Chapter Twenty

Mac

I wait long enough to see her disappear into her house. I want to wait longer—like forever—until she comes back out and forgives me. But that's not going to happen. Not now. Maybe not ever. So once the door closes behind her without even a glance back, I pull away and head to Benji's house.

But I don't go inside right away.

The truth is, I'm angry. I didn't ask for any of this, for my parents to die, for all the awful people who used the foster system like currency, or for Benji, who never quite promised me a real home, but allowed me the room for hope regardless.

He had been clear from the start—I was there to be useful and nothing more. He'd give me a home; I'd do whatever he asked.

It wasn't like he had me do anything illegal. Well, unless you count child labor as illegal. It started with odd jobs, like deliveries and washing his friends' cars. Then once he could trust I wasn't going to steal, I began cleaning and landscaping at different homes, always with one of his bodyguards keeping watch. It was how he kept tabs on me.

If I half-assed a job, I answered for it with a switch to my backside, always by him.

It wasn't the first time I was hit by a guardian. Past homes felt like living in a puppy mill, with as many as fifteen of us taking up every space in the house. They were always run by lazy assholes who thought fostering would give them the paycheck their nine-to-five wouldn't. What they didn't anticipate was that we needed to eat, have someplace to sleep, and have clothes that fit our growing bodies. Those of us old enough to sass did plenty of it, even though it resulted in regular beatings. It also led to missed meals, sometimes several days in a row. These assholes told us we were lucky. Our parents didn't want us, they said—no one wanted us.

The last official foster home I was in, there were four of us sharing a room with a single bunk bed. To be thirteen and having to share a bed with another boy was awkward, especially when I was stuck with Rory, a kid who couldn't keep his hands to himself. I'd end up on the floor just to avoid Rory's "accidental" touches. But one night, after spending the day mucking the horse barn, I was dog tired and the thought of another night on the floor made me want to punch a hole through the wall.

"It's your turn on the floor," I told Rory. But the kid wouldn't budge. We were matched in size, and I knew I couldn't force him to do anything without getting the attention of Mr. Perkins, our foster parent. "Fine," I relented when Rory stood his ground. "Then get to your side of the fucking bed and don't cross the line over to mine."

I awoke that night with Rory's hand on my dick, his body curled around mine from behind. I leapt out of bed, dragging him with me as he struggled against my strength. But I was too mad, the adrenaline tearing through my body as I straddled his body and pummeled his face with my closed fists. The other kids in the room woke to this, and one of them got Mr. Perkins who pulled me off Rory in a fit of rage. By the time I could find my words, Mr. Perkins already had my ass bare while he whipped it with a belt. If he heard my reasons for the fight, he didn't acknowledge them.

"You ungrateful sack of shit," Mr. Perkins growled, never letting up, even though I'd given in to the beating. "We give you everything, using every cent we have to care for you worthless boys. This is how you repay us, by bullying the other kids?" Never mind that Mr. Perkins got money for each of us, or that he used it to feed his gambling addiction. Never mind that Mrs. Perkins had her hair and nails done every week and came home every Friday with a new outfit for her Sunday brunch with the girls.

He left my ass riddled with raised purple welts before he marched me outside to get back to mucking the barn. It was two in the morning, but he stood there while I walked barefoot through shit, shoveling manure under the glow of a hanging utility light, and laying down hay until the sun eventually crested the hillside.

It was the last day I ever spent in foster care. That night, exhausted to the bone, my stomach curling in on itself from lack of food, I lay on the floor of the bedroom, listening to the sounds of the night. Rory had kept his distance the rest of the day, but I was not about to get back in that bed. I was more tired than I'd ever been in my life, but my eyes remained wide open. I waited until I heard the soft snores of my bunkmates, then I rolled to my knees, moving one leg in front of the other, as I shuffle-crawled to the door and eased it open.

The door to Mr. Perkins' room was cracked, probably to listen for any more fighting in our room. But through that open door, I could hear the deep rumble of his snore, followed by the much softer sighs from Mrs. Perkins .

I got to my feet and tiptoed down the hallway, waiting in between steps to see if I was discovered. I reached the living room and then the entry way where all our shoes were lined up on a bench, like it was a friendly schoolhouse and not a house that swindled the system. With cautious hands, I found my shoes and slid them out carefully. I hadn't grabbed anything else from my room. I realized my mistake as I opened the door and was met by a soft sprinkle of rare California rain.

