“And your mom is dead?”
“My grandparents claimed she hung herself. The autopsy said she OD’d, though.”
“Do you remember your mom?”
“No, she died after the state took me away from her and handed me over to my grandparents.”
“Why would they do that?”
“My mother tried to kill me when I was a few months old.”
“How?” I ask rather than why. Yet, I think why would be a better question.
“Everything I know is secondhand.”
“Of course. You were a child.”
Anders doesn’t speak right away. I hear him inhale the marijuana from his free hand while his left holds me against him. I run my fingers over his knuckles, patient for his answer. I noticed how Topanga talks a lot and enjoys the noise. I grew up where people might not talk all day. I can wait for however long Anders needs.
“I cried a lot as a baby,” he says finally. “Too much, I guess. Maybe because she was hurting me. My grandmother claimed she found little bruises on my legs when I was first born. She claimed my mother pinched me. I was evil, you see?” he mutters, chuckling angrily. “Like that kid in ‘Rosemary’s Baby’ with the devil eyes. That was me, so my mother had to kill me. Wasn’t her fault, really.”
Resting my head against his arm, I think of him as a tiny person. Long ago, Anders was small and defenseless and surrounded by enemies. Is that why he assumes the worst about me?
“She put a pillow over me and started pounding,” he says in a tight, harsh voice. “Her friend walked in on that and called the police. My grandparents claimed her friend was a whore who did cocaine and had babies with three men. I only know she saved me. But my mother broke several of my bones and cracked my skull before her friend stopped her.”
I think to say something reassuring to Anders. Maybe how his mother’s behavior wasn’t his fault, or she was mad after what happened to her. I could blame his grandparents or his father.
Or I can hold him and promise he’s full of sunshine.
Yet, I suspect he doesn’t want me to speak. As if he’s ready for whatever I might say, and then he can claim I’m wrong. Anders wants to argue. Mama always battles with people, even when she knows she can’t win. More than once, she’s told Dove and me to avoid being like her.
“My temper is a little monster inside me,” she will tell us. “I fed it too much when I was young. Now, that monster makes my life harder. Don’t feed your monster.”
I choose not to feed Anders’s monster right now. Rather than speak, I stroke his hand holding me. My lips nuzzle his large bicep. I know he wants affection.
His family never gave him any. Then he got big and strong, and women wanted him for sexual intercourse. They wanted orgasms, and softness doesn’t seem to be necessary to achieve them. No one touches Anders tenderly. His big biker friends won’t hug him. I can do that if he’ll let me.
“The police dropped the charges against my mother in exchange for her signing me over to my grandparents. I think the cops heard my mom’s story about the devil raping her and figured she was crazy. Then my mom hung herself or OD’d, and no one had to pretend to care about what happened to me anymore.”
“Were your grandparents always bad?” I ask when he falls silent for a long time.
“Yes.”
“Did they ever love you even a little?”
“No. When they lost their jobs and needed money, they had me fight grown men. It was a show, and people would bet on the winner. Everyone laughed and cheered. I don’t know why I didn’t run away. Where could I go? No one wanted me. Not even when I was little. Why would they want me when I was big and ate a fucking feast every night? I guess I should have taken off, anyway. I could have still fought, but the money would have been mine. I don’t know why I never thought of that.”
I consider suggesting how Anders was a child, and children aren’t smart. Or how he was hit so many times in the head that thinking was probably hard.
But those words feel wrong. Anders knows he stayed because he loved his grandparents, even if they didn’t love him. That’s how the Volkshalberd are with John Marks. Not all of them, but some believe he is their messiah and will lead them from the darkness into the light. When he lets them starve and makes their lives worse, they view it as a test of their loyalty. If they suffer enough, they’ll prove their love for him.
I think Anders believed the same about his grandparents. He didn’t know any differently. Just like how the people in the Village don’t. They were never Dandelions. The Volkshalberd have always embraced hardship. They don’t celebrate blessings, instead treasuring their suffering. If they don’t know better, they can’t change.
Somehow, Anders learned better, though.
“How did your grandparents die?”
“I killed them.” When I say nothing, he sighs. “I wish I killed them. Once I had money and pussy and drugs from the Killing Joes, I stopped coming around my grandparents. They offered me nothing, and I offered them nothing. That was my revenge. I don’t think they cared. Or maybe they did. It’s possible they were so poor without me that they starved to death or ended up homeless. I don’t know. Once I started getting high, I didn’t give a
