Protector of Children - 12. Chapter 12:Vignettes

1: Recruiting

No man is an island, unto himself.
Every man is a piece of the Continent, a part of the main.
Any man’s travails diminish me, because I am involved in Mankind.
Therefore do not send to know for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee.
—John Donne (1572—1631 Earth Analogue V)

 

Nemesis

“Why are you here?” the man asked. His voice was gentle, and he seemed genuinely interested. We were sitting in the waiting room of the Department of Family Services. The city doesn’t matter. They were all alike.

Each of the cheap plastic and wire seats was filled. Each person clutched a rectangular scrap of paper with a number—the order in which they would be called. An impersonal machine near the doorway had spit out the numbers. For some, it was the first step they would face in the process of dehumanization. For others, it was a recurring nightmare of frustration, bureaucracy, and rejection.

I hadn’t taken a number; I was here because Dike said I should be here, and who I was to look for. She had sent a messenger: one of Mercury’s good guys. Cute boy … naked except for the helmet and sandals. Kind of made me glad I got to wear a chiton! Gary had talked to me about loving more than one person. I wasn’t sure I was really okay with that, but I did get a stiffy when I saw this kid. Then I remembered that the man in the waiting room had asked me a question. I made up something.

“I’m a ward of the court,” I said. “They’re going to find another place for me to live. That will make six this year.”

The man looked at me. “I’m sorry,” he said.

“Why the fuck would you be sorry,” I asked. I put every bit of bitterness and hate I could into that question. The man didn’t seem to get put off by it.

“Because,” he said, “No man is an island. We are all connected to one another in some way. In your voice, I heard your bitterness, your frustration. Maybe, even, your resignation. What you feel affects me, even though I don’t know you. And, because I’ve made it my life’s work to help others, many of them children like yourself, and that has just been taken away from me.”

“Taken away?” I asked, pouncing on his words.

“Yes,” he said. “I worked at a homeless shelter. It was a minimum wage job, and I put in a lot of volunteer hours, as well. It was illegal under the Fair Labor Standards Act, but it’s the only way most shelters survive.

“There were a lot of families in the shelter … mothers and children, usually. The fathers didn’t come in, because if they did, the family might have been denied shelter. Stupid rule, but that was one of many stupid rules. I did what I could to make them comfortable, to make them feel … at home sounds so crappy.”

I giggled at crappy. He seemed to take this as an invitation to continue.

“One of the little boys, he was about your age, was crying. I asked him what was the matter. He said he missed his daddy, and then hugged me. I didn’t think anything of it, but hugged him back. One of the supervisors saw us, and fired me on the spot.”

“Why are you here, then?” I asked.

“I’m hoping they can find a job for me,” he said. “I don’t think I’ve been blacklisted … the shelter wouldn’t want that. It would reflect badly on them.”

“What do you want to do, most of all in the whole world?” I asked.

“That’s a pretty serious question for a twelve-year-old to ask,” the man said. His voice was calm, level. There was no humor in it or in his face. He wasn’t mocking me. I was impressed that he seemed to take me seriously.

He didn’t give me a chance to say anything, though, before he said, “I want to do something that makes a difference. I want to help kids. I don’t mean just make a place for them to eat and sleep. I want to find a way to give them what life has taken away from them.”

The man closed his eyes for a moment, and seemed to look inside himself. “Why do you find this … interesting? Why am I telling you this?”

“Maybe,” I said, “because you know who I really am.”

I let the man see me as Nemesis: a 12-year-old boy in a chiton with a great honking sword. And a cute butt, but I didn’t let him see that!

He stared at me for a good three minutes. I looked at him, and didn’t see evil desire, only a desire to do good.

“You’ll do,” I said. “Will you come with me?”

He stood up and nodded. I took his hand, and walked toward the exit.

As soon as we got to a deserted stretch of hallway, I popped us to Refuge, to Gary’s office. The man tightened his grip on my hand, briefly, and then relaxed. I guess seeing me morph from a smelly, raggedy-assed kid with bruises on his face into a really cute boy in a chiton had prepared him, at least a little bit.

Gary introduced himself to the man, whose name was Charles Davies. “Mr. Davies, I’m prepared to offer you a position as a House Father in a home for homeless, abandoned, and abused children.”

Mr. Davies shook Gary’s hand, but he looked at me when he said, “Thank you.”

I felt really good. I’d done justice and been taken seriously by a good man. That must count for something. Oh, and the little boy who wanted a hug? Gary sent us back for him and his mother and sister. And his daddy.

I wish everything were as easy.

 

2: Weekend Warriors

Nemesis

It was a scene already common and becoming more common in fast-food joints: a daddy and his kids. A “daddy for the weekend,” that is. Divorced fathers: weekend warriors who had custody of their children on Saturday and Sunday. They were the ones who gave up (or, depending on their attitude, had to give up) their weekends while the former spouse was screwing the newest boyfriend. They were daddies trying to buy love with bacon, egg, and cheese biscuits.

The lunch shift would begin at 11:00, and the weekenders would be trying to buy happiness and love with burgers and fries in a box with a toy. Tonight, they’d be at pizza places, or at home with DVDs and pizza delivered. They didn’t know how to make the kids happy, they didn’t know their own kids, and so they substituted movies and fast food for understanding and love. Nobody was fooled, but nobody ever said anything, either.

This morning there were at least six of the weekend warriors in this particular fast food joint. I won’t call it a restaurant. Only places with tablecloths qualified to be called “restaurant.” At least, that’s what Gary said.

For the most part, the half-families were unremarkable. One caught my attention, though. It wasn’t because the child—a boy about eight years old—wasn’t smiling: none of the children seemed to be happy. It wasn’t body language: the closed posture of folded arms and sitting curled in the corner of a booth was ubiquitous. The kids’ thoughts of you can’t make me feel good because it was my fault and you and Mommy must hate me created a miasma of darkness over the entire restaurant. None of the other patrons picked up on it. Of course, none of them were gods.

It wasn’t just daddies. There were a couple of mommies, too. They usually looked less happy than the daddies. Not surprising. They probably had even more problems than their former husbands, and money was usually a big one. They had to sacrifice more to buy the biscuits and burgers and pizza.

Maybe it was the way this kid kept looking around—but only when the man had his face buried in his plate. I caught the kid’s eye, once. He froze for an instant, and then looked away.

