Suckerpunch (12 page)

Shut up,
Enrique yelled.

Dad, it's a starter pistol, I said, standing up. It doesn't even have bullets.

Yes, it does.

He's lying.

Marcus,
shut
the fuck
up
!

My dad looked at me and I saw the terror slowly vanish from his face. He lowered his hands and his body relaxed, settling into his chair.

It's loaded,
Enrique shrieked, the gun still pointed at his head.

But it was too late: My dad believed me. Whatever power Enrique had held over him was now gone. I saw it in my brother's face, his trembling mouth.

My dad stood up and casually took the gun out of his hand as if Enrique were passing him a television remote. Enrique's arms dropped to his sides, his chest caved. When my dad tried to hug him, he lifted his hands and pushed.
Get off me,
he shouted.

I forgive you, my dad said.

Enrique shook his head in disbelief.

I moved around the couch and opened the door and walked out.

I'd heard and seen enough.

W
E LEFT THE
B
EST
Western early the next morning. The first drops of rain hit the windshield and smacked against the roof of the Buick like someone on a typewriter. Everyone was quiet as we headed out to San Francisco to see Oliver's uncle, to pick up some uppers and whatever else he had for him.

I pulled down the sun visor and leaned into the little rectangular mirror there to get a closer look at where Enrique caught me with an elbow, my cheekbone swollen and purple like a plum. I touched the bruise gently and imagined my hands around my brother's throat, squeezing.

The rain came down harder and the wipers went
back and forth across the windshield. Catface meowed in the backseat. Oliver asked me if we were heading in the right direction and I just nodded. I wasn't in the mood to talk.

Everyone in the car said as little as possible. We all, to some degree, hated one another.

The land around us was beige and lonely and the highway cut right through it. We came around a bend and we were surrounded by hills, and up along their backs there were windmills, hundreds of them—an army of white propellers whirling in the rain.

I was looking up at one of them, watching the giant blades turn sluggishly as if it were coming to a stop, when Oliver slammed on the brakes.

Up ahead there was a gray plume of smoke rising from a flipped-over truck, the windshield shattered into a mosaic of glass. On the shoulder of the highway there was a jackknifed horse trailer, silver and dented like a beer can.

Oh my God, Ashley said.

Oliver stopped the car and we all stepped out onto the road. I jogged toward the truck, where the driver was upside down and still seatbelted in. Enrique
kneeled down and knocked on the driver-side window. The driver turned toward us, his forehead bloodied. He fumbled for the car door and slowly jerked open the cracked window.

Are you okay? I asked.

Ayúdame,
the man said.

Oliver crouched and turned onto his back and reached up inside the car, struggling to release the seatbelt. Damn thing, he said. It's
stuck.

¿Necesitas un cuchillo?
the man asked. His forehead was slashed with bits of glass stuck in it and the blood leaked into his hair.

Do you need a knife?
I shouted.

No, I got it. There,
Oliver said, and scooted out of the truck.

The man's head was bent and his shoulders rested against the roof of the truck. Enrique and I reached in and pulled him gently out of the car like a newborn.

¿Qué pasó?
I asked the man.

Un camión,
he said.
Él entró en mi vereda.

What's he saying? Oliver asked.

He said another truck went into his lane.

Mi caballo,
the man said, sitting up and looking at
the ruined trailer.
Mi caballo.

The rain came down fast and loud, soaking our clothes and flattening our hair against our foreheads.

The man rose and staggered over toward the trailer by the roadside and we followed him. Ashley was already standing there, her arms folded across her chest.

The man's horse was vanilla white and spotted with tan freckles. One of his hindquarters was twisted grotesquely where a bone poked through the skin. Blood seeped out of the wound and down his ruined leg and dripped into the muddy earth. The horse snorted and twitched and whinnied, his eyes big as Ping-Pong balls.

A guttural sound came out of the man's throat and he began to weep, his hand over his mouth.
Ay, Dios mío,
he said.
Mi caballo lindo.

We stood there beside the man with the rain pelting us and looked down at the horse, the horror in his eyes.

Traffic backed up on both lanes. A woman in a BMW looked on with her mouth half open while a child in the backseat made squiggles on the fogged-up window with his fingertip. A man on a cell phone
stepped out of his car and ran toward us, the rain darkening his shirt. The police are on the way, he said. Is anyone hurt?

He is, Oliver said, pointing to the man stumbling over to his ruined truck. He got on his hands and knees and reached up into the smashed-out window on the passenger side. He unlatched the glove compartment and all its contents dropped onto the roof of the truck. Then he was coming toward us through the downpour, carrying a gun and mumbling something in Spanish.

What the hell? Enrique said.

The man on the cell phone turned around and hurried back to his car, his shoes splashing on the highway. He'd already done all he was capable of doing.

