Taking Care Ch 03

There are two piano pieces referenced in this chapter. The first is "Beving: Ala" by Joep Beving. The second is "Where Is My Mind," something like Maxence Cyrin's version.

__________

The 'big house' was bustling when we got there. My first impression of the compound had been mostly armed men, but today it was a more balanced mix of men and women. A few kids, not many. We passed through a room with couches, bookshelves, and a handful of 8-tops. A rec room. There was a pool table in the corner, which Ben gave a smug nod towards, his pinky searching out and wrapping around mine, tugging me along.

Next we walked through the dining room, mostly furnished with long tables and benches, some smaller tables around the periphery. The far end opened in a pass-through to the kitchen, all white walls, steel appliances and metro racks. It reminded me of the cafeteria at my childhood YMCA camp. Wow, I thought to myself. You will find familiarity anywhere. It seemed like a rather desperate quality.

Ben led me up to the pass-through window, paving our way with a stream of greetings and compliments. Everyone seemed to know him, to want a bit of his attention. I could see he was naturally generous with it, although today he kept us moving.

At the kitchen, a red headed woman watched our approach curiously. She looked a little younger than myself, late teens, maybe twenty. The other women we'd passed had mostly just had eyes for Ben, and who could blame them? His charisma was hard to ignore. But this girl had her gaze locked on me with a hopefulness to rival Ben's.

"Who did you bring me, Uncle Ben?"

"Jesse, Skylar. Skylar, Jesse. Aren't you two a picture?" He leaned on the window counter, eying the two of us. I realized what he meant - we were opposites in our hair, but otherwise matching. Both pale and slight, although I imagined her small frame was simply not done growing, whereas I seemed to be permanently stunted.

I found myself frowning, and he caught it, hurried on. "Jesse is Damian's daughter."

"Damian of the good bread," I smiled at her, and she beamed at the secondhand compliment.

"I'm going to tell him you said that." Jesse looked at me conspiratorially. "He's partial to flattery. I might get something out of it."

"Your brother?" I asked Ben, thinking of Jesse's greeting.

"Brother in arms. Damian was with Justin and I on our final tour."

"So you're moving in with Uncle Ben?" Jesse asked me, eyebrows wagging like

'hubba hubba'

, and I froze. Jesus, what could I say to that? Why couldn't I bring myself to ruin her perception of him?

"Twenty questions later; we're on a schedule this morning," Ben swept us along, easy as ever, before my silence could register. Jesse ended up grabbing us each a bowl of grits with an egg on top, and we ate at a table in the corner. Despite being in the communal dining hall, Ben clearly wanted to keep me to himself a little longer.

Maybe Jesse's question had made him realize how the vibe might turn if I answered normal questions honestly. His body language certainly seemed to be trying to answer those questions visually before they could be posed - he was as touchy as ever, his left side snug against me, his arm meandering around my waist, through my hair, around my shoulder to pull me to him. To anyone looking, I'm sure we seemed sweetly in love, just wanting our privacy.

When our bowls sat empty and Ben's fidgeting was starting to amp up noticeably, I lightly tapped his thigh and caught his eye. "Time?" I asked gently. His nervousness was probably a good sign for me, but I didn't enjoy seeing it.

"Time," he nodded, resolved.

His wonderfully huge fingers entangled themselves in mine, and we made our way out a back door, down a hallway lined in knotty pine wainscoting. I looked at our entwined hands, the way his gobbled mine up. When had I started enjoying that?

The door to Justin's office was open, revealing a large steel desk that wasn't quite cute enough to be labeled vintage, a wall full of portraits and candid family photos, and a large, serious looking man.

A serious looking

black

man. And I don't mean tanned and biracial; Justin had deep ebony skin, rich and dark, which made the whites of his eyes sparkle in contrast. I'd bet when he smiled, it lit up the room. I felt

myself

smile as a few presumptions got flipped inside out in my mind. He was older, maybe early forties, with close cropped hair and a crisp, ironed dress shirt.

"Hello Skylar; Ben." Justin greeted us with a brief nod and a patient, rumbly voice. He paused, then: "Ben, Brett's been having some issues with the tractor. Think you could go give him a hand?"

