The Smaller Evil (14 page)

ARMAN BROKE EYE CONTACT FIRST.
He couldn't help it. The back of his neck tingled and he glanced away. But then he looked right back at the stranger sitting in front of him. “You
what
?”

“No commenting.” Arman jumped because Mari was standing right behind him.

“Sorry,” he said.

She nodded but when she turned around again and wandered off, Arman leaned forward and hissed, “Did you say you tried to
kill
yourself? With a knife?”

The guy with the river-pebble eyes nodded. “But I was lucky. A friend found me in time. Took me to the ER.”

Arman's mind crackled with anger. “Did someone put you up to this? It's not funny, you know. It's really fucking not funny.”

The guy looked hurt. “I'm not like that anymore. This place, it's helped me. It's changed who I am. I know what the future has in store for me. Bright things. Wondrous things.”

Now Arman was openly staring. “
What
did you just say?”

“Quiet,” Mari said, looking pointedly at him from across the tent.

Arman bit his tongue.

“I want you all to close your eyes again,” she began, shifting once more into her lulling voice, telling them to get comfortable, to loosen their muscles and loosen their minds, as she led them into more reflection, asking them to go deeper and connect the feelings between one exercise with those from the other. Arman tried following along, but his brain wouldn't settle. Some things in life just
couldn't
be a coincidence.

Could they?

Mari continued talking, asking the group to imagine walking through a field of flowers, warmed by sunlight that kissed their skin, and coming across a younger version of themselves. In their minds they were supposed to tell the child they found what they had learned that night and what they felt that child needed to know in order to be inoculated from shame for the future ahead of them.

Arman saw the boy inside his mind. The kid he'd been—fearful, worried, but occasionally callous. The spaced-out kid with the messy hair and cheap clothes, who got everything wrong and refused to try anymore, far preferring ignorance to failure. The achingly lonely kid with a bad habit of sulking on the basketball sidelines over never being picked to play, but who always said no if asked. Arman stared at that boy now, at his shuffling feet and sullen gaze, and he knew what he was meant to tell him:

Shame can't rule your life. It's okay to fail. It's okay to let people see you in pain.
Pain and failure mean you're alive. But suppressing who you are, running away from your problems, those are just ways of letting other people live your life for you. Don't let them take that. Define yourself.

And maybe that's what he would've said if he were like the older people at the compound. If he were closer to death and relatively comfortable. If he really didn't want to deal with change that might challenge him. But he wasn't like that. Or he didn't want to be. His failures
were his to own, and no amount of blame was going to change that. So when Arman opened his mouth, the words that came out were anything but brave or inspiring. No, instead of platitudes he couldn't persuade himself to believe, he told his younger self a rambling truth:

“Crazy things are going to happen to you, kid. They're going to happen and you aren't going to understand them and you aren't going to know how to deal. I'm telling you this now, so that maybe you'll be better off by the time you're my age. So that maybe you'll know what to do when nothing in the world makes any fucking sense, because I sure as hell don't. I'm telling you all this because I'm desperate. I'm telling you this so that when you're older maybe
you
can save
me
. Because you know what? No one else is going to.”

• • •

Sometime later, Arman's eyes fluttered open. He was still seated on the wooden bench with his head slumped over. The music above him still played and the amber lights still glowed, but when he looked around, everyone was gone.

He was all alone.

Arman scrambled to his feet. He must've dozed off from those pills he'd taken. Well, that wasn't very impressive. How could he expect to control his response to social disease if he couldn't even keep his
eyes
open? He headed toward the exit, moving as fast as he could, but his headache was back, and his left leg had fallen asleep, giving him a prickly limp and making him swear.

Ducking beneath the tent flaps and stepping out into the night, Arman breathed a sigh of relief. Down the hillside, a huge bonfire roared, and the whole group, it seemed, had migrated toward the flames—everyone was either standing or sitting in chairs or on blankets spread out on the ground.

Arman hobbled over.

There was a weirdness surrounding the bonfire atmosphere. A catharsis, of sorts. Or a frenzy. Everywhere he turned, people were in states of extreme emotion. Uncomfortably so. Making his way around the clearing, Arman came upon a group of older men with their heads thrown back, laughing uproariously. He saw two women weeping and clinging to each other, then another two furiously making out. On the far side of the fire, lit by dancing flames, a different group was shouting and shoving at one another, seemingly on the verge of violence.

Catching sight of Kira and Dale seated on the ground in the grass, Arman hurried over to them.

“Hey,” he said.

Kira looked up, but Dale didn't. He had his face pressed against Kira's chest and his arms curled tight against his stomach like a child, and his shoulders were shaking. Arman couldn't help but stare. What was going on? Was he
crying
?

“What is it?” Kira asked.

Arman swallowed. “Is he okay?”

“Not really.”

“What's wrong?”

“He's having a hard time.”

“Well, have you seen the guy I was paired up with in there?”

“What guy? In where?”

“In the tent.”

“Oh, that,” Kira said. “No, I didn't see who you were with.”

