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Except his brutal worldview made violence simple. When something becomes too easy, a person forgets to be careful. That’s why sweet Ollie is dead.
After sentencing Andrew to the boneyard, I can no longer really claim to be a pacifist. Taking a beating is far easier than watching someone I love suffer. However, I won’t deny I like knowing I protected my babies, even if it meant using violence.
BEAR
A few hours of sleep are all the reprieve I get before my guilt and resentment yank me awake. Though I consider hanging out at home, I recall what Aunt Fred used to tell Indigo when my brother would hide.
“You shouldn’t face the world alone,” she would say in her soft voice. “With your family and friends, you have power. Don’t shut us out.”
So even though I want to hide away this morning, I head to Sync O’Malley’s storybook-style ranch not far from my place. My usual crew is chilling out on the long driveway.
Every one of us changed our surname to O’Malley when we turned eighteen. My legal name is actually Bear now. No one’s called me anything different in more than fifteen years. Some guys went “respectable” with their new legal names. Like Pork Chop is P.C. O’Malley. Other guys kept their original first names while changing their surnames, even if everyone just calls them by their road names.
Taking the O’Malley name wasn’t a requirement to stay at the farm or join the club. Yet, most of us couldn’t get rid of our old names fast enough. I’ve been Bear since a few months after I arrived at the farm. I’ve never wanted to be anyone else.
Bear has a surrogate mom and dad who give a shit. He has dozens of foster brothers who have his back. He has two little sisters who razz him when he’s an asshole and baby him when he’s sad. Bear O’Malley has a real family like the old me never did.
Soon, I’m stretched out on a patio lounger in the sun. Nearby, Tack and Golden doze. Toward the street, Indigo paces like a caged animal. Near the garage, Sync rebuilds his newest project—a 1957 Ford Thunderbird.
I watch through half-open eyes as his and Siobhan’s twins—Deirdre and Kiera—help him work. He patiently shows them different tools and parts. When their long, dark hair keeps getting in the way, he stops working, wipes his hands, and gives them ponytails.
The six-year-olds watch Sync like he’s their hero. I never felt that way about my parents. One of my first memories was realizing my parents were losers. I didn’t even need to see anyone else’s family to know mine was no good.
Maybe that’s why I was a little shit at the girls’ age. I wouldn’t have been able to settle down long enough to help my dad restore a car. I also wouldn’t want to listen to him sing “When You Close Your Eyes.”
I find myself doubting I’d be a decent dad like Sync. I tend to keep my younger brothers in line by smacking them upside the head. I lose my patience a lot with their bullshit. Would I be the same jerk to a kid?
Of course, Sync was never particularly patient or kind as a young man. He also doesn’t treat anyone as well as he does his girls. I guess he just likes being a dad. If I liked fatherhood, could I be a better man?
Aneta sometimes talks about having a kid. She wants a real life, even if half of her heart is locked up for the next twenty years. I get the feeling Aneta wants me to knock her up. I’ve considered it. She’d be a good mom. But then, maybe she would think we were real in a way we can never be. Aneta and I are together because our true choices are gone.
Occasionally, I’ll find myself wishing Aneta were mine. If I could feel about her like I do about Natasha, I could have everything what I want. She could live in my too-large house, and I’d give her the kid she wants.
But I don’t love Aneta, and she’ll never love me. I’ll always be the guy she settled for because the man she loved didn’t replace his getaway car’s battery.
Breaking free of my negative thoughts, I glance at the identical twins who carry beers to everyone. I take mine and thank them. The pretty girls curtsy like their mom taught them. I don’t know why that move cracks me up, but I always fucking laugh.
“Any news about the cleaning crew?” I ask no one in particular.
“I think Aunt Fred got confirmation,” Tack replies. “I came here from the farm. When I saw Zoot walking to breakfast, he wasn’t yelling at anyone. Seems like they’re cool with whatever the Kovak Syndicate is keeping under wraps.”
“We should know what’s happening,” Golden insists, obsessing over imaginary slights as usual. “I’m not looking to be sacrificed in a secret war.”
“I don’t like when you act paranoid,” Sync tells Golden. “It makes me sad.”
Golden sneers, “I knew you cared.”
Sync smirks under the hood of the Thunderbird. “Girls, tell your uncle where to stick it.”
The twins flip off Golden who cracks up like I did when they curtsied. Yet, as soon as the twins lose interest in tormenting him, Golden is back to paranoid bitching.
“I feel the city shifting under our feet,” he insists, and Indigo nods. “After last night, how can you assholes not feel the same way?”
Golden might not be wrong to worry. My brain getting tangled up in memories of Natasha could be my way of avoiding how the world is about to change.
Right now, Aunt Fred and Katja Kovak could be plotting together or making plans to battle each other. The two women put shit in motion years ago. Everyone knows they’re the brains behind all this brawn. Viktor is a scary motherfucker, but Katja is the playmaker.
Helping orchestrate the plan to take Banta City from Sly Dardenne, Aunt Fred wielded the Backcountry Kings as weapons to claim territory from every player in town. It’s no coincidence how nearly every boy to stay at her group home now wears the club’s patch and claims the O’Malley last name. Aunt Fred’s pulling all our strings.
