I laughed. “Just concerned for your health’s all. They say lung cancer’s a slow, painful way to go.”
“Don’t worry, kid. I’m going to live forever.”
“I know it, Walk. You’re too mean to die.”
I laughed again—just kidding. The house rule was pleasant dinner conversation. This was what passed for it. I was counting the nanoseconds until I could go back to my room, cram for a history test I now needed to ace. Walker made me eat with them. I knew I shouldn’t bait him like I did, like poking an alligator with a stick. But I hated it, hated sitting there every night, pretending things were beautiful. I hated myself for pretending too.
“Remember that,” Walker said.
“Almost ready!” my mother called from the kitchen.
Walker exhaled smoke in my face. “No hurry, hon. Better to do it right than do it quick.” He glanced at his watch. Six fifty-nine. “It smells wonderful.”
“I’ll help you,” I said to her.
“I’m fine.” That came from the kitchen. “You two talk.”
Talk. I knew I was going to have to tell them about football. Otherwise there’d be questions about missed practices. And besides, I wanted to tell them, wanted to let Walker know I’d be around, whatever good that would do. So I sat in silence, planning to spit out the information over dessert, then bail to my room. That was my plan, anyway.
Within the minute, my mother had the feast on the table. Tonight it was lamb, the kind with little paper booties on its feet. Blood pooled beside it on the plate. She scooped roast potatoes on top, and the bloody mess disappeared.
“Looks great, Mom.” I missed the days when we’d lived on spaghetti and peanut butter.
“Thanks.” She glanced at Walker. We both did. He sawed his meat, then chewed the first bite. Would it be too tough? Underdone? I cut a potato with my fork, then held one half aloft. I wasn’t watching Walker. I wasn’t waiting for him.
Finally, he spoke.
“Good stuff, Lisa. I always tell people I got the prettiest gal and the best cook, too.”
“No, you don’t. That would be too embarrassing.”
“I sure do,” he insisted. “Everyone wishes they were me.” He reached for her ass, and she sort of screamed, but laughed, too.
I grimaced. No one noticed. When Walker finished groping her, Mom started in with the whole Leave It to Beaver family routine.
“Anything interesting happen at school, Michael?”
I started to tell her about quitting the team, then stopped. There was time.
“We’re reading The Great Gatsby in English.”
Mom smiled. “I loved that book in high school. It’s a great love story.”
“You think?” I said. “I thought … wasn’t the guy sort of … obsessed? I mean, it’s been a while since I read it.”
“You said you were reading it now,” Walker said.
“I already read it. I did a report on it in eighth grade.”
“You should read it again,” Walker said. “A good student would read it again. That’s your problem—always taking the easy way out.”
“I am a good student,” I said, pushing back thoughts of history. I’d been a good student before Walker. But Mom was giving me a look, so I added, “I planned to read it again.”
Walker nodded, and I stuffed the potato into my mouth. Mom turned to Walker.
“And how was your day?”
Which was enough to set the Walk-man off on his favorite topic.
“I am a victim of affirmative action,” he said. “What does it take for a non-Latin, white male to get ahead in this town?”
I’m sure you’re going to tell us. I tried to get the paper off the lamb chop.
“What happened?” Mom asked.
“Lost my motion. Damn Judge Hernandez, of course, finds for the plaintiff, who is—of course—another bean eater, represented by a third bean eater.”
I twisted the paper, first one way, then the next, remembering some kiddie show I saw once with a lamb named Lamb Chop. Did Lamb Chop end up as lamb chops? I almost laughed.
“It can’t be that bad,” my mother told Walker.
“You don’t know anything about it,” Walker snapped.
Mom crossed her arms to her chest. “I just meant…”
“Who cares what you meant? Just shut up.”
We ate in silence a minute. Or at least Walker and Mom ate. I stared at my food.
Then Mom tried again. She spoke slowly, like she wasn’t sure if he’d get mad.
