The Smaller Evil Page 8

  Then he looked at her.

  She was already looking back.

  “What did you want to show me?” he managed to ask, but his voice came out all croaky and weird.

  “Shhh,” she told him. “We have to be quiet.”

  “Sorry,” he said quietly.

  She smiled.

  “Tell me your name,” he whispered. “Tell me why we’re here.”

  “You know why,” she said.

  “I do?”

  “Of course.” She pulled him closer. “Isn’t that why you came?”

  • • •

  It was strange, Arman thought after, how wanting could be taking a sort of action. For so long, for so many years, he’d imagined that if a beautiful girl ever wanted him, her wanting would be a gift, infusing him with confidence, happiness, a sense of self-esteem. But it wasn’t like that. On the contrary, Arman found that the cook’s eager wanting took things from him. His focus. His intent. His sense of all rational thought.

  But it was worth it.

  Hell, it was worth more.

  “You shouldn’t leave,” she told him as they lay together in her rumpled sheets, with a hint of gray-gold dawn seeping through the window.

  “I have to,” he said. “I fucked up last night. I can’t stay.”

  The cook—who still hadn’t told him her name and wouldn’t—didn’t answer. Instead she crawled from the bed, and turned on the hot water kettle she had in the corner of the room. She was still naked, and he could see the stickiness from what they’d done glistening on the inside of her thighs. It made Arman want to do the whole thing all over again. And again after that. Only he didn’t know how to ask. He only knew how to answer.

  Whistling softly, she made them both tea with honey, keeping the larger mug for herself. Arman sat up and sipped his gratefully. The heat and sweetness felt good, nourishing.

  His head felt drowsy.

  His limbs tingled with warmth.

  The cook settled beside him on the bed. “You didn’t fuck up, you know.”

  “Oh, I did. Trust me.”

  “No,” she insisted. “Beauregard, he sees something in you. He says you’re different. Special. He says you have the potential to understand the things he’s trying to teach better than anyone he’s ever met.”

  “I don’t believe that,” Arman said.

  “It’s true.”

  “I mean, maybe he thought that before. But last night . . . I was supposed to be part of something, and I didn’t do what he wanted me to. I couldn’t.”

  The cook shrugged. “Well, I don’t know about that. But I heard him talking after the party last night. He spoke very highly of you.”

  “After the party?”

  “Yes.”

  “That doesn’t make sense.”

  “Sure it makes sense,” she said. “You just don’t know how.”

  Arman sighed. “I suppose.”

  “You’re still going to leave, aren’t you?”

  He nodded.

  At this, the cook frowned, then stroked his cheek, an act that made Arman feel like a child but also made him feel loved. For a moment he thought he might cry, because she was right; he was going to leave. It’s what he meant to do in the first place, only now it felt less like a choice and more like exile.

  So much for freedom.

  Arman finished his tea. He relished the warmth in his stomach and the fact that she’d made it for him, and when he’d gotten dressed and was ready to go, he put his hand on the doorknob. Looked back at her. “Can I ask you something?”

  “Sure,” she said.

  “Maybe more than one thing.”

  “Okay.”

  “How long have you been here? How long have you known Beau?”

  “A long time.”

  “Then why do you stay? You’ve been inoculated. You have immunity to, you know, whatever’s out there. Whatever’s hurt you. You could leave and you’d be fine, right?”

  “Immunity isn’t just about changing yourself,” the cook said. “Not to me. To me it means being a part of something greater, part of a system that helps others change, too. That’s what’s important. That’s everything.”

  “Everything?”

  She nodded. “It fills my needs.”

  “What are those?”

  “To feel capable. Autonomous. Connected to people I care about.”

  “That’s all?”

  “What else could there be?”

  Arman didn’t have an answer for that. “Well, has Beau ever wanted you to do something you felt was wrong? Something you weren’t comfortable with?”

  “No. Never. But . . .”

  “But what?” Arman asked.

  The cook smiled. “But I think we have a different sense of morality, you and I. I don’t think we’re the same at all.”

  • • •

  Back outside. There was sunlight now, sweet quicksilver shards of it, piercing the fog and the night and the thick branches of the trees, and seeing as Arman knew full well where the cook was at the moment, he headed straight for the kitchen. He wasn’t worried about being seen.

  The building was unlocked, as he imagined everything at the compound was, so maybe he wasn’t really stealing. Maybe everything here was here for the taking. He moved through the room quickly, though, picking a few items to slip into his bag: fruit and bread and raw almonds and bottled water.

  When he had what he needed, he hoisted the bag back onto his shoulder. Then he left the kitchen by way of the sliding glass door and walked down to the iron gate. It turned out he didn’t have to do any fence climbing when he got there; the heavy chain hung loose, and Arman simply pulled open the right side of the gate. It made a low creaking sound, but that was all. There were no alarms. No gunshots. No one came shouting at him.

  Nothing.

  Arman slipped out and quietly shut the gate behind him. He glanced over his shoulder only once as he walked away, looking back at those large words that loomed above him like a warning.

  “Alia tentanda via est,” he whispered. “I’m still trying.”

