D
uring
the
tumult
of
Vietnam,
half-brothers
follow
extreme
paths
that
tear
them
apart
and
challenge
their
survival.
John
lashes
out,
smothered
under
the
shadow
of
his
overachieving
brother.
Tony
enlists
in
the
Navy
to
pursue
his
convictions.
Mistaken
identity
propels
one,
duty
hardens
the
other.
Their
mentors
and
lovers
transform
and
entangle
their
journeys
in
directions
neither
could
imagine.
Chapter 1
~
Tony Rollins
Spring, 1962
~
I
blocked
another
sloppy,
open-handed
swing,
but
they
were
getting
more
forceful
as
Dad
grew
frustrated
and
angrier.
My
gut
wrenched
with
a
confusion
of
emotions.
I
wanted
to
pull
back
a
fist
and
lay
into
the
man.
Wanted
to,
with
every
ounce
of
venom
inside
of
me.
Maybe
the
pity
interfered.
Nothing
worse
than
hitting
a
kid,
than
hitting
a
drunken cripple.
“Wha’d I tell you?” my stepfather slurred. “Wha’d I tell you about the skateboard?”
I
backed
away.
The
smell
of
stale
beer
and
cigarettes
wafted
on
his
breath.
This
was
the
longest
the
man
had
maintained
his
focus
for
a
year.
A
hell
of
a
thing
for
the
mean
son of a bitch to focus on.
Paul
Ruud
two-stepped
forward
in
his
crawfish
shimmy,
a
new
torrent
pressing
me
back.
I
danced
the
man
across
the
front
walk
as
quickly
as
I
could
to
get
this
new
abuse
out
of
sight
of
the
neighbors.
The
son
of
a
bitch
wouldn’t
stop,
taking
us
through
the
length
of
our
tiny
garage.
My
lower
lip
swelled.
Wasn’t
the
first
time.
The
right
side
of
my face burned from that first, unexpected slap.
Even
without
the
case
of
beer
in
the
man’s
gut
I
could
have
pasted
him.
I
didn’t
join
the boxing team freshman year for my health. Well, maybe I did. Survival is good health.
But
I
had
to
live
with
the
bastard
tomorrow.
There
are
thresholds
that
can’t
be
re-
crossed.
Also,
the
man
talked
about
the
missing
chunk
of
his
skull.
What
if
he
fell
and—could that really kill him?
In
two
more
steps
I’d
be
cornered.
What
would
he
do
then?
How
long
could
the
jackass
keep
this
up?
Before
my
shoulder
was
against
the
wall,
I
pushed
away
a
half-step
and
slid
across
the
man’s
left
leaving
him
behind
like
a
picked
defender.
I
ran.
Ignored
the rant to, “Get the hell back here.”
No point in putting up with that shit.
I
headed
for
Carl’s
but
decided
I’d
be
too
easy
to
find
there.
I
didn’t
want
Carl
to
see
my
tears
or
my
fat
lip,
either.
Didn’t
need
any
conversation
about
how
stupid
the
man
was. Worse, the pity. The man was an ass, but also the only father I’d ever known.
Even looked up to him, once.
When
Paul
was
sober,
he
was
okay.
As
fun
as
any
of
my
friends’
fathers—before
he
got sick.
When he came home from the hospital, the world was different.
He
always
had
a
temper.
Didn’t
require
alcohol.
The
man
probably
deserved
all
the
shit
God
dumped
on
him.
His
karma.
Though,
what
ten-year-old
deserved
to
be
a
cripple?
Surgery
on
his
itsy-bitsy
brain
and
he
was
worthless
to
his
former
employer.
No
job.
The
drinking
got
worse
than
it
ever
had
been.
Not
just
measured
from
quitting
time
to bedtime.
I
passed
Carl’s,
glanced
over
my
shoulder
to
make
sure
my
stepdad
didn’t
follow
me.
I’d
already
decided
where
to
go,
to
be
alone,
but
no
way
I
was
going
to
double
back
and
take the chance of crossing the man’s path.
I
continued
to
the
end
of
the
block,
two
lefts,
and
walked
for
the
desert
fifteen
minutes
away,
ten
if
I
walked
fast.
A
four-strand
barbwire
fence
and
I
might
as
well
be
a
hundred
miles
from
another
living
being.
Peace,
among
the
ten-foot-tall
mesquite
and
mounds of cacti.
I
wiped
my
running
nose,
a
last
tear,
and
looked
around
to
make
sure
no
one
caught
me
crying.
Didn’t
need
that
getting
around.
Especially
with
my
teammates.
I
had
a
reputation to uphold.
There
was
a
gaggle
of
punks
playing
with
their
toy
trucks
in
one
yard
but
they
didn’t
look
up.
Still,
I
picked
up
my
pace,
took
deep
breaths
to
calm
down,
and
shoved
my
hands
into
my
pockets.
The
sun
wasn’t
below
the
mountain,
but
there
was
a
chill
in
the
air.
Mom would be home in an hour, and it’d be safe.
The bastard would have gotten over it.
Hopefully.
~
I
flipped
off
the
overhead
light
at
the
door
and
felt
my
way
to
my
bed.
Sliding
between
my
sheets,
the
quiet
hung
in
the
air.
Only
the
mumble
of
the
TV
down
the
hall
disturbed
it. Maybe I’d get out of any conversation with John.
“T— Tony?”
My luck didn’t last.
“Not a good night to bug me.”
“Th—thanks,” John said.
I
didn’t
answer
right
away.
“Yeah,
well.
I
hope
you
enjoy
the
stupid
thing.
