One of the Boys Read online

  I went across the street, paged the guy again.

  On my way back through the parking lot, my brother still not in sight, the white Civic drove past me. I hustled to the apartment. I tried the door. The knob stuck. I knocked. My father opened it to a crack.

  “Your guy is here,” I told him. The Civic honked. “See?”

  He slammed the door on me, flicked the dead bolt.

  I knew then that he was going to make me do the deal for him too. I blamed myself for not being prepared. What else did I have to do in my room these days but to work through all the possibilities? This was it. This was supposed to be the moment I would get us free. Get us free—my father’s phrase. I was revolted to realize that he was so much a part of me. I wanted to expel him from my being. I wanted him out, exorcised. When he opened the door again, the chain lock was latched. “I hate you,” I said. “You don’t give a shit about us. Let me back inside.” He slipped a wad of cash through the crack. “Fuck that,” I said. “No way.”

  “No way?” he said. “Make me come out there, I’ll show you no way.”

  The car honked again.

  My brother and I would take him by surprise tonight. We’d bang down our dad’s bedroom door with bats. I turned giddy over it. At least I wouldn’t flee this place without leaving my mark on him. What was he going to do? Call the cops? But I couldn’t say no to him right now. My father was nastier than ever. I didn’t want to meet his rage alone. I needed him distracted until my brother got home.

  The Civic honked a third time. The driver held the horn.

  “Get moving,” he said.

  I ripped the money from his hand. He shut the door.

  It took all my anger to muster the nerve to walk out to the parking lot and up to the Civic. But once there I just stood, unsure what to do next. The window finally rolled down. A blond man in the driver seat had bad acne scars, pores like pits. A woman sat shotgun. I avoided eye contact with both of them.

  “Here,” I said. I showed him the cash.

  He started to roll up his window.

  “You don’t understand,” I said. “I can’t go back in there without it.”

  The window stopped. He must have heard my desperation. Or she had.

  “I don’t fuck with kids,” he said. But he told me to get in anyway.

  I climbed into the backseat, handed him the money. He counted it.

  “He’s only got to page me once,” the driver said.

  “I’m sorry,” I said.

  “Motherfucker makes me honk three times . . . Sends out a kid.”

  I told him I was sorry again.

  “Hundred,” he said to the woman.

  She handed me a mini Ziploc. My palms were sweaty, and I wished I’d wiped them on the seat before making the exchange. Then I wasn’t sure whether to look at the bag or not. I was also uncertain whether I was now excused. She must have sensed my hesitation because she asked me if I was scared.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “You go to school?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “That mark on your face—that from your dad?”

  I nodded.

  “Get out.” The driver raised his voice. “Get the fuck out of my car.” He slipped the Civic into reverse. I jumped out quickly. But soon the car stopped. He rolled his window down again, called me over. “Tell your dad if he ever pulls this shit again.” I nodded. He took a long look at me, shook his head, pointed to his upper chest. “This is where a punch starts from,” he said. “See it coming next time.”

  He drove off.

  My father let me back into the apartment only after I assured him that I’d done what he’d asked. Inside, I handed over the mini Ziploc. I started to my room.

  “Stop,” he said. He examined the bag. “Where’s the rest?”

  “That’s what he gave me.”

  “I gave you two hundred dollars.”

  “You gave me one hundred.”

  “Bullshit,” he said. “Where’s the other bag?”

  “That’s all he gave me,” I repeated.

  “Your jacket—hand it over.”

  I tossed him my jacket. He searched through it.

  “Turn out your pockets,” he said.

  I emptied my pockets.

  He got in my face, forced my T-shirt off me. He threw it against the wall.

  “Shoes and socks.”

  I took a step back, removed my shoes and socks. He tossed them aside too.

  “Take off your pants,” he said. “Now!”

  I wasn’t wearing any underwear, I confessed.

  He grimaced. “Why not?”

  “I need to do laundry.”

