He simply lost his temper. That’s all. We can get past this.
I tried to convince myself of that as I wracked my brain to figure out what to do. Having never seen Alexander truly lose his cool the way that he did, I was coming up short on ideas. I just knew that I had to say something – anything to somehow cut through the anxiety in the air.
“I'm not sure if you’re a fan of tuna salad. I just assumed that you were since you had most of the ingredients handy,” I began tentatively.
“This is fine with me.”
His tone was strained. I watched his brow furrow in concentration as he added a couple of spoonful’s to my plate before filling his own.
“I thought that maybe we could spread it on the crackers,” I added, annoyed that my voice wavered slightly.
My nerves are shot. I need to get a grip.
He set the bowl of tuna down and looked at me.
“You're fidgeting,” he pointed out with an ominous expression. “I'm sorry, angel. I don't want you to feel nervous or afraid.”
“Oh, no! I'm just...it's okay. Really,” I tried to assure, even though I wasn't. I didn't know what to say or how to react to him, as I was still torn between drilling him for answers about his behavior and running out the door. My naturally quick wit was failing me.
Instead of babbling further, I went to work on the salad and crackers so that my hands could keep busy. Just as I took my first bite, Alexander spoke again.
“Who told you that my mother was still alive?”
I nearly spit out my food in order to prevent choking from the shock of him jumping right in without any preamble. Death by white albacore tuna was not the way that I planned to go.
“Excuse me,” I said and took a swig from a water bottle. “Sorry. I know that your story is the entire purpose of this little impromptu trip to your boat, but you kind of caught me off guard. You’re normally so tight lipped about your past. I half expected to have to drag any sort of answer out of you.”
“Cards on the table. All of them. That’s what I promised you, didn’t I? So, tell me. How did you obtain information about my mother?”
“That day I went to The Mandarin with Ally,” I told him cautiously. “Your sister was there. I over heard her talking to the person she was with.”
“I had a feeling that was where you heard it. Justine needs to be more careful,” he said and pursed his lips to show his displeasure. “I'm not sure how much or how little you heard, but the fact of the matter is that neither Justine nor I know if my mother is alive. We haven't seen or heard from her in over twenty years. She left when I was ten. When I told you that my mother was dead, it wasn't necessarily a lie. To me, she is dead.”
I froze, unable to find words. To think that he had spent all those years not knowing if his mother was alive or dead was inconceivable.
“She just abandoned you and –,”
He held up his hand to silence me.
“You have to simply listen and take it all in first, Krystina. I know that you've had many questions and I realize that it was upsetting to you when I shut you down. But knowing you, once I start telling you everything, you're going to have a thousand more questions to ask. I need you to hold onto them for the time being so that I am not interrupted every two minutes. Can you do that for me?”
“Yeah, sure. I can do that,” I easily agreed. But secretly, I doubted my ability to bite my tongue. I was too revved up from the evening’s whirlwind of events.
“What I am about to tell you, you can’t tell another living soul. Do you understand?”
I paused then, alarmed by the grave tone in which he spoke. His eyes bore into mine and his face was set firm.
“I understand,” I acknowledged with a slow nod of my head.
Alexander stared at me for a moment longer, almost as if he was trying to assess my trustworthiness, and I could see the internal struggle that he was having with himself. Eventually, he leaned back in the dining chair and folded his arms. It was a defensive gesture, but his face looked thoughtful, as he appeared to be contemplating his choice of words.
“I guess I should start with where I grew up. If I recall, I once mentioned to you that we lived in the Bronx. Specifically, it was a housing project with stereotypical cinderblock buildings, foul odors that never seemed to dissipate, and bars on the windows. The area was riddled with crime and drugs, where gun deaths and overdoses happened almost daily. Perhaps that's why I don't see New York the way that you do. You see the charm, whereas I've seen the worst of the worst that the city has to offer.”
“I’ve never been to the Bronx,” I admitted.
“It’s not all dire, but many areas leave much to be desired. The people who lived around us had very little in terms of material possessions. That was the norm. My family did not own a car and we couldn’t afford cable. Our phone was without service more often than not because of overdue bills. It was a struggle to make ends meet and my mother learned early on how to stretch a dollar just so that we could have a decent meal.
“My father worked, but never in one place for very long. He always had an excuse for his shortcomings as an employee, and someone else was always to blame whenever he got fired from a job. I began to value the importance of money at a very young age. Our bedtime stories were never storybook fairytales, but about the life that my mother wanted us to live once we broke free from the wretchedness that surrounded us. I don't remember how old I was, but at one point I decided that I was going to be rich. I didn't know how I was going to do that; I only knew that I wanted the life that my mother crafted for us in her stories. I never wanted to worry about having enough to eat or whether my shoes fit properly.”
“Well, I think you've managed to do that,” I joked lightly, trying to understand what it was like to live in squalor with only the dream of a better day. My mother and I had our fair share of struggles, but never to the extent that he was describing. It was hard to imagine Alexander without the wealth that surrounded him.
