One of the Boys

by Daniel Magariel

  His commands were irresistible. They soothed me.

  “Don’t be mad,” I said. “I only wanted some change for a sandwich.”

  He reached into his pocket, pulled out his money clip, handed me a ten.

  “Split a tuna with me,” he said.

  He helped me up, walked me to the door.

  “What do you want on it?” I asked.

  “Whatever you want,” he said.

  He was so good to us sometimes.

  On my way to the grocery store, at the opposite end of the parking lot, a hundred yards from our apartment, I happened by the Jeep. My father had hidden our car to back up the Post-it note. When I returned with the sandwich, he was in his room again, a sour, chemical smell coming from under his door. I ended up splitting the tuna with my brother that night. I told him about the social worker in Kansas. And what I’d seen today in our dad’s bedroom. He already knew I had lied to CPS. Our father had sworn him to secrecy. He then recounted a fight he’d overheard between our parents, during which our mom had threatened to tell everyone about the drugs. “I didn’t know what she was talking about,” my brother said. “I thought she was making it up.”

  * * *

  Two days passed. My father didn’t leave his room. He spent his birthday in there. He emerged on Sunday. My brother and I were on the couch watching TV. He called a meeting.

  “Boys,” he began, “I’m sure you’ve noticed I act strange sometimes.”

  “We already know, Dad,” my brother interrupted.

  “What do you know?”

  “You get high.” I couldn’t believe my brother just said it.

  “You know shit is what you know. Turn off the television.”

  “We already know, Dad,” I said, backing up my brother.

  “Yes, well, you boys are smart. I trained you that way.” He stretched the I as long as he could. “But you don’t know everything.”

  “It’s OK, Dad,” my brother said.

  “I want to come clean. Can I come clean?” He looked around like he was addressing a larger audience. “It’s my turn to talk. I called this meeting.” He started again. “The sixties were a crazy time. I’d go to wine tastings with colleagues. It was a social routine. Well, everyone there used to smoke pot. It was the thing to do. The marijuana brings out the particularities in the wine. Different smells and tastes. Different notes. I guess I’ve been doing it ever since. Not that frequently though. It’s nothing serious, nothing you need to worry about. Just a little reefer is all.” He waited for us to respond. We sat there in silence. “We are all entitled to one bad habit, aren’t we? Aren’t we? You guys have bad habits too. You pop your knuckles, don’t you?” he asked me.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “You understand then?” he said, shaking his head in relief. “I swear you two never cease to amaze me. Such precocious boys. I feel better now that you know. It’s a real load off.” He closed his eyes, nodded emphatically.

  “Thanks for being honest,” my brother said.

  “That’s it! The great thing about honesty. It’s a release.”

  He opened his arms wide, gestured with flicks of his fingers for us to give him a hug. We walked over. He put his arms around us.

  “You boys understand the importance of telling each other the truth, right?”

  “Of course,” my brother said.

  “Family is all we have,” my father said.

  “Yes,” I agreed. “Family is all we have.”

  FOUR

  He stared blankly into the frying pan, stirring the eggs, waiting for them to cook. He still had not realized the burner was off. Before, he’d been at the countertop buttering bread until the centers gave out. He was trying to act normal, make his kids breakfast before school. His scruff was long, hair matted. The capillaries in his eyes were exposed wires. He had not slept for days. He was still in last week’s clothes. At the table my brother and I ate cereal, watched him, exchanged smirks.

  For the most part I liked it when my father was high. He was soft, restrained, subdued. He would shuffle across the room barely lifting his feet or just gaze out the window for hours. I now understood that all those times back in Kansas when he would suddenly send us out of the house he’d actually been wanting to do drugs. He’d give us money, tell us to ride our bikes to the 7-Eleven, and when we returned with our Slurpees, the blinds would be drawn and he’d be docile. Those nights my brother and I would play football in the street until after dark. We’d order in, watch TV, stay up as late as we liked. My father would call a cab to take us to school the next morning or to bring us home after. I hadn’t made sense of any of this until I walked in on him a month ago. I’d just figured he trusted us to take care of ourselves.

