1974
.
Ever since Uncle Jack's death, the light in Marianne Bauer's eyes flickered a little less. Jack noticed the change in her, though he never confronted her about it. He missed his uncle, too. Even though, after his dad had returned from Vietnam, the visits had become less frequent, Uncle Jack had been something positive in Jack's life.
Jack had loved following his uncle to work at the oil pumps. He'd meet all kinds of people—workers, foremen, technicians—and he liked them all. Some even spoke Spanish. His father had been satisfied, watching from a distance as Jack showed interest in the family business, learning from the ground up. He spent most of his weekends out in the desert oil fields, operating light and heavier machinery as he got older. Driving a Caterpillar felt like playing with one of his toy tanks, only real. A foreman even taught him how to ride a dirt bike once his legs were long enough to reach the ground.
So, when Uncle Jack passed away, the light in Jack's eyes dimmed, too. To compensate, he threw himself into the same things he'd done with his uncle. He begged his mother to drive him to the oil fields, and when he could, he joined his father on visits to the desert sites. Sometimes, Philip would leave him there, and one of the foremen would bring him back into town.
Eventually, the workers stopped calling him "Little Jack." There was no other Jack Bauer around anymore. He was just Jack.
The dirt bike and the rough terrain in the desert gave Jack more bruises than his father ever had. Jack soon realized, that his choice of hobbies could officially get him out of the dreaded makeup-routine: he'd just say the bruises were from riding the dirt bike, falling off a horse, a karate class, whatever. At school, teachers believed him. They never asked any questions, as long as he provided them with some kind of a credible answer and boy, he learned to lie quickly.
By the time he turned eight, Jack had gotten a lot stronger. His father noticed. The beatings became less frequent, as Philip shifted tactics. The threats became more intense, and the new target wasn't Jack—it was Graem.
Graem was five and clearly a daddy's boy, but that didn't stop Philip from using him as a pawn. Philip threatened Marianne that if she didn't do what he wanted, he wouldn't hurt her favorite anymore—he'd hurt the small boy who couldn't defend himself. "Are you really so heartless as to let me do that?" Philip would ask, taunting her.
It was psychological torture. For Jack, it became harder and harder to know when to jump in. In the beginning, it had been simple—he could take a few hits for his mother, distract his father. But now, the fights were quieter, the blows fewer. Instead, Philip would make Marianne stand frozen, terrified, until she complied with whatever he demanded.
Jack couldn't fight that. But he had made a promise to his mother: if things ever escalated, he would grab Graem and leave. He had no idea where he would go, but he was prepared.
Now, he was running, Graem's hand in his, pulling him through the darkness. Graem had no idea what was happening. He had been ripped out of sleep, and Jack had told him they were playing a new game. Jack had led him out of the bathroom window, onto the roof of the terrace. He'd put a rope ladder there, weeks ago, because he knew Graem wouldn't be able just to jump down into the garden dump, or climb down along one of the pillars, as he was.
They were deep in the forest now, the same forest that had frightened Jack when they first moved here. He had spent the past two years exploring it, mapping it out in his mind. But at night, it was still an intimidating place—especially for Graem.
The five-year-old had protested once they were a few yards into the woods. He wanted to go back to bed, back to safety. If only he knew.
"I'm going to kill the boy." Philip's words echoed in Jack's ears. He didn't know if it had been a hollow threat, meant to make their mother comply, or if his father actually meant it. But the fear in his mother's eyes had been real, and that fear had transferred to him.
Jack had promised Graem that if he walked just a little further, he'd get some sweets as a reward—sweets Jack had carefully hidden here, just as he had hidden the rope ladder on the roof.
When they finally reached the spot, Jack realized his hiding place had failed. The pack of Taffy he'd stashed weeks ago was gone. Animals must have found it. He hadn't checked in over a week, and now it was gone.
"Damn it," Jack muttered under his breath—one of the curses he'd picked up from the men at the oil field.
From the house, they heard noises. The veranda light go switched on, casting an eerie glow over the empty field between the house and the forest. Soon after, shadows appeared in the distance—his father, followed by his mother. Philip's voice pierced the darkness, calling Jack's name, then Graem's.
Jack squinted into the darkness. Was his father carrying his hunting rifle?
Graem stirred beside him, ready to shout back, believing it was the safe thing to do. But Jack moved fast, grabbing his brother and covering his mouth. Graem wasn't the small, easily managed toddler anymore. He thrashed, kicked, and even bit Jack, finally managing to scream. Then he bolted toward the house, thinking that was where safety lay.
Jack chased after him, stumbling through the dark woods. Just as they reached the edge of the forest, Jack grabbed Graem, but it was too late—his brother's voice had already betrayed their location. Within moments, Philip Bauer's dark figure loomed in front of them.
