Jackal

  As far back as I can remember, I don’t have memories of my mothers ever taking a stand politically one way or another. The fact that I don’t know where they stand surprises me. Don’t we talk in this family? Tahira stares down at her feet, saying nothing.

  “Hey!” I say. “You’re not going back to that place. I promise.”

  She glances up, a weak smile playing on her lips.

  We trudge slowly back to the house. When we walk through the back door, we find them seated at the kitchen table. Moma has a puzzle out, and Mama B is reading, her feet propped on an empty chair.

  “Hi girls,” Moma says, barely looking up.

  I stare at them, surprised. They’re acting completely normal, like stowing prison escapees is a normal event.

  “Anyone want tea?” Mama B asks, standing up and moving for the kettle.

  Gwen clears her throat. “I’d like some.”

  We stand there stiffly for a minute before I sit down at the table. Gwen and Tahira follow. When the tea is on the table and Mama B is back in her seat, she looks across the three of us and says: “So...what have you girls been up to?”

  Tahira’s face breaks into a grin, and I feel like I’m taking my first breath of the night. It’s good for me to see Mama B this way. To know the extent of her compassion.

  I can’t stop wishing Jackal were here to see all of this, to be part of the healing that takes place the longer we talk things out. I’ve been fearful until now. What if Jackal and I are not able to hash out the plan again before we’re in the Red? What if everything goes wrong? There are so many what-ifs...but they all fade as we sit by the candlelight around my grandparents’ old kitchen table.

  Moma is ten years older than Mama B and has been a journalist for thirty years. She’s one of three who still travels between the Regions. She can cross the lines easily, while Mama B requires new papers with each crossover. It only takes three to five days for her to get them with Moma’s license, so they travel frequently. Moma writes about the changing landscape, and Mama B navigates the way. I’m embarrassed that we haven’t talked about these things much. I’ve never trusted them with my thoughts and they haven’t really opened up to share theirs. We’ve always stayed at a surface level. It’s been much easier to open up with Gwen and Tahira, and even Jackal. Sometimes with family, we aren’t allowed out of the boxes we were placed in when we were small. My mothers wanted me to be the best ballerina in the Regions and our lives revolved around making sure that happened. Once I was old enough to move out, we shifted into a more bearable relationship. It’s worked for us, but this feeling of camaraderie with them tonight...I can’t help but feel the loss of all the time we’ve missed being like this—open.

  The final blow-my-mind moment comes when they begin speaking openly about what has happened with Gwen—and not with any judgment against her but fully supportive and on her side.

  It’s going to take time for it to sink in that my mothers have cool qualities that they’ve kept buried around me my whole life.

  “We’ve been following the Revolution. You’ve stirred the hearts of people everywhere. I’m not sure you realize your reach,” Moma tells Gwen. “Your speech about humanity...that is more in line with what we have always believed.” She pushes her hair back and leans in, her voice quiet but strong. “I avoid writing pieces that incite conflict, mostly because I’ve wanted to continue our lifestyle, but I can’t pretend that what’s happening is okay. We want to help. We’ve traveled almost nonstop in the last five years and have made friends in each Region, people we trust. They will help. You’re welcome to stay here as long as you need, and we will help you when you’re ready to leave. Just tell us what we can do.”

  “Do you have any friends in the Red?” Gwen asks.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  JACKAL

  Snow leopards have sex twelve to thirty-six times a day during mating season.

  It only takes one time—one jarring punch—to know fear. Love is a much more complicated emotion to recognize. It takes many gestures of kindness for it to sink into a person’s psyche that they are loved; one shove down the stairs to undo it. By the time I was four years old, I knew my mother hated me. Maybe not in those words: my mother hates me but in her consistent lack.

  My mother was a diligent representative of the Red Region, she still is, and she has always taken her job seriously, in an if-you-embarrass-me-I-will-kill-you kind of way. She was a different person around her colleagues; consequently, I wanted them around all the time. I learned to adapt to what they craved, which was humor and sexual innuendo. It shaped me. I guess I should thank all of those women for turning me into the End Man I am today.

