Chapter Twelve
Little Eddie
The old porcelain sink in the two-bedroom trailer had seen better days, but 8-year-old Edward Michael Hayes had not. It was funny then that the two often found themselves in the same predicament. Smeared in blood and broken in ways few could see, and none could fix. Edward leaned forward, watching the blood from his nose paint the inside of the sink. One drop fell, then a second, racing one another toward the open maw of a finish line.
It was mesmerizing.
Glancing up, he stared at his reflection in the mirror. Unblinking and unseeing, his thoughts hazy with shadows. There was a roaring, a howling in his ears that muffled the rise and fall of his parents’ incensed voices. That dulled the bark of sound echoing down the hall as Daddy slammed his way out the front door. His voice—like thunder—nothing but a dull roar out in the dark. A beast retreating to its lair at the bar down the street, content to rest after breaking skin and bruising fragile bone.
Edward imagined himself as Tarzan, or perhaps Mowgli; a boy raised by wolves. He was used to being smacked around by careless paws, used to being gripped by cruel teeth, used to the sting as fang and talon made short work of little boy flesh. To the howls in little boy ears. He was so used to it, some days, he forgot what it was to speak as a human boy would. When Daddy was home, there wasn’t much room for words anyway. There wasn’t much room for anything but him . He made sure of it.
The howling died by slow degrees, and Edward came back to himself in stages. He blinked, a part of him surprised to find himself in the bathroom when hitting the floor was still so fresh in his memory. The clatter of pots and pans as Momma cooked dinner reached his ears. An odd accompaniment to her sobs, perhaps, but a familiar one. He could tell by the way she slammed through the cabinets that she was still mad, but that didn’t worry him any. Momma’s anger was soft. It lacked hands and teeth.
Goosebumps played down the length of his arms, and Edward shivered, inspecting the damage to his face before claiming the last of the toilet paper from the roll. Wadding it up, he pressed it against his nose. Great. Now, he’d have to chew his food with his mouth open. If that weren’t bad enough, the world was going to smell like dirty pennies for the rest of the night. Edward’s stomach twisted into knots. He shouldn’t let it get to him. Daddy’s anger was like a monster. Something big and heavy, intent on blocking out the sun. But Edward knew what it was to live in its shadow and claim what warmth he could find there.
Staring at himself in the mirror, or rather, what he could see of himself over the edge of the counter, he grimaced. His face was bruised, swollen, and his amber eyes were bright and hard. Empty. They reminded him of marbles.
He hated marbles.
Turning away, Edward braced himself and jumped down from his step stool. Picking it up with one hand and staunching his nose with the other, he left the bathroom, careful to avoid the splintered wood and dangling hinges where the door once stood.
“Privacy is a privilege. One you ain’t earned yet.”
How many times had his mother barricaded them inside the bathroom before his father took the door off its hinges, obliterating one of the few havens they’d had? Afterward, when the bottle pulled Daddy over the edge again, she sent Edward scrambling under the bed with his stuffed bear, Marco, and strict instructions to stay quiet and still.
He was used to that too, staying quiet and still, almost as much as he was used to the blood. Definitely more than he was used to the missing bathroom door.
“Dinner in twenty minutes, Eddie.”
Edward winced. He hated being called Eddie. It’s what everyone called Daddy. But he was too little to be anything or anyone else, unless he was dressing up for Halloween. Outside of that, he was Eddie. Always had been. Always would be. Little Eddie, to anyone bigger than him - which was everyone besides the stray cat he’d claimed unofficial ownership of. And even Tesla, the tabby in question, was putting on enough weight to pose a threat. Especially to a kid like Edward, who was known to start at the sight of his own shadow on occasion.
Still, he didn’t mind as much when Ma called him Eddie. She wasn’t like Daddy, or the kids who shoved him around at school. No, Ma said he was a genius and that, someday, he’d be someone important. Someone who didn’t have time for people like her. So, she was going to keep calling him “my little Eddie” for as long as she could. Like so many other things, Ma’s words were soft. No hands. No teeth. Just a warmth that made him want to believe her, even though he couldn’t imagine a world where he didn’t want to hang out with his mom. He did, however, like the idea of growing up, of going away. He hoped she was right about some things, at least. He wanted to be in charge, so no one would ever touch him again. One day, he’d be Big Eddie.
