Small Great Things(34)

Well, at least I knew I was in the right place.

I turned in the other direction, and came face-to-face with a girl who was holding stars in her hands. She had long curly hair, and her eyes were the palest shade of blue I’d ever seen.

I’d been hit a hundred times before, but never like that. I couldn’t remember the word hello.

“Well,” she said, “you’re a little old for games, but you can have a turn if you want.”

I just stared at her, confused, until I realized that she was referring to the hook-nosed profile poster taped up on the side of the house. I wanted to play, yes, but Pin the Star on the Jew wasn’t what I had in mind.

“I’m looking for Francis Mitchum,” I said. “He asked me to meet him here?”

She looked at me, her eyes narrowing. “You must be Turk,” she said. “He’s expecting you.” She turned on her heel and walked into the house with the easy grace of someone who is used to having people follow in her wake.

We passed a few women in the kitchen, who were bouncing from fridge to cabinets and back like popcorn kernels on a hot griddle, exploding one at a time with commands: Get the plates! Don’t forget the ice cream! There were more kids inside, but they were older—preteen, I was guessing, because they reminded me of me not that long ago—held in thrall by the man who stood in front of them. Francis Mitchum was shorter than I remembered, but then, I’d last seen him on a podium. His silver hair was lush and swept back from his face, and he was lecturing on Christian Identity theology. “The snake,” he explained, “has sex with Eve.” The kids looked around at each other when he said the word sex, as if hearing it spoken out loud so casually was their welcome into the sanctum of adulthood. “Why else would God say she couldn’t eat an apple? They’re in a garden, for Pete’s sake. The apple is a symbol, and the downfall of man is getting laid. The Devil comes to Eve in the form of a snake, and she’s tricked into messing around, and she gets pregnant. But then she goes back to Adam and tricks him into having sex. She has Cain, who’s born with the mark of the Devil on him—a 666, a Star of David. That’s right, Cain is the first Jew. But she also gives birth to Abel, who’s Adam’s kid. And Cain kills Abel because he’s jealous, and he’s the seed of Satan.”

“You believe in this bullshit?” asked the beautiful girl beside me. Her voice was as even as a seam. It felt like a trick.

Some White Power folks were Christian Identity followers, and some weren’t. Raine was. Francis was. I was. We believed that we were the real House of Israel, God’s chosen ones. The Jews were impostors, and would be wiped out during the race war.

I grinned. “When I was about their age, I was starving and I stole a hot dog at a gas station. I didn’t care so much about stealing, but for two weeks I was convinced God was going to smite me for eating pork.”

When she met my gaze, it felt like the space between the moment you turned on a stove’s pilot light, and the moment it was blue and burning. It felt like the possibility of an explosion.

“Daddy,” she announced. “Your guest is here.”

Daddy?

Francis Mitchum glanced at me, turning his attention away from the clot of preteens he’d been talking to, who were staring at me, too.

He stepped over the tangle of adolescent limbs and clapped me on the shoulder. “Turk Bauer. It’s good of you to come.”

“It’s an honor to be asked,” I replied.

“I see you’ve already met Brittany,” Francis said.

Brittany. “Not officially.” I held out my hand. “Hi.”

“Hi,” Brit repeated, laughing. She held on a moment too long, but not enough for anyone to notice.

Except Mitchum, who—I assumed—did not miss much. “Walk with me a bit?” he said, and I fell into step beside him as we returned to the backyard.

We chatted about the weather (late start to spring this year) and the drive from Hartford to New Haven (too much construction on I-91S). When we reached a corner of the yard, near an apple tree, Mitchum sat down on a lawn chair and gestured for me to do the same. From here, we had a bird’s-eye view of the pi?ata game. The birthday boy was up to bat again, but so far, no candy had been spilled. “That’s my godson,” Mitchum said.

“I was wondering why I got invited to a kids’ party.”

“I like talking to the next generation,” he admitted. “Makes me still feel relevant.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that, sir. I’d say you’re still pretty relevant.”

“Now, you,” Mitchum said. “You’ve made quite a name for yourself lately.”

I just nodded. I wasn’t sure why Francis Mitchum had wanted to meet me.

“I hear your brother was killed by a nigger,” he said. “And your father’s a flamer—”

My head swung up, cheeks hot. “He’s not my father anymore.”

“Take it easy, boy. None of us can pick our parents. It’s what we choose to make of them that’s important.” He looked at me. “When was the last time you saw him?”

“When I was beating him unconscious.”

Again, I felt like I was being given a quiz, and I must have answered correctly, because Mitchum kept talking. “You’ve started your own crew, and by many accounts, you’re the best recruiter on the East Coast. You took the rap for your second in command, and then taught him a lesson as soon as you got out of jail.”