by Jay Bell
Four envelopes. As soon as his mother set them on the table, Nathaniel grabbed them and stood, heading for the kitchen door.
“Where are you going?” she asked.
“My room.”
“But I want to know what they say!” she called after him.
“I’ll show you later.” He hurried to the hallway before she could complain further. He couldn’t open them in front of her, mostly because she could read him like a book. The slightest hint of disappointment would have her trying to comfort him, which tended to make him feel worse. He needed to do this alone.
Once shut safely in his bedroom, he placed all four envelopes facedown on the bed. Then he picked up the first, opening it even after he saw it wasn’t from the college he was hoping for. Funny, because when he sent out the applications, he didn’t have a strong preference. He wanted to be out of state. Simple as that. Now everything had changed, and why?
Yale, or more accurately, the people who would be going there. Rebecca of course, but she would probably follow him to any college he chose. If not—as much as he really did like her—Nathaniel was accustomed to saying goodbye to friends. Only one person tipped the balance. Maybe he was still high from the carefree days of the camping trip, but he very much liked the idea of Caesar showing up at the same college a couple of years after him, a nervous freshman on a big scary campus. Never fear, because Nathaniel would be there to take him under his wing.
The fantasy filled his chest with yearning. Nathaniel flipped over the second letter. No luck. He opened it anyway, reading it carefully, like a birthday card, when all he really wanted to do was rip open the next present. Or in this case the next letter, which he soon did, his disappointment tripling. He had been accepted. That was great. Just not to the right school.
He eyed the final letter, all of his hopes now resting on it. His pulse was racing as he used one finger to flip it over. Once his eyes focused on the return address, he sighed. Not Yale. Feeling dejected, he opened it, finding his fourth acceptance. Four out of four. Most people would be jumping with joy. Nathaniel just sat on his bed, reading through the letter. Then he made himself go through them all again, trying to imagine himself at each place. He even booted up his laptop, looking at the official websites. After half an hour, he went to Yale’s website instead, unsuccessfully trying to discover if all admission invitations had been sent out.
He shut his laptop and gathered up the letters. His mother would want to hear the news. He wandered down the hall, passing the master bedroom, and heard the water running in the bathroom beyond. The door to the hallway was still open. He could see his mother standing in front of the mirror. She still had on her bra, thank goodness, and the jeans from earlier. College talk could wait. He was turning to go back to his room when something caught his eye. His mother was twisting at the waist, jutting one shoulder forward so she could see the back of her arm in the reflection.
He noticed the spots first, dark ovals the shape of flattened olives. Or fingerprints. As if someone had pressed the tips of each finger in a pad of ink, then touched her arm—or grabbed it, the way Dwight had grabbed his wrist, the muscles of his forearm flexing. Exactly like that. Nathaniel thought he could see lighter lines, showing where the fingers had squeezed, so he stepped forward for a closer look.
His mother noticed him and swiped a robe off a nearby hook to slip it on, which was odd, because Nathaniel had seen her in her bra plenty of times. He never thought much of it, and neither did she. Not normally. Now she was tying the robe closed and looking displeased.
“How about some privacy?” she said. “I’m trying to take a bath here.”
“The door was open,” Nathaniel said, his eyes still on the spot where he’d seen the bruises, even though it was covered now. “Your arm…”
Star’s expression became neutral. Remarkably neutral, in the way most people appeared only when sleeping. “What?”
“Your arm,” Nathaniel repeated. “What happened?”
Star studied him in silence, then sat on the edge of the tub, shutting off the tap and moving her hand through the water to stir it. Her answer came, but only after a lengthy pause. “Oh, you mean the bruises? Take a beginner at yoga, make her eight months pregnant, and then get an instructor dumb enough to show her the tree pose. The only thing I did right was keeping my balance when she grabbed me on the way down.” Still his mother studied the water, weaving her hand along the currents she had created.
“Can I see?” he asked.
She finally looked up at him. “Stop being weird. So what’s the news?”
“News?”
