Chapter 3

Woodson imagines how his first confrontation with the family will go

Chapter 3:

“We will make room.” 

That is all that matters. The fickle face of fate winks his eye and flashes a smile displaying those glimmering, carnivorous teeth and all a man can do is smile back, crooked dentures and hollow soul, praying for a moment’s fortune. I was spared this time. No doubt fate peered down on my lowly person chuckling to himself at all the misfortune he has bestowed upon me throughout my years, knowing more is to come, simply throwing me a bone at this juncture, like a farmer throwing a dog some meat hours before he is put down. No sense dwelling on the shortcomings of life though, I must act with swift movements and subtle disdain. My prey has hardly been subdued. As I sit in this boat that now roars across the waves and peer at my two rescuers I know, through a certainty founded on trial and error, the simplest aspect of my scheme has concluded. I now enter, through necessity, certainly not through an appeal to my predisposition, a house that’s subtle horrors would make even the vilest rioters whimper in trepidation. 

The introduction to the “wholesome” Millow family is a pivotal step for an entrepreneur such as myself. Of course it will be white. The pillars will be white, the door white, the steps, the dog, the family, as white as proper snow. If not white then gold it will be, shimmering bright off the collars and shoes and jewelry of the Millows. I have seen them both already, on this same boat that now violently rocks through this wave and that, trying to unseat the foreign trash that wisely clings to the bottom of a white seat. I have seen the wife, with that golden hair that dances primitively amongst the wind on the sea. The daughter as well, looking more of a small clone in her mothers likeness than a separate person. They must not be separate. Separation takes human form in my presence, in my lack of wealth and my abundance of grime, in my convulsing wounds and my stench of crime. It is physically recognizable as well. The full golden hair of my amiable hosts will clash tellingly with my faded, grey withering locks. Yes grey, yes grey at the bitter age of 24. Certainly withering as well, reminiscent of a young child attempting to plant blades of grass amongst desert sand. Sure the blades may stand at attention for a second but the slightest wind, the faintest disturbance will surely unseat that sign of youth and prosperity, sending it wistfully away, shades of green flashing hope, all to thin, against the most barren of backgrounds.

  Separation is dangerous, ultimately deadly. One must be similar in social class to appeal, equally adept in vocabulary, almost innately parallel in skin tone, accent, morals, everything from love of oneself to hatred of diversity. Separation is to be expected, as I will walk, humbly, into that white beacon of wondrous wealth. I will have to try and annihilate the obvious distance between my own person and the character of the people I am presently preying on. The two will be waiting for me, mother, clone, surely hating me with welcoming eyes as that vapor dreams in the pocket of pa. It will be a lion’s den. How vehemently repulsive it will be to grin at these monsters. These moments have always been my least favorite. They will know. They will know not who I am or why I have come but they will know whom I have been and where I have come from. They will know their bed (where I am to sleep, assuming they give me one) succeeds gutters as they show me it. They will know the food I am fed, the fresh fish, that haunting bread, succeeds scraps of dog-chewed apple cores and discarded, withered produce. They will know my scarred arm succeeds more injuries, injuries that were far more gruesome, far more damaging both physically and mentally. Yet they will not care. On the contrary they will actively celebrate the treacheries I have endured, convincing themselves I am not human, that I deserve this righteous retaliation from the cosmos as any man does when he so wholly insults the earth with his mere existence. It is a struggle, will be a struggle when that lack of introduction occurs. When words aren’t exchanged just glares of impossible avoidance. Yet I press on. 

Other than oppressive white blinding my sight the house will surely contain all the typical redundancies that come along with modern upper-class living. The art will be magnificent and unrecognizable to every member of the household. Ungodly vases and statues will line halls and serve as centerpieces for even more extravagant décor such as marbled counters and the likes. Any such natural resource that is required to live comfortably will be taken to a financial extreme. The handle they turn to escort me inside would cringe if I touched it. It would not like to be caressed by such beaten palms. Also its price on the black market, as I may or may not know, would probably fetch more than my humble existence. 

“This is where you are to reside.” Will point that razor chin as he escorts me into the residence then immediately to my dwelling place. 

They will hide me in the back, not with the help though and not outside. A person of my standing sleeping amongst their lawn would surely diminish the extravagance of the estate if any ongoing traffic were to drive by. Likewise they know the help have colored hands that do my job better than I. They cannot be trusted and placing me amongst their rank could result in an explosive infusion of unhappy workers and a mysterious visitor. This is all well for me, I will wait to see Rinehart.

  As long as I can immediately reside in an unoccupied room to rest and regenerate then step two will be successful. I simply must avoid conversation. My words can easily be my greatest foe. Also I grow quite weary. Drowning, in actuality or in act, is tiring. I’m not sure I could handle the necessary introductions of my past and history if need be at this present time or anytime soon. 