Something brushed against my shins, and I jumped back banging the doorknob in the process. It was just the cat, who shot out of the house at my sudden move. Mrs. Perkins would be pissed when she found out. I wondered if she'd be madder at her indoor cat found outside in the rain, or the fact that one of their walking paychecks had run away. My bet was on the cat. Fosters were a dime a dozen, and they'd probably have my half of the bed filled by the end of the week.

As far as I could tell, everyone in the house was still asleep. I stood there like I was made of marble, my ears straining to make out every noise in the house and heard nothing that sounded like someone was about to discover me. Satisfied, I looked back at the rain outside. It was getting harder, and I was standing there in my threadbare pajama bottoms that fell a few inches above my ankles and a thin white undershirt. I hadn't even thought to grab socks. I definitely didn't have a jacket.

But Mr. Perkins did. It hung there above the shoe rack, underneath the sign that said "Live. Laugh. Love." It was the coat he used every morning to tend to the animals, and it smelled like it may have never seen the inside of a washing machine. But I grabbed it anyways, slipping the long sleeves over my arms before I tiptoed into the rain, my shoes in hand as I carefully closed the door.

That damn cat followed me as I ran across the field. I stopped halfway through to finally put my shoes on, wiping as much of the mud off my feet before sliding them on while the cat rubbed against my leg.

"Go hunt something while you have the chance," I grunted, kicking her off me. She responded by swiping at my leg, leaving a red gash in her wake. It wasn't the worst wound I'd received on that day, but it was enough to make me kick at her again, more forcefully this time. Fuck that cat. Fuck the farm. Fuck Mr. Perkins and fuck every other foster family that treated me like their goddamn slave. Most of all, fuck my caseworker—a tired old lady who should have retired twenty years ago, and who was oblivious to the state of the homes she placed me in.

I was done.

Now I sit here in my car, the memory of that night—and the many nights after—racing through my head while I remain parked in front of Benji's house. The Perkins never found me. I'm not sure they even looked. I have no idea how they explained me away to my case manager, but I dropped off the radar as easy as twilight slips into dawn. I spent those first few days of freedom searching for ways to survive. I discovered restaurants waste a lot of food in the dumpsters out back. I scoured piles of clothing abandoned outside thrift stores at night. I slept away from streetlights and stayed in the shadows during the day. My only goal was to survive, though it was hard to remember why.

Then I met a group of guys on the street, the ones who taught me how to lift items from pockets, and later how to steal from homes. Being the youngest, I became the key to their operation. I'd ring the bell with a sign-up form in hand that I'd swiped off some other door-to-door marketer. Upon answering, I'd charm the man or woman of the house into buying a subscription to magazines they'd never get. The checks were useless, but some paid in cash. But a look inside their homes was priceless, my eyes memorizing what I could before they closed the door again. A few nights later, their personal items were in our possession.

Benji's house was different, though. I look up now at the massive home, recalling what it was like to enter that home for the first time. We hadn't cased the house properly before because it seemed like no one was ever home. For days we'd waited, watching for signs of life, and finally I decided the owners were on vacation or something, and it was now or never to ransack the place for things of value.

Of course, what happened next changed my life. I got caught, the other kids ran off, and I had a choice to make—keep running or see what Benji had to offer.

I stayed, and I soon discovered it was not going to be the cushy life I envisioned it would be. Benji worked me hard. Outside of school hours, I was working. And if I fucked up, he beat me for it.

But here's the difference with Benji; instead of telling me I was worthless, he told me I wasn't living up to my potential. He said I was smarter than that. He told me I could have so much more if I would stop being a product of my circumstance and start moving into my future. His form of discipline was unlike the abuse of my former foster homes, and more like old-fashioned discipline. He'd take a switch to me, but never struck with anger. It was always him and not one of his guards, and he used that time to drill values into me.

I was not a street kid.

I was not a victim in the foster system.

I was Malcolm Dermot Anderson, a teenage boy who was learning how to become a man .

And that was why I stayed—even through the endless work, even though our relationship was more business-like than anything else. Benji was not my father, and I was not his son. I grew to care for him because he'd saved me, but as hard as I tried to please him, there was no warmth that came from his direction. I bonded more easily with his security guards than I did with the cold, shrewd man.

