by Jette Harris
“It’s nothing,” Heather lied, kissing her hair. “Sweet dreams.”
38
At first, Heather thought it was the sun shining through the naked window that woke them. Then she felt the foot of the mattress shift, and Rhodes fell upon them. The girls sprang apart with cries of pain and alarm. Monica’s hair was caught under his forearm, preventing her from escaping his grasp. He turned his full attention to her, pulling himself on top of her. He pressed his mouth against her dark skin. She grimaced and squirmed as his hand slid around her breast.
Heather had to resist the urge to jump out of the bed. She slipped out as gracefully as she could with her heart racing. She could hear Monica whimpering behind her. Heather closed her eyes, but it did not block out the noise. Leaning her head against the warm window, she tried to devise ways to draw his attention away. If she had looked over her shoulder, she would have found him already distracted by her silhouette against the sunlight. When she did turn, his eyes were focused again on Monica’s body.
The sight of his hands and mouth on her skin wrung Heather’s heart. Tense with fear, she crawled back on to the bed. She placed her hand on his shoulder. Rhodes’s hand shot out and shoved her backwards. She toppled off the bed and hit the floor.
“Mother fucker!” she bellowed. To ensure he knew it hadn’t just been an exclamation of surprise, she added, “You son of a bitch!”
It worked. Rhodes paused. He turned to where Heather had disappeared. Even Monica held her breath. “What?”
“What?” Heather spat, staggering to her feet as if the fall had hurt her. “You heard me!”
He glanced back at Monica, then abandoned her. Climbing across the bed, he jumped down in front of Heather and grabbed her by the neck. “Say it again.”
Paralyzed, she had trouble forming the words. “S—Son of a bitch,” she repeated through clenched teeth.
“Now, this,”—he looked from her to Monica, then back—“is an interesting turn of events. Just when I start to believe you have learned how to play…” His voice hardened. “Say it again.”
“Sonofabitch,” she repeated again, quicker, easier this time.
Rhodes smiled, revealing uneven but menacing teeth. He shook his head. Heather glanced over at Monica. She had slipped from the bed and crouched in the corner. His smile faded. He turned to follow Heather’s gaze. Realizing he had been played, he smirked. Without another word, he released her and began to climb back across the bed, toward Monica. Not knowing what else to do, Heather tackled him.
Rhodes was expecting the attack. Spinning around, he grabbed her throat and slammed her head against the wall. The room reeled. She crumpled to the floor. Before she could reorient herself, she was being lifted up and thrown onto the bed. Despite overwhelming dizziness, Heather put her hands on Rhodes’s shoulders and locked her elbows. He laughed, grabbing her hips. He didn’t need to be any closer for his intentions.
****
When Heather became aware of her surroundings again, it was difficult to breathe. She was sweltering. Rhodes was still on top of her. His steady breathing implied he was asleep, but she was not convinced. Slowly, she turned her head. Monica crouched by the side of the bed, watching them with wide eyes. When Heather met her gaze, Monica had to blink to fight back tears. Daring to risk waking the beast, Heather slowly pulled her arm from under him. She reached out. Monica clasped Heather’s hand in both of her own.
“Thank you,” she breathed.
“Don’t mention it.”
39
The silence ate him. Z would have preferred the opening of doors, the whimpering, even the torture of contact to the tedious silence between these incidents. When he was first brought here, he would do sit-ups and push-ups (on his knees, since the closets were too small). As the days went by, he found himself easily fatigued. One bowl of oatmeal a day will do that.
Z strained to listen to the silence. Sometimes he could hear movement in the house, beyond the White Room: doors opening and closing, footsteps, he thought he heard an engine revving once or twice. He tried not to listen too hard when one of the others were taken out. It was disturbing: crying, screaming, the banging of bodies against walls, or worse.
Rhodes was with Witt right now. They all pretended they couldn’t hear the noises that would drift across the landing whenever Witt and Rhodes were together. No one dared to breathe a word to Witt about it when he returned, but it bothered them all. A hostage should not moan like that.
