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He clasps a cigar between his fingers, lit so the smoke plumes and spirals into the air.
One of the men in suits is the second man from the photo. I don’t know his name, and if my mom knows, she’s never said. He’s not fat, but he’s not skinny either. I guess I’d call him… well,fed.He wears a shiny silk tie and black shoes. His hair is combed, and so oily, I can still see the comb lines. His eyes aren’t as dark as the man’s at the desk, but they’re not light either. He wears glinting rings on his fat fingers, and holds a lit cigar between his lips, sucking on the end so the red ember glows and his mouth fills with smoke.
I turn when Mom’s hand begins shaking. My eyes drift to the side of her face; she’s so pretty, smiling at the men now like they’re our friends.
Maybe they are. Maybe we’re done living week to week, minute to minute, and now we have new friends. Powerful friends in police uniforms, suits, and army uniforms. Maybe they’ll help Mom make ends meet so she doesn’t have to work until she passes out. Maybe they’ll make it so she can eat enough that her ribs don’t poke out so much.
“Jacintha.” The man exhales and sends the plume of smoke across his desk. We stand at least fifteen feet away, but a hand on Mom’s back – the policeman’s hand – shuffles us a little closer while Mom nervously swallows. “You look as beautiful as I remember.” He stands slowly, powerfully, and makes Mom and me arch our necks back. “Just as lovely as always.”
If I was older, smarter, less naïve, I might see what’s going on today as a power imbalance. But in my eleven-year-old brain, all I see is power. And for us, always hungry, always poor, always tired, power to me is like a flame to a moth, and if my mom is smiling as she is now, itmustbe okay.
“Yes,” she says in a whisper. “We’re here.”
The army man brings his eyes over to me, looking me up and down for a long minute before he turns back to Mom. “You brought the boy. He looks good; tall, solid.”
“I guess that was to be expected.” Mom’s nervous laugh makes me frown. “His father is broad and strong.”
“Yes…” He sniffs, leans toward a crystal ashtray and taps the cigar against the side. “Hayes.” He looks to the man on my left, the man with the sausage fingers, and lifts his chin. “Take him to the girls. He can get to know his family while Jacintha and I speak.”
“My family?” My gaze darts between the two men. “What?”
“Wait.” He lifts a hand when Hayes grabs my collar. “What’s your name, boy?”
“Um…” I look to my mom and frown when her shaking hand gets shakier. She purses her lips to contain her nerves, but she lets them curl up just a fraction, as though to encourage me to speak. “Gunner, sir. My name is Gunner.”
“Gunner.” He nods thoughtfully. “Strong name. Prophetic, perhaps. Do you know how to use guns, kid?”
My eyes widen. “Um, no, sir. I’ve never used one.”
His dark eyes flicker over my shoulder to the policeman behind me. “We’ll teach him.”
“Wait, no—” Mom steps forward to object, but stops again when the final man in the suit peels his coat back and reveals a shiny pistol.
With a lifted brow, the army man watches her for a minute, then he looks over my shoulder. “Take him to the girls. We’ll be done in an hour or so.”
Fat-fingered-man grabs my collar and pulls me away. He’s not rough, he doesn’t hurt me, but he makes me move and doesn’t slow when I trip on my feet. “Move your ass, kid.”
“But my mom.”
He pushes me past the policeman and through the door. “She’s fine. She has business to see to, but you can see her again in a bit.”
“Where are you taking me?” I stumble along the hall, past the stair landing and into another hall.
Stopping outside a door, he lifts his chin. “My daughters are in there.” He leans lower, so our eyes are level. “If you touch either of them, I’ll snap your scrawny fucking arms.”
“My…” My eyes widen. “What?”
He smiles the way he did back in the other room. It’s fake and slimy. “My daughters are perfect. Introduce yourself, but don’t touch them. Capiche?”
“Umm…”
Grunting, he snaps the handle down and opens the door to reveal a bunch of kids, three of which are wrestling in the middle of the office. This one isn’t as fancy as the first office, but it’s not ugly either. But what makes it the coolest is that these girls are my age. Maybe a little younger. They’re definitely not grown, and they’re not in police or army uniforms — uniforms I thought cool until now.
“Girls!” The man claps his hands loud enough that I jump, and the girls fall apart.
A toddler sits in the far corner on his own, quietly stacking blocks and bouncing his shoulders. Unfazed by the clapping — and the fighting — he looks up for a moment to assess the room, but goes back to stacking when he decides he’s uninterested in the rest of us.
“This is Gunner,” the man says in his gravelly voice. “He’s one of us now, so welcome him to the family.”