“He was young. Maybe my height? He had a UC Berkeley sweatshirt on. And he—”

“Arman.” She glanced down at Dale, who'd curled into an even tighter ball. Like a weepy armadillo. “I'm kind of busy right now.”

“Sorry.” Chagrined, Arman turned on his heel and left. He'd have to search for the guy with the river-pebble eyes on his own. Only after walking around and around, Arman couldn't find him anywhere. He did, however, find Mari. She stood next to the flames, very close. On his third lap around the fire, Arman walked over to her shyly.

“Hello, Arman,” she said, without taking her eyes off the burning wood. “How are you feeling? How's your head?”

“My head's okay, I guess. Did I fall asleep in there?”

“Did it feel like you fell asleep?”

“It didn't feel like
anything
. The last thing I remember, you were leading us through some sunlit field so that we could talk to ourselves as children. The next thing I know, I'm alone in there.”

“Then it sounds like you got what you needed.”

“But why didn't anyone wake me up?”

“No one woke you up because your journey is yours alone to define. Also, you've had a long day. We thought you could use the rest.”

Arman couldn't really argue with that. “Well, have you seen the guy I was paired with? With the UC Berkeley sweatshirt?”

“What guy?”

“He was sitting right in front me. He had brown hair. We did the eye contact thing.”

“I didn't see you with a guy. I thought you were with . . .”

“With who?”

“That girl with the braids.”

“Kira? She moved. You told us not to sit by people we knew.”

“Ah.”

“But you do know who I'm talking about, right? The guy with the sweatshirt?”

She shook her head. “I'm sorry. I have no idea who that is. Why?”

“Because I need to find him. I need to ask him about something he said. It's kind of important.”

Mari smiled. “No commenting, remember?”

“I
know.
It's just, some of the things he said to me. They—”

“They what?”

“Well, they reminded me of Beau,” Arman said. “He said things that Beau said to me today. Things no one else could know.”

“I'm afraid I don't understand.”

“Me neither! That's why I need to find him.”

Mari reached a warm hand out. Touched his cheek.

“Arman,” she said, with far more tenderness than he deserved.

His throat went thick. It took a moment before he could talk, and even then, his voice wavered. “Look, I
know
what you're going to say. That I'm hurt. And confused. And you're right, maybe I am. But I also know what I saw, okay? I don't care that it doesn't make sense and I don't care that no one believes me.”

“I believe
in
you,” Mari said. “More than you know. But I also believe that changing oneself is a difficult process. A painful one. More so for some than for others. And maybe you're not supposed to understand everything that's happening to you right now. Maybe it's the you who you'll become who will be able to make sense of it all.”

Arman stared at the ground. “Yeah. Maybe. I guess.”

“Are you all right?”

He gave a quick nod. “Can I ask you something?”

“Of course.”

“That doctor guy. The one who did my stitches . . .”

“What about him?”

“He was talking about closing this place. Sealing it off so no one could get in or out. Making it sterile or something.”

“You heard him say this?”

“Yes.”

“Okay.”

“Well, is that really what Beau wants?”

Mari sighed. “I don't know all of Beau's wants. Or Gary's for that matter. But I do know that Gary says a lot of things that aren't always worth listening to. Some of his ideas are . . .”

“Are what?”

She paused. “You know, never mind. It's not important. Why are you so interested, anyway?”

Arman's nostrils flared. He wanted her to trust him. “I don't know. It's just, Beau told me something. Yesterday, actually. And I thought—”

“What did he tell you?”

“He said there was someone here who wanted to ruin what he'd built.”

“And you think he meant Gary?”

“I don't know what to think! But I probably shouldn't be talking about this, right? I mean, I'm crazy. Like really crazy. I'm not worth listening to.”

“You're absolutely worth listening to,” Mari said. “And you're not crazy. Whatever happened to you today has meaning. Above all else, I can promise you that. And your emotions are so close to the surface, you might almost be there.”

“Be where?”

“On the verge of your breakthrough.”

“You think?”

She smiled. “That's for you to think about. Not me.”

Of course. Arman's cheeks went hot. “Do you know what time is it?”

“It's almost midnight.”

Midnight.
“Do I have to stay?”

“Do you want to go?”

“Yes. I think so. I do.”

“Then go,” she said. “That's your choice. When you're here, you're always free to go.”

AND THEN HE WAS WITH
the cook. They were in the shadows. In her room. In her narrow bed. They lay facing each other with their heads on the thin sheets, and the moonlight drifting through the window he'd crawled through to get to her. She reached to touch his forehead, near his injury, and more than anything, Arman wanted to lose himself with her, be lost, be anyone but who he was in that moment. But he couldn't get his mind to stop spinning.

“How did it happen?” she asked, slowly sliding her fingers from his stitches to his chin. Slowly setting a fire loose inside of him.

“I don't know,” he said. “I can't remember.”

“You can't remember?”

“No.”

“That must be a strange feeling. Not knowing how you were hurt.”

“It is.” Arman ached for her to stroke him more.

“Poor you.”

He rested his cheek on her arm. Relished the way his eyelashes brushed against her skin. “It wasn't easy getting here tonight, you know. It took forever. After what you said about the rules, I wanted to make sure no one saw me.”

