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He’s standing near the fence. It dwarfs him, the shining barbed wire glistening in the bright sun, the chain links shivering in the light breeze. It’s funny...he’s always thought it looked so sturdy and still from far away. But now, left to his own childlike devices, he’s wandered close. It’s dangerous, he knows. The slightest touch to the metal and your insides will be fried to a crisp. Like the tasty food he’s not allowed to eat, the kind that you drown in oil. He’s seen it done to a person before, too. Dipped to their death.
And he’s seen countless people shiver and fall from coming in contact with this fence. But, his curiosity still blossoming, he can’t seem to fight the way his arm stretches forward, fingers shaking as they near the fence. Just for a second, just to see. To check if he’s really as invincible as he feels. Cheating death weekly.
Before he can touch the metal, he feels a strong pair of hands on his shoulders, urging him back from his doom, and he startles. His instinct is to squirm, to fight. He knows it’s stupid, because every time someone catches him it never matters how much he struggles. He always ends up dangled over something boiling or spikey.
“Whoa, whoa there little guy!” a familiar voice chimes. He’s turned, gathered up into a warm set of arms and a barrel chest. Mr. Fitzcarraldo. Duh. He can be so dumb sometimes.... “You could have fried yourself on that, Rusty.”
“I-I know…” he mutters, feeling the too-frequent tears well up behind his cheeks. His dad will be upset… “Sorry, Mr. Fitzcarraldo…”
“Hey now…” A calloused thumb runs beneath his watery eye. “You didn’t know any better, right? It’s not your fault.”
It’s not your fault . He’s not sure anyone’s ever said that to him before.
“Y-yeah…” he lies. He knew. And, though his intuition is yet in its infancy, he has the feeling Mr. Fitzcarraldo knows that. He has such soft eyes. The real kind, not like when his dad looks at him, trying to be kind.
“Come with me, Rusty.”
“Am I in trouble?” he asks, letting the man take his skinny wrist and lead him back toward the house.
“No, of course not!”
Rusty’s shoulders slope, the way they only do when he’s about to go to sleep.
“Then where are we going?” he asks.
“For ice cream!”
His eyes grow wide, and he cannot help the grin that strains his freckled cheeks.
“Really!?”
“It’s summertime, isn’t it?”
There falls a sad look across Mr. Fitzcarraldo’s face. Maybe he misses his own son today, who’s not allowed to come over and play anymore. Rusty’s been too afraid to ask why. He’s too afraid to ask lots of questions. He’s too afraid of everything.
“You sure my daddy won’t mind?” he mumbles, climbing into the passenger’s seat of the shining blue Chrysler. He usually has to sit in the back, but he feels like he’s big enough, and he always wears his seatbelt.
“He left you in my care today, Rusty…” He doesn’t look over at him as he starts up the engine. “And you look like you need some ice cream.”
--
He drives slow, as if he can make up for his mistake. Taking his eyes off that little adventurer for too long, letting him wander toward danger, as he’s so wont to do. Precious cargo, he makes his turns nice and easy, but not too wide. As if it’s his Malcolm in the car instead... But he always insists on going faster, faster. That kid has the same taste for danger he does. He’s thankful they have at least that in common…
But Don stills his bitterness in favor of a smile.
“You having a good summer, kiddo?”
Rusty is staring out the window, scanning the horizon. They really are in the middle of nowhere, and Don knows he hardly ever leaves the compound for anything but terror. He’s silent, little hands making fists on his knees, soft orange hair feathering in the breeze.
“Rusty?”
“Huh?” he turns to him, a rare smile on his face. “Oh, it’s okay...kinda boring.” He kicks his feet. They don’t quite reach the floor. “But that’s better than...you know…”
The pallor that falls over Rusty’s face is alarming. Like he’s seen a ghost. But Don knows he’s seen worse.
“Not that...um...I don’t like going on adventures with pop…”
“Hey…” They arrive at a stoplight, and Don reaches out to place a hand on Rusty’s shoulder, noting how he flinches. “It’s alright if you get tired of it, Rusty. It’s a lot.”
“Y...yeah…” He takes a shallow breath. Poor kid always seems on the verge of tears. “I’m...sometimes I wish I could just stay home. Or like...hang out with other kids.”
Don winces. He could have had that in Malcolm.
“I know, Rusty. You deserve that…”
“You think so?”
Before he can answer, they pull into the parking lot of the Dancing Cow. It’s ornate with a giant statue of Hattie, the official mascot, dancing on the roof. He’s charmed to hear Rusty chuckle at it.
“Whatever you wanna get, Rusty. It’s on me.”
He knows he can’t buy away the kid’s struggles with ice cream and car rides. He just doesn’t know how else he can do it. It’s the same thing with Malcolm, whom he loves no less because of his parentage. He just doesn’t know how to make him feel like he’s the center of the universe, the future of the world.
But there’s nothing quite like a sundae.
--
“--and then your dad swoops in, carrying, and I’m not lying to you, a greatsword in his hands!”