“Your colleges. Which ones accepted you?”
“All of them.”
“All of them?” Star sat up straight, pulling her hand from the water. “My gosh! There’s so much to discuss! Have you chosen one yet? Forget my bath. We’ve got your future to plan!”
“No,” Nathaniel said, not matching her smile. “It’s all right. Enjoy your bath. We can talk about it afterwards.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah.”
Nathaniel couldn’t be sure, but just before he turned and left the room, he thought he detected a hint of relief. Or maybe that’s how he felt, because he needed time to think this through, to let his emotions come unhindered without having to hide them. Or emotion, singular, because at the moment his only dancing partner was fear. This tango had been going on for a long time, most recently while camping with the Hubbards. A little voice in the back of his mind always wondered who would be his replacement. Who would fulfill the role of punching bag while he was away? Dwight’s girlfriend of the week? What about those times when he was single? When Nathaniel was away at college, who would bear the brunt of so much rage?
His mother. Nathaniel had never wanted to believe it. Parents were authority figures, not to be messed with. Like striking a police officer, only the deranged would attempt such a thing. But those bruises on her arm, the silence before her answer, the way she had winced when Nathaniel had hugged her…
Blood became a drum in his ears, a steady beat that refused to cease. Anger. Dull disbelieving anger. Somehow he still functioned, some distant part of him conversing with his mother when she came to his room. Which campus was the most beautiful, which town would be the most fun to live in, where was he most likely to meet the right sort of guy? Playful discussions, the kind that made his mother feel like his best friend. He was beginning to fear they had a little too much in common. Eventually she went to start dinner. Nathaniel began to wait. At first in the living room, his ears tuned to the driveway, listening for the sound of a car’s engine. When it came, the drums picked up the beat, but the person who entered was his father. Nathaniel greeted him, even managing a smile, then watched as his parents embraced, kissing affectionately. At least with his father home, she was safe. That’s what he tried to tell himself, but he knew it didn’t work that way. How often had Dwight found ways of hurting him, regardless of their parents being just one room over?
Waiting. During dinner. While watching a movie afterwards. In a silent living room once his parents had gone to sleep. He even went inside Dwight’s room, a place forbidden to him. Nathaniel hadn’t stepped foot in there for years. Doing so was to invoke wrath, but now Nathaniel welcomed conflict. He sat surrounded by clutter, his brother’s room representative of his ugly insides. Unlike his handsome face, the wrinkled dirty laundry on the floor, the drywall with a hole punched through it, the dusty blinds hanging askew over the window to obscure the daylight—all these things reflected who Dwight truly was. A fucked-up mess.
Nathaniel remained there, waiting, even stretching out on the bed and closing his eyes, tempting fate. But he didn’t sleep. When he finally returned to his own room, he didn’t find any respite from his violent fantasies or the ceaseless drumming in his ears. Is this how Dwight felt all the time? Is that what drove him to lash out so often? Had he somehow passed on this disease to Nathaniel?
When dawn came, he
rose and showered, checking his brother’s room once more. Empty. He ate breakfast and waited until the very last moment before leaving the house. His brother had to come home eventually. Then he would pay. School dragged on, Nathaniel barely aware of his surroundings, completely missing his teachers’ lectures. Instead his mind entertained various nightmares. Maybe the camping trip with the Hubbards hadn’t been the trigger that turned his mother into a victim. Maybe Dwight had been hurting her all this time, both her and Nathaniel keeping the same secret from each other.
When the school day ended, he didn’t even consider driving to Caesar’s house. A single desire pumped through his heart, compensating for his lack of sleep, his entire being fueled by hate. He returned home to find his brother’s car in the driveway. The sound of the television led him to the living room. With their parents both at work, he knew it could only be one person. In his mind, he saw a flash of his mother arguing with Dwight, pleading with him to get his life together before his brother had grabbed her by the arms and shaken her, spittle flying from Dwight’s mouth, tears from his mother’s eyes.