  When I exit the jet and get into the car to drive me down the winding path to the house I grew up in, I get my first case of nerves in four years...the last time I saw her. We happened to cross paths at the same party and only did the perfunctory hug and kiss that you do for the camera. She likes to claim we are close in all of the Silverbook stories on my life—I’m not sure why someone hasn’t called her out on it yet. The records are there...at least a few...of what she did to me. Others knew. But instead of confirming it, I kept waiting for one of those signs—the gesture—that she cared.

  I’m not waiting anymore. I’m coming to collect. She owes me this. I repeat this out loud and it calms me. I lied to the girls; I’m not collecting on a debt, I’m blackmailing her.

  Nordice has been breathing down my neck since she arrived at the compound, but she didn’t get clearance to make this trip. Justice prevails for once. I’d rest a lot easier if I could speak with Phoenix again, to make sure everything is still in place, but I have to trust that we’re still moving forward as planned.

  We pull up to the house and I see all the ways my mother has benefited from my status. She gets money just for being my blood. I see the blood money in the new addition, the greenhouse out back, and the car that’s worth more than most make in a year. It scrapes the inside of my gut like a chisel to see her wealth; my nose physically curls up. I consciously force myself to clear my features. She cannot affect me. Right before I knock on the door, I inhale, exhale, and settle into my trademark smirk.

  The door opens and a woman in a simple red dress stands there. She opens the door wide and I step inside.

  “You are?” I ask.

  “I’m Rachel,” she says with a deep Red accent. “I take care of your mama. She’s really happy about your visit.”

  “Am I in the right house?” I laugh and Rachel joins me, the polite laughter of someone who doesn’t get the joke.

  “She’s having a good day,” Rachel says. And then I feel like I’m the one who doesn’t get the joke. “She’s waiting in the sunroom.”

  I follow her since there was never a sunroom in my childhood home. It’s off of the kitchen, where I had to sit with my face taped for six hours without eating while my mom ate all of my favorite foods in front of me. I can’t remember what I’d done. It could be a look that set her off. A tone I didn’t realize I had. A B on a test instead of an A. We pass the kitchen table and I breathe easier.

  The sunroom is light and airy, full of greenery, and sitting in a floral chair sits an old woman with short grey hair. She lifts her head when she hears us enter the room and my mouth gapes. My mother smiles and waves, a childlike giggle bursting out of her.

  I look at Rachel and she smiles. “I had to cut her hair off when she got into the scissors.” She shakes her head. “It suits her, though, don’t you think?”

  I think I’m in a fucking dream. I nod at them both and move to the couch next to my mother. She beams and I find myself smiling back.

  “I’ll leave the two of you to visit. Tea or coffee?”

  My mother claps. “Tea! Yes, please!”

  I shake my head and Rachel backs out of the room. I stare at my mother and she looks at me almost shyly.

  “What’s happened?” I ask carefully.

  She points to the Silverbook hanging from the far wa
ll and turns it on. “I see you on the Silverbook all the time. You are my second favorite End Man...Folsom is my favorite. I miss seeing him...so sad that he’s just, poof!” Her hands mimic an explosion and she leans back in her chair and laughs hysterically. Then she leans in closer. “I hope he got far, far away.”

  I get a chill and rub my jaw, trying to figure out what the fuck to do. “Do you know who I am?” I finally ask.

  “Of course, silly! Jackal Emerson, that’s who you are. Rachel says you’re my boy. Is that true?” She straightens up and reaches out to touch my face with her wrinkled hand. “I think it’s true. I remember you. You’re Jackal Emerson. You are my second favorite End Man,” she repeats, trailing off.

  I stand up and walk to the door. “I’ll be right back,” I tell her. She’s already watching the Silverbook and doesn’t say anything.

  Rachel is cutting up sandwiches and arranging them on a tray. She jumps when I walk in.