It’ll
probably be the last thing I ever do for you.”
“F—first time I can r—remember you doing anything for me.”
John
got
through
the
sentence
with
only
a
couple
stutters.
Amazing
.
“Figures
I’d
get
the crap slapped out of me for my trouble.”
“How’d
you
know
Dad
would
forget
to
stop
and
buy
me
the
skateboard
like
he
said
he would?”
I rolled my eyes. “Maybe I forgot he said he would.”
“Y—you’re
an
ass,
but
y—you
don’t
forget.
Y—you
sure
had
to
go
out
of
your
way
to
piss him off this t—time.”
“Not really. Not that hard.”
John
mumbled
something
under
his
breath
I
didn’t
catch,
but
I
didn’t
bother
to
grunt a
huh
.
“T—true,” John said louder. “I don’t get why he went so crazy.”
I
studied
the
subtle
change
on
the
ceiling
from
the
light
that
filtered
under
the
door,
as
the
intensity
from
the
living
room
TV
shifted.
The
shadows
from
the
bare
blinds
intersected it all like the jail bars.
I
exhaled
hard.
“Because.
I
as
much
said
to
his
face
we
can’t
count
on
him
to
do
anything
he
says
he’s
gonna
do.”
I
interrupted
John’s
next
question.
“Go
to
sleep.
You’re
way past bothering me.”
The tone of a siren echoed, not a real one, from the TV twenty-feet away.
~
I
jerked
awake,
fists
clenched,
wishing
Paul
Ruud
was
dead.
The
memory
loomed
fresh,
raw
enough
I
didn’t
have
to
experience
it
in
a
freaking
dream.
I
relived
it
often
enough
awake. It never seemed to get far out of my mind—still.
As
always,
bizarre
pieces
of
detail
burned
crisp,
as
though
ensuring
the
pain
remained
vivid
enough
to
draw
blood.
Like
the
black
and
red
tartan
pattern
of
Mom’s
skirt
that
day,
when
she
walked
me
outside
on
the
school’s
front
lawn
to
explain
Ruud
wasn’t
my
last
name.
The
hot,
muggy
air.
The
silver-blue
sky.
The
smell
of
fresh-cut
grass.
We’d
just
moved
to
Missouri
and
I
was
registering
for
sixth
grade.
I’d
always
been
known
by
Ruud.
Suddenly,
these
people
said
I
had
to
register
with
the
name
on
my
birth
certificate.
I
took
the
document
from
Mom.
The
seal
on
the
lower-left
corner
remained
another
of
the
incredibly
sharp
memories,
daring
me
to
argue
the
legitimacy
of
the
piece
of
paper. The blocks on the form for last and first name read Rollins, Anthony.
Rollins—Anthony.
Rollins—Anthony.
I
turned
the
paper
over.
Perhaps
Rollins
was
a
joke
and
Ruud
would
appear
when
I
flipped
it
back.
But
it
still
read,
Rollins—Anthony.
I
handed
it
back
to
Mom,
wanting
to
rip it up, sniffing hard to keep my nose from running. I refused to cry.
Dad, evidently my stepdad, told me all the time, “Only girls cry.”
Chapter Two
Tony Rollins
~
P
aul
Ruud
woke
us
for
school
like
any
other
day.
He
sang
his
usual,
“Wadda
ya
know,
it’s
mornin’
already.”
He
flipped
the
light
switch
on,
off,
and
on
again,
walked
away
leaving the door open.
The
man
would
return
to
the
kitchen
to
pour
himself
another
cup
of
coffee.
In
the
living
room,
he
would
sit
in
the
dark
and
nurse
his
coffee
and
massage
the
immobile,
right side of his face, as though that would reverse the paralysis.
The
bastard
didn’t
say
another
word
as
we
got
ready
for
school.
Acting
as
though
we
didn’t
exist
had
nothing
to
do
with
the
previous
afternoon.
John
and
I
trudged
through
our normal morning ritual. Dad couldn’t wait until we were out of his hair.
What’d the asshole do all morning, until he headed for the bar?
John
and
I
sat
in
the
kitchen
and
ate
our
cold
cereal.
We
muttered,
“See
ya,”
when
Mom
headed
for
work,
otherwise
remained
quiet.
None
of
the
normal
threats
of
death,
teases
about
hair
sticking
up,
being
uglier
than
vomit.
Not
a
single
exclamation
of
booger eater or peter pecker. We finished our breakfast in record time.
Paul
usually
had
to
get
after
us
to
hurry.
That
morning
we
rose
without
harassment,
left our bowls in the sink, brushed our teeth, and collected our books.
My
stepdad
would
find
the
quiet
refreshing.
A
relief.
He
wouldn’t
care
what
caused
the
silenced
banter.
He
would
repeat
the
silence
everyday
if
he
could.
The
SOB
complained
often
enough
how
he
hated
our
unending
teasing,
though
he
didn’t
use
the
word teasing.
He
probably
didn’t
even
realize
we
didn’t
tell
him
goodbye,
or
even
look
at
him
as
we
passed him in the living room on the way for the door.
It
was
coincidence
we
left
the
house
together
today.
John
usually
left
first
to
meet
Leslie.
Two
doors
down,
I
turned
away
from
John
without
saying
anything,
without
as
much
as
a
glance
over
my
shoulder.
I
was
glad
to
get
away
from
him.
Not
in
the
mood
to
even look at him.
I
pounded
on
the
door
a
couple
of
times
and
walked
in.
Carl’s
mother
shouted,
“Good morning, Michael,” from the kitchen.
“It’s Tony, Mrs. Stott.”
“Good morning, Tony. You’re early.”
