police.”
“You call the police!” he yelled. “They’ll have a real goddamn laugh. You coming here and telling me how to raise my kid.”
“Just keep your damn hands off the boy,” I muttered, tightening my fingers into fists.
“I’ll treat my boy as I see fit.” His eyes were dark and full of ignorant pride.
“You won’t bruise that boy again, you hear? You won’t hit that boy again or I swear I’ll come back.”
“Big words from a goddamned lousy convict.”
Then something snapped.
I went over and grabbed that fucker by his throat and shoved him down hard against the ground, knocking over his booze. I could hear his plastic pink feet clicking together in fear.
“Listen to me, fucker. Keep your damn hands off of that boy, you understand? You let that boy grow up by himself fair.”
I let go of his throat and stepped out on the porch and tried to light a cigarette as quick as I could. My hands were trembling too hard. The goddamn matches kept flashing out. Finally, I lit it and choked the smoke down my throat. I wanted to go back in and crack that bastard hard in his chin. But it wouldn’t have done any good. This Mr. Slates was a man I had seen my whole life. He was lost as any man could ever be, and nothing, no lousy fistfight, would change that.
“Didn’t hit my dad, didja?” Monte asked. He was sitting on the front porch steps, with his head hung low in his lap.
“No.” I frowned, taking a long drag on my smoke. “We just sat down and had ourselves a talk.”
“A talk, huh? That was all?”
“Sure it was. It’s all clear now. He said he’s gonna keep from hitting you from now on.”
Monte just sucked in a low breath and shook his head and stared up at his dilapidated old porch. The blue light from the TV flickered in his tiny blue eyes.
“Didn’t change anything, did it?” he asked.
The cigarette smoke turned cold in my mouth. There was nothing different I could have done myself. I wanted to go in there and break his goddamn teeth. I wanted to call the goddamn police. But I had lost all of my words.
I was like a ghost, cursed to do nothing but stand alone and watch and try to utter a word in help, but forlorn, forlorn by a silence I could not control.
“Doesn’t seem like your dad has his head on that straight,” I said. “I don’t know what to tell you, pal. Don’t know what to say. If he lays a hand on you like that again, you let me know and I’ll talk to him again.”
“Thanks,” Monte mumbled, starting up the porch.
I flicked out the cigarette and walked away, trying to make it right in my head by saying it a different way.
the red ventricle along the wall
The Virgin’s breath revealed a hole in a dark-lit soul. A hole that began to show some light onto the unknown face of a friend.
The Virgin took a breath, moving along the wall of my room.
I stared at that beautiful painting all morning. Then I got a notion. Something struck me funny. I got up from the black frame bed and lifted the Virgin right off the wall. Some dust settled to my feet. Some strange light seemed to break right through.
There was a hole dug right in that wall straight from Junior’s room, reaching through. A hole filled with mysterious things he had placed there to keep hidden. I set the painting on the floor and stared inside, squinting my eyes. These were all things kept close to Junior’s heart. Things I had only heard about but never seen.
The baby bird’s two black eyes. I saw them right away. They were all dried up and hard and kept between two pieces of green glass. They flickered there dull and lifeless but still full of some kind of sight.
There was an old Bowie knife. A ball of white string. A piece of chalk and an old red leather dictionary, torn at the binding. I opened up the dictionary and saw a marking right under the front cover. It had been stolen from Colterville Elementary School. I set it back in place as something else caught my eye.
There was an old
“You call the police!” he yelled. “They’ll have a real goddamn laugh. You coming here and telling me how to raise my kid.”
“Just keep your damn hands off the boy,” I muttered, tightening my fingers into fists.
“I’ll treat my boy as I see fit.” His eyes were dark and full of ignorant pride.
“You won’t bruise that boy again, you hear? You won’t hit that boy again or I swear I’ll come back.”
“Big words from a goddamned lousy convict.”
Then something snapped.
I went over and grabbed that fucker by his throat and shoved him down hard against the ground, knocking over his booze. I could hear his plastic pink feet clicking together in fear.
“Listen to me, fucker. Keep your damn hands off of that boy, you understand? You let that boy grow up by himself fair.”
I let go of his throat and stepped out on the porch and tried to light a cigarette as quick as I could. My hands were trembling too hard. The goddamn matches kept flashing out. Finally, I lit it and choked the smoke down my throat. I wanted to go back in and crack that bastard hard in his chin. But it wouldn’t have done any good. This Mr. Slates was a man I had seen my whole life. He was lost as any man could ever be, and nothing, no lousy fistfight, would change that.
“Didn’t hit my dad, didja?” Monte asked. He was sitting on the front porch steps, with his head hung low in his lap.
“No.” I frowned, taking a long drag on my smoke. “We just sat down and had ourselves a talk.”
“A talk, huh? That was all?”
“Sure it was. It’s all clear now. He said he’s gonna keep from hitting you from now on.”
Monte just sucked in a low breath and shook his head and stared up at his dilapidated old porch. The blue light from the TV flickered in his tiny blue eyes.
“Didn’t change anything, did it?” he asked.
The cigarette smoke turned cold in my mouth. There was nothing different I could have done myself. I wanted to go in there and break his goddamn teeth. I wanted to call the goddamn police. But I had lost all of my words.
I was like a ghost, cursed to do nothing but stand alone and watch and try to utter a word in help, but forlorn, forlorn by a silence I could not control.
“Doesn’t seem like your dad has his head on that straight,” I said. “I don’t know what to tell you, pal. Don’t know what to say. If he lays a hand on you like that again, you let me know and I’ll talk to him again.”
“Thanks,” Monte mumbled, starting up the porch.
I flicked out the cigarette and walked away, trying to make it right in my head by saying it a different way.
the red ventricle along the wall
The Virgin’s breath revealed a hole in a dark-lit soul. A hole that began to show some light onto the unknown face of a friend.
The Virgin took a breath, moving along the wall of my room.
I stared at that beautiful painting all morning. Then I got a notion. Something struck me funny. I got up from the black frame bed and lifted the Virgin right off the wall. Some dust settled to my feet. Some strange light seemed to break right through.
There was a hole dug right in that wall straight from Junior’s room, reaching through. A hole filled with mysterious things he had placed there to keep hidden. I set the painting on the floor and stared inside, squinting my eyes. These were all things kept close to Junior’s heart. Things I had only heard about but never seen.
The baby bird’s two black eyes. I saw them right away. They were all dried up and hard and kept between two pieces of green glass. They flickered there dull and lifeless but still full of some kind of sight.
There was an old Bowie knife. A ball of white string. A piece of chalk and an old red leather dictionary, torn at the binding. I opened up the dictionary and saw a marking right under the front cover. It had been stolen from Colterville Elementary School. I set it back in place as something else caught my eye.
There was an old
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