(no subject)

[elfman300]

Cold Lives

BY ERIC RAUE

There is something very cold and desolate about so many parts of Massachusetts during the colder months of the year. During the summer, though, parts of the state that thrive on tourism suddenly become bustling with out-of-towners, religious, proper families from the Midwest, first-time vacationers and families of New Yorkers rolling in with their inflatable rafts and coolers, ready for a two-week calm. For many, it is a real delight. It’s the only real break that exists for them in the entire year. Two weeks of summer quiet, and then its back to the Wall Street scream. For some of them, it isn’t even real. They head off to Cape Cod or Nantucket or Martha’s Vineyard for some peace and quiet. But now they have to spend time with those children of theirs that they hardly know because they’re always off earning the bread to support their pathetic little suburban dreams. It’s a full reversal…instead of stock market plunges and corporate lay-offs to make their blood boil, they’ve got screaming, bickering children and a luxury car that, inevitably, will break down right when things start looking good.

The Tessler brothers fitted into no such category. They were in a category of their own. They were born and raised in Massachusetts by their father. Their mother was killed in a train wreck just weeks after the younger brother, Xerxes, was born. That was a long time ago, back in 1929.

During that year, Xerxes’ older brother, Jimson, was two years old. Now, young Jimson was on that train on that dark, cold night. He was sucking his thumb on his mother’s lap, warm in his wool and baby fat, as his mother sat quietly and the train chugged along, clanking rhythmically on the tracks. One second he felt safe, and the next, his car was sailing through the air, then crashing down with the unrivaled intensity of the sounds of busting glass and crunching, twisting metal. His little body somehow survived the energy of tons of steel smashing forward into hard ground. His mother, along with nearly all of the others, was killed instantly. Little Jimson, however, got away with a broken leg. To this day, Jimson walks with a limp, for his left leg is about two or three inches shorter than his right.

Other than that, Jimson made a full recovery. His young, ripe body healed fast. He, baby Xerxes, and their father were the only ones at the funeral. Papa loved his wife, and he suffered greatly over it. It wasn’t long before he took to the bottle, and his business began to crumble. At young ages, Xerxes and Jimson were forced to slave around their father’s hardware shop for no pay. This was the only way to ensure that food would be on the table that night, and even then, there were never feelings of security about the Tessler home. Unfortunately for Xerxes, he inherited his mother’s intelligence (or lack thereof), and could do little to really help around the shop. Often times Jimson was left to the real responsibilities while Xerxes tried desperately to help and make his family proud, and failing every time. Though it was not his fault, Xerxes’ inability to help in meaningful ways fueled a great rage inside Jimson. With his father out in the back room tipping back bottles full of Wild Turkey, and Xerxes sadly and hopelessly mulling around, looking for ways to help, Jimson was overworked and had endless responsibilities burdening him from an unusually young age. This made him independent, but it also grew him malicious. It engendered in him a wild, brutal rage. He and Xerxes never had parents. They never had childhoods. To Xerxes, Jimson was the closest thing to a father he would ever have. At least he had that much. Jimson had nothing but burden. He had to keep Xerxes safe.

Xerxes was always very kind and gentle. He was very quiet, obedient, and sweet. But his low intellect kept him close to his brother. He relied on his brother for food, and safety. He meant well, but couldn’t conduct even relatively simple tasks without botching them, or enraging his older brother. This was a problem, as he was always trying to help out. It was a vicious cycle. He’d be eager to be a help and redeem himself, and to be a part of the family struggle, but he’d only screw up, losing a little more respect each time. And he never knew any better but to keep trying. He was accepted by not even his own family. An absolute outcast. But he was sweet, and desperate to pave his way.