“I just meant you’re a wonderful lawyer. I’ve worked for lots, so I know. Your clients know—didn’t Ray Cobo just bring all his product liability work to you?” She glanced up, not speaking, until Walker nodded. “And the judges respect you. You know you win a lot more than you lose.”
“Of course I do.” Walker laughed, relaxing. “I always win. We wouldn’t live here if I didn’t.” He leaned toward her. “I wouldn’t have you if I didn’t.”
“You’d always have me.”
“Oh, of course. Pretty girl like you with an old geezer like me—if I lost my practice, you’d be out of here so quick the door wouldn’t have time to slam.”
“You aren’t losing your practice.” Confident now, she stroked his arm, playing with the hairs, leaning close to speak into his ear. “I’d love you even if you didn’t have a cent.”
Walker shook his head, but he turned to kiss her, his fat, hairy hand reaching out.
That’s when he met my eyes.
“What are you doing?”
I jumped. I looked down. My hands were still working on the lamb chop paper. I’d managed to remove it. Then I’d shredded it, scattered the pieces across the floor. I didn’t even remember doing it. I thought I was being careful, trying not to set him off like Mom always said. But I couldn’t stand watching her suck up to him, and it was like the anger and fear inside me were living creatures that made my hands move by themselves.
Then they made me speak. “It looked dumb.”
I actually saw a vein jump in Walker’s neck. One hand still held Mom’s. With the other, he clutched his fork.
“Clean it up.” He banged the fork on the table.
“I’ll do it,” Mom said.
“No, you won’t. He made the mess. He should clean it. It’s the only way he’ll learn.”
I sat there, feeling my fingers still shredding the paper, making the last tiny piece into two. Four. Stop it!
“You little shit!” Walker rose from his seat.
I picked up a few pieces of paper, and Walker settled back down.
“That’s better.”
I ripped a piece in half.
Walker stood again. I flinched, but in a way, I wanted him to hit me so I wouldn’t have to watch it anymore, so I could be the one hurting. The room was dead silent except for breathing and the sound of paper being ripped. I kept shredding the paper. I stared at him, daring him.
“Michael!” My mother looked first at me, then Walker. “It’s okay. I’ll get it.” She knelt on the floor and started picking up the paper. I just kept shredding, smaller and smaller.
“Who in the hell asked you to do anything?” Walker threw down his fork. He stood, yanking her up by the arm, and I saw his fist clench. She winced.
“I just thought…”
“You just thought. You’re so damn stupid. I tell you what to think.” He shoved her to the floor. Then he looked at me, the anger cool in his eyes. “Quit it, I said.”
Quit. I quit.
“Hey, you know… I quit the football team today.”
Silence. I knew it would get a reaction, and it did. Walker stopped, maybe because I’d stopped shredding the paper, and Mom stared at me, getting up from the floor.
“What?” she said.
“I … quit … the … team.” I said it slow. I’d thought about saying I’d gotten cut, but when it came down to it, I couldn’t. I couldn’t give Walker the satisfaction of thinking I wasn’t good enough, and more, I couldn’
t let her get off thinking it wasn’t her fault. I wanted her to know it was. I’d given up football because of her, her weakness. I wanted her to know I was staying home to take care of her when it should have been the other way around.
“Quit?” The paper petals fell from Mom’s fingers and floated down. “But I thought—”
“I have other things to do now, more important things. Football’s for kids. I don’t have time for kids’ stuff anymore, do I?”
Mom looked from Walker to me. “Oh, Michael, I’m so sorry. I know you loved it.”
“What do you have to be sorry for?” Walker demanded. “Little wuss went and quit because that’s just the kind of little wuss he is.”
“I quit because I need to take care of other stuff.”
“Michael, please…” My mother shifted in her seat.
“Wuss. Pansy.” Walker stalked back to his seat and started cutting meat off the bone. “What’s the matter? Didn’t want to hurt your pretty face, Pretty Boy?”
“What would you know about it?”
“I played football in school, faggot.”
“They let fat, bald guys play when you were in school?”