She gave a grin. “A real hero's journey, huh?”

“I suppose.”

“How'd you do it?”

“I came up through the woods. Then I had to walk all the way around that old building and down into the gully. It was steep, too. And muddy. My shoes got wet. I left them outside.”

“What old building?”

“That square one. Where the doctor's office is. There was a light on in there. On the second floor.”

“What doctor's office?”

“You don't know where it is?”

“I didn't know one existed. Who's this doctor?”

“Gary. He's one of the trainers. Short, silver hair. Kind of paunchy.”

“Oh.” She wrinkled her nose. “I know who you're talking about. Look, stay away from him, okay? All of them.”

“All of who?”

“Those trainers. The three of them.”

“Why?”

“Because I don't trust them. Beau doesn't either.”

Arman propped himself up on his elbow. “He doesn't?”

“No.”

“Do you mean Mari, too? I like Mari.”

The cook snorted. “
She's
the worst of all. She hates me. She's been trying to get me fired for ages.”

“Really?”

She nodded. “I think they're the ones who got Beau called away this morning.”

“Why would they do that?”

“To get people on their side.”

“But I thought it was just Gary who wanted to close the compound.
Keep the place isolated. Or uncontaminated. Or whatever.”

“Maybe it is,” she said. “I don't know. I told you I don't like any of them.”

“But you all work for Beau, don't you?”

“No one works
for
anybody. That's the whole idea. Everyone's here because they want to be. When Beau first bought this property, he'd already been running weekend workshops up in the Bay Area. But he wanted a space that was dedicated to healing. Where he could do more intense work. People responded by staying here longer and longer, wanting to be a part of what he was creating. Beau was fine with that, but we had to work. Pay our way. Help keep this place running so that he could go out and make a difference in the world. It was good. Really good. And everything was fine until last January.”

“What happened last January?”

She sighed.

“What?”

“That's when Beau had to leave us for a little while. Not long. Just a few months, but it was enough time for things to . . . change. And not in a good way.”

“What do you mean?”

“It's complicated.”

“You and Beau are pretty close,” he said. “Aren't you?”

“He's everything to me.”

There was something about those words and the way she said them that didn't sit well with Arman; it also made his courage wither. If she cared so much about the man she'd dedicated her life to, then he didn't know how to tell her he was dead. That he'd killed himself.

So he decided not to say anything.

“So what happened to you today?” she asked. “After you left?”

“I don't know.”

“What do you mean you don't know? Did you forget that, too?”

“I mean something happened to me that couldn't have. And no one believes me.”

“I believe you,” she said quickly.

“But you don't even know what happened.”

“I don't need to know.”

“Then how can you know it's true?”

“I didn't say it was
true
. I said I believed you. There's a difference, you know.”

Arman felt flustered. Hadn't Beau said something similar to him? That the truth could be a lie. “But how can you believe something that isn't true?”

“Well,
you
do, don't you? You just told me you did. And I believe you. There's just something believable about you. I saw it the first time we met.”

“You did?”

She nodded.

He gave a sigh. “But impossible things
keep
happening.”

“Like what?”

“Like tonight. During Vespers, I could've sworn I saw—”

“You saw what?”

“A ghost,” he whispered.

“Then I believe that, too,” she said.

• • •

Later.

Under the cover of darkness, the cook did all the things to Arman that he wanted her to do but didn't know how to say. Or ask for. Or even fantasize about. And there was a magic to it all, he found, in the way acts so glaringly obvious could be so brilliantly singular.

But the cook also did things that set off his worrying, fears bright and unbidden. Of course, it was possible his worrying had nothing to do with her and everything to do with him, seeing as Arman was pretty
sure the needle on his anxiety meter had been cranked past
HIGH
DECIBEL WORRYING
into the realm of madness ever since he'd stepped off the compound property that morning.

It was also possible that this was how he was
supposed
to feel when he was naked and with a girl and filled with so much heat. After all, he would do
anything
to have her.

Wouldn't he?

just ask just ask just ask just ask her already

But asking was easier said than done. Always. So it wasn't until she was already on top of him and he was already lost inside of her, that Arman gathered the nerve to pause, grip her soft waist, and whisper, “Shouldn't we be using something . . . doing something to . . . I mean, you know?”

“What do you think?” she asked with a sly smile on her lips, not bothering to pause at all.

He nodded. “I think . . . I think we should.”

“So what are you going to do about it?”

Only it turned out what he was doing right then made the question inconsequential. Or hypothetical, really. He couldn't help it and he hated himself for that, even though he loved the way it felt. And after, when she'd rolled off him and rolled over, Arman remained unsettled. Distressingly so, with the relentless purr of regret rumbling through his mind.

stupid that was so stupid of me

Arman clasped his hands over his ears. Tried to drown out his worries. Maybe he should stop thinking altogether. Maybe that was the answer. It's what Beau told him to do, right? After all, when Arman was with the cook, he felt wanted. Needed. Wasn't that what mattered? Wasn't that the only thing?

But
, his traitorous brain couldn't help but wonder,
if her wanting always takes things from me, am I really needed?

Or am I being used?