Chapter 4

Woods first confrontation with the family

Chapter 4:

The trio, resembling a portrait of everything in the universe, walks almost in proportion enough to one another that from a worlds view away they could be mistaken for members of the same species. Yet with each step towards the hilltop castle reality takes form. The three men veer undeniably into their respective characters and it becomes more evident that only distance or resolute ignorance can mask the glaring discrepancies of societies overlapping generations. 

Each generation now heads toward the front porch of wealth. The father leads the group with an inescapable single-mindedness. He allows his sight to travel no farther than his target and certainly no shorter. Each gust of wind that shakes the trees outlining his path, each cry of the birds that jettison overhead in a myriad of patterns that stain the greenish haze of modern day air, each whimper audible from the youngest generation about this pain or that annoyance is met with solemnity of purpose for nothing shakes, rocks, penetrates nor intimidates the unwavering gaze he has placed on his most immediate interest. Beside him, prancing then stumbling, sprinting then halting, talking then talking more vibrantly is the youngest of the trio. Oblivious to a beauty that perished before his birth this child of such impressionable age lacks the ability to imitate love, subtlety and most discerning, innocence, yet all the while mimicking with acute nuisance the complexities that arise with a singularity of thought regarding tolerance, racial divides and social classes. 

The young resembles the aged, as lion cubs tend to resemble pride leaders, with just slightly smaller bites and roars and slightly larger yet dimming semblances of a childish perspective. To see this kin prowl in such close relation to each other one would adopt the feeling that they are hunting together, stalking a prey that the cub has not yet spotted and the experienced killer has known for all eternity. It is then ironic that, with backs to the forgotten middle youth (referring of course to our wayward protagonist) they act as though no harm could be presented to them. They march step for step marked by the vagabond of the safari food chain; yet unobtainable is their class rank as well as invisible to the law their injustices for no order in the animal kingdom can stifle the king’s bloodline. 

This brings us then to the trailing, hunched lackey of the three-prong parade. The middle generation haunts aimlessly and languidly as he weaves between both the superiority of experience and the boundlessness of youth. He finds himself always despising the singular, unwavering goal that is fixed upon his predecessors eye yet has no power to resist pursuing it as his own voice is smothered. He lacks the absent-mindedness of his succeeding brethren, which ultimately renders him incapable of accepting anything without hesitation and resistance. This angers the ruling class and his place in society is reflected in the aforementioned parade. He stumbles behind not just in the concrete sense but also equally in opportunity, guidance, purpose and as a result of the previous three detriments, general sanity. Through it all though, if viewed from the steps that lead up to the porch of the Millow mansion, that ghastly sulk of the forgotten middle child lingers permanently within the psyche of the would be spectator, reminding him forever that rebellion begins in the minds of living ghosts with nothing to lose.  

“I cannot tell which one is the poor man?” States the young daughter to Mrs. Millow as they stand awaiting the arrival of family and guest. 

“Neither can I from this distance. Now remain silent as they draw near. You know the rules.” 

The father, his child and their abnormally large catch of the day come billowing up the steps. This trio is such an odd puzzle to the sight of any unbiased onlooker. The ragged fellow who whimpers behind with only so much dignity as a man recently pulled from the ocean can display could also be mistaken, after some minor clean up, surely as the true heir apparent to this smug estate. Alas the dead give away that renders this notion impossible is not his stone hair or impoverished build, nor is it those eyes that hold pools of eternal distance, yet the tell all is simply the humbleness of his stance. A man destined to inherit, through no effort or strain of his own doing, an estate such as this, one that is surely as magnificent as the bank account of its owner, would never have learned to present himself so meekly. No, boarding schools have dropped their courses on humbleness. 

Yet the bravado of the portly child is as visible as the remains of brunch that now finds shelter between his two bottom teeth. The child stands like a tree. He will not bend to the whim of the wind like the tumbleweed that stands behind him, the same weed that is dictated by the fickleness of nature. Wood, ironically being compared to weeds rather than trees, seems to even fear the child. He knows what hatred is being produced within the robust chambers of that putty heart. This young man, this son of chin, resembles the makings of a purebred bigot. The most terrifying trait of his ever expanding distaste for diversity is the subtly to which it slowly seems to flood his character. He is unaware that the water rises. He trusts himself correct in every action he makes, every thought every notion that is churned out on his conveyor belt conscience seems to be only the newest model of brilliance, updated with the grandest standard features and worst yet, each model is immediately ready to run. How quickly the old is eviscerated from the surface of the earth. The new model is the only model and in due time this standard will be recommended, forcibly, to every potential buyer. 

