A one-word chant had been the start: Freak. As the circle tightened around the nine-year-old boy, the chant got louder and the pointing fingers became fists.
This was new. Nothing like this had happened in his previous school, but he’d heard about such behavior from television and some of the others with whom he’d attended the Montessori School.
Because the boy’s mind worked faster than the average person could comprehend, he already knew exactly what was going to happen, why, and how. He winced, waiting for the first blow.
Seven against one. The chant had become four-letter words spat like bile from the mouths of the attackers as they punched, kicked, shoved, the inequity of numbers apparently meaningless to the lot of them. As was the fact that they were thirteen and fourteen years old and much, much bigger than their victim.
When they were done, the boy lay bleeding and barely conscious on the concrete schoolyard basketball court. None of the older boys returned to check and make sure he was even alive. Why would they?
A chilly September breeze finally brought the boy back to sufficient awareness for him to try getting up. He struggled against an even balance between confusion, sorrow, and pain, but made it to his feet. Odd as it may have looked, he smiled. Not an idiotic smile or a happy one. Grim, ironic, something like that.
Because while the ones who had hurt him most likely believed they’d achieved some kind of victory, the boy knew he’d eventually beat them all on a totally different level. For one thing, he could have told them not only the names of the three bones he could feel had been broken, but their Latin names, the names of the muscles that moved them, and what his body was doing to deal with the trauma of those injuries.
He’d have to tell his mother, naturally, but he’d insist that it had been an accident so she wouldn’t feel guilty about making him leave the other school to attend this one – for his social development, she and his father had explained. He knew they believed they were doing the best possible thing, and couldn’t bring himself to shatter that well-intentioned decision. After all, how could they possibly have foreseen something like this?
When he was a block from his house, he stopped to lean against a tree and catch his breath. He was hurting very badly, the endorphins that had shielded him from the initial onset of agony fading. He bit back a cry and closed his eyes.
And in the darkness afforded by tear-stung lids, something began to grow, to form, something new, ugly, and powerful. Too weak from his hurts to ward it off or think it away, he gave in to it, let it happen, and by the time he could open his eyes and start walking again, he knew its name.
Fury.
Another day, another argument.
Marion Kenton came from a world where one did not raise one’s voice in anger. She grew up in an atmosphere where tact, good manners, and kind words were the arbiters of dispute. Shouting was, in that world, a serious breach of etiquette. Yet here, in her own home, the men in her life had somehow thrown away these unwritten rules in favor of loud, emotional outbursts.
Ryan was a wonderful husband despite this, and her son, Rowan, was an amazing child. But the day Rowan had started expressing opinions that contradicted his father’s (as only a teenager can) this vociferous form of arguing had been born. Cordial at first, their disagreements had eventually escalated into all-out war, until they could no longer be in the same room for more than five minutes without a battle erupting.
She covered her ears against the noise of the raging argument occurring in the library and crossed the foyer to the formal sitting room. So much for finding something to read, she thought, closing the double doors behind her.
The relative silence of this room was a relief. Noise of this sort gave her headaches, so she decided a retreat was in order. Generally, the large, sunny chamber was the domain of Marion’s mother, Agatha, Duchess of Langesley, but she knew the woman wouldn’t object to company.
“It isn’t right, my dear,” the older woman said, her voice still rich and commanding despite her years. She was seated in her usual place on the far side of the room in a deeply padded saffron brocade chair that her grandchildren laughingly called, “The Throne.”
“You heard them, then.”
“I’m old, not deaf.”
“Yes, mother, I know.” She sighed and went to one of the charming arched windows that looked out on their massive, immaculately landscaped front lawn. “But there’s nothing I can do about it, is there.”
“Stop pouting and come here, girl. No one’s asking you to do anything.”
Obediently, she left the window and sat delicately on the edge of the love seat adjacent to her mother’s chair. Marion was a very beautiful woman who carried herself with all the grace expected of a Duchess’ daughter, and men reacted to this with instinctive politeness, opening doors for her, some even tipping their hats, a practice that was so obsolete it even surprised the ones doing it.
