Dyson said, “We’ve planned a meal for you all. The first of many to come. While I’m cooking I want you to reflect on something you’ll work on while you’re here. Something born out of a past mistake. Do so in silence. You’ll be expected to share before eating.”
The men chattered and grumbled.
“In silence means silence,” I said.
Dyson retreated into the kitchen. I stood at the fence, watching the men, too busy to warn him about the generator, the food—no need to warn him, I assured myself. The men whispered and sighed. “In silence means silence,” I reminded the men. “In silence means silence.”
Their faces flickered with shame.
“In silence means silence.”
And remorse.
“In silence means silence.”
Maybe resentment, I worried.
“Who’s hungry?” asked Dyson. He carried a wide ceramic serving tray loaded with medallions of pork. I set a Styrofoam plate and utensils in front of each man. Dyson followed with an enormous bowl of potato salad. He wanted to feed them something familiar, food you might find at a family reunion. “This recipe was my father’s favorite,” he said, as he set down the bowl. “Normally Family Dinners will be served later on Sundays, at seven, but we want to make sure you’re fed after such a long day.” I’d been against calling the meals Family Dinners. These men weren’t our family. Best-case scenario, they were our students—more accurately: our crosses to bear. But he insisted on the language of family to ensure the men felt welcomed and loved. I didn’t like it. I didn’t argue, however. There was no use. Beneath his pursuit to reform these men and make society safer, beneath everything Dyson pursued, was a deeper, ongoing, and largely unconscious pursuit to replace—rather, perfect—his actual family.
He forked a slice of pork onto each man’s plate. I scooped potato salad beside it. We returned to the head of the table. “Gerry,” said Dyson. “In one word tell us what you plan to work on during your time at The Atmosphere?”
“One word?” Gerry asked.
“One word,” I said.
He bit his lip, eyeing the table. “Experience,” he said.
“What do you mean by that?” I asked.
“Excellent,” Dyson said. “Leon. One word describing what you plan to work on during your time here.”
Leon thought for a while. “Experience?” he said, unsure if it counted.
“Perhaps pick a new one,” I said. “Something more personal.”
“Very good,” said Dyson. “Dr. Mapplethorpe: How about you?”
“Experience.”
Experience of what?! I wanted to shout. Experience didn’t mean anything. And I resented Dyson for letting the men get away with repeating their nonsense responses.
“And you, Randy?”
“Experience.”
“Peter?”
“Experience.”
“William?”
“Experience.”
“Lawrence?”
“Experience.”
“Mack?”
“Experience.”
“David?”
“Experience.”
“Hughie?”
“Experience.”
“Benjamin?”
“Experience.”
“Kevin?”
“Experience.”
Dyson gave the men permission to eat and to speak and they ate and spoke like it had been months since they’d done either one. They cracked jokes and patted shoulders, released warm, bellowing laughs as they scooped seconds and thirds of pork and potato salad onto their crusted plates. Dyson circled the table carrying a two-liter jug of cheap red wine. He sat with the men and lifted the jug to their lips for a sip. He praised their heroic thirst. I leaned against the fence with my hands clenched. I seethed over their responses. Experience! Experience what?! Of what?! If it felt like a family, then it was not like any family I would ever be permitted to join. The meal was supposed to last forty-five minutes—we planned the day to the second—but at the half-hour mark I cleared my throat: “Family Dinner has ended! You must all return to the cabins for scheduled afternoon naps.”
“What are we, babies?” asked Randy.
Dyson shushed him. “I must’ve lost track of time with all the excitement—too much excitement. We need to conserve energy for tonight’s lecture.”
The men complained about the size of the sheds and the size of their cots and how many cots there were in their sheds. “There’s no room to move in here,” Gerry said at the door.
“It’s not a living room,” I said. “It’s a room for sleeping. And leaving. Use it to sleep and to leave and you’ll be okay.”
“There will be opportunities to expand your living conditions,” said Dyson. “Put in the work and you won’t be cramped very long.”
The men split up six to a shed.
Back in the barn, Dyson suggested we celebrate our success.
“What success?” I asked.
“The men are here. They’ve accepted the rules. Family Dinner couldn’t have gone any better.” This impulse to celebrate the most trivial accomplishments had sabotaged his acting career. He might have earned a gig in a spot for a chain restaurant, then gone out drinking, thinking he’d made it, thinking that speaking roles were right around the corner. Then he would sleep through a call from his agent the next morning and miss an audition.
“For all we know they’re plotting our murders right now,” I said.
He retrieved a bottle of bourbon and two glasses from the pantry and poured a fat finger into each glass. “Better to die drunk than sober,” he said.
I laughed and accepted my glass.
“To The Atmosphere!” he said.
“To experience,” I muttered.
“Go easy on ’em,” he said. “We have to be kind.”
“I didn’t become a cult leader to be kind,” I said.
“There are so many things they still don’t know. About how to behave, how to treat women, how to treat other men. They’re like children.”
“Except they’re adults.”
“You understand.”
We clinked, emptied our glasses. The drink freed a storm of coughs from my chest. It was stupid to drink under so much pressure, with so much responsibility and so many men outside, but it was no less stupid than being here in the first place. The stupidity of drinking, at least, distracted me from the danger outside. We nodded at each other. He poured again.
I was the first one to hear the men screaming for help from inside the sheds. Outside, men sat slumped
