Captive of a Commoner Read online

  There it is again—that same flat rumble of a moan, like a scream strangled inside someone’s throat. Swollen clouds drift across a gray sky, and a chilly spring drizzle pelts against my face. I lift the hood of my sweatshirt and continue to the front door.

  “Devie?” I knock, resting my ear against the splintering wood. “Dev, it’s me … Chase.” I hit the door with the palm of my hand, making sure to avoid the chipped paint jutting from its surface.

  No answer.

  Cupping my hands against each side of my eyes, I peer through the smudgy pane of the front window and into the living room. I see the same worn sofa with the same tattered brown afghan tossed over its back that I’ve sat on countless times, smoking weed and tossing down beers. The TV blares from the far corner. Voices of several news political pundits debating something about red states and blue states resonate onto the porch. One in particular, some suited jerk with tortoise glasses and a permanent scowl, has a piercing, strident tone. Maybe that’s what I heard before.

  I sweep my eyes back and forth, doing another quick scan of the room. Empty. Nothing strange about that. The TV remained on as long as Devie’s mother stayed high … all day, every day. Elena ran through drugs and boyfriends like a kid consumed sweets on a free spree through a candy store. Even made Devie refer to these boyfriends as her godfathers which put an interesting spin on the word since there was no god or father in any one of those mean sons of bitches.

  Startled by a hoarse cawing, I jerk my head toward the sound. It’s only some crows flying overhead. I watch as one swoops toward an old bird house squatting atop a long skinny pole dug into a cluster of weeds along the side of the porch. My eyes follow its path, and I can’t help but wonder what the hell it was up to. The bird house opening was definitely too small for it to fit through. My question is answered when it pokes its beak inside and yanks out a nestling. With rocket propelled swiftness, the crow flies away with the bird clutched in its beak, leaving its mother screeching and circling above. I didn’t even have a spare second to wave my arms and scare the fucker away. Nature is just like life in general: brutal, twisted, and tilted toward the strong and powerful.

  I scrunch my chilled hands into my pockets and walk back to the porch steps determined to give her a few more minutes before knocking again. My head spins in overdrive, pondering how many god damn lessons I need to witness before it’s understood that I’ve built enough backbone to accept my place and survive in this world. No lucky sperm club membership with built in trust fund wealth for me. Hell, I’d be happy with two healthy parents and a sliver of normal family life—whatever the fuck normal means.

  Shit. Something’s spooking me. Where the hell is she? She usually waits for me to walk to school, and today she even made me promise to bring my sister Fiona’s camera so she could photograph different store fronts on our way, something about needing to illustrate her Know Your Long Island Community Social Studies project.

  Still, I’m late.

  I would have been on time, except just as I reached the middle of my block there were those two fucking familiar shoes sticking out from under our neighbor’s sycamore tree. Sure as hell it was my father, drunkenly passed out like some frickin’ scarecrow that’s toppled off its mount. Had to stoop under the tree and drag him out by his feet then slide my hands under his arms and haul his lifeless body over my shoulder. He didn’t seem to be as heavy, and I found myself wondering if he might be wasting away from liver disease. Just as quick as the notion popped into my head, I thought, Nah, that’s impossible. He’s too fucking resilient to succumb to illness, even a self-induced one. Surprisingly, the realization put me at ease. Who needs two parents with the grim reaper gunning for them?

  I tried to keep my mother from seeing the three sheets to the wind condition he was in yet again, but as soon as I stepped through the front door I caught a glimpse of her sitting at the kitchen table, her smooth white scalp peeking out from the navy scarf wrapped around her head. Blue eyes, marred with fatigue and pain, stared emptily ahead while she attempted to sip a cup of herbal tea. My stomach churned, my heart pounding as fear took a stranglehold on me. She looked so frail, so weak, as if each breath required an unsurmountable effort. I forced myself to become numb. I’d repeat, “Don’t think about it. Don’t dwell,” over and over again until the sadness, the anger, and the fear evaporate, leaving stoic emptiness in their wake. It was like my mind was a cluttered whiteboard, and I had just taken an eraser and wiped it clean.

