Chapter 2
WHEN A BODY EAT A BODY
"Jack."
I remember the first time Cyrus said my name, purposefully, heavy.
We were in a smoking room with red velvet floors, wooden walls, and gold molding. I was five. The ceiling was covered in angels and blue. My tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth as I swallowed, but I went to him.
The room with its portraits and crystal swayed out when I stood beside his chair. It disappeared when I looked into his eyes. They were hazel, fickle, and cold.
Damn I was young.
"What does your Mother tell you?" he asked.
I did not understand. "What?" I said.
"What does she tell you about, say, me?"
He took a sip from a velvety brown liquid in a beautiful glass. The glass sparkled in the dim light.
"Nothing," I said. This seemed to please him.
He shook his head, his thin cream lips pursed in a meaningful smirk, and I felt as though there was something more there beneath the surface than in others. I both liked and disliked it.
"What does she say about our church?"
"It's everything."
"It is everything." He shook his head, smiled, set his glass down on the table, and he took my hands. One of his palms felt moist and hot, the other cool.
"And what does she say about you?"
At this, I did not reply until he encouraged me and kissed my hands.
"That I don't belong here," I replied.
"That's quite dark."
I remember giggling, because I didn't know what he meant.
"Let us see what God has to say about it, hm? Or, at least what something has to say about it."
He called another man over, whom I believed to be a waiter, and in a few minutes he returned with a square silver plate. He set the plate beside Cyrus's glass and left. Arranged on that silver platter in a circle were ten red berries.
Cyrus began, "I don't think that you should live with your Mother anymore. Do you understand?" I nodded my head, even though I did not completely. I was so wrapped up in the moment, I could not consider any of his questions.
"However," he continued, "I do not know if you should live with me. So, this will be our way of deciding." He picked up the plate and held it out to me. "I want you to choose one, and just one, of these to eat. And, if you choose appropriately, you will come to live with me. You will still see your Mother, but you will be less hers, more mine. You will be like my own. Alex, my son, will be your brother. Marian, my wife, will care for you. With luck, you'll grow with us, be better, stronger. If, on the other hand, you choose incorrectly, then you will not come to live with me. Understand?"
I drank him in and nodded my head slowly. I didn't question, or pout, or cry, or laugh, or smile, because this was Cyrus. This was Cyrus.
I examined the berries on the plate. They all looked the same - sparkling red - and brown dots decorated the tops of their heads. All of them were relatively the same pea size, and they circled the angels reflected in the mirrored plate.
One, though, appeared slightly darker, and I looked at him. I liked him. He was prettier than the others, different. I picked him up and looked at Cyrus questioningly, but I was given no response. Cyrus simply stared at me, interested and locked on, but contained. I peered down into the fruit and, after a time, smelled it. This one made me want to eat him. I did.
I crunched through it, swallowed its sweetness, and was proud of myself. I felt confident, and I looked back to Cyrus. Without smile or frown, he set the plate back on the chair-side table and motioned for the waiter to come and take it.
"Did I get the right one?" I asked.
"Oh, let's give it an hour," he said. I watched him as he smoked. He gazed at me.