  13

  DUE WEST. JUST KEEP HEADING west.

  You’ll get there.

  Before setting out, Arman had thought the heading west thing would be a simple enough proposition. And maybe it would’ve been, if the road leading away from the compound had been anything close to straight or straightforward. Like the world’s worst metaphor, the road he was on wound westward through the semi-coastal mountain range like a coiled snake, turning in on itself, again and again, as it crept through valleys and cut across hilltops.

  But Arman kept going. He had no other options. His phone, which he’d considered turning off in case his stepfather decided to track him down via GPS, ran out of juice on its own, effectively making the decision for him. So he walked and he walked. Until the sun rose high in the sky and his knee swelled and his hoodie came off and he went back to wishing he were the kind of person who maybe wore shorts every now and then. There was no shade down by the roadside. No ferns or woodsy clearings or burbling creeks. There was nothing but yellow grass. Cracked asphalt.

  A soaring heat index.

  More time passed. Arman’s allergies flared and his head filled with worry—pointless, irrational thoughts, each fretful one landing in his brain like a rock in a water cup to push his anxiety level higher and higher. First, he worried he’d made a wrong turn and gotten lost. Then, he worried he might die of sunstroke. Next, he worried everyone else in the world had been Raptured and he’d be alone for all eternity. Finally, he worried that no one else besides him had ever even existed in the first place.

  Wouldn’t that be something?

  To be fair, none of these scenarios seemed implausible; Arman hadn’t seen a single car or house or person the entire time he’d bee
n out here. And now he’d walked for so long, he didn’t even think he could make it back to the compound if he wanted to. Which he didn’t.

  But still.

  Then it happened. Without warning, Arman came around a sharp bend in the sloping road and found signs of human life. Right in front of him! It wasn’t much, true, but there was a large red barn with the words LOS PADRES MARKET painted in block letters on its roof. There was even a parking lot in the back. He could make out the shadowy shapes of cars that sat in the shade beneath a pair of elm trees.

  Maybe, if Arman had been the type to show emotion or wear his heart on his sleeve, the sight of the barn would’ve gotten him to kick up his heels or whoop with joy. But he wasn’t. He simply hurried forward with hope in his veins. He didn’t know what he might find inside the market, but there had to be people. If nothing else, he’d at least get a good idea how much farther he had to go. That would ease his mind, he thought, if not his feet, which were starting to blister. But maybe he could get a ride from someone. Maybe luck would be on his side.

  For once.

  • • •

  Arman pushed open the market door and stepped inside. A bell jangled overhead. He was smacked in the face by air-conditioner chill and the smell of burnt pizza. But the assault felt good: sweet relief from the day’s heat.

  There were no people he could see. Rows of packaged foods and various sundries stretched before him. An ice machine stood against the far wall, and on Arman’s right, a long ramp led down to a second room, one filled with empty tables and chairs. A huge television was mounted to the wall. He ducked to see what was on. It was baseball. Stupid Giants.

  People or no people, Band-Aids were a high priority for Arman at the moment. He cruised the grocery aisles until he found them wedged between a can of jock itch spray and medicine meant to stop diarrhea and heartburn. Arman wasn’t sure how Band-Aids might be used to bridge that gap, but whatever. He grabbed the first box he saw.

  “Nice pants,” a voice said.

  “Huh?” Arman looked up. A teenage boy about his age stood at the very end of the aisle. He was tall with a long nose, short black hair, and he wore a blue apron with the message “Welcome to the Los Padres Market. How May I Help You Today?” printed on the front. “What did you say about my pants?”

  “Looks like you pissed yourself.”

  “It’s sweat,” Arman said. “They’re sweatpants. It’s hot out there, you know.”

  The boy smirked. “Whatever you say. Where you going anyway? You walked here. No one walks here.”

  “I’m trying to get to the highway.”

  “Which highway?”

  Were there others? “The PCH.”

  “Dude, you got like twelve miles to go.”

  Arman gaped. “You serious?”

  “Dead serious.”

  “Holy shit.”

  The boy grinned. “Why don’t you come get something to eat? Take a load off. We got pizza. Game’s on. Band-Aids are on me, okay?”

  Arman nodded. He followed the boy into the far room, opening the Band-Aid box as he went and jamming a few in his pocket before stuffing the rest into his bag. He took a seat at the first table he came to.

  The boy hovered. “You doing one of those Walk Across America things? Raising money for dick cancer or something?”

  “What?” Arman’s head still spun from the twelve-mile revelation. And had the kid said dick cancer? “No. I was just, I was at this retreat up the road. But now I want to leave. Walking’s the only way to do that.”

  The boy’s smile vanished. “You were at a retreat up the road? You mean that Evolve place?”

  “Yeah. That’s it. You know about it?”

  “I thought only old people went there. My dad says it’s for rich retired hippies who want to walk around naked and pretend they’ve found Paradise.”

  Arman shrugged. “I don’t know. It’s not that bad. But there were a lot of old people.”

  “Naked ones?”

  “Sort of.”

  The boy made a face. “I better get back to work.”

  “Okay.”