That stopped him a second, and it made me happy. Seeing the wiped-off smile on Walker’s face made me want to shout in the street.
My mother picked up the vegetable bowl—broccoli, cauliflower, and carrots mixed together—not the canned mixed veggies she used to buy, but fresh ones she made in a special bamboo steamer. She offered it first to Walker. “Well, I’m sorry to hear—”
“You’re always sorry!” Walker shoved her away, hard. She stumbled, and the bowl shattered on the marble floor. He raised his arm. “Clumsy bitch. Clean it up!”
Tears of humiliation filled her eyes. Still, I knew better than to try and help. She went for the broom, and I just watched. I could tell by the way she moved that he’d hurt her. I was trembling by then, sitting in my seat watching the blood pooled on my plate.
“Eat your dinner,” he demanded.
So much blood. Just looking at it, I felt my insides come up. “I can’t,” I said through my teeth.
“You will.”
“I’m not going to. Maybe you can get her to do what you want, but not me. Not me.”
I tried to keep my voice from shaking, but I could tell he heard it.
Still, I said, “Not me.”
“Then there are going to be problems, because when I fight, I always win.”
My mother came back then, broom and dustpan in one hand, a bottle of Fantastik in the other. “It’ll just be a second.”
Walker smiled and patted the seat beside him. “You know what? It can wait until after.” He put his hand on her butt and guided her toward the seat. “I’d rather we all eat together as a family.”
I pushed my bloody plate away. “You eat. I’m not hungry.”
He watched me leave, not saying anything.
Fifteen minutes later Mom knocked on my door. “It’s key lime pie.”
“No way.”
“Please, Michael. You know—”
“There is no way,” I said, “no way in hell I’m eating pie with him. You want to pretend, you just go ahead.”
“Please. Walker’s trying, Michael. He really wants to be a family. We all just need to try a little harder.”
“You try. Let me know when you’re finished.”
“You have no idea how hard this is.”
She kept talking, but I’d stopped listening. Maybe I had it all wrong. Maybe his abuse of her wasn’t a problem. Maybe she even liked it. Maybe she wasn’t drowning, looking to me for rescue. Maybe instead, she was like a scuba diver, used to navigating rough waters, enjoying her swim with sharks.
THIS YEAR
The guy by the Whack-a-Mole wears a blue Florida Gators sweatshirt, but he’s too young for college. He’s my age. It’s Julian Karpe.
“This is a cool game,” he says to some guy. “Someone told me the secret once.”
I feel a sucking feeling in my stomach’s pit. I know who told him, and I know when. I walk to the side of the game by the hanging Barneys and Blue’s Clues dogs. Part of me hopes they’ll hide my face. The other part wants to go over to Julian, to say hi. Hi, it’s me.
But maybe it’s not Karpe at all. Sure, this guy sounds like Karpe, looks like him a little. But he’s taller now, more filled out, and less of a geek. I put my hand to my own face. How have I changed in a year?
“Michael.” Not a question. It’s Karpe. I remove my hand from my face and stare at him.
He looks back, suddenly unsure. “It’s you—right, Mike?”
No hablo inglés.
“Yeah. Yeah, it’s me.”
Karpe starts to clap me on the shoulder, then stops. “I wondered if you’d be here.”
I say nothing.
“After what happened, after you … disappeared, the police came around school. They asked if I knew where you were, but I said I hadn’t seen you in close to a week. No one had.”
“Are you going to play?” I ask.
“I wasn’t sure where you went anyway. I suspected, but I never knew for sure until now.”
I look to see if anyone’s listening, but it’s barely three on a Monday, and you could bowl on the sidewalks without hitting anyone. Karpe’s finished talking, so I say, “Thanks,” because I know he expects it. Because he deserves it, even.
“No problem. I figured you’d done nothing wrong. If you wanted to leave, you had your reasons.”
I say, “If you’re not going to play—”
“My stepmother’s a lawyer, you know.”
I manage a laugh. “Yeah? Well, my stepfather was a lawyer too. So what?”
