Call Me Twice

Chapter 5: Trainspotting

Link

I jog on the soft forest trials. No, I don't. I'm not a jogger. I'm a stroll until I get distracted by a cool plant kind of hiker. Drove my father mad. Well not really but more amused him to no end. He's a destination hiker. And apparently my dad was a 'why would I walk somewhere when I can read this book fine I'll walk and read the book' kind of hiker. But I love walking places namely through the forest. I never get tired of pretending I'm on a quest or something and wandering around getting slightly lost looking for cool bugs and things.
It's midday and I'm almost enjoying myself. I found edible berries and things and I had some candy in my pockets so I'm not hungry. I wonder when they expected me to come back? I didn't say. I think seven hours is reasonable for a hike. The pastor never cared where I went. And while my father usually knew where I was if I wanted to go for a long walk it wasn't like he'd get worried or anything. I'm old enough to show back up and it's not like I did that many things without him. When he wasn't working I wanted his company. And if he was he trusted me to do my lessons and amuse myself.
By the rumble I am nearing the railroad tracks. I don't want to get too close but I suspect the path won't lead up to them? No it wouldn't. I'll follow it a little more. I can hear a train in the distance.
When I approach the ridge that the tracks are on, it takes me a full minute to realize there's a dark shape standing on the tracks. It takes another minute to realize that it's a person, just standing there. Waiting for the oncoming training.
I'm running before I realize what I'm doing. And that I'm also flinging myself in the way of an oncoming training. And it's not until I hit the moss on the other side, idiot tackled fully to the ground, that I realize it's my idiot.
"What'd you do that for, Stalker?" Harper Miller asks, like I just socked him in the arm not saved his life.
"What did you think you were doing?" I sputter, sitting up as I disentangle myself from him. His eyes are bloodshot as usual and he's grinning again, shaking his bangs out of his face as he stands up painfully.
"Standing in front of a train! Look they only come every forty five minutes I've got to wait ages for another," he sighs, dusting leaves off his jacket. "Haven't you ever heard of playing chicken? Honestly, you're about to go back to Homeschool."
"No! What is wrong with you why would—you weren't trying to kill yourself?" I ask, a bit quietly.
"No," he scoffs, "I don't want to die. I just like feeling alive. No crime in that, is there Stalker?"
"Yes there is when you're standing in front of trains I felt that one, we were close when were you going to move?"
"I mean," he shrugs, rubbing his head, "My head hurts. Don't ask hard questions."
"Hell," I sigh, sitting still on the soft forest floor, staring as the train goes by.
Harper slowly sits down next to me, rubbing his face tiredly, "Well, it's your fault we're on the wrong side of the train, not mine. It takes nearly fifteen minutes to go by. And then we're waiting forty five minutes for the next one."
"No we're not! I'm not leaving you to stand in front of trains," I say, aghast, "What on earth—why would you do that?"
"I've said fun," he says, looking over at me with steady green eyes, "Tell me is it true what they say?"
"I wouldn't know what you're talking about."
"Is it true you burnt your house down when the police came?"
"Only part of it," I say, looking away and off into the trees.
"Oh. Only part of it," he laughs, lying back on the ground, "So you're crazy too then."
"I don't really think so," it wasn't insanity. It was self preservation. They all get to think I'm mad, sure. But I couldn't have them finding all that. My father delayed them while I did it. It was one or the other and I'd rather light the fire than talk to cops.
"Of course not. Nobody thinks so," Harper laughs, lightly, "Why is your father in prison?"
"He wouldn't give—he was working for the military. He wanted to quit he didn't like where the research was going. They didn't like that," I say, quietly, looking down at my hands, "That's all."
"That's an awful lot of all, Stalker."
"Why are you talking to me?" I ask, not looking at him.
"Well, you did push us on the wrong side of a train."
"I pushed you out of the way of the train! Add that bit!"
"Ah. Whatever," he rolls over, grass and leaves in his hair as he lies on his stomach watching the train go by.
"No, not, 'whatever' how do you think people would feel if you just didn't come home?" I ask.
"Josie would be sad maybe. I don't know. I wasn't meant to be here," he says, staring at his fingers.
"Nor was I really, doesn't mean I'm gonna go," I say.
"Why weren't you?" He frowns.
"Existentially. I was a test-tube baby," I laugh, dryly. "That's all. Rather immaculate conception, if you're religious."
"I'm not. Do I look religious?"
"I suppose not."
"No. No I don't, I don't believe in anything," he says, quietly.