Ryan Kenton, the eldest son of one of Boston’s “better” families, had fallen in love with her within seconds of being introduced. Despite being only one of many suitors, he had managed to win her heart with his rather boyish manner, genuine good-heartedness, and (although Marion never would have willingly admitted it) extreme good looks. The Duchess had experienced some doubts about him at first, but he’d proven himself a worthy match – until three years ago, when the disputes with Rowan had begun.
“I simply do not understand that husband of yours,” the older woman continued. “He knows how such behavior makes you feel, yet he doesn’t seem to care. All that matters to him is winning the argument, regardless of the toll it takes on your health!”
“Oh, mother, let’s not be melodramatic about this. It bothers me, yes, but I’m not exactly pining away or experiencing the constant onset of fatal diseases.”
“No, you’re not, and that isn’t what I meant. I’m talking about the headaches and the fact that you find yourself unable to eat for hours afterward.”
Marion slid back so she could rest against the cushions behind her. “You can’t blame him exclusively, you know,” she pointed out. “Rowan isn’t a baby any more, and should take some of that responsibility.”
“No, he’s what – fifteen now? Hmph. Fifteen going on thirty. I cannot for the life of me understand why you didn’t either keep him in that special school or let him start at the University when he was younger. Public education in this country tends to fill children’s heads with all kinds of nonsense, and it wasn’t until he attended the local high school that he and Ryan began having so many differences of opinion.”
“Fifteen.” She nodded in agreement, knowing exactly what her mother meant. At fifteen, Rowan was a college sophomore, could speak eight languages fluently, knew every bone and organ in the human body by name and location, had the artistic skills of a young Da Vinci, had written several papers on quantum physics just for fun, and probably would have graduated long before now had she and Ryan not insisted that he leave the rarified atmosphere of the Montessori school and try getting along in a regular one. Ryan believed the boy would never develop properly unless he was among others of his own age, while Marion, ever conscious of the social ramifications of one’s actions, agreed he would be an outcast among students six to eight years older.
With the belief that a four-year age gap between Rowan and the other students would be less noticeable, he’d been transferred into the eighth grade at a nearby public school when he was nine, despite passing a college entrance exam earlier that same year.
After one week, Marion had realized their mistake, but the boy’s stoic denial that the bruises on his arms and face had anything to do with him being a victim of bullying, had won her silence. She said nothing to Ryan about their son’s intellect making him the target of every mean-spirited child in the school, and she’d backed Rowan’s insistence that school was great and that he didn’t want to leave. It almost broke her heart.
By the time he was thirteen, his teachers had refused to try to teach him any more – he already knew more than they did – so they enrolled him in college as a freshman. He stopped coming home with black eyes, lacerations and broken bones, but even so, Marion had her suspicions. Perhaps it was the way he would sigh, his expression full of misery, or the barely-contained fury she saw in his eyes when he thought no one was looking.
“We were only trying to help him, mother,” she continued. “Being a genius of his caliber can’t be easy, and we wanted him to make friends among his own age group.”
“And did he?”
She shrugged, not wishing to travel down that particular track, and asked her mother if she wanted some tea. Before the older woman could answer, the muffled voices on the other side of the foyer suddenly became louder.
“You little hypocrite!” Ryan bellowed. He had opened the door and stepped out of the library, his words painfully clear. “How dare you stand there and pontificate about the ‘evil rich’ and how unfair it is that they have so much when others have so little, while you live comfortably in a twenty-five-room mansion, the spoiled oldest son of a wealthy family! Why don’t you get the hell out and live with them?! Then we’d see how sorry you’d feel, you goddam fool!”
The women heard him stomp to the front door, and slam it behind him as he left. This was followed by utter silence and Marion headed for the door, frowning.
“And where are you off to?” her mother demanded.
“I just want to see – ”
“Leave it be, Marion. They have to reconcile their own differences.”
Marion hesitated, but then gave her mother a sad smile. “They don’t know how.”