I soon discovered why. For Benji, every relationship held currency. He attended parties and held poker nights at the house, but none of these people were his friends. Eventually, these gatherings became fewer and fewer. He spent most nights at the long formal dining table eating alone while I ate at the small table in the kitchen. When he talked on the phone, it was always with a raised voice, often ending with something thrown and shattered against the wall.

He was losing his connections, and we were running out of money.

That's why I was placed in charge of the housework and landscaping, because he had to fire the house staff. It's why he brought Brock in, yet another teen that needed a home in exchange for some manual labor. Years later, when he built those apartments as a last-ditch effort to regain his finances, it's why I handled all the maintenance and Brock managed the rest—because he had nothing left and we'd accept the shit wages he gave us on top of room and board.

What can I say about Brock, except he was a weasel from the start. That guy saw this as his golden ticket and worked it to his fullest advantage. Don't get me wrong, we were both tasked with more responsibility than most teenagers our age. I was a few years older than him though, and I had been through enough to know it wouldn't get better. Brock, on the other hand, came in after Benji had fired his last security guard. He knew where the blind spots were in the cameras around the house, and things would go missing without Benji ever noticing. I noticed, though. I kept quiet, but I took note.

When he stole Maren, knowing full well I was interested, it was just one more "thing" Brock decided to steal. It was the reason I knew that, if I wanted to finally be free, I needed to make a way on my own.

Ironically, Benji was the only one standing in my way and the thorn in my side once I finally made a name for myself. He taught me not to remain a victim of circumstance. But when I stepped into the future—away from him—I was told I could only go so far.

"Everything you are is because of me," he told me.

And it was true. It was one of Benji's last connections, a man who remembered me from one of the poker games, who set me up with a mentor once I got my real estate license. This mentorship evolved into a partnership, and eventually became the foundation of my business when he retired and I started my own brokerage.

Benji wanted me to stay on to help him with the apartments, especially when he had to sell off his other properties to pay the bills or to keep from getting sued. When it was apparent I was rising to the top while he was tumbling down, he reminded me again and again that if it weren't for him, I'd be in jail or dead.

Everything you are is because of me.

Which is why he's still insured and receiving top notch, round the clock care, why his mortgage continues to be paid, and why—when I realized those apartments were beyond repair—the title was transferred to me in case anyone else decided to sue.

I turn the car off, but still can't bring myself to go inside. In the depths of this cold, dark house is a man who is living his final days. His rapid decline lets me know we are reaching the end, and I'm not sure how I feel about it. On one hand, here was a man who gave me a home and security, allowing me to sleep at night without worrying about my safety. But on the other hand, his death will finally break my shackles. I am tied to this man, whether I want to be or not. He never showed me love, I'm not even sure he was capable of love, but he did care for me in a way no one else had outside my late parents.

My phone buzzes and I am glad for the excuse to spend a few more minutes outside. But when I see the name of the person calling, something in me knows.

"Mac, you need to come to the house."

Hattie's voice catches slightly, and something in my chest drops. It's like all the life goes out of my body, knowing the exact reason she's calling.

"I'm right outside." I hang up without another word. My body moves of its own accord, carrying me down the walkway and up the steps. The same steps I took at fifteen before I snuck in a side window. The steps I took every day after school, and then later after work at the apartments. The steps I took before I told him I'd enrolled in real estate classes, and then when I said I was quitting the apartments to pursue my career.

The steps I have taken just about every day this month as I've taken residence in my old room, the smallest in the house, while the man who raised me lies dying in the living room.

A house that once held parties and poker games, a full staff, and was the setting for every lesson I learned on the way to becoming a man.

The house is dark when I enter, as it's been since Benji's health declined. Hattie stands by the bed, her hands twisted in front of her as I approach. She moves aside when I get close, resting a hand on my shoulder.

"He loved you, you know," she says, and it takes everything in me not to break the silence with a sardonic laugh. She never knew Benji before he was sick, so how would she know about his feelings? She presses something into my hand, then murmurs she'll be in the other room, and to take as long as I need.

I stare at Benji. I take in the gray of his skin, and how it just hangs on his bones without any life left to animate it. His eyes are closed, but his mouth is open, and I eventually have to look away so that I'm not haunted by the vacancy in his face. His chest remains forever still now that he's released his final breath.

