Hold Love Strong by Matthew Aaron Goodman Page B

stairs, followed by the boom when he landed on the landing. Rumble, silence, boom. Then the door at the bottom of the stairwell groaned open, slammed closed, and its echo shook the chain latch on our door.
    It took a moment to recognize what had happened because at ten I was never exactly sure of everything I heard. There were too many sounds I didn’t know, and even some of the ones I thought I knew I misnamed. But as soon as I realized that the sound I’d heard had come from a gun, I understood the silence meant that one of the men in the hall might be dead. Still I looked at Donnel and Eric hoping to find a different conclusion. Eric’s face was a floppy brown sail sagged from his hairline, draped over his nose, cheekbones, and jaw. Donnel frowned pensively, his eyes narrowed, his upper lip crooked and bowed so its crest rested just beneath his nostrils. They knew what the sound was too. Gunshots were a sound, an intrinsic element of our lives, like shouting and laughter. There were gunshots on New Year’s, the Fourth of July, around Christmas and on Valentine’s Day. Sometimes, for weeks at a time, gunshots were nightly occurrences. Most brothers I knew had either fired a gun, aspired to fire a gun, or lied and said they had been struck by a bullet. I’d fired a gun. In fact, I’d fired Beany’s gun just the week before. Donnel had found it under our couch, and we went up to the roof and shot at the planes flying over Ever as they arrived and departed from LaGuardia and Kennedy Airport until police sirens filled the air and we ran to hide in our apartment.
    Donnel sighed deeply. Then he calmly stood, crossed the room, and put his ear against the door. I wished for a sound, any sound.
    â€œYou hear anything?” Eric asked loudly.
    Donnel swung around and looked at Eric. “Nigga,” he scolded through clenched teeth. “Lower your voice.”
    Eric sucked a breath of air. “D,” he whimpered. “D, you think? I don’t hear…”
    â€œNigga!” Donnel snapped. “What I say? Stop being a pussy.”
    Eric’s head fell, his chin to his chest like a puppet whose neck string had been cut, and his face became a gnarled root of pain. Then his eyes opened wide and suddenly he turned and lunged at me. He knocked me to the floor and landed on top of me. He burrowed his head into my chest and threw a punch that connected with my shoulder. Then, from behind, Donnel swatted Eric in the back of the head with such force the blow knocked Eric from me.
    â€œNigga, what’re you, crazy? What’re you doing?” Donnel scolded, standing over us.
    Eric lay on his back, his knees up to protect himself as he rubbed his head with both hands. “I didn’t like his face,” he said.
    â€œWell, I don’t like yours,” said Donnel. “But you don’t see me swinging at you.”
    â€œYou just did!” Eric shouted.
    â€œNigga, shhh!” Donnel demanded.
    He muttered something about Eric under his breath and looked over his shoulder at the door. Then he went to it and pressed his ear against it once more. We listened. Still, there was nothing. No click or clack. No moan. No whisper. Not even the sound of a breeze climbing the stairwell or pushing through the crack under the door. Donnel looked back at Eric and me, then an idea came crashing over his face and his eyes flashed with light.
    â€œEric,” he said. “Go and get some knives from the kitchen.”
    Eric stared at Donnel. He blinked. He loved knives. He was always messing with them, always sawing and hacking through anything hecould get his hands on. It was another way he dealt with his emotions, another way he acted out. Eric cut all the butter sticks in the refrigerator into pats. He hacked the soles from old sneakers. He sawed through soda cans, plastic bottles, and action figures. He was mesmerized by Ginsu infomercials. When he was eleven, he carved an E