No. He’d be Edward.
As he wandered through the kitchen, Ma swapped his ball of toilet paper for a damp rag. The cold soothed his aching face, and his shoulders - tensed up to his ears - relaxed by slow degrees. Daddy was gone for the night. The swipe he’d aimed at Eddie had been more of an afterthought than a targeted attack. It hadn’t broken anything, which was good since it was almost 9 p.m. He couldn’t watch television with a broken nose. Ma would insist on setting it and cleaning him up, and while he enjoyed her fussing usually, there was no time for it. Not at 9 p.m. on a Saturday.
As if his thoughts had given it permission, strains of a guitar solo traveled through the length of the house. He gasped and met Ma’s eyes in a brief, unguarded moment of joy. Then he was gone, running, free hand trailing the peeling wallpaper decorating the walls. He couldn’t smell dinner, but he could hear the sizzling of the stove as Ma tossed in various meats, vegetables, and whatever else it was mothers did to turn a jumble of ingredients into something not just edible but delicious. They didn’t have much in the fridge, but Ma made do, and Edward was young enough not to wonder if he and his family were coming up short. His belly was full more often than not, and that counted for something.
The opening credits came to an end as he slipped on the area rug, and Edward somehow managed to catch himself. It was a close call, but he was too focused on the screen to care. Last week, the Crusader was wounded but still fighting the forces of evil. Plopping belly first onto the rug before the TV, Eddie stared up at the static-riddled screen with wide eyes. The show picked up right where it had left off, and his stomach clenched with dread when Era Dictator, the Crusader’s arch nemesis and his alter ego’s fiancé – a plot twist neither character was aware of yet- leveled her gun at his head. The black of it gleamed, just as deadly and cold beneath the streetlights as the leather mask covering the top half of her face.
“I’ve been waiting a long time for this,” she said, chuckling and full of malice.
An understatement, if Eddie ever heard one. This confrontation had been in the works for precisely six seasons. Or, 150 episodes thus far, not counting the unaired pilot. Since each season represented at least one to two years within the show, at least ten years had passed since the Crusader, AKA Bradly Star, had met Era at the governor’s ball and fallen in love with her. They found out later the bomb set to go off in the governor’s mansion that night had been planted by Era in an attempt to threaten the city’s leaders into transferring huge sums of money into her offshore bank account. While Bradly had saved her and the other partygoers from the explosion, the irony was not lost on Edward that Era had been rescued from her own dastardly scheme.
Ha. As if she’d ever been in any real danger to begin with!
Era always had something up her sleeve, something the Crusader learned the hard way. Which was why his jaw tightened beneath his mask at her mocking words.
“You don’t have to do this, Eradicator,” he said between clenched teeth.
She’d shot him in the arm in the last episode, and the pain of it drained some of the color from his face. But he knew, just like Edward did, that while Era didn’t have to kill him, she would. It was just what villains did.
As expected, she threw back her head and laughed at the idea of letting him leave the alley alive, and Edward’s fists clenched in helpless outrage. He was torn, his heart and mind in chaos. On the one hand, he wanted to swoop in and save the Crusader. On the other, he wanted to shake Era until she realized it wasn’t an enemy she threatened but the love of her life. The man figured out when her evil twin kidnapped her and took her place, for God’s sake. They both worked together to destroy an alien asteroid from colliding with the city. Sure, it had been Era who had constructed the laser beam, but the Crusader had struggled with his morals long enough to break into the military base and steal the necessary parts. Without the two of them, the entire world would have been in jeopardy, and now they were about to destroy one another.
The unfairness brought tears to Edward’s eyes, and his face screwed up as he fought not to sniffle into his rag. His nose still hurt too much for such emotional turmoil, but there was no helping it.
“Eddie? Sweetie, are you crying?”
“N-No,” he wailed. And it was true. He wasn’t crying. Not yet.
His mother sighed as she began setting the table. “Are you sure?” she asked. “You know how your father feels about crying. We don’t know when he’ll be back home, so...”
Mention of his father was enough to break the spell the Crusader had woven, and Edward ducked his head in shame. He swiped his face with the rag, shuddering at how cold it now was. Still, he ignored the chill, intent on wiping away any threat or hint of tears until his cheeks were blotchy and red and his shoulders were once more high and tight. His leg shook, a steady vibration he couldn’t stop. It soothed him somehow and made the sudden sense of shame seem not so big.
