Carl knew she meant it. Though his father was the one who'd acted so rashly, Carl knew his mother wasn't far behind. He'd continued to curse them but in a quieter voice, almost daring his mother to try and stop at least that small revolt. Carl soon learned that his silence grated on their nerves more than his earlier ranting, so he hadn't uttered a word since waking up this morning.
Somehow, they'd managed to lock him in. There was no mechanism on the door. He assumed his father had shoved something in the gap between door and jamb, perhaps run a rope between the outside knob and something a lot sturdier down the hall. Regardless, turning the knob now was almost impossible against the unseen pressure outside, and pulling inward had no effect.
More than once throughout the night, Carl had thrown open the window and seen his father sitting on a folding chair two stories below. Even if he could jump down without breaking his neck, he'd likely land on him. If either survived intact, a fight would undoubtedly ensue. So far, at least, Carl wasn't ready for that. Not that he wasn't just as big, but his father still had that mental edge a parent held over a child. When he woke up this morning, he wondered if the night’s events had been a bad dream. Then he touched his bruised face, and a renewed anger welled up. He'd been sucker-punched by his own father. Whether or not Dan Jorgenson was down there waiting, regardless of the danger of the fall itself, Carl was going out tonight. His parents couldn't expect to keep an eighteen year old, a Varsity athlete at that, locked in his room for long. Could they?
His left eye throbbed at the sound of his father's footfalls from the hallway. Sounds of grunting. Dan was obviously working on whatever he’d used on the door last night. Then a clink of coins. Eventually, the door opened slowly, and his father stood looking at him with eyes that likely hadn't seen sleep since he'd knocked his son unconscious. He looked very tired, and just as sad.
For a fleeting moment, Carl understood what must be going through his father's mind, how someone would go so far to protect their child.
Then he blinked, the bruised eye twitched in pain and any pity for the man was lost.
Dan said, “You can leave, if you really want to.”
Carl stood slowly, but stayed beside the bed. Maybe this was a ruse. His father's face was sunken with exhaustion. Carl didn't think he had the energy to lie.
“Why would you let me go now?” Carl said.
Dan walked to Carl's desk in the opposite corner of the room and sat. The chair creaked. “Oh,” he said, then sighed. “For a number of reasons. Mostly because it seems every major de-programming group is backed up three weeks with this ark-building crisis. I suppose, had we known what was happening earlier, we'd have gotten on their list before the rush.” He laughed, a slight, breathy sound. “But we didn't know sooner, did we?” He rubbed his eyes.
Carl clenched his fists. How dare this man act like he was some kid getting into fights at school? How dare he patronize him like this?
“I don't need re-programming,” he said. “I think you know that.” He wanted to say more, but knew it would be pointless, perhaps re-ignite his father's refusal to let him go. Carl needed to be free, and starting a new fight wasn't going to do that.
Dan looked across the room, and almost began crying. Carl watched him suck his lower lip into his mouth, perhaps even bite it, before finally saying in a quiet voice, “I love you, Carl. We both do, more than you ever can know. Part of me wants to leave you here, somehow, anyhow, and wait the three weeks to see what they can do about getting to the root of what's happening. The other part of me knows I can't leave my son locked up like... an animal.” He cried then, briefly. Just a sound, a suppressed cough, then a quick spurt of tears. “I'm sorry for hurting you, Carl.”
Carl moved to the center of the room and looked at his father. He played the man's words over in his head. The unreal quality of the past day welled up like a tidal wave in the room. His father kept transforming into some unknown creature, a stranger. Was this what being a parent was really about, pretending to love and care for your son, until he does something you don't like?
“Carl?”
Until the day comes that you show him how much of a jerk you really are, and you beat him up?
“Carl! Stop it!”
Beat him and lock him up like a dog?
“Carl!” His mother's voice, behind him. She grabbed his arms, and with a strength that belied her size pulled him backwards to the floor. Carl landed against the foot of the bed, saw a piece of a long-lost sock covered in dust beneath it. He stared at it, only the sock, not wanting to look back across the room.
“I'm fine. Sarah, get off me, I'm fine.”
“I think he... oh, Carl, I think you broke your father's nose! Look at me! Look at me!”
Slowly, he turned and looked at his parents. His father half-sat, half-sprawled on the floor in front of the desk. Blood was pouring from his twisted nose. He tried to stem the flow with a crimson-soaked handkerchief. Carl tried to remember what had just happened, but the past couple of minutes were a blur, just a clear image of a sock in the dust under the bed. His mother looked alternately from her husband to her son, but said nothing more.
What was there to say? The calm, happy life of the Jorgensons was gone. Carl knew it. His parents had accepted it the moment Dan knocked him unconscious last night.
“I'm sorry,” Carl whispered, still struggling to remember doing that to him. “I'm really sorry.” He stood up, walked past his parents to the bureau and pulled out a handful of clean underwear and socks. He opened another drawer and shoved whatever jeans, shorts and shirts he could hold under one arm, then walked out of the room.
No one tried to stop him. Nobody spoke. The keys to Carl's car were still on the counter in the kitchen. He backtracked to the front hall long enough to slip on a pair of loafers, then went outside to his car. He'd deliberately parked in the street last night, in the event he needed a quick getaway. This wasn't the escape he'd imagined, but he was grateful he didn't have to call upstairs and ask them to move their cars so he could leave. As he walked down the path into the street, he felt the pain in his eye and his bruised fists. Their sensation was all-encompassing.
45
The traffic in the center of Lavish was thankfully light, which was to be expected so early on a Sunday morning. Easter Mass wouldn't start for over an hour, but Margaret planned on attending, and getting there early. Partly for herself, but mostly for the girls. They had jumped into their mother’s surreal project with an acceptance only children could muster. She knew they needed to sit in the quiet majesty of God's house, at least one time every week to hear, and understand, that he is a good, loving being. An hour to step away from the anger, the occasional derisive remark tossed their way from the spectators and sit in a mini-world where their beliefs were accepted without question. No reporters pulling their mother aside and constantly asking Why? Why are you doing this? Why?
The angel David returned last night, in a relatively good mood. In that backyard dreamscape, she’d felt like a child, craving the approval of a parent, of someone in authority. It was a nice change since, during her waking hours, she was cast in the role of leader, foreman, even prophet.
In the dream, David explained that although things were quiet now, they would become more heated.
“As the time draws near,” he said, walking beside her in a yard much too big to be her own, “those who choose not to follow God's word will react in different ways. Out of fear, some will come to you. Others will laughingly point out to anyone who will listen - and there will be many - that they are right. These people are the majority, but not the ones you must be cautious of. Rather watch for those who observe quietly, nursing an anger borne of the fear. 'Who is she,' they'll say, 'to tell me I'm going to die? Who is God to frighten us like this?'“