Initiation (13 page)

Carter sat down on the bench and took a deep breath. He lay back and reached up, spacing his hands evenly on the bar. Carter took three rapid breaths and pushed the bar off the rack, the full brunt of the weight bearing down on his torso. He inhaled as he lowered the weight to his chest. As it touched him, he exhaled and pressed upward, his entire body taut. The bar moved slowly upward, stopping at the top. He took three rapid breaths and eased the bar back down again, this time bouncing the bar off his chest before pushing it upward. The bar made slow progress. Carter’s back arched, his face glowing red. Jim put his hands under the bar, but didn’t touch it until Carter slammed it back onto the rack. Carter sat up, the red draining from his face.

Grace clapped, smiling.

Jim scowled at his wife. “He bounced that second one. That doesn’t count.”

Carter rolled his eyes.

“You just continue to amaze me,” Grace said to Carter. She turned to Jim. “You know Carter was in the paper again today. They called him a superstar transfer.”

“What I don’t understand,” Jim said, “is why other teams don’t run at you more. As small as you are, that’s what I’d do.”

Carter took a deep breath. “I play in the middle of the field. They run at me all the time.”

“If it were me, I’d send a big tight end right at you, one of those big basketball players. He could just push you out of the way and grab the football like a rebound.”

“That would be offensive pass interference.”

Jim shrugged. “If I were playin’, there’s no way I’d let someone your size tackle me.”

Carter clenched his fists. “Maybe you should talk to the Alexandria Central coach, give ’em some pointers, since you know so much.”

Jim glowered at his stepson. “Watch your tone.”

“He doesn’t look smaller than the other kids,” Grace said.

Jim smirked. “Come on Grace, they got a three-hundred-pound lineman.”

“I don’t play on the line,” Carter said.

“I’m just surprised your coach wouldn’t want some kid that was my size playin’ in the middle.”

Carter exhaled. “You think size is all you need to be a good football player? You have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Watch it.”

“No, I won’t watch it. We got plenty of big kids that sit the bench, because they suck.”

Jim dropped his arms and clenched his fists. “You will watch it.”

Carter ignored him. “They might be big, but they’re slow, they’re weak, and they don’t wanna hit anyone.”

“When I played, I was big, strong, and I hit everything that moved. I hope you don’t run into anyone like me.” He chuckled.

“Jim, nobody cares about your J.V. football career,” Grace said.

Carter stifled a laugh.

Jim narrowed his eyes at Grace, then at Carter. “I didn’t have time for football. I had to work. I wasn’t born with a god damn silver spoon in my mouth.”

“You wouldn’t even make the scout team here,” Carter said. “I could probably run the forty backwards faster than you can run it forward.”

“Carter, stop it,” Grace said.

“Let him keep talkin’ shit,” Jim said. “Let’s see him back it up in the real world.” Jim stomped out of the garage, down the driveway, and into the street. He motioned for Carter. “Come on, tough guy. Put your money where your mouth is.”

“Jim, stop this,” Grace said. “This is getting out of hand.”

“Come on out here too,” Jim said to Grace. “You can judge the winner.”

Carter and Grace walked into the street.

“We’ll start here,” Jim said, pointing to the long crack in the asphalt in front of them, “and we’ll go to the end of the last townhouse on our row. That looks close to forty yards.”

Carter shook his head. “More like thirty, but it doesn’t matter what the distance is.”

“Go stand across from the last townhouse,” Jim said to Grace. “Hold your hands up and we’ll go when you drop them.”

“This is ridiculous,” Grace said as she walked down the street.

Carter bent over and touched his toes. He lined up on the crack beside Jim, one foot forward, one foot back.

“What are you doin’?” Jim said. “I thought you could beat me runnin’ backwards?”

Carter turned around, his back toward the finish line. “How am I supposed to see Mom drop her arms?”

“You shoulda thought of that before talkin’ all that shit.”

Carter placed his right foot forward, pigeon-toed, his left foot back, and his knees bent. Jim put one foot forward, his toes over the line. Carter turned his head to the left, watching his dad. As soon as Jim’s calf flexed, Carter pushed his right foot into the asphalt before sprinting backwards with a fluid stride, his arms pumping back and forth. Jim’s heavy footfalls were a yard in front. Halfway to the finish line, he passed the bulky sergeant. Carter smiled at his father as he passed the finish line a few yards ahead of him.

