Chapter 2 - The Reaping of the Wolves
The roasted chicken on Prudence’s silver tray slid sideways, the grease smearing across the polished edge before the entire platter hit the cracked concrete floor with a heavy, metallic clang. The sound echoed in the cramped, damp service kitchen like a gunshot.
Neither Sarah nor Jamie moved. They sat frozen on their plastic stools, their small frames casting long, thin shadows under the single flickering bulb overhead. Jamie’s tiny fingers remained dug into the edge of the chipped plate, his eyes wide and unblinking, fixed on my face as if I were a ghost that had materialized out of the dark Bayside Heights night.
“David?” my mother whispered, her voice cracking over the name.
Gertrude took a step backward, her hand flying to the diamond necklace resting against her silk collar—a necklace I had paid for with three months of overtime in the desert heat of Rabigh, where the sand tore the skin from my knuckles. Her perfect, salon-styled hair seemed to wilt under the sudden shift in the room’s temperature.
I didn't answer her. I didn't even look at her yet.
I dropped to my knees on the dirty floor, ignoring the grease from Prudence’s ruined catering that soaked into my jeans. I reached out, my hands trembling with a violence I couldn't control, and pulled Sarah toward me.
She didn't embrace me back immediately. Her body was stiff, brittle, like dry wood that had been left in the sun for too long. When my arms wrapped around her waist, I could feel every single ridge of her spine through the torn fabric of her dress. She had lost at least thirty pounds. The vibrant, laughing woman I had kissed goodbye at JFK airport five years ago had been whittled down to an echo.
“David,” she breathed, her lips touching my neck. Her skin was freezing, even though the house just ten feet away was pumping central heat through the vents. “You’re home. You’re really home.”
“I’m home, Sarah,” I choked out, my voice thick with the dust of five years of swallowed rage. “I’m so sorry. God, Sarah, I’m so sorry.”
I turned my head, my eyes finding Jamie. My son. The last time I had held him, he was thirteen months old, a heavy, happy baby who smelled of milk and baby powder. Now, he looked like a miniature old man, his cheeks sunken, his collarbones sharp beneath a faded t-shirt that was two sizes too small.
“Jamie,” I said, extending a hand. “Come here, buddy.”
He looked at his mother first. That was the detail that broke the last remaining piece of my heart—he didn't look at his father with excitement; he looked at his mother for permission to be safe. Sarah gave a small, tearful nod, and Jamie let go of the plate, throwing his small arms around my neck. He was so light. It felt like holding a bundle of sticks.
“David,” Gertrude’s voice rose, regaining its sharp, aristocratic edge as her survival instincts kicked in. She stepped fully into the service kitchen, her heels clicking loudly against the concrete, her face twisting into a mask of maternal concern. “David, thank God you’re back! You didn't tell us! If we had known, we would have prepared—this isn't what it looks like, darling. Truly.”
I stood up slowly, keeping Jamie tucked against my hip, my left arm firmly anchored around Sarah’s shoulder. The heat inside my chest was no longer the heat of Saudi Arabia; it was something ancient, heavy, and lethal.
“What isn't what it looks like, Mother?” I asked, my voice terrifyingly calm. It was the voice I used when the oil rigs threatened to blow, the voice that kept fifty men from panicking while the iron groaned around them.
“Sarah... Sarah prefers it back here,” Prudence chimed in, her voice shrill as she tried to back away toward the main house door. She had recovered enough to point a manicured finger at my wife. “She didn't want to be around the guests! She has anxiety, David! We gave her this private space so she could feel comfortable—we’ve been taking care of her!”
“You gave her a plastic bucket,” I said, my gaze shifting to the corner where their meager belongings sat stacked like trash. “You fed my son spoiled rice while you served roasted chicken to people who don't even know your last names. You took $1,800 a month from my blood and my sweat, and you put them in the dirt.”
“David, how dare you speak to your sister like that!” Gertrude snapped, her old patterns of dominance flexing out of habit. “We managed the estate! The upkeep on a property this size is immense! We had to maintain appearances for your sake—to keep the family name respectable while you were away!”
I looked past them, through the open door into the main kitchen. The counters were covered in empty bottles of Bollinger champagne, platters of smoked salmon, and artisanal cheeses. The sound of a jazz trio drifted through the air, accompanied by the high-pitched laughter of Bayside Heights high society.
“Get out,” I said.
Gertrude blinked. “What?”
“Get out of my house,” I repeated, stepping forward. The sheer bulk of my frame—built from five years of hauling iron pipes under a hundred and twenty-degree sun—made both of them retreat until they were pressed against the doorframe of the main house. “Every single guest. Every single bottle of wine. Every single piece of your clothes. Out. Now.”
“You can’t do this!” Prudence shrieked. “My friends are here! The mayor’s brother is in the living room!”
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“Then the mayor’s brother is about to watch me throw his drinks into the driveway,” I said.
I didn't wait for them to comply. Holding my family close, I pushed past my mother and sister, stepping through the service door and into the grand, marble-floored kingdom I had built with my life, prepared to tear it down stone by stone if it meant cleansing the rot inside.
