Devils Within

by S. F. Henson

  “We’re not leaving,” Dell says, again. “I’ve built too much here to walk away now. I’m sick of backing down, sick of tucking my tail and hiding. This is our home.”

  Our home? I’ve never felt at home anywhere before. Am I home here? Or am I risking everything Dell’s worked so hard for?

  “Where would you even go?” Bev asks.

  My thoughts hadn’t made it that far. Where would I feel safe? Where could The Fort not reach me? “Back to the Psych Center. I was better there anyway.” There, I had four solid walls and strong locks keeping them out. And me in.

  Dell’s forehead wrinkles and his jaw sets. “You really believe that?”

  Do I? I may have been safer there, but every day was a struggle to stay out of the darkness. I fought the meds—there was no reason to take them, then. If I had a flashback, they’d just strap me down and take care of me. Out here, the meds haven’t been so bad. Once I got used to them.

  And I think I may actually be growing. Making friends, starting to fit in. Not quite thriving, but I’m kind of like that tree in the hole by the woods. I’m making it.

  “No,” I say. “But what other choice do I have?”

  Bev waves her cell phone. “We call the police.”

  “And tell them what?” I say. “That we brought a pack of neo-nazis here? At best, they’ll write up a report on the flyers—they’re not an immediate threat since we got them all. At worst, they’ll have a ton of questions for us.”

  “I don’t like it,” Bev says.

  Dell takes Bev’s phone. “Me, neither. We tell the cops the truth and let them handle it.”

  I jump to my feet. “You said you’ve built too much to walk away. You think this town will let us stay when they find out our pasts? I say don’t tell anyone. We keep this quiet and hope the Skynbyrds go away when they don’t get a reaction out of us. Maybe they’ll think they’ve got the wrong place.”

  “You honestly think that will happen?” Dell scoffs.

  “Got a better idea? One that doesn’t include everyone potentially learning they’ve been living among reformed white supremacists?”

  Dell’s grip tightens on the phone. “Fine. We do it your way for now. But if this happens again, we suck it up and call the cops. We’ll get up early and canvas the town for more flyers. I can’t let these bastards freak out my town. Other than that, we act normal.”

  668

  Acting normal means dinner with Brandon’s family. I’d forgotten all about it. If Brandon hadn’t caught me in the hall before the last bell to tell me when to show up, I would’ve won the award for biggest jackass of the year.

  Dell shakes his head when I tell him. “I don’t think that’s a good idea. It’s not safe.”

  “Backing out now would be the opposite of normal. I’ll be fine.”

  “I’m not thinking about you,” Dell says. “I’m thinking of Brandon.”

  I pick at a hole in my T-shirt. “I know.” It’s way more dangerous for Brandon if he’s seen with me. The Fort would lose their shit. “But we haven’t seen flyers all week. I think we’re okay. I think they’re gone.”

  “I hope you’re right.”

  Me, too. I don’t want to think about what it means if I’m wrong.

  “Fine,” Dell says, “but you’re sure as hell not wearing that.”

  “I don’t have anything else.”

  Dell sighs. “Follow me.”

  Two hours later, I’m sitting in Brandon’s driveway wearing a button-down that’s two sizes too small. Dell said a T-shirt wasn’t acceptable attire for a family dinner, especially with folks like the Kingsleys.

  I tug at my sleeves self-consciously.

  Dell shifts the truck into park. “Roll those things up and nobody will be able to tell.”

  The shirttail barely hits the top of my jeans. I don’t think rolling the sleeves is going to do much good. “Oh, yeah, that’ll do it,” I say after I’ve pushed the cuffs to my elbows. “They’ll never be able to tell now. Not until I bend, and a button flies into the gravy.” He could’ve bought me a new shirt—I need some anyway, since it’s getting colder—but no, Captain Cheap-Ass can’t spare a few bucks on something as frivolous as me not freezing to death this winter.

  “Keep your phone on,” he says, ignoring me. “Don’t spill nothin’ on my shirt. And mind your manners. These are nice people. Don’t be an ass.”

  You would know. I almost say it aloud out of habit. I’m still adjusting to the changes between Dell, Bev, and me, but the old feelings are folded in the corner of my mind like an origami scorpion.