At least Z could tell Rhodes was occupied. “I spy with my little eye,” he whispered, “something… white.”
“You’re fucking kidding, right?” Monica replied. Heather breathed a chuckle.
“What else can you do?” His voice came out more strained than he would have liked.
“Hey, hey, Z!” Heather hissed. “How come pirates have trouble reciting the alphabet?”
Z scoffed. “I dunno. Why?”
“Because they always get lost at C.”
Monica snorted. “You two are crazy.”
Silence fell, but the atmosphere had changed; He felt as if they were smiling. “C’mon, Monica,” he said, “I know you have one.”
There was a pregnant pause. They could still hear Rhodes and Witt in the Bedroom.
“You know why bicycles can't stand on their own?” Monica asked in a small voice.
“No, why?” Heather asked, defiantly loud.
“Because they're two-tired.”
“Oooh, so lame!” Z laughed.
“What? I live in a house full of kids!” Her laughter faltered when she remembered how far away her brothers and sister were. Heather fell silent as well.
Z racked his brain for a distraction: “To a German, two eggs are plenty. To a Frenchman, one egg's un oeuf.”
Monica repeated the joke to herself, then giggled when she finally got it. Heather barked a laugh, more at Monica than at the joke, then covered her mouth with her hand.
“How many ears does Davy Crockett have?” She asked when she had gotten her giggling under control.
“Fuck if I know,” Z replied.
“Three: A left ear, a right ear, and a wild frontier.”
He snorted, trying not to find that as funny as he really did.
Monica didn’t laugh. “Who’s Davy Crockett?”
“That’s another joke, right?” Z wasn’t sure Monica could hear him; Heather was laughing too hard.
“Stop, stop!” She begged. “It hurts to laugh.” He heard her beating her fist against the carpet, fighting to suppress a laughing-fit. He smiled, remembering the fits she used to get late at night. She would have to bite her pillow to make sure Tex didn’t hear her.
“I used to work at a museum of natural history, but I quit,” he continued. “I didn't see any future in it.”
Heather coughed. Her laughter faded. “That’s not very funny right now.”
Z sniffed, turning that over in his head, but Monica saved him from asking. “Why not?”
“We don’t have a future right now, either,” Heather answered.
“Way to rain on our parade!” Monica replied.
There was a short pause, then, “Personally, I thought it was hilarious.”
Z was so startled to hear Rhodes’s voice, he jumped back and hit his head against the wall. They hadn’t even realized the moaning had fallen silent or that the door had opened. Feet shuffled as Witt returned to his closet.
“Is this what you do when you think I’m not around?” Rhodes sounded amused. “Tell jokes?”
“No, Sir.”
“No, what?”
“No, Daddy.” His face burned with humiliation. As far as he could tell, the girls were not obligated—as he and Witt were—to refer to Rhodes as “Daddy”—or anything else, for that matter. The epithet was embarrassing and disturbing.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Rhodes said.
A hissing sound came from the direction of Heather’s closet as she expressed her disdain. Rhodes slammed his fist into her door. “I
’ll give you something to laugh about later,” he warned. His footsteps faded and the door to the White Room slammed shut.
Silence fell. Z realized he was clenching his jaw and forced it to relax. He knew—they all knew—Rhodes was still standing there, listening.
40
Before Witt began to play football, he went by “Chuck.” Only his family called him that beyond middle school. His hair faded over the years from flaming red to the strawberry blond Rhodes was familiar with. He had always been smarter than he let on, but not as brave as he believed he should have been. When the coach yelled, he had to struggle to control his flinching. He was not a fighter, no matter what he had screamed at Rhodes.
It was February. Chuck was in third grade. He was not, by any definition of the word, an artist, but he was eager to finish the Valentine’s Day card he had designed. It was large and elaborate, decorated with paper doilies and cupids cut from magazines. His parents thought this was cute.
“It must be for someone very special,” his mother cooed.
“What’s her name, Sport?” His father clapped a hand on his shoulder.
“David,” the child answered innocently.
Chuck did not go to school the next day, nor did he ever return to that school.