  When my mother first got sick, I prayed to God to cure her. When that didn’t work, I prayed she wouldn’t die. Now I can’t bear to see her suffering, so I don’t pray at all. Mostly, I have to summon the restraint not to punch a wall. Already did it once and was forced to hide the tattered hole behind some hanging mirror I dug up from the attic. My knuckles didn’t look too pretty either.

  I quietly shook my head when my mother attempted to get up to help. I quickly carried him up the stairs and unceremoniously dumped him on his bed. He started groaning and shaking his head, calling out, “No, they’re wrong. You’re not dying,” and slurring, “Don’t leave us, sweetheart,” waving his hand in jerky motions as tears formed at the corners of his eyes.

  My throat tightened, tears threatening. His drunken rambling told me what his sober mind couldn’t. My mother’s recent round of chemo was failing. The cancer was spreading. It was harder and harder to keep that whiteboard empty. This place was becoming less of a home and more of an out-of-control roller coaster ride. Angrily swiping my damp eyes with the back of my hand, I took the time to fill a glass of water from the bathroom sink and fetch two aspirin, placing both on his night table for him when he woke. Then I took the stairs two at a time, figuring I could sprint to Devie’s without being that late. No such luck.

  Downstairs, some woman from our church was attending to my mother, organizing her medications and readying a casserole for supper that on closer inspection turned out to be lasagna. My mouth watered. Lately, we didn’t eat anything that wasn’t from a can or frozen carton ready to pop in the microwave.

  Of course, I had to suffer through introductions, as if I wasn’t late enough.

  “Elvira, this is my son, Chase. Chase, this is Mrs. Cesare, who’s kind enough to call on me today.” You would have thought my mother was introducing the queen of England visiting for high tea instead of someone on a mercy mission.

  Anyway, I already knew who she was. Her son Massimo and I were in the same class and on the basketball team together. I had spotted her in the stands at one of our games with Massimo’s two younger brothers.

  The chitchat went on longer than I planned since Elvira seemed to have a host of questions. She wasn’t nosy, just genuinely interested. Intelligent and thoughtful eyes met mine as she chatted and waited patiently for my replies.

  “What electives are you taking?”

  “So you’re in Massimo’s conceptual math class. How do you find the work load?”

  “Feel free to come over to our house. You and Massimo can help each other with homework. I hear you are top of your class in this accelerated math class …”

  Blah, blah, blah.

  Yeah, well it was no surprise to me that I was acing that class. Only subject that made sense. There are rules, properties, and parameters you can work inside, yet room for creative observation and thinking as long as it was based on some foundation, some proof. No bullshit. God damn straight I excelled in that subject.

  Finally, flashing a polite smile and mumbling a goodbye, I flew out the front door only to slam straight into some little girl who must have been the do-gooder’s daughter. Down she goes, long, dark pigtails flying, her rainbow colored backpack tossed onto the front lawn. Had no choice but to turn back and m
ake sure she wasn’t hurt, hence more wasted time.

  Funny thing was when she took my extended hand to hoist herself up, I found myself peering into green eyes that held such a compelling mix of empathy and mischief in their loveliness, it was hard to tear my gaze from them.

  Shaking it off, I eyeballed her from head to toe, noting no blood, no missing teeth, no screams. She was Ok. And I was crazy late.

  My mind snaps back to now, and I rub the back of my neck. Something’s not right. I tug on the strings of the hood of my sweatshirt, consoling myself with the thought that it’s probably nothing more than Devie needing a little longer to get ready. Lately, she’s been asking me a lot about her appearance. Does my hair look OK? Are my jeans too short? Does this blouse match this skirt? For all I know, she could be drying and fussing with her hair.

  Until I hear it again. A muffled feral-sounding plea for help, and this time I don’t have to think twice. The quick motion of my legs automatically follows what my ears are telling me. I’m wildly groping the rough stone façade of the house in an attempt to boost myself up to look inside Devie’s bedroom window. It’s no use. It’s too high for me to see into.

  The cry is louder now, a stream of high-pitched wails that make the hairs on the back of my neck stand on edge. I hear a voice, guttural and gruff, then a slap.

  “Shut up, bitch.”

  My eyes scan the perimeter of the yard, and I spot a discarded milk crate lying on its side in a patch of overgrown crabgrass. I drag it under the window and climb on top, until I’m just able to reach the bottom of the window. The glass is murky, mottled with mud from the snow and rain of this past winter’s storms. I rake my gaze across the room, locking on the prone body lying on top of a tousle of covers on the bed, and I freeze, anger and revulsion shooting through my body.

  Wisps of Devie’s dark hair spill over the sides of the stained pillow her face is being pressed into. Her jeans, pulled down around her ankles, keep her legs bound under the weight of a pair of thick, hairy thighs. His hands reach under and grope her breasts, and she muffles her screams in her pillow. She doesn’t lift her head. She can’t. Trapped under the wide hand holding down the back of her neck, the continued heaving of her shoulders from her sobbing are my only indication that she’s able to breath.

  My jaw tightens and shaking with rage, I hurl back my fist, ready to thrust it through the window, only to stop in midair and let it drop.

  He’s big. Bulked up big. And tall, like some lanky- heavy-weight boxer. I don’t stand a chance. My mind rifles through a panicked jumble of ideas. Then it hits me. I jump down and reach inside my backpack, removing what I need. Stepping on top of the crate, I crack the window, just enough to have a clean, clear view. My hand is steady, my finger poised.

  Click. Click. Click.

  Then, not sparing one extra second, my sneakers hit the grass, and kicking the milk crate into a clump of weeds, I stuff the camera back into my backpack and dart to the front door, this time pounding, punching, and shouting until I hear footsteps approaching. The door opens, and there he is, trousers unbuttoned, belt hanging, his face a picture of arrogant entitlement.

  “She’s running late this morning. Had an errand to do for me.” He steps aside to let me in.

  My fists clench and my knee itches to crack him in the balls while I run to the kitchen for a knife to end this miserable monster’s life. I don’t, figuring it’s best to stick with my plan, so face blank, I silently push past him and head toward Devie’s room. Taking a few deep breaths, I wait to collect myself then tap gently on her door.

  “Dev, it’s me,” I call out softly, and when she doesn’t answer add, “C’mon let’s get out of here.”

  Minutes that seem like hours tick by, and I remain quietly waiting, giving her the time she needs to muster the courage to come out. Finally, the door opens a crack and I inch into her room. She’s pulled up and fastened her jeans and straightened her T-shirt, but she won’t look at me. Head down, hands stiff at her sides, she stands there trembling, anguish ripping through her. When she finally does look at me, it’s with a gaze I recognize because I’ve worn it so many times before: On the bus when kids jeered at my father lying face down drunk in the gutter and then at me for no good reason other than that I was his son. When they pointed and laughed at the floppy soles of my too-worn sneakers or referred to my mother as the drunk’s baldy headed babe.

  Rock-solid, no-escaping, all-consuming shame.

  That’s the name of that stare. And this. This violation she just endured made my experiences seem like kindergarten taunts. My jaw tightens and my fists clench, but before I can say anything she throws herself into my arms and sobs. Holding on to her, there’s one thought and one thought only that ricochets through my mind.

  I’m bringing that fucker down.

  “Hey, green eyes, mind if I join you?”

  For a stretched moment I say nothing, just staring open mouthed like I’m trapped in some bad Taylor Swift imitation. Standing smack in front of me is my brother Massimo’s friend, Chase Reardon, and god if he isn’t even more striking than I remembered. Tall, broad shoulders, standing with the posture of a soldier and the grace of a sex god, but it’s his mouth that I can’t tear my gaze from. I eye those beautifully sculpted lips that have gotten me in trouble before and want nothing more than to kiss and tug them until they are swollen from my touch. I have to literally shake my head to regain my ability to speak.

