August and Then Some (21 page)

August trees, green plants, and tall grass overflow on the banks of the Bronx River giving frogs and birds more places to hide, squirrels more food to scavenge, boyfriends and girlfriends more cover to melt into. Summer seems to know it's the strongest season this river's got. The foliage grows so bold, spreading like peacock feathers. Each leaf and blade sticks its tongue out at autumn daring it to take over. Of course summer plants know they'll be dead soon. If autumn doesn't do the job, winter will bury them with twenty degrees tied behind its back. And in spite of that they look in the eye of their murderer and say, I know you're gonna end my life, but this is my time to shine and there's nothing you can do about it. Their short life really makes them pick their brave moments.

 

The train stops at the Crestwood Station and I step off. I don't want to do this. I'd rather hijack this motherfucker, run it full speed past the last stop into the train yard where cartoon-style it smashes the parked trains out of its way, skips off the track
and crash-stops in a trench and the cars accordion behind it into a steaming pile of scrap metal. Then I'd get out. And walk north. Until it got too cold and I'd knock on some Canadian's door and sit in front of their fireplace, sip on their moose soup or whatever they eat, and sleep on their couch until I get a job in their quaint town washing dishes under a fake name. Instead of all that, I'm walking in the direction of my father's house.

 

I ring the bell. In the glass window of the door my face reflects back to me until my dad's imposes itself over mine. He opens the door, leaning some weight on a cane. We stare at each other. We don't know what the fuck to say for ourselves.

“What happened to your face?” he wants to know.

“Nothing.”

“Are you coming in?”

“I guess so.”

He hobbles back inside leaving the door open for me.

In the kitchen we stand on opposite sides of the table facing each other.

“Love what you did to the place,” I say.

“Don't rile me up, Jake,” he says as more of a warning than a request.

“Look, I need some cash. So if you hit me with a few large then I'll get outta here.”

We stand in silence for a while.

“Don't you think you owe me at least some greenbacks?”

He turns around and leaves the kitchen. I hear him go through the living room and up the stairs; his labored leg creaking the steps. White lace curtains hold still in front of the closed window. The air is thick as soup. That spice-rack radio stands in the corner ready to fall. The steps creak again in a patchy rhythm. He comes back into the kitchen holding a piece of folded clothing in front of him.

“What's that?” I ask.

He holds it out further.

It's red. A zipper. It's her sweatshirt. Now I talk through a jaw that's stiff with eighteen years of rage. “Why you giving this to me?”

“Because.”

“
Because?
Oh that's brilliant. You're so—”

“Because I'm not the only one around here who fucked up.”

I shake back a huge urge to kick him in his throat. “Have you dropped your fuckin nut sack?”

“Take the sweatshirt.”

“Give me some fuckin money.”

He holds it out with more emphasis, his arm steady, pointing the sweatshirt at my chest, his eyes at my eyes.

“Fuck you,” I tell him.

He shoves it right up to my face.

“I said, fuck off,” as I slap his hand away; the sweatshirt falls.

“Oh it's like that.” He slaps his cane down on the linoleum. “That's what you want, huh? That what you really want? You wanna smack me?”

“I want you to get smacked in prison.”

“There was a robbery happening ON MY PROPERTY. My gun was LEGAL. They have explained it to you and to all of us more than once. You have nothing, you have no course of action. You are the only thief around here.”

“So you're legally an asshole. Agreed.”

“But whose fault does it sould like?”

He pauses as if I'm supposed to answer.

“Huh? Whose fault? If there was no robbery …” He shoves me in he chest.

“We doin this again?”

“I'm standing right here. Now's your big chance. Let's get it going. There's no one here. No cops, no judge.” He shoves me
again. “I just hit you. Now you can come back at me legally.” Another shove. “Self defense. I'll even back your story.” He shoves me harder in the chest and my heart thumps like a squirrel. “You're so fuckin righteous. You think you're untouchable now you're out of the house. You're little, and you don't know shit. I seen you balls ass naked when you was just born. I seen you puke.” He smiles. “And I know how big your dick is.”

