Hero (2 page)

"What is it?" said the guy who was digging for gold in our mud-crusted closet.

"We gotta leave. Now. You know who lives here?" There was an alarmed tone to his voice, but it didn't stop the man in front of me from closing in.

"Shhh, shut the fuck up!" He crept closer toward me. "Listen!" he whispered. "I think someone's in here"

They froze and my heart sank. There was just enough moonlight trickling in through the window behind me to cast a glint off the gun in his hand as he raised it toward me.

I bit my lip. I knew he was going to shoot me, and I fought the urge to wet myself. I heard him cock the gun, and then he lunged for the light switch to flip it on. In a millisecond I knew he would see me, and I prayed it wouldn't hurt, that it would be over quickly. In a flash, light flooded the room.

And there was Dad.

He stood upright in the middle of the room, his massive frame positioned directly between the gun and me. As the guy pulled the trigger, my father's foot kicked the gun up into the air. The sound of the gunshot and the flash of light immediately captured everyone's attention. Dad expertly used the element of surprise—one of his trademark tactical maneuvers— coupled with his intimidating physical presence, and leaped into action.

I'd seen old footage of Dad fighting, and no matter who he was up against, there was a majesty to the way he carried him¬self, even if the odds seemed to be dramatically against him. Didn't matter how many superpowers the villains had. Didn't matter that Dad had none himself. He was like an ancient warrior dressed in chain mail who knew he could take on an entire modern army with nothing but his trusty broadsword.

In the brightness of the room, you could see Dad's posture was tense and ready, but his face was relaxed, almost at peace. His normally wrinkled, eternally worried brow was completely smooth. I'd only seen it that relaxed after the rare third, maybe fourth beer.

In the time it took for the gun to land in our fireplace, Dad delivered the answer to the question about who lived here. With one decisive gut punch, he took out the guy who'd tried to shoot me. Before the guy in the kitchen had a chance to react, Dad had blinded him with a torn bag of flour from the counter, and proceeded to knock out five of his eight front teeth.

The last guy made a desperate scramble over to the fireplace to grab the gun. He managed to reach it before Dad could stop him. He trained the gun on me and shouted for Dad to stop.

Dad looked up like a lion stalking his prey. He saw the guy threaten me with the pistol. The calm look on his face tightened and his eyes narrowed. He stood up and, with a quick and even pace, marched over to the man with the gun, who by this point actually did wet himself. With his good hand, broad and thick, with callused fingers, Dad took the back of the man's head, like a pro would palm a basketball, and smashed his face through the glass of the trophy case.

After the police had left, Dad replaced the dead bolt on the back door, quietly swept up the broken glass from his trophy case, and poured baking soda on the urine stain in the carpet. It was then that he finally spoke to me.

"I thought for a second, when I first heard something, maybe it was your mother coming home."

I'd had it with my neighborhood; the break-in was the last straw. My dad always said it's one thing to bitch about things that bother you, but it's another thing entirely to get off your butt and do something about it. If I didn't like what was going on in our neighborhood, I should try to make a difference. I went to the community center, over by Tuckahoe High School, and signed up for a tutor—mentor program. There was some mandatory bullshit training seminar led by a sharp-featured woman named Cindy, who visited the center maybe twice a year from the state education board, and she talked to the volunteers like we were first graders. After I gave them proof from my doctor that I had passed my tuberculosis test, I started going to the Student Life Center every week to tutor.

The first few months were rewarding. I mostly helped kids with their math homework and taught them how to read. A lot of times I read books to the younger students. There was one little girl who never missed an afternoon. Sunita had lived in a series of homes; her mother had left her at the hospital after giving birth prematurely. Sunita's birth weight had been so low that the doctors were certain she wasn't going to live, but she rallied, and other than being a little small for her age, I'm not sure anyone would have known the difference. The director of the Student Life Center, Phyllis, said she didn't think Sunita's brain had developed properly, because she hardly ever spoke.

"Listen, Thorn," Phyllis said, "I've raised six kids through that age, and the last thing you could imagine is a single minute of any day without all of them talking, usually at the same time. I'm telling you, something ain't right with that girl."