  His routine went something like: after about a week of him getting high in his bedroom, cigars no longer masking the other smoke, he’d crash, sleep a full day. The second day of the comedown, step lightly—he was a bear. And everyday after, he was more recognizably our dad. He’d make it to meals, basketball games, and on Saturdays, he would even take us out to the court in the park behind our apartment. There, he’d pit my brother and me against each other, refusing to ever call a foul. The downside to the drugs, though, was when he fell behind on his work. My brother would have to stay home from school to file, pay bills, reach out to potential clients, and over the past few weeks he’d missed several basketball practices. Coach Baez was a spiteful man. As punishment he forced my brother to watch while the rest of the team ran suicides for his absences.

  When we finished breakfast, my brother stole away to our bedroom. I washed his bowl, packed both of our lunches. I tiptoed around the stove, not wanting to break my father’s concentration. I was helping my brother make a clean getaway.

  On our way out the door my father stopped him. “Need you today.”

  “I have a game tomorrow,” my brother pleaded. “Coach has already warned me.”

  “I’ll stay,” I volunteered.

  My father shook his head.

  My brother dropped his school bag.

  After a few hours of work my father gave him cash, sent him to the movies. He drove to school instead, late for fifth-period practice. “It was the big account,” my brother told me that night when I asked him how his coach had reacted. “What the fuck was I supposed to do?”

  * * *

  My brother didn’t play the next day, and not for several games after. I watched them all from the bleachers. My father sometimes came along. Each game, up until the final buzzer, my brother remained alert on the bench, feet bouncing. Baez ignored him.

  The next time he played was weeks later out on the west side in Rio Rancho. I rode the bus with the team. My brother and I sat near the front. He didn’t talk to any of his teammates. Raucous in the back, they didn’t talk to him either. I wondered if my brother had trouble making new friends too. I hated my middle school. I’d been made fun of ever since my dad forced me to run for student council. I knew it was a bad idea, but he had insisted, citing his own junior high résumé. I gave my speech after my opponent—a pretty blond cheerleader. My father had instructed that I start off with an apology for not doing whatever flashy thing he knew she would do. When I told the student body that I had not brought in a putter to symbolize the hole-in-one I would sink when under pressure or a baseball bat to represent the home run I’d hit in my duties, someone in the crowd yelled, “That’s ’cause you suck.” After laughter another said, “You’re not in Kansas anymore, faggot.” Then, a popular kid, Kyle, who’d sworn he’d vote for me, stood up and suggested that I try to poop out of my butt chin. At home that night I’d reported a near-victory to my father. Now on the bus I was surprised to learn that my brother wasn’t more popular. He was the obvious heir to our dad’s easy charm.

  In the second quarter Baez finally put him in. My brother seized the opportunity. He danced through the defense, got to the basket with ease, scored in bunches. Rio Rancho’s coach had no choice but to double him. My brothe
r then dished out bunnies to his teammates, open jump shots and easy layups. He made Baez look like a fool. His teammates must have felt like asses for shunning him. That’s my brother, I wanted to yell. How good is he? How dumb are all of you? This is what you’ve been missing.

  At halftime my father walked into the gym. My brother had heard him wandering through the apartment late last night. I’d heard him the night before. He was in one of his cycles. We’d figured him for a no-show. I waved to him. He waved back. His sagging pants sagged lower. His shirt was wrinkled with only the front tucked in, as if he thought he could not be seen from the back. As if he imagined himself two-dimensional.

  He sat down next to me.

  “Bright in here,” I said.

  He kept his sunglasses on.

  “What’d I miss?” he asked.

  It rushed out of me, every detail. I told him how amazing my brother had been. I even used my father’s nickname for him, Silk, a moniker I’d always envied. My father nodded, or did not. His head tilted a bit, which meant something, or nothing. His spine, I hoped, would snap from the weight of his skull slowly lolling back.

  “You have . . . white stuff,” I said, pointing to the corner of my lip.

  The buzzer sounded. The teams returned from their locker rooms. As he ran out to the court, my brother looked to the stands. I knew he was wanting to share with me a sly grin. Instead he turned away, head down, embarrassed. He’d seen who I was sitting with. For the first time all season my brother started the third quarter. The rest of the game he did not score a single point.

  * * *

  On the ride home my father pulled the car over to the side of the road, dry heaved.

  “Bad pizza,” he said.

  “Case closed,” my brother said.

  My brother took over driving duties. My father moved to shotgun.

  My brother continued his story. “You know what Baez asked me at halftime?”

  “What?” I said.

  “He wanted to know if I’d eaten pussy before the game.”

