Hold Love Strong by Matthew Aaron Goodman Page A

pages or lost and replaced it with a new one he bought at the ninety-nine-cents store. He was eating Cocoa Krispies and his spoon clacked against the plastic bowl. Then when he finished eating all of the cereal, he raised the bowl to his face and slurped the milk, and because Donnel hated when his cartoons were interrupted, I knew trouble was coming.
    â€œGo ahead and keep make’n noise,” he warned, without taking his eyes from the TV.
    Eric lowered the bowl from his face and looked at it. Then he looked at me. He was helpless and worried. His eyes hung from his face and his cheeks deflated and drooped like tired sacks. Eric knew that Donnel would warn him once, then swing. Donnel didn’t have patience or sympathy for Eric’s deficiencies. Eric was his little brother and Donnel wanted him to act right, so Eric’s doom was inevitable because he didn’t have the coordination to eat quietly or the willpower to stop eating, and, even if he did, what Eric did with food could never be defined as eating. Eric consumed. Everything flew, crashed, and splattered into his mouth. And there was something very wrong with his digestive system, the whole thing, from the way he crammed food into his mouth and the gnashing his teeth did to how, minutes after eating, he went to the bathroom and, moaning and groaning, let it all out.
    Eric looked at the TV. Then he glanced down at the bowl again. The remaining milk taunted him. His face grew taut. His lips stretched. He was fighting to hold on, to not eat. Silently he beggedhimself. He pleaded. But he couldn’t put the bowl down. He didn’t have the fortitude to stop himself. He raised the bowl to his face, then tilted it to his lips. I didn’t have time to pray for him or the chance to get out of the way. He slurped once. Then Donnel’s hand slammed against the bottom of the bowl. Milk splattered everywhere, on the wall and couch, on Eric’s shirt and face, on his notebook, on my right arm and leg.
    â€œWhat I say?” Donnel exploded. “Now clean that shit up.”
    Eric’s lips quivered. The bowl was upside down on the floor and milk dripped from his face. He bit his bottom lip. He gnawed on it. He slowly shook his head. Then he stopped and suddenly turned and looked at me. He had come to a conclusion. Although he was twelve, Eric didn’t recognize anything other than his emotions. That is, how he felt was usually the only thing that was important to him. But because Eric could not cry, physiologically could not shed a single tear, how he felt was often too large to put into words, so it made him act out. This is why Eric drew, and why he fought you when he was angry and fought you when he was sad. His eyes narrowed and I knew the conclusion he had come to. It was all my fault. Eric was going to lash out at me. There was nothing I could do but close my eyes and defend myself. He lifted his fist, but then, just as he was about to swing at me, a door slammed and a man yelled outside, his voice echoing through the hallway.
    â€œCome here!” he shouted. “I ain’t done! This ain’t over!”
    It was Beany. Eric, Donnel, and I looked at the door, stared at it as if it were a window we could see through.
    â€œNigga! Don’t walk away!” Beany shouted. “I know you hear me!”
    Beany was harmless. He made noise. He puffed his chest out. He made empty threats. I’d seen him squirm and turn green when my Aunt Rhonda popped one of his pimples and showed him the pus on the tip of her finger.
    â€œNigga,” he boomed. “I ain’t through!”
    Then, as if the world stood still to wish Beany well, there was silence. Then two gunshots, a pause, and a third pop knocked through the hall. The gunman took off down the stairs, and because our apartment was next to the stairwell, we heard him go all the way down, the rumble of his footsteps, interrupted by the silence when he jumped the last few