"Why weren't you meant to be here?" I ask.
"I was born when my mother was a week shy of sixteen. He raped her. She keeps me around god knows why, I think we should all just let me shoot him. That's my new campaign by the way. ' For Christ's sake let Harper have a gun'," he starts giggling even though nothing about it is very funny.
"I'm sorry," I say.
"I'm not. It's his fault I'm in the world might as well make something bad of it."
"Who's Josie?" I ask.
"What?"
"Josie, you said they'd be sad earlier?" I prompt.
"My little brother. People wanted him. And loved each other enough to get him. Tell me, Stalker, who wanted you bad enough to find you in a test tube?" He chuckles.
"My father," I say, picking at mud on my shoe. He's still watching the train.
"Why?" He asks.
"I think he was just lonely. He likes having me around."
"Must be nice."
"Yeah," I say, quietly. Except I'll probably wind up dead for it. Both of us will if we're unlucky and the story wouldn't exist if we were lucky.
"My mother's used to me I suppose. Still, happy birthday sweet sixteen. An infant too sick to leave the hospital. I'm sixteen now, or will be on Monday do you know how fucking weird that feels, Stalker?" He laughs again though finally it's without mirth.
"No," I admit I have no idea how that would feel.
"Feels like you're a fucking nightmare. Do you think about killing people?"
"No."
"Really? Then why are you always sketching in that book?' He rolls over, to look at me, "You know half the school thinks you're a future serial killer."
I shrug. I don't pay attention, but I'm not surprised.
"So you don't? What are you doing in the book then?"
"Drawing. It's a hobby, I draw, do you honestly think that's how you identify serial killers? They draw in books?" I ask.
"I mean," he shrugs a little, "Would have been nice."
"What you want me to be a serial killer?"
"I mean. Would have been nice. We're in the woods alone and I'm not busy."
"I just saved you from the damn train, that's rather the opposite of killing!" I cry, upset now.
"Not really. I would have jumped."
"WHEN? It was not six feet from you —we nearly got tugged into it."
"I don't know. I was thinking of it. I never know when I'm going to do things, Stalker."
"Well that feels like a bad policy," I say, standing up, the train is nearly past.
"I never said it wasn't, Stalker."
"Don't call me that," I sigh, putting a hand through my hair, "That's how rumors get started."
"Ah, take it easy, Stalker. I'm only teasing you. I don't remember your real name everyone just calls you Homeschool," he laughs.
"Link Brenner," I say, sighing, watching as the train disappeared into the trees.
"Nah, you don't look like a Link," he narrows his eyes at me.
"Well my middle name is Nikolai that's what my father calls me," I concede, I feel myself blushing.
"No, forget that you sound like a Communist I don't recommend it," he scoffs, walking up and taking my chin with one hand, "I'm gonna call you—Sam. Sam the Stalker. But 'the Stalker' part can be silent."
"Um—okay then?" I say, confused but it's also definitely hot, but he's also got a girlfriend my crush aside.
"Well, thanks for ruining my day, Sammy," Harper says, hiking back up to the still quivering tracks. He sits down in the middle of them, prepared to put his headphones back on.
"What?—oh my god you're sitting there," I sigh, checking my watch. And I do not have time to stay and make sure he gets off before the next train comes.
"Want to play? Or does Sammy boy have plans?" He asks, lying down on the tracks, so happy to flirt with me and with death. Neither of whom he intends on committing to. I'm angry then, but I don't show it. He's clearly not well he's probably high. They do call him the junkie. But I also don't have time to babysit him.
"I'm meeting my dad, it's visitation. Do you want a ride to town?" I ask, hopefully.
"No, run along Sammy boy, I'm fine," he says.
"You are not," I mutter, but I do run.
I retrace my steps, running hard. I barely have time to meet my caseworker or whoever's driving me, now. And I have to save Harper first.
I race back to my grandparent's house and run in, much to their surprise they're making small talk with the driver that got sent for me.
"Link—where have you been—?"
"Just a minute! Five minutes," I skid into the kitchen, slamming open two cabinets before I find a phone book. I open it, flipping quickly as I pray that it's not an unlisted number.
Ringing. Ringing. There's twenty minutes to the next train. Fuck me.
"Hello?"
"Is this Lia Swallow—sorry this is Link Brenner—you know me as Homeschool?" I ask, rubbing my forehead and wincing a little.
"Um—yeah, hi," she says, like she thinks I'm calling to kill her or something.