Jack froze, heart pounding. He let go of Graem. It was pointless now.
But everything Jack had feared became irrelevant in an instant. Philip scooped Graem up, almost lovingly, to carry him back toward the house. For Jack, however, there was nothing but disgust in his father's eyes. Jack's gaze drifted to the rifle slung over Philip's shoulder. His mother stood a few feet away, holding a torch, her face etched with fear. She knew why Jack had done this—why he had taken Graem and run—but she would never admit it to Philip. Officially, she would only offer complaints: What are the boys doing? What has Jack gotten into now? He's the problem. He's always the problem. Graem is a charm. Jack is nothing but trouble.
Philip bent down and grabbed Jack by the ankle, yanking him hard, dragging him through the grass as they made their way back to the house.
Pain shot through Jack's ankle, up his leg, through his back. He saw the rifle swinging dangerously close to his body, but he was too scared to fight back. As Philip began berating Marianne again, the anger boiled up inside Jack. He forgot about the rifle and kicked his father in the shin. It earned him a savage blow, and for a moment, Jack thought Philip might tear his leg off.
They all stopped. Philip stared him down, cold and furious.
"You know what?" Philip said to Marianne. "He wanted to be out here. Why am I dragging him home?"
Marianne's face remained frozen, terrified of saying the wrong thing. She didn't even dare look at Jack.
After a tense moment, they resumed walking back to the house, leaving Jack lying in the grass.
Jack stayed where he was, watching them disappear into the darkness. His father had calmed down a little, and Graem, at least, seemed safe.
Jack lay there for a while, the high grass shielding him from the house. Eventually, he would sneak back to the veranda to retrieve his blanket.
Thinking back almost thirty five years later, he realized that this was his first mission ever. He had even planned it – although the plan hadn't been good enough.
1975
Half a year had passed with barely any incidents. Jack had learned to keep quiet at home, avoiding anything that might set his father off. His mother, Marianne, had retreated more and more into a world of her own, sometimes aided by a glass of wine too many. Jack lived for the weekends spent at the oil fields, where he felt a sense of freedom. His dirt bike, a final gift from Uncle Jack before his death, had been a constant companion. He wasn't allowed to drive on the streets, but he would have easily managed to. He'd already broken it three times, and because he knew his father wouldn't buy him another, Sergio, one of the workers, always helped him fix it. Jack's Spanish had improved dramatically. At the oil fields, no one seemed to speak English anway, and it had become Jack's secret language.
Even though they all worked for Philip Bauer, the oil field felt like a different world to Jack. His father barely visited, and Jack felt safe there. Meanwhile, Graem, younger and more obedient, spent his afternoons visiting their father in the office, quietly doing his homework at a small desk Philip had set up for him.
Jack didn't care. School was easy for him. He had convinced his parents to let him take Spanish instead of French, arguing it would help with the company. His father had accepted that reasoning, and since Jack was already brilliant in the language already, it earned him free time.
The men at the oil fields, especially Sergio, were like the father figures Jack had never had. Sergio's wife often came by with a big pot of chili, and they all shared it during lunch. Jack watched the way Sergio and his wife spoke to each other—honestly, with a light in their eyes and no trace of fear. Jack often imagined what it would be like to live with them, far away from his own home. He didn't care if it was a small house or a rundown trailer; it seemed better than the life he had. But no matter how much he longed to leave, he knew he couldn't abandon his mother.
In time, Jack learned that his father's rages weren't triggered by his mother's actions but by the success or failure of his business. When things went well, Philip was almost tolerable. When they didn't, his anger would erupt. After Uncle Jack's death, things had been worse for a while, but they had settled down eventually.
But not today.
At the oil field that afternoon, Jack heard the workers talk about the company having just lost a major contract—thirty oil pumps in Santa Clarita, a huge account that had been taken over by Parker Drilling. Jack knew exactly what that meant for the evening ahead.
Sergio dropped him off a mile away from home, lifting Jack's bicycle effortlessly from the truck. "Cuídate, chico," Sergio said with a nod, his strong hands making the bicycle seem weightless.
It usually took Jack five minutes to ride home from Orange Grove Park, but today, he dragged it out, taking twenty. He wished the ride could last forever, though he knew he couldn't avoid what awaited him.
When Jack finally arrived home, the tension in the air was thick. Tension was always there, but tonight it was worse. He could feel it. Graem, oblivious to everything, was getting on his nerves, but Jack did his best to ignore him. He didn't want to give Philip any reason to snap.