Maybe it was the way the man looked at the boy. As if the kid were something to be tolerated, rather than someone to be loved, even if only for a weekend.

They got up to leave. I intercepted them.

“Mister?” I stood in the aisle. The man had to stop. “Mister, you don’t know how lucky you are to have a son who could love you and who you could love … if you’d just give it a try.”

The man’s nostrils flared and his face got red. He must have squeezed the boy’s hand, too, because the boy grimaced with pain.

“Who the hell … who the heck do you think you are?”

Memories I’d suppressed for years came back. I shut out the little boy from what I said next. “I’m a little boy whose divorced father thought he was a burden, a duty, someone he had to feed and entertain on weekends,” I said. “He treated me like you’re treating Eddie. I was scarred emotionally. My need for love, for hugs was rubbed out, erased, scraped away with the sandpaper of my father’s behavior. I became a sexual predator who hurt little boys.”

The man looked hard at me. His nose flared, and I knew he was going to challenge me. “No,” I said, “I’m not what I appear to be.”

I morphed into an image that I hated … the person I had been before I became Nemesis. The man’s eyes got really wide. Then, I morphed back to Nemesis, but older—like about Gary’s age.

“Eddie needs a father,” I said. “He needs a father’s hugs. He needs someone to ask him what his dreams are, and then to help him reach them.

“If you can’t do that, I have the power and authority to take him away from you. Is that what you want?”

“No!” I saw tears in the man’s eyes. “No, please?”

I nodded, and morphed back to the twelve-year-old in play clothes who had first blocked the man’s steps. Then, I put the man and me back into the mainstream of time, and watched as he scooped Eddie into his arms. The boy was surprised. (No kidding!) “Come on, son,” the man said. “We have some things to talk about.”

He looked at me.

I smiled. “Nice talking to you Mr. Arbuckle. I’ll see you in, what, six months? Will that be enough time?”

He nodded. Eddie, held tightly in his father’s arms, perhaps for the first time in months, smiled, and put his arm around his daddy’s neck.

 

I hated the man I had been, and I hated what he had done. I was glad, however, that he had been there when I needed him. Mr. Arbuckle saw what he was and, I think, understood how he’d gotten there. That Eddie might become something like that frightened Arbuckle more than seeing me in a chiton with a sword would have.

I thought about that, a lot. And finally accepted that I had not been forced into that role by my father’s inattention, but by the choices I had made. I still didn’t like what I had become and what I had done, but I was learning to live with my memories of myself.

 

3: Danny

The hotel had been famous since before Prohibition. I was in awe that my father would take me there for supper, and even more impressed that Daddy had a client who had invited us there.

The maître de’ looked kind of funny at us … like he smelled something unpleasant. Until Daddy told him his name. Then, the man acted like we were important all of a sudden. I didn’t trust him.

He led us through the dining room. I glanced quickly at table after table of well-dressed men and women. The men were in dark suits with subdued ties; the women were mostly in dresses that showed off their shoulders—and a lot of their bosoms. Some were dressed in suits like the men, except that they usually didn’t wear ties.

The maître de’ led us to a table at which a man was already sitting. The man looked rich: it was the way his hair was cut, and how smooth his face was, and how the suit he was wearing fit him. He stood when we approached. It was funny, though. He looked at me, and not Daddy. It was like he was standing for me, and not for Daddy.

When he held out his hand, however, it was to Daddy.

“Mr. … sorry, Dr. Carter. I am so glad to see you. And this must be Danny.”

The man barely touched Daddy’s hand before he looked at me, and then held out his hand to be shaken. I took his hand. Daddy had told me the man was very important, so I promised myself I would be polite. His hand felt greasy.

“I am Mr. Blokokovitch,” the man said. “I know that’s a hard name for many people, so please just call me Ari. That’s the nickname my parents gave me.

Two waiters had followed us to the table. I almost fell into the chair that one of them pushed under me. I wasn’t expecting it until it hit me behind the knees. I turned loose of Mr. Blokokovitch—now Ari’s—hand, and sat rather abruptly. I noticed that the maître de’ was a lot more careful when he seated Ari.

 

Mama and Daddy had taught me how to behave in “polite society,” as they said. I knew enough to use the tongs and the tiny fork on the snails, and that it was proper to eat the flowers in the salad. I was comfortable in my table manners, and in the brief, but polite replies I made to Ari’s questions and comments, which seemed to be addressed more to me than to Daddy. I was not comfortable with that. There was something puzzling and strange about the meal.

Ari insisted that I try the crème brûleé dessert, and insisted on using the waiter’s torch to caramelize the sugar topping, himself. “The waiters never do it right,” he said. “Always in too much of a hurry.”

 

I do not remember what happened after dessert—until I woke up.

I was lying on my back. The ceiling was way high, and white. My hands drifted from side to side. I felt silky stuff. And then I felt my legs and waist and—I’m naked, I thought. Where am I?

I sat up. Lights flashed in my eyes and pain stabbed through my head. It was like Mama said her migraines did, but these went away.

The room was somebody’s bedroom. I lay on a huge bed. I tossed back the covers and confirmed that I was naked. Before I could do anything else, the door opened and Ari walked in. He was wearing a dark blue bathrobe. It shimmered. I grabbed the covers to cover myself.

“Well, little man, welcome back to the world. You fell asleep at the table,” Ari said.

That explained what had happened, but not how I ended up, here, nor why I was naked, nor why Ari was taking off the blue robe, nor why he was naked under it.

I was afraid.

 

Mr. Blokokovitch—I could no longer think of him as Ari—stepped to the side of the bed. He stared at me. I thought of how a snake would stare at a bird and paralyze it with fear. I didn’t know if snakes really did that, but I felt like a bird, and I couldn’t move.

Except my eyes, which got really wide when I saw Mr. Blokokovitch’s penis grow until it was nearly as big as my arm!

He stuck out his hand, and touched my chest. Then, his mouth fell open and he gasped. I saw something pointy come through his chest. Whatever it was, it disappeared, and the man fell. Standing behind him was a boy, about my age. The boy wore something out of a history book that didn’t cover much of him. He put a sword into a scabbard. It was the boy’s sword that I had seen come through Mr. Blokokovich!

The boy looked at me; I looked back, and let my eyes go to his sword, and then to his face.

