Blood Test

“The only one there ever was. The other two were evil, parents in name only. They abused their rights. Tried to destroy the family from within.”

“I know, Doug. I was over at the house this evening. Saw that greenhouse. Read some diaries that Swope kept.”

A terrible look oozed onto his face. He lifted his arm and swung the axe in a blinding parabola, letting it smash into the counter. The trailer shook as the plastic shattered. The movement had been effortless, not even budging his rifle arm. There was stirring behind the curtain but no sign of the girl.

“I was going to destroy that shithole tonight,” he whispered, jerking the blade free. “With this. Shatter every fucking pane. Take the house apart board by board. Then burn it to the ground. But when I got there the lock had been tampered with so I came back. Lucky I did.”

He sucked in his breath, let it out with a hiss. Iron-pumper’s breathing. He was sweating heavily, sizzling with agitation. I fought back the fear, forced myself to think clearly: I had to steer his attention to the crimes of the Swopes. And away from me.

“It’s an evil place,” I said. “Hard to believe people could be like that.”

“Not hard for me, man. I lived it. Just like Sis did. My old man diddled me and beat me and told me I was shit for years. And the bitch who called herself mom just stood by and watched. Different theaters but the same movie. When I said forged in pain I meant it.”

As he talked about the abuse he’d suffered, lots of things fell into place: the arrested development, the exhibitionism, the hatred and panic when he’d talked about his father.

“It’s destiny, Nona and me,” he said, with a satisfied smile. “Neither of us could have made it alone. But some kind of miracle brought us together. Made us a family.”

“How long have you been a family?” I asked.

“Years. I used to come up summers, worked this field, rough-necking, sinking wells. The old bastard had big plans for this place. Carmichael Oil was gonna rape the land, carve it up, and squeeze every greasy drop out of it. Unfortunately, it was dry as a dead woman’s tit.” He laughed, banged the axe head against the floor.

“I hated the work. It was dirty and demeaning and boring but he forced me to do it. Every summer, like a jail sentence. I snuck away any chance I got, went hiking through the back roads, breathing clean air. Thinking of ways to get back at him.

“One day I met her while I was walking through the forest. She was sixteen and the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen, sitting on a stump and crying. She saw me and got scared but I told her it was okay. Instead of running, or talking, she started to—” The handsome face darkened and distorted with anger. “Put it out of your filthy mind, man. I never touched her. And that story I told you and the cop about the freeway blow job was bullshit. I was just trying to throw you off.”

I nodded. Another explanation for the fantasy suggested itself: wishful thinking. But for now his sexual impulses toward the girl he called his sister were safely repressed and I hoped they’d stay that way.

“It was because I treated her differently from the other men that something special grew between us. Instead of jumping her bones I listened to her. To her pain. Shared my own. All summer we met and talked. And the summer after that. I started looking forward to working the wells. We got to know each other bit by bit, discovered we’d been through the same thing, realized we were alike — two halves of one person. Male and female components. Brother and sister, but more. Know what I mean?”

I strained to look sympathetic, wanting him to keep on talking. “You formed a common identity. Like some twins do.”

“Yeah. It was beautiful. But then the old bastard closed down the wells. Locked everything up. I drove up anyway. On weekends. During holidays for a week at a time. Crashed right here — used to be the night watchman’s place. I cooked for her. Taught her how to cook. Helped her with her homework. Showed her how to drive. Took long walks at night. Always talking. About how we wanted to kill our parents, erase our roots. Start fresh, with a new family. We had picnics in the forest. I wanted the little guy to come along, so he could be part of the family, too. But they wouldn’t let him out of their sight. She talked a lot about him, how she wanted to claim her rights. I told her she should, taught her about liberation. We made plans for next summer. The three of us were gonna run away to some island. Australia, maybe. I’d started collecting brochures to find the best place, then he got sick.