  “You’ve always been a filthy fucking child,” he said. “You disgust me. I’m going to vomit, you repulse me so much. Take off your pants, you disgusting piece of shit.”

  “I swear I’m not hiding anything from you. All you gave me was a hundred.”

  I saw the slap coming, ducked it. We both stood there surprised. Then my father faked his right, punched me in the eye with his left. I welled up with tears. A self-satisfied grin stretched my father’s face. “Take off your pants,” he said again.

  I took off my jeans, tossed them to him.

  He checked the pockets, turned them upside down, shook them out. He stood thinking for a moment, engaged in inner counsel. His eyes suddenly fell hard on me.

  He told me to turn around, bend over.

  “Dad,” I said. “Please.”

  He stripped off his belt.

  “All right,” I told him. “But when would I have had time to do anything like this?”

  The belt cracked me in the face. I lost hearing on my right side. The taste of blood followed quickly. I’d thought at first I was bleeding from the ear, but I felt my lip begin to swell. “Shut up,” he said. “Turn around.”

  I turned around.

  “Bend over.”

  I bent over.

  “Cough.”

  I coughed.

  The belt cut across my butt. I did my best to keep from whimpering.

  “Where’s the other bag?” he said.

  “There wasn’t one.”

  This time he lashed me across the back.

  “Then where’s my money?”

  “It’s all you gave me.”

  He struck me on the back a second time. And then a third.

  “How long have you been on your brother’s side?”

  “What? No,” I said. “I’m not.”

  “Don’t fucking lie to me. Tell me the truth.”

  I professed my innocence.

  “Liar!” he screamed. And he let me have it. He whipped me again and again, all over, not caring where the belt found flesh, yelling the entire time, “After all I’ve done for you. I gave up my life to protect you. I saved you from your mother. I should have drowned you both at birth. I should have smothered you with a fucking pillow. This is how you repay me? Where’s the other bag, you ungrateful shit? Where’s my fucking money? Give me what’s mine.”

  He could rip me apart with that belt strap, mark up my body. He could turn me around and do the front side next. I wasn’t going to protect myself, or even cry out. I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. In my mind I banished him to his worst version of hell. We never loved you. My mother never loved you. You’re going to be alone the rest of your life. I fanned the flames of his paranoia. I’ve been plotting against you since we moved here. You’re going to jail. Your dealer’s never selling to you again either. You better conserve that precious bag of yours. With every crack of the belt I taunted him. Whip me all you like, whip me until you’re gassed. Until you suck wind. And when his arm was too heavy to raise again, when he was weak, worn out, ready to quit, that’s when I planned to strike. That’s when I’d rise up full of vengeance, cut the bastard down.

  * * *

  I woke in the night. I had no idea how I’d gotten to bed. I tried my brother’s name aloud. My mouth too dry, I worked up some saliva and tried agai
n. His name rang out clearly this time. Nothing came back out of the darkness. It hurt everywhere to roll over. My back seized. My body braced. I winced, and my face hurt. When the spasm subsided, I sat up slowly. My right eye had swollen shut. My left adjusted. Our bedroom took form. I was alone. I stood, walked over to my brother’s side of the room. My head throbbed in pure pronounced seconds. My heart sank as I felt his cold sheets. I climbed into his bed, pulled the covers to my chin. A tear rolled down my cheek. I lay there still as possible, breathing gently, knowing that I could endure the pain if I managed not to move.

  I slept. Each time I woke, I was torn between worlds, always willing to leave whatever dream I was in, but never ready to fully awaken. The last dream: my father brought me to a long candlelit hallway. The candles were posted at even intervals along a checkered marble floor and the wooden barrel-vaulted ceiling shined dimly overhead like the hull of a massive overturned ship. Until my dad pointed out the wall, I hadn’t realized that the paint was cracking, flaking off. My job was to touch it up, he explained, but I wasn’t supposed to paint over every crack. I was only to paint where the candles threw light onto the wall. I went to work, taking great pleasure brightening these little spots, filling in the glow, deciding for myself where the candlelight ended and darkness began. I worked through the night. But as morning came, daylight began to creep down the hallway, and all these imperfect circles started popping up along the wall, and to my horror the cracks now seemed to emanate from them like high-voltage currents.

