Owen

The sound of crickets is so loud it's almost maddening. Everyone is asleep. All the little houses, tucked in and so silent, without a single light burning.

I don't even have to really be quiet about it, but it's a habit. I like feeling that I get to walk around without anybody watching me. This is some of the only private time I've ever been able to find here. Alone, at night, doing something almost nobody else gets to do.

I head down the hill, getting more excited with every step. And thirsty. Really thirsty. It's like having a girl waiting for me somewhere, even though there's no girl waiting for me. But something to look forward to, that's for sure.

The barn door squeaks as I pull it open, and I make a mental note to remember to get that oiled soon. Without even needing a flashlight, I slip through the rows of farm machinery to the back, and then fold the tarp back over my old Indian.

It's way too loud to start up here, so I roll it out of the barn and push the door back closed again. The hill behind the barn leads to a service road for the neighboring farm. That's as far as I need to get before I can get the motor going.

Usually I head to the grass, figuring that the motorcycle tire tracks will blend in with the tractor tire tracks, at least to anybody who's thinking about it. But, there really wouldn't be any consequence if anybody figured it out. I'm not a prisoner here or anything. I just like my privacy. A man can have a little privacy, can't he?

The bike catches speed down the hill and I'm jogging along behind it, feeling lighthearted and more excited with every second. Finally back in the other field, I only have to muscle it up a short incline before I'm on the gravel road that leads out to the county road. I set the bike upright and mount it, kicking the starter with my heel, pausing to enjoy the rumble of the motor beneath me. It feels so good, I just let it vibrate under my cock for about thirty seconds, relaxing into this beautiful state of freedom. Of being in charge of my own self.

The moon is bright, so I leave the headlight off and roll it slowly toward the road and stop. I think I see a figure, about two hundred yards ahead of me. Something white, something ducking among the shrubs at the edge of the little forest. Looks like someone else from the compound is stealing a few moments of freedom too. Maybe they'll meet me at the bar.

Wouldn't exactly be the first time. But it's not really likely.

The county road flies beneath my tires, and I give her gas and really let her go. It's only a couple miles, but it feels like flying.

The parking lot is practically empty, but I still ride around to the back. The service door is always open, and it keeps people from recognizing my bike from the road. There are still people around here who remember my dad, or who remember Silas from before he got called to holy duties or whatever. Not everybody is of the opinion he is such a saint.

Rhonda sees me first. She's always got a smile for me. She winks one heavily lined eye and pops open a domestic beer. She sets it on the counter, away from everyone else so I'll only have her to talk to, then puts a couple of shot glasses next to it. As I sit down, she's pouring tequila into each of the shots.

“Thanks, Rhonda. You’re a doll.”

“Oh, don't I know it,” she croaks, her voice rough and gravelly from years of cigarette smoking. With a wide, flirty smile, she licks her upper lip before downing the tequila shot in one gulp. Then she knocks the shot glass down on the bar and refills it immediately.

“Hurry up, Owen,” she quips. “I expect you to keep up with me.”

“Oh, you could always drink me under the table, Rhonda,” I laugh. It feels good to laugh. Just tell a stupid joke to somebody I barely know. Kind of nice. Sort of normal.

A couple of old-timers come in the front door and drop themselves into the barstools at the other end, immediately calling for Rhonda's attention. She rolls her eyes dramatically and heads off, leaving me alone at my corner of the bar.

This was practically my dad’s second job, sitting here. Drinking. Holding down this barstool, as he used to call it. It’s a lame joke, but I remember thinking it was pretty funny when I was ten or so.

Silas never thought that was funny at all.

But to be honest, I never understood why Silas had such a problem with our dad drinking anyway. It wouldn't have made anything better if he had stopped. We were always going to be poor. Life was always going to be kind of rough around the edges. If he stopped drinking it wasn't like he was gonna buy us all matching BMWs or anything anyway. So what was the real harm?

But Silas always thought he could smell what was off about people. He thought fixing it was his personal mission, just for the sake of fixing it. Whether or not a person's faults did any real harm. It never really occurred to him to wonder whether the act of fixing something was more damaging than just leaving it alone.

“If it ain’t the great philosopher,” Dustin says, scraping a barstool next to me and dropping his fat ass into it. He picks the tequila bottle up and pours himself a shot into Rhonda's glass. After he swallow it, he blinks one eye in comical discomfort and looks at me with the other one.

“Haven’t seen you for a few weeks,” he observes. “You been busy over there? Saving souls and whatnot?”

“I don’t save souls, Dustin. I just fix the tractors.”

“So how does it feel to be Jesus's mechanic?”

“It's a living, I guess,” I tell him.

That's kind of a funny joke. The truth is, I don’t make a living. I have a job, but not a living. I just kind of haunt the edges of my brother’s great Calling.

“When are you gonna get with the program? Find yourself a little wife and settle down?” Dustin asks me. He pours himself another shot. By the smell of him, he's about a half a bottle in tonight. So far.

“I don’t think that's for me,” I say, trying to breeze past it. I feel like that's probably true, but I don't like to think about it.

Dustin shrugs. He rubs his palm across his stubbly grey chin and points with his knuckle at the far side of the bar. There's a group of three stragglers, teenage girls who don't realize that they look like teenagers. They’re huddled in a table the dark corner of the bar, probably trying to work up the courage to attempt to order a pitcher of beer. Probably trying to scrape their quarters together.