Nathaniel strode into the living room, standing directly in front of the coffee table, blocking the view of the television. Dwight’s eyes were bloodshot, like he’d been up all night drinking. Indeed, when he spoke, Nathaniel could smell stale alcohol.
“You’ve got five seconds to get the fuck out of this room.”
Nathaniel didn’t budge, barely even heard him, because a whole drum circle was pounding in his head now. “I know about the bruises,” he growled. “On Mom’s arm. I saw them.”
He stared straight into his brother’s eyes and saw a flicker of recognition. Understanding. Something else was there too. What the hell was that? “You saw?”
“Stand up,” Nathaniel said.
“Why?”
“Stand up!” Nathaniel noticed a glass of water on the table and picked it up. He needed all his willpower not to pitch it like a baseball. How satisfying it would be to see the glass shatter against Dwight’s head! Instead he tossed the contents at his brother, the water splaying into his chin and soaking his T-shirt. That’s all it took. The uneasy expression left Dwight’s eyes, replaced by fire. The bull was ready to charge.
“You little shit!”
As Dwight stood, Nathaniel grabbed the edge of the coffee table and yanked, jerking it out of the way. His brother was reaching for him, hands still open. Didn’t he know this was a fight? Nathaniel didn’t hold back. He balled up a fist and swung, a lunge that struck the side of Dwight’s neck. Those bloodshot eyes looked ready to spurt. Now it was a fight! Dwight snarled and attacked, fist curving toward his head. Nathaniel had no choice but to take the blow. He was good at handling pain, thanks to his brother. All that mattered was keeping his balance so he could retaliate. Dwight struck him in the cheek, rattling his skull, but Nathaniel barely blinked. He kept his eyes focused on his brother’s position, put all the force he could muster into his arm, and swung. When his fist connected with his brother’s head, it sounded like a thunder clap. To Dwight it must have been even louder, because Nathaniel got him right in the ear. He’d been hoping to strike his jaw but Dwight had pulled back and—
He was swaying! Dwight was still drunk or that punch really had been something. Nathaniel wasn’t taking any chances. He swung with his left, then his right, striking two more blows. When Dwight stumbled backward, tripping over one corner of the coffee table, Nathaniel popped him right in the mouth. His brother hit the floor, landing on his ass, his head bouncing off one of the sofa cushions and resting there, like he’d decided to watch TV sitting on the carpet.
He was down, but the drums were still beating in Nathaniel’s head. Every instance of terror he had felt: the endless wondering of when the next attack would come, what form the abuse would take, if Dwight would push things far enough to kill him. His mother wincing when Nathaniel hugged her, or twisting to see the bruises on her arm. All these sickly visions, all those boiling emotions, were ready to erupt outward at last.
Nathaniel was on his knees. He didn’t remember how he got there, but his brother’s body was below him, that stupid handsome face sneering at him. But not for long. Nathaniel swung. Again and again and again. Nathaniel’s vision became a blur, but he could still hear the smacking noises, feel something wet and hot on his knuckles, even registered the strangled animal noises his brother was making. A plea for mercy? A defiant roar? He didn’t care. All that mattered were the memories flashing through his mind and the nightmares that haunted his future.
“Stoooop!”
The sound was like a wounded animal. A bleating lamb. Nathaniel blinked, his arms losing strength. Dwight’s eyes were wide with fear. Nathaniel had never seen him afraid. His right eyebrow was cut open, blood trickling down his face. Another crimson river was pouring from his left nostril. His bottom lip was split. The rest of his skin looked pink, one of his eyes already puffing shut.
Nathaniel scurried backward, wanting to get away from this abomination. Then he stood, still staring at the sniffing, gasping mess that was his brother. He kept standing there, mostly because he wondered if Dwight was going to survive. As his breaths became less ragged, Nathaniel’s anger clawed away at his brief concern.
“If you ever touch her again…” he began.
“I didn’t touch her!” Dwight spat, saliva and blood dribbling down his chin and staining his shirt. “She’s our mother!”
“I’m your brother, but that never stopped you.”