Marion was right, of course, and Lady Agatha was momentarily silenced, giving her daughter the time she needed to leave before words could be found to stop her.
Not knowing what to expect, Marion slipped through the door Ryan had left open. Everything appeared normal from where she stood, and she released the sigh of relief that she hadn’t known she’d been holding. Father and son had not resorted to throwing things at each other – this time. The room was quiet now, except for the comfortable ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner by one of the windows.
Rowan sat, slumped in an armchair next to the fireplace, a look of deep brooding darkening his features. Marion felt an involuntary flush of pride as she gazed at his handsome young face. He had inherited the thick black hair and pleasant features from his father, but his height came from her side of the family. He was already as tall as his father’s five-feet-eleven-inches, and would be taller still by the time he stopped growing.
The boy seemed to sense her presence, and looked up.
Marion had unusual, deep grey eyes, while Ryan’s were green. Rowan, however, perhaps through a recessive gene, had somehow inherited eyes that were a beautiful, serene shade of light greyish blue that, while not exactly odd, did cause many people to do a double-take. And for their easy beauty, the color of his eyes always made Marion smile.
She smiled now as she came further into the room and asked him if he was okay.
Rowan sat straighter and said, “Father was right, you know.”
“Whatever are you talking about?”
“He called me a hypocrite, and he’s absolutely right.” Rowan looked away, one elbow on the arm of the chair, as he chewed thoughtfully on his thumbnail.
As usual, Marion had no idea what they’d been arguing over, so she addressed the matter that had brought her here. “Rowan, please listen to me.” She stood a little straighter, folding her hands in front of her like a schoolgirl preparing to give a recitation. “You and your father have got to be more understanding of each other’s points of view. Being older, he’s much more set in his thinking, so you have to be more flexible. As the psychiatrists explained, your special level of intellect puts you on the same level as your father in many ways, but you must recognize that he has had more life experiences that grant him a fuller view of the world. This gives him a perspective you don’t have right now, you see. And while I’m sure the things you argue about are very important to you both, nothing is so very important that it should be allowed to destroy the bonds of affection that hold a family together.”
Rowan regarded her with what looked like a mixture of remorse and amusement; Marion had eloquently made an important point that he could not ignore, and she knew it.
The tiniest of smiles flickered at the corner of his mouth, vanishing almost as soon as it appeared. “I’ve overheard you telling father that our disagreements disturb you, that they give you severe headaches, and that at times you want to run away. But I didn’t take it seriously until now. I’m sorry.” He got up gave her a light kiss on the forehead. “I know we should stop quarreling.”
“Well, it certainly isn’t pleasant to hear.”
Rowan walked to the fireplace and stared blindly into the cold ashes.
He really is a good son, Marion thought.
“Look.” He turned to face her again. “I just – I guess I was getting so caught up that I didn’t think about how all the yelling was making you feel.” He thrust his hands into the pockets of his blazer and stared at the floor.
She wanted to go to him then, to hug him and tell him it was all right, the way she used to when he was small. Then she thought, Ah, but he isn’t small anymore. He’s almost a man now, and should be able to work this one out by himself. So she waited and watched him struggle with his feelings.
Finally, he looked up and with resolve said, “Mother, no matter how much I disagree with Father’s views, I promise to keep quiet and avoid any argument with him, and maybe. . .he’ll stop wanting to fight, too.”
She did go to him then, and they embraced with mutual relief, the crisis appearing to be resolved for the time being.
“Well, congratulations!” piped Marion’s mother from the doorway, startling them both. “There’s hope for the boy after all!” Without waiting for a response, she chuckled and returned to the sitting room.
Rowan and Marion stared at each other in surprise, and then broke into pleasant laughter.
“Come, let’s have some tea,” Marion suggested.
He grinned, put an arm around her shoulders, and they left the library.
Thank goodness Edmund and Charlotte have no opinions, the woman thought as they entered the kitchen.
Had these other two of her children heard this, they would have been appalled at her innocent view of them. Rowan, on the other hand, just would have laughed.
∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞
After storming out of the house, Ryan had gone to the kennels, retrieved his two dogs, and headed for the woods. He owned these woods, and was grateful for their comforting presence. But it disturbed him that he had needed to seek such solitary outings more and more frequently these days.
“Damn that boy!” he now exclaimed into the stillness. One of the dogs raised a questioning muzzle at this outburst, whining. Ryan looked down at the setter’s auburn head, shaking his own. “It’s all right, girl,” he murmured, scratching her silky ears.
Ryan would never admit it to anyone else, but the main reason he responded so violently to his son’s outbursts was, quite simply, that Rowan frightened him. Normally, the boy was a quiet, sensitive individual whose pleasant personality and unusual intellect made him easy company. However, if Rowan felt strongly about something, he abruptly changed. His entire body would become taut with an intense fury that went beyond any emotion Ryan ever experienced, or what he thought a boy of fifteen should be capable of feeling.
The rage in those otherwise peaceful eyes was terrifying because it was so unexpected. He assumed that Marion had never seen her son in this state and couldn’t possibly know the paralyzing effect it had on those subjected to it. For this reason, he rarely discussed the situation with her.
But Marion had seen that look, even if it had never been directed at her, which softened its impact considerably. Ryan didn’t know this, however, and the only way he was able to deal with these confrontations was to become loud and offensive. It was either that, or cower in fear, something he would never allow himself to do.
The man uttered a helpless laugh at his predicament. Rowan had turned fifteen only two months ago. If he could elicit that much fear in a grown man at this tender age, what would he be capable of when he reached adulthood? And the other question, of course, was why? Why so deep an anger in one so young? This wasn’t the first time he’d wondered about this. During the one or two brief discussions he’d had with her on the matter, she seemed reluctant to deal with it. So he came to the conclusion that perhaps it was because the boy was so different from his peers, and had always struggled to make or keep friends. But while this might account for it in part, he was sure Rowan suffered in other ways, and told no one. Pride keeps its secrets well.
Had his position as a Representative not required that he spend months at a time in Washington, D.C. while Congress was in session, he would have seen the black eyes, the bruises, the bloody noses and nasty cuts. He also would have seen the rage in his son’s eyes when these things happened and then none of Rowan’s fury would have been a mystery.
One good thing that had grown out of the man’s ignorance was, ironically, Rowan’s extensive knowledge of self-defense. On those occasions when Ryan came home in time to see his son sporting a cast, he’d been told that the boy had been clumsy yet again, and that he had a slight coordination problem due to growth spurts and fell out of something from time to time.
Believing that lessons in various forms of self-defense would improve his son’s grace and balance, he had enrolled the boy in boxing, karate, fencing, horseback riding, and – to Rowan’s complete horror – ballroom dancing. Since he actually had wonderful coordination, he excelled at all of these disciplines (including the dancing, even though he hated it).
Still, because bullies always attacked him in packs, he’d always been outnumbered and he never bothered using these skills. Rowan figured that he’d wait for a situation in which the odds of victory were better. Only it never came, so he repressed his frustration, shoving it tightly into the same place where he kept his anger and his mangled sense of justice. There, they blended together and fermented. When he and his father would argue, small quantities of this violent brew would come to the surface and be vented, but the source and its vast reserves remained hidden.
So Ryan remained clueless and confused about the boy’s behavior, and while he used these walks through the woods for the purpose of calming his own anger, he found that at last he was sick of it all. It was time to find a solution.
He picked up a branch lying in the path and flung it far off into the trees. The dogs bounded after it, crashing with hysterical dog-joy through the sun-speckled springtime undergrowth.
The boy was unquestionably right about many things, he admitted, such as corrupt party politics practiced by Ryan’s peers – and even, at times, by him. But this was the sad truth about any government, and back door deals were something that couldn’t be avoided when the need for power was evident. Eventually, Rowan would have to reconcile himself with these realities, especially if he wished to pursue a career in law
However, while the boy still lived at home, that temper of his would have to be watched, and its emergence avoided by a more careful, diplomatic means of discussing politics. Perhaps they should simply stay away from all volatile topics completely.