I wasn't here when he died. After all of this, all the nights I stayed, the days I checked his status in between appointments—after all of it, I had failed him in the end.

I open my hand, revealing a folded piece of paper with my name on it. I've seen Hattie's handwriting on Benji's charts long enough to recognize it as hers. Sure enough, when I open it, a note from her is on the top followed by the rest.

This note was dictated to Hattie Wilson on May 23, 2023, by Benjamin Wright when he was of sound mind and good spirits.

Dear Malcolm,

If you are reading this letter, it is because I've left this world for the next, wherever that might be. I realize a letter like this is poor timing, because the things I want to express are things I should have said a long time ago. Even now, the coward in me is waiting until my death to share how I feel about you. The only word I can think of is Pride. I am proud of you. You came to me at your lowest point in life. What you don't know is that I was also at my lowest point. I'd made several business decisions that cost me dearly. My wife left soon after, seeing the writing on the wall. When you walked into my house, I didn't see a thief, but an opportunity. And thus, I treated you that way every day since.

What I never told you was how much I cared for you. You see, while I was saving you, you were saving me too. You were there as everyone else left my life. Even now, when you have every right to walk away, you have stayed. I take this knowledge with me to the grave. I gave you everything I could to ensure your safety, but I never gave you the acceptance you needed to excel in life. I never gave you the love I know you needed more than anything at all.

I love you, Malcolm. You, and Brock too, were like sons to me. I just didn't know how to be a father. But somehow, in spite of me, you learned how to be a man. I couldn't be prouder.

Your friend in death,

Benji

I wipe the tears streaming down my face, tucking the letter into my jacket pocket. By the date, it was written almost a month ago. Part of me glowers at this realization, that he had ample time to tell me these words. The other part feels like a piece of resentment has chipped away, leaving room for healing.

On the table is another folded letter addressed to Brock, and I can't help wondering what he had to say to him. But I leave it alone. I don't want anything to get in the way of what the old man told me, including any words he had for his other "son."

I take Benji's hand in mine—his joints are already stiff, his skin cold to the touch—but I hold it, letting the iciness penetrate the warmth of my own hand.

"I've thought about what I was going to say when we finally reached this point," I utter into the stillness of the room. "For years, I have felt indebted to you, like there was no way I could ever repay you for what you've done for me. All I wanted…" My voice breaks, and I look away. It's hitting me how final all of this is, and the way I'm feeling is unlike anything I expected. "All I wanted was your acceptance," I finish, "Everything I did was for you. Even when I quit the apartments, my plan was to make enough money to get you out of this mess. But by the time I did, you…you were dying, and it was too late. The only thing I could do was clean up your mess so that your legacy wouldn't be tarnished."

I let go of Benji's hand, then pace the floor in front of his bed. The note seems to be burning a hole in my pocket, and it almost makes me want to swallow the words I'm about to say. But I don't .

"Thank you for leaving me something kind to remember you by," I finally say, stopping as I pat my pocket, "I take your words to heart, and I believe you meant them. But it doesn't take away the fact that since I entered your home, my role has been to be the crutch you needed while everything around you crumbled. I thought you were raising me to be successful, but really you were grooming me to be your champion, and damn, I've done a good job. I've been the perfect codependent, making sure you always had the appearance of perfection. No one noticed the kid who was doing the work of the staff you fired. It took a long time for anyone to notice your manipulations, and that's only because you lent me out like my services were a free gift. I did it because this—" I slam my hand against my chest pocket. "This is all I ever wanted to hear from you. Even when I paid off your tenant to drop the lawsuit, and when I urged you to sign the apartments over to me, it was all for you.

"Well, I'm done cleaning up your messes. Now that you're gone, everything you've worked for is gone, including your name. I cannot let you pass from this world into the next without being held accountable for your actions. The only condolence I can offer is that you aren't here to face the full repercussions for your actions, and there's a big chance I will. But for those families, I will do what's right, even if that means exposing health issues they may not even know they have, and that their living situation was the reason for it."

I take a deep breath, holding it as I study my benefactor one last time. Then, when my lungs feel like they're about to burst, I let the air out slowly.

This is the end. And I am done.