It was a blatant dismissal, and Ben's twitchy fingers lightly squeezing my hip said he didn't like it. For a minute he didn't say anything at all, clearly wrestling between civility and possessiveness. Justin let him battle it out internally, a polite smile on his face, already seemingly confident he knew where Ben would land. Having heard the man quietly threaten to shoot strangers at the gas station not 24 hours ago, I myself was not so certain.

Unable to help himself, Ben stepped behind me, wrapping his arms around me, over my shoulders and collarbones, and set his chin on top of my head. He answered Justin in a tone somewhere between warning and hurt. "You said-"

"I know what I said." His voice was soothing but firm. "I just want a few minutes with her, Ben. Nothing's changed."

I could feel him nodding his head behind me, reassuring himself, I presumed. He kissed my head once, then twice more, quickly, turning me to face him.

"I won't be far, or long, ok babe?"

I nodded. It should have been laughable that he seemed to think I'd be nervous about him leaving me. This was the opportunity I'd been waiting for; my best bet to plead my case and earn an undramatic exit. Justin seemed normal, sane - someone I could reason with. And yet? It

did

feel kind of weird to be left here.

He kissed me quickly one last time, and then turned sharply. Ripping the bandaid off, I thought. I turned my attention back to Justin, whose somber expression had melted away to amusement.

"What?" I asked, suddenly self conscious.

"I've never seen him so unsettled. It's quite the turn."

"I wish I could relate. I've never seen him

settled

." I'd said it thinking of his nervous reassurances and possessive touches, but as the words came out of my mouth, an image flashed in my mind of his sleek, satisfied body, stretched out beneath me on his bed this morning, making a liar out of me. A blush flashed across my cheeks, but luckily Justin was already turning back to take a seat at his desk.

"Your expression when you came in a moment ago - something surprised you?"

"Well,

yeah

," I confirmed, plopping my butt in one of the green, vinyl upholstered chairs. "I mean, come on. That's an insincere question, you absolutely know what surprised me. Are you just wondering if I'll admit it?"

His smile was wide now, but he continued to wait, not offering me any lifeline.

"Fine," I shrugged. "I'll bite. You're black, like,

really

black, and this place practically screams radical right conspiracy playground. I mean, separatist militia groups are kind of famous for their dog whistle racism, if not outright neo-Nazi sympathies. If I close my eyes, I'm pretty sure I can hear the wind whispering,

'Remember the Alamo.'

"

He laughed at that last bit, and I was relieved I hadn't overstepped and sabotaged my best chance at freedom. Sometimes the shit that exploded out of my mouth kind of, well, exploded in my face. I couldn't afford for this to be one of those times.

"Oh, I remember the Alamo alright." He leaned back in his chair, languid, resting his elbows on the arms. "I remember it started when a bunch of white immigrants living illegally in Mexico got upset that the Mexican government decided to enforce its anti-slavery laws."

He shook his head, leaning forward. "That's not what this is. Not some 'radical right conspiracy playground,' as you so eloquently put it."

"Then what

is

it? Is there a leftist equivalent? Are you Antifa?"

He was still shaking his head, less amused with me now. "We are not in the business of manufacturing conspiracies here. We are not engaged in national politics."

"Ok, yes, I keep hearing what you're not. What

are

you, then?"

He paused, considering. Evidently not accustomed to giving the elevator pitch.

"A lot of us here have firsthand experience trying to intervene when governments overreach and turn on the people they are meant to serve. We've seen what that looks like, and what led up to it."

He looked intensely at me, his eyes sad. "I've seen families slaughtered for their religious beliefs. I've seen girls denied education and healthcare. I've seen men violated and murdered for who they love. I don't trust anyone who aims to control the personal lives of someone else, regardless of the reasons they give."

He paused, clearly swept up in unpleasant memories. It felt rude to rush him along, but I was impatient.

"That doesn't really explain anything, though. That's not happening

here

."

"It's not happening here

yet

." He folded his hands together, looked down at them. "I started noticing concerning signs in national politics about eight years ago. Events I would classify as precursors to authoritarianism. That's when I started saving for, and eventually bought, this land, started building this community.