Every day, his life grew darker…yet he would keep trying. He would begin to do the dishes, only to be startled by a bumble bee and drop a dish, sending shards crashing everywhere. He would try to help stock the shelves of the hardware shop, only to lose his footing and grab the shelf for support, underestimating its stability, and send the shelf and its contents crashing down. Before long, there was a turning point in Xerxes’ relationship with Jimson. When they were teenagers, Xerxes one day decided to surprise Jimson by mopping the floor of the shop while Jimson was out to lunch. He prided himself on preparing a mop and bucket in the back room beforehand. He was so genuinely excited to do this good deed, and he just couldn’t wait to hear Jimson’s praise when he returned. Finally, he would make his older brother proud!

But coincidentally, things would not turn out this way. Completely illiterate, Xerxes mistook a can of paint for a can of cleanser, and as he poured the paint into the bucket, he could see the color and texture of the “cleanser” pouring from the can, but knew no better than to continue. He eagerly dipped the mop into the bucket, and began spreading the paint across the floor. A smile spread across his face. He began to spread the paint about the tile when his smile began to fade. Why wasn’t this getting the floor clean? It didn’t look very clean at all. Xerxes realized then that he had done something wrong, though he comprehended not the magnitude, nor the nature of his wrongdoing.

He knew to stop, though, and stop he did. Observing the paint he had spread in the corner of the shop, he sat and began to think about what he may have done wrong. And then it hit him: maybe you had to peel off the hardened cleanser. Surely the dirt and grime would come right up, stuck to the bottom of the dried film of cleanser that had settled on the floor. But when Xerxes began to try to peel it off, something wasn’t quite right. Instead of peeling all in once piece, it came off in little bits of brittle crust. Xerxes sat back in a chair. He had done something terribly wrong. He knew then that he had exacerbated the situation…but he was only trying to help.

Needless to say, when Jimson came limping back into the shop, he immediately discovered Xerxes, pouting sadly with tears in his eyes, sitting in an old chair, hunched over his mistake. Jimson felt rage boil up in his veins, and he struck Xerxes, sending him flying back in his chair and slamming against the wall. Xerxes cried rivers of tears as Jimson continued to strike him.

“You worthless shit eating bastard! I’ll show you to paint the floors, you fucking rat!”

Through tears in his eyes, Xerxes tried to explain.

Through sorrowful cries, Xerxes cried out his pain.

And again, he hated himself. He wished he were smart, like Jimson, so he could help around the shop and not destroy everything he touched. That was the first time Jimson struck him, and from that day on, Jimson would not hesitate to strike. It helped him manage, but at the same time, it fueled his brutal nature, which, as a result, would grow more severe at a constant rate. And the more he did it, the less he was sorry.

It didn’t take long for Jimson to realize that he could dissolve his stress and worry with his father’s supply of liquor. On a nightly basis he’s sneak over to the creaky cabinet and fill up his glass with the stuff. He was only peaceful when he was drunk, and Xerxes was glad that sometimes, Jimson’s wrath would subside. But soon enough Jimson’s brain craved alcohol, and he was addicted. With it, he was fine. But without it, his anger would be worse than ever. In 1947, the Tessler brothers lost their father to what the family physician described as a heart failure. Jimson didn’t buy it. Their father was not in the best shape, but he certainly wasn’t overweight, and to the outside observer, he did not look prone to hear failure. But the physician stuck to his story, and Jimson didn’t have much of a choice but to buy it. The true cause of old Papa Tessler’s death is still a topic shrouded in mystery to this day. Only Jimson and Xerxes were at Papa Tessler’s funeral.

With his death came a serious change in the lives of the brothers. They inherited the shop, and the house too became theirs. It was a small place, but they had to pay the bills now, with whatever income the shop brought. When things got really bad around the shop, and the threat of violence arose, Xerxes used to run off to a secluded little nook in the dunes he discovered once while walking on the nearby beach. He felt peaceful there, and he could cry all he wanted without getting beaten. He could let his eyes run dry without worrying about shaming his brother.

Soon after Papa died, Jimson discovered he could use his death as a vehicle for the torment of Xerxes. Sometimes this was more effective, even, than beating Xerxes physically.

“You messed up again!” Jimson used to say. “Even after our dear Paps dies, you don’t even have the respect to do things right! Paps’ grave must be flooding with tears right now, I hope you’re glad! I hope you’re happy!”