“No, I mean… I mean maybe she could help you. Angela—that’s her name—she does pro bono stuff sometimes. That means helping people for free, people who need help.”
“Why would I need a lawyer?” But I know.
Karpe keeps going. “And she says there’s this thing called attorney-client privilege. If you told her anything, I mean, about your mother, she’d have to keep it secret.”
He takes something out of his pocket, which turns out to be a business card. I know somehow he came here just to bring it. I also know I won’t call his stepmother.
He says, “What I mean is, maybe she could tell you if there’s something you could do to help your mother. Do you ever worry about your mother, Mike?”
“Don’t call me that!” I glance around.
But he hands me the card. I look at it. “Thanks.”
“Think about it.”
He walks away. The sun’s starting to sink, and the fair lights begin to rise—neon pink, yellow, and green, clashing with Karpe’s electric blue and orange sweatshirt. I’m alone again, listening to that old song that always brings the past back, brings Kirstie and my mom too close, too real. Karpe looks back at me, and I wave, showing the business card. When he turns away, I start to crumple it. Then I change my mind and shove it into my pocket instead.
That night there’s a fight outside my trailer. Normally I wouldn’t notice. There’s always something going on outside, always someone awake so you never have to be alone. But tonight I turned in early. I plan on going to the library again tomorrow. I’ve run through all the K. Andersons I pulled the first time. I need to try some more states.
And something else. I’m thinking about what Karpe said about helping my mother. I let his words wash over me during the day, but now, lying in bed, not really tired enough to sleep, the thought keeps coming back to me. Help her. Help her. Playing in my head like a CD with a scratch on it, where it just keeps going back and playing the same part over and over.
Outside, people are bumping against the trailer walls, yelling. Finally I go out in T-shirt and boxers. There are four guys, including this one, Victor, who always reminds me of Walker Monroe.
I say, “Can you maybe move over there, guys? I have to get up early.”
The others start to go along. They like
me okay. But Victor swaggers to the door, kicking dropped beer bottles. He’s shorter than me, but solid, and he likes to throw his weight around. Usually I avoid him.
“Need your beauty sleep, huh?” He turns to his friends. “Hey, Birdman here thinks this is the Plaza Hotel.”
The guys laugh, drunk. Everyone calls me Birdman because the first week after I left home, I found this baby crow at a fairground in North Carolina. It had fallen from a tree, an ugly thing with hardly any feathers. It reminded me of the little bird in the book Are You My Mother?, which Mom used to read me (but when I said that, no one knew what I meant; none of the other carnies had mothers who read to them). I took it back to the trailer and tried to feed it bugs and stuff. Someone heard it chirping and told everyone. They all ragged on me. The bird had died anyway.
The story and the name stuck—made me sound like a wuss. But new guys thought the name had something to do with the Birdman of Alcatraz, so that made me scary. It was good having an identity anyway. It made me part of things in this place where no one has a past or much of a future.
Now, I say, “I don’t think it’s the Plaza, Vic. I’m just trying to sleep. Thought maybe you could just take it over there, that’s all. Be decent.”
Victor gets closer, moving to stand on the trailer steps so he’s in my face. I smell booze—not just beer like the other guys—and that reminds me of Walker too.
“Make me, Birdman. My mama didn’t teach me no manners, so I guess it’s up to you.”
“Aw, quit it, Vic,” one of the other guys, my friend Johnny, says.
Victor ignores him.
“How ’bout your mama, Bird Boy?”
“Don’t talk about my mother.” But Victor doesn’t know. That’s what I like about the fair. No one knows or wants to know. The only one who knew was Kirstie, and Kirstie isn’t here.
“Did your mama teach you manners, Bird?”
“Quit it.”
“Or did she teach you to fight?” He pushes my shoulder. “Wanna fight, pretty boy? Little boy? I’m ready.”
I feel my fists clench involuntarily and I raise my arm. I can tell how it would feel, hitting him. Satisfying for a second, fists crashing into his face, not just once, but again and again, hitting him until there’s no hitting left.