“Wow!” Rusty says, a mouthful of ice cream. He just can’t help it, thinking of his father as other-wordly and heroic. “What happened next?”
“Cuts my straightjacket off, turns to the mad scientist and says ‘the only one going into solitary confinement-- is you!’ ”
Rusty erupts into laughter, politely covering his mouth to keep the melting ice cream from dripping out. He’s never there for the fun stuff. And even if he is, he doesn’t hear it. He’s too busy squeezing his eyes shut and whimpering. Humming songs he knows in his head. Anything to escape. Reciting his ABCs used to work, until he got too old. Now it’s poems his dad insisted he memorize.
He mixes his spoon around in the near-empty bowl, lamenting how his ice cream is already mostly gone. He guesses the easy hours can only last so long. Soon enough it’ll be back home, and his father will arrive, and it’ll be time for his therapy session. What’ll it be this week? He wants to talk about how it’s too hot out, how he wishes Malcolm could come back to play. How he keeps having nightmares and The Action Man keeps eating all his creamy peanut butter without asking. But he knows he won’t get the chance.
“Mr. Fitzcarraldo…” he mutters, chewing on his lip, wringing his hands. “Can we...stay out for a while? I don’t wanna go home just yet.”
He’s never sure where he wants to go. When he’s kidnapped, running, scared, he wants to go home. When he’s home, he wants to go anywhere else.
The man is silent for a moment, staring at Rusty with a small frown on his face. Rusty blinks, cheeks flushing, certain he’ll be scolded.
“Yeah, kiddo...yeah, we can stay out.”
“Really!?” He can’t help the way he jumps. “Can we go to the zoo? Or the aquarium?”
He’s met with a hearty laugh, and he softens, grinning ear-to-wing-like-ear.
It’s nice to be on the other side of the glass for once, not dropped into a pit of snakes, wolves, anything that could kill him. This time, he has a soda pop in hand, the straw in his mouth, and his nose pressed against the glass to watch the orangutans. Distant relatives, he’s learned. Very distant.
“Look! They’ve got red hair too!” Mr. Fitzcarraldo says, tousseling Rusty’s head.
He smiles, slurping the dregs of his soda. He always drinks them too fast, because he’s never allowed. Within the display, there’s a large orangutan, clearly the head honcho of the group, swinging about on his hands, his beady eyes surveying the grass, the rocks, his children and wife. Taking care to brush past each of them, grunting softly. Like speaking.
Rusty’s ears feel numb. They’re simpler creatures than him and his father. Less to worry about. It must be nice to be an orangutan, he thinks.
He’s long felt that the things he wishes for are simple enough. Public school, friends, safety. But looking at these primates, he realizes how selfish he’s been. Asking for too much. Unappreciative, as his father says, of all the things he has at his disposal. He finds himself mouthing a practiced I’m sorry, pop as he stares through the glass, losing focus. He drops the soda bottle to the floor, where it shatters, and presses both his palms to the barrier, imagining barbs and chain links, a shock through his system. The wetness of his cheeks will help it conduct. That’s just science.
“Rusty--!”
He’s being shaken by the arms, and everything seems to come back into focus. Mr. Fitzcarraldo, staring desperately at his tear-soaked face.
“Rusty, you okay buddy?” he asks, somewhat breathless.
“I-I--” he stammers, gulping back a sob. “I’m sorry, I dunno what--”
“God dammit would you stop apologizing--” The anger in his voice makes the dam break, and Rusty begins to cry, Loud and unapologetic. Not like the big boy he’s supposed to be. “...I’m sorry, Rusty, come on, let’s go…”
Mr. Fitzcarraldo takes him by the hand and leads him hastily out of the crowd, toward the parking lot.
The drive back to the compound is silent. This isn’t the first time this has happened. The whole world seems to go blank and all he can do is cry. It’s stupid, he’s acting like such a baby. His father’s gonna be mad, so mad--
He’s standing on the front steps when they pull into the driveway, and Rusty feels the pit in his stomach rise. All the way up to his throat, but he’s cried all the tears he could find already.
“Rusty…” His father’s booming voice and heavy shadow seem to fall over him like bricks stacked. He feels again Mr. Fitzcarraldo’s hand on his shoulder as they approach. Like armor, it bolsters him. “Didn’t I tell you to stay home and study your Latin?”
“Jonas, it’s the middle of summer!” Mr. Fitzcarraldo says, urging Rusty forward toward his father. “Give the kid a break.”
And loyal as a puppy, Rusty reaches his father and takes his hand, nearly hides behind him like he’s scared. But his eyes stay wide and fixed on Mr. Fitcarraldo.
“Thank you, sir…” Rusty says, barely audible, his voice hoarse and croaking.
“...you’re welcome, kiddo.”
“Go inside, Rusty,” his father commands, patting him on the head. “It’s time for some grown-up talk.”
That means it’s also time for Virgil, then his allotted one hour of television. It’s time for a matching pajama set and stories from Col. Gentleman. Time to close his eyes in the face of it all, and pretend he’s a simpler creature.