Free Torn by Chris Jordan Page B

notices for both my parents, plus all the condolence cards, neatly sorted and bound with elastic bands. Which had, no surprise, disintegrated in the summer attic heat. The elastic bands, I mean, not the cards. Hallmark greetings live forever, apparently. Plus every sketch and coloring book Noah had ever made, from day care on.
    I spend hours going through Noah’s drawings, reliving kindergarten, first grade, second grade, and so on. Right up to the last, furious drawings he’d made of a black plane falling from the sky. Not crashing—never crashing in Noah’s drawings—but falling like an angry leaf.
    Eventually I get back to the task at hand, and just after dawn it finally reveals itself.
    Jed had tucked it into one of the graphic novels he collected as a teen. Batman: The Dark Knight Returns. Of course, I should have known. Although he’d carried the letter as an adult, it dated from his boyhood, and so he’d stowed it away with something else that made a big impression on a twelve-year-old, namely Batman.
    I hold the thing reverently, this tattered, wrinkled, finger-smudged envelope. Jedediah’s name and address is handwritten, inscribed in a firm hand. The boarding school where he had been sent against his mother’s wishes, and where he had been, for the first several months, miserable and homesick. Enough so that he had written to his imperious father begging to be allowed to come back home. This letter, the letter he saved as a reminder, is in response to that request.
    Jedediah—Let me be crystal clear: the answer is no.You are to remain in school. During holidays and summer break I have given instructions that you will be boarded either on campus, or, when that is not possible, elsewhere. In your letter (there are a number of misspellings, by the way) you profess to loving your parents, in particular your mother, but this is merely reflexive and typical of an as-yet-unformed mind. As an expression of self, the bonding instinct we mistakenly call love can be a powerful tool for success, but in its lesser form, as an emotional attachment to others, love tends to weaken self-interest, thereby weakening the whole. Your mother now agrees that her connection to you is only biological, mere reproduction. Therefore she does not ‘love’ you any more than I do. Do not attempt to contact us again until after your18th birthday, by which time your brain will have matured to its final adult form, and you may finally be ready to evolve into a fully developed Ruler. Until then, any attempts at contact will be rebuffed. Phone calls will not be taken and letters will be returned unread. In the meantime, work on forming your protective carapace. Form your adult self. When in doubt consult the manual. All answers lie within. The Rule of One is the One Rule.
    That’s it. No formal closing, no yours truly or sincerely yours . But the handwritten signature is clear enough: A. Conklin. Not Dad or even the more formal Father, because terms of affection and familiarity are signs of mental weakness.
    The manual he refers to is his bestselling book The Rule of One. All answers lie within. No ego at work there, eh? Jed almost always referred to the book itself in sarcastic or derogatory terms. The Sociopath’s Bible, or How to Be Selfish and Justify Your Greed in 900 Hard-to-Read Pages. Wisecracks covering the pain. He’d grin and roll his eyes, but deep down he meant it. He’d been a late child and an only child, born after his father had already become a reclusive cult figure, and in any case the old man believed that children were meant to be observed and perhaps, if they exhibited interesting behavior, studied. But not loved. Never loved. That had been made clear.
    I have to fold that horrible, inhuman letter away quickly, store it back in the envelope before my tears dissolve the only physical proof I have that Jedediah didn’t lie to me about who he was and what he’d been through.
    It’s a relief, really, to find that I