HELPER12, Jack Blaine [reading in the dark .TXT] 📗

you and that one are living the dream.”

“Right.”  I couldn’t have sounded more sarcastic.

“I didn’t do it!”  Thomas sounds frustrated.

“No, but you could have.”  Deen raises his eyebrows.

“You know that I wouldn’t.”  Thomas’s voice is subdued now.

Deen puts a hand on Thomas’s shoulder.  “That,” he says, “I do.”  He looks at me.  “And so should you.  This one really is one of the good guys.”

Chapter Seventeen

After Deen leaves us, I think about what he said.  I don’t know him any better than I know Thomas, but I trust him more.  He’s like me—there’s a designation tattoo on his forearm, too; an L. I didn’t see it until he brought our wine, but the moment I did I knew I could probably trust him.  Because a man designated as a Laborer should not be serving wine in a restaurant. He’s found some way to jack the system, and I don’t think it’s because somebody bought him.

I watch Thomas eat some of his cheddar beans.  He won’t look up at me.

“I’m sorry.”  I wait.  Nothing.  I try again.

“Thomas.”

“Don’t you mean sir?”  He keeps his eyes on his plate.

I giggle.  I can’t help it—the whole thing is like we’re having some lover’s spat.  I take another drink of my wine.

He looks up, and smiles.  Pretty soon he’s laughing too.

“What’s so funny?”

I snort some of my wine.  “It’s just . . . it’s like we’re lovers having a little fight.”  I can’t catch my breath—the giggles keep coming.  “And given that I’m a lowly Helper, and you’re a kink . . .”

“What?”  He’s not laughing anymore.

I stop laughing too.  “I’m sorry, I mean, homosexual . . .”

“What makes you think I’m a kink?”

I don’t know what to say.

He waits.

“Well, what you said about your mother not wanting another homosexual son.  And the fact that you got expelled from school over your lover, Gregory.”

Thomas just stares.  “Gregory wasn’t my lover,” he says.

“Look, I don’t care a bit if you’re . . .”

“I’m straight.”

“Seriously, it doesn’t matter at—”

“Gregory was a kink.”  Thomas smiles faintly.  “He called himself that, too, a kink.  It’s not a bad word.”  He looks sad.

“Who was Gregory, if he wasn’t your lover?”  I don’t know what I’m risking to ask, but I don’t care, suddenly.  He looks so wounded and miserable.

“Gregory was . . . is my brother.”  Thomas’s voice is ragged.  “He’s still alive.  But he’s not Gregory anymore.  He’s who I went to see yesterday, when I told Driver I was going to the PIC.  I had him drop me there and then I caught a train out to the facility.”

I wait.  I’m afraid I know what’s coming.

“We were at the same school—he was two years behind me.  He was such a great kid—always happy, always so loving to everyone.”  Thomas smiles again, remembering.

“I think I always knew—at least I remember knowing when he was around four years old.  That he was a kink, I mean.  He just had a certain way of doing things, and then, when he got old enough that he should be interested in girls, he wasn’t.

“I didn’t care, but I thought he knew other people would.  I mean, he knew Mother would—he was smart enough to hide it from her.  I just figured he knew to hide it at school, too.  And maybe he did, at first.  But they caught him.  Him and another kid—Robert—I didn’t know him that well.  They caught them in one of the storage rooms.  They beat them both, the boys who found them, beat them senseless.

“The school sent him home—I was on a debate tour at the time.  I didn’t find out until I got back, and then it was too late.  I went straight home; I knew Dad was on a business trip and I knew without him there to stop her she would do the worst.  I kept hoping I was in time.”

Thomas’s voice has been getting softer and softer; I can barely make out what he’s saying.  I don’t want him to have to say the rest.

“She had him wiped, didn’t she?”

“Yes.”  The word is a sob, a long, low cry of pain.  Thomas covers his face with his hands, shaking his head.  “Yes she did.”

He scrubs his face with his fists, drying the tears that slip from his eyes.  He inhales deep breaths, pushes them out of his lungs as though if he can gain control of that simple bodily function, he can gain control of his emotions.  He does grow calmer, but I don’t think he’s beaten his grief.

“You should see him.”  He shakes his head slowly.  “He’s not even in there anymore.  He just sits in that chair, a lump of flesh, nodding and staring off into the distance.”  Thomas looks at me.  “He didn’t even know me.”

I look back, into his reddened eyes, and wonder how a mother could do that to her son.  I reach across the table and take his hand.  I don’t have any words.

We hold hands for a long time, in silence.  Jobee is sleeping, content with his full stomach and his warm blanket.  Our lunches grow cold, and neither of us moves.  Then, there’s a knock at the door, and Deen comes in with new plates of food.

“I thought you said this place was just swept?”  Thomas shakes his head at Deen.

“I did—it’s swept of outside listeners, not of our vid feeds.  We have to know what’s going on in our rooms, you know that.”  Deen grins.  “I saw a lot of talking and no eating—not hard to figure your food is cold.”

“Thanks, Deen.”  Thomas fishes out his C-card.  “Put double on this.”

Deen waves the card away.  “You know that’s no good here.  I don’t charge my friends.  And you, my boy, and your girl here, are my friends.”

Thomas’s face reddens.  I can feel mine doing the same.  We quickly let go of each other’s hands, and busy ourselves with our fresh plates of food.  Deen takes the old ones with him, chuckling