Fade In:
SLIP BACK INTO SILAS’S SKIN
Hard to believe it’s possible for a day to be crazier than yesterday, but today’s shaping up to be absolutely bonkers. In a good way, unlike the nastiness in QuikTrip. That was just plain ugly.
Witnessing a homicide
is tough, Silas, especially
when it’s someone you know.
Much easier when it’s a stranger.
Easier still when it’s you
pulling the trigger.
Myra didn’t make it. Watching her go down like that, crumpling in on herself as she fell to the floor, struck a nerve you didn’t realize you possessed. Death usually creeps up on a person. For it to strike cobra-fast, straight out of nowhere, well, that is sobering. Only after the fact, when the bad guys were gone, did it hit that it could’ve been you, and that left you shaking.
You put on a good show afterward, erected a steel veneer. A guy has to act tough, like nothing can touch you. But inside you’re marked. Scarred. Not afraid, and in fact, even more determined to never be caught off guard.
The masked lunatics will get caught, of course they will, because they haven’t much in the way of intellect. Stealing is one thing. Killing someone is something else, and you’d best have a damn good reason for doing it. Shooting people just to watch blood squirt is fucking stupid. You don’t even get the satisfaction of flesh-on-flesh connection.
You’ll carry today at the rally, of course, but that weapon is all about a show of deadly force. What you’re hoping for is more intimate violence—the kind that physical force accomplishes. You want to inflict injury with your fists and feet. Anticipation lifts the hair on your arms.
You’re hungry for that feeling.
Starving for that incredible flush
of satisfaction.
It’s been too long
since you’ve assuaged that appetite.
Your mom’s home, sans Len, this morning, and up early, which is her normal routine. What’s different is you’re out of bed by seven on a holiday. So she’s surprised when you seek her out on the patio, sipping tea and watching the quail that visit regularly. You plop down in a chair next to her.
“Have plans, I take it?” she asks.
“Yeah. Gonna hang out with some friends.”
If she wonders why so early, she doesn’t comment. But she does say, “May I ask you something?”
“Sure.”
“What is it about Len you don’t like? He’s smart. Funny. Kind. I’d like you to have a good relationship, and so would he.”
This one is a tricky question, so you mull it over. Either make up something totally unbelievable, or inform her that you’re an anti-Semite. A third possibility hits you.
“I guess it just bugs me that he’s sleeping with you.”
“Silas, I’m not even forty. You think I should remain celibate because your father left me?”
Maybe that wasn’t the best choice after all. But now you’re kind of stuck with it.
“Pretty sure no guy wants to consider his mom having sex. With anyone.”
One quail—the scout—hops up on the fence, looks around, and sounds the “all clear” to his covey, which follows him over the railing. It would be nice to have a personal scout who could give you the right answers.
“I don’t think that’s it, at least not all of it.”
“What do you mean?”
“Are you going to that rally today?”
You decide to fess up. “I am.”
“Don’t suppose you’re on the pro-immigrants side?”
“I am not.”
She sits thoughtfully for several seconds. “I don’t understand. This is not the way I raised you.”
“Tough. I get it’s hard to understand, but I have a mind of my own, independent of your programming.”
The force of your words surprises even you. Your mom looks slightly stunned.
Don’t back down.
It’s way past time she understands
that you are far beyond
her ability to control.
“Programming, is it? I would have called it ‘example.’ ” Skip five beats. “So you dislike Len because he’s Jewish?”
“He’s a Jew, and he’s fucking you. . . .”
The f-word is purposeful, for effect. First time you’ve ever tossed it her way, and it works.
“Silas—”
“That is not okay in my book. And as for understanding, did you ever bother to talk to me? Ever ask how I felt about him or his religion? No. Never. Always too busy with work. With him. Well, guess what? While you weren’t paying attention, I found a cause to believe in.”
“White power.”
“Exactly.”
“What if I told you I’ll be at the rally, too? On the other side?”
That is unexpected news. If she means it, it complicates things. “Is that true?”
She nods. “Immigration, and especially a straightforward path to citizenship, is important to me. I work with kids all the time who live in fear of deportation—their own, or a family member’s.”
She pauses for consideration.
“What are you afraid of, Silas? Why embrace a movement predicated on fear?”
Why can’t she see
you’re not afraid of anything?
But her quiet logic is difficult to dismantle.
“Look, Mom. The whole point of the TYN is celebrating our white European heritage. We don’t want to hurt anyone. We only want to be allowed a society exclusively our own.”
She cocks her head sideways, and she measures you with gentle eyes. “And who’s stopping you from that? Never mind. You don’t have to answer. But, son, you are cutting yourself off from many good people, and eclectic, vibrant cultures. It hurts my heart to know I didn’t teach you better.”
This is not why you came out here. You didn’t want her to ever discover your TradYouth connections, but now that she has, your relationship will change. You were trying to repair it. Has it been irreparably severed?
“Don’t blame yourself. You were a great role model. It just didn’t fit me.”
As she stands, a long sigh escapes her. “Maybe I’ll see you at the rally. But I hope I don’t.”
You follow her inside, and before you head out, you take the time to say, “Hey, Mom? Love ya.”
“Right back at you. Be careful out there today.”
Bravado crumbles momentarily. Your mommy just made you feel like her little boy, and you miss that. But as quickly as the notion overtook you, it passes on by, and you’re a big boy again.
Everyone has an Achilles heel.
Don’t let your mother be yours.
Now is not the time for weakness.