On top of the rage I am an original kind of disturbed and disgusted. It's fucking gross that he possesses that image, and it's pathetic that he thinks this hypothetical piece of information makes him smarter than me. “Why do you make it so easy to think you're an asshole?”

“That's your opinion,” and he pounds himself in the chest twice like he wants me to aim for his heart. “Come on. Come on, you little fuck up.”

I'm done talking.

I split-second strategize. I spread my arms out in a cross, like I don't want any part of him, and try to pacify my face, playing the
you wouldn't hit a guy with glasses
routine. Without the glasses. He could give a shit and shoves me once more hard in the chest. You gotta be pretty cranked up to want to hit a guy who's posing like a target. From the crucifix position I take one step toward him, ball up my right fist and catch him square on his left temple. Oh, man, the timing and placement are perfect—like hitting a fastball on the fat part of the bat. His head whips to one side and his whole body follows. He staggers back and to my left, down on one knee, leaving his ribs wide open for a kick.

I haven't been in enough fights to know if the first punch is the most important like they say, but looking at him trying to get his footing I already feel like I own this guy. I see the spot on his side where I could easily land the steel tip of my boot. I can already feel the snaps, one rib for me, one for my mom, and two for Danielle. I love it. I love the thud of all three kicks, the fetal
position he would roll into, the cringe of pain on his face, and my feeling of satisfaction.

And I actually hate that I love it.

A feeling comes over me that immediately sucks out my adrenaline and makes me not want to kick him.

My father lunges at me belt-high and throws a combination of punches to my guts. The guy can hit. But as much as it hurts, and it fuckin hurts, I don't go back at him. I bend over and cover my stomach with my forearms. His knuckles connect with my wrist bones a few times.

He stands up, reaches over my head, wraps his arms around my neck and tries to pull my face to the ground. I grab his shirt and sprawl my legs behind me stiffening like a plank. My weight brings him down; his knees hit the kitchen floor like cracking coconuts.

The sound is meticulous.

It rings like a tuning fork, and brings all the noises around us to a perfectly clear pitch: Dad's breathing, his teeth crunching, his shirt ripping, the toes of my boots scraping on the floor. I also hear a car coming down our street, a neighbor's lawnmower, and a dog barking. Each one an unmistakable marker that—while we're here in this limb-cluster like two birds going ballistic over the final crumb—everyone else is routinely doing what they need to do, driving to where they need to drive, cutting what they need to cut.

Dad stands.

I take a hit to the mouth.

I take a hit to the chest.

I take a slap to the side of the face.

I block the next couple punches with my forearms.

I grab him around his waist in a bear hug.

His arms are stuck behind me, he can't swing anymore. He thrashes around against my hold, but can't break it. He tries to punch me in the back of the head, but he has no leverage. He
reaches behind him trying to pry my arms apart, but I hold on tighter. He gets a hold of my fingers, but can't separate them. The dog barks again; another car passes. I lift him off the floor. He's fuckin heavy; we swing around the kitchen like a couple of palsied dancers. I suck air. He has waves of struggle and rests, until he finally goes limp. My arms are deadlocked around his waist and I hope I can hold him longer than he can fight.

Now he says, “Get off.” It doesn't feel like time to let go. There's more fight left in him, and I let him know I've got plenty of strength left by squeezing tighter and keeping his feet off the floor.

The sounds around us get louder; the refrigerator, the lawnmower, the dog. I hear Dad's breathing now. I hear his knees and elbows slapping on the concrete of our basement floor that drunken night. I hear him yelling
Ouch
, breathing heavy. I'm standing in that damp basement holding that hammer over his mostly passed-out body. I remember lifting it up, and how quiet everything was after I hit him. But I can't remember what was so loud before all that; which noises shook the family so hard that they broke us. I hear the sound of the pool stick—on my twelfth birthday—sliding across the skin of my hand and hitting the cue ball, the cue ball hitting the fourteen ball, the fourteen ball rolling across the felt. I hear my father let out a scream—at my mother, at me, at things I'll never really know. I hear another scream of his as he loudly celebrates my twelfth birthday in that bar; it's mixed with the liberating noises of Van Morrison's “Caravan” delivered from that dirty jukebox. Two beautiful sounds that I cannot separate.