“I ain’t happy, Jim!” Xerxes used to say. “I didn’t mean tah hurt Papa, I’m tryin’, Jim, I’m really tryin!”

“Bullshit you are! That’s bullshit! You hate Paps, and you always have!” Xerxes couldn’t take it. There was one day where such a verbal exchange transpired, and Xerxes, ashamed and feeling completely worthless, took a bottle up off the table and smashed his own head with it. Blood and liquor ran down his face, mixing in with his tears. Jimson’s ridicule stopped, and he looked upon Xerxes with confusion. At first, he was enraged that Xerxes had wasted all that liquor, but looking upon his younger brother’s sobbing, baggy-eyed, bloodied face, Jimson just burst out into laughter, and left Xerxes there. Xerxes didn’t understand. He rarely understood.

But the days turned into weeks, weeks turned into months, and months into years. Xerxes was never happy with his brother, but unable to get a job of his own, he endured what he had to endure. One sunny summer day in 1950, the hardware shop saw unprecedented patronage. At the end of the day, after Jimson counted all the cash, he smiled and was too overjoyed to be angry at Xerxes’ dull wit. He cracked open a bottle of wine he’d been saving for such an occasion, and shared it with Xerxes. At first Xerxes was afraid to try it, but for fear of disappointing his brother, he succumbed. Soon, Xerxes felt for the first time in his life the slight pangs of inebriation, which soon escalated into a sloppy, stumbling drunkenness.

Now he knew what was happening to Jimson, and what had been happening to their father every night. This was the secret behind the bottle. He sat down, his world spinning, and started to think. He looked up at Jimson. Something about the chemical working on his brain changed his perception of his brother at that point. This was not a good man. This was not a man he should’ve been trying so hard to earn the respect of. This man was a menace! This man meant nothing but sadness for Xerxes! With his inhibitions lowered, Xerxes acted rashly. He scrambled up and stumbled out of the shop, heading for the beach.

“Where are you off to?” yelled Jimson. “Come back here. Come back here or I’ll…I’ll beat you.” He proclaimed drunkenly. Wasted on the wine now, he wouldn’t act on his words. The alcohol brought about in him a neutral apathy towards everything. He stumbled on to the back room and dozed off at the counter. Xerxes soon reached the beach, and collapsed in the sand. Soon enough he, too, was asleep. In the morning, the sun shone brightly on him, and for a moment he pondered how he got to his special dune. Then he remembered the magic liquid that Jimson had showed him the night before, and he remembered his objective: To escape Jimson’s tyranny.

He knew he’d have to get money from the shop. He’d never manage on his own. So, before doing anything else, he headed for the hardware store. He knew where the money was kept, so it would be as simple as getting it during Jimson’s lunch break. Xerxes knew that if he was spotted by Jimson, he very well may have been beaten to death, as he had obviously not shown up for work that day. It was about 1:00 in the afternoon when Xerxes approached the store. Soon he felt the fear that he would meet a terrible failure…which would surely translate to a terrible whopping from Jim. But he pressed on. The door creaked loudly as he opened it up, but once he was inside, he felt safe. He headed for the back room. He smiled as he felt the first sensations of liberation, watching the cold green bills appear with the drawer’s opening.

Suddenly, panic set in. Xerxes heard a car come into the little lot outside, and expecting the worst, he stuffed a bunch of bills into his tote sack and ran for the door. He was cut off by who he thought was Jimson…but he was relieved to see it was just a customer. Rattled, he ran off with the bag, full of cash. When he reached his special dune and felt safe again, he was relieved, but at the same time he was anxious. Where would he go? What would he do? How could he function and survive without Jimson’s watch to guide him? Knowing nothing else he could do, he began to walk. Aimlessly he crossed streets, villages, beaches. He continued until he reached a rustic little cottage on the edge of a seaside cliff by an isolated dune. It was dirty and abandoned, and only hoping that its inhabitants planned not on returning, he entered it and started to settle in. There was an old mattress on the floor, and it was filthy and ridden with wet leaves. He didn’t care, and fell asleep on it anyway. He awoke early the next morning.