  “What are you waiting for,” Dell asks, “a dinner bell?”

  I glance at Brandon’s house from the corner of my eye. I’ve been dying to see inside, but now that I’m here, I can’t move. In my head, the house is as neat and put together as Brandon, but I know better than anyone how different my head can be from reality.

  As curious as I am, I’m also terrified. Terrified that I’ll screw up, but also that the inside will be like they claimed at The Fort. That The Fort will be right about something, and it will break the image I have of Brandon into tiny pieces.

  “Nate,” Dell says. “You’re being rude. Get in there already.”

  I take a deep breath and pull the door handle. Dell’s headlights sweep over me as he backs out of the driveway. My ever-present shadow stretches down the sidewalk in front of me, reaching greedily for the porch. I force myself to follow the shadow. Each step like walking through drying cement.

  Because what I’m most afraid of is me.

  What if everyone is right about me? What if I hurt Brandon’s family?

  My armpits are coated with sweat by the time I ring the doorbell, despite the crisp fall air.

  Brandon opens the door before I’ve even taken my finger off the buzzer. “Thank God you’re here.” He grabs my arm and jerks me into a wide foyer. “The passive aggressiveness has already started and Henry’s hardly been home an hour.”

  A family fight is the last thing I want to walk into right now. I can pretend I forgot to take my meds. Fake a flashback. Except Dell would be pissed if he had to turn right around and come get me.

  And now that I’ve made it inside, curiosity pricks me with its porcupine quills. The house seems normal so far. Normal by sitcom standards, anyway. Dark wood floors span the length of the hall from the front entrance all the way to white French doors at the back. The whole place seems exposed, with open access between all the rooms. The arch to my left leads to a large living room filled with comfortable-looking furniture and a big-screen television. To the right, a staircase gently curves to a second-floor catwalk.

  The walls are tan and are covered with family pictures. Everything is pristine and shiny. It’s the nicest building I’ve ever been in, other than the white marble courthouse where my hearing was held. I’d normally be uncomfortable in a place like this, afraid to touch anything or relax. But I feel totally at ease. Relieved even.

  The house matches Brandon. It’s not some weird, alien thing. It’s warm and comfortable. I want to curl up and take a nap on that couch.

  “Brandon? Baby, is that Nate?” Brandon’s mother steps into the hallway carrying a big blue platter piled high with spicy-smelling chicken. “Take this to the table.” She hands the plate to Brandon and wraps her arms around me. My muscles constrict. If I were a turtle, I’d tuck myself into my shell right now and hide.

  I stand, rigor mortis still. Mrs. Kingsley smells of herbs and spices and faint floral perfume. When was I hugged last? Mom?

  Holy shit, would he flip if he saw me being in the arms of a black woman. In a black family’s house. About to eat food they prepared, with their hands. I can almost see him in front of me, demanding I go outside and wash: “Remove the stain of their filthy skin.”

  Guilt works through me, warming my face. I’m worried the Kingsleys will be able to smell the ignorant racist on me as easily as I smell Mrs. Kingsley’s cooking on her. I bury his voice deep, de
ep, deep. Below the beast. Stuff it all the way down where no one can catch a whiff.

  “Come on, baby.” Mrs. Kingsley takes my hand and leads me to the kitchen. “You’re not going to break the tension by standing in the hall.”

  My eyes go wide.

  “Of course I know why you’re here.” She pats my arm. “I am glad, though. James has to behave in front of company.”

  Brandon jogs up behind us as we enter the wide kitchen. Dell’s entire ground floor could fit in this one room.

  Two men stand by the granite island. The whole family looks like they stepped out of a magazine ad. My fingers work along the hem of my shirt, as though if I pull on it enough, it will magically grow a few inches.

  The younger guy, who must be Henry, drags a small carrot through some ranch and takes a bite. “I’m just saying, Dad, let me make my own decisions for once. We can’t all be the great professor—”

  “Look who I found!” Brandon’s mom pushes me forward. “This is my oldest, Henry, and the love of my life, Professor James Kingsley.” She beams, obviously proud of Brandon’s dad.