  “Oh, I didn’t hear you coming!” She puts her hand on her neck and fans herself.

  “What’s wrong with her?” I ask.

  “What do you mean?” she asks.

  “I mean, what has happened to my mother? She’s acting...like she doesn’t know who I am.”

  “Well, you know her memory lapses come and go. Surely you’ve experienced that before with her?” She stares at me and I swallow.

  “No. Never.”

  “Give her time. She’ll come back,” she says casually, like it’s every day that you find out your mother has no idea who you are.

  “I didn’t even know she retired,” I say.

  Rachel places two bottles of lemonade on a tray with my mom’s tea and I want to ask her for something strong to spike it with.

  “About a year ago,” she says.

  “Why didn’t she tell me? Why didn’t anyone tell me?”

  She looks up at me in surprise. “I’ve only been working for Miss Emerson for about nine months. You’d have to ask someone else.” She shrugs.

  I go back to the room carrying the bottles of lemonade, watching her for a minute before I step inside. She pulls a clump of her hair as she watches the screen, her face changing rapidly. I hear my name spoken and turn to look at the Silverbook. Footage of the Birthing Celebration plays, showing a clip of me waving from my elaborate float.

  “That’s you!” She waves both hands and looks at me. “You’re much better-looking in person.”

  “Thank you, Mother.”

  She blinks and her expression changes, slowly shifting from peaceful to anxious. “Jackal? What are you doing here?” Her voice sounds sharper, lower.

  “You’re freaking me the fuck out, Mother.”

  She moves to stand and I gently push her back down.

  “Just like you to show up unannounced.”

  “I didn’t. I sent you a message last week asking you to put in a formal visitation request. You’re given two of those a year, you know? And in all these years you’ve never even used one.”

  “Oh yes,” she says. “Rude of you to ask, but you’ve always been that way—rude and out of control.”

  “So you’ve told me.” I take a sip of lemonade, sucking my teeth at the sweetness.

  She looks toward the kitchen door and calls—”Rachel, ice!” And then turning back to me says, “Why did you want to come anyway? Not like you’ve ever made the effort before…”

  “Must be all that childhood trauma that kept me away. Who would have thought that locking your child in closets as punishment would have a long-lasting effect?”

  Her eyes are clear and then it’s as if a curtain goes over them and she’s a child in a wildflower field, dancing with the fairies. “Are you here for the tea party?” she asks, smoothing out her dress. “I like the itsy-bitsy square sandwiches best…”

  I stare at her, unsure of whether to shake her, yell until my mother comes back, or run and never return. I’d have to talk to her doctor to actually believe this is a real thing. For now, it just seems like another one of her tricks to punish me.

  I stand up as Rachel is coming in with the large tray. I pick up two itsy-bitsy sandwiches and pop them into my mouth.

  “Delicious, thank you.” I lean over and kiss my mother on the cheek and she puts her hand where my lips touched and sighs.

  My heart flutters to an unknown rhythm as I pause over her. I clear my throat, swallowing away the flicker of emotion, and decide to take this moment as her gesture to me, a sign that she does care, and leave before she can change my mind.

  I ask to be taken to the End Men compound. I intend on paying a visit to Aries. A few minutes before we arrive, I try to connect with my mother’s doctor. Rachel gave me her information, but the doctor doesn’t respond. I leave a message asking her to call me. That whole visit isn’t sitting right with me, but I never expected to leave a visit with my mother feeling peaceful. I could definitely prefer the delusional version if I knew it was the truth.

  When we pull in the gate, I can’t help but think of Folsom, with the Red being the last place he was seen. This is the longest we’ve gone without talking; I’m counting on it being because he’s safe and doesn’t want to jeopardize his location, but the unknown is killing me.

  I wait in the common area before Aries arrives, his staff bending over backwards to accommodate me.

  “How long have you been with Aries?” I ask his handler.

  She’s young, younger than most handlers by at least a decade, maybe more. There’s the briefest pause in which she gives me an almost startled look. Realization dawns on me and I try to keep the surprise off of my face.