“Danny? I’m really sorry I couldn’t come sooner,” the boy said. “Rules. I had to be sure.

“Your clothes are in the dressing room, through that door. I’ll wait …”

I didn’t hear anything else. I think I fainted.

 

Nemesis

Gary had passed the Danny job off to me. “There’s going to be a couple of things for Retribution,” he said. “And I think a fourteen-year-old would rather be rescued by you than by me.

“Oh, and he thinks he’s gay, and wants a boyfriend to help him find out. There’s a kid at his school … well, you can learn all this from him.”

I was glad Gary had told me that. It meant that I got not only to be Retribution but also maybe to be a friend to this kid—Danny—and maybe to do more than just rescue him and punish a couple of bad guys.

 

Danny

When I woke up again I wasn’t in the hotel. I was in a bed, though, and I was still afraid. The boy who I think had killed Mr. B was sitting cross-legged on the other side of the bed, and looking at me as if he had been waiting for me to wake up.

I was right.

“Hi, Danny,” he said. “I’m Nemesis, and I’m glad you’re awake. It must have been a hard night for you. Everything’s okay, now. Well, not everything, ’cause we have some things to do, but most everything. How do you feel?”

It took me a while to answer. When I did, I wasn’t quite sure what I was saying.

“I feel fine,” I said. “Better than I did last night.

“But … I don’t understand. Where am I? And why do you have the same name as those nerds in Buffy? And who are you, really? And I’m hungry. And why are you wearing that whatever-it-is that doesn’t cover up your … your thing.”

The boy laughed. “If you’re hungry, then you must be feeling better. It’s three o’clock in the afternoon.” He stood up and pulled down the whatever, and added. “And my thing belongs to my boyfriends, so keep your eyes to yourself.” He grinned. I know my eyes got wide. Boyfriends? I didn’t dare ask.

I checked under the covers. I wasn’t naked. Felt like pajama bottoms. I pulled up the sheet and looked. Bottoms. And a stiffy tenting them up. I kind of crossed my legs and pulled the sheet back over me, trying to figure how to get up and into the bathroom without him seeing. Then, I giggled.

I got out of bed and stood, facing the boy. My stiffy was not only poking out the front of the pajamas, but also was peeking out of the fly. “As long as you keep your eyes off mine,” I said. “Where’s the bathroom?”

Nemesis—if that’s really his name—pointed to a door. He giggled, and then said. “Your clothes are in there … and, Danny? I think you’re going to fit in just fine.”

 

My stiffy went down after I pissed. I found clothes … the suit I’d worn last night, but also a pair of cargo shorts, a knitted shirt, belt, socks, trainers, and briefs, all in my size. They were on top of my suit. There was also a towel, washcloth, a bar of soap, and a bottle of shampoo on top of that. I took the hints, showered, and put on the play clothes.

 

Nemesis was waiting. He stared at me for a second, and then winked. Oh, and he had changed into play clothes, too.

 

He took me down a hallway to a kitchen … a little bit bigger than ours, but about what you’d expect in a private home. I hadn’t seen out any windows, so I didn’t know where I was. There was a man at the stove. He looked at me, and then put down the bowl he’d been stirring, walked to the window, and gestured.

“Come over here, please, Danny, and take a look.”

I did, and gasped. We were in one of the high-rise apartments on the lake. I could see up Lakeshore to the Navy Pier, and out on the water for miles and miles. “Wow!” I said. “What a great view.”

I turned. “Thank you … um, sir?”

“Sorry!” I’m Gary Walters, Nemesis’ daddy. And his name really is Nemesis—”

“My friends sometimes call me Nem,” the boy interrupted.

“And mine call me Gary,” the man said. “I know it’s too soon for you to think of us as friends, but I hope you’ll keep that possibility open.”

I nodded. “Sir? My father is an actuary. Last night, he took me to dinner with one of his clients. I fell asleep. When I woke up, I was naked in a hotel room, and the client had just taken off his robe—he was naked, too—and had just touched me when Nemesis stuck a sword through the man and, I think, killed him. Please, where is my father? He and Mother will be worried. Who was the man, and why was I naked? Why was he naked? Why did Nemesis kill him and what will the police think? Am I in trouble?” I fought to keep away tears.

It was Nemesis who answered. “Danny,” he said. “You didn’t fall asleep. You were drugged. The man, who called himself Blokokovich, wanted you for sex. You and he were naked because he was going to enjoy you after which you would have been killed.”

I would have fallen down from shock if Nemesis hadn’t grabbed me, and held me tightly. It was kind of funny. I was fourteen, and Nemesis was about twelve. Normally, I wouldn’t have had anything to do with a twelve-year-old kid. They were, like, grammar school, and I was in middle school. On the other hand, this one carried a sword and, I’m pretty sure, had killed someone with it. And, he had said that his thing belonged to his boyfriend. And that was something I wanted to know more about … a lot more. So, I let him hug me.

 

Gary and Nemesis served breakfast: blueberry pancakes, bacon, cut-up banana and strawberries, and lots of milk. I was hungry enough that I put aside my questions until after the second plate of pancakes.

“How come we’re having breakfast in the middle of the afternoon,” I asked.

Gary chuckled, and then said, “It’s a tradition. When Nemesis and one of his little friends, Bobby, first came into my home, Bobby said he’d not had anything to eat for a long time except dry cereal. I decided that just wouldn’t do, and made blueberry pancakes and bacon for them the next morning. Now, we do it for everyone we want to welcome.”

I thought about that, and then asked, “Why do you want to welcome me? And what about my parents and all, the stuff I asked you before?”

Nemesis took over. “Danny, we want to welcome you because …

“Damn it, Gary, this is hard!” He looked at Gary.

“I know,” Gary said. His voice was soft, and I think he was about to cry.

Nemesis was about to cry, too. In fact, he sniffled before he said, “Danny, I’m so sorry, but your parents are dead. Mr. Blokolovitch made sure of that even before he came into that room. The reason we want to welcome you is that it’s our job … it’s what we do. Gary is Protector of Children and runs a place for orphans and abandoned or abused kids. I have a job, too, which is to punish people who hurt kids. That’s why I killed that man.

“You shouldn’t have seen that. But you did. It’s going to take a while to explain that to you. Will you trust us, for a while? Oh, and should I ask Jon to visit?”

Jon? Jon was the boy I thought I was in love with, except that I’d never talked to him. I’d never dared. And Nemesis knew about him?