"You're dating Harper Miller, right?" I ask, I'm still out of breath.
"Yeah—um—I guess," she says like they don't kiss every single day in the middle of the halls like is against the school PDA rules.
"Well I think you should know he's sitting in the middle of the train tracks off trail 9, refusing to move," I say.
"Shit! Oh my god thank you—shit not again—thank you—did he—,"
"He wouldn't come I have an appointment so I thought I'd call you before the cops," I sigh.
"Thank you—oh god I've got to get him, thanks, no do not call cops, thank you," she hangs up. That's fair.
I walk back into the living room, slowly, picking up my backpack. All three of them are staring at me.
"That was—ah—school friend. Right, let's go," that satisfies no one but the CPS driver is more than happy to get going. State prison is forty five minutes away so it's a long enough ride there and back.
That's long enough for idle chatter, but I have homework to work on and the driver doesn't care so much about chatting with every sorry kid he has to drive to a prison. It's not that heavily secured of a place, but even so there's something miserable about the barbed wire and the too tall fences and the sudden lack of trees in the otherwise lush forests of western Washington.
I have my things in order to get to enter. They check anything I bring. I brought him a couple of books. He never asks me to bring anything. I do anyway.
They x-ray and leaf through the books before sending it all on. I smile and nod at the guards. A childhood of academic conferences and traveling has left me more than able to charm adults who expect the kid all in black to be sullen, only to find me prompt and polite. Sir/ma'am, no trace of an accent. I check every name and badge number, twice. Nobody new this time I've seen several shifts by now.
They let us meet the prisoners in a courtyard, which is nice I suppose. Again it's not like they have my father locked up with anyone but fellow white collar 'criminals'. They aren't too concerned about fights or the like. And spouses and children line up with me obediently to be led in. The guards are fairly old and out of shape, they care little they've seen it all before and aren't going to bother trying to listen to our private conversations.
I have to leave my bag and the books. They'll take the books to him, in theory.
My father is waiting at the far end of the yard. Vuk Brenner, his first name means wolf in Serbian, an apt enough moniker for a man with sharp features, thick silver hair, lean and ever predatory. He'd look more at home as an torturer than a scientist, with thin lips that rarely smile and when they do few others are smiling. Of course for me his expressions melt to something like typical and in my boyhood I was unaware of his presence. But as I aged I began to to notice the peculiar effect he has on his fellow men, pale blue nearly colorless eyes, something of a smirk haunting his face, he's not small nor weak, just dominant. I'm quite sure he selected the meeting place probably well in advance. It's changed every time. I'm sure he's selecting blind spots from the cameras.
"Koyla," he takes me by the shoulders, weirdly stiff in the white jump suit as opposed to his usual suit.
"I miss you," I say, hands on his arms as he holds my arms, tipping his forehead to press it against mine, smiling as always at the sight of my face.
"Your hair's getting long, it looks good," he says, tugging on a stray lock that fell out during my run. I still have it tied back.  He switches to Serbian, smoothly, "You staying with them now?"
"Since this morning," I reply, in kind. Until I was about seven he spoke nothing but Serbian to me, now and then we'll talk in English but even alone we'll tend to revert back to it. "It's fine so far. There's a copy of the DNA test in one of the books for you to look at. But it's as you said, it just said high shared DNA."
"Good, and nothing's happened?" He asks, studying my face.
"They're freaked out that I look just like Dad. But I haven't seen any pictures. I saw his old room. It's same as the day they kicked him out."
"I don't like it. I don't like you there," he sighs a little.
"Yeah well, we're working with it. They are not receptive to the idea of Greta taking me for short term I think they're quite happy to feel like they have a chance not to be shitty people. They don't know I'm gay but I'm sure that's coming, and it won't be good given the number of crosses on the wall," I say, dryly.
"Why would they need more than one? And why are Christians so obsessed with this instrument of torture their god can't like being reminded of it?" He says.
"I'm not gonna ask 'em."
We both laugh.
"In all seriousness, if your sexuality does come up, if and when, they will likely blame me, and they will likely try to take you to church I have my lawyers on both of those things."
"Theoretically I can act straight for a few days. That's in theory not in practice. However. I just want Greta to get here," I sigh, fixing my hair which was pretty undone after my jog through the forest. God, I hope Lia got that idiot off those tracks.