The horse grunted and the rain spattered against his body. The man crouched down with his gun and rubbed the horse's neck.

I can't watch this, Ashley said, and walked back to our car.

We stood there—me, Enrique, and Oliver—and watched the man consoling his animal. There was only one option and the man held it in his hand. It
was a Colt .45, long-barreled and steel blue.

Lo siento,
he said, and stood up and pointed the revolver at the horse's head.

Enrique turned away. Oliver turned away. I didn't.

Lo siento,
the man said again.

The horse groaned and it sounded like there was thunder inside him. There was a long pause and it seemed as if I could count the raindrops if I wanted to.

The man lowered the gun and covered his eyes with his hand.
No puedo,
he said.

Enrique turned around, then Oliver.

Por favor,
the man said,
alguno de ustedes.

What did he say? Oliver asked.

He wants one of us to do it, Enrique said.

The man cried and grabbed the revolver by the barrel and held it toward us.
Yo no puedo,
he said.

The horse snorted loudly, his body shuddered and flinched.

Por favor,
the man said.
Mi caballo está sufriendo.

Enrique turned and walked toward our car with his hands shoved deep in his pockets.

The man held the revolver out for Oliver, who folded his arms and took a step back. No way, uh-uh, he said.

The man held the gun toward me.
Le pido,
he said, weeping.

I took the revolver from him and the man pulled the hammer back for me.
En la cabeza,
he said, and tapped his forehead with his middle finger.
Aquí,
he said, and then walked away. His legs buckled under him and he hit the pavement. The woman in the BMW jumped out of her car. She held her umbrella over the man while another motorist rolled up his jacket and placed it under his head. Oliver turned away and headed back to the Buick.

I was alone with the horse. The rain came down and the puddles splashed around me in a thousand little explosions and the horse grunted and shook violently, his eyes wild and helpless.

I looked at the revolver in my hand and saw that my nubby finger wouldn't reach around the trigger. I thought of the brick that severed it, how seconds before Enrique was sitting cross-legged on the grass as I pedaled toward the ramp. I thought how soon after I lost my finger my dad beat Enrique for the first time.

I switched the revolver over to my left hand and it felt strange holding the gun that way, like I was using
someone else's hand, someone else's fingers.

I aimed between the horse's eyes. If I had known a prayer I would've said it then, but it wouldn't have mattered anyway. We were two different animals. The horse understood things like field and hay, sunlight and sky. Not mercy.

I pulled the trigger and the gun blast threw me down onto the wet pavement. My ears buzzed and rang like feedback from a guitar and were still ringing when the police arrived and kept on ringing all the way home.

M
Y DAD CALLED MY
mom soon after Enrique and I left his apartment and told her everything that happened. When Oliver dropped us off the next day late in the afternoon and we walked into the house, she went off.
What were you two thinking? You lied to me. You said you were going to Las Vegas. I can't believe you would do such a thing. Where in the hell did you get the gun? Marcus, what happened to your face? I didn't raise you two to behave like animals. How can I ever trust you again? Marcus, go put some ice on your face.

I went into the kitchen and opened the freezer and packed a Ziploc bag with some ice cubes. Then I went upstairs into my room and closed the door and
lay on the bed with the bag of ice pressed to my cheek. I thought about the horse. I thought about my dad and Enrique and the horse again, always the horse, broken and shaking in the rain.

Even though I was exhausted from the trip, I couldn't fall asleep. I stayed up past midnight watching the green numbers of my digital clock.

I woke up late the next morning with a headache pulsing between my eyes. I shook some aspirin out of a bottle and swallowed it with a handful of water. Enrique was already awake and eating cereal at the dinner table, the spoon chiming against the bowl. There was a large cardboard box on the table and I heard something moving inside it.

Mom found it in the backyard, Enrique muttered, milk dripping from his bottom lip.

I inched toward the table until I saw the black feathers. A crow's ebony head popped over the edge of the box and swiveled in my direction.

Where did she find it?

I don't know. Ask her.

My mom walked in from the garage carrying a basket of laundry. Marcus, your face looks terrible, she
said. Go put some ice on it.

I did already.

It still looks really swollen.

I'll do it again later.

She put down the laundry basket and walked toward the table. Did you see the crow?

Yeah. Where was it?

It was just sitting there in the grass. I've been feeding it oatmeal.

Crows eat meat, Mom.

They're scavengers, Enrique said. They'll eat anything.

I went into the kitchen and opened the fridge. I took out the salami, unpeeled a few flimsy slices from the bag and went back to the table. I held the salami up to the crow. When it opened its beak, I dropped it in.

Is it male or female? I asked my mom.

Not sure.

I think it's male.

You're probably right, she said.