  Dr. Kingsley looks slightly annoyed, but he forces a smile and extends his hand. “Nice to finally meet you, Nate.”

  The scent of cigar smoke follows him as he shakes my hand. Everything about this family is new and interesting, even the way they freaking smell. Is it because they’re black? Do smells cling to them more than people with lighter skin? I feel like the biggest asshole ever for even wondering.

  The lines beside the professor’s eyes are more pronounced than Brandon’s and his tuft of hair is mostly gray, but otherwise they’re spitting images of each other. I shake his hand first, then Henry’s. I can see more of Brandon’s mother in Henry. His face and eyes are both rounder, like hers.

  “Heard a lot about you,” Henry says.

  “Oh?” What does that mean? Does he know about me?

  Henry skirts around me and grabs a bowl from his mother. “Glad you’re here,” he says under his breath.

  “Yeah, thanks for coming, man,” Brandon whispers as he comes from behind me and takes a bowl of shredded lettuce.

  I have to calm down. They don’t know my past. They never would’ve let me inside if they did. A guilty feeling bites at me. I push it down where I shoved his voice earlier.

  Brandon’s mom hands me a plate of squished corn bread things. “The dining room is right through there.” She points at another wide doorway across the kitchen.

  I walk into the dining room and set the plate on the oval table in the center. Black-and-white pictures of the family and old farmhouses and fruit in bowls cover the navy walls.

  Brandon inclines his head at the chair beside him. Henry sits across from us and his parents take places at either end.

  “I hope you like sweet tea,” his mom says. “If not, we’ve got water. Or I can make you some unsweet?”

  “Sweet’s fine.” I’m scared to look down and see the puddles of sweat that have seeped out of my body since I arrived. I angle my elbows away from my body to air my pits out. As I do, Brandon and his mom both reach for me. I jump back, almost tipping my chair over. What the hell? This must be it. The point when normal stops. Everything else was for show. They’re about to perform some ritual on me.

  Dr. Kingsley raises an eyebrow. “I’ll say the blessing.”

  Brandon takes one hand and his mother takes my other, then they link hands with Henry and Dr. Kingsley, forming a circle. I’m stiff as an over-starched shirt. Everyone bows their heads and closes their eyes, so I do the same, but I crack one eye and watch them, in case shit gets weird.

  “Father,” Dr. Kingsley says. His voice sounds deeper in here, more rich. “Thank you for bringing us all together tonight, and for this food you have so graciously provided. Bless our meal and our conversation. Amen.”

  “Amen,” everyone else echoes.

  “Amen.” My repetition lingers in the air. I don’t think I’ve ever prayed before. Mom did a few times when we were hiding in those stuffy motel closets. At least that’s what I think she was doing—muttering for someone to save her, help her, protect her.

  Brandon scoops rice on his plate and covers it with soupy black gunk, then hands me the plate. “Put a couple johnnycakes on there for me.”

  “Brandon,” Dr. Kingsley says calmly, but with a warning note.

  “Please,” Brandon adds.

  That’s when I notice they’re all handing one another plates, heaping on different sides.

  “We eat family style,” Mrs. Kingsley explains.

  My expression must be as blank as my mind because she adds, “We serve one another.”

  Other than the disaster of a meal Dell and Bev tried to have, the closest I’ve ever come to a family dinner were the few barbecues they had at The Fort each summer. Those were different, though. They slapped the food on long tables and you served yourself. Everyone pushed and shoved in line, trying to get the best and biggest portions first. God forbid you helped someone else at The Fort.

  I follow the Kingsleys’ lead and pass plates around the table, watching in mild horror as they cram beans and rice and burned yellow things on my plate. The Professor adds several pieces of blackened chicken last and passes the plates back around. Only after everyone has theirs back do they begin eating.

  No one speaks as they dig in. I stare at the lumps in front of me. The yellow things look okay, but I’d rather not risk it, so I start with the rice, picking at the part that doesn’t have bean juice in it.

  “Don’t you like Caribbean?” Brandon’s mom says. “Brandon, you didn’t ask him first?”

  Brandon’s eyes go wide. “I forgot to. My bad.”