It would be awkward to crash a barrier, only to come face-to-face with your mom, waving her little peacenik sign. That’s what she’d carry, if anything, marching down the street, singing “This Little Candle” and “Kumbaya.”
You, on the other hand, will have a shield and a firearm. Both are stashed at Tim’s, which is where you’re headed, after a quick stop to pick up your girl.
No way around it. You like her. A lot. She’s awesome in the sack, and you can’t discount that as a factor. But she’s also fearless. You’ve spent much of this weekend comparing her to Grace, and she might have fallen short. Instead, she’s risen in your estimation and actually rates higher than expected because she shares your ideals.
Plus, she’s incredible to look at.
She’s standing there on the sidewalk, rising up and down on her toes, dressed in butt-hugging black jeans and a long-sleeved camouflage top that’s tight enough to show off her well-defined assets. Even her hairstyle is starting to grow on you. She’s right. It suits her.
You pull up at the curb, and she bounces in, animated in anticipation of today’s activities. “Hey, baby!” She scoots across the seat for a kiss. She tastes of peppermint and honey, an intoxicating combination, and you insist your lips linger against hers. She does not argue, not even when your hand drops to stroke the ample rounds of her breasts.
But finally, she stops you. “Not right now. I don’t want to be late.”
“Girl, I hauled my ass out of bed at six thirty so we’d have plenty of time. You won’t miss a thing.”
Her excitement is contagious. By the time you get halfway to Tim’s, you’re anxious, too. You turn on the radio, blare fashwave out Lolita’s open windows. People standing on the sidewalk turn to stare. Some smile, supportive. Others flash filthy looks, but that’s okay. Fuck ’em. They ain’t seen nothing yet.
Ashlyn nudges you. “Check it out.”
Several school buses, loaded to the max, head in the opposite direction, toward the university. You can see signs, but most you can’t read. One, however, is right at a window. DREAMERS UNITE.
“I don’t think we’re on the same side.”
Ashlyn laughs, but even though you made it, the joke falls flat for you. Your mom is on their side, and unbelievably, your dad is, too. You turned on the news last night to see if you made it on TV. There was a crew at QuikTrip after the robbery, and this goofy chick interviewed you.
If the segment aired, you missed it, but you happened to catch a story about the rally. That news team went down to Nogales to talk to border patrol agents about their views on immigration. One of them was your dad, who actually said he thought it should be easier for Mexicans to get work visas.
“This labor force is at the heart of American agriculture,” he said. “They’re a boost to the economy already, and if they could work legally, think of the infusion of tax money. Immigration reform would actually make the border safer because then we could concentrate on the real bad guys. Drug runners and such. It would keep families together, and that isn’t such a bad thing.”
Like he kept your family together.
You’ve never really talked to your dad about his views on immigration. His living with Zia told you all you needed to know. But to hear him articulate such a positive message surprised you. Reaching way back into your memory banks, you find a different attitude. Years on the job have softened his stance, or maybe it’s just middle age. He is not the same man.
Would he be a better father now?
Perhaps. You don’t see him that often, maybe a couple of times a month. But he’s easier going, definitely not the same ogre who used to verbally pound the tar out of your mom and you. That guy made you tough. The new one is just confusing.
“Do you think there will be very many other girls there today?” Ashlyn pops you back into the moment.
“Who?”
“My mom. On the other side.”
“Wow. That’s tweaked. What happens if we clash?”
Obviously, you couldn’t hurt her. But could you intervene if she was in danger from one of your compatriots?
“I don’t know. Hopefully it won’t come to that.”
You cringe. That sounded weak.
The last few days have offered up a lot of difficult questions, and a fair amount of personal evolution. But there’s no turning back from the game plan at this point. Especially not with Ashlyn attached.
“I really hope it does. I mean, I wouldn’t want your mom to be involved. . . .”
The “but” remains unspoken.
And now you pull up in front of Tim’s house. Expecting you, he greets you at the door, no bell necessary. “Mom’s still asleep,” he whispers. “Come on up to my room.”
What would Shailene say if she saw the array of protest weaponry currently on display in her son’s bedroom?
Helmets and goggles.
Clubs and Mace.
Firearms.
“Does your mom have any clue about your plans for today?”
“Are you kidding? No way. In fact, we should be moving all this stuff now. Not that she’s an early riser, but she’d toss a fit if she saw me leaving with these guns. They’re valuable, you know.”
Shailene’s bedroom is at the back of the house, on the first floor. You station Ashlyn as a lookout while you transport the gear out to your vehicles. Yesterday, in your planning meeting, you decided to take both trucks and park in different locations in case one gets cut off and you need to leave quickly.
Most of the stuff can load into the beds, but the guns go under the seats. For whatever reason, Tim gave Ashlyn permission to carry the Bushmaster pistol. It’s definitely a lot more showy than the piece you’ll sport, but that’s okay. It’ll look damn good on her.
She isn’t officially old enough to carry. Too young by a few months. But she will be marching with everyone else, and no one’s going to notice or ask for her ID. The cops will be way too busy just trying to maintain the peace.
They will be shaking in their jackboots.
Law enforcement will be afraid of you. The thought shoots chills up your spine. As long as they don’t start lobbing stun grenades and tear gas.
“Let’s do this!” Finished with spy duty, Ashlyn starts down the walk. Her chin is tipped up, her shoulders thrown back, the posture of a warrior.
So why do you feel this sudden need to protect her? Not that she wants you to.
You’re really no match for that girl.
Fade Out