Cruel World(2)

The flat stones worn smooth by the constant embrace of the tides were his thrones. He sat upon them, governing an army of sea creatures who had hideous countenances and who worshipped him because he was the most handsome of them all. Sometimes the fantasies would fade and he would gaze out across the rolling waves, far into the horizon that hurt his eyes if he looked too long. Such amazing distance the world contained, the immensity of it all, like looking at a grain of sand upon the beach among all the others and seeing that the single grain was him in the world, nameless and adrift in the mercy of life.

Most days he spent in the solarium on the north side of the house. When the structure had been built, two years after his birth and a year and a half after his mother had left forever, his father had planned on it being a greenhouse full of foliage that he could keep blooming throughout the harsh northeastern winters. But the plants had withered despite the insulation and good sunlight, and his father had removed all but a select few of his favorites, leaving the space to become what it was now, Quinn’s classroom.

Teresa had been a teacher. She normally said she’d been a teacher in her former life. When Quinn asked her what she meant, a sad smile would crease her face, touching her kind eyes, and she’d say she would tell him someday. She’d also let slip a mention of her own son, and when Quinn asked further about him, she firmly guided him on to his next chapter.

Their lessons encompassed all subjects without definition or true structure. Some days they would spend pouring over a world map, Teresa pointing out great cities and capitals, their history unfolding from her stories in a way that always seemed like an adventure. On others they would read snippets from Shakespeare, and she would ask him what the great writer had meant after each section. Quinn would attempt an answer, and Teresa would tilt her head on her slender neck, her smoky hair tipping also, saying yes, he was right. It was only when he was twelve that he finally answered that he had probably meant several things all at once. Teresa’s face had lit in a smile that followed him throughout the rest of the day, and the squeeze of her hand told him that he’d finally understood.

At night his father would read to him after dinner, sometimes for hours in the library containing high mahogany shelves filled with books. They would rest on the leather couch before a fire crackling in the immense hearth if it was winter and holding cool glasses of iced tea if it was mid-summer. James would read, his voice sonorous and strong from years of projecting lines before a camera, the subtleties of his speech changing with each character until the story filled the room. The library would disappear around them and they would be on Mars, the red dirt glistening beneath a baking sun at their feet, or the walls would become massive trees, towering beyond sight so that their branches and leaves were lost in the blinding white of a forever sky.

Quinn would sit beside his father, sinking toward him as the night spooled out, his shoulder gradually resting against the older man’s arm until James would cuddle him in closer, stroking his hair and running his fingers over Quinn’s eyes until sleep carried him away.

These were the days of before, his life as the months became years and the world turned without him witnessing it for himself. And no matter how hard he stared across the ocean, he could never see the other side.





Chapter 2



Jackals and Buzzards



The day after his sixteenth birthday, he heard his father and Teresa argue about him for the first time.

He’d drifted off on a settee in the solarium, a book of Robert Frost poems open on his chest. Soft rain drummed against the half-domed ceiling of glass, the drops exploding as they hit only to reform into stitching rivers that flowed down the slanting wall and out of sight.

Quinn sat up and closed the book, marking his place before setting it aside. It was early evening, the sun lost somewhere behind the storm clouds and dense pines to the west. Lightning walked in a twisted stream across the sky and he listened, counting off the seconds until the thunder replied.

He made his way down the hall toward the stairs that led to the second floor and his waiting room. His muscles ached from a long run and climbing the cliffs all morning. It had been a glorious spring day, one of the first, the smell of melting ice and the air strangely warm, like an unexpected blanket placed over you during a nap.

Quinn paused, his foot on the first tread, as a voice filtered down the hall from the furthest room, his father’s study. The tones of conversation were off, unsteady and varied, sounding like the cook’s voice did when arguing over a recipe with the housekeeper or telling a joke. When heard from a distance, humor and anger sounded almost the same.