The bed where I am to sleep will surely be luxurious in the sense that, as I have referred to, my typical mattress has been known to contain running sewer water and the feces of rodents. As clarification I resurrect these repeatedly heinous imageries of my life not to garner any sort of pity, nor is it hyperbole, but simply to make prevalent the egregious standards I have grown accustom to. As noted and a point I cannot stress enough, the following deeds that occur do not stem from choice but chance and circumstance. I am the victim. I am the victim! This is how I should be viewed. My sharp wit has lead me to pursue occupations that before the crash would have surely sunken me into the morale depths of societies scum. Yet I declare my innocence of any wrongdoing. I am innocent. I am the victim! Death for disagreement! Death for wealth and death for the lack thereof. I stalk prey with an acuteness learned from to many night’s aside great killers, aside true beasts, monsters that live for themselves (and I do not mean the Millow family, although the comparison holds true). I simply survive. That is all a man can do, simply survive by the means at his disposal and if the opportunity presents itself with no other option, survive at the cost of his brother’s disposal. 

“I could not be more obliged sir.” The smile says more than your words Wood, remember that. 

“Wash yourself. You will find a bathroom in the corner. You are not to leave this room until supper. At that juncture I will discuss our plan for you and your well-being. A night, two at most then surely you will be on your way.” 

“Of course sir. A single moment in this castle will replenish more than just my worn physique. I am forever grateful.” 

“Of course you are son.” 

The faint laughter of children will fill the background noise as I try to remember how those intricate showers work. One may find it odd that I have skipped verbal introductions with the clone and the flesh from which she was spawned or my two present boat-mates. The reason? I doubt there will be any at this point in time. Yes they will be waiting for me, his wife and daughter, as surely the chin has contacted them on his phone but the glares of horrified eyes will be my only introduction at that moment. The trophy shall stand solid as it does with clone at her side and they will know their place. 

It is proper, and I am unaware of when this tradition gained traction in our society (surely after the riots), that no words are to be spoken from either the chins family or myself until he deems it necessary. I am equally at a loss for reason when trying to decipher the benefit of the stringent awkwardness that always occurs. My thinking is that it breeds separation. Separation has become so vital. I currently am separated from where I am needed yet I have just cause for doing so. Yet under these circumstances, inviting one into your home that is, separation is as intimidating as the vapor that the chin will no doubt flash recklessly throughout my visit. It severs the ability to form a connection with the hosts. Ones guard is always up. The crash surely effected the psyche of every human, and now the resulting hostility that has become ingrained in our faces, that steers our actions from noble to crude and similarly thwarts even the potential for true human interaction holds such power over our lives that our children grow knowing only themselves. Although there is reason to believe that knowing oneself is already too much human interaction.

This type of excessive distancing from all emotions that can be felt through human contact may serve a purpose though. The world has changed so much I have been told. My father hugs me. He still hugs me. He still talks to his guests and in the past even introduced me, when I was a child, immediately to said guests, his face always beaming of pride I might add, at my mention. He is not from this time. He does not do well in this time. 

My incorrect assumption regarding the outward displays of affection I estimated the captain would have for his son was clearly a folly of judgment on my behalf. That was foolish to think. Although still a young father, a child in the eyes of hardship and an elderly in the eyes of cruelty, he would not have established such standing finically or otherwise if he had not adapted accordingly during the crash. His versatility of morale’s is the epitome of a new age. You change your principles by the day. Holding concrete beliefs in this society is equivalent to strapping that same concrete to your ankle and diving feet first into the ocean expecting one of your neighbors, with tears in their eyes and smiles on their faces, to save you. Laws are as loose as leaves in fall, they go with the wind and can be torn apart by hands that hold no bearings against the destruction of nature. I move with them. At one point I believed I had known right from wrong. I treasured values that today no longer exist. I routinely and naïvely made love to love. I praised loyalty for the concept in itself seemed so grand, so reassuring. I prided myself on a core of falsehoods. Now my choices are made for me. I have lost free will. I have surrendered my senses to obscenity. The love that I loved committed adultery as I held wilted flowers in one hand and crossed fingers with the devil in the other. I am no longer a man but a survivor. Fate remained unseen throughout my childhood, creating an allusion that I had a say in my future, that the sins now burned into my once innocent body could have been avoided merely by those forsaken lost values and a strength of character. How wrong I was. I am the victim! Now I share my fate with the intertwining souls that have the great misfortune of crossing paths with this soldier of circumstance. 

“Dinner is ready.” The servant, yes servant, will say. 

“Please tell Mr. Millow I will be present in a moment.” 

I will eat your food, good sir. I will dine innocent, injured. I know my place. This dinner tonight will not be the fruition of fate. Not yet sir. I know my place.