“Hi mom, no fish today but something big still!” The young boys mouth pulls apart at the corners towards his ears and flaunts a landscape of sprouting, vaguely white boulders. An air of apprehension continually washes over both family and guest. The captain glares vehemently at his son now. It seems as if his countenance is at home in this position. 

“My intention was to avoid proper introduction until dinner yet considering juniors forwardness, pleasantries must be arranged.” Setting his persuasive gaze upon Wood, Mr. Millow takes his stand among an audience of four. As the lights now dim in the backdrop of the theatre, the lone actor is thrust onto his stage in nothing more than his casual attire and an incompetent make-up job that leaves his visage flushed around the cheeks and his lips an unbecoming shade of speechless. 

“I am twenty-four and my name is Woodson Rue. Although altogether unfathomable at this present time I am, and remain amidst an epoch highlighted by family turmoil, of the same Rue family that shares an equally revered name as yours, my gracious hosts.” Still with a face agitated by the nature of the stressful moment, the grey man who now resembles a crippling Greek statue stands solemnly as if letting the impact of his statement take hold. The audience, taken aback, seem perplexed yet veraciously intent on letting this production of the wayward wanderer continue uninterrupted. Sensing that his witnesses are now helplessly intrigued the wanderer continues with renewed vigor. 

“Yes my folly, the greatest I have committed in my brief time condemned to this earth, is that I challenged foolishly the standing of my father in my own life. Being such a profitable and cunning thinker he made no mistake that all blood must flow back, at some point, to the heart, that my relentless attempt to shun him as the epicenter of my financial and ideological foundation would ultimately bring upon the dismay that now infests my being. The argument that ensued, the same argument that bid me farewell of our own cliff side manor, sparked fireworks that would match the blinding light of the vapor you so shamelessly continue to flaunt in my presence, sir.” 

At this mention Mr. Millow, with a bright reddish hue slowly lighting up his cheeks, quickly sends the vapor back into its slumber in the front pocket of his shimmering white pants. Throughout this performance, one that has been executed so well by the lone actor, the head of the Millow estate has clutched that flamboyant devil as if waiting to pummel the stage with its fury in substitute of absent tomatoes. 

“Astonishing a tale as that may be my boy,” states the father “the probability of running into someone with as decorated a past as yourself seems improbable. Do you have substantial proof to support the nature of this backstory? It wouldn’t take much for any filthy drunk or slimy con artist to simply invoke a false relationship between themselves and someone of such high standing in an effort to garner either sympathy or privilege.” The countenance of this skeptical audience member, who has so rudely interrupted the brave soul that occupies the desolate stage, has turned to stone in an attempt to consolidate his overwhelming sense of awe. 

“Of course my host.” Replies the performer boldly. He reaches into the worn tattered leather that contours around his withered feet and grasps a glimmering piece of gold, in the shape of a circle and resembling a pin that may be seen on the breast of men running for office while simultaneously flaunting the privileged upbringing of their esteemed background. A closer examination of the enigmatic treasure that must now reek of sweaty sores and it becomes undeniable that this doubloon is none other than a Rue family heirloom, as it contains not only the initials but also the imprint of their fabled lineage. The examination by Mr. Millow, who now studies the wonder as if mimicking the most prestigious and experienced jeweler in the world, states aloud that it is made of gold. A keen observation. 

“A keen observation sir.” Echoes Wood now taking back his envied prize. 

“But how? Or why at least have you given it all up son?” The wide eyes of his disbelief mimic two moons that reflect the suns gaze onto the only token worthy of sight, that surreal pin. 

“I have already explained my predicament sir.” Refutes the actor who now seems languid about his involvement in a play passed its climax. “I can return and intend to. My father must not know of the trouble I have fallen under without his presence as his certain smug countenance of self-satisfaction would tempt my rebellious conscious to smack the look clean off of him.” 

“And your family boy?” inquires the chin that now seems to soften and stiffen with each interrogation. 

“Family?” A returned look of bewilderment takes hold over the middle-aged youth. 

“Yes you mentioned during your plea on my boat that you had a family. How are they involved with this mess?” 

“Ahhh! Family!” Cries Wood with sudden enthusiasm. “Yes they are dealing with the split as poorly as one could imagine. As poorly as myself, I imagine. Well I cease to imagine. I know they struggle! Actually of late I fail to find substantial evidence as we have also separated in my attempt to provide them food. Fishing. I’m a fisherman now! Or was at least.” A smile twitches below his nose and Wood is again reduced to unbecoming humbleness. 

“Of course boy.” Harps the always-vocal audience member who seems baffled at the play that has now ceased almost without end. “Well now that introductions are concluded, at least the introductions that matter, let us all make our way inside yes? A brief tour of the integral make up of our humble abode and surely then we can allow young Mr. Rue to rest up before supper. His mind must be a storm of schemes.”

“Schemes sir?” Reiterates that guest who has resumed his place behind the pride leader and his ever-energetic son. 

“On how to return home of course.” 

“Yes, of course.” Murmurs Wood, his voice tailing off as if the words themselves are embarrassed at their own fragility. 

The convoy now winds through a snake like hallway after trudging past the front door. Father leads the march with his children in hot pursuit, the mother succeeding them and lastly Wood etching his way along. As blank as the walls stand it would not be a sin to assume the extinction of color was well under way. The slight curvatures in this slithery crevice of a passage renders each person to scurry, pitter-pattering almost nervously, this way and that, side to side as if each a mouse darting deeper into the scars of a cliff or down the throat of a serpent. The ceiling, which was raised quite skyward when entering the abode, now recedes earthbound as if the impression of gravity has induced a hunch. 

“A unique design you have here ma’am.” Flatters Wood humbly. 

“This serves as the resolute exit and entrance to our home as every other passageway is locked unless we deem them necessary to open. It deters thieves. Even our help has no variable option in which to depart.” 

This sentiment, made with the absence of malice yet abundance of heed, widens the eyes of Wood. He seems undeterred by such knowledge though, almost intrigued to the point of amusement. The literal light at the end of the tunnel begins to glow brighter with more exuberance each step until finally the convoy reaches its conclusion. Wood pauses now as the Millows scatter, each to their own most alluring section of this cavernous foyer. Straight ahead, standing to be the only clear thing in Woods world, mammoth windows provide a seaside spectacle that must visually contend with any estate along the eastern coast. To the immediate left, as this home favors an open design, is a great dining table looking to hold at it’s most proud moments upwards of thirty people. Past a pair of swinging doors that carve through the wall beyond that magnificent slab of wood, it is clear the kitchen is already bustling with tonight’s preparations. The knees of Wood quake as if the scent of food, so trivial it does not even register with the Millows, has placed upon his shoulders a weight so heavy his knees will soon shard, splintering out from within his rawhide skin. A quick glance to the right and steps climb briefly before scurrying out of view. At the base of these steps, to the left if one is about to begin their ascent, a final corridor carves deep into darkness. Although invisible to sight, largely due to the utter void of light, a rustling of voices, as if the words themselves are fighting, is audible. Basking as if an actor breaking character Wood stands perplexed at the precipice of this rich ocean of beauty and warmth, the same ocean that is the destination for the most peculiar river, a river that hisses along with it’s start at the front door. The extravagances of this house, littered with vases and paintings and artifacts, is quite familiar for the noble families in this age of material prominence yet the towering metal cylinder that sits amongst the corner of the room, supported by a rubber base, seems all the more an eye sore. Quite smooth to touch, or at least assumingly so when eyeballed from across the room, it surely towers over six feet in height, casting an almost daunting, inescapable malady over this vast layout of high-class refinery. 

“AGAIN!” 

A quick whip of Woods head, as the cracking exclamation violently kidnapped his attention away from the astonishment of this Eden, he now stares at Mr. Millow writhing in pain on the floor of the living room straight ahead. Each family member is equally captivated by the echoing thunder. 

“Junior! JUNIOR!” 

Bumbling forward, hesitant as a maligned cub, Junior approaches his father who is now sitting on the floor, examining the finer details of his pedicured foot and strangling a bear by the soft seam of its neck. 

“Sniper!” Whimpers the child as he reaches the scene of the crime. 

“This is inexcusable! What’s this damn doll doing here?”

“That Sniper dad. He watches for bad guys so I put him there..” 

With all privilege now stripped for the aura of this timid child he stands dangerously close to a volcano of emotion, one that examines his foot with continued paranoia while seemingly releasing black fumes from his ears and molten lava through the slits in his teeth. As mother looks on, passively yet with an almost identical countenance as her frightened child, no action seems to tempt her, not the slightest vocal opinion nor the meekest of psychical movement. 

“How many times have we discussed this? Sniper better stop looking for bad guys and start looking out for me! If I step on this damn gun of his again the only thing he’ll be looking for are fish in the ocean after I toss him out the window and over the cliff!” 

