“Think what you want. I think the feds would have shoved you on some relative if they thought your parents were coming back. But instead of cohabiting with a fat aunt, you’re here. I bet you hear the death knell soon, just like them.”
“For a boys’ home bruiser, you’ve got quite a vocabulary,” said Christian, brushing off his coat and battling a rush of nausea. Though he knew he should hate Jack Walter, there was something about him that he liked. Maybe it was that he offered distraction, or that although he liked to throw shoes and punches, he also liked to be around Christian, and he was the only one at the Home who did.
“You’re grim,” said Christian, his ears still ringing. They both let their ailments settle and turned their attention to some of the older girls sitting in the field just a few yards away, close enough to watch the boys fight, far enough away that they didn’t feel the need to stop them.
“I’ve slept with all of them,” said Jack, giving a wave in their direction.
“Sure you have,” said Christian smiling as they made retching sounds at Jack.
“I have,” said Jack. “Okay, most of them. The pretty ones definitely, which after a few drinks is all of them. Actually, I lost my virginity not far from where we’re sitting. I’m surprised there hasn’t been an earthquake since. All that . . . passion,” he said laughing.
“When was that?” asked Christian, who felt a slight surge of jealousy that someone in a children’s home had lost their virginity and he hadn’t. “Yesterday?”
“Years ago,” said Jack, his laugh stopping abruptly. He pointed to a field behind them and said, “The Home sits right on the Monarch Trail. As in butterflies. They fly through the tall grasses all around the Home and then stop, as much as a butterfly can stop. Thousands come, all right here, next to these buildings, covering acres and acres. But they’re smart enough not to stay in Wisconsin. They’re flying from Canada to Mexico. It’s really beautiful. Maybe you’ll be here long enough to see it,” he said, stretching his wide calloused hands up to the sky.
“Maybe,” said Christian.
“It’s during the summer,” said Jack. “It’s the best part of the summer.”
“So you made love to a butterfly,” said Christian, trying to keep his head still.
“No,” said Jack, still looking up and smiling at the memory. “I made love to a beautiful girl. Patricia Talbot. She looked like she was made of corn and rain, just a pretty Wisconsin girl. And we decided that the first time we should have sex was when the butterflies were migrating, flying all around our naked bodies. Because if we couldn’t leave, at least we could be surrounded by creatures who fly. Who are completely free.” He closed his eyes and said, “It was the best day of my life.”
“What happened to Patricia Talbot?” asked Christian. “Can I take her off your hands?”
“If you can find her,” said Jack. “She was adopted. Fourteen and adopted. Doesn’t happen often, but like I said, she was really pretty. Some woman adopted her whose daughter had been around the same age when she died. I never heard from her again. I’m not mad at her for it. She’d been here since she was six because her parents decided they had too many kids to feed. Just dropped her off like she hadn’t lived with them for six years. Washed their hands of her. I hope she never sees them again. Or this place. Or even me.”
“The butterflies sound nice,” said Christian. “Kind of stupid, but nice.”
“No, said Jack, grinning again. “It was amazing.”
“I could use some amazing,” said Christian.
“Don’t hold your breath,” said Jack. “Because if your parents are in prison,” he said sitting up next to him, “bad times are ahead for you, kraut. First, your house will be looted. They’ll take everything, down to your mother’s underwear.”
“My house in River Hills?” said Christian, hugging his knees into his chest, hoping it would ease his need to vomit, which had just hit him more sharply. “Everyone there is already rich.”
“So what? You think the River Hills rich are above greed?” said Jack. “The rich are the worst kind of criminals, because they don’t need anything but they take it anyway. Trust me, you’re getting looted. Hope you’re not too attached to your stuff. Bet you had some nice things; you’ve got that rich boy smell.” He wrinkled his stubby nose. “I can smell River Hills on you. I should punch you again just for being from there.”
“You smell like a thief,” said Christian, grabbing Jack’s right hand and squeezing it until Jack couldn’t move his arm. “You want my address? You can go and loot it yourself. Bring your magical butterflies with you.”
He let go of Jack’s hand, the effort of twisting it only making him feel worse. This time he was sure he was going to be sick.
“No, thank you,” said Jack, flapping his bruised wrist. “I like my things brand-new. Even the things I steal.”
“How discerning of you,” said Christian before vomiting.
Though Christian suffered through his first week at the Children’s Home, getting sucker punched and going to the infirmary with a concussion (thanks to Jack Walter’s right cross), he did not break down to the extent he’d feared.
It was the staunch belief that his parents were innocent that kept him from folding into himself. They would be questioned and tried, but then they would be let go, with an apology. He was sure he’d be leaving the Home within a week.
Lying in bed, Christian imagined his parents thinking about him. It comforted him to envisage their worries and prayers meeting somewhere in the air in Milwaukee, knotting together, because they were suffering at the same time.
After dinner at their long dining table, which was sectioned off by age, Jack came up and stuck out his leg to trip him, but pulled it back when Christian went to pin it down with his foot. The boys around them pushed back their plastic chairs and stood to see if a fight would break out.
“Let me say it for you, so you don’t have to bother,” Christian said. “?‘Get out of here, dirty kraut.’?”
“That’s right!” said Jack, laughing and hurrying to catch up with him. “Listen, you dirty kraut, I’m sorry I gave you a concussion. I was just trying to present you with the gift of a little shiner to remember your time here by. I guess I don’t know my own strength. I have grand plans to become a boxer, or a philosopher, when I get out of here. What I won’t do is end up dead in the war. Not for me an early death. That’s just for you.”
“Forget it,” said Christian, ignoring Jack’s death sentence and thinking only about how Jack had ten months left in the place and no one to go home to.