Dinner was served, and Jack forced himself to sit through it, though the only thing on his mind was the thirty pumps. He watched his mother across the table, her usual tired smile on her face. She had no idea about the contract loss, and Jack debated whether to tell her. Would it help her prepare for what was coming? Or would it only worsen her fear, knowing there was nothing she could do?
In the end, Jack stayed silent.
After dinner, he pretended to go to bed early, slipping into his room. But as soon as the house quieted down, he crept out and took his usual spot at the upstairs landing, where he could listen in on his parents. The argument started as usual—low voices, his father grumbling about something business-related. But Jack knew how this story would end.
He heard his mother gasping for air. This time, Jack didn't creep down the stairs. He ran, feet pounding on the wooden boards, not caring if Philip heard him coming. He was ready. He was older, stronger now. He didn't have to rely on that element of surprise.
When Jack burst into the room, Philip was already strangling Marianne. Without hesitation, his father turned on him. They clashed. Jack was no match for his father, but he tried. He'd fought boys at school, but nothing could prepare him for this—a six-foot-seven man, hardened by Vietnam. Philip's punches were harder than they had ever been. Jack felt each blow, but he didn't stop. He couldn't.
This time, Marianne didn't do what she always did. She didn't step aside, waiting for Philip to finish with Jack. She didn't take the usual role of rescuer, telling Philip that Jack was the problem, while Jack played the persecutor. Today, she was genuinely worried about her son, and she did something she had never done before—she threw herself at Philip.
Philip now had to battle two fronts. Marianne's hits were weak, but her desperation was fierce. Whenever Philip shook off Jack, his wife came at him, and when he pushed her away, Jack was there again.
During one of his mother's failed attempts to strike Philip, Jack managed to crawl away, escaping the fray for a moment. His eyes locked on the hallway ahead and the open door to the dining room. Behind the bookshelf in the dining room was his father's safe. Inside it was his gun, and Jack knew where the key was—in the mahogany desk drawer.
Why didn't I grab the key earlier? Jack thought, his mind racing. He had never fired a gun before, but tonight, he was determined he would.
He took a few shaky steps toward the hallway, but Philip grabbed him again, throwing him to the floor. His father hadn't realized where Jack was headed—if he had, things might have ended differently.
The fight moved from the kitchen into the dining room. Jack crawled toward the desk, trying to reach the key. Every time he slipped away from his father's grip, he got closer.
Philip didn't notice. He was too focused on the fight, thinking that Jack was just crawling to get away from him. "You're trying to get away, boy?" Philip taunted, dealing another blow to Marianne before turning back to Jack. "You'll never get away from me."
Philip grabbed him again, hard. Jack was close, but not close enough. He never made it to the safe. He didn't even make it to the key.
Graem crouched low on the upstairs landing, the familiar spot Jack usually occupied. Tonight, no one noticed that it was him sitting there, hidden in the shadows, watching everything unfold below. The sounds of struggle had woken him up. He didn't understand the world around him any more.
He had followed the rumble instinctively. He watched as Philip—his father, the man he admired—beat their mother, until her body slumped to the floor. She didn't move, didn't fight back.
His older brother was struggling to rise, his eyes still burning with defiance. Philip turned on him next. Graem's breath caught in his throat as he watched their father finish what he'd started, dragging Jack's limp form away from the dining room. He didn't want to smudge the expensive carpet with the boy's blood.
Tonight, Philip hadn't just stopped when they were broken—he kept going. It was the first time in years that he'd beaten them this badly, until they bled.
Graem didn't move from his spot, even when the house finally fell silent. He watched as Philip stood over the mess he had made. They both lay there, motionless, and he stared at what he'd done.
Graem noticed the change in his father's expression. It was subtle, but unmistakable—a brief flash of regret, maybe, or guilt. He was sorry. He was genuinely sorry.
The house suddenly felt too small, even though it was a mansion by any standard. Too small right now for Philip Bauer. He turned without a word, without looking back at either of them again, and left the house. The door slammed shut, the sound reverberating through the empty hallways.
He wouldn't return for four days.
As Jack woke up, the only thing he felt was pain. He blinked, trying to make sense of his surroundings. The bed was familiar, the sheets tucked in around him, the pajamas familiar, too. He struggled to remember how he'd gotten there, but it was a blur of chaos, fists, and shouting. Everything hurt. His legs felt as though they'd been stomped on—because they had. His arms throbbed. He tried to grimace, but even that small movement sent fresh waves of agony through his body.
He wanted to call for his mother, but he hesitated. Where was she? Who had brought him to bed? The way he was tucked in, it looked like she had done it, but Jack's memory came flooding back. No, she couldn't have. Not after what happened. She'd been a wreck, barely conscious when he last saw her. Fear overwhelmed him. What if she was still lying there, somewhere downstairs, hurt or worse?