Daddy didn’t like criers. It was bad enough when women did it. They were programmed to be weak and emotional, according to Daddy. But for a man to cry, for any reason, was just unacceptable. His propensity for tears had earned him a beating on several occasions. He knew better than to cry after a punishment, but sometimes, he couldn’t help it, which made things so much worse for him. Some days it was endless; a cycle that would never stop spinning.
“Men aren’t supposed to cry.”
“Men are supposed to be strong.”
“Cooking is for housewives, not little boys.”
“Books are for gays.”
“Pink is for girls.”
“Plays are for Democrats.”
The rules went on and on. A steady stream of expectations and demands. Edward knew, even now, that he was nothing like Daddy wanted him to be. Nothing like a “real man.” But, if he wasn’t a man—and Daddy was right that he would never be one—then what was he?
“Hey, Ma?” His voice was small, and his eyes were glued to the screen as if it still held all his attention. In actuality, the drama seemed very distant all of a sudden. Unimportant, when before it had been his whole world.
“What is it?”
“Do…do you think I can be strong one day? Like Daddy?”
The ensuing silence was absolute. Edward could hear his heart thundering in his ears.
After a pregnant pause, his mother drew in a careful breath. “Why would you want to be like your father?”
“So he’ll love me.”
She made a sound, a little exclamation of hurt so small she might have been an animal wounded and scared. “Edward isn’t strong.”
It was never a good sign when Ma used his father’s Christian name. It meant she was angry about something, but he wasn’t sure what he said or did to upset her.
“He’s stronger than me,” he reminded her, daring to look at her over his shoulder, since a commercial had replaced his show. “Everyone’s stronger than me,” he continued, more than a little shamefaced. “I just want to be a man so maybe Daddy won’t hate me so much.”
“There are different kinds of strength, Eddie,” her eyes darted away from his. Something in her expression was impossible to translate, but she was red-faced and on the verge of tears. “There’s no one way to be a man.” She turned her back to stir the food on the stove. “Don’t let your father brainwash you into thinking otherwise.”
He mulled this over. “I want to be like Bradly Star,” he ventured, testing the waters.
Ma turned, wiping her hands on a dishrag, her brows furrowed in confusion. “Who?”
He jumped up, lit from within with the idea. “I want to be Bradly Star!” he exclaimed. “I want to be the Crusader!” He leaped onto the couch, bouncing on the cushions and taking off at a sprint. He fell off the arm of the sofa, righted himself, and dashed through the trailer. Circling Ma, he imagined mowing down an army of evildoers.
Later, he would wonder why all the villains wore his father’s face in his imagination, but for now, it didn’t matter. What did was the joy filling him. He was left so buoyant with possibility that he didn’t even mind how much his nose ached.
Choosing another mold for manhood had never occurred to him. He’d always assumed he’d have to be like his father when he grew up. It had seemed the only path open to him. But he didn’t want to beat on Ma, didn’t want to hurt girls at all. He didn’t want to hurt anyone. Well, maybe those mean boys at school, but not much. Just enough so they’d leave him alone. Mainly, Edward wanted to protect people. He wanted to learn big words and do big things, and he wanted to cry if something made him sad, like if Era Dictator shot Bradly Star in the face like she’d been threatening to do for the last ten minutes or so.
He couldn’t do any of those things if he were like Daddy. But if he was like Bradly Star?
Grabbing Ma around the knees, he squeezed her as tight as he could and glanced up, beaming through the soft shield of wheat blond hair that had fallen into his face. A hero, mask in place and bravery a weapon at the ready.
“I could keep you safe,” he told her. “And I could have my very own Era.”
He gasped at the realization. He couldn’t imagine falling in love, but he knew already if he had an Era, he wouldn’t make the same mistakes as the Crusader. He’d recognize her in a mask, even when she was being a bad guy. Even though their alter egos fought all the time, at the end of the day, Era and Bradly were friends, and that, more than anything else, made the crazy notion of love something worth clutching close, despite the reality of his father looming in the back of his mind.
Edward cuddled against his mother as she laid a hand on his head.