“My father was angry all the time for one reason or another,” he continued. “He was the worst sort of man that you could imagine. He defined the meaning of the word misogynist, and that’s putting it mildly. He was emotionally and physically abusive towards my mother. Me too, for that matter. But for some reason, only my mother's beatings are the ones that really stick out in my mind. She got the worst of it.”
His tone was completely detached, as if he were speaking about someone else’s life and not his own. However, I did notice that he had barely eaten a thing. If talking about this bothered him, his lack of appetite was the only sign that he gave. It was either that, or he really didn’t like tuna salad.
As if noticing that I was looking at his uneaten food, Alexander picked up a cracker to nibble on before continuing.
“Her first trip to the hospital was when I was seven years old. I returned from school one day to find her beaten to a bloody pulp. She couldn’t even stand. I remember being scared half to death," he said. His voice was full of contempt and he shook his head. "She begged me not to call 911, so I called my grandparents instead.”
“The grandparents that you used to live with?”
As soon as the question came out, I wanted to slap my hand over my mouth for interrupting him.
Well, I guess I should be proud that I lasted this long without a question.
I was so engrossed in what he was saying that I didn't think twice about it. However, despite the fact that he asked me not to pose questions, he took this one in stride.
“Yes. My mother’s parents. I never knew my paternal grandparents – they died long before I was born. From what I've been told, my paternal grandfather was very much like my father,” he scowled and his voice turned bitter. “The apple never really falls far from the tree, does it?"
“Alex,” I began. I intended to offer words of reassurance, but his resolute expression made the words fade from my lips. Eventually, he rubbed his hands over his face as if he were trying to coll
ect himself. When he spoke again, his tone was once again detached.
“My grandfather took her to the hospital. My grandmother brought my sister and I back to their house. We stayed there for a few days while my mother recovered. We made the most of our time there, as it was the only reprieve we ever had from the chaos that was our life.”
He paused and I decided to chance another question.
“Where was your father during all of this?”
“Most likely on a bender trying to drown out his guilt. He wasn’t an alcoholic, but he would drink himself into a stupor for days after beating up on my mother,” Alexander added, his voice revealing a slight hint of resentment. “My mother was released from the hospital a few days later. Stiches. A broken arm. I don’t recall the extent of her injuries. But after that day, my mother changed. She became quieter, mousey almost. She never laughed anymore, too terrified of setting him off. There was a time when she’d try to stop him from coming after me, but that ended too. It was like she was dead inside.”
“Alex, I’m so sorry. It had to be awful.”
He frowned at my offering of sympathy.
“Don’t pity me Krystina.”
“I’m not, I’m just –.”
“You are, but I guess that’s human nature. Well, for most people it is,” he sardonically added.
My heart broke for him. I was saddened by the resignation that I heard in his voice. I hurt for the poor little boy who could not count on his mother to help him against a tyrant of a father. I saw the way he tried to act unaffected, but his eyes were beginning to betray him. I could see the pain in them. I didn't want him to have to relive it all just to appease my need for answers.
“You don’t have to tell me every detail of what happened,” I offered sincerely.
“I appreciate your understanding, but much of what happened during that time is irrelevant to the story anyway. I only mentioned portions so that you could understand the endless cycle in which we lived. I'll fast forward to three years later, right after my tenth birthday. That was the major turning point,” he paused again, long enough for me to see anger flash hot in his eyes.
“What happened?”
“My father went after Justine. He had never touched her before. I don't even remember what she did to upset him. I only remember how small she was at the time. Slight in build. Just past six years old. She was defenseless to stop him. I just stood there, too afraid to do anything but watch. And I... I didn't protect her like I should have.”
Alexander's voice wavered over the last line, showing true emotion for the first time since he began speaking about his past. I was reminded of the way I heard him talk of his sister, and about the way I had once seen them embrace from a distance. Although I had never formally met his sister, I knew that they shared a special connection. But now I realized that their bond stemmed from their need to survive.
Seconds ticked by, perhaps minutes, while Alexander remained adrift in a memory.
“Alex…” I trailed off, hoping that the warning tone of my voice was enough to stop him from going further.
I wanted to cry for him. Tears pricked at the corners of my eyes and I shook my head in disbelief. The man that I knew to be so confident and self-assured suddenly looked vulnerable. I looked into his eyes and all I could see was a ten-year-old boy staring back at me. He was the child version of Alexander Stone, riddled with guilt over not protecting his baby sister.
“I know what you’re thinking, but it was my job to protect her. I was the only person she could count on. I should have done something to help her.”
“Alex, you were only a child,” I tried to assure.
“Perhaps,” he mused. “My lack of response on that day may or may not have changed the outcome, but the violence towards Justine did result in sparking a bit of life back into my mother. For the first time in years, she fought back. It didn’t end well. She only succeeded in landing herself another hospital stay. A day or two later, she was released and we went back home. The house was empty, and none of us expected to see my father for a few days. But even without him there, the air was tense. We all dreaded the sound of the front door opening.”