  Then I was awake for good. I could tell by the direct light on the cardboard that it was morning. My mind wouldn’t let me sleep. I lay there one minute at a time for what seemed like hours. My brother still wasn’t home. I worried about him. I brimmed with a strange kind of sadness. As if I were full of emptiness. As if emptiness were an abundant thing. Maybe this feeling was the reason my mother couldn’t get out of bed for months after their separation. And where was she? I needed her now. An angry voice inside told me to stop being dramatic, suck it up. She had abandoned us. The escape plan had failed. I’d let my brother down. Now he was missing. I shouldn’t act so surprised—these were my circumstances. This was my life. And outside the door my father lurked. I hated the idea that maybe he’d helped me to bed last night. I didn’t want his kindness. His cruelty was less confusing. I made my way to the bathroom to take a look.

  I was struck first to find myself naked. I’d forgotten I wasn’t wearing any clothes. I saw my face in the mirror. On the left side a burn from the belt spread across my cheek, all the way to my mouth, where a tooth had punctured my lip. On the right my eye was a slit from the swelling, sensitive to light. I thought back to when he punched me. How pleased he’d been with his cleverness. When I found my face in the mirror again, I felt gutless. I was scared to turn around. The skin on my back was tight, tender. The muscles were traumatized, going in and out of spasms. It took work to stand still, upright, balanced. Finally I just did it, turned around and looked over my shoulder into the mirror. Across most of my back red and purple welts overlay a dark pool of swirling colors, like something wicked had used my body to make a finger painting. I looked away, faced the wall, tried to fight a surge inside me. But anger rose so sharply that I started to tear up. From there I lost myself entirely. Cries I didn’t recognize as my own came out of me. Sounds I never knew humans could make. Sobs shook my body from somewhere deep. Snot and tears ran into my mouth. I wept, and I moaned, and after, exhaustion settled over me, and I barely managed to put on pajamas before making my way back to my brother’s bed to sleep.

  I woke in the afternoon to a knock at the front door. The police car was back in the parking lot. Outside my room I heard my father’s footsteps. The cops knocked again. Then one started to speak. I went to my door to listen. He asked my father to open up. It was about my brother. They’d picked him up in the park yesterday. He’d spent the night in a detention center, holding out, refusing to say who he was. Today he’d finally relented. They’d tried calling but the phone was shut off. “Please open the door, sir,” the cop said. “It’s important we speak to you. We know you’re home. We know that’s your Jeep in the parking lot. Open up, please,” he said. “Open the door. Sir, open up. It’s about your son.”

  They knocked and knocked. He didn’t answer.

  I cracked my door. My father was standing at the peephole. He signaled me to come take a look. As I walked over, I felt the need to hide my face, to apologize for my appearance. I was afraid to remind him of last night. He stepped back, pointed me to the peephole. I peered out. Two police officers stood before the door. A third man, in plainclothes, had positioned himself behind the cops. My brother was next to him, head down. The man in plainclothes stepped forward, introduced himself. He said he was a case manager. He explained that my brother had been caught stealing from the grocery store earlier this week, that he’d run, and that the cops had been looking for him for several days now. The store was willing to drop the charges, the case manager emphasized, but a conversation needed to be had first. “Sir,” he said, gesturing to my brother. “You don’t want your son sleeping in a detention center again, right? Please open the door. Like I said, we just need to have a conversation with you.”

  My father put his hands on my shoulders, squeezed. I hardly felt the pain. I shuddered instead from the thrill of hatred I felt for him. He spoke quietly into my ear: “See? I told you your brother was against us. Didn’t I tell you? Now you believe me? He’s the enemy. He’s a traitor. He dug his own grave. I’m sure as hell not jumping in to save him. Are you? Huh? Are you?”