“Couldn’t be. You must be running late.”
From
the
couch,
Carl
mumbled,
“If
Mom
ran
a
minute
late
the
world
would
come
to
an end. At least she thinks it would.”
“I heard that.”
Carl
waved
a
lazy
hand
toward
the
kitchen
and
rolled
his
eyes.
He
jabbed
a
spoonful
of
cereal
into
his
mouth,
hefted
his
bowl
high
when
I
plopped
down
on
the
couch
with
him. Between crunches he asked, “What was with your dad aping-out yesterday, man?”
I
caught
his
eye.
Shrugged.
Looked
back
at
the
TV
as
the
front
door
flung
open
and
the broad cornerstone of our threesome filled the doorway.
“Hey,
dudes!
How’s
it
rockin’?”
Mike
shouted,
with
way
too
much
energy.
He
slammed the door behind him and strode toward the couch.
“Good morning, Michael,” floated from the kitchen.
“Hey, Ms. S. How’re they hanging this morning?”
I smiled without taking my eyes off Captain Kangaroo.
A
cackle
rewarded
Mike
from
around
the
corner.
“You’re
going
to
burn
in
hell
young
man, you know that?”
“That
would
be
like
another
summer
in
El
Paso
without
the
blowing
sand,”
Mike
shouted, still louder than necessary. “You hear the big news, Ms. S?”
From
the
other
room
Mrs.
Stott’s
chair
screeched
against
Linoleum.
The
petite
woman
with
premature
gray
hair
appeared
at
the
doorway
sipping
her
coffee,
peering
over the mug at the newest arrival. “Who got suspended now, Michael?”
“No.
No
one
I
know.”
Mike
looked
at
me
and
Carl
for
a
signal
that
maybe
he
had
missed
something.
At
Carl’s
calm
headshake,
Mike
continued.
“Mr.
Ruud
lost
it
yesterday, like totally. The police came and everything.”
Police? I jerked a look at Carl.
He nodded. “You were long gone.”
“They
didn’t
cart
him
away,”
Mike
continued.
“I
guess
no
pool
of
blood,
no
harm.
Huh? I guess a kid can get the snot beat out of him as long as there’s no dead body.”
Mike
put
his
feet
on
the
coffee
table,
his
eyes
now
on
the
Captain.
I
sensed
Mrs.
Stott
studying
me
but
worked
to
keep
my
eyes
on
the
TV.
I
couldn’t
do
it.
Her
expression
was
clear.
She
had
dealt
with
her
own
abuse.
One
Saturday
night
after
the
three
of
us
finished
off
a
couple
six
packs
and
Carl
felt
in
a
rare,
chatty
mood,
he
talked
about
his
dad.
It
wasn’t flattering. He didn’t mind being raised alone by his mom now.
Mrs.
Stott
pivoted
to
return
to
the
kitchen,
but
hesitated.
She
spoke
softly,
as
though
that
would
keep
Carl
and
Mike
from
listening.
“If
you
ever
need
to
talk,
Tony,
you
know
I’m here. If you ever feel like talking to anyone besides these two delinquents.”
Mike
groaned,
placed
his
hand
over
his
chest,
and
fell
over
sideways
as
though
mortally wounded. Carl smirked. I nodded to Mrs. Stott and quickly averted my eyes.
~
S
tepping
off
the
front
stoop,
Mike
pulled
a
pack
of
cigarettes
from
his
pocket.
Carl
took
one from the offered pack. I shook my head.
Inhaled
enough
smoke
at
home
from
two
parents
who
raced
to
finish
a
pack
every
night. My clothes reeked ten minutes after coming off the line on Saturdays.
My
anger
popped
as
I
thought
about
how
Paul
lit
up
at
the
dinner
table
as
soon
as
he
emptied
his
plate,
as
though
the
smoke
stayed
on
his
side
of
the
table.
Might
as
well
have waved the smoke of a trash fire at me.
At
least
Mom
waited
until
she
carried
her
plate
into
the
kitchen
ten
feet
away
before
she
lit
up.
I
wish
my
nit-brained
friends
wouldn’t
smoke.
But
it
was
part
of
the
tough
persona they thought they had to wear.
“There’s
a
game
today,
right?
Guess
that
means
you
won’t
be
joining
the
posse
when
we cruise Parkland. Rumor is the Snakes are looking for us. Might be fun.”
I
kept
my
thoughts
to
myself.
The
Vultures,
the
wannabe
gang
we’re
members
of,
couldn’t
find
a
fight
if
flashing-neon
billboards
pointed
the
way.
They
talked
tough
and
made
nuisances
of
themselves,
but
thankfully
hadn’t
gotten
anyone
killed
yet.
The
highlight
of
most
of
the
members’
rap
sheet
was
the
number
of
detentions
for
cutting
class—that I knew of. There was plenty of bragging I didn’t believe for a second.
I
got
tired
of
the
Goody
Two-shoe
shit
I
participated
in,
but
it
kept
me
from
having
to
spend
too
much
time
with
the
numb-nuts
that
made
up
the
gang.
The
losers
weren’t
worth
hanging
with,
but
the
same
faces
had
been
a
part
of
my
life
since
we
returned
from Missouri.
Membership
did
have
its
privileges,
like
admittance
to
the
unsavory
parties
they
held
when
someone’s
parents
erred
in
leaving
their
butthead
son
alone
for
the
weekend,
the
slutty
girls
that
hung
with
them.
Mostly
it
was
the
beer
I
could
mooch,
and
the
occasional
drag
on
a
doobie.