"We have separate property; people bring or build their own houses, have their own private spaces. But we also recognize the need for collaboration if we are to do more than just survive here. Residents work and fill the needs of the community, and they are compensated for that labor. We have a... well, I guess you'd call it a chore chart. People choose for themselves how best to apply their skills, but at the end of the day, everything's got to get done. We all recognize that. We're self-policing.

"Politically, you'll find most of us here lean conservative or libertarian. A lot of us are deeply religious. But that's not what this community is based on. You could just as easily argue we demonstrate communist ideals as libertarian ideals. The universal traits would be... well, no one here much likes being told what to do. And that works, because no one will tolerate laziness or entitlement, either.

"But the crux of it is, as I've said, we are a group who's seen the worst case scenario. We've met the citizens who thought it could never happen to them. And here at home, we've watched democratic leaders claim power in the name of global stability and social welfare, and republican leaders claim power in the name of family values and free markets. They both like to claim law and order. The result is always the same: an ever more powerful centralized government, ever less concerned with the freedoms of its people.

"This community is the obvious response to that threat. Americans, as a whole, don't seem to believe that war, either civil or foreign, could ever reach them. They feel safe. Even with the riots now, and all the trouble on the east coast - they think it will just blow over. We don't harbor that illusion, haven't for a long time. And while I don't think I could stop the threat to this country as a whole, I do think I can protect my people."

I felt a little indicted. Yes, the news the last few months had been full of reports of violence and civil unrest. The National Guard had been called into four different cities to stop the looting and arson. But yes, I absolutely assumed it would blow over. I still thought that.

"We've built a community here which is evermore self-sustaining. For the time being, we enjoy trade with the outside, but our expectation is that such commerce will not always be possible. We are ready for that eventuality."

I sat with that for a minute, rolled it around in my head. "So... kind of an apolitical, doomsday prepper, homestead vibe?"

He sighed, and I could practically hear my aunt telling me to stop putting everything in a box. I couldn't help it; I liked knowing what a thing was.

But, I realized I'd gotten sidetracked.

"You

do

know how I ended up here, right? He must have followed me to my campsite. He forced tranquilizers down my throat, Justin. Dragged me across three states while I was mostly unconscious. It doesn't exactly match your 'give me liberty or give me death' aesthetic." I thought back to what Ben had said at the door:

'You said...'

Like a promise had been made.

"Why do I get the feeling I'm not going to like what comes next?"

A moment passed in awkward silence, and I found I was suddenly struggling to swallow around the disappointment in my throat.

"You're not going to let me leave, are you?" Were they

all

insane? How the fuck could he justify it?

"I

am

going to let you leave." I didn't believe him. I could tell from the regret in his eyes there was a big fucking 'but' coming on.

"You are owed the same freedom as every other person here. Not to mention, you're a liability. We don't generally break the law here; we hold ourselves to a higher set of standards.

"...However, I also owe a debt to Ben. My life, actually. Several times over."

There it fucking was.

"Skylar, I told him two weeks. He has two weeks to convince you to stay. After that, if you want, I will personally drive you to a bus station and give you enough cash to comfortably get back to your car or your home."

I glared at him for a few beats. It was honestly better than I'd hoped for, but still.

"They weren't your two weeks to give."

"You're not wrong." He traced his finger along the edge of the calendar on his desk. "And I'm honestly unnerved at what Ben did. It's wildly out of character. He's a gentle soul, Skylar. It made life difficult for him in the military. I have to think that for him to do something so extreme, he was motivated by something big."

Justin looked back up at me. "I won't presume to ask for your forgiveness. But I do ask that you try to keep an open mind."

I didn't have much to say to that.

"He'll probably be a while, if you want to look around by yourself. No one will give you trouble, although they might have questions. Ben has never shown much interest in a relationship before. Bit of a heartbreaker."

I wasn't expecting the edge of jealousy that hit me at his casual statement; decided not to look it in the eye. "I'll do that," I murmured, getting up to leave.

"And Skylar-"

I turned to look at him, as he was clearly waiting for me to do.

"I hope you choose to stay."

-----------

Wandering back through the front rec room, I dragged my fingers along the chair backs, the polished wood frame of the pool table, the aluminum window ledge. I felt aimless. The righteous indignation with which I'd marched out of Justin's office had evaporated as soon as I'd lost my audience.