This was yet another thing his father despised. How willing he was to seek and give affection. Daddy said he was a Momma’s Boy, and it was no wonder kids beat the shit out of him when he was still wrapped up in “Sherry’s umbilical cord.” While Edward didn’t understand most of the rant, he knew he was being insulted from the tone and the disdain on his father’s face. But today, the thought of his father’s disapproval wasn’t enough to make him let go. If anything, he hugged her even tighter, and something very much like defiance took root. It was just a fledgling, struggling for space and depth, but it was there.
For the first time, it was there. He would keep it. Nurture it. Watch it grow. Not because his father would want him to, but because Bradly Star would have.
Was this strength?
It felt like it. Or at least, it didn’t feel like fear.
“Ma?”
“What is it, Eddie?”
“I’m going to grow up to be a badass motherfucker,” he promised, coining words the T-Zone Terrorizer had lobbed at Bradly in season five, episode twelve. He wasn’t sure what a badass motherfucker was, but promising he would be one was enough to swell his thin chest with pride.
There it was again—that not-fear-maybe-strength feeling—and he liked it.
The glow lasted until Ma swatted him across the butt with her dishrag.
“Edward Michael Hayes, you watch your mouth,” she warned, terrifying in her indignation.
“Yes, ma’am,” he muttered, though he resolved to do no such thing. At least not if she weren’t around to hear him.
He wasn’t going to grow up to be Edward, he swore to himself. He wasn’t going to be the boss of anybody. He wouldn’t even grow up to be important. He was going to be a Bad Ass Motherfucker like Bradly Star, and no one, not even his father, would stop him now that he’d made up his mind.
***
“Hey,”
Dusty’s voice pulled Edward away from his thoughts, and he blinked. It took a few seconds to remember he wasn’t back in the old double wide, and it had been a long time since anyone had called him Eddie. So, if not there and then, where the hell was he?
“Order up!”
Oh, right. A little diner a few miles shy of New Mexico. It took him a bit to recognize Dusty as his companion before the fugue lifted, leaving him drained and shaking. Scrubbing the grit from his eyes, he took in the scent of stale coffee and the cheap perfume trailing behind their waitress. His thoughts were scattered - frayed around the edges. What had they been talking about?
Something about where he was going. A safe house for the Legion, operated by a man named Rudy. He and Dusty would be parting ways soon, until she figured out who wanted him dead and took them out. Back at the bar, Edward hadn’t put two and two together - asking for help would mean asking her to kill for him - but he should have. He’d been na?ve. Selfish. Just like always.
“You alright?” she asked.
Edward clung to the sound of her voice like an anchor in a storm. It was a struggle not to let her see what was raging just beneath the surface. “Is that concern?” he teased, lips lifting in a smile.
When was the last time he’d smiled? Hell, when was the last time he’d slept? It was hard to believe they’d only been on the road for a day or so. It seemed longer, maybe because he didn’t get out much. Or maybe it was because Dusty drove like a flaming bat out of hell, and Edward was convinced each second would be his last.
“Tell me again why I can’t drive?”
“Because you don’t know where you’re going.” Dusty was straddling her chair, much to the disapproval of their aging server. Leaning her arms across the back of her chair, she grinned at him. “Besides, you don’t look like you know how to handle a stick shift, and that beauty out there is a rental.”
Edward leaned across the table to hiss a reminder, “It’s stolen.”
Dusty shrugged, rolling her lollipop from one corner of her mouth to the other with just her tongue. “Same difference.” Her tongue was bright pink and her lips sticky.
Edward battled down the urge to kiss her and, instead, glanced back out the window. The farther they got from Silicon Valley, the more animated Dusty became. He didn’t mind. He liked knowing at least one of them was having fun. Still, it would have been nice if she understood his anxiety at least a little. By habit, he slipped a shaking hand into his pocket, searching for his case of anti-anxiety meds just to come up empty. Right. He’d taken the last of them back at Dunkin Doughnuts. He was so used to carrying around a dose or two whenever he left his house, just in case, being without felt unnatural.
“Chere!”
Edward’s head jerked up. Dusty’s voice was hard, a warning edge cutting through the fog in his mind. When he met her eyes, she relaxed, and the grin he’d managed to quell the first time blossomed unhindered.