It
kept
me
away
from
the
parents
on
Friday
and
Saturday
nights when there was no game.
Lazy-shit
Carl
kept
the
three
of
us
out
of
most
of
the
scrapes
the
Vultures
got
in.
Fat-
Mikey’s lack of popularity excluded us from most jaunts.
“You should have kicked his ass, dude.”
Mike’s
screech
pulled
me
back
to
Earth.
It
took
a
moment
to
follow
what
Mike
meant. But Carl answered for me.
“Yeah, sure, man. Like creaming a drunk cripple is cool.”
“Better than getting your panties hung over your head, man.”
“Yeah.
Like,
what
would
that
have
bought
him?
A
night
in
juvie?
That
would
have
been much better.”
“You got t’ stand and make a statement.”
“You read that on the back of your cereal this morning?”
The
two
debated
my
options
most
of
the
way
to
school,
thankfully
leaving
me
out
of
the
discussion.
The
tone
did
nothing
to
clarify
my
emotions.
Since
waking
that
morning
my opinion of Paul Ruud had shifted from rage to pity.
The
man
often
talked
about
his
days
as
a
boxer
and
softball
player—in
his
dreams.
He
caught
polio
when
he
was
ten,
for
crying
out
loud.
Could
the
stories
of
farming
on
his
uncle’s
place
in
Mississippi
be
true?
He
wasn’t
much
of
a
farmer
anymore.
Can’t
hold
the
tools
of
his
former
trade,
support
his
family.
What
could
be
more
emasculating?
Can’t
sign
his
name,
or
even
completely
close
his
right
eye
without
a
helping
push
from
his numb right paw.
My
anger
transitioned
to
the
half-brother
I
had
to
share
a
room
with.
Yesterday
the
crap-head ran off, left me to deal with the bastard alone.
Typical.
I
shook
my
head.
If
only
I
could
hang
a
backpack
over
my
shoulder
and
head
down
the
highway.
Life
is
unpleasant
enough.
At
least
the
parents,
for
the
most
part,
left
me
the
hell
alone.
But
every
moment
I
was
under
their
roof
I
had
to
put
up
with
the
puss
that was my little brother—coward, worthless little turd.
Chapter Three
Tony Rollins
~
I
dropped
my
gym
bag
inside
the
door,
scanning
the
room.
Though
I
was
late,
less
than
a
third
of
the
student
council
members
were
present—a
lot
of
missing
Goody
Two-shoes.
Another
wasted
hour.
Cliques
pitted
the
large
journalism
classroom.
One
had
a
chess
game
going.
Another
played
football
with
their
folded
up
triangles
of
paper.
Others
studied, or sat chatting. Our sponsor—AWOL.
Screw this.
I
turned
to
leave.
Retrieving
my
bag,
I
nearly
collided
with
Mr.
Rodriguez
in
the
doorway.
“Ah!
No
escape
for
you,
ese
.”
The
man
grabbed
my
letter
jacket
at
both
shoulders
and propelled me backward. “You had a game today.” It wasn’t a question.
I nodded and he continued. “How’d you do?”
“We lost by five points.”
“I asked how
you
did.”
“Stank up the court. Didn’t have my mind on the game, I guess.”
“Points?”
“A few.”
“Blocks?”
“A couple, maybe.”
“Then
you
did
your
part,
ese
,”
he
nearly
shouted,
clapping
my
shoulders.
“You
gonna
be at the garage Saturday to work on those benches?”
I didn’t answer.
“I
can’t
show
either.
I
have
a
weekend
gig.
Gotta
pay
some
bills
somehow.
Deese
place ain’t gonna do it.”
He
emphasized
the
accent
he
wore
sometimes
like
a
badge.
He
lowered
his
voice.
“You
interested
in
making
a
few
bucks?
I
could
use
a
hand.
I’m
doing
the
rough
wiring
on
one
of
those
big
houses
they’re
building
on
the
mountain.
A
little
work
on
the
side
my brother gives me.”
“I’ve got a game at three.”
“Start at six. Give us a full day.”
“Six? AM? You kidding?”
“Twenty bucks is twenty bucks,
vato
.”
A grin crimped my cheek. That was more lawns than I could cut in four weekends.
“You
have
to
supply
the
Whataburgers
at
lunch.
I
have
to
have
some
energy
left
for
the paint at three.”
“
Vato
loco
.
I’ve
seen
you
eat.
Those
size-thirteens—”
He
pointed
at
my
feet.
“Didn’t
get
that
way
on
finger
food.
There’s
a
joint
close
by.
But
we
ain’t
driving
down
to
your
favorite digs. It’s a working day.”
We
sat
at
a
nearby
table,
ignoring
the
others
in
the
room.
Most
council
meetings
were
like
this.
Simply
a
haven
for
some
downtime
from
the
crappy
routine.
No
surprise
our sponsor sat down for a one-on-one with one of us. Far from unique.
Probably
less
than
six
years
separated
me
and
Mr.
Rodriguez,
but
it
still
seemed
a
chasm,
despite
the
kinship
I
felt
for
the
man.
I’d
heard
most
of
Mr.
Rodriguez’s
story.
First-generation.
Father
sweated
sixteen
hours
a
day,
seven
days
a
week
laying
concrete,
setting
tile,
framing
houses,
whatever
made
a
buck.
Mother
cleaned
houses,
until
the
family business could afford an office manager.
Mr.
Rodriguez’s
uncles,
brothers,
and
sisters
were
all
part
of
the
business.
As
the
youngest,
Mr.
Rodriguez
was
the
first
on
either
side
of
the
family
to
go
to
college.