“Uh … uh …” I couldn’t answer.

“Pretty overwhelming, isn’t it?” Gary asked. Then he said, “Nem? I think Jon is exactly what Danny needs. Will you bring him here?”

Nemesis

I know it’s childish of me, but I still get a kick out of people’s reactions when they find out that I’m really a god. (Besides, I am a child. Sort of.) I knew Jon was going to be surprised, but I also knew that he would not have a problem coming to grips with the situation. I popped to the front door of his home, and rang the bell. Oh, and I stayed in school clothes.

Jon’s mother opened the door. “Good afternoon, ma’am,” I said. “I’m from Jon’s school? I have this assignment sheet from our teacher? May I…?” I let my voice drift off, figuring the less I said, the less chance she’d figure out I was lying.

“Why, of course. Thank you for bringing it. His room is at the top of the stairs. Be sure to knock, first, won’t you?”

I nodded and skipped up the steps. I knocked, and heard, “Come in.”

I switched to chiton, sword and sandals, opened the door, stepped in, and closed the door behind me. Jon was sitting facing a computer screen. He turned, saw me, and damn near passed out when his blood pressure dropped … cause all his blood went into his thing.

“Who are you?” he whispered. “Wait … don’t tell me. That’s a chiton, so you’re Greek. You’re a kid, but you have a sword. That means you have a mission, and powers. Hang on.”

I couldn’t believe this kid! He turned to his computer and started pushing buttons on the keyboard. After a while, he turned back around.

“I can’t find you,” he said. “Okay, I give up. You’re not here to hurt me, or you would already have. So, who are you?”

I giggled. “My name is Nemesis—”

“Can’t be,” Jon said. “Nemesis is a woman.”

“Once,” I said. “But she got tired of being a god, and her powers went to someone else. That person got tired of being Retribution, and gave their powers to someone else. Eventually, they came to a twelve-year-old boy, who gave them to me and turned me into a twelve-year-old boy. I really am Nemesis.”

Jon got pale, then. “What have I done—”

“Oh! Nothing!” I said. “I work for the god of Justice, and sometimes, it’s about justice and not retribution.

“Sometimes,” I lowered my voice, “it’s about both. I’m working on a problem. The retribution has been done; now, it’s time for justice.”

I could see Jon relax in his chair. And figured it was time for the “two” in the “one-two punch” I had come to deliver.

“Jon, there’s a boy in your school who thinks he is gay, and who wants a boyfriend to help him find out. He’s smart and he’s cute. Would you come with me to meet him, and would you at least consider being his boyfriend?”

“I’m not gay!” Jon said. Then, “You don’t believe that, do you? You know?”

It was a serious question, full of trust. It deserved a serious answer. “Yes, Jon. I know you’re gay. And I’m okay with it. In fact, it was my boyfriend who gave me this mission.”

 

Jon’s mother was happy for him to go with me to meet another of his school chums (her words, not mine!). I had switched back to school clothes, of course. The instant we were out of the front door, I grabbed Jon’s hand and popped us to Danny.

Jon was … well, try to imagine being frightened by something so wonderful it nearly made you wet your pants. Try to imagine finding out that a really cute boy had the hots for you and knowing, absolutely, that it was true. More important than that, try to imagine that this cute boy needs your help, and that no one else’s help will do. Try to imagine being on your front porch in Oak Ridge Heights one instant and being in an apartment overlooking the lake in another. Try to imagine … well, I’ve run out of imagination.

 

“Jon, this is Danny. Danny, this is Jon. Of course, you both know that.”

I left the room.

 

“Danny?” Jon said. “What just happened?”

“It’s real …” Danny said. “He and his daddy? They’re magic.”

Jon nodded. “Um, and you told him … you said … about me …?”

“No. I think Nem and his Daddy can read minds, or something. It was his idea,” Danny said. “But I’m glad you’re here!”

“Danny? Nem knows I’m gay. He said you thought you might be?”

“Uh, yeah. At least …” Danny took a deep breath. “At least when I look at you, I think that.”

 

4: Richard and Zhang

Zhang

“I can reverse what was done to you in that hospital in Bangkok,” Richard said. We were lying in bed, cuddled face to face. My tummy was full, and so was my heart.

I knew what Richard meant. When I was a child, I had been taken to a hospital in Thailand where surgeries were performed and where hormone therapy was begun. The purpose was to make sure I looked like a child well past the age of puberty. Those who ordered the surgery were my owners: the men who ran the whore houses and movie studios in Namche Bazaar and elsewhere in the Far East.

For years, hundreds of men had used me for sex. I had been filled with their seed until it flowed out of my bottom or was vomited up … after they had left, of course. Some had been gentle, and acted as if they cared about me. A few had taken my seed into themselves. A few of those did it because they wanted to give me pleasure. Most did it because it gave them pleasure. Some had been rough; none had really hurt me, of course. They all understood the penalties for physically harming one of us.

I had asked Richard what we could do about the boys who were left in the whorehouse. He still cringed when I was so direct about having been a whore.

“There is nothing we—you and I—can do,” he said. “Our powers do not lie in that realm. I’ve spoken to Uncle Gary, and to Nemesis. They’ve promised to look into it; however, they, too, are limited.

“We and they draw our powers from Western Civilization. The only reason the old Asclepius was able to heal you in Namche Bazaar was that he had lived as a Buddhist monk for decades, and had adopted their ways.”

I nodded, and squinched my eyes. Tears ran down my cheeks. None of the other boys had been my friends; we were not allowed to associate with one another. Still, I felt bad that I had escaped, and they were sill captive. I resolved to someday do something about that.

I’d not forgotten Richard’s offer to change me.

“No, Richard, thank you, but I want to stay the way I am.”

He seemed surprised. I did not tell him why I did not want to change. I knew that Richard needed a child, and I knew I was the only one he would ever have. His was a need for someone dependent upon him, for someone who loved him unconditionally, and for someone who he could love the same way. It helped that image that I appeared to be much younger than my true age.

Richard’s desire was not, however, the lust of my customers for sex with someone who appeared to be a pre-pubescent boy with a seven-inch penis, and who could produce seminal fluid. Although Richard and I did have sex—a lot.

Richard truly loved me. Yes, he felt sorry for me because of what had happened to me; he felt protective toward me; he felt responsible for me; he felt a great deal of lust for me. But all that paled in the light of his love.