Bumping into each other as they ran, the dogs returned, the younger one dropping the branch at Ryan’s feet. He smiled at their expectant faces, but shook his head. “We have to go back now,” he said, turning. As they left the shelter of the woods and headed for the kennels, Ryan concluded that one day his son would grow up and cease to view life through the lens of roseate idealism. Meanwhile, their political discussions would be kept to a minimum. Rowan’s temper was simply too much to handle.
Ryan made sure that the dogs had enough water and secured their kennels before entering the house through one of the back doors that led into the kitchen. He was calmer now, and began humming tunelessly as he peered over the cook’s shoulder and into the large pot of soup she was stirring.
“Ah!” He breathed deeply of the aroma, enjoying it. “What’s tonight’s poison, Francine?”
The woman gave him a sideways scowl. “Poison, indeed, Monsieur!” she chided with mock reproach. “For such naughtiness, I do not tell you! I only say that you have just now missed your wife and son.”
“And what were they doing in here?” he asked, grinning at her attempt to appear stern.
“Having the tea.”
“I see. Thank you, Francine.” He gave her a friendly pat on her hefty shoulder and went out, leaving her to finish the “potage.”
By the time he reached the foyer, his equanimity was more or less restored. He headed back into the library, intending to finish the paperwork that had been interrupted by his confrontation with Rowan. His office was upstairs, but its atmosphere was more business-like, and at the moment, he preferred the quiet, familiar ambiance of this room.
“Hello, Father.”
Charlotte had emerged from the sitting room and walked up to him. Like her mother, she was tall and delicate, her thirteen-year-old features already promising great beauty. “How was your day?” she asked, kissing him on the cheek.
Ryan smiled. “Oh, it had its ups and downs. Where is your mother?”
She shrugged and casually plucked a small twig from the sleeve of his tweed jacket. “I believe she’s getting ready for dinner.”
“Never mind, missy. I have some work to do. There’s plenty of time for me to change before the meal.”
“All right, but please don’t get so wrapped up that you forget, like you did yesterday.” She turned away with a grin. “I have to get some flowers for the table,” she tossed over her shoulder, heading off to the moderate-sized greenhouse attached to the south side of the house. “See you at dinner.”
Ryan watched her affectionately until she disappeared, and then he went into the library. His mind turned to the bill he would reintroduce to Congress when the new session began. The contents of this bill had sparked the latest argument with Rowan and he ended up revisiting that unpleasant scene despite his resolve otherwise.
Sitting comfortably behind a massive antique desk near one of the windows, he pulled out a notepad from a side drawer. Some of the bill’s phrasing needed revision before he submitted the work. He struggled to concentrate on the purpose of the legislation, which was to cut unnecessary Welfare spending and make the current laws much less complicated. His first attempt had been a resounding failure because of those, like his son, who either couldn’t see or couldn’t be bothered to pick apart the current system that assisted those who didn’t need it, while ignoring those who did and were denied because of ridiculous technicalities that were written into the statutes. As far as Ryan was concerned, the present state of the system did nothing but plunge too many of its recipients deeper into a mentality of hopeless entitlement that kept them at the poverty level forever. How could Rowan possibly understand that? Ryan had been right about the boy’s hypocrisy and he knew it. More to the point, so had Rowan. That had been plain enough by the look of open chagrin on his son’s face.
He thoughtfully tapped his lips with the top of his pen, then started to write. To Ryan, using the computer to work out his thoughts was more distracting than helpful. His typing skills were awful and by the time he could peck out a sentence, he’d lost his entire train of thought. As a result, he had long ago opted for pen and paper. Once the basic wording was finished, he would type it in, using the word processor’s edit features to polish it before e-mailing it to his office in Washington when he was at home. When he was in D.C., his secretary took care of all that.