He spotted a small bell on his bedside table. It wasn't usually there—this one was the Christmas bell. Someone who knew he wasn't in any state to get out of bed had put it there for him. He hesitated, then reached for it, wincing as his arm protested the movement. The bell's soft, chiming sound filled the room, laughing at them. What a ridiculous sound. As he rang it, he noticed his knuckles were bruised and bloody.
The door creaked open, and Jack braced himself, hoping for his mother. But it was Graem. Jack's heart sank with disappointment, though a small part of him was relieved it wasn't their father.
"Where's Mom?" Jack croaked, his voice hoarse. As he spoke, he became more aware of the sharp pain in his mouth—a tooth was missing, a molar from the left side. He probed the gap with his tongue, tasting blood.
"I'll get her," Graem said. Jack thought he sounded different than usual—quieter, almost nervous. His brother's face looked pale, a little off.
Minutes later, she appeared. Jack's relief was overwhelming as his mother walked into the room. She was alive. She was standing. For a brief moment, his own pain didn't matter. She wore yellow plastic gloves and an apron, clearly in the middle of something when Graem fetched her. As she knelt beside his bed, she pulled off the gloves and placed a hand on his forehead, her touch soft and warm.
"What are you doing?" Jack asked, his voice shaky, looking at the gloves.
"Cleaning up the mess we made," she replied, her tone soft, but weary.
Jack wanted to shout at her, to tell her she was wrong. It wasn't their mess. They didn't do this. It was his dad's mess. His only. It was always his. But the words stayed locked inside, too heavy to speak. They wouldn't change a thing. He'd not start discussing technicalities now.
"I lost a tooth," he mumbled instead, opening his mouth to show her the empty spot in his molars.
"I know," she said gently, leaning in closer to inspect. "It was still a milk tooth." She tried to smile, but Jack could see the pain behind her eyes. She had never indulged him with stories of the tooth fairy or Santa Clause. From the moment his father returned from Vietnam, Jack had been treated like a grown-up. And he had played his part.
He studied her face—there was a deep cut above her left eyelid and another on her cheek. Her injuries made his heart ache more than his own wounds. But for now, all Jack could feel was the overwhelming relief that she was alive, that they were both alive.
"Will you sleep here tonight?" he asked, his voice small, as he slipped into memories of when he was younger—back when she used to stay by his side, after dragging him inside from the cold veranda.
"I will," she promised, and sniffed. "Just let me clean up that mess first." She leaned down and kissed his forehead, her lips soft against his skin. "I'll be right back, my brave little one." Jack could sense the fear behind her calm exterior. She wasn't just cleaning for the sake of it—she was terrified. Terrified that if Philip came back and saw the mess, it would set him off again.
Two hours later, the kitchen, the hallway, and the dining room looked as if nothing had ever happened there. The broken plates had been swept away, the blood scrubbed from the floors, and the house restored to its unsettling perfection. But as she wiped away the last remnants of the night, Marianne's mind was elsewhere.
She had done something today that she had never done before—she had fought back. And she had survived. It wasn't much, but it rekindled something inside her, an old resolve she'd buried deep down ever since Jack had died. The thought of running, of leaving, of taking her boys and escaping Philip's grasp, was no longer just a distant fantasy. It was a thing that had to happen soon.
Tomorrow, she would call Jack's school. She could already hear herself explaining to the office staff that he was too sick to attend classes for a week. The flu, she would say, keeping her tone apologetic but firm. They would ask if another student could drop off his assignments, but she'd refuse. "No, better not, it's too contagious," she'd say. "I'm feeling some symptoms myself. And he's really not up to it." She could even imagine the concerned voices on the other end of the line. "Of course, Mrs. Bauer. Take care. Let us know if you need anything." They wouldn't press. They never did.
It wasn't the first time she had reported Jack sick, but this would be the first time she'd have to buy him a full week. A week for the bruises to fade, the cuts to close. She feared his face might still bear some marks, but if the swelling went down, she could cover the rest with makeup. She had done it before, and she would do it again, this last time.
This time it would be different.
This was the last time.
As she wrung out the rag into a bucket of water that was pink with blood, Marianne made a vow to herself. She'd never scrub the floors like this again. Never clean up after Philip's rage. She wouldn't allow it to get this far again. How had she let it go on for so long? How had she let herself, and her boys, suffer under his control?
She blinked back tears. Crying wouldn't help her now. She had to focus on what little strength she had left, save it for something real. She thought of Jack, Philip's brother. He could have been her way out, but he was gone now. She couldn't rely on anyone but herself. And this time, she wouldn't fail. She'd find a way out. She wouldn't let Philip hurt her boys again.
A month later, Marianne Bauer was dead.