With this threat inducing tears from snipers last remaining ally the chin violently chucks the bear against the wall on the other side of the room. 

“No..” the only audible noise in the house as Junior stares helplessly at his fallen comrade, waiting for the moment he can rush to his aid, waiting to tell the cub that this will be the last time, that this all happens out of love, that his tears are just and the two of them will be stronger for it. 

Alas he does not run over, he stands eerily still, remaining in the precise spot he was summoned too, in a recognizable stance that flaunts the right side of his body, leaving a week old bruise on his left temple invisible to his fathers sight. Lowering his head Junior seems to tense up, holding his breath at this same moment. Wood, who has yet to waver from his own position at the doorway, sees the young sibling of Junior dash behind an adjacent couch before his eyes match the gaze of Mr. Millow. The host now vehemently gapes at this ghost of a man who if not stared at directly seems to almost fade away amongst the much more eye-catching scenery of his surrounding. 

“It’s obviously alright. Just don’t let it happen again.” Says Mr. Millow, returning his attention to the wry child who cringes at the touch of a hand on his shoulder. 

“Now then” Continues the dictator “What do you think of the place Woodson?” 

“If you have not been able to tell sir, I am quite taken aback.” Wood pauses, aggressively eyeing his host. “My father could certainly use an interior designer of the same keen eye as the one you currently employ.”

“Yes we do have one of the best in the business. That is actually a common theme among our many hired hands Woodson.” 

“I can only imagine sir.”

Walking now towards his host, Wood takes his place on an extravagant leather chair across from junior who has retrieved his bear only to find what appears an irreversible injury. 

“His arm dad! Look his arm!”

“Yes son. We’ll get one of the help to handle that tomorrow.” 

“Sniper can’t go long!”

“Sniper doesn’t have a choice does he? That’s what happens when he doesn’t take care of himself.”

“If I may” intervenes Wood “I actually have the capability to perform minor surgery if you could possibly retrieve a sowing needle young man.”  

With hope flashing its smile for junior and his comrade in arms the child darts, or rather lumps, his way into another room before returning with a large needle and some string. 

“Here, Woodsy.” Stammers the child between elongated breaths while handing off the surgery supplies. 

“Wood. And thank you.” Smiles the guest. 

Meticulously weaving this way and that, guiding the prick of the needle into and out of cotton flesh, making incision then retracing steps and making yet another, this man of no better physical shape than the one armed doll he currently operates on dances his fingers with acute precision. All the while junior, gasping and grimacing, clutches the lone remaining paw of the patient. 

“Sowing son?” inquires Mr. Millow with words as precise as Woods fingers. 

“A mere unusual interest among a noble youth sir. I actually garnered the ability to work like this from simply watching my own maid save dolls not so foreign from this one, perhaps without the plastic gun though.” 

“A keen observer.”

“Out of necessity, sir.”

As Mr. Millow rises to acquire a beverage from the kitchen, the finishing touches of snipers surgery seem to be complete, much to the delight of the red-faced waiting room. 

“Sniper!” rings junior “He better huh? Always better after bad stuff huh?”

“I think he’ll live to fight another day.”

“It always better huh?” 

“Junior!” Chimes in Mrs. Millow who has gotten comfy on the same couch her husband just departed from “You’re being abrasive.” 

“It always better huh?” continues junior, single-mindedly focused on Wood. The bear he now embraces against his chest seems an after thought to this reoccurring question. 

“Yes. It’s always better. Always.”

At this junior beams, his smile giving way to a chuckle while also spelling the end for the remaining tears that clouded his vision. 

“Thank you Woodsy.” He says with chin high and back straight before fleeting away into the opposite corner of the room, making sounds of gun shots and testing the new arm of his friend as he departs. 

“What a popular toy that has become.” Remarks Mrs. Millow, her face a vapid nothingness. 

“Seems a bit aggressive no?” counters Wood.

“It needs to be.”

“How’s that?”

“Well Woodson, think of the current state of affairs that plagues are country. Breeding this type of aggressiveness will only act to better equip junior for modern life. I’m sure your father preaches similar ideals. Separation is imperative.”

“The phrase rings a bell Ma’am.” 

Now returning from the kitchen the captain exudes a carelessness not originally seen from his person. An aroma of weighty gin masks the otherwise fresh air blowing in from the window. His eyes hang lazy and a continued, methodical fiddling of his hand in his pocket would indict the man deviant if one had no knowledge of the vapor that resides there. 

