He’s family.
I need my family.
With a quick look, I memorize his face before tucking the photo back into the Bible. I wonder if he’ll accept me with open, waiting arms or if I’ll be turned away.
I would go to my father, but I know the latter is exactly what would happen. He’s turned his back on me once before, and I know now it will be no different. It’s his fault I have to leave my mother anyway. He made things…change.
No, the only option now is Uncle Charles.
“I know, I know,” I say playfully as I open the chest so I can look at my mother. “One last kiss before I go.”
She’s sad.
I’m devastated.
But this is life.
Living is hard.
Life makes men out of boys.
Stroking my fingers through her hair, I smile big at her. I hope it’s her smile she sees and not my father’s. It would be a lovely parting gift. Just this once. Just once I want her to see me as a reflection of her—the good her—and not the man who fathered me.
“I’ll be back,” I tell her for the millionth time, forcing a playful lilt into my tone so we both won’t be so sad.
She knows.
I keep my promises.
Caw!
Tearing my gaze from my mother, I glower at the black bird with beady eyes that’s landed on the other side of the hole.
“Shoo!” I hiss at it. “Go on!”
It glares at me. It’s starving. I recognize the ravenous look.
Not today, bird.
Not her.
She may be nothing but hair and bones and tattered clothes, but she’s still my mother.
Quickly, I fold her unmoving body back into the trunk and latch it closed. The bird caws again, but I ignore it. He can find a meal elsewhere. The hole is deep enough to keep my mother safe from birds and other creatures. Once I get her settled, I hum “Ave Maria” to her while I pack her into the earth with warm dirt.
My chest aches more than my stomach for once and it’s nearly crippling. I don’t want to leave. I want to stay with my mother.
With dirty hands, I wipe away my tears and stare down at her grave. I bend and pick up my Bible before tucking it into the back of my pants. She won’t be lonely. Tonight I’m leaving the boy she loves with her. All that’s leaving is the man I am to become.
When I return, she’ll love us both.
The boy and the man.
“I’ll be back, Mom. You’ll see.”
* * *
Kristopher
I try to stretch my legs, but they’re too long now. Not like Karen’s. She barely comes to my shoulders these days. Twins are supposed to be identical—and I suppose we are—but we’re not identically shaped.
She’s small. I’m tall.
Her arms are twigs.
Mine are muscular from helping Pa with the household chores.
With a groan, I press my bare feet against the far wall and push to no avail. The cinder blocks are unmovable. I’ve tried. For many years I’ve kicked and clawed and punched. I’m only a young man. No match for concrete and mortar.
Giving up on getting comfortable, I draw my knees to my chest and tilt my head up to look at the black-painted door that covers one half of the ceiling. The other half sits a bright white bulb that illuminates my shame. I’d have better luck trying to kick my way through the wood door than the walls, but the last time I tried, Karen had to pick splinters out of my feet for days.
Truth is, I’m down here because I deserve it.
No one ever questions Pa.
Ever.
But sometimes, his answers don’t make sense. How am I to learn to be a dutiful servant of God if I can’t manage to understand his confusing rules? Most times, they contradict what I read in the Bible. I’ve spent long nights stewing over this.
My palm roams over the cement floor that’s also been painted white to match the walls. I run my thumb over a scratch in the paint. It’s difficult to angle my body in the small space, but I manage to twist until I can see the imperfection in the otherwise perfect room.
K + K = 1
I smile despite my predicament.
Karen leaves these messages knowing I’ll find them. It was dangerous for her to come down here without Pa’s permission. Still, I can’t fault her for her attempt to make me happy.
I am happy.
My twin understands me in a way no one else can.
With another swipe of my thumb, I admire her neat carving that only goes as deep as the paint. I wish to admire it for longer, but Pa is unpredictable. Sometimes I stay down here for days, taking my meals in the white room and forced to relieve myself in a bucket. Other times, he leaves me down here for minutes, only long enough to make me feel like a scolded child in time-out.
If he finds her sweet note…
I start scratching furiously at the paint with my thumbnail, eager to erase her presence from his critical eyes. He’ll notice. He always does.
Scratch. Scratch. Scratch.
I’m sorry, Karen.
My thumbnail tears and blood blooms a harsh crimson against the bright white flecks beneath the nail. I stare at it as it drips down the front of my white button-up dress shirt that now reeks of body odor. He’d been in such a haste to get me down here, he didn’t take the time to make me strip like usual, though I wish he had considering how hot I am. I’ve been down here for hours. It’s stifling in here.
Pa won’t be pleased I’ve ruined the white room or my white shirt.
Purity is important.
Purity is Godly.
Purity is necessary.
If I can manage to leave this white hell without his noticing, Karen will help me. She’s a master at removing stains. Pa requires that she launder our clothing and press them too. One of her duties as a woman.
Women care for inside the home and men care for the outside.
Two halves of a whole.
It simply works.
One day, we’ll go out into the harsh world and make it a better place when we find our own spouses. I’ll find a good job, take care of my wife, and raise a family with her.
I won’t have to go far.
My thoughts drift to Maude. A sweet redhead down the street. Shy and a face full of freckles. She’s so…interesting. I find that when Pa takes us to Mass, I care less about the sermon and more about what dress Maude Stevens is wearing. The green one is my favorite. It matches her eyes exactly.
A stiffening in my black slacks has horror washing over me. This is what got me put down here in the first place. My inability to control…that. I press down on the growing member between my legs and groan. Something bad shouldn’t feel good. Pa says it’s a sin to touch yourself. It’s for your wife one day.
But…
I close my eyes and rub the heel of my hand against the hard ridges. It feels too good. Like if I keep rubbing, something good will happen. I want that good thing so bad.
Sin.
Sinful thoughts and desires.
I’ve read all about it in the Bible. I know what’s wrong. Pa is right, though I questioned him about it, which was my mistake. I belong down here. The things happening to my body are meant for my future wife and Pa made sure to remind me of that by forcing me down here. I’m not ready for these things to happen to my body yet. Not to mention, I could have exposed Karen and she’s certainly not ready. Had Karen seen the state of my body, it could have upset her. I’m lucky it was only Pa who witnessed the sin tenting my sheets this morning.