  “No,” I lied, my tone hushed like his.

  “Good boy.” Then he whispered, “You know I forgive you for last night, right?”

  “I know.”

  “I always forgive you, don’t I?”

  I nodded.

  “Be my eyes?” he asked.

  “Of course.”

  “Let me know when they’re gone.”

  I said OK.

  My father turned, started back to his bedroom.

  I kept my eye on my brother. When he finally looked up, his face was remade with a strange combination of sadness and certainty. As if he knew about the beating I’d taken last night. As if he knew we were never going home. I longed to comfort him, to tell him that none of this was his fault, for him to sense that it was me at the peephole. I ached to lock eyes, to see him smile again. Like years ago, lying on the beast’s stomach in the living room of the old house. My father is defeated, tackled into submission. He puffs his stomach out, plays dead. Our heads rise with his belly. Our necks crane. Light from the window paints my brother’s cheek. A beautiful smile breaks over his face. Mine too. I imagined us returning to that moment, back before our dad releases all his air in a single sudden shot, back when our minds are still, and we have no notion that the bottom is about to drop from beneath us.

  My heart was beating so fast I thought it might quit. My hands were going numb from nerves. My muscles felt like they were slowing down, selling me out. I reached up, unlatched the chain lock, flicked the dead bolt, opened the door. My eyes filled with water, and light rushed in.

  EPILOGUE

  We pull out of his driveway around noon. My father will do the sixteen hours straight. My brother is in the backseat. I’ve been selected navigator, the directions simple. A few hours on I-35S will lead us out of Kansas, away from our mother—the war now over. Heading south, my only responsibility is to remind my father to make a Ralph when we hit Oklahoma City. That’s it. The only turn. I-40W is a straight shot through the rest of Oklahoma, the Texas Panhandle, into New Mexico, all the way to our new life in Albuquerque. I leave the road atlas open on my lap anyway. My father occasionally checks in with me.

  “What’s next?” he asks.

  “Hang a Ralph at OKC,” I say.

  “That it?”

  “That’s it.”

  He tousles my hair. He gets a kick out of this kind of back-and-forth.

 
“How far to the state line?” my brother asks.

  I size my thumb to the mileage scale on the legend.

  My father tosses me a toothpick. “Here, use this.”

  I size it to the scale.

  “You know, back in the old days,” he starts as though narrating a documentary, “say you wanted to make a table that was the perfect size for your family, well, instead of using fancy measurement tools, people used to mark a stick. Think about it. You don’t need numbers to figure out how high you want your table to be, now do you? Then they’d use the stick to measure the lumber. Simplifies it all, takes the math out of it. They called them story sticks,” he says with a funny country drawl. “Wait.” My father stops me. “Let’s see how accurate you are.”

  He resets the odometer. The zeros roll forward.

  “Drum roll,” my brother says.

  I take my time measuring, build the tension.

  “The distance to Oklahoma is . . .” I pause. “Four and a half toothpicks.”

  “In miles,” my father says.

  “Story stick, Dad. Takes the math out of it.”

  “Glad you’re making yourself useful, son.”

  We all laugh.

  My father makes a show of looking around him, into the mirrors, out the windows. My brother and I follow him, try to figure out what has suddenly caught his attention. To the horizon the wheat fields are lush. The stalks, tall as children, bow in the direction of the wind. It’s summer, the sun high. But for a low cloud and its shadow in the field, the sky and earth are pale and wide.

  “Are we still in fucking Kansas?” my father says.

  He bottoms out the pedal.

  Before long we pass the no-man’s-mile between a sign that tells us we are leaving Kansas and one that welcomes us to Oklahoma. I watch my dad from the corner of my eye as we cross the state line. He leans his head back into the headrest. He places his forearm on the window frame. The wind flaps his shirt collar, combs through his hair. He’s calm. Behind his sunglasses, I imagine, my father’s eyes are closed.