Let's have crow tonight for dinner, Enrique suggested.

My mom scrunched up her face. Enrique, that's disgusting.

I looked at the crow. He sure is quiet for a noisy bird, I said.

He hasn't made a sound all morning, my mom said. I think he's scared.

How come he can't fly?

I don't know. His wings look fine to me.

I leaned into the box and the crow backed into the corner, his claws scratching against the cardboard. He just squatted there silently and stared up at us, his shiny black eyes like drops of ink.

 

Two weeks later school started again at Cerritos High. I was now in my final year and could stand on Senior Hill next to the courtyard and not worry that some lineman on the varsity football team would slap the back of my neck. It was a tradition at the school—the hard smack that left welts on some unsuspecting kid's neck, branding him as he scurried down the hill.

That first Monday it seemed like everyone on campus looked at me differently thanks to Britt's big mouth.
I heard you shot a horse,
a junior said to me by
the lockers.
Is it true you shot a horse?
a freshman asked in the cafeteria.

Yeah, I did, I told the freshman.

Cool.

No, it wasn't cool.

Oh, okay, he said, and walked away with his tray of spaghetti and meatballs.

I was hanging out with Oliver on Senior Hill when he told me about Catface, how sometimes she bolts across the room as if a firecracker went off under her. That cat's psycho, Oliver said.

Did you give her any acid?

No, man.

I stared at Oliver, trying to sniff out the lie on his face.

I swear, he said. She freaks out on her own.

So your mom is cool with you keeping her?

I guess. She likes to jump on her bed in the middle of the night. Scares the shit out of her.

I laughed and imagined Catface in Mrs. Thompson's bedroom, moving quietly across the carpet. I imagined her leaping onto the bed and Mrs. Thompson jerking awake. I wondered if there were ever times when she thought it was her husband, climbing back
to bed after getting a drink of water or taking a piss.

Hey, Killer,
Britt yelled from behind.

I turned around and saw him walking up the hill, pointing his finger at me like a gun.

Don't be a dipshit, I said.

Would you rather I call you Nub or Freak Show?

Yes, I would.

Okay, Freak Show.

Hey, did you get this flyer? Oliver said. He reached into his backpack and pulled out a fluorescent green sheet of paper and handed it to Britt. I had already seen the flyer, the collage of beer cans and women in bathing suits, a house address scrawled at the bottom in a gangster font.

Whose party is this? Britt wanted to know.

Tower's.

Last time I saw that dude, he was carrying you into the bathroom at the Travelodge.

I was pretty wasted that night, Oliver said, and smiled, reminiscing.

We all were, I said.

Britt socked me lightly on the arm. Especially you, Nub.

I'm never taking that shit again, I said.

Too bad you guys didn't make it to San Francisco.

Yeah, Oliver said, and stared at the grass as if there was something to see there.

I looked over across the courtyard and saw Enrique leaning against a wall with the Heavy Metalers, a crowd I hadn't seen him mingle with before. They had long straight hair, and their attire was simple: black jeans or gray corduroys with a band T-shirt, Tool or Korn or Godsmack. I saw Ashley, her hair now dyed blue, walk up shyly to Enrique. My brother said a few words to her and she turned away and walked by herself across the courtyard. One of the Heavy Metalers shook his head no and his long hair stirred on his back like a curtain that's just been closed.

I waited until Enrique saw me staring at him and I waved him over. He walked leisurely toward the hill as if he was bored with the idea of movement. After we returned from our trip, he went back on his meds and his mood had stabilized somewhat. A week later he had an appointment with Dr. Kumar, who wanted to try out another antidepressant. He seemed to be doing much better. Of course, he still wanted nothing to do
with our dad and was content with the idea of never speaking to him again.

My mom, on the other hand, thought I should and kept nagging me to call him, so one Sunday afternoon while Enrique was out mowing the lawn I did. I parted the blinds with two fingers and watched him push the mower across our yard, cutting the grass in neat, even stripes. It was a brief conversation that left me confused: I wanted my dad in my life and I didn't want him in my life. I'd like to see you again soon, he said. Both of you, he added. I watched Enrique make another pass across the lawn. I have to go, I said. Good-bye, Dad.

What's up? Enrique said when he was finally standing beside us on Senior Hill.

Don't hang out with those guys, I said.

Why not?

Just don't.

Whatever, he said.

Bruce Powell, one of the bigger linebackers on the varsity team, snuck up behind Enrique with his hand raised, his eyes focused on the back of my brother's neck. I pulled Enrique behind me and held my hand
up at Bruce. Don't ever touch my brother, I said.

Chill,
Bruce said, backing off.

You shouldn't be up here, Oliver said to my brother. Someone's going to get you eventually.