Dwight shook his head wearily. “I never touched her.”
“Then how’d she get those bruises?”
Dwight looked away, but not before Nathaniel saw the strange reaction again. His stomach sank. The question wasn’t how. The question was who. Dwight knew about their mother getting hurt, but if it wasn’t him—
“Dad.” Nathaniel whispered the word, feeling punched in the stomach.
Dwight laughed humorlessly. “They always sheltered you. God forbid their precious baby see the truth! I’m the one who had to deal with all their shit. I was what—six years old the first time I saw it?”
“Saw what?” Nathaniel said.
“Him slapping her around like a whore.” Dwight wiped at his mouth, wincing with pain and grimacing when he looked at his hand and saw blood. Then he glared up at Nathaniel, some of that fire returning. “Want a demonstration?”
Dwight slowly got to his feet. Then he staggered back and flopped down on the couch. “I’m going to kill you,” he said, on the verge of tears. “You might have got the drop on me, but I’m going to fucking kill you!”
Nathaniel watched him a moment longer, not doubting the truth of those words. Some mad part of him even considered getting there first. But he didn’t have it in him. That compassion would probably cost him his life. Dwight would heal, then find some way of killing Nathaniel. Who could he turn to for help? His father, who had some incomprehensible dark side? His mother, who was too weak to protect either of them? This house wasn’t safe. He couldn’t stay here.
Nathaniel turned and left the living room, patting his jeans pocket to make sure his car keys were there. As he reached the front door, his brother shouted after him, repeating the words that ensured Nathaniel would never return.
“I’m going to fucking kill you!”
* * * * *
Nathaniel stood in front of an elegant front door, the dark wood polished, gold metal framing the delicate windows. He touched the brass knocker with a finger crusted with maroon smears and felt bewildered by the contrast between two worlds. He had just come from Hell, and here was a place tranquil and perfect. The stillness of the neighborhood, the manicured lawns all around him, were almost upsetting in their serenity. He wanted to disappear into this world, but felt forever marked by what he’d been through. Damned.
He missed the anger. Without it he was left shaken. Could it be true? Had his father been abusing his mother all these years? On the drive over, he tried to convince himself his brothe
r was lying, that all of this was calculated to hurt him. Dwight had never relied on mind games before. His abuse was always physical. This wasn’t his style, nor was how he had looked away, like he too was eager to deny. To flip the switch.
Nathaniel tried to do the same and couldn’t. Not yet. The pain was too fresh. He needed a safe place where he could calm down. He needed protection. Who could he turn to? Rebecca, of course. Or even Caesar, but neither could give him the sort of help he needed. Nathaniel grasped the knocker and used it. Three short raps. The door swung open half a minute later, Caesar grinning at him.
“Why didn’t you use the doorbell?”
Nathaniel swallowed against the lump in his throat. “I need to talk to your father.”
“What? Why?”
Caesar looked him over and noticed his hands, gawking a moment before taking a few steps back. The door was still open, so Nathaniel made this an invitation. When he shut the door behind him and turned around, Caesar’s eyes were wide.
“Are you okay?”
“Your dad,” Nathaniel said. “Go get him. Please.”
After more hesitation, Caesar spun around and went down the hall. When he returned, he was behind his father. Mr. Hubbard walked right up to him, his voice gentle.
“Let me see.”
Nathaniel held up his hands. He’d noticed when gripping the steering wheel that some of his knuckles were cut open. All of them had begun to swell. Mr. Hubbard examined them, then turned to his son.
“Why don’t you go to the kitchen and make us some coffee?”
“How?” Caesar said. Then to Nathaniel, “Do you even drink coffee? Are you okay?”
“Now,” Mr. Hubbard said. Caesar loitered a moment longer. Then he slinked away. “Care to join me in my office?”
Nathaniel nodded, then followed Mr. Hubbard to the place where they always talked. Once the door was shut and they were seated, Mr. Hubbard offered him a sympathetic expression. “Looks like your brother pushed you too far this time.”