“That's a horrific way to live. The constant fear –,” I stopped short, unable to find the right words of comfort. He didn't need me to reiterate what it must have felt like. He lived through it.
“I never did end up hearing the front door open,” Alexander continued, but this time his voice was flat and completely devoid of all emotion. “He came back when I was at school. I found him that day. Dead. Laying in a pool of his own blood.”
CHAPTER 8
I could still smell it even after all this time – the metallic scent of blood mixed with urine. I fought back the bile that welled in the back of my throat.
“Oh my god!” Krystina exclaimed. Her hand clasped over her mouth and she wore a look of complete horror. “You found him?”
I closed my eyes, hoping and praying that the truth would present itself – the truth that I had been in search of for as long as I could remember. But as usual, I came up blank. I grappled with trying to find the right words to explain the events from that day.
“He was laying on the family room rug. Shot in the abdomen. The blood,” I said, seeing it like it was yesterday. “It was everywhere. Justine was there. I found her hiding behind the sofa. She didn't go to school that day. Sick with a head cold as I recall. But she has no memory of how he was shot.”
I squeezed my eyes shut tight and tried to will away the images of Justine sitting on the floor, her tattered pink shirt splattered with blood. She had been crying and holding our father’s Glock pistol in her hand.
Fuck, I wish I could just forget about this.
But no matter how hard I tried to forget, those few moments in time would never be erased from my mind.
"Justine! What happened?"
"I don't know," she says through her sobs.
"Why do you have dad's gun?"
"Mommy's going to be so mad. I ruined my shirt!"
I shake her.
"How did this happen?" I ask her again.
Her face goes blank and she looks strangely at me through vacant eyes.
"Alex, do you know where my blue dress is? The pretty one with the flowers. Mommy likes when I wear it."
"Justine!"
I shake her again, but it's like she can't hear me. I follow her to the bedroom that we share and listen to her hum as she changes her clothes. I shout at her again, but she doesn't respond.
Fear spreads through my veins. I feel like I am suffocating.
I walk back out to the family room and pick up the gun.
A warm hand covered mine, ripping me away from a dark time and back to the present. I looked down at the slender fingers, up the arm, until my sight landed on the face of an angel. Krystina stared back with eyes full of concern.
“Alexander, it was a long time ago,” she said softly.
My throat clogged with emotion and I tore my gaze from hers.
God, I feel like shit.
I felt unsettled. Vulnerable. Like every protective barrier that I built to protect the past had violently come crashing down.
I pulled my hand from hers and looked out the boat cabin window. The sky was dark and bleak, matching my current mood. A part of me couldn't believe that I was actually speaking about my past out loud. It has always been private. Even Justine and I never spoke specifics to each other anymore. It was better off buried. But now that I had started, I knew that I had to finish. There was still so much more to tell.
“Angel, if you're through eating, what do you say we take a break and head up to the main deck? I could use a soak in the hot tub and a stiff drink.”
“Well, I ah... I suppose we could do that,” she stumbled, sounding slightly shocked at the change of course. “Did Hale think to pack me a bathing suit?”
“Hale is extremely thorough. I'm sure that he did. But it's a fairly dark night. You won’t need one.”
She smirked at me.
“I suspect that we won't finish talking if we're naked. Just saying.”
She laughed lightly and I could tell that she was trying to lighten the mood. I returned her smile, although I wasn't really feeling it. I stood and went over to the minibar to mix us a couple of Winston Cocktails. I knew that she preferred wine, but the pickings on the boat were slim. I made a mental note to keep a decent stock of whites come the spring.
“I can't believe that I'm going to say this, but you can relax,” I assured her as I mixed a dash of Grand Marnier with cognac. “For once, sex with you is not on my radar at the moment. Talking about all of this shit is kind of a total mood killer.”
I tried to come off as nonchalant, but she wasn't buying it. She still had a worried expression and stayed quiet for a time. I hated that I was the reason for her concern.
It made me feel weak.
“If you say so, then lead the way,” she eventually agreed.
Leaving the remains of our makeshift dinner on the dining room table, I handed her the mixed drink and led her to the spiral staircase that would bring us up to the main deck. Once we were outside, I took a deep breath. The night air was cold in my lungs. The crispness felt good and helped to clear my head. It made me realize how stifling the air had become when we were in the dining room.
I looked around. There didn't appear to be a soul in sight. It was dark, despite the moonbeams that would peek out occasionally from a passing cloud. However, moon or no moon, the location of the hot tub afforded enough privacy that Krystina didn't need to worry about being seen by a distant passerby, and I could rest assured that we wouldn't be overheard.
Moving to the hot tub control panel, I pressed the buttons that would raise the cover and start the jets. The water bubbled, crystal clear and inviting. I quickly stripped and climbed in. Almost instantly, the piping-hot water helped wash away some of my anxiety and unease.
Krystina followed suit, and even though I said that I was in no mood for it, I couldn't help but admire her naked flesh as she slithered into the tub across from me.
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