Lark

Lark Faust and I agree to separate while canvasing for support. The decision leaves me a little uncomfortable, since I am used to her stout presence. Nevertheless, Meric was correct--our failure to open people’s eyes is unacceptable. Part of the blame may lie with the people, but some rests with us. Faust and myself, we have roles to fulfill. And so I find myself on a sidewalk, cold wind burning at my face, watching her buzz away in an ancient, little car. The first mailbox I come to says “LARK.” The house is old, some kind of dark wood siding, patchy with water stains, as far as I can tell. I’m no house expert. It has a screen front door, offering a hazy view inside. There are holes in the screen, all clustered around its center. They must have a cat. I keep that in mind. Lark. Cat. No air conditioning, probably. All data for thinking on your feet. I approach the door, giving it a weak knock. I can feel warm, stale air seeping out through the tattered screen. The house stinks, garbage stink. Not as putrid as a dumpster, but close enough for disgust. I knock a little harder. A movement near the door, and I see a man turn his head from a chair. The guy was so melded into it, I didn’t notice him. The room so dark, the screen camouflaged him. “Hello, sir,” I say. “I am here to talk to you about a cause, we call if fighting the Good fight, sir, and--” “Come in,” he growls. He sounds indifferent, however he offers me entrance. He wouldn’t do that if he weren’t at least a little interested, right? The screen door opens easy, quick, and I step into the thin, ugly air of the home. There are no lights, only a small tube television on the floor. The man’s chair faces the television. A couch is positioned to the right of the television, its back against a wall. A girl sits on the couch. She appears to be in adolescence, sixteen, seventeen, possibly eighteen, even. I’ve little experience with guessing an age. “Frank Lark,” the man says, extending an arm, still reclining in the old chair. I take his hand and shake. “I am Zeal. Thank you, sir.” “Nice firm grip,” he says. “I’ve always believed in a solid handshake. That’s all you need to know about a fellow man, is the strength of his handshake.” I nod, and he motions to the couch. The girl hasn’t moved an inch, in fact, she hasn’t even blinked as far as I can tell. She looks to be in a thousand-yard stare, the kind of condition a battle stressed soldier gets into. Staring towards the distance, shut down, coping with the unbearable. Conditions created by people, and felt by people. A price to be paid. I’ve learned about it in my preparations. But this young girl fought no war. Surely not. Or has she? I see bruises on her neck, like a steel hand throttled her. She sits perfect. At attention. Or . . . sitting naturally, as though trained, like an animal. Her “soul” elsewhere. The thousand-yard stare. “Is this your . . . daughter, sir?” “Yeah,” he says. Growls. “Annie.” “Lark?” I ask. “Yeah.” “Good afternoon, Annie,” I say. She stares, no response. “Get us some food,” Frank says, clearly to Annie, who responds in an instant. Apparently, she’d been present the entire time. She left the room with perfect efficiency. “Go ahead,” Frank says, “and stretch out your legs. Get comfortable. We’ll talk over snacks.” “What about Annie’s seat?” “She gave it up. You’re in my castle. As long as I’m King, I know best. And I am the King.” So I lean against the edge of the couch, and stretch my legs down the length, just as Mr. Lark insisted. Annie returns with a platter covered in chip bags, little wrapped snack cakes, and so on. She arranged it well. Obviously she took pride in the work. I felt happy for her. She didn’t miss a beat, as far as our seating arrangement went. She plopped down where my feet hung over, in a cubby hole between the end of the couch and the wall, facing the direct side of the television. I could only see the top of her hair, dark like her father’s. “So Mr. Lark,” I say. “About fighting the Good fight. There are factions bent on spreading lies. Pure lies. And so there are groups--communities, if you will--that have come together to represent all of the virtues of a wonderful human being. We are soldiers of virtue, and we need your support.” I add: “Feel free to ask questions.” Although I would rather he not. “Do you kill the faction forming b******s?” he asks. “We do not claim to kill anyone, sir.” “Well killing doesn’t bother me.” “Yes, sir,” I say. “But be assured: our fight will guarantee the greatest outcome of outcomes; now, in the future, always and forever. No matter what circumstances spring up, we are assured of our truth. We fight for the truth. Indeed, the easiest method of ensuring a continual truth, is to maintain one truth. We do that. We make the world easier to live in for so many people.” All he says is, “You’re not really soldiers if you don’t kill anyone. Do you even hurt them?” I say, “By destroying them utterly in worth to themselves and the world, we are hurting them quite a bit, so yes, I would say so.” “Then you have my money.” “Excellent, sir, Mr. Lark.” This is the perfect kind of guy. “Annie!” he calls. “One hundred dollars.” She hops up from the corner, marching like a robot out of the room. She returns with a wad of cash, not a hint of emotion in her eyes. “Hand it to Mr. Zeal.” She turns to me, reaching out a steady hand filled with twenty dollar bills. I take them, allowing my hand to brush hers. She recoils, and backs up, tripping over a coffee table. “Look at this,” says Lark. “Look at this clumsiness. Is this worth anyone’s time? I don’t think so. Get out of here!” He shouts at her, prodding hard with a foot as she rushes by his chair, out of the room. “I’ll deal with her later, Mr. Zeal. Don’t worry. As a matter of fact, she’ll pay for that hundred dollars, somehow.” “She is a very pretty girl,” I say. “You should be proud.” “Nonsense,” he says. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. This is my house. I do.” “Yes, sir,” I say. “Now, you do look to know what you’re talking about with this good versus evil business. That I can see.” I say, “And since this is your house, sir, you know what you see.” And I smile. “I like you!” he says, tossing an empty chip bag to the floor.