Whenever Richard looked at me, he formed in his mind the image of a lotus flower, a traditional Buddhist symbol for the journey of the soul. In this case, it was Richard’s soul, from the mud of rejection, failure, dejection and his planned suicide, into the sunshine that began with Asclepius’s gift and culminated in Richard’s talk with Death. Yes, I knew about that. Richard loved me so much that his mind was completely open to me—especially during orgasm. I managed to hide that from him, however. It was his story to tell when he was ready. When he did—and I knew he would, someday—I would pretend to be surprised. That, too, was part of the love I had for him.

Moreover, when Richard thought of the lotus, he always saw me as a child, younger even than I appeared, sitting naked in the center of the flower. I blushed when I thought of that, but it’s what Richard saw and believed.

 

Gander, Newfoundland

“North American Adiz, this is Global 55 heavy inbound.”

“Global 55 heavy, Adiz: squawk 4355 and ident.”

“Adiz, 55 squawking 4355. We have a situation.”

“55, Adiz say situation.”

“Adiz, 55 at least half the passengers are sick. Cabin crew reports vomiting, diarrhea, vomiting blood, clammy skin. Seventeen dead. Flight crew is okay. Whatever it is, it didn’t get past the cockpit seals. Cabin crew is down to four … One is dead; the others are sick.”

“55, Adiz, roger proceed ORD as planned continue to monitor this frequency.”

“Adiz, Global 55, roger.”

 

The controller at the Gander air traffic control station picked up the red handset and spoke. “Homeland, we have a situation.”

“Homeland, go.”

“Homeland, Gander, Boeing 747 inbound from Heathrow to Chicago O’Hare with passengers sick. Unknown cause. Vomiting, bloody vomit, diarrhea, clammy skin. Seventeen dead. Cabin crew affected. Flight crew seems unaffected. We’ve cleared them to O’Hare. They’ll be in Chicago airspace in about two hours.”

“Gander, Homeland. Continue to monitor the situation. Do not permit them to land until you hear from us.”

“Gander, roger.”

 

The communications officer at the Homeland Security command post in the mountains north of Washington, DC, looked around. “Everyone got that?”

The duty commander, a civilian appointee, nearly wet his pants. Not from fear, but because finally, after months of boring duty, he was going to get to do something. He’d been a union organizer in Chicago, trained by the same people who had trained the president. In fact, he’d met the president during an event. When the president was first elected, he had applied for a Schedule C job: a political position in what was otherwise the career civil service. It had taken a couple of years, but finally the appointment had come through, and he had moved with his family to Thurmont, Maryland. The community hadn’t welcomed him or the others who had come with the administration, but he didn’t care.

 

He quickly brought himself back to reality. They were all waiting for him to do something.

“Air Force? Can you shoot it down?”

The Air Force representative, a colonel, had been standing at his position, looking at the display his sergeant had put up on the main screen. The display showed Global 55 and its projected path.

“Shoot it down? That would take presidential authorization, and there’s no reason to believe that would be necessary.”

“I didn’t ask what you thought, Colonel,” the duty commander said. “I asked you if you could defend this country from a biological attack.” The commander had learned the lingo quickly. And, he was an organizer. He knew how to manipulate people: create something to be feared, and convince people he or his union—now his president and his command—could protect them, save them.

“Yes, commander.” The colonel’s voice was tight. “We can intercept from any of several bases and shoot down that plane full of US citizens. If we get presidential authorization.”

 

The commander picked up one of several phones on his desk. The blue one … that connected him directly with the Centers for Disease Control in Atlanta.

No one in the room was privy to his conversation with another Schedule C appointee at the CDC. This one had been part of ACORN, and lost his job the first time that organization had been busted up by the IRS and Federal Marshalls. Like the Homeland Command Post commander, he’d found a place among the political appointees. No one heard what CDC had to say, but, they all heard the commander’s announcement. “The people on the plane are probably affected with a tailored virus. We cannot allow it to enter the USA. Colonel Head?”

The Air Force colonel looked at the commander. “Yes?”

“Scramble your interceptors and be prepared to shoot down that airplane … I mean, aircraft.”

“I will scramble from Grisson,” the colonel said. “And wait for presidential authorization.”

“In this command post, I speak for the president,” the commander said. “Shoot it down.”

Everyone in the room took a breath. And waited.

“No, commander,” the colonel said. “You are not the president and you do not speak for him. He may take your word for this, but I do not.”

The colonel looked at the computer monitor on his desk, and then at the sergeant. The sergeant nodded.

“Interceptors have launched. Refueling aircraft are en route to meet them, and will keep them in the air until the passenger aircraft lands at O’Hare. But they will not interfere with it, and they will not shoot it down unless we receive presidential authorization.”

The commander picked up the white phone, the one that connected him to the White House. His lips curled into a sneer. He kept them that way when he stood and turned to face the colonel.

The colonel saw, and spoke. “You’d better put that on the speakers. I will not, repeat not, take your word for what you might say you hear. There are procedures, including written records and authentication. The plane is not scheduled to reach ORD for another three hours. There is sufficient time to do this the right way.”

 

The president was not available. He had gone to bed with instructions not to be disturbed. At the White House, the person who took the call, one of the president’s political advisors who also had a paid position on the White House staff, dithered. He wasn’t sure he had the authority to order a plan load of USA citizens shot down.

“Can’t you just have them met at the airport by medical personnel? Quarantine them or something?”

The HS commander dithered, as well. He pressed a button to take the call off the speakers. “Damn it, we’re on a speakerphone. There’s an asshole air force dude who’s trying to stand up to me. You can’t let me down on this. Tell him to shoot down the fucking plane!” He released the button in time for the voice from the White House to fill the room.

“No fuckin’ way. You got to deal with it, yourself, including any asshole air force dudes.” A sharp click signaled that the White House Situation Room had broken the connection.

 

The colonel smiled. And sat down. And ignored the command post commander, who was literally frothing at the mouth.

 

After things calmed down a bit, Colonel Head picked up a black phone. It was one of the few that weren’t a direct connect to someone. He reached into his memory, and dialed a number. When the call was answered, he relayed what he knew.

“Thanks, I’m on it.” Richard punched end call on his cell phone.

“Zhang? We have a job to do. Will you help?”