The
family got lots of laughs that, as his reward, he made less money than any of them.
I
was
glad
he
got
a
teaching
certificate
instead
of
a
fatter
wallet.
A
natural
with
kids.
Watching
him,
it
appeared
it
wasn’t
work.
He
was
one
of
us.
Carl
aside,
Juan
Rodriguez
was my best friend.
Chapter Four
Terese Ruud
Summer, 1962
~
I
slammed
the
receiver
down.
The
anger
might
have
truly
gotten
away
from
me
if
there
wasn’t
a
part
of
me
that
wasn’t
glad
Tony
wouldn’t
be
spending
any
of
the
summer
with
his
stepdad.
Much
of
the
baggage
that
soon
made
Paul
an
ex-husband
was
the
way
he
treated Tony in the first place.
He
never
even
mentioned
the
boy.
They
had
been
part
of
each
other’s
lives
for
fourteen
years,
yet
it
was
as
though
Tony
no
longer
existed.
Our
arguments
centered
only on John.
His
kid.
“So
Johnny’s
gonna
be
stuck
up
at
the
lake
the
whole
summer
with
nothing
to
do.
No
TV.
No
friends.
Staring
at
the
four
walls
of
the
cabin.
Going
to
get
sick
of
beans
and
cornbread.
He’ll
go
through
two
hundred
books
the
first
week.
Does
Hotsprings
even
have a library?”
I’m
not
good
at
holding
my
emotions,
or
tongue.
I
glared
at
my
eldest.
He
was
wiser
than
he
ought,
for
his
years.
He
spun
the
situation
for
me.
Explained
all
the
reasons
he
shouldn’t be jealous of his brother.
“It’ll
give
you
a
summer
of
privacy,”
I
said.
“Bet
it’ll
be
tough,
the
house
all
to
yourself.”
“I’ll survive.”
“Maybe I’ll be able to get you to help around here, since you’ll be so bored.”
“Don’t
forget,
Mr.
Rodriguez
has
work
lined
up
for
me.
I’ll
be
gone
all
day
too,
six
days a week.”
Growing up too fast. “What’re you gonna do with all that money?”
“Not
like
UCLA’s
huntin’
me
down
to
thrust
a
basketball
scholarship
down
my
throat. It’ll come in handy for college.”
College? I sucked in air. There’s no money for college.
First
time
he
ever
mentioned
college.
No
one
in
the
family
had
ever
gone
to
college.
Not like he didn’t have the smarts. We’d just never—besides, college was for rich people.
“You want to go to college?”
Tony’s
expression
changed,
as
though
a
bit
of
life
poured
out.
Ah
shit.
What’d
I
say?
Not
like
I’m
the
most
involved
parent.
Always
something
in
the
way,
something
to
do.
The kitchen. Washing clothes. Tony was always at Carl’s, anyway.
All I do is work. Come home. Cook dinner. Repeat.
My
boys
are
so
different.
Tony,
always
focused
on
something.
All
John
ever
did
was
lay in his room reading, alone in his make-believe world.
“So, you have a career and life mapped out I’m not aware of?” I asked.
His face changed again, as though he smelled sour milk.
“I gotta go. Carl’s waiting for me.”
Chapter Five
John Ruud
~
T
he
last
day
of
school
meant
nothing.
That
is,
there
was
no
excitement,
or
relief
like
it
tweaked
in
previous
years.
I’d
been
enjoying
the
last
few
weeks—at
least
the
weekends,
more than I would the rest of the summer.
When
Dad
picked
me
up
Friday
afternoons,
we
were
a
world
of
two.
Granted,
much
of
our
Saturdays
were
spent
in
the
Highway
80
Bar
shooting
pool
or
playing
shuffle
board,
me
drinking
soda
after
soda
while
Dad
downed
beer.
The
good
part,
nights
at
the
grands’, where I felt the center of the universe. Nothing could beat it.
I
walked
the
four
short
blocks
home
alone,
though
the
sidewalks
were
full
of
kids,
mostly in small groups, all screeching, stupid-happy.
I
looked
for
expressions
on
their
faces
that
matched
the
pain
in
my
chest,
but
found
none.
Me,
off
for
the
lake.
Lots
of
stupid
fishing.
I
had
a
hell
of
a
time
sitting
long
enough to wait for some stupid fish to find the worm at the end of my line.
Nothing
more
boring
than
fishing.
Rather
lie
on
the
couch
and
read.
If
I
wasn’t
reading
I
had
to
be
moving.
Since
Dad’s
operation,
the
man
acted
as
though
motion
was
satanic. He’d freak if I didn’t sit still, threaten me with a backhand.
Still
wasn’t
something
I
did.
Going
to
be
a
long
summer.
Gone,
weekends
with
Grandma
and
Grandpa.
Rather
spend
the
summer
with
them
in
the
valley.
Their
living
room couch was more comfortable than any other place I had to sleep.
I
turned
down
our
street.
Dad’s
rust-trap
of
a
pickup
already
sat
in
front
of
our
house.
I
picked
up
my
pace.
Not
because
I
wanted
to.
Felt
like
an
axe
hung
over
my
neck, would fall if I didn’t get there.
I’d
have
more
of
what
I
liked.
To
be
alone.
Yeah,
sure.
The
last
weeks
had
been
tough.
After
Leslie
saw
Dad
acting
the
prick,
there
was
no
way
I
could
face
him
for
a
couple
days.
Turned
out
I
didn’t
have
to
bother
avoiding
him.
Since,
Leslie
acted
as
though I had leprosy.
Leslie. My only friend.
Friendship’s
cheap.
No
tether
ball
before
school
since
that
damn
day.