Sometimes when he was home on break, Charlotte would type for him, or Edmund, who was the quintessential computer geek. Rowan’s younger brother was a rather cute and personable geek, who had no problem making friends, all of them from different sectors of the student population. Charlotte too, was well-liked. Her sweet nature and natural beauty made her the center of everyone’s attention. They were both highly intelligent, but neither came near Rowan’s level of genius, which probably had a great deal to do with their more easy-going personalities.
He looked down at the sentence he’d been writing and laughed: “The current state of hypocrisy is, of necessity, a naive boy. . .” Chuckling, he tore the paper off the pad, wadded it up and tossed it into the waste basket by the side of the desk. “Concentrate, Kenton,” he advised himself, starting over.
About ten minutes before dinner, Edmund wandered into the library. “Oh, hi,” the boy said. “You didn’t happen to see a book with a disgusting pink cover lying around, did you?”
“No – sorry.” Ryan glanced over at the grandfather clock and got to his feet, stretching. “Glad you came in – I would have worked through dinner again.”
“What’s that?” Edmund gestured toward the paper-strewn desk.
“Part of a bill for reintroduction.”
His interest obviously fading, the boy nodded politely. Even though he was in the sixth grade, Edmund had already decided to be a programmer in the nuclear chemistry field, so law and politics simply didn’t hold him in thrall the way it did his father and older brother.
“What’s the book?” Ryan queried, gathering his papers.
“Latin grammar stuff. Never mind. . .I think I left it in the bathroom.” He started to leave, but hesitated at the door. “I don’t know what you said to Rowan, but he’s sure acting all subdued suddenly.”
“Subdued? What are you talking about?”
“I don’t know.” He shrugged. “I guess you’ll see.”
At first, Ryan detected no difference in his oldest son, other than the reticence that always followed a major argument. But as the meal progressed, he realized Rowan was saying nothing at all to anyone, and was pushing food around his plate with an uncharacteristic lack of appetite.
While dessert was served, Ryan said, “You’ll be happy to know, Marion, that I finally got the wording for that welfare bill set down in a satisfactory manner.”
His wife’s eyes flicked briefly to Rowan, but the boy just smiled weakly at his father. “I’m glad to hear that, Ryan,” she replied. “Perhaps we’ll see more of you before you leave for Washington in another week or so?”
“Yes, love, you shall.”
“What do you hope to accomplish with the legislation?” asked Charlotte, knowing full well that a huge quarrel would ensue, but not caring. Her brother’s uncustomary silence was getting on her nerves.
“I just want to see the system cleaned up, honey.”
Rowan’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing.
“Missed your cue, Ro,” muttered Edmund.
“Hm?” Rowan regarded his younger brother in mild surprise. “I wasn’t aware that this was a play.”
“Forget it.” Edmund shook his head and dug into his sorbet.
When dinner ended, Mr. Kenton called Rowan into the library and asked him to sit down.
“Son,” he began, pacing in front of him, “I know damned well you haven’t suddenly come over to my way of thinking, so what’s bothering you? That was the first time you’ve been without some hot rejoinder to a stated opinion of mine, and I can’t help wondering why.”
Rowan ran a hand through his thick hair and sighed. “Listen,” he said after a moment, “it’s true. I still don’t agree with your opinions, but I’ve decided not to fight with you anymore.”
“Why is that?”
The boy looked up at his father for a long moment. “Because it’s hurting mother and destroying our family. That’s why.” He pushed himself to his feet. “I will say this, though: while I feel you’re totally incorrect about the way you handle many issues, you were absolutely right about me. I’m a hypocrite.”
“We’re all hypocrites in one way or another, Rowan.”
“Maybe. However, I might be able to do something about myself.”
“Oh? In what way?”
Rowan shrugged and went slowly to the door, his expression thoughtful. “I’m not sure, but. . .I’ll come up with something. Good night.”
He went out, leaving his father encouraged if somewhat baffled. Ryan missed the good relationship they’d enjoyed before all the bickering and fighting had begun, and it looked as if now there might be a reconciliation.
“Okay, Rowan,” he told the absent boy, “if you want a truce, you’ve got it.”