 

Zhang

I was happy when Richard asked me to help. I knew I was getting powers like he had, only different. We tried to understand it, we asked the others. Most of them just shrugged their shoulders. If any of them knew, they weren’t telling. I couldn’t heal, like Richard, but there was something happening to me.

 

Richard translocated us to the O’Hare airport. A big plane had landed. It didn’t taxi to the terminal, but was pulled by a funny-looking truck to a place away from the terminal where it was surrounded by ambulances and other vehicles with flashing lights. And by military HUM-Vs with machine guns mounted on them. Richard and I watched until the plane stopped moving, and the tug disconnected.

“Come on,” he said.

I giggled, because come on meant that he grabbed my hand and translocated us inside the plane.

People were crowding the aisles, pushing, shoving, and shouting. They all wanted to get off the plane. The stewardesses were trying to get them to sit down. One was in the front, using a microphone, telling people to return to their seats. Others were standing by the emergency exits, pushing people away.

I knew what Richard knew: that if the passengers opened the emergency exits and started down the slides, the men in the HUM-Vs would open fire, and the passengers would die.

The image of the lotus flower came into my mind. That was the answer. I pushed that image toward the panicked people. I had to concentrate so not to put me as a baby in the center of the flower—not to share the image from Richard with these other people. But I felt Richard. He saw what I was thinking and he told me that it was okay.

Babies and puppies, he thought. People relate to those images. Calm them any way you can. You know I love you!

So, I pushed the image of a baby, sitting in the middle of the lotus flower. Not everyone knew what it meant. I saw people interpreting it differently, depending on their worldview. Whatever happened, people started to calm, and returned to their seats.

Richard had joined the stewardess with the microphone. Her mouth gaped open and her eyes were wide. However, she handed the mike to him.

“Folks, it seems a little funny for me to welcome you to Chicago, seein’ as how you can see a bunch of military vehicles with machine guns when you look out the window. An’ there’s really no reason for you to trust me when I say that they won’t be shootin’ at anyone any time, soon.

“Someone at homeland security kind of over-reacted. You know, or you should know by now, that you’all ain’t carryin’ any kind of disease. There were two choices of dinners: fish and chicken. Folks who got the fish also got sick. Seventeen … eighteen now … have died. It was the fish, and not some sort of biological attack. It’s unfortunate. It’s sad. But it isn’t a tragedy and it isn’t an attack on the USA.”

“I’ve got some friends coming who will straighten out this mess. Meanwhile, and I know this is hard, please take your seats. I’m a doctor, and I’ll be goin’ up and down the aisle trying to help people. And my son? He’s bitty, and doesn’t look like it, but he’s my helper. If he asks you a question, please answer. If he asks you to do something, please do it.”

I was so proud to be able to help! I knew that when Richard said I was “bitty” he did it to calm the passengers, so it didn’t bother me.

 

5: Viktor and Kenny

Harry

Daddy’s disability check had run out and there was no food. There wouldn’t be until the next disability check came on Monday. Today was Thursday. I couldn’t ask Mama for money. She had died when I was born.

When I got back from school, there was a paper tucked between the door and the frame. A notice from the management company. I flipped it open. Eviction. I was used to that. Every few months, we had to move because Daddy didn’t pay the rent or did something to frighten the neighbors—usually, stumbling around drunk and banging on people’s doors. Every time, we moved to a worse place. This place was different. Daddy had qualified for Section 8 housing, and we were in a high-class apartment, with the government paying 80% of our rent through one program, and the other 20% through another. I tucked the eviction notice in my pocket, wondered how much worse could things get, and pushed open the door.

I knew, then, what could be worse. Daddy was lying in the middle of the floor. Bloody vomit had dried near his head. Daddy was dead. I didn’t know whether to be happy, or worried. I decided on worried, pulled off my backpack, sat on the floor, and cried.

I wasn’t crying for Daddy. I was crying for me. As soon as they found out I was alone, I’d be put in juvie or in some foster home. I knew all the stories. In juvie, I’d be fucked by the older boys. In a foster home, I’d be fucked by the older boys. Flip a coin; take a chance. Heads, I get fucked; tails, I get fucked. I was a goner.

I was an idiot, too. I hadn’t closed the door behind me. Gordon and his buddy … I didn’t know his name, but he had eyes of two different colors, and one was yellow … had seen me.

“Well, what do we have here?” That was Gordon. I stopped crying, and turned in time to see Yellow Eyes foot coming toward me. Crap! That hurt!

“Itty bitty baby crying? And what’s this? Baby’s daddy? I think he’s dead. You don’t want to be here when the cops come. No, you want to come with us.” Gordon’s voice came through even the pain from Yellow Eyes’ kick.

“Hey, cut it out!” A voice came from the hallway.

Viktor

Kenny and I were just back from school. Like I always did, I walked him to his door. It was part of making sure he was safe and letting him know I loved him. Before Kenny could open the door, I heard someone yelling, then someone crying, then someone laughing. I recognized the laughter. It was Gordon’s toady, the kid with the yellow eye. If he were laughing, it was at someone’s pain. The kid was a psycho. I started running, and got to the door in time to see Yellow Eyes draw back his foot to kick someone who was on the ground, curled up, trying to protect his face and his groin at the same time.

“Hey, cut it out!” I yelled.

I’ll give it to him, Yellow Eyes may have been a psycho and a sadist, but he was quick. He turned around, saw Kenny and me, and aimed his kick at my shin. I was slow, and the boy’s boot connected. I felt a sharp pain, and knew he’d broken something. “Kenny! Run!” I gasped and fell on top of the kid who had been the first target of the bullies.

Kenny

“No!” I yelled, and dived at Yellow-Eyes. He sidestepped, tripped me and then pushed me, and I fell on top of Viktor. Victor cried out. He was in pain. Then, I felt pain when Gordon kicked me just as Yellow-Eyes kicked the first kid, again. We were three helpless kids, one already seriously injured, in a pile on the floor, trying to protect ourselves, trying to protect each other, while Gordon and his toady danced around, kicking whenever they found an opening.

We’re going to die, I thought. They said it wasn’t our time to die when Leroy cut us, but now, we’re going to die. Something hit my head, and I was dead.

 

Viktor

I woke up in a hospital bed. My first reaction was to sit up and look for Kenny. But I couldn’t. I tried, really I did, but I could barely move. The monitor … I was hooked to some kind of monitor, and it started going nuts. The door opened. A nurse came in.