We get a lot of runaways. There are two highways that intersect here, and if you're lucky enough to hitchhike with a trucker, this is where they are generally going to drop you off. At the truck stop they point out here in this direction, and somehow runaways just end up here at Dustin's, the unofficial hub for people who feel like trafficking in earthly delights of a certain sort.

You would never know it from the outside. Just a cinderblock building, with a single lit sign that says Dustin on it. Cars out front. Gravel parking lot. You'd never even suspect that this is where half the missing children end up. Not for very long, though.

“Looks like I got some new converts for your cult,” Dustin chuckles. “I'll let you have them for cheap.”

“I don’t want them.”

“Sure you do,” he replies. “You’re always looking for new mates, aren't you? Gotta keep the genetic diversity and whatnot?"

“Not, I think we’re good for right now,” I observe grimly. I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror behind the bar. I look gray.

“What's that supposed to mean?”

I shrug. “Just that it's been sixteen years. Some of the young ones are just about ready to be married off. We’re gonna have a whole new generation in the kingdom in just about a year. Assuming we can keep everything going that long.”

Dustin nods slowly. Despite his gross exterior, he is one of the few people that actually listens to me. He's known me since I was a kid, and has treated me like I was a man since I was old enough to reach the top of the bar.

“Money’s tight?”

I don't say anything.

“Yeah, that happens,” he sighs. “But I tell you what, having a little wife he could really smooth over them rough patches, Owen. You should give it some thought. Really. If you got girls over there, ready… seriously. Give it some thought.”

I shake my head. Silas would never allow it. He's got this idea about how we’re supposed to be outside that part of life. Not the way Catholic priests are, but like Egyptian kings or something. How they didn't want to pick favorites among the peasants or whatever.

I don't know. Frankly, it sounds kind of weird to me sometimes.

But Silas has strong ideas about these things. He's afraid of what would happen if everybody in the compound got jealous of each other. He is afraid of what would happen if he took a wife, or if I did. They would think that they were Queens. There would be jealousy. There would be divisiveness.

He is probably right. But it is still lonely as hell.

“Come on, there is probably one you like, right? Big strapping boy like you? All those fresh, innocent faces walking by you every day? No backtalk, no status symbols, no Snapchat or rap music or anything? Fuck, Owen. You live in paradise on earth, and you're telling me that you don't want a little taste for yourself?”

I choke back another shot of tequila. Dustin won’t mind. Still going through my dad's old tab. The liquor warms my belly.

“Yeah, there's one. Maybe. It's hard to say.”

“Oh, now this is interesting…” he says. “What’s she like? Big tits? No brain? That’s what you religious types like, right?”

I shake my head. I shouldn't be thinking about her. If there was ever one, it would be Angel. She's just like her name. Just like an angel. She shines a light. She's beautiful, and so sweet her soul brightens the room. She makes me feel good in a giddy, stupid way.

“No. She's perfect. She's gorgeous.”

“You don't say,” Dustin says slowly. “Yeah, every once in awhile I guess he does get a real beauty there? One with all her teeth and everything?”

“You remember Melissa?”

He pushes himself back in his chair, crossing his arms. I see him go defensive. He remembers Melissa, all right. She came through here like the other runaways, with one black eye and a two-year-old that she tried to hide in the ladies room. Strung out and filthy. But somehow, irresistible.

“Hell yeah, I remember Melissa. You think she remembers me?”

I have to laugh. “Don't think she remembers much from those days, Dustin. Sorry to let you down.”

“Yeah… you guys got lucky you got her. Or I thought so at the time. Then again, I didn't have to pay her bail money or pay off her pimps, did I? Maybe I ended up getting the better part of the deal after all!”

“Angel’s her daughter,” I tell him after a sip of beer. The cool liquid spreads through my chest.

Dustin lets out a low whistle for a long time. He's quiet, maybe remembering what Melissa used to be. Which she definitely isn't anymore.

“Hey, you know…”

I shrug and look at him. He glances at me and then looks away, rubbing his jaw again.

“You know, Owen, maybe there's a way to help us both out. Maybe it's time to do another trade?”

“I don't think Silas would go for that. He remembers what happened to Rose.”

“Eh. Nobody really knows what happened to Rose,” Dustin counters. “But I tell you, there a lot of lonely old dudes around here. These runaways, they get rougher every year. If you got one of your shining, virginal cult pussies over there…”

“Don't call her that.”

Dustin holds his hands up apologetically. “I'm sorry. I'm sorry. That wasn’t nice. But, understand… There could be a mutually beneficial agreement. Unless you want her for yourself…”

“Yeah right,” I say sourly.

“Hey, Dustin!” Rhonda yells out from across the bar, facing off with the old guys in some kind of argument. She whistles through her teeth until he stands up.

“Just think about it,” he asks me. “Mutually beneficial arrangement. Seriously.”

I don't say anything as he shuffles off to handle whatever emergency Rhonda cooked up. The thing is, there is something magical about her. Some light that used to be in her mother got passed down to her. It didn't get crushed out like a stubbed out cigarette yet either. She still flows with light. And knowing I can't be a part of that makes me a little bitter.

Mutually beneficial arrangement. Something to think about.