Uncivilized by Sawyer Bennett

  As I lay in bed that night and thought of the way that Moira made me feel, there was a brief moment where I thought it might be nice to have her lying next to me in the bed. I had some questions to ask her, and I'm suspecting it would maybe even be a nice feeling to stroke my fingers along her skin while we talked. I thought briefly about going back to her room and asking her if it would be appropriate to lie in bed beside her so we could talk some more, but then I pushed that out of my mind. Although there was some appeal to the thought, it also seemed strange and contrary to my nature. It made me feel slightly weak and unmanly to consider that.

  So I left it alone and after some time, finally fell asleep.

  I woke this morning with a raging hard-on, and never questioned my actions once by rolling out of bed and striding right to Moira's door. I pushed it open without even knocking, intent on crawling onto her bed and sinking my cock inside of her, not even caring if she was on her knees or back at the time.

  Absolute disappointment filled my body when I saw her bed empty. I walked over to her bathroom and saw it was empty as well. With a sigh of frustration, I went back to my own bathroom and showered, where I, of course, polished my own bannister since I couldn't have Moira, and made my way down to find Randall in the dining room waiting for me.

  He told me that Moira borrowed one of his cars to run some errands so that I could spend some 'alone' time with him today. While I knew that I would have to devote my time with this strange man who I loathed, but was coming to some acceptance of, I had wanted Moira by my side when I confronted my past. I know I am a strong man, but for some reason, I'm feeling anxious now that Moira isn't here.

  "You look just like your mother," Randall says, pulling me hard away from my thoughts of Moira. "I would have recognized you in a crowd of a thousand as her son."

  I don't know what to say to that, so I take a sip of my coffee.

  "I want you to feel free to ask me anything about your parents... about your former life that you may not be able to remember. I want you to use this opportunity to help fill in the dark spots in your memory and regain knowledge of your heritage. But please know this, Zach... I won't push you to stay. I want you to... I'm sure you have that figured out by now, but I won't pressure you at all. Now, are there any other assurances I can give you?"

  This man... my godfather, has succeeded once again in causing some of my bitterness toward him to recede. I nod at him in understanding. "Just so you know, I have no intention of staying here permanently. My home is back in Caraica. But I do accept your offer to teach me about my heritage. And I'm willing to devote some time to it before I go back. Paraila... my adoptive father, asked me to stay a year. I'm not sure that's something I can do, but I will stay more than just a few days here in Georgia if that offer is still open."

  "It is indeed," Randall says with a smile. "How about after we finish breakfast we go for a ride, and I'll take you over to your house?"

  I nod in acceptance and pick at some of the bacon on my plate. "Moira told me that my father saved your life once."

  Dabbing at his mouth with his napkin before setting it back down, Randall pushes his plate away. "I'm not a religious man. That was totally your father. But I do believe that God made sure your father was in the right place at the right time to pluck me from death's cold grip."

  I listen in fascination, as Randall tells me of his hedonistic ways, and how he flipped his car into a rain-swollen ditch, drunk off his ass one day. How my father's face appeared in the window through the murky water, and Randall even swore he saw a halo around my father's head. I had to smile to myself at that image. While my parents were hardcore Christians, I had fallen away from the teachings over the years. While Father Gaul still preached to me from his Bible, the tribe's spiritualistic followings made more of an impact on me than the inconsistent visits by Father Gaul.

  "I find it hard to believe that you developed such a close bond with my father just because he saved your life. You two seem like polar opposites," I observe after Randall gets done telling me the story of how they became friends.

  Randall chuckles and nods his head vigorously in understanding. "You're right. In many ways, we had nothing in common. Our religious beliefs, our political beliefs... all very different. Yet, ironically, your father and I were able to have these deep conversations about our differences. Your father never judged me for not having the same belief systems. In fact, I think that was what made him such a great missionary... because he understood that people had inherent beliefs that would not be easy to change. Your father was patient and kind. He was funny and mischievous. He was an easy man to admire and respect."

  "I could see why you would like him. He seemed like a great guy," I observe. "And I always remembered him being in a good mood and laughing a lot. Plus, he saved your life. So, yeah... I get why you liked him. But I guess I don't understand why he liked you."

  I know that question comes off as rude, but I'm still suspicious of this "familial" type of bond that Randall seems to project.

  With warm eyes, Randall leans back in his chair at the dining room table and rests his hands on the edge. His voice is quiet when he answers me. "I asked your father that very same question once because I never quite understood it myself. And do you know what he told me?"

  I shake my head because I can't even fathom.

  Randall gives me a smile, his eyes twinkling. "Your dad told me that despite my excessive ways and hardcore partying, he never once doubted that my spirit and soul were gentle at its core. He said he recognized that in me. Of course, I thought your dad was crazy as all get out to say that to me. I thought he was full of it, and it made me laugh. I thought he was joking around with me, as he often did. But about three years later... you were just a baby, and I was actually babysitting you one night so your parents could go out on a date. When they came home, they found me sitting on the couch, with you fast asleep on my chest. Your parents were so quiet... they tiptoed up to us and leaned over with soft smiles to see you sleeping there. I don't know what expression was on my face at that moment, but your dad gave me a knowing smile and said, 'See... what did I tell you, Randall? A gentle spirit at your core'."