"She will, Koyla, I will not let anything happen to you, I promise," he says, hand on my shoulder, "Look at me. I will not let them hurt you. If worst comes to worst and we think they are getting close to the truth then you and Greta can leave. They cannot extradite you—,"
"I'm not leaving you here, papa—,"
"You will, you will if it's the only way, you hear me? None of this, not a single thing that's happening, is your fault all right? You did not ask for any of this, best case scenario I am out soon, worst case scenario I don't get bail and you and Greta simply leave the country. I have enough liquid assets you can go to school where you wish, all right?" He asks.
"I'm not leaving without you. We're in this together I don't—I don't blame you okay? I just freak out sometimes, I'm sorry. I want to be—here. I'm good."
"You're allowed to be afraid. Fear is a sign of intelligence. It's a foolish man who fears nothing. For there is always something to fear."
"Yeah," I think of my crush standing in front of a train.
"Did you bring your report cards? How is school?"
"Are you seriously asking me that? You didn't tell me public high school was this horrible by the way, they write on the walls, in the bathroom—they draw dicks everywhere—I can't even hear the teacher half the time—I was fine reading about this stuff—,"
"I'm sorry. Your father is the one who attended American public school, I went straight to college after I immigrated," he says, amused, "Consider it a part of your cultural experience."
"Yeah, like food poisoning."
"Speaking of how is your stay with your grandparents? You would tell me if they weren't treating you well?" He asks, frowning.
"I'm fine. Seriously. It's only been a few hours but after the initial weirdness, I think that their attempts to be slightly better people than they were to dad, is gonna get me through. It was kind of cool to see dad's old room," I say, shrugging a little.
"I've never been in the house. I'm not popular with them, obviously," he scoffs, "Does Mr. Ramos still call me—,"
"The queer Eastern European—? Yes, yes he does."
"So unspecific—,"
"I don't think he knows where Serbia is—,"
"That could be true but also it's like true. It's not even an insult he says it like an insult—,"
"Yeah but it's a true thing that would be like saying 'brown eyed girl (derogatory)'—,"
"Yes or 'Jolene', like unnecessary detail for this person you hate anyway."
"Anyway. So yeah you're not their favorite flavor, and they can't stand that my accent," I say.
"I did suggest you not use it," he says, well aware I can adopt an American accent if I wish.
"And your suggestion was discarded. Turns out, despite how much I argued about it at the time. Greta is right. For no actual scientific genetic reason I do have dad's bitchy little personality—he has like pictures of gay people all over his room by the way it's like a shrine—,"
"Course it fucking is," he almost laughs.
"—like, there's probably more I'm not seeing but the green carnation painting over his bed, the framed pictures of let's see, Isaac Newton, Alan Hart, Rachel Carson, and John Keynes,  there's like a candle under each one," I say, amused.
"Did you—,"
"I'm adding Alan Turing and Frank Kameny to start with yeah we need those there. I'm not gonna tell 'em I'm just gonna do it the school library has free printers."
"He would want you to."
"Yeah I feel that."
"I shouldn't encourage this," he shakes his head.
"I'd do it if you discouraged it, see above about the somehow miraculously inherited bitchy little personality flaws," I say.
"CPS can move you if you're uncomfortable. Seriously. Don't stick it out if—whatever. I know how much your dad hated it there," he says.
"The noose on the ceiling fan tipped me off," I say.
"Oh my god, that man—,"
"No the ceiling fan could no way have held his weight past age ten, so that is 100% drama. It was just to get them investigated more than likely," I say.
"Did you—,"
"I mean I'm in the room across the hall that is just the gay drama room yeah I'm leaving it there we need that there," I say.
"They sent him to conversion places. And to therapy. Twice. He never harmed himself, that he told me of, but after they threw him out he moved in with me full time at college," he says, shrugging a little, "He would never want you to be back there."
"I'm fine. He might not want me there, but he would probably think it's funny that I mess with them a little. They get to find out I'm gay before I do leave, they need to know that the gayness and the bitchiness carried on despite calculated odds," I say.
"Greta will be here and have custody in a few days. My lawyers are working hard, but she's on the birth certificate it shouldn't be an issue."
"Well don't work too hard we don't need a better DNA test," I say.
"Trust me. It will be fine. Just spend time at school, even if you hate it it's better than there. Read your books, keep up with your studies, we'll have you out, all right?"
"Hey, you're the one in prison," I say, smiling a little.
"And I'm bound to watch over you, I'll survive. I always do," he says.
"We survive, we've got this," I say, holding his hand, "The worst is over. There's no reason for them to do any more tests. I passed."
"Exactly," he says, but I can tell he wants to believe it too.