  We both laughed.

  My father mumbled something.

  “What’s that?” my brother asked.

  “Son of a bitch,” my father said.

  “Who?” I asked.

  “Little Caesar,” my brother said.

  “Papa John,” I said.

  “What is he talking about?” my brother asked me.

  That was all my father said on the subject until later that week, the second day of his comedown. My brother and I were on the couch, quiet, vigilant, nodding in agreement as our dad paced around the apartment, ranting, “You don’t take a player out of his game. You don’t psych a player out like he psyched you out. No wonder you went cold after half. That’s not how you coach. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. You pretend like nothing happened until after the game. You don’t mention it, Baez. You go about business as usual, you son of a bitch.”

  * * *

  “You,” my father said to me as I was leaving for school. “You’re staying home today.”

  My brother had already said no, left hastily.

  “Me?”

  “This concerns you.”

  “The big account?”

  “Something like that.”

  I dropped my bag. “How can I help?”

  He’d shaved, combed his hair. Sober and suited up—the phrase he used whenever he put on a jacket and tie—he spread his arms wide. “You can come here and give your father a hug.”

  That afternoon, from the parking lot of Rio Rancho High, way out on the west side, my father and I looked to the Sandias. At this distance the mountains were a faint and purple hump beneath a pale blue sky.

  The coach stood up from his desk when we walked into his office.

  “Thanks for calling ahead,” he said. We sat down. “So, Kansas?”

  “Kansas.”

  “And when you moving to New Mexico?”

  “This coming school year.”

  My father had not prepped me. It was a test. He wanted to see if I was savvy enough to figure this situation out on my own. It was obvious. He was going to transfer us to a new school district. I loved the idea. In a year and a half I wanted to start high school without anyone remembering me. My brother, I figured, would also be grateful for a change of scenery. But why was my dad pretending we didn’t live in New Mexico already? Just tell the coach about my brother, remind him. Wasn’t that the dealmaker?

  Either way, it didn’t matter. My job here was simple: follow my father’s lead.

  “How many players you got for me?” the coach asked.

  “Two blue chips.” My father pointed to me. “This one’ll be ready in a couple years.”

  The coach eyed me skeptically. I wasn’t nearly as good as my brother, not nearly as physically developed either. I sat up as tall as I could, clenched my jaw, tried to make myself look older than I was. “Well,” he said, “let’s see what he can do.”

  The coach ran me through one-on-one drills, cone dribbling, spot-up shooting. At one point I dribbled the ball off my foot. And later he corrected my shooting form, said I needed to learn to release the ball with one hand, not two. I wasn’t doing as well as I’d hoped. I was letting the boys down. My father was relying on me. My brother too.

  We ended with free throws.

  “Ten of them,” the coach said.

  I made all ten.

  “Shoot till you miss,” he said.

  Fifty-two free throws later, the coach smiled at my father. “If it ain’t broke.”

  “You should see his older brother,” my father said.

  “Yes,” he said. “I think I should.”

  Outside Rio Rancho High the day shimmered. The sun seemed endless and the land level. My father insisted on holding my hand on the way to the car. He was proud of me. I’d stepped up, sunk more free throws in a row than either of us had thought possible. We spent hours exploring the west side. At a restaurant we split a giant burrito, and when the waitress asked, “Red or green chili,” my father answered, “Christmas.” We looked at model homes and small plots in a new development. We decided on the flat-roof, one-story Pueblo-style with stucco siding, round-edged walls, and heavy timber jutting the front face. My father told the agent that he’d have to crunch some numbers. I knew that meant we couldn’t afford it, but I also hoped maybe we could. We left with a brochure.

  After school my brother flew into the apartment, screaming. Rio Rancho’s coach had recognized our last name and called Baez to confirm. My brother had been forced to plead with his coach that he’d had no role in the plot. Baez didn’t believe him. He called him a traitor, told him he wouldn’t play another minute the rest of the season. Next year too, Baez warned, good luck making the team.

  I listened to them argue from our bedroom.

  “If your coach wants war, we’ll give it to him,” my father said. “As long as you’re on that team, you can collect information to share with Rio Rancho. It makes you more of an asset when you transfer. This is a perfect exit strategy.”

  “I don’t want an exit strategy. I don’t want to move. Why can’t we just stay still?”

  “I thought you would’ve been happy. