the eldest and middle Surrey child flew toward each other. They came together with a good deal of force, shoulder to shoulder, their arms locking around each other, their foreheads touching. All Tad could hear was
their ragged breathing as they jockeyed earnestly for position. He could smell Casey’s sour sweat, feel the muscles of his brother’s arms straining like iron cords as he drove Tad steadily backward. Tad tried to plant his heels in the dirt to stop himself sliding backwards, but to no avail. The difference in size and strength was apparent. It had been that way their whole life. Why should now be any different? True, Tad had the power that only indignation and the surety of one’s convictions can provide, but it was not enough. He could feel Casey’s grip tighten, and then as the elder Surrey brother forced himself forward, he had a flashing glimpse of the blue sky streaking above him before the back of his head struck the ground, hard, bouncing once. His eyes were closed, but he still saw glimmers of color in the dark, flashing like pinwheels. There was a warm salt taste in his mouth and he realized he had bitten his tongue. “…him up!” someone was saying. “Let him up!” The weight on his chest was suddenly alleviated, and he rolled onto his side, curling up into the fetal position again. As he did sometimes in the shower at home, safe with the hot water pounding down on him, in the cradle of steam and forgetfulness, and he dearly wished he could be back there now. He could hear the hated voice that teetered always on the edge of madness, telling him to get up, get up.

  Painfully, he did so, one step at a time, first onto his knees, then getting his feet under him, then rising up part of the way and staggering, holding a hand out for balance. He almost went down again but righted himself, opening his eyes and holding one arm to his torso that was beginning to feel like one giant bruise. That was when it happened. There was no warning this time, no whistle or preparatory speeches from Daddy. Casey simply came at him with everything, launching himself at Tad’s torso as hard as he could and putting every bit of crushing power he had into breaking his brother in half. He very nearly did so. Tad had just been in the act of trying to inhale a bit of precious oxygen, when he was blasted fully in the ribcage by Casey’s lowered shoulder in fine football form. He struck the ground harder this time but did not feel the impact nearly as much. He was aware of things happening around him involving shapes and colors, voices calling, possibly in his mind or maybe outside of it. He couldn’t tell. He didn’t care. It was actually a bit pleasant, if only for a moment. He felt the urge to drift away and did not fight it. Why should he? No reason in the world.

  When he came to, things were much worse. He didn’t know how much time had passed; probably just a couple of seconds, but he’d been somewhere better and he was reluctant to leave it. Sounds started filtering back to him, then sensations, then finally images. The sounds he could hear were a high pitched howling, a heavy panting, and Daddy filling the background with his ceaseless commentary, a continuing streak of jabbering from which he could not pick out any individual words. He could feel grass against his face and smell it. There was an intense pain in his right shoulder and a weight pressing down on his back, and as this began to register he came to the realization that the howling noise he was hearing was coming from his own throat. He opened his eyes and saw green. Not much else. If he twisted his head to one side he could just make out Daddy capering nearby. The pain in his shoulder intensified and he cried out again in agony, struggling to rise, but the weight on his back held him pinned. Casey had rolled him over onto his stomach and was kneeling on him, and he had pinioned Tad’s right arm behind him and had it trapped under his knee. Whenever he pressed down it elicited a new stab of searing pain, of the sort that is only experienced when the delicate balance of a ball and socket joint in the human body is being forced from its natural alignment. Tad was fully back in the moment now, but helpless. Against pain like this there could be no such thing as pride. He thought that then and there he would have agreed to anything just to have it stop. He could still hear Daddy taunting him but the words had lost all meaning. The panting he had heard was Casey. He could feel his brother’s hot breath close against his ear and the back of his neck. Casey did not speak, but Tad could easily imagine the look on his face. He’d seen it before, on many occasions.