I swing Dad to my left and let go of his waist. He tumbles to the floor and shoots right back up expecting more, favoring his leg. We hold each other's eyes until we're sure it's over. We stare each other down until the moment fades, and he's out of pouncing mode. He backs up way out of swinging distance, reaches for a chair behind him and falls into it.

I still feel people moving through their day, uninterrupted by the beating me and this guy put or didn't put on each other.

Him on the chair and me in the middle of the room, we make our breathing sound louder than it needs to, probably because we can't talk or deal with quiet.

For whatever amount of time that feels longer than it is, we don't move too much or say anything. Dad looks at me with his head tilted, interested and confused, studying me out the sides of his eyes. I feel like a fish in a tank that just figured out what a hook is.

After all the breathing and staring he says, “They'll be calling you soon.” He reaches for his back and his face bursts in pain.

“Who?”

“The court, your defender?”

“Why?”

“I'm gonna drop the charges.”

“What?”

“I'm gonna drop the charges on you. Your case will be closed.”

“You will?”

“Yeah.”

“So that's it then?” I ask. “We're done with the sessions, the case?”

“We don't have to sit in that room anymore. Not if we don't want to.”

I lean against the hard counter. Run my hand over the fuzz of my hair. And take the reality of us being legally off each other's backs.

 

Silence.

 

“I don't sleep, Dad.”

“Neither do I, kid.”

“Sucks for us.”

“It sucks bad.”

 

Long silence.

“I tried to talk to Nokey. I did. The whole thing was doing number on him. He just—I'm sorry about that.”

I say nothing.

“I mean that. I'm sorry.”

“I know.”

“Listen, can you give me some money or what? I got a friend in need.”

“A friend in need? Where I come from that means you either knocked up a chick or you're doing drugs. And I can tell by your arms you're not using, so who is she?”

“Just don't ask me any questions.”

“How much you need? Never mind, I'll use my imagination.” He lifts himself out of the chair and grabs his back like it spasms. He tries to bend over for his cane but has to straighten up quick from pain. I reach for it and hand it to him.

“Four digits,” I tell him.

The stairs moan under his feet and he comes back with a wad of cash. “This,” he holds the cash up in front of my face, “is easy for me.” I grab it. “Just remember …” he takes a pause like it's rehearsed, “when you get to where you're going it's still gonna be you and you, so …” he shakes his head. “Ah, fuck it, just go.”

I grab the sweatshirt off the floor. And go.

 

I walk the few miles to Lockwood Avenue. I get within a block and hear service bells ringing, tools clanging, voices yelling, a radio playing classic rock. The pumps come into view, then the garage itself. Then the office. Ricky catches my eye through the glass. At
first he freezes. I lift my hand up as a small announcement of my presence. He drops his pen on his desk, stands up, walks across his office, pushes the door the hell out of his way, and walks fast right in my direction. I can feel the mass of the guy about to collide into me so I stop. He keeps coming until his chest crashes right into mine and we throw a hug on each other.

I feel him breathe heavy. “I'm sorry,” I say. “I'm sorry, Ricky. I fucked it all up.” I grab him hard.

He breaks the hug to look me square in the eyes. “That's the last time you're gonna say that. Absolute last time. You understand me?”

I say, “OK,” and don't believe either syllable.

“I'm not fucking around.” He tightens his arm around the back of my neck and gives me a shake.

“I know.”

“I mean it,” he says right into my ear.

“I know you do.”

He eases up with his arm; one of his huge hands cups the back of my head. “It's OK,” he's going. “It's OK.” I nod. Again he says, “It's OK.”