“God dammit, Arnold,” Jim said to himself.

Carter and Grace laughed and walked toward the garage.

“He got you,” Grace said to Jim.

Jim tightened his jaw as he followed. “Doesn’t mean I couldn’t just run him over in a game.”

“Why don’t you put
your
money where
your
mouth is,” Carter said with a smirk. “Since you’re so big and strong, you should be able to lift more than me.” Carter motioned toward the bench in the garage.

“Oh shoot,” Grace said. “I’ve got to get my casserole. You boys play nice.” She ran into the house.

Jim stood in front of the bench, eyeing the bending bar on the rack.

“You gonna do this, or you just gonna stand there?” Carter said.

Jim sat down. Carter moved behind the bench.

“Do you want a spot?” Carter asked.

“I got it,” he said.

“All right,” Carter said, his hands up.

Jim rolled his neck, lay back, and put his hands on the bar. He pushed the bar off the rack. It plummeted straight down onto his chest, bouncing a few inches in the air before pinning him to the bench. His face was beet red. He squirmed under the pressure.

“Help,” he said.

Carter stepped forward, grabbing the bar with a reverse grip. He pulled upward with all his might. The bar dropped onto the rack with a dull thud.

Carter cackled. “I guess playing video games doesn’t make you very fast or strong.”

Jim sat up, shaking his head. “Weight room strength ain’t the same as real world strength. I can still whoop your ass.”

Carter stood silent.

Jim stood up, his nostrils flaring. “Ain’t got nothin’ to say about that?”

Carter stared at the concrete floor.

“Let’s see how tough you really are.” He grabbed Carter by the throat and squeezed, the blue veins in his forearms throbbing.

Carter looked up, his eyes wide, his breath stifled. Jim let go, and Carter wheezed for breath. Jim pushed him into the front yard. Carter stood, his hands by his side, staring at the grass. Jim stomped in front of him, his stance wide.

“You think you’re so fuckin’ tough,” Jim said. “Why don’t you hit me? Take a shot. Come on, tough guy. Come on,
hit me
.”

Carter’s head was down, his hands open. He never saw Jim swing, but he felt the impact on his cheek. He hit the ground hard.

“Come on, get up, tough guy,” Jim said.

Carter pushed himself off the turf, turned and sprinted down the sidewalk, away from his dad. The townhouses flashed by in a blur as if he was in a car. High on adrenaline, he felt like he could run forever. He turned down a cul-de-sac, the playground in the distance. Eventually he stopped and bent over with his hands on his knees. Oxygen coursed through his lungs as his shoulders heaved. Despite the mild weather, the park was empty. Carter wandered into the playground and sat on a park bench, his back to the road. He put his head in his hands, rubbing his temples. The empty swings loomed ahead of him, framed by clipped suburban trees.

The sun, high in the sky, crept down, and turned a dim orange. The streetlamps flickered on even though it was still light out. Something touched him on the shoulder. Carter shot upright, his eyes red and wet. Sarah stood with her mouth open and eyes wide, staring at his cheek.

“What happened?” she said.

“It doesn’t matter.” He turned around and sat on the bench, looking down at the playground’s wood chips.

She moved around the bench, her gray corduroys swooshing. “It does matter.” She bent down and put her hand under his chin, raising his gaze to meet hers. “It does matter.”

He grabbed her hand and removed it from his chin. He shook his head, staring at the ground. She sat down next to him.

“What are you doing here?” she asked.

He shrugged.

“How long have you been here?”

He shrugged.

“Do you want to come to my house for some ice?”

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” he said. A few tears slid down his face.

“We don’t have to talk about it. I’ll just sit here with you.”

She scooched closer, her thigh touching his. She grasped his hand, their fingers interlaced. Her hands were small and soft. She smelled faintly like strawberries. He didn’t look up but breathed her in, clutching her hand as if her mere touch and scent could heal him. They sat like this until the sun vanished beneath the horizon.

He gazed at her, illuminated by the street light. Her features were soft and round, her pale skin flawless. “I’m sorry,” he said.

She shook her head. “Don’t.”

