Chapter 3
O n the other hand, as we made our way back to the house, past the pool and the horses and everything else the Hunts owned, I had to say that there were some times in which I just could not stand Mr. Hunt.
Mrs. Hunt was tolerable, although she seemed to sometimes have aggressive mood swings, not so much from happy to sad, but happy to utterly withdrawn.
She would go from cleaning my clothes off, fearing for my life from the tiniest scratch, and making sure I had the cleanest shoes in all of Connecticut, to just getting a look in her eye, standing up, looking at Mr. Hunt, and walking away.
At first, it confused me and made me wonder if she felt she was not allowed to treat me as she did Morgan.
But then, she would do it to Morgan too, and the feelings of jealousy and paranoia would quickly vanish. My gratitude toward Mrs. Hunt grew all the time, although I could never quite call it love, not with all of the conditions surrounding it.
But Mr. Hunt…
Edwin Hunt seemed to carry the way he conducted business to the house.
He doted on Morgan, probably because Morgan would take over Hunt Industries someday, while I got the occasional “Hello, Chance,” if he seemed festive.
If he wasn’t—which, let’s be honest, was most of the time—then he would just walk right by me and ignore me.
I prayed that we got the attentive Mrs. Claire Hunt and the cheerful Mr. Edwin Hunt today. I didn’t need even more people disliking me after the disaster that was the Sarah Hill incident just now.
We chased each other as if Mrs. Hunt had promised us fresh ribeye steaks at the house. Whenever one of us seemed to get the upper hand, the other would lunge, slow the other down, and sprint ahead. It became a nonstop race in which no clear winner would emerge.
“Morgan and Chance Hunt!”
As it turned out, there was an easy answer to that question. No one would win, because Mrs. Hunt would see what we had done to ourselves.
“My goodness! The two of you—heavens, are you OK?”
“I’m fine, Mom,” Morgan said, cheerful but with a hint of annoyance. “We were just playing.”
“I know you were just playing, you two are always just playing, I just wished that ‘just playing’ didn’t make you bleed so much. Oh, my, look at these clothes, we’re going to have to clean up so much. I might have to get you new clothes, oh…”
I didn’t bother to tell her that from where I came from, if shoes got muddy or dirty, they became features of the shoes, not grounds to get rid of them.
I didn’t bother to tell her that the idea of getting new shoes on a whim would never make sense to me, even if I happened to someday make as much money as Mr. Hunt.
I didn’t bother to tell her that the more she spoke like this, the more removed from the family I felt.
“Now, dearest Claire, let Morgan have his time.”
Notably, but not surprisingly, Mr. Hunt’s voice from the other room did not include me.
But, on the other hand, his voice didn’t carry any anger or disappointment in it.
Perhaps I would get to settle for passive indifference today—I could work with that.
It would give me the space to get over how fucked up everything felt with Sarah and my “family” situation.
“He’s got to enjoy himself if he’s going to grow into the type of man I want him to be,” Mr. Hunt continued. “Isn’t that right, son?”
The way he annunciated son… the way he paused just before saying the word…
the way he seemed to relish using that particular title with me present, I knew it wasn’t an accident.
Mr. Hunt didn’t hate me, no, but he sure wouldn’t care if I just up and left.
In fact, it might make his life easier. Only because of Morgan, the alternative, and to a small extent, Mrs. Hunt, did I stick around.
“Boys, boys, boys, what were you doing out there?” Mrs. Hunt asked.
“Just playing,” Morgan said.
Please don’t mention Sarah. Please don’t mention Sarah. Please don’t mention Sarah.
I trusted Morgan enough not to run his mouth, though more because a boy from a family like the Hunts knew better than to blurt out ugly truths like that. It would seem “uncouth” or whatever fancy adjective Mr. Hunt liked to use to differentiate himself from the rest of the world.
“You and your ‘just playing’,” Mrs. Hunt said as she continued to clean us up. “Very well, Chance, your turn. Morgan, go see your father.”
Morgan left without a word, hurrying over to his father. It must have felt nice to have a father that he could run to without hesitation. It must have felt good. Real good.
Something I’d never get to feel.
“Chance, how are you, honey?” Mrs. Hunt said. “You don’t look so good. You look like you had a bumblebee poke your nose.”
“I’m fine,” I said.
It was not lost on me that I had adapted Mrs. Hunt’s tendency to either be the life of the party or completely withdrawn in certain settings. Maybe it was a bit arrogant, but, frankly, in that moment, fuck it.
“You can tell me the truth, dear,” Mrs. Hunt said. “If there’s one thing a mother can sense, it’s when her children are suffering, even if those children do not want to admit it.”
A mother. Her children.
As much as the distance would never close, I appreciated Mrs. Hunt speaking like that, even though Mr. Hunt never would.
I contemplated telling her the truth… if anyone could hear it, it was her…
but to tell her risked word getting around to Mr. Hunt…
and while it wasn’t like him to belittle me—I was twelve, for God’s sakes—he certainly would use it as another excuse to see me as emotionally weak, a boy whose only future connection to the family would be as a butler or chauffeur or some other equally supportive but low-status role.
But the moment had gotten to me. I could not help it. That, and I didn’t feel like screaming into my pillow.
“This girl left me,” I said.
“Oh, Chance, I’m sorry,” Mrs. Hunt said, continuing to clean me. I felt a little disappointed that she had seemed to take the answer a little too in stride, as if I had told her that I had tripped in the forest and gotten a small amount of poison ivy. “Are you feeling OK?”
Well, gee, maybe I wouldn’t be looking like this if I were feeling OK, would I?
Chance… relax.
“Not really,” I said.
“Oh, you needn’t worry about her,” Mrs. Hunt said. “You will meet plenty of women as you move forward. You will have plenty of chances to find love. I would not worry in the slightest.”
And while Mrs. Hunt made a great point, she did not understand the consequences of what had just transpired. I had confessed to Sarah I was adopted in the hopes that it would make me seem more real. Instead, it had caused me to lose her.
And Sarah would not stay quiet about this.
She didn’t stay quiet about much. I was looking at a future of mocking and derision from the boys in school, cold shoulders at worst and polite rejection at best from the girls, and judgmental gazes from my teachers whenever I failed to answer a question properly.
I had not just lost Sarah; I had lost a chance to continue having fun in school.
Suddenly, the notion that I had to get the hell out of town seemed more pressing than ever.
Wherever I went to school, it would not be in the state of Connecticut—with apologies to Yale, Mr. Hunt’s alma mater and the school Morgan had seemed destined to go to since the beginning days.
I would go somewhere far away, where my identity did not tie into the Hunts, where my last name meant nothing more than who I had spent the first 18 years—or majority thereof—with.
I would, in short, make a name for myself.
Except… I knew in my heart the name would follow me wherever I went. Forever the black sheep of the Hunt family, it would affect me for as long as I ran in these circles.
It felt like I had no happy middle ground.
I was either cursed to poverty, to go back to the foster home, forced to work menial jobs and live in a crappy apartment, a nightmarish existence following the bliss and benefits of my current situation…
or I was chained to the shackles of the Hunts, given everything I could ever want except for contentment, satisfaction, and peace.
I would be in this world, but I would not be of this world.
“I wish I could,” I finally said after several seconds had passed. “But I liked her a lot.”
That was true. I could have just as easily, though, been speaking about the world I had crafted at school, where people thought of me as Morgan’s barely younger brother. I liked it a lot.
Now…
“In time, things will get better,” she said.
Then, as if on cue, Mrs. Hunt froze. Her arm practically paused where it was, as if she could not move a single finger from where she cleaned me off.
I looked up at her finally and saw her gazing to the backyard, as if she suddenly wanted to sprint into the woods.
Why? I could never know. Maybe she had thought of something related to a real family member that troubled her.
Or, maybe, she realized that even if she meant what she said, it was still a lie.
I would still be an outsider, no matter what.
Things would not get better. Things would get worse.