But when she came to my reading group, she always listened attentively, laughed at all the right parts, and grunted for me to turn the page if I was a little slow on the draw. Personally,

I didn't think she was a slow learner. VI think she just didn't have that much to say yet.

When I came in one afternoon for my weekly reading ses¬sion to the kids, Phyllis informed me that this was an important day for the Student Life Center: Cindy from the State and vari¬ous other community leaders had come to tour the facility for "a very special visit."

"What for?" I said. "A book burning?" I was only allowed to read from a strict list of state-approved "culturally sensitive" books.

"No, even better," Phyllis said. "Budget cuts."

Phyllis warned me that they might stop by while I read to the kids. Everyone was to be on best behavior, since these visits had a direct impact on their annual operating budget. In my mind, this meant I should take advantage of the opportunity single-handedly to win them their funding for those streetlights in the parking lot they desperately needed to stay open late. So instead of the usual lighthearted reading (Hop on Pop and Green Eggs and Ham were favorites), I decided to impart a little environmental wisdom, and I grabbed a worn paperback copy of The Lorax from the bookshelf above Phyllis's desk. That should impress the visitors.

The tour group had already made themselves at home when I walked in. They stood in the back with attentive, stiff smiles on their faces, and seemed to study my every move as I sat down to read. Cindy from the State popped a lozenge in her mouth. I could hear her sucking on it as I opened the book.

'"I am the Lorax and I speak for the trees!'"

I think I was trying a little too hard. The kids didn't make

a noise, and I realized this wasn't exactly one of the Doctor's more cheerful books.

Here I had introduced these kids to the rich, colorful world of Dr. Seuss, and in the span of one afternoon, I tore it all down and drove away all the cute, furry creatures. There wasn't a single laugh or giggle in the whole room. You could hear the squeaking sound of sneakers as they pivoted on the basketball court in the gym down the hall. I heard Cindy crunch on her lozenge through her closed mouth. When I finished the last page, which warned the children to take care of their world, I closed the book and asked the group of blank faces, "Well, what did you think?"

Silence filled the room. The group of adults standing in the back craned their necks to examine the kids' reactions.

I imagined the number of kids who returned next week would drop off dramatically, funding would be cut, they'd never get their streetlights. The whole center would eventually be shut down.

I caught Sunita out of the corner of my eye as she rubbed her eyes. Great, I even made one of them cry.

"Sunita, are you okay?" I asked.

She looked up at me with an intense stare, and then the lit¬tle girl who never spoke opened her mouth.

"THOSE FUCKERS BETTER PUT THOSE TREES BACK WHERE THEY BELONG OR I AM GOING TO FUCKING KILL THEM!"

"Why don't we go see what's happening in the pottery class." Phyllis hurried the visitors out of the room. As the tour left, I saw Cindy's mouth was still open.

The next week they asked me if perhaps I'd be happier working with some of the older students. As Phyllis rushed off to round up some troubled students for me to tutor, I checked her shelf for some books to have them read out loud. Nothing jumped out at me. Picture books were too juvenile, and Hemingway, Steinbeck, and Fitzgerald weren't exactly going to score any points for relevance with this crowd. I knelt down and opened the lowest drawer of her desk and dug deep for some workbooks.

"What are you doing in there?"

I jumped and hit my head on the desk. I turned around and saw one of my new students, about my age, standing behind me.

"You scared me." I shut the file cabinet.

"What are you doing in there?"

He had a thick accent, so his family must have only moved here recently. One of the many English-as-a-second-language students who came to the center to learn English. He sounded just like Ismeta, the cleaning lady at school who'd once talked to our class about her experiences as a Bosnian refugee. I always felt bad for the ESL students. I couldn't imagine what I'd do if I had to take chemistry in Bratislava, or learn high-school French in Pakistan. Maybe I could start with the Dr. Seuss after all, I considered. I picked up Hop on Pop, and he eyed me suspiciously.

"Oh, I was just looking for something for us to read tonight," I said, slowly enunciating each word. "Do you like books?"

He stared at me. He didn't blink.