Witt confessed his sins to Rhodes, with his hands over his head and sobbing into the mattress. He hadn’t wanted to tell the man anything, but Rhodes had asked in such a conversational fashion—as if there were nothing wrong with him at all. Witt had never breathed a word of any of it to anyone before that day. He had refused even to think about it. He made a great effort to be interested in girls, especially beautiful, big-breasted Monica, but his body would not cooperate.
The last time his father had caught him looking at a man with interest, Witt was fourteen. The moment they returned home, his father pulled off his belt and beat him so violently, his shirt was in tatters by the time he had finished. Witt didn’t go to school for a week.
****
Rhodes had determined quickly what kind of person Witt was, and it pleased him to learn he had not been wrong. When Rhodes untied the ropes, Witt reared back to punch him, but froze when Rhodes set the baton across his chest. There was no force behind the gesture, but it was enough to tame the boy. The threat of pain sufficed as efficiently for Witt as it did with Monica.
Rhodes knew all too well boys from abusive households were either fearless or cowards in the face of pain. He made a conscious decision to take one of each.
Although he had started his first day at Cheatham Hill High with the impression he would take a few days to make his selection, he surprised himself by making up his mind within the first hour. He wanted Z the moment he laid eyes on the boy. Choosing him was a risk, but Rhodes wasn’t one for hedging after he has made up his mind. He always enjoyed a measure of danger and unpredictability during Sabbatical.
****
Z knew exactly how to respond to Rhodes: he had played this game for several years with his father. Not sexually, of course, but Z knew how to subvert a power-play during a fight. At least, he had thought he did. He knew it was useless to yell; It was far better to play along, draw it out, then turn it around somehow. That didn’t stop him from screaming when Rhodes assaulted him. But it did give him something to think about as he tried to block out the pain.
“You like hitting people?” Z asked after the shock of the first assault had faded. “I mean, it gets you off?” He was fighting to sound conversational, but there was an edge to his voice.
“It doesn’t, but I do enjoy it.”
“You like being hit?” Z raised his fist before Rhodes had a chance to reply. His voice had been so casual, Rhodes knew something was coming. One hand shot out and wrapped around the boy’s arm; The other grabbed him by the throat.
“No, I don’t,” Rhodes replied.
“You sure?” Z squeezed out. “You never know until you’ve tried.”
“I’m positive,” he replied. “And if you pull a stunt like that again, I’ll break your arm.” To drive his point home, he applied more pressure, hyperextending the elbow. “Understand?”
Z’s mouth opened in a silent scream. “Yes!” he surrendered. “Yes, sir!”
Rhodes wrinkled his nose. “Don’t call me Sir.” He relaxed the tension on Z’s arm. “That sounds so… so… militant. Call me Daddy.”
“I am not calling you Daddy,” Z retorted. He cried out as Rhodes applied the tension again. “Ow! Ow! OK!”
“Say it!”
“Daddy!” Z cried, “Yes, Daddy!”
“Oh, I do like the sound of that,” Rhodes crooned, releasing the boy.
Swallowing, Z hugged his arm to his chest. “I think you broke it.”
“Would you like for me to check?” Rhodes held his hand out, but Z flinched away.
“Nope! No—I’m good. It’s fine.”
Rhodes nodded. “I know,” he said. “If I had broken your arm, you would know it.”
41
Z missed wearing pants. And shirts. And underwear. Full of bitterness, he turned away as Rhodes swung his legs off the side of the bed and pulled on his jeans. He was talking as he dressed, but Z filtered him out. Rhodes picked his shirt up off the floor and tossed it over his shoulder.
The opportunity presented itself. Z took it. Without giving himself a moment to question the sanity of the idea, he grabbed the shirt by both ends and wrapped it around the man’s neck. Rhodes twisted around, but Z wrapped his legs around his waist and pulled back with all his strength. Rhodes’s flailing became uncoordinated. He beat the mattress as if tapping out, but Z only let go when Rhodes fell still. Z pushed the body off and it slid to the floor. Kicking Rhodes onto his back, Z snapped the chain off from around the man’s neck and ran to the door.