  “You know, maybe you should ask that guy over there for a ride. He’s heading west. Probably leaving soon. Chip in for gas, shouldn’t be a problem. He doesn’t look too creepy.”

  Well, that was an underwhelming assessment, but the prospect of a ride wasn’t something Arman was about to pass up. He’d sit shotgun to Jeffrey Dahmer if it meant not having to walk around on his blistered feet anymore. “Which guy?”

  “Him.” The boy pointed.

  Arman twisted in his chair. The back door to the barn was open, letting out all the cold air, and sure enough, a guy was out there smoking, on a brick patio where there were more tables and chairs. He sat in the shade, and Arman stared at him. He stared for a good long time, with wide eyes and an open mouth, because this guy, who was wearing dark jeans, cowboy boots, and a polo shirt, who was smoking a cigarette, and who was apparently heading west, was Beau.

  14

  A JUMBLE OF CONFLICTED THOUGHTS ran through Arman’s mind. Things like:

  What is he doing here?

  Is he pissed that I left?

  Does he even know that I left?

  I’m not sorry for what I did.

  I’m not.

  But I am sorry I disappointed him.

  Arman also recalled what the cook told him that morning, in the warmth of her bed, a moment as far and fleeting as a favorite dream. She’d said that despite everything that had happened, Beau still believed in him. That he still thought Arman was special.

  But what do I believe?

  And wasn’t that the crux of all his problems right there? Because even in the midst of running away, Arman wasn’t completely sure if he was leaving because he’d taken a stand or because of his own self-defeating symptoms. His inability to stay in a place where he might actually want to be.

  So which was truth?

  And which was delusion?

  Arman felt tingly. And lost. There was so much in this world he didn’t understand. Like who he was. Or where he was going. But what he did understand was that an opportunity had presented itself. One he would never have again. So rather than thinking, Arman focused on feeling and doing. Like Beau told him to.

  What Arman felt, he realized, was confusion.

  What he could do, however, was get up, go outside, and talk to Beau.

  So he did.

  • • •

  Beau sat beneath a tattered green umbrella that looked as if its heyday had come sometime during the Clinton administration. Although his eyes were open, a long stream of ash curled from the end of his cigarette. It gave the impression that he was sleeping. Or possibly dead. Arman walked over and stood in front of him, but Beau said nothing. He didn’t even acknowledge his presence.

  Arman’s gut knotted. That familiar clench of rejection.

  Stop it. No matter what he thinks or what he says, you’ve already had more than zero effect. You’re already something more than nothing.

  “Hey,” he said cautiously. And when there was no answer: “Hey. It’s me, Arman.”

  This got a response. Beau blinked, then met his gaze. That smooth trademark smile spread across his face, but it came almost a beat too late. Like his reflexes were on tape delay.

  Or something.

  “Arman,” he said. “It’s good to see you. Come sit down, won’t you?”

  Arman hesitated. The sun scorched the back of his neck, the sweltering June air smelled faintly of manure, and something about this situation felt weird to him. Unnatural. He couldn’t pinpoint it exactly. But he sat across from Beau. Kept his butt on the very edge of his chair.

  “What are you doing here?” he asked.

  “Mmmm,” Beau said. “Just out for a drive.”

  Arman frowned.
That didn’t make sense. Not at all.

  “I’m leaving, you know,” he said.

  “I’m sorry to hear that. Have some water, why don’t you? You look hot.” Beau pushed an already open bottle toward him.

  Arman reached for it gratefully. Took a few gulps, then wiped his mouth. “Well, I’m sorry about last night. I wanted to tell you that. I’m sorry for everything, but especially for throwing that knife of yours. I know it was special.”

  “More than special,” Beau said. “Do you know what it takes to make a knife like that? A true Damascus?”

  “I have no idea.”

  Beau picked up the plastic cap to the water bottle Arman still held and spun it across the table. “The thing you don’t see when you look at that kind of blade is that it’s not made from a single piece of steel. Or even a single type.”

  “It’s not?”

  “No.” Beau edged forward in his seat. “You see, the knife maker—and I don’t mean just any knife maker, we’re talking about a true artist, here—he or she will curate a selection of different metals, stacking them one on top of the next, before heating them all together. Then, when the metal’s hot enough, the melted layers are hammered and stretched and folded back in on themselves, before being cut and stacked again. This process repeats over and over. Until the many become one.”

  “But why?” Arman asked. “Why use all those different metals?”

  “Why do you think?”

  “I don’t know. Does it make the knife stronger or something?”

  Beau shrugged. “That’s what most people believe.”

  “But you don’t? You don’t think that’s true?”

  “I think it doesn’t matter if it’s true. The truth is nothing more than proving a lie. That’s what the scientific method tells us. But if the blade cuts, you can be sure someone will have faith in its strength.”

  “Oh,” Arman said.

  “What else are you sorry for?” Beau asked.

  “Huh?”

  “Just now. You said you were sorry for everything. But throwing that knife’s only one thing.”

  “Yeah, well, I guess I’m also sorry I let you down. But what you wanted me to do on that mountain, cutting you like that, it seemed wrong.”