“You’ve pulled off the oxygen sensor,” she said. She clipped something to my finger.

“Where’s Kenny? Please, where is Kenny? Is he all right.”

“I don’t know Kenny,” the nurse said. “I don’t even know your name. Five boys were brought in by the police. Two are hurt so badly, they will probably not survive.”

I was stunned. “I’m Viktor Tchekov, Kenny was the littlest. Brown hair, blue eyes . . . ." I was crying, now. “He’s my boyfriend,” I said. “Please tell me he’s okay.”

The nurse was silent for so long, I was afraid.

“Long hair for a boy? Cute? About two years younger than you?” she asked.

I gasped. “Yes’m, yes’m that’s Kenny.”

“He’s okay,” she said. “Couple of broken ribs. Some other complications, but he’ll be okay. He’s in the pediatric ward.”

She did something to my IV. I think I fainted. I was so happy, but I was also groggy, and tired. Funny, I’d been kicked, but I didn’t hurt.

 

I woke up. Gary was there. He was holding my hand. As soon as my eyes opened, he smiled, so I knew he had good news.

“Kenny’s okay,” he said. “Nemesis is bringing him here, now. He’s in a wheelchair, but that’s just because of hospital rules. We’ve notified your dad and Kenny’s mom; they’ll be here, soon.

“Viktor, I’m sorry we didn’t give you more help. There was a train wreck. A commuter train and a school bus full of kids. Richard, Nemesis, I, everyone, was out there trying to help. There were so many, even slipping in time we only had a few seconds to help you. Nemesis came, and inflicted on the two bullies every pain they’d ever inflicted on someone else. Retribution. They’ll live, but they’ll be scarred for life. And, they’ll never again be strong enough to hurt someone. As soon as he realized you and Kenny and the other boy, his name is Henry, by the way, were going to be okay, he came back to help at the train wreck. Nomos notified the police and EMT, who brought you, here.

“Aiden has already fixed it so that Henry can enter Erewhon as soon as he gets out of the hospital. Richard will be in to visit all of you, soon, so that won’t be any time at all.”

 

The Beach

The beach was deserted. Not surprising: I smelled the stink of sewage long before I reached it. It didn’t matter that the windows were rolled up and the vents closed. The miasma seeped through the floorboards and the neoprene seals around the windows.

The black asphalt and white lines of the parking lot were speckled with black and white goose turds. Once, the parking lot would have been filled with the cars of vacationers. The laughter of the sea gulls would have been overpowered by the laughter of children. The beach would have been splashed with the colors of the children’s swim suits. No longer. There was no gasoline for such excursions, and the beach was posted with faded warnings of fecal coliform and mutated e-coli bacteria. There were no warnings about the heavy metals in the water: arsenic, mercury, cadmium, uranium, and others. There were no warnings about the organic chemicals: the formaldehyde from cemeteries, the genetically-engineered fertilizer run-off from thousands of hectares of farmland, the tons of growth hormones washed from the shit of feedlots. People had made it clear: cheap food, oversized fatty burgers in Styrofoam boxes, super-sized fries cooked in beef tallow, corn chips drowning in melted linoleum, these were more important than the environment.

Why was nothing done? There seemed to be a couple of schools of thought. The evangelicals figured that their god was preparing the world for Armageddon and that anything done to slow that process was blasphemy. The industrialists may have realized that they had destroyed the world, but seemed to think that their wealth could insulate them. Many environmentalists, realizing that they were fighting a losing battle, became too extreme, and turned even their most ardent supporters against them. The majority of the population, content with their HD TVs, food stamps, and free Obama cell phones, and believing that the goose would continue forever to lay golden eggs, were too far in their daze to even know what was going on.

I parked facing the water and watched the waves of brown sludge roll over one another and onto the sand. The light faded to something like a purple-gray as the sun set behind me. The only good thing about the destruction of the environment was the sunsets. The crap in the air made them spectacular.

 

Just because I was facing the water didn’t mean I wasn’t watchful. I’d made sure my rear-view mirrors captured the entrance to the parking lot. When the black Suburban pulled in, I saw it. And tensed. I was way out of my league, here. I knew it; but, I also knew I was on my own. Everyone says they’re businessmen, I thought. Everyone says they keep their bargains. I felt for the briefcase on the seat next to me. It held five hundred thousand dollars in slightly worn money of the USA: the current price of a twelve-year-old boy.

 

Everyone had been right. The men whose accents told me that English wasn’t their first language were business-like. One counted the money while another watched me inspect the boy. Two others stood smoking and watching the water, and the entrance to the parking lot. The bulges in the men’s clothes were the only evidence of weapons. I had left the pistol and holster I usually wore at home, and had only a small caliber revolver strapped to my left ankle.

 

The kid was frightened in spite of being doped to the gills. I saw not only fear, but also hatred in his eyes. He wasn’t able to do anything about either. His handler pulled the boy’s T-shirt over his head and spun him around. No marks, no cuts from whips, no bruises. I nodded. Then, the handler pulled down the boy’s gray cotton gym shorts. His penis was flaccid, but that was to be expected. Again, the boy was spun around. No marks on his buttocks or the backs of his legs. I pulled out a mini-flashlight and examined the boy’s penis. The handler grunted. It almost sounded like approval. An idea formed.

“If he works out, I will need more. At least two. Can you supply them?” I asked.

The handler answered. “Two days’ notice, unless you have special needs,” he said. I nodded and manipulated the boy’s penis, forcing a drop of pre-ejaculate from it. I looked closely at it. Clear, no blood, I thought. Let them think I’m examining for STDs. It will make them think I’m naïve.

“He is satisfactory,” I said. “Put him in the back seat of the car. How long will he remain sedated?”

The handler bristled a little at my tone and my command, but the man counting the money looked up and nodded.

“Perhaps two hours,” the handler answered. He pulled a silver cigar case from his pocket. “Syringe. It will keep him down for another four hours. Use it only if absolutely necessary.”

I nodded. “Thank you.”