Or, in the absolute best scenario, I would have to adjust my definition of better and worse, so that I started from such a low place that even taking a couple of steps down from my current spot still felt better than where I could let her go.
“Mrs. Hunt?” I said.
I don’t know why I said her name, as if asking if she were OK, when I knew she wouldn’t say much, if anything at all. Perhaps it was a fear of letting down the only adult Hunt who cared for me, I don’t know.
All I know is that at that moment, in the distance, I could hear Mr. Hunt’s voice fill the air.
“… this is how we do things, Morgan. You have no mercy on the opposition. When you take over Hunt Industries, I expect you to rule with an iron fist. Smile to their face, keep the first behind your back, and crush it into their skulls when they turn around.”
“I know, Dad.”
Morgan’s voice did not sound particularly comfortable, though I had heard Mr. Hunt speak in such drastically harsh terms many times before.
He liked to see himself as a lone soldier in a field of enemy combatants, tasked with destroying the enemy—other businesses—as viciously and with as much finality as he could.
It seemed… even at twelve years old, it seemed evil and wrong, but who the hell was I to say?
It got Mr. Hunt his house and everything else. It got me a place to stay.
“Go see Dad.”
I was shocked to hear Mrs. Hunt’s words.
I gazed up at her again, but she had not turned her attention to me at all.
She simply stood, turned, and went in the other direction, as if what she had suggested had been her final words for the days.
I swear I heard her sniffle, but it might as well have been allergies.
It always seemed like Mrs. Hunt was on the verge of tears, but it also always seemed like she never lost her composure.
The skills of a billionaire’s wife, I suppose.
Left alone, I decided not annoying either parent made the most sense and headed for Mr. Hunt. Sitting in what literally looked like a golden throne, Mr. Hunt spoke to Morgan, who sat on a plush red couch. Morgan saw me, nodded his head to me, and I took a seat next to him.
“Do you understand, Morgan? I really want to make sure you understand,” Mr. Hunt continued, barely acknowledging my presence.
“Our family’s name is pristine and among the most well-known in the country.
To have this name is a privilege and an honor.
You must carry it with you with pride wherever you go and make sure not to sully it. ”
Now I began to think he was acknowledging my presence, albeit in the usual indirect, scathing Mr. Hunt way.
In many ways, he kind of looked like the classic fat cat villain—he was quite plump, bald, always clean shaven, with a stern look in his eyes that suggested he was looking for an excuse to fire you for anything, regardless of what you had actually done.
Fuck, half the time, I expected him to fire me.
“I understand, Dad.”
“Good,” Mr. Hunt said. “Be careful who you associate with and your actions. Had someone seen you out back, it might have led to questions as to why my boy was engaging in such wild activities. You may leave.”
I knew well enough by now that Mr. Hunt was not referring just to Morgan but to me, so on Morgan’s cue, I stood up from the couch and followed him upstairs to his private bedroom, easily bigger than most of the foster homes I stayed at.
“Guess he didn’t want us playing around, huh?”
“You know how Dad is,” Morgan said, dismissively. “He’s just concerned. He’s a bit crazy.”
He was, but not in the way Morgan thought. The Hunt name needed to be protected. Morgan could do almost nothing short of commit a crime—as unlikely as Sarah running back to come to me… as much as that hurt to admit—to sully the name.
But I was not a true Hunt. I was not in on the family dynamics. I could sully the name. Hell, I already had to Sarah. What would it look like to the other kids when they heard the Hunts had adopted a child? Much less one who acted brashly and dared to not tell others his status for quite some time?
Mr. Hunt might have seemed crazy to Morgan, but only in the way that fathers seemed. I had experienced too much, even at this young of an age, to know Mr. Hunt wasn’t that crazy.
“Are you feeling OK?”
I appreciated that Morgan distracted me from my thought process, in no small part because it meant I didn’t have to think some more about how Morgan, for all his goodness, was also a naive spoiled kid who just happened to be my brother.
“OK enough, I guess,” I said. “I suppose I’ll get over it.”
I really had no other choice. I just prayed that the following days would be merciful.