No
sitting
under the tree together in front of the house talking about, whatever.
Cigarette
smoke
billowed
out
of
the
truck.
I
trotted
to
the
open
passenger
window
and forced a smile.
“Where
ya
been?”
the
son
of
a
bitch
snapped.
“I’ve
been
watching
kids
walk
by
for
thirty minutes.”
Pow—that
quick.
Couldn’t
the
asshole
at
least
say
hi?
I
walked
straight
home
after
release.
Hadn’t
expected
him
till
later
anyway.
Assumed
I’d
have
the
chance
to
tell
Mom
and Tony goodbye.
I
looked
up
the
street,
over
at
Carl’s.
Was
the
high
school
letting
out
later?
I
couldn’t
remember noticing any older kids on the way home.
“Y—you want t—to come in and wait for Tony?”
“That
would
tickle
your
mother
pink,”
he
said,
“finding
me
in
her
home.
What
do
you need from Tony?”
“N—nothing, I just th—thought—”
“Well, get your things. Let’s get on the road.”
I
nodded
and
ran
to
the
house,
looking
up
the
street
again.
It
seemed
eerily
empty.
I
experienced
the
queerest
sensation,
that
maybe
I
should
be
in
sixth
period.
Had
I
walked out of school early?
The
flesh
of
my
neck
crawled.
I’d
been
a
little
preoccupied.
Was
it
possible?
But
Dad
expected
me
even
earlier.
No
way
I
did
something
so
dumb.
Right?
But
Dad
loved
to
rub
it in that I always did stupid shit.
I
leaned
over,
unlocked
the
front
door
with
the
key
on
the
chain
around
my
neck,
and nudged the door forward with my toe.
The
three
grocery
sacks
filled
with
my
clothes
sat
by
the
door
where
I
left
them
the
night
before.
I
ran
to
my
bedroom,
threw
my
binder
on
my
bed,
flipped
it
open,
and
dug
for my report card. Dad hadn’t asked for it. I’d leave it for Mom.
Not that she cared either.
I
ran
to
the
kitchen,
placed
the
envelope
on
the
dining
table,
hesitating.
Should
I
leave
Mom
a
note?
A
blare
of
a
horn
convinced
me
to
blow
that
off.
At
the
door,
found
room
for
my
novel
in
one
of
the
bags,
and
scooped
up
the
three.
One
started
ripping
before I got out the screen door. Dad honked again, so I ran.
I
smashed
the
sacks
up
against
the
cab
in
the
truck
bed,
hoping
the
wind
wouldn’t
catch
any
of
my
stuff.
It’d
suck,
leaving
tread-mark-stained
whities
strewn
between
El
Paso and Elephant Butte.
“Hold
on,”
I
shouted.
Ran
to
lock
the
door
and
pick
up
the
things
that
escaped
through the sides of the ripped paper bags.
Dad
inched
the
truck
forward
as
I
ran
back,
foot
off
the
brake
before
I
swung
the
door open and leapt in.
He
made
a
U-turn
and
took
us
past
school.
Where
did
everyone
go?
The
streets
should
have
been
filled
with
ecstatic
brats
celebrating
the
start
of
summer.
Dad
and
I
could
have
been
the
last
two
people
alive
on
Earth.
Lots
of
paper
littered
the
sidewalk,
evidence I hadn’t been dreaming. It was indeed the last day of school.
Five
minutes
later
Dad
pulled
onto
the
two-lane
blacktop
that
connected
with
O’Hara Road, through the Franklins, for the hundred-odd miles up to the lake.
“Give me a cold one.” Dad pointed at the bag at my feet.
The
cardboard
box
had
already
been
opened
and
missed
two
cans.
Dad
must
not
have
been
waiting
for
me
long.
I
pried
the
magnet-affixed
can
opener
off
the
dash.
The
spish
was
almost
drowned
out
by
the
roar
from
the
open
windows,
but
the
sound
gave
me
an
odd
sense
of
belonging.
I
took
my
obligatory
sip
from
the
can
and
passed
it
to
Dad.
“Th—that isn’t going to get you to the lake. You only have three more l—left.”
“Guess we have an excuse to stop for a case when we make it to Blue Waters.”
As though he needed an excuse to stop at his favorite watering hole.
I
watched
the
mesquite
fly
by
and
tried
to
swallow
away
the
taste
of
the
Pearl
that
got
sourer
by
the
minute.
The
next
three
months—
The
lake
had
always
been
a
blast,
as
a two-day retreat from the city during Easter break and week-long summer vacations.
Tony
and
I
traipsed
over
every
square
inch
of
the
western
water
line
between
Rattlesnake
Island
and
Rock
Canyon.
Played
on
the
beach
until
we
turned
lobster-red,
played
war
across
the
gullies.
Built
forts
in
the
mesquite
and
had
rock
fights.
At
night,
checkers
and
listening
to
our
granddad’s
stand-up
radio,
country
music
from
the
AM
station out of Oklahoma City.
Going to be the first time I’d ever been there without Tony.
Grandpa’s
cabin
wasn’t
much
above
a
shanty—no
hot
water,
no
air
conditioner,
TV,
phone,
or
washing
machine.
I
could
remember
before
he
got
water
piped
in,
when
we
had to use the shithouse out back. My chest tightened.
Three months. I wished I was dead.
I’ll miss Tony.
Our
relationship
was
never
the
same
after
the
mess
registering
for
school
in
Missouri.
But
it’d
never
been
as
bad
as
it
had
the
last
month.
Since
Dad
moved
out
and
acted as though he only had one son.