  “Sure. How have you been, Chase?” My voice is sultry and soft. Then reining in my emotions, I change it and brusquely add, “What brings you here?”

  I’m sitting at a corner table in a coffee shop near campus, sipping an iced espresso while taking advantage of the morning light to sketch. The small, dark apartment I share with three roommates feels more like a cramped dorm than a comfy home, and I look for every opportunity to escape to quiet, lighted space.

  He doesn’t answer, just drags the nearest chair over with the swiftness of a panther eyeing his prey. No doubt about it, he’s still a force to reckon with.

  “Well, Alicia …”

  I love hearing him say my name. It’s been close to four years since I’ve seen him last, and I’m still crushing on him like some starstruck adolescent.

  “I’m checking out a development project in the area,” he smoothly continues, “and decided to grab a coffee.” His eyes flash across my face, then quickly down the length of my chest before he reins in his gaze and makes eye contact. “How about you?”

  “I attend Parsons. You know, The New School for Design?”

  “Of course I know it. What are you studying?” He waits for my answer with an interest that catches me by surprise.

  “Fashion design.”

  “Are those some of your creations?

  I hesitate, looking up from my recently finished sketches done in soft creams, pale pinks, and ivory faux fur. They stand in sharp contrast to my own wardrobe of black straight-leg jeans, a dark tapered tunic, and ankle-length black boots. My only splash of color is the deep red gloss on my lips and the silver band that I wear above the knuckle of my forefinger. I nervously brush away the light fringe of bangs from my forehead and lift my long hair up from my neck and away from my face. Suddenly, it’s become very hot.

  “May I?” he reaches out his hand, waiting patiently for me to share.

  I’m thinking definitely too girly for his liking but decide to hand over the silver brocade top shown with straight-leg charcoal-colored silk pants and a short fitted gray blazer trimmed with a piping of darker gray. The jacket, a sleek cut made from 39% recycled fabric, is a favorite of mine.

  Pinching his lips with two fingers, he studies them. “They’re like you … soft, feminine.” He reaches over and caresses my cheek with his thumb. I lean into his touch and close my eyes, a warm sensation gripping my belly. There’s just something about this man I could never resist, and before I can stop myself, I bend toward those beautiful lips and kiss him … again.

  The f
irst time we kissed I was in a lot of trouble. I was fifteen. He must have been about twenty-three, already finished with his deployment in Afghanistan and on summer break from Yale. He was chaperoning a school dance as a fill-in for Coach Holden, who was recuperating from knee surgery. Sometime during the course of that night, he caught me and a cluster of friends on the football bleachers, drinking scotch of all things, which someone had pilfered from his father’s liquor cabinet, and smoking pot after sneaking out from the dance.

  One look at the new coach’s measured fury had everyone scattering. Everyone except me. I remained rooted like some space traveler locked in an alien force field. When he stepped closer and in a measured, no nonsense tone called out, “Get moving, Alicia,” did I apologize and leave like the others had? Nope. I leaned in and kissed those beautiful lips. Couldn’t help myself. Before that fateful kiss, I knew him only as a ripped set of muscles who hung out with my brother Massimo, and except for an occasional tousle of my hair, he barely knew I existed. Not so for me. Each time he came over, I would drag out a beach chair and pretend to be engrossed in a book, all the while letting my eyes course over his bare-chested body as he and my brothers shot hoops or tossed a football. Then one day he just disappeared. When I asked Massimo why I hadn’t seen him, he told me he had enlisted in the Marines.

  Within a nanosecond of that kiss, his expression ricocheted from surprise to anger, and before I could process the change, I was watching the ground whiz by from over his shoulder as he hauled me back to the dance. When I protested, he slapped my backside so hard I had to clamp my mouth shut to keep from crying out. At first I was indignant, swore to myself I would never speak to him again, but eventually truth trumped ego. Fact is, I was headed for trouble that night. A few of the football players had become drunkenly raucous, and one in particular— Logan if I remember—kept shoving his face into mine for kisses while his hands groped my breasts. He kept missing, but pushing him away was like trying to move concrete.