  Shit. Now I’ve made them feel bad. “I’ve never had it,” I say, hoping that makes my snub better.

  Henry grins. “Well, let me introduce you to the best food in the world.”

  “At least someone is learning something,” the Professor says.

  Henry bristles. I’m failing at everything tonight. This is exactly the sort of thing I’m here to prevent.

  “Okay,” I say. “What have we got?”

  Henry uses his fork as a pointer. “You’ve got your jerk chicken, your black beans and rice, cabbage, kidney peas, sweet plantains—the best kind if you ask me—and johnnycakes. Those are basically fried corn bread.”

  Brandon leans closer. “If you don’t like it, there’s sandwich stuff in the fridge.”

  “My grandmother is Jamaican,” Mrs. Kingsley says. “She brought these recipes when she immigrated. They’re not everyone’s taste, though, so don’t worry. I can whip you up something better than a sandwich.”

  Brandon grimaces.

  “No, that’s okay,” I say.

  Everyone watches me as I stab at a piece of chicken. Now I really feel like a zoo animal. I take a bite and flavors explode in my mouth. Sweet and herby at first. Then the fires of Hell unleash on my tongue.

  I grab my glass and chug half my tea before I can come up for air.

  “Oops,” Henry says. “Forgot to warn you.” He bursts out laughing. Mrs. Kingsley starts to scold him, but then she starts laughing, too. Laughing so hard she has to cover her face with her napkin.

  “I’m sorry, Nate,” she says. “We like it spicy.”

  Even Dr. Kingsley lets out a chuckle. “GramMa’s spice blend can sneak up on you.”

  I’ll say. I take another swig of tea. What I really need is a fire hose.

  “Eat some plantains,” Henry says. “The sweet will balance out the heat.”

  I tentatively poke at the mushy yellow things on my plate. How bad can it be? I take a bite. It’s like a banana but so much better—sweet but tangy, and the crispy burnt ends are freaking amazing. I gobble up three in a row.

  That sets everyone off again. “I’m glad you like them,” Mrs. Kingsley says between giggles.

  “This is the best thing I’ve ever eaten.”

  She smiles. “Then have as much as you want.”

  “
So, Nate,” Dr. Kingsley says, “tell us about yourself. Where are you from? What do you like to do?”

  My mouth is suddenly Death Valley. Words evaporate from my head, leaving nothing but dusty doubt. What am I supposed to say? Everything I think of would completely spoil the mood.

  “He’s pretty good at basketball,” Brandon says. “He might join the team.”

  I have to remember to thank Brandon later.

  “Forward?” Henry asks, his mouth full of black beans.

  Brandon twists cabbage around his fork. “Yeah, he’s got a killer layup.”

  Dr. Kingsley clears his throat. “Brandon, why don’t you let your guest speak for himself?”

  I guzzle the rest of my tea. Now that I can taste it, it’s more sugar water than anything.

  Brandon’s mom whisks away my glass as soon as I put it down. “I’ll get you some more. For the chicken.” She winks.

  Dr. Kingsley sips from his own glass. “You enjoy basket-ball?”

  “Um, yes. Yes, sir.”

  “You should come to the college sometime and watch a game.”

  Brandon’s face lights up. “Yeah! Midnight Madness is coming soon, right, Pops?”

  “A couple weeks I think.” He wipes his mouth and spreads his napkin back over his lap. “You could bring your brother since that’s the only way he’ll step on campus now.”

  Henry rolls his eyes. “Dad—”

  “Anyone else need more tea?” Brandon’s mom plops my glass in front of me. “No? Okay. What did I miss?”

  “We’re going to Midnight Madness and Nate’s joining the basketball team.”

  Henry shoots Brandon a grateful glance.

  “Actually, I … my uncle won’t let me play.” I gulp down more tea. It’s so sweet it hurts my stomach, but I’m thirstier than a flower in the desert.

  “What?” Brandon asks. “Why not?”

  Everyone’s staring at me again. “He, um, needs my help, around the cabin and stuff. And I need to focus on school.”

  Dr. Kingsley smiles, looking more like Brandon than ever. “A perfectly legitimate reason. School should be everyone’s focus.”

  Henry slumps in his chair. “Here we go.”