"See, that's the great thing about learning English. You get

to read some cool books and stuff, 'so it's not all about boring homework."

He still didn't blink. "Books and stuff?" He repeated the words like he was spitting out poison.

"Yeah," I said. "It's pretty fun when you get into it. Reading and all."

Phyllis hurried back in the room. She hadn't yet noticed the toilet paper on the back of her shoe.

"I see you've met Goran," she said.

"Yes." I smiled. "I have the feeling he's going to pick up English in no time."

Phyllis looked at Goran to see if I was serious and then looked back at me.

"Thorn, Goran founded the literacy program for the older kids here two years ago. I asked him to show you the ropes tonight," she said. She leaned in to me and continued, "You should take a look at Goran's poetry if you get a chance. Harper's published one of his poems last month."

Goran, arms folded, stared at me with contempt.

Sometimes I am the world's biggest loser.

"Goran, this is Thorn, one of our new volunteers." Then she added with a lower, hushed tone, "Keep him away from the Dr. Seuss."

I couldn't bring myself to make eye contact with him when I stood up to shake his hand. He was a full two inches taller than I was.

He shook my hand hard and slow. Hard enough to send a message about his strength, and slow enough to tell me that the handshake—like any other future interaction of ours—would

begin and end on his terms. I managed to make brief eye contact and then he let go.

Goran's utter lack of expression made me think he was going to hit me.

He opened his mouth to say something, but stopped short of any words. Instead, he turned and walked down the hall, long determined strides, and I struggled to keep up with him.

After he introduced me to my new students that night, I never saw him again. Phyllis said he'd switched nights because he'd recently taken a full-time job, in addition to his regular schooling and extracurricular activities.

"He supports his family, you know," Phyllis whispered, like it was a secret.

I could barely imagine supporting myself, much less an entire family. I'd bitched ad nauseam when I had to pick up work as a stock boy last Christmas. Lifeguarding each summer at the pool hadn't exactly been a real career motivator or moneymaker, either.

"What does he do?" I asked.

"Security," she said. "He's a night watchman."

I always wanted to run into him again and tell him I was sorry. That I was an idiot and I wasn't thinking when I met him, and I'm not usually like that. Maybe we'd even have a laugh about it—stranger things have happened. But I never saw him again.

Until he popped me in the eye during the basketball game and stole the ball from me.

"Foul!" my dad shouted from the stands. "Are you blind?! Foul!"

I sped down the court, my eye stinging from the sweat that trickled in the welt left by Goran. He pulled up at the top of the key and sunk a three-pointer, which put his team ahead. By the time I got back under the basket, the elbows were flying on both sides. It wasn't out of loyalty to me, either. I'd grown used to the fact that my father's disgrace had isolated me from most of my childhood friends. By high school I'd learned it was easier not to make friends in the first place than to lose them after they found out about my dad. But even if my team didn't care much about me personally, they didn't like someone else getting away with a cheap shot against them. And they cer¬tainly didn't like the idea of losing.

I'm guessing that's why Clayton Camp, our Harvard-bound power forward—who graced us with his presence on the basket¬ball court only because it kept him in shape for another All-American lacrosse season—lashed out. I'd just missed a layup, a real confidence builder during such a tight game, and the rebound had bounced in Clayton's direction. Clayton had already slightly bent his knees and lined up his three-point shot, but the ball never reached his fingertips. Goran intercepted the ball with impossible speed. Frustrated and humiliated, Clayton turned around and kicked the back of Goran's heel as hard as he could.

No one at the game that night would ever see a more fla¬grant foul in his lifetime. Not even the ones who would go on to play ball in prison. As Goran tripped, the momentum from his sprint propelled his massive frame through the air parallel to the floor. He landed on his leg and knee with an eerie crunch and tumbled into the bleachers.

The Tuckahoe Trojans cleared the bench.

Clayton got the worst of it. The Trojans' point guard, a lit¬tle guy who looked like Gary Coleman on steroids, led the charge. I saw Clayton disappear under a pile of Trojans as they pummeled him. It took almost every adult in the gym to pull the kids off each other and restore order.