 

As I drove away … watching the men and their Suburban to make sure they didn’t follow me and hoping they’d not left others to ambush me somewhere along the road … I thought of what I now had to do. First was to get this kid to safety, and somewhere he could be treated. The Russians were known to have used animal meds, from internet veterinarian supply houses, on their merchandise. The second was to make sure he and I would continue to be safe. The Russians had a long reach into law enforcement … a half-million dollars could go a long way in bribes and still leave a huge profit margin. Third, I had to figure a way to explain why that half-million was missing from the evidence room. Finally, I needed a way to close down this gang. I knew I wouldn’t get any help from the people at the precinct, so I did what I’d done before, I called Gary.

 

“Tim!” Gary answered the phone with my name. Sure, I knew he probably had me on caller ID, but I also knew he was prescient. He was, after all, an angel. One of those angels ranked as Powers in the Bible. He had said he wasn’t, and suggested it would be easier to think of him as an avatar of a Greek god. Oh, and his son and boyfriend Nemesis? And Nemesis’ buddy, Aiden? Them, too. Greek gods.

I ask you, which is easier: trying to figure out where Gary and Nemesis fit in to some Greek pantheon, or simply thinking of them as angels. Pretty simple question, from my perspective. Deep in my heart, I knew I was wrong, but it really didn’t matter. Greek gods or angels, they were good people … uh … whatever.

“Uh, Gary? I’ve kind if gotten myself in over my head, again. Got a kid who needs medical evaluation and figurin’ out who he is and how to get him back to his parents.”

“You at Father Donovan’s?” Gary asked. Kind of made me feel good that he didn’t know just where I was … like he wasn’t omniscient, you know?

“Uh, no. I’m about twenty miles south of Chicago with a kid I just bought from the Russian Mafia for a half-million dollars.”

I think I surprised even Gary. He sounded like he was stuttering. “What’s the closest safe place for us to meet?” he asked. “A gas station? Diner?”

“Gary, there ain’t any place south of Chicago where I’m going to pull off the expressway. The closest safe place is probably your place. Uh, the kid’s not wearin’ anything but gym shorts and he’d doped out of his mind. I probably shouldn’t be pullin’ up to the front of your building and bringin’ him up the elevator.”

“Actually,” Gary said, “that’s exactly what you should do. Nemesis will be in front waiting for you. He’ll make sure no one sees the kid. As soon as Nemesis gets him out of the car, you turn the keys over to the valet and come up. I’ll let them know you’re expected.”

 

It worked just like Gary said. Nemesis was standing in front of the hotel-apartment where he and Gary lived. I knew nobody else saw him, ’cause he was wearin’ that torn T-shirt thing that showed off too much of his butt and, when he was movin’ in a hurry, his penis. By the time Nemesis had the boy in a half-fireman’s carry and was leading him inside, the valet parker was lookin’ at me.

I knew what he was thinking: someone who looked like me had no business being here. I tossed him the keys. “Kelly,” I said. “Visiting Apartment seven zero.” It was amazing how quickly his attitude changed.

 

The boy was lying on a bed and a fellow I didn’t know was bending over him. “This is Richard,” Nemesis whispered. “He’s a doctor. He said the boy has been sedated for weeks, perhaps. He was suffering from deep vein thrombosis and if Richard hadn’t found it, he’d likely have died from a blood clot in a day or so.”

My first thought was, those bastards. They were going to cheat me. Then I realized how callous that was. “Would a regular doctor have been able to figure out that after he was dead?” I asked. I’d figured by now that this doctor was another angel.

Richard stood, turned, and said, “Not likely. Without a full post-mortem and a lot of luck, it would have been attributed to natural causes.

“I’m Richard, by the way. And you’re Tim. Thank you for rescuing this boy, Tim. I think you got him here just in time.”

I shook his hand and handed him the silver cigar holder. “They said this had more sedative, but not to use it unless I had to.”

 

“Randy.” That’s all we could get out of the boy. His name, probably, was Randy. No last name. No missing persons report that came close to matching him. Richard explained that Randy’s memory loss was likely a side effect of the sedative, and that it was unlikely that he’d ever recover his memory. Not even Richard’s father, a fellow named Caden, who didn’t look old enough to be Richard’s father, could help.

Of course, I figured that Caden was another angel. By now, that didn’t bother me like it once had.

 

Gary was able to help me cover up the missing half-million dollars. Aiden created a receipt for the evidence room, a receipt for it signed by … well, no one was every quite sure, but it wasn’t me. Then, I told Gary what still needed to be done.

“Gary, we’ve got to get these people off the street. They’re kidnapping kids, or buying them, or whatever, and then selling them. And, they were ready to take special orders if that’s what I’d wanted.”

Gary called a conference, and I was in a room surrounded by angels and some dudes who looked too hard to be angels, and who wore US Marshall uniforms, but weren’t any Marshalls I’d ever worked with—and I knew most of the Chicago crew.

Angels and demons? I wondered.

At first I didn’t like the idea of Nemesis being bait, but he convinced me that the Russians couldn’t hurt him. “As long as I’m acting in accordance with my Authorities, they cannot hurt me,” he said.

Richard agreed that nothing they might inject in him would harm him, even make him dizzy. And Gary pointed out that if things got too bad, he could simply translocate away.

So, I put in a special order for a boy who matched Nemesis’ description and Gary made sure Nemesis was spotted by one of the Russians’ scouts. They injected Nemesis with a sedative, and he played limp and dopey. They moved him around a couple of times before they agreed to a place at which to meet me … I was to have a cool million dollars, this time.

We didn’t bother to find a million dollars or to make the pickup, but raided several of their facilities simultaneously. I remember when Gary told me he and his friends operated under their own law, sometimes. This was one of those times. No warrants needed when we had a twelve-year-old kid inside, knowing what was going on, and knowing where they had other kids. No mercy, either. The US Marshalls who weren’t really Marshalls simply executed everyone they encountered, except for the kids, of course. We pulled out seven children, four boys and three girls.

 

Disclaimer and Notes: John Donne’s poetry is in the public domain. ADIZ is “Air Defense Identification Zone,” the imaginary point off the coast at which approaching aircraft must identify themselves. ORD, of course, is the Chicago O’Hare airport. Any trademarks/ copyrighted material mentioned herein are the property of their owner(s). Danny’s question about Nemesis’ name was an allusion to a trio of boys who tried to be super-villains during one season of Buffy the Vampire Slayer. This story takes place on a world that parallels and occasionally touches our own; people and institutions herein are not those you know, and are not intended to represent any real person or institution.