“Let us celebrate! It is not often that we entertain a guest of such equal and worthy pedigree. Come Woodson! We have a few hours before dinner. Drink, and indulge on our behalf. At some point maybe we can even dip deeper into that majestic upbringing of yours.” 

The vocal peaks and valleys that highlight the landscape of his voice are cringe worthy to say the least. A violent drop off into rather unnerving mendacity succeeds an astounding boom of passion. The speaker, with his broad chest swaying like boats on the ocean, leans this way and that, awaiting reason from Wood to again delve deeper into the bottle. 

“I will have to pass up such a tempting offer sir. I am famished and sleep-deprived. This fall of misfortune has affected me more than anticipated when I left the lap of luxury. If I could rest awhile before supper, garner some strength then surely we can march in a parade of intoxication as the sun sets.” 

“Yes of course son. Just one rather quick display I have been waiting to show you, then off to your chamber for awhile.” 

Finally removing his lazy hand from the depths of his pocket, Mr. Millow clutches a trim figured, space black rectangle that, at its tip, contains two metal prongs resembling erect ears on the crown of it’s block head. These ears face Wood suggestively. 

“This is Zeus.”

“Zu Zu!” Cries junior across the room, sprinting over as best he can, still clutching sniper. 

“The little guy is quite fond of Zeus.” Continues the captain. “I am certain you have dealt with these types of things in the past Woodson. Surely they would come in handy dealing with the rabid scum that is so intent on penetrating our envious lives. Just last week I was forced to employ the service of Zeus for some loner who was meandering around the gates of our home. Imagine what would happen if someone mistook that hapless man for one of mine?” 

Slightly aroused, Wood now dishearteningly attempts to accrue once again the seductive voice and nature that has lent him to such a prominent standing in his life occupation. 

“Clever label sir. Let’s hope your vapor isn’t as fickle as the man it is named for.”

“And what man would that be?” 

“Zeus.. Sir?”

“Ah! I’ve never met the poor fellow, sorry to say. The name must be a coincidence.”

“I would not have expected you to encounter the Greek god of lighting sir…”

With a slightly off tilt, bewildered look, the captain ignores the puzzled glare of his withering guest and continues, to the amusement of himself and his child, about the toy he now so wildly flaunts. 

“Yes! The newest model this one is. Just recently had the pole polished too.” Gesturing toward the towering metal pole in the corner. “You can be on your way shortly Woodson, I just wanted to briefly introduce you to the vapor 5000, in case you have yet to witness what she can do.” 

Taking a few steps back Wood now stands, pole to his right and father and son to his left, ready to observe, a cautious distance away, a sight he knows quite well. 

“Ready son?” The chin shouts, his child answering the question by dancing from this foot to that, left to right, in uncontainable enthusiasm. 

Pointing the vapor directly at this cylinder of heartless metal, Mr. Millow squeezes the button on the left side of that rectangular body and lighting, reminiscent of Zeus’ most stupendous condemnations, sizzles through the air. The heat of this electric shock is felt in waves, like the tide washing up against the sand then retreating, amongst the face of Wood who stands more than ten feet back from the path of light. The lighting strikes the pole and illuminates the room with a continuous jolting shine. Cracking vibrations fill the air as if giants were stepping on tree trunks, snapping the comparative twigs under the weight of their destructive feet. This stubborn actor, who stands paralyzed as always by such a display of power, glances over now away from the pole and towards the Millows. His gaze is met by a child, a weighty, malevolent child, bounding from one foot to another, a master of this malicious dance. The heat of disdain in his eyes is only matched by the glow of the pole. If junior or any other member of the hosting family were to peel their vision away from the grand display of fireworks they would see Wood, standing solemnly still, his own eyes sunken so far into his skull that his ears must now be visible in his peripherals. Yet there he stands, swallowing fear. He acts as if this were but the first time this light seeped into his existence, as if he had not known it before, had not dodged it, had not kissed it, had not ran and fell and pleaded with it. How telling it is that the light has returned. 

A view from the heavens would produce the sight of five people, all unidentifiable from one another, hovering around the teeming shine of the metal, with piercing black shading their backs, and their sides, and anything not giving way to the mesmerizing glare of power and allusion. An angel might misconstrue this sight for a couple mosquitoes, buzzing around a light post, aimlessly treading and retreading stale air, doing so because at least it is not darkness. In the void of the suns presence, in the anonymity of black, all creatures are drawn to light, light stemming from the most obscure or damning source. Once this light is obtainable, like the mosquitoes around the light post, the creatures will simply hover, knowing of no other option, naïve to their similarly lost ancestors and blind to a world that exists in the darkness.