Cruel World(4)

“I’m running low,” James said. There was the clinking of the bottle again. “I haven’t had much cause to keep it in stock lately.”

“You know life isn’t assurances, it’s chances and choices. We can choose to go on with our heads up or we can bury them in the sand, but life continues no matter what.”

“Well, I’m tired of it, tired of the bullshit promises the doctors peddle, tired of waiting for the next idea to hope on. I’m tired of seeing my son, my beautiful boy, and knowing he’ll never have a chance in the world. He’ll never know kindness outside of these walls and fences because the truth is the world is full of jackals that call themselves people. I’ve seen the worst in humanity, witnessed it and might’ve even been a part of it at one time in my life, and there is no way I’m going to let him willingly walk out and be consumed by that.”

Quinn pushed the door open and stepped into the room.

His father was where he’d pictured him, standing behind his desk, crystal glass in hand, his dark hair mussed, and a dress shirt open at the throat. Teresa was to the left, clutching her elbows with her hands, arms folded over her chest. When he entered, their eyes widened and his father set the glass down, his face falling as if receiving more bad news.

“I’m not afraid,” Quinn said, locking his gaze with his father’s before shifting it to Teresa whose lips pressed together into a paper-thin line.

“I’ll be in the kitchen,” Teresa said, moving toward the door.

“You can stay,” Quinn said.

“Actually, I’d like to speak to you alone,” James said, nodding once to Teresa who gave Quinn a tight smile and a squeeze on the arm before letting herself out of the room. When the door clicked shut, James made his way to the window and stared out at the storm. His hands played across the polished sill as more lightning stabbed the clouds.

“How long were you listening?”

“Long enough. The surgery’s not an option?”

“No, I guess not.”

“I didn’t think it would be.”

“I had hope.”

He studied his father for a while. “I’m not afraid,” he repeated.

“I know you’re not, but I am. I know what’s out there. The world is-”

“A cruel place,” Quinn finished, moving closer to the desk. “You always tell me that. But it’s also beautiful; you say that too.”

James was quiet for a long time and then turned to face him. He looked older, or maybe it was simply the grayish tinge set to his features by the storm.

“Three years before you were born I was in Mali filming Standoff. It was hotter than hell while we were there and dry, so dry. The wind would blow across the plains where we were shooting and it would literally leech the moisture from you, pull it right from your skin. We would film during the daylight hours and then head back to our hotel in the evening, which was over an hour away. There were several local warlords battling in the area, over what I don’t know: food, gold, drugs, everything, I suppose. Skirmishes were common, and once we even heard gunfire at night not far from our hotel. Needless to say, our security was heavy.

“One afternoon a storm rolled in, kind of uncommon for that time of year but not unheard of. If you remember the movie, everything was filmed in the desert specifically to capture the arid setting, so a rainstorm wasn’t extremely useful for us. Trent, the director, called off shooting for the rest of the day, so we all packed up and started back to the hotel. I was riding in the first truck when we saw them.”

James’s eyelids fluttered and he looked at the floor. There was a swallow of whisky left in his glass, and he picked it up, bringing it halfway to his mouth before stopping.

“It was a little girl and a man. They were on the side of the road. He’d been shot. There was blood on his white shirt that had gone a rust color. You could see it drying in the heat and sticking to him. The girl couldn’t have been more than seven, and she was starving. Her skin was plastered to her bones like shrink-wrap, and her hair was falling out. She had these huge, dark eyes that watched us as we got closer, but she never moved. She was sitting behind him, kind of holding his head up, and he wasn’t conscious. His mouth was open, and for all I know he might’ve been dead, but I don’t think he was. My driver started to slow down, and I watched her look at us. I know she couldn’t see us since our windows were tinted, but she stared right at me as we came even with her. Those eyes boring into mine through the glass.”