  My eyebrows rise in surprise. "He said the same exact words to you after all those years?"

  "Yes, which made me realize that your father meant those words with conviction. It was the first time in my life... ever... that I realized someone believed in me absolutely. I didn't think it was possible for me to admire and love your father more, but from that moment, your father had my absolute allegiance. I would have died for him."

  Randall's words hit me hard because I realize that this man isn't just someone that's out on a curious lark to get a gander at his friend's long-lost son. I think he feels true depth of emotion and obligation to my father, and he is using this opportunity to bring me back to my roots as a way to finally pay my father back after all these years, for not only saving his life, but for believing in his own humanity that Randall doubted he actually had.

  After breakfast, Randall loads me up in a silver car that he calls an Aston Martin, which doesn't mean much to me, and we head out to my parents' house.

  Well, my house now.

  The summer sun here in Georgia is hot, and the air is moist, renewing my longing for back home. As we drive along, I find my curiosity about this man increasing.

  "Where do you get all of your wealth from?" I ask him pointedly.

  Randall gives a boisterous laugh. "My great-grandfather started a department store called Cannon's back in the twenties. It's quite the legacy now. Started out as just a little store in downtown Atlanta, and now it's in practically every mall across America."

  "What's a department store?"

  "A place where you can buy things such as clothing, shoes, and some other home goods. I'll take you to one and show you while you're here."

  "And you own this entirely?"

  "I share ownership with my brother, Stanley. I'm the chief executive officer,
which means I pretty much run the company. Stanley, unfortunately, prefers to spend the money we make rather than work for it. His ownership is nominal."

  "And do Clint and Cara work for the company?"

  Randall snorts loudly. "Hardly. They follow in their father's footsteps and pretty much live off their trust funds."

  I'm silent for a while as I digest this. My first impressions of Clint and Cara were not favorable. They seemed like frivolous people to me, both wanting to discuss nothing more than parties and expensive toys. Neither one of them would survive five minutes in the rainforest.

  Not Moira, I realize. She's a very resourceful woman and, despite her lack of caution while tromping through the jungle on the day we left Caraica, almost earning her a snakebite, I expect if she was left to her own devices to survive in that environment, she would ultimately have no problem. This thought actually makes me proud of Moira. Makes me respect her even more.

  Before long, Randall turns off into a neighborhood that actually looks similar to the one that Moira lives in. The trees are a bit different looking, but the houses are small and well maintained. After navigating through a few streets, Randall finally pulls in front of a little, yellow house with black shutters and a black front door. The porch is white, and two rocking chairs sit to one side.

  Immediately, I recognize this as the house I lived in until I was seven. Emotion floods through me as memories abound. I remember playing with little, plastic toy soldiers, right there in the front yard. I know in the backyard there's a peach tree I used to climb, and my mom would admonish me not to eat the fruit before it was ripe.

  I swallow hard as Randall turns off the car and opens his door. I go ahead and exit, my eyes soaking in everything, right down to the little red and yellow flowers that border the sidewalk that leads up to the porch.

  Randall walks over to me and holds his hand out. I absently reach outward, and he drops a key in my hand. I look down at it, and then back up to Randall.

  "Let's go take a look, shall we?" he asks.

  I nod and head up the porch, my feet feeling heavy. The key slides smoothly in the lock, and I give it a turn. As soon as I step in, I recognize everything. The tiny living room still has the same couch and loveseat from when I lived here. It's quite ugly now that I think about it, in shades of brown and orange-patterned prints of birds. The floorboards creak slightly as I walk further in, and I swear I can actually envision my father sitting on the couch, silently reading a Bible passage.

  Turning to look into the small kitchen, I see it's still painted the same butter yellow with white lace curtains over the window that sits above the sink. I imagine my mom leaning down to pull chocolate chip cookies from the oven while she hums softly to herself.

  I can even see myself running down the narrow hallway, calling out to my mom, "Look what I made, Mommy."

  I handed her a drawing done in crayons of a little stick figure boy with a small, brown dog at his feet. "Can we have a dog?"

  My mom laughed at me as she looked at the drawing. "That's beautiful, Zach, but you know we can't have a dog. We're leaving next month for Brazil, and there would be no one to take care of it."

  "Uncle Randall can watch it for us. I'm sure he'd do it."

  My mom ruffled my hair and leaned down to kiss me. "I'm sure he would, baby. But if you're going to have a dog, you need to be the one to care for it. Maybe we can get one when we get back, okay?"

  Disappointment filled me because I didn't want to go on this mission trip with my parents. I loved Jesus, and all of his teachings, but I didn't want to leave my home... my friends... Uncle Randall. I loved it here.

  "I don't want to go," I said petulantly. "I want to stay here with Uncle Randall, like the last time you went."

  "But we're going to be gone longer. At least a year," my mom told me with a confident smile. "We can't leave you for that long. I'd miss you too much."

  "I don't care," I told her angrily. "I'll hate it there."

  My mom bent down and picked me up, nuzzling my neck. "You won't hate it there, silly. But if on the off chance that you do, we won't make you come back with us again. How's that for a promise?"