  “Two years as his handler,” she says.

  And how long as his lover? I want to ask. “He’s lucky, the common traits among handlers are sour-faced and cold.”

  “My aunt got me the job,” she says shyly. “But you should tell Aries that. He’s constantly trying to pick a fight with me.”

  “Probably because of your hair—did you know he has a thing for redheads?” Also because he has issues submitting to authority, I almost add.

  “No. He absolutely does not have a thing for my red hair,” she mutters, eyes flashing.

  I grin, wondering if he’s in love with her. Love seems to be trending among the End Men.

  Aries stalks in twenty minutes later, glowering at me, his large shoulders filling the doorway. He pulls his hair away from his face, knotting it at the back of his head. I’ve always given him grief about his long hair, but now I have new material with the girl.

  “Hey, hot handler.” I lift my eyebrows. “Mind if I give her a go?”

  His eyes go from calm to war in seconds and I shake him by the shoulder, laughing.

  “It’s just too easy with you,” I say. “And just as I thought. The Society know you have a thing for her?”

  “I don’t—I just don’t want your filthy dick touching her.”

  “Noted,” I say, still smiling. “She’s young to be a handler. Is she—”

  “Infertile,” he answers quickly. “Due to an...incident when she was a child.”

  I want to ask more, but I can see by the look on his face that the subject is closed.

  He sets about cutting limes at the bar, glancing at me out of the corner of his eye.

  “I heard they removed your handler. Shady times, man. Everyone is on edge.”

  “People seem to be going missing a lot lately.” I nod. “I put in a request to find out what happened to her and where she is, but no one’s talking.”

  “No, I don’t suppose they are…” He squeezes the lime into two glasses and then grinds the leftover fruit at the bottom.

  “Have you heard anything about Marcus...Kasper...Folsom…?”

  He’s quiet as he tears two paper packets of sugar into each glass. “Nah, man, why would I know anything about that?”

  “Don’t fuck with me, Aries. Your sister works for the Society.”

  He carries the glasses into the sitting area, handing one to me.

&
nbsp; “Caipirinha,” he says. “It’s from my father’s country.”

  I take the glass, never removing my eyes from his face.

  “We’re disappearing one by one. It’s like they’re plucking us off, and you’re not worried about what’s happened to the others?”

  “No, I’m not,” he says. He takes a sip of his drink, the cords in his thick neck convulsing.

  Folsom wanted out, so he got out, Marc’s shit stopped working. That’s no one’s fault. And we all know that Kasper is knee deep in shit he shouldn’t be involved in. “After last time…” Aries shakes his head. “Kasper has a fucking death wish.”

  “If Marcus is sterile, why haven’t they let him go? No one has seen or heard from him in months. There is currently a Region without an End Man. That’s never happened. That’s why they wanted Laticus.”

  Aries sets down his drink. Resting his elbows on his knees, he leans forward until I’m at the center of his glare.

  “We all knew what would happen when we signed up for this. We’d have boys and our boys would graduate from their mother’s tits and eventually replace us. If Folsom couldn’t deal with that, he should have—”

  “What?” I cut him off. “Made different life decisions? Because the Society gave us an option to be here?”

  Aries’ face is hard, the scar above his eye a white slash against his bronze skin. I heard he once refused to impregnate a high-profile government official and they had him tied up and beaten for two days, after which he still wouldn’t do it. They’d put him on the harvesting machine for a month as punishment.

  “What the fuck do you want me to say, Jackal?”

  “Talk to your sister,” I say, standing up. “See if she knows where Marc and Kasper are. It’s the least you can do. Be a fucking human for once.”

  Aries’ eyes are glowing. He’s a scary motherfucker; I told the girls this.

  “Sit down and drink your drink,” he says. “Don’t be a rude motherfucker.”

  I grimace as I lower myself back down.

  “You didn’t come all this way to ask about Kasper and Marc,” he says. “Tell me why you’re really here…”