Was
that
to
jerk
Mom
around?
Being
his
normal
asshole
self?
Or
did
he
really
hate
Tony?
A
pang
of
guilt
throbbed
in
my
chest.
Throat
closed.
I
struggled
to
take
a
slow
breath. Wasn’t fair to take it out on Tony. Wasn’t fair Tony took it out on me.
I had nothing to do with it.
Even
if
we
fought
like
rabid
dogs
most
hours
of
the
day,
that
was
better
than
the
vacuum.
“Wh—what are we doing this summer?”
Dad
lowered
the
hand
he
pressed
against
his
cheek
to
close
his
right
eye
and
glanced
over at me. “What do you mean, what are we doing?”
“I know we’ll get s—some fishing in, but do you have any other p—plans?”
“If
we
don’t
fish
and
catch
something,
we’re
going
to
get
pretty
hungry.
In
case
you
don’t
remember,
your
old
man
doesn’t
work
anymore
since
those
bastards
cut
out
a
chunk of his brain. Funny how the grocery-people don’t give away food.”
I
glanced
down
at
the
paper
bag
on
the
floorboard.
How
much
of
the
money
Dad
did
have go toward beer and cigarettes by the case?
“What
the
hell
you
think
we’ll
be
doing
this
summer?”
Dad
continued.
“Going
to
gala
balls and the theater?” He took a long gulp from his can of beer.
I
opened
my
mouth,
but
reconsidered.
“J—just
making
conversation.
It’s
going
to
be
weird
not
walking
the
neighborhood
with
Tony
this
summer,
l—looking
for
yards
to
mow.”
“Past
time
that
boy
got
a
real
job
in
the
summer.
At
his
age,
I
spent
sun
up
to
sun
down running a tractor.”
“Not much call for t—tractor runners in the city,” I said.
“You gettin’ smart with me?”
Shit.
I
faced
the
desert
to
my
right.
It
started
early.
The
beer
must
have
started
early
too.
What’s eating his ass?
“Tony
is
working
this
summer.
With
his
English
teacher.
They’re
doing
electrical
work on the houses they’re building up on the mountain.”
“What
the
hell
does
an
educated
man
know
about
working
for
a
living?
He
going
to
be
reading
those
wires
their
to-be
or
not-to-bes?
I’ve
never
met
an
educated
man
with
a
lick
of
common
sense.
Men
go
to
college
because
they
don’t
have
the
gumption
to
do
real work.”
For a moment I peered into the bright sun, at Dad’s shadowed face.
Don’t say it.
Dad
finished
off
his
beer
and
tossed
the
can
over
his
shoulder
for
the
bed
of
the
truck.
The
wind
caught
it
and
it
careened
off
the
side
of
the
truck
with
a
clank,
clattering
down the highway.
“Give me another one.”
Chapter Six
Tony Rollins
~
C
arl
turned
the
stack
of
45s
and
set
them
up
to
play.
I
sensed
him
peering
at
me,
but
kept
my
eyes
on
the
Playboy
I’d
been
studying.
Mike
as
usual
had
hardly
stopped
talking since we met at the bleachers after school.
“Tony, you don’t look very happy to be done with your sophomore year. What’s up?”
I
didn’t
know
what
to
tell
him.
Luckily,
Mike
moved
on
to
another
topic.
“You
get
your application to Texas Western for the basketball camp?”
“Hell, seventy-five bucks is a lot of money.”
“I
thought
you
said
all
the
starters
were
going?
What’s
it
going
to
look
like
if
you’re
the only one who doesn’t?”
“I didn’t start.”
“For
a
sophomore
on
varsity,
you
played
a
lot
of
minutes.
You’re
going
to
be
starting
next year. With Melendez and Nunez graduating, you’re in, man, you know it.”
“Yeah.
Well
my
yard
money
was
gone
by
Christmas,
and
if
you
forgot,
I
don’t
sell
dope
under
the
bleachers
with
you.
My
mom
turned
all
hysterical
and
asked
me
what
bank she should rob when I asked her for the money.”
“I told you I’d lend you the money.”
“Camp’s
going
to
be
four
hours
every
day
for
four
weeks.
With
the
bus
ride
downtown,
then
a
transfer
up
to
the
college
and
back,
half
of
the
summer’s
going
to
be
gone
before
I
make
a
dime.
I’m
getting
twenty
bucks
a
day
working
with
Mr.
Rodriguez.
Let’s
see,
spend
seventy-five
I
don’t
have,
or
make
six
hundred.
Let
me
think.
That’s
a
tough decision.”
“You
think
small,
you
shit
head,”
Mike
said.
“A
full
scholarship
is
worth
a
lot
more
than six hundred bucks.”
I
wanted
to
tell
him
to
screw
himself,
but
it
wasn’t
often
Mike
said
anything
that
sounded half intelligent. I couldn’t cuss him out for
not
sounding like a dip wad.
“Maybe next summer,” I mumbled.
“You might not get an invitation next summer.”
“I got one this year, I’ll get one next year.”
“This
year
you
were
a
sophomore-surprise
who
stepped
in
because
a
starter
failed
to
keep
up
his
grades.
Next
year,
you’re
going
to
be
one
of
hundreds
of
juniors
and
seniors.
There are no promises.”
I
tried
to
read
Carl’s
expression,
before
reacting
to
Mike.
I
hated
Mike
actually
had
a
point,
and
doubly
resented
the
suggestion
I
passed
on
an
opportunity.
As
though
I
had
an option.
“Yeah, well you might be right. But I couldn’t take your money.”
“Why not?”
“I prefer to pay my own way. How’d I ever pay you back?”