If I went for the gates, would they really stop me? After talking with Justin, I didn't think so. These people prided themselves on being more civilized than the rest of civilization. I didn't think they'd shoot me. But I also didn't think they'd open the gate. Could I climb over the fence? Find a rug or something to throw over the razor wire?

And then what? I had no money, no phone, no car. I could probably make it back to the town in a day of walking, assuming no one was interested in stopping me. And then, what? Call the police? That didn't feel right, calling the police on these people.

God, did I value myself so little? He had

drugged and kidnapped me.

Yes....And then fed me, snuggled me, gave me a head-spinning orgasm, brought me to breakfast, introduced me to everyone, left me to wander around... It made a confusing narrative. I had to admit, I would be ashamed to report it.

I thought about Chicago. What Chris and Lisa, my friends, my ex, my regulars at the tavern would all be doing right now. I pictured them each, one at a time. It wasn't hard to imagine their likely activities, and their contentment. How little my absence would be impacting them. That wasn't a self-pitying thought; just the natural effect of the way I'd always kept myself a little closed off. It had felt safer to keep my cards close to my chest. Safer, but I could also admit, more hollow.

If they saw me standing here, a snapshot, right now, they would not be worried. I didn't look much like a hostage.

There was a painted upright piano against one wall, and I let out a sigh of relief to see it. An old friend. I pulled out the bench, let my foot find the pedals, my fingers move over the keys. Grateful for the moment of privacy, I played a few quiet scales, listening to the tuning.

Sinking into the muscle memory, the first few notes came without much intention. A choppy start, paced like a wind up toy - slow and then rushed. A little melancholy, a little sweet. It was one Lisa had often requested. While I played it now, I noticed how it settled me. I let it still my mind, keep my fingers busy. The notes ebbed and flowed, tripping over themselves and then quieting, clumsy but still elegant. Contradictory.

I cycled through that theme, playing with the end to transition into a Pixies song. Chris would have said, for the hundredth time, that I 'made sad sound so pretty.' Maybe it was indulgent, letting the minor notes run wild like that. Well, I could indulge. Who gave a fuck? What was the point in so much self restraint? Endless control.

My humming faded into and back out of actual singing. I didn't know all the lyrics. But the chorus felt apt.

When his arms slipped around me and his head settled against my back, I admit, it felt like home. I didn't even startle, didn't lose a note.

He was on his knees behind me, trying to compact himself to match me.

"I didn't know," he murmured when I was done. He kissed the top of my spine.

I turned to face him, let my chin rest on top of his head for a change. "That's not exactly surprising. We don't actually know very much about each other."

He breathed against me, enjoying the quiet for a beat. Always so self assured.

"We will."

----------

He took me out to the fields next.

It was a gorgeous spring day, sunny and mild. The wind whipped my hair into my face but it was impossible to be irritated, standing there watching the grassy stems bending like water.

"When we started, the goal was complete self-sufficiency within ten years. That was assuming only a handful of people would be here full time to start, with the rest of us coming down a month or two per year. When the rioting got going though, Justin bumped up the timeline to a goal of fully off-grid in 18 months. I mean, technically we've been off grid since the start, but I mean totally independent.

"That's why everyone is rolling in this week, why the mood is so big. We've all left our jobs, our other commitments. This is everything now."

I trailed my hands through the stalks and angled myself so the sun wasn't in my eyes. The lines of grasses stretched on and on.

"Justin's background is engineering, so the well and infrastructure projects were his focus these last few years. Solar, the windmill. But Damian and Brett have been saying from the start that this experiment will thrive or die based on food."

"What grain is this?" I interrupted.

In Illinois, nearly all the farms either grew soybeans or corn. I could see rows of corn further down, already as high as I was accustomed to seeing in July. But the crop I was touching was unfamiliar.

"Kernza. It's a perennial wheat, so the roots are much deeper. Drought resistant. And we don't have to till and replant every year. The seed was crazy expensive, but it's a long term investment."

"This is what Damian makes his bread from?" Maybe that was obvious, but the idea of converting this green field to last night's toast was like alchemy: totally preposterous.