“Fuck!” There were four keys on the chain. Three of them were almost identical. He had to try two of them twice. Finally, a key fit and turned. He pulled open the door. Indecision froze him on the landing. He looked at the stairs, to freedom, then across to the White Room. Every fiber of his body screamed for him to turn right, to run down the stairs.
He ran around the landing instead. Bursting into the White Room, Z shouted: “Guys, wake up! Get up! He’s—”
Before he could reveal Rhodes’s condition, a heavy force caught him on the shoulder, knocking him to the floor.
“I’m what?” Rhodes bellowed. “Unconscious? Dead? Brought down by a whelp?”
Rhodes’s face was still red from lack of oxygen. In one hand, he brandished the telescoping baton. In the other, he held his entire bag of tricks. He had been too angry to choose just one.
Z attempted to stand. Rhodes knocked him across the chest. Cries of despair and protest escaped the surrounding closets. He slammed the baton into Monica’s door, denting the slats and making the girl scream.
Clutching his chest, Z curled up on the floor. Rhodes used his foot to press him down onto his stomach. He sat on the boy’s back and plopped the bag on his shoulders. Opening it, Rhodes considered his options. When the boy attempted to buck him off, Rhodes tapped him on the top of the head with the baton. This was enough to knock him silly.
Rhodes pulled out a hunting knife, then a scalpel. “Let’s see if I can leave an impression on you.” He moved the bag to the floor, well out of Z’s reach. Leaning down, he pressed the tip of the knife into the back of Z’s neck.
“If you move,” he whispered into the boy’s ear, “you will be paralyzed from the neck down. I will keep you alive, though: You will have a front-row seat every time I fuck your precious friends.
“Your friends are going to help me teach you a lesson.” He leaned back up and looked around at the closet doors. “You are being punished for being defiant.” He poised the scalpel like a pencil and dug it into the skin between Z’s shoulders. Screaming, Z reached to grab Rhodes’s arm, but stopped when the tip of the knife dug into the skin of his neck.
“Uh-uh…” Rhodes clucked. He shifted his knees to pin Z’s arms. As h
e finished carving the word into the boy’s back, Z groaned and whimpered, keeping his screams behind clenched teeth.
“Now!” The word DEFIANT oozed blood across Z’s back and dripped onto the carpet. “Can anybody tell me a synonym for defiant?” He paused, looking around, but no one spoke. He adopted the condescending tone of a children’s show host: “For those of you who have forgotten in the short time that you have been away from school, a synonym is a word with the same meaning as another word… Anyone?”
“Rebellious,” Witt offered.
“Good!” Rhodes chirped. “Very good! Thank you, Witt.”
Z screamed again as Rhodes carved REBELLIOUS underneath DEFIANT. Witt gasped, realizing he had just played a part in Z’s torture.
“Another? Ladies?” He could hear Monica crying, cowering against the back wall. Through the slats, he could see the outline of Heather’s body pressed against her door, head bowed. Impatient, he slashed the scalpel across Z’s back, flinging blood onto Heather’s door. It dripped through the slats. Z howled in pain. She dropped to her knees.
“Disobedient!” Monica shrieked.
“There you are!” Rhodes carved the word with quick strokes. “Just Heather, your turn.”
A moment passed.
“Insubordinate,” Witt suggested when he began to fear the silence had lasted too long.
“I asked Heather.”
“I’m thinking—I can’t think…” Heather breathed. He could practically hear the cogs in her head grinding. She racked her brain: coups, uprisings, shades of gray…
“Seditious.”
“Good word, Heather!” Rhodes chirped. Z was losing resolve. Tears were streaming down his face. “What was that you said a moment ago, Witt?”
“Insubordinate.” Witt’s voice sounded thick with tears.
“I love words with t, don’t you?” Rhodes asked as he slashed through Z’s skin. Wordless, Z shook his head. “You look like you’ve learned your lesson,” Rhodes observed. He ran a hand through Z’s hair. “One more word, just for good measure. Heather, give me one more word. Defiant. Rebellious. Seditious…”