Primal - By D.A. Serra Page 0,20
They don’t tell you that in school.” Ben thinks fondly back on his mom. She would say, “There are groups a folks with different ideas ‘bout what is good, and what is evil, and if that’s not proof enough that it’s all a crock of bullshit I don’t know what is.” She was so practical and real. “Worry only about each other, take whatever you can, and don’t be a fool.”
The only interference the Burne boys had growing up was when the school would send a spy to check on them. Ben grins recalling how they would laugh after each visit. The spy, invariably a woman social worker, would stop by and say, “You know, Mrs. Burne, those boys need to play with other kids, be socialized, learn camaraderie and compromise.” Ben remembers how Mom would listen with that I’m-so-interested-in-what-you’re-saying expression on her face, like she was getting superior advice, and after a thoughtful pause, she would talk about music lessons they never really took, and athletic teams they didn’t actually join. And then she’d drop the big bomb; it was religion after all that didn’t allow public schooling. She would invoke Jesus Christ and the social worker would shift her little ass around in the seat and look like someone shoved a gag in her mouth, which of course, was exactly it. Mom had raised all four of them to be God loving. She followed the Bible, as she used to say, religiously. She taught them that they were made in God’s image and so were meant to be all-powerful. She explained how Jesus would forgive them anything as long as they said sorry after because this was what he said over and over in the Bible - the forgiveness thing is your free ride. She did prefer the Old Testament’s clarity, although Revelations was awesome with all those infants damned (because really how could one enjoy heaven with a bunch of screaming babies) and that everlasting torture stuff, now, that was a good read. How could you not respect a God who came up with ever…lasting…torture? Still, she did explain to them the Jesus forgiving element was goddamn useful. She showed them in the actual Bible verses for the justification for everything: rape, infanticide, slavery. “Just learn your Act of Contrition,” she would say. And they would recite it every night. Kent is the most religious of the brothers because he always liked the idea of saints and spirits, ghosts and witches.
Mother Burne kept her four boys close so she could teach them what they really needed to know. With her gone now, Ben knows that his brothers are truly his wards. Theo is easy. He’s always been more of a pet. When Ben was nine years old and he wanted a dog, his mom gave him Theo. It was a perfect compromise. No one really knows how much is going on inside Theo’s head, but to Ben he really is better than a dog because he’s like a dog with hands. There are times when he does think Theo’s his favorite. Kent is okay, although he’s not too smart, and Gravel has a lot of issues, but the best head of hair. They are brothers. They are blood.
A sputter. A cough from the boat’s engine. Ben looks down at it. “Shit.” He looks out to assess the shoreline and possible landing spots.
Inside the lodge, Alison has abandoned her chunk of brown bread on her plate and joined Bella over by the hearth. The rest of the group continues with the meal. The atmosphere has loosened a bit as these strangers triangulate each other. It is a process as each finds their proper spot in a new assemblage: verbal jockeying, body language, informational downloads including jobs and residences serve to establish strengths, weaknesses, and put into place the requisite social hierarchy. They smile and nod politely while testing each other to precisely gauge who is successful, who isn’t, who is educated, experienced, conservative, liberal, sophisticated, rich. We want to know, we need to know this to determine how the group is to be configured for the week ahead, each member of the new group subconsciously wondering where is my proper spot; where is yours? So much is decided in those first seemingly casual moments: the roll of an eye, a certain vocabulary, the tilt of one’s head. And how often these decisions are accurate one rarely knows because these determinations are sticky and subject to confirming bias. Alison