“You’d
manage
somehow,
and
if
you
didn’t—well,
I
expect—I’m
going
to
be
around
a
long time. You’d pay me someday.”
“You’d be after me to sell dope with you. Ain’t gonna happen.”
Mike
laughed.
“That
hurts.
Like
I’d
pressure
you
to
do
anything
that
didn’t
meet
your strict moral code.”
I
threw
the
magazine
at
Mike’s
head.
It
furled
but
stayed
intact
enough
to
collide
with a satisfying
throp.
“Asshole,” Mike shouted.
Carl snapped, “Take it easy on the rag, man.”
I
curled
up
a
corner
of
my
mouth,
all
the
apology
Carl
was
getting
for
the
mistreatment
of
his
coveted
possession.
I
finished
off
my
soda
and
blew
across
the
top
of the bottle making a whistle out of it, to the beat of the music. Bored of that quickly.
I
swiveled
away
from
the
wall
and
lay
on
the
floor.
With
nothing
better
to
do
with
the
bottle,
I
balanced
it
on
my
forehead.
For
several
minutes
I
fixated
on
the
bottle,
turning
my
head
slightly
left
and
right
to
see
how
far
I
could
shift
the
balance
of
the
thing before it tipped over.
“Haven’t even started summer and I’m already bored.”
Carl asked, “When do you start working with Mr. Rodriquez?”
“Tomorrow. Have to be at the corner at a quarter till six.”
Both of them groaned.
Mike said, “I’m so shittin’ disappointed I’m not getting any of that action.”
But
he
was
happy
to
describe
in
detail
his
family’s
vacation
plans.
I
ignored
him,
and
continued to play with the soda bottle on my forehead.
“When
does
your
brother
leave?”
Carl
asked
without
concern
that
he
spoke
over
Mike’s dissertation.
I
let
the
bottle
fall
to
the
throw
rug.
It
bounced
noisily
onto
the
tile.
I
shouted,
“Shut
up,
Mike.
We
don’t
care
which
Disneyland
rides
are
your
favorite.”
I
sensed
more
irritation
in
my
voice
than
I
intended.
I
glanced
up
at
Carl.
“Little
Miss
Pantywaist
left
with his father when school let out.”
Carl
rolled
over
on
his
bed
to
look
down
at
me.
He
studied
me
for
a
moment
without
saying
anything.
The
inspection
ticked
that
anger
living
under
the
surface
of
my
skin.
I
imagined
Carl
thinking
of
the
puffy
eye
and
fat
lip
Paul
gave
me
the
night
I
got
between
him and Mom, and escalated the final deterioration of their marriage.
John ran out the front door, escaping as usual, unwilling to face any kind of conflict.
The gutless coward.
“
His
father?” Carl finally said.
“Evidently
the
bastard
is
freed
from
being
a
stepfather
with
the
divorce.
He
hasn’t
even spoken to me. Drunken bastard, like I give a crap.”
Mike
had
continued
talking
non-stop,
ignoring
the
quiet
words
between
me
and
Carl.
“You
guys
want
to
get
into
the
Diablo’s
party
tonight?
I
hear
all
the
gangs
from
Andress and Parkland are invited in honor of the end-of-school.”
“That’s
bull
crap,”
I
said.
“You’re
so
gullible.
Like
those
gangster-dudes
would
even
know school was out, or be caught dead with a bunch of punk wannabees.”
“No,
really.
My
cholo
buddies
are
going.
They’re
gonna
pick
me
up
at
nine.
You
wanna go or not?”
“Not.
I
have
to
be
at
the
corner
too
early,
or
lose
twenty
bucks.
I’m
not
the
least
interested
in
hanging
around
those
murdering,
Harley-humping
pricks
anyway.
You’re
crazy.”
Carl grinned. “I’ll let you represent us.”
Mike mumbled, “Bunch of pussies.”
I said, “We’ll visit ya in the hospital. If they don’t kill you.”
“You
two
need
to
grow
a
pair.
Life’s
too
short,
my
friends.
Before
long
you’ll
be
bookkeepers
and
go
home
to
your
brats
every
night
and
wonder
when
life
passed
you
by.”
I
blew
a
raspberry.
“Let’s
survive
high
school
first.
Then
we
can
worry
about
our
future ruts.”
Mike
pushed
the
chair
away
from
Carl’s
desk
and
stood.
“I’m
outta
here.
You
losers
sit
in
front
of
the
TV
tonight
if
you
want,
but
I’m
gonna
go
rumble,
score
some
booze,
smoke some dope. Might even get laid.” He dribbled his brows.
“Get
his
name
in
case
he
leaves
before
you
roll
over,”
I
said
as
Mike
walked
out
of
the
bedroom.
He
poked
his
head
around
the
corner
and
flipped
me
a
bird.
Carl
and
I
were
still
laughing when the front door slammed.
We
were
quiet
for
a
few
minutes
as
we
listened
to
the
last
45
on
the
turntable.
When
it finished, Carl asked, “You want t’ go to the range Saturday?”
I
don’t
get
the
whole
obsession
about
guns,
but
appreciated
the
rush
Carl
talked
about
getting
from
the
explosion.
I
looked
over
at
the
press
on
Carl’s
desk.
The
.22
rounds
were
cheap.
I
could
afford
that.
Enjoy
firing
Carl’s
.45
and
.38.
But
the
cost
of
shooting
the
twenty-two,
with
the
range
fee
and
targets
was
all
I
was
willing
to
splurge
on.
“If you take your .22. I’m working, but Saturday night, sure.”
© R. Mac Wheeler 2017