  He struggled to free himself, but it was futile. His thrashing only made Casey bear down the harder, and force Tad’s head further down into the grass with his free arm. The smell of the grass and of the earth was overpowering, not unpleasantly so. It was rich and deep, and somehow soothing. Down this close he thought he could hear the rustling of the earthworms as they inched their way along their lonely tunnels, blindly, stolidly. He thought he could hear the sleepy thoughts of the earth itself in its turning, too slowly to be detected, too quite to be heard. He wanted to pass into the earth, the better to hear those thoughts, to lend his own musings to them and profit from the sharing. To close his eyes and sleep. But he could not do any of these things, when that wretched, hated voice went on and on, while he was trapped in his own body. Casey had taken his arm off the back of his head, allowing him to raise his face up off the grass, and the first thing he saw when he did so were the eyes. They were mere inches from his own. “Submit to me,” Daddy said huskily. “The pain will end. I will find things to replace it. I promise you. Submit to me. There is no other choice.”

  “No.”

  Daddy nodded, just a quick bob of his head, and a fresh knife of pain sliced through Tad’s arm, his shoulder, his entire core. He partially stifled the groan, but not completely. The situation seemed so familiar. Why was that? Then he realized. Walt had held him in much the same position, in the barn when he’d returned from Decadence, before laying into him with the belt. Like father, like son. “Submit to me,” Daddy said, in a sing song voice this time. “Hem! Hup! Or I will instruct your brother to begin breaking things.”

  “Fuck you.” Daddy nodded his head again and the pain returned. Tad screamed, in rage as much as pain. If he relented, would Casey get off him long enough for him to fight back, or to run? The truth was, he didn’t think that any good could be gained from continuing to challenge Casey physically. They were unevenly matched. He had to accept that. But who knows what will happen if I tell him that I will submit to him? Does my saying it constitute some sort of contract to him? Will it instantly bestow some sort of additional power over me? He felt that, in a sense, the past few hours had seen him take giant steps toward understanding the new world and the new circles that he was traveling in. But really he had just scratched the surface, and for every new revelation that he’d uncovered, there were a dozen more he remained unaware of. He was still new to the game, learning as he went along. But he could not comply. His anger would not let him. He could feel it like a living organism gestating inside him, burning with a power greater than any physical pain. I will not submit. Not even as a ruse. He was dimly aware of Daddy speaking to him again. “Come closer,” he croaked. The eyes drifted toward him from out of the pain fog. “Closer.” They were an inch from his own. It was thrilling to be so close. He could see the madness skating along their surface. Synapses firing randomly. “Fuck you. I will never submit to you. Give me back what you stole from me.”

  There was an intake of breath and the eyes withdrew. Looking up, he was barely able to make out Daddy giving Casey the nod again; that was all the warning he got. Then Casey reared back and pressed down and there were the noises of wrenching and tearing as his arm was stretched out behind him in a direction it was never meant to go. The pain was epic, literally breathtaking. He couldn’t get the oxygen into his lungs to scream as loudly as he wanted. Instead he just gave a long rattling sigh and uttered a prayer to he knew not what that he be allowed to pass out again. He did not; instead his head was forced all the way back into the grass again as Casey climbed off of him. He lifted his head and tried to move the arm back into its normal position. It felt like it was barely attached. As he turned it over, rolling it in the socket, another white-hot lance pricked at him and with a yelp he scrambled to his feet, trying to hold the wounded limb away from his attacker. Hardly aware of what he was doing.

  A strange clarity seemed to be coming over him. He welcomed it without question. He
identified each object and sensation for what it was and was glad to find it there. A proper place for everything and everything in its place. These are my attackers, here in front of me. Here is the schoolhouse where I learned about the Civil War. In the back row is the desk where I sat, with the doodles of F-16’s that I drew on it. This is the grass beneath my feet, yellow and dying. That is the Willow Road behind me. This is my blood I am tasting. That is my wildly beating heart. That is my brother standing before me, who has done me this wrong. That is the architect of this business, James Crawley, who calls himself Daddy, whose background and proclivities have driven insane. This is my dislocated shoulder hanging off me like a dead tree branch. Or maybe it’s broken. Who the fuck knows? It didn’t feel right, that was for sure. Every time he moved, even slightly, an ungodly flood of pain emanated from the shoulder, down the arm and through the core of his body. It was a chilling pain; under the merciless sun it was actually refreshing. But he felt sick with it, and the adrenaline.