“No, you were right. I should have stood up for you in the cafeteria. The truth is I’m a fucking coward.”

She squeezed his hand and leaned back with a smile. “Everybody at school says how tough you are.”

“I’m a coward when it counts. I didn’t stand up for you or Ben. I didn’t stand up for my mother. I couldn’t even stand up for myself today.”

“What happened?”

“Same thing that always happens.” He took a deep breath. “My dad.”

“I’m sorry,” she said.

“Don’t be.”

“It’s getting really dark.” She peered at the bruise on his face. “Why don’t you come with me for some ice? That bruise isn’t getting any smaller.”

“Okay.”

They stood and strolled down the sidewalk hand in hand.

“Does he hit your sister?” she asked.

He shook his head, his eyes downcast.

“If you don’t want to talk about it.”

“No it’s fine,” he said. “He doesn’t hit my sister. Sometimes he gets rough with my mom, but I’ve never seen him punch her in the face.”

She squeezed his hand. “Then why does he do it to you?”

He shrugged. “Maybe it’s because I’m not his kid – biologically.”

Sarah gaped at Carter.

“You never noticed that our last names are different?”

“It’s not Lynch?” she asked.

“Mine is, but theirs is Arnold.”

“Why didn’t you tell me that?”

“I don’t know. I guess it never came up. I call him Dad, and he raised me, so I do think of him as my father.” Carter looked at Sarah. “Granted, he is a dick.”

She smiled for a split second. “How old were you when your parents split and your mom got remarried?”

“I was three or four. It all kind of happened at the same time, in Fort Bragg, North Carolina. According to my biological father, my mother and stepfather had an affair while he was away in the field.”

She winced.

“Supposedly, it was quite the scandal. Bio-Dad said he could have ruined his career – hit him with an article 134 or something.”

“Do you remember it?”

“Not really. I do remember her getting caught, because my mom got pregnant with my sister. I guess Bio-Dad and my mom weren’t having sex.”

She frowned, her pink lips turning down. “I’m surprised she didn’t have an abortion.”

“My mom’s Catholic, although she doesn’t even go to church anymore.”

“Maybe it was a way out of the marriage,” Sarah said.

“Maybe.”

They walked up the steps to the front door of Sarah’s townhouse. Her house had mold growing on the beige siding. It was a middle unit with a bay window in front and no garage. She pulled a key from her pocket and turned the deadbolt. They entered the kitchen immediately to the left. It was cozy, with a small round wooden table in front of the bay window. A white refrigerator hummed in the background. She opened the freezer and fished out a bag of frozen peas.

“Here,” she said, “put this on your face.”

He held the peas to his cheek. “Thank you.”

“Sit down.” She motioned to the kitchen table. He sat down. “Do you want something to drink?”

“Maybe after my face stops being numb,” he said.

She sat across from him at the table. She took off her glasses and swept her red hair from her eyes.

“Can you see me?” he asked.

“You’re blurry.” She smiled. “Do you ever see him?”

“Who, Bio-Dad?”

She nodded.

“Not for six or seven years. I think I was like nine the last time I saw him. He was remarried with a baby girl. It was a disaster. I didn’t want to be there. I don’t think he wanted me there. I don’t think his wife wanted me there. I didn’t feel anything for him then, and even less now. I mean, how can you have a bond with some guy you haven’t spent any time with?”

“I don’t know that you can. Not unless you build something.”

“That’s the thing. He’s not even someone that I wanna be around. It’s like he looks at me and sees the affair. He wanted my stepfather to adopt me so he wouldn’t have to pay child support. We haven’t spoken since. Maybe I’ll change my name entirely when I turn eighteen.”

She was quiet for a moment. “He’s missing out,” she said.

“I doubt he sees it that way. I’m sure he blames everyone but himself.”

He exhaled. “What about you?”

She shrugged. “What about me?”

“Where’s your dad?”

She stared down at the table.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “Please tell me he’s still alive.”

She looked up with a smirk. “He’s very much alive … unfortunately. My father’s a professor at George Washington University. He teaches sociology. What a stupid ass degree.”

“What kind of job can you get with a sociology degree?”

She laughed. “Sociology professor.”

He chuckled, the ice packet still on his face. “Sounds like digging holes and filling ’em back in again.”