  I wanted to cry and stomp my feet in denial, but I knew it wouldn't do any good. This trip had been planned for a while now, and there was no changing it. We had this conversation many times before. My mom set me back down, giving me some warm cookies with a glass of milk. Cookies usually made everything seem better, but not that time. That time, they tasted like dirt.

  I blink my eyes, falling out of the memory hard. I had totally forgotten that I never wanted to go to the Amazon with my parents. That I was bitter about it, and that I wanted to stay here with my godfather. I turn slowly to look at Randall, who is watching me with kind eyes.

  "I never wanted to go to Brazil with my parents," I say stupidly.

  Randall nods at me with understanding. "No, you didn't. But your parents understood that. You were too young to share their passion for helping to teach Christianity to the Indians. But they couldn't very well leave you behind. Not for the extended trip they had planned. They loved you too much to ever do that."

  "Yet, they ultimately did leave me... when they died," I say with a bitterness that surprises me. "They left me in a strange world. They left me unprotected."

  Randall takes a few strides toward me, resting his hands on my shoulders. "Don't be angry with them for that, Zach. They're gone. You can't undo that, and you know they never wanted anything bad to happen to you. They trusted they were doing the right thing."

  "Right for who? For them?"

  Sighing, Randall squeezes my shoulders. "They thought it was right for your family, and we can't change that."

  I pull away from Randall and walk down the hallway to my bedroom. My head is spinning with resentment, and I'm ashamed of myself. Ashamed that I would feel that way toward my parents, who are dead, and ashamed that I'm actually having bitterness over having left this home that I'm standing in right at this moment. It's the absolute same feeling I had not less than a month ago when I was told I had to leave my home in Caraica.

  Now, I'm confused. I don't know where my home truly is. I feel like I belong neither here nor there. Every bit of sure footing that I had seems to be sliding out from underneath me.

  I peek inside of my bedroom, and it's exactly as I remembered it. A tiny twin bed with Batman sheets and a blanket. Various toys are scattered over my dresser, and a baseball bat and glove lay on top of a footlocker at the bottom of my bed. Everything is very clean and without a speck of dust anywhere. I assume Randall has been maintaining this house all these years.

  Turning from my room, I walk across the hall to my parents' room. Immediate recognition assaults me as I take in their wrought-iron bed covered in a pale blue and white quilt. Their dresser is covered with photographs of our family, and I walk up to them to peruse, trying to remain dispassionate as I take in the smiling faces and happy family union. Closing my eyes, I swear I can even smell my mom's subtly sweet perfume, and a flash of pain and longing seeps into my bones, replacing some of the bitterness I was feeling moments ago.

  I open one of the drawers, but it's empty of clothing.

  "I ended up giving away all the clothing, but everything else I left the same. I have someone come in weekly to clean the place."

  Nodding my head, I take a peek outside the window and look out into the backyard. The peach tree stands there, looking about ten times larger than I remember, but it's devoid of any fruit.

  Turning back to Randall, I clear my throat so he can't hear the tidal wave of uncertainty to my feelings. "Thank you for showing me this today. But I think I've seen enough."

  "Sure," Randall murmurs. "I'll take you out to lunch, and we can just chat some more if you want."

  "Actually... I'd rather just go back to your house if you don't mind. I'd like some time alone, if that's okay with you."

  Randall smiles at me with sad eyes and says, "Of course."

  I f
ollow Randall out of the house and get back in his car with utter silence, lost in my own thoughts. He says this house is mine, but it's not.

  Not truly.

  My true home is back in Caraica. A longhouse I had built with my own hands, which sits next to Paraila's abode. My hammock provided me all the comfort I needed, and the forest provided me food. I had friends... and an adopted father that loved me like his own.

  I have no need of any of these things that Randall showed me here today.

  Chapter 16

  Moira

  I stand outside of Zach's bedroom door, hesitating. I'm worried about him. He didn't come down for dinner, so I had a quiet evening with Randall discussing what had happened today.

  He's worried about Zach too.

  Apparently, the trip to his childhood home stirred up some bitter emotion. Randall told me that Zach remembered some things in vivid detail. He remembered not wanting to go to the Amazon with his parents, and how he begged to stay with his Uncle Randall.

  I suspect that Zach is conflicted over what "home" actually means. He's been so adamant that the only home he'll ever acknowledge is the one he made for himself back in Caraica. But now, he remembers that he had a home here that he loved very much and was resentful of having to leave. I can't even imagine what he must be feeling at this moment... the dichotomy of emotions that must be weighing on him.

  It terrifies me to think that he may be sitting inside of his room, right at this very moment, planning an immediate return to the Amazon. It would be an easy way for him to deny the feelings of affinity he must have been feeling to his childhood home today. It would be an easy out for him to take... to run back to what is most comfortable to him.

  I go ahead and knock softly on the door. "Zach... can I come in?"

  I'm met with silence, so I go ahead and try the doorknob, finding it opens to my touch. Swinging the door open, I note that the room is cast in semi-darkness, as he has the heavy drapery pulled shut and only one small bedside lamp lit.