“You are worried about me,” he accused.
With a curse, Dusty got to her feet and threw some bills on the table. “I’m gonna go take a piss.” Her scowl cast her scar into sharp relief. “Get me a key lime pie to go.”
Edward tried his best to stem his smile but couldn’t, so he just ended up grinning and nodding at her as she stomped away, heavy boots jarring against the red and white checkered tiles.
There was a pegboard up on the wall in the hallway, and as she stormed past, a row of papers rustled in the breeze she left behind. He couldn’t make out the details, but the word MISSING across most of them stood out even from a distance. The door whispered shut behind Dusty, and Edward turned back to his plate. Missing. How long had they been lost? How long had he?
His food was cold to the touch. The last thing he remembered was placing the order, so he wasn’t sure what state it had been in when it arrived. It didn’t matter now. The eggs were congealed, and the bacon was somehow both greasy and burnt. He crushed the edges between his fingers and winced. No wonder Dusty had been content with lollipops and coffee. It wasn’t part of his strict meal plan, but anything was better than this garbage.
Dusty still wasn’t back from the bathroom, so he waved down their waitress and put in her request for pie. The server wandered off, and Edward sighed, his head aching. If it were anything like the rest of their meal, it would be a small eternity before she came back.
“But God forbid I get a straw for my orange juice,” he grumbled, then glanced around. What if the server could read minds? Or what if her hearing aid could pick up his shit-talking from across the room?
Edward filled his thoughts with white noise and eyed each of the other patrons. Okay, good, no signs of discomfort or irritation. Feeling a bit more confident, he got to his feet and headed out the front door. He had a headache, and Dusty was taking forever. He’d rather wait for her in the car than sit in the diner, breathing in the competing smells of greasy food and stale sweat for a second longer.
Checking over his shoulder to make sure the coast was clear, Edward strode toward the driver’s seat. He knew how to drive, dammit. Granted, it had been several years since he’d bothered, but he remembered being good at it. Feeling like a rebellious teenager, he got into the front seat and slammed the door. He regretted his decision almost as soon as he made it. Dusty was smaller than him, much smaller. It was like being jammed ass first into a can of sardines. Searching along the bottom of the seat, he released himself from the leathery coffin and gasped for air.
Nice. Everything is under control.
What the hell was taking her so long anyway? It was early morning, but already he could feel the temperature rising. His stomach roiled, and he eyed the glove compartment. Sal had left them several bags of candy. Edward was surprised when Dusty hadn’t been inclined to share any of it, but he’d let it go. You didn’t get a six-pack by mowing through a bag of Jolly Ranchers for breakfast. Which is what he told himself anyway. But he hadn’t eaten since the box of doughnuts the night before, and the sugar was calling his name.
What would Dusty do?
Fuck it.
With a final glance at the restaurant to make sure the coast was clear, he rifled through the glove compartment and ate as much of the candy as he could find. He’d buy her some more later. It was weird, though. The more candy he ate, the stranger he felt. Lightheaded, he found a few breath mints in a small tin case and popped them on his tongue. He waited for the minty freshness to settle his stomach, but it never came.
“Must be old,” he mused, turning one of the tabs over in his hand.
The passenger door opened, and Edward’s fists shot up, ready to fight. Years of training in various forms of martial arts had all come down to this.
Dusty slid into the car, slamming the door shut behind her. “Sorry, I was checking in with Ape.” She glanced at him, then went still. “What are you doing?”
Edward, still in Kobra Kai mode, lowered his hands inch by inch. “Nothing,” he said, narrowing his eyes. Did he look suspicious? He felt suspicious.
Dusty’s head cocked to one side as she took in the discarded wrappers littering the front half of the car. She set her to-go bag on the floor between her legs, her lips pursed. “You, um, you ate the stuff in the glove compartment, huh?” she asked. Why did she sound so casual? God, it was hot in here.
“Yeah,” he said. “Why? Was I not supposed to?” He was feeling…weird. Had his voice always been so high?
“Oh, sweetie,” Dusty cringed. “You might want to strap in for this one.”
“Where are we going?” he asked, panicked. Shit, it was hot. Was this global warming? Probably. How were penguins supposed to survive this?
“On a trip,” she said, and a second later, the world just sort of melted