Enrique shrugged. Hey, what's that? he said, pointing at the green flyer in Britt's hand. A party?

Yeah, Britt said. Are we going to this thing or what?

Enrique and I looked at each other. It's up to you, he said.

Both of us, I corrected him.

 

I'd decided to take an art class that year. My teacher, Ms. Elliot, was a short woman with glasses and hair like steel wool. On the first day of class, she had us grab one of the magazines she'd put out on her desk and told us to find an image we thought was striking and draw it. I grabbed a
National Geographic
and found a photo of a boy in the Amazon jungle with a blowgun to his lips. He was bare-chested with red paint on his face. The blowgun was angled up toward the trees. According to the caption, a white-bellied spider monkey was perched high up on a branch. The caption didn't say whether the boy hit the monkey
with his dart, but I wanted to believe that he did, that his aim was perfect and the monkey squeaked and fell and the boy now felt like a man.

When all the students pinned up their drawings on the board that Wednesday morning, Ms. Elliot pointed at mine and said, Who drew this?

I raised my hand.

It's wonderful, she said, and leaned in close to my Amazon warrior boy. She straightened her glasses on her nose. Nicely done, she said.

After class I bumped into Ashley in the hallway. We hadn't really spoken to each other since we got back from our trip. I could tell she was glum. She wasn't wearing her little silver stud in her nose and her bright blue hair hung limp to her shoulders.

Hey, you, I said.

Hi, Marcus.

How've you been?

Your brother's an asshole.

He's going through a lot right now, I said. Some heavy stuff, you know?

Yeah, well, she said, and her voice trailed off into the clamor of students moving around us, their small
talk and gossip and laughter. I still had some feelings for Ashley, but it was different now—its color and shape had changed. I guess I was going through a lot of heavy stuff myself.

Someone from behind me covered my eyes and their hands smelled of strawberry lotion. It was a game—Guess who? But I knew immediately.

Hi, Beth, I said.

She removed her hands and clicked her tongue. You're no fun, she said, and slapped me playfully on the shoulder.

Sorry, I said. I'll guess wrong the next time.

What makes you think there's going to be a next time? Beth smiled a big flirtatious smile.

Ashley looked at her watch. I have to get to class, you guys. It's all the way over by the science building.

I'll catch you later, Beth said.

See ya, I said, and watched Ashley head down the hallway with the crush of students, a bright blue head in a sea of blondes and brunettes.

I turned to Beth. She was wearing a green sweater that brightened the contrast of her olive eyes. Your brother broke her heart, she said.

I know, I said. He tends to do that.

How 'bout you?

I've been meaning to call you, I said.

Sure you have.

Seriously.

Uh-huh.

I'll call you tonight, I said. Okay?

She shifted her books from one side of her arms to the other. I'll be holding my breath, she said, smiling.

 

The crow stayed with us for three weeks. We kept him inside the cardboard box and placed him by the TV in the living room. Sometimes during dinner we moved the box to the chair where my dad used to sit and fed him scraps of whatever we were eating: salami, cheese, ground beef from Mom's empanadas, pizza, tuna, fries, and fish sticks. He really loved fish sticks. Some days we took the crow outside and let him hop around in the grass. We were puzzled as to why he didn't just fly away.

What's wrong with him? Enrique said. We were standing in the backyard, looking down at the crow, his feathers blue-black in the bright sun.

I don't know, I said.

He jabbed at the grass with his beak, looking for a worm.

He doesn't fly or talk or anything, Enrique said.

Maybe he's a mute crow, I said.

But how come he doesn't fly?

Who knows? Maybe he's afraid to fly.

That's stupid, Enrique said.

My mom was at the other end of the yard, watering the flower beds. She moved the hose from side to side and the water came out of it like a sheer curtain. She stopped moving her arm and just stood there holding the hose without blinking. It was as if the water had hypnotized her.

Mom
, I yelled.

She snapped out of it and looked at me and suddenly the crow leaped into the air, his feathers rustling by my ears. He angled up and flew toward our neighbor's house and perched on the roof. Seconds later he sailed back down onto the lawn.

He's going to leave, my mom said.

I'm tired of him anyway, Enrique said.

I moved slowly toward the crow and reached out
with my hand, palm up. He blinked his oily black eyes and crouched low and lifted off into the air again, flying back to the top of our neighbor's roof. He began to caw, over and over, and it sounded like the rusty hinge on an old gate swinging in the wind.

Hey, he can talk, my mom said. She was looking up at the crow with her hand like an awning over her eyes, shielding the sun.

I wonder what he's saying, I said.

He's saying,
So long, suckers,
Enrique said.

Then he lifted off and flew away from us—a black hole that slid across the sky and over the quiet houses—and I knew that he wasn't ever coming back.