Upon rising, he had little idea of where he was or how he got there. All his life he had been used to his old routine, working at the shop, hating himself, receiving beatings from Jimson…but when he exited the cottage and saw the sea over the cliff, he was reminded that that was an old life. A life that he had left behind. Contemplating all this in his own dumb sort of Xerxes way, he suddenly felt hunger strike his stomach. He exited the cottage and walked along the cliff, where he found a little pile of junk amidst a dead seagull. He fished an old fishing pole out of the pile, and that night, he ate a raw fish and roasted up the seagull for dinner. It tasted terribly. He longed for the food that Jimson used to make for them. Truly, Jimson wasn’t much of a cook, but knowing nothing else, Xerxes had only that to compare it to. Well, it was food, and it filled his stomach. He fell asleep on the old spring mattress early that night. He woke up at about eleven the next morning, and his stomach again ached with hunger He ambled over to the village with a few dollars in his pockets to buy something to eat.

Upon entering the General Store, Xerxes’ stomach dropped as he spotted Jimson in the corner, buying bread. Xerxes hid behind a shelf of canned goods, and watched while Jimson brought a loaf to the counter and had the cashier ring it up. Once Jimson was out, Xerxes bought a couple of things and got out of there as fast as he could. As he scrambled out into the street, he failed to notice the truck coming straight for him. It screeched to a stop, and Xerxes froze as finally came to a stop at his knees. He stared at the driver, like a deer in the headlights of a car. Now that the driver knew that he and Xerxes hadn’t collided, he grew angry.

“Are you trying to get yourself killed? Get the hell out of the road!” Xerxes stared at the man, wide-eyed and fazed. After a few horn honks, he gathered his wits and stumbled off, running all the way back to the cottage. When he entered it, he spotted a little blonde girl of about 5, sorrowfully picking up sticks.

“Who are you?” Xerxes began to say. But he stopped, for the girl tried to run off. He didn’t mean to frighten her. She ran for the back, and scrambled to open up the door. Making such haste, she tripped and fell. At first she did not react, but then seeing the blood drip from her knee, she began to cry. Xerxes went over and picked her up, and brought her into the cottage’s small main room.

“It’s ok, little girl, its alright…” he tried to reassure her. He handled her gently, as if she was a mouse or a bird, and using water from a bucket in the corner, he cleaned her cut and told her she was safe to go home.

“I don’t got a home.” She said. “My mommy and daddy died in a train accident.”

“Hey, that’s like my Ma. She died in a train crash too. What’s your name?” he asked.

“Alice.” She replied.

“Well, if you don’t got a mommy or daddy, you can stay here.”

“Okay.” She said shyly.

“I don’ got much food or nothin,’ but its better than livin’ in them streets.”

“Yeah.” She replied. “Thanks, mister.”

“My name’s Xerxes.” He said. “Xerxes Tessler.” He put his hand out. She shook it with her own pudgy little hand.

“That’s a funny name. I guess my name’s Alice Tessler now.” Xerxes chuckled. He liked the idea of that. Suddenly, Xerxes remembered the food he had just bought. He was excited to see if she’d like it. He was happy to have something to offer so soon.

“Hey Alice, I got some foods here. Want some foods?” He held out a slice of bread for her to take.

“Not now. I’m not hungry yet. I’m gonna go down and play on the beach, ok?”

“Alright, Alice. You be careful now. I don’t want you gettin’ hurted or nothin’.”

“I’ll be careful!” she squealed as she danced away to the beach. Xerxes sighed. He was so happy to have a little companion, and even more so, he was happy to finally help someone out. But he doubted himself. Did he really have the capacity to raise a little girl? He was afraid he’d mess up, like he always had. This time, there would be no Jimson to beat him up. Only the guilt of a dead child to rip and tear at his emotions. He knew it was risky, but he also knew that he had to try. He took some butter out of the brown paper bag of groceries, and spread it on a slice of bread with his fingers. He listened to the surf crash on the sandy shore as he chewed on the bread. The butter on the surface had streaks of brown, where his dirty fingers had rubbed filth off onto it. It tasted the same, though, and it filled him up.

He went outside the cottage and, after gathering sticks and grass, he took some matches out of his pocket that he had stolen from the hardware store. He decided to try to surprise Alice with some hot stew from the can, but found himself unable to light the matches. Alice returned while he was still fiddling with them, and he was thoroughly disappointed that she returned so soon.

“Whatcha doin’?” she asked.

“Shucks, Alice. You came back too soon. I was gonna surprise yeh with some nice stew from the can.”

“Oh well. Need help with the matches? Give em’ to me, I saw a homeless guy lighting them once.” He gave her the matchbox.

“Don’t burn yourself, now.” She deftly lit a match, and dropped it into the pile of sticks Xerxes had prepared. It ignited slowly, but soon there was a nice fire roaring. Xerxes fetched the can of stew, and, after smashing it open with a rock, Alice saw him sitting in the sand with a sad look in his eye. She knew what the problem was.

“You don’t got anything to cook it in, do you?” Xerxes shook his head. He failed to bring pots or pans to the cottage. “That’s alright.” She assured him. “I bet we can cook it up right in the can! Just put the can right in the fire.” Xerxes tried it, burning himself a little as he placed it in the coals, being careful not to let any spill.

“Hey, maybe that’ll work!” cried Xerxes with a twinkle in his eyes. Alice looked up at him with a partially toothless smile. Soon the stew was boiling in the can, and Xerxes lifted it out with a couple of sticks, using them like oversized chopsticks. He went inside while Alice watched it bubble, and he returned with a couple of rather unsanitary looking spoons.

“Here you go.” He said, handing her one. “Dinner is served.” He said, satisfied with himself. Never before had he had so little, and never before had he been so happy. They ate quietly, blowing on each bite to cool it before swallowing it down. When they were done, Xerxes was still a little hungry, but after eating a couple of slices of bread, he was just as full as Alice.

“You stay here inside the cottage.” He instructed her. “I’ll be back real soon, alright?”

“Okay.” She responded. With that, Xerxes headed back to the hardware shop. It was closed up for the night, but he knew where the key was hidden. He walked around to the back, and found a small concrete frog next to the back door. He lifted it to reveal the key under the frog. Using it, he gained access to the shop. First, he went to the back room and stole as much money as his pockets could hold. Then, he explored what the shop had in stock, looking for whatever might be useful. He found an object with an actual purpose he wasn’t sure of, but it could be used as a bowl, or a cooking pot. He also took two knives, some fire starter, a bunch of matches, some metal tongs, and a pillow and blanket from the back room. He wrapped it all up in some bed sheets from the back room’s closet, and, sure to remember to replace the key under the concrete frog, he headed back to the cottage. When he got there, Alice was sitting on the dirty old spring mattress.

“What have you got there?” she asked. Xerxes was excited to report to her what he had acquired.

“Oh, all kindsa stuff! We got sheets, a pillow, some cookin’ stuff, matches, all kinds of stuff!” Alice smiled as he dumped the sheet on the floor, sending its contents rattling down. Alice got up off the mattress, and Xerxes took it outside and wiped it down as best he could. He then put it back in the corner, and wrapped the sheet from the hardware store around it. He gently placed the pillow at the head of the bed, and covered it all with the blue blanket he had taken.

“That looks nice!” said Alice. Xerxes turned to her.

“It does?” He looked at the bedspread. Alice skipped over and lay down on top of it. “Yeah…it does.” He decided.

“I’m tired.” Alice said. “Can I test out the new bed stuff?”

“You sure can!” he told her proudly. She snuggled up under the blanket and felt the softness of the pillow on her skull. Xerxes looked at her for a moment, and then walked over to the corner and laid down on the hard concrete floor. He tried to get comfortable amidst the wet leaves and dirt by adjusting positions, to no avail. Alice’s voice floated over to his ears from the other side of the room.

“Xerxes?” she said.

“Yeah?” he responded.

“You don’t gotta sleep on the hard floor, you know. There’s room in the bed for you.” Xerxes sat up.

“Gee…thanks, Alice.” He crawled over and got next to her. Some of her blonde hair tickled his cheeks. He closed his eyes and watched the colorful patterns form in his consciousness, his body growing more and more tired as he neared nighttime’s dream. Right as he started to drift off, Alice’s little voice awakened him.

“Xerxes?” she asked.

“Yeah?” he replied.

“Can I call you daddy?” Her voice was small, sweet, an innocent, like a guinea pig’s squeal.

“Yeah. You can call me daddy, if you like.” Alice fell asleep with a smile. For once in her life, she felt secure. Xerxes felt his eyes well up, and a tear escaped and drifted down his face before disappearing down his chin. He fell to sleep with all of these salty tears in his eyes. When he woke up the next morning, he was rested. Careful not to rouse Alice, he went outside to the fire pit and put some more sticks and some fire starter on, and trying to reproduce Alice’s match-lighting technique, he successfully got a fire going. He dumped some breakfast stew into the metal bowl from the hardware store, and placed it over the fire. The flames licked the metal, and Xerxes waited in content silence as it heated up. By the time it was boiling, Alice had emerged from the little three-room cottage. Xerxes watched her walk over as she yawned tiredly. Xerxes yawned right after, and, after taking the pot from the heat, they ate the stew in the quiet, damp stillness of the orange morning. The hot stew warmed their bodies, and no longer did the cool ocean air make them shiver. After eating, they watched the sun rise and enjoyed the warmth it sent down on them, a blanket of pleasant heat to cover the world. That day, he and Alice descended the clay cliff and played on the beach below. Alice played in the sea while Xerxes built sand castles, seeing that she didn’t drown. As the day grew on, the midday sun heated up the sand, making it warm under Alice’s feet for her return from her time splashing jollily in the ocean water. Xerxes watched her with a loving delight, and when they both grew hungry, Xerxes fried a couple of eggs, burning them accidentally. When followed by a bite of buttered bread, the burnt flavor of the crispy egg hardly mattered. He and Alice enjoyed the meal, and went to the town for a short walk. Upon arriving home, Xerxes warmed up some soup to prepare for the chilly night ahead. He and Alice chatted and slurped soup that evening, and went to bed early and tired.

Throughout the night, strange dreams transpired.

They lived in relative peace, some hunger pains aside. Xerxes didn’t seem to remember that the money wouldn’t last forever. He always spent it carefully, and, living off the grid, he was able to buy only what was absolutely necessary: clothes for when his or Alice’s wore out, food, matches…but even with prudent spending, the money stash was in serious deficit no more than a month after Xerxes discovered Alice in his cabin. Even Xerxes himself realized that they wouldn’t be able to survive for long with so little. He and Alice had been surviving by so little already, there certainly wasn’t much room for further saving.

Xerxes had no choice at that point but to try to go steal more money. He awakened early one morning to do it, and crept into town. Once he reached the hardware shop and found the key, he encountered a problem…the key refused to fit in the lock! Xerxes kept trying for many minutes until the sound of approaching footsteps scared him off. Jimson, anticipating another break-in, had changed the locks, leaving the same old key under the concrete frog to fool his vulnerable younger brother.

Xerxes ran out of town, all the way to the edge of the sandy, grassy dunes, and finally reaching his little cabin. He sat on the mattress next to where Alice slept peacefully, trying to catch his breath. He spoke gently and dumbly to Alice between breaths, stroking her hair with his hand.

“We don’ gots much money anymore, Alice.” He told her. “Things’ll be ok, though, Alice. I can get more money somehow.” Xerxes didn’t believe his own words. How could he get money but to rob the hardware store? He didn’t like stealing, not even if it was from Jimson. He certainly could never steal from any other store, as the guilt would be far too overwhelming. He pondered as he watched Alice sleep, and soon enough he, too, was asleep.

The next day, he and Alice ate the last of their food. By nighttimes’ arrival there was only enough money for a loaf of bread and a couple of servings of soup. Xerxes fell asleep in fear for Alice’s future. He hoped everything would be all right. He was sure he could find a new source of money, somehow. Their lives depended on it.

But something strange awakened him early the next morning, before the sun had risen. Something was banging on the wall outside! Xerxes drowsily stumbled to the entrance, where he was met by a familiar silhouette. The figure beckoned, and as Xerxes leaned his head closer, he was shoved back powerfully and landed hard on the cottage’s unfinished concrete floor. He was dazed and confounded as to the nature of his thrashing until the figure came closer and the moonlight shone through the cracked old window, revealing the intruder to be none other than Jimson. The moon’s glow shot strange, dark shadows across Jimson’s wild face. His eyes glowed with insanity.

“I saw you snoopin’ around MY store. Out to steal more money, were you?”

“I’m sorry, Jim, really. I’ll pay yeh back, Jim, I swear I will!”

“Bullshit you will!” Jimson cried, as he kicked Xerxes across the face. “I followed you back here last night, and now I’m here to get all the money you stole back!” Xerxes responded barely intelligibly, through a mouth full of blood.

“I don’t got it. Please, just don’t hurt deh girl! Don’t hurt Alice!”

“Who? Are you keeping a whore here? Is that how you’ve been spending my money?” Every word Xerxes delivered to Jimson enraged him even more.

“No, there’s no whore! Just deh girl! Don’t hurt deh girl!” Jimson looked down and saw little Alice under the covers, watching him silently with wide hazel eyes.

“What’s this? A child? Whose child is this?”

“She’s mine, Jimson. I’m her father.” declared Xerxes triumphantly. Upon hearing this remark, Jimson erupted in a riotous laugh.

“You? Her father? You can’t even wash a floor, much less raise a child!”

“She’s mine, Jimson. We’s happy. We is hardly ever hungry, and we is happy here.”

“Shut your mouth. You’re a fool!” cried Jimson with fury. He smashed Xerxes’ face with his foot, and grinned madly at the blood it produced. The glimmer in Xerxes’ eyes faded, and Jimson spoke to Xerxes’ lifeless body.

“Paps didn’t love you, you know. You were always too stupid. You were a mistake, you know.” Xerxes just lay there in a puddle of blood, greeting Jimson with a permanent stare. Alice broke into a violent tantrum of emotion, and she scrambled up ran past Jimson, out the door. Jimson chased after her, leaving Xerxes’ mangled and motionless body on the floor of the cabin.

“Don’t run, little girl! You’ll be happy with me! I’m your real father, not Xerxes!” Alice, hysterical, ran into the street to attempt to cross. Little did she know, a truck full of apples was headed straight her way. The tires screamed as the truck tried to stop, but it was too late. Alice was hit by the massive machine, and sent flying and tumbling down the cobblestone. Her destroyed body lay at the center of an intersection up ahead, amidst a minefield of fresh red apples. The driver of the truck got out and approached. He knew she was dead. He sat on the curb with his face buried in his hands, contemplating the repercussions of this terrible misfortune. A little girl was dead. How could even God Himself forgive him for this?

Jimson approached the street. He saw the truck driver sitting and crying by the body of Alice. He turned and walked back to the old Tessler house in absolute apathy with regard to the night’s events. If anything, he was satisfied with the result of the night’s goings-on. He went to back to bed and drifted to sleep as if it was just like any other night.

For the rest of the people in Massachusetts, it was just an ordinary summertime. Families on vacation came and went, only pretending to enjoy themselves because they knew they had the money to do so. Still, their lives were warm. They had happy times and sad ones, but overall, they enjoyed what they had. It wasn’t perfect, but it was as close to the American Dream as any will ever get. But still deeper, in the strangest corners of Massachusetts, cold lives like those of the Tessler brothers always lurked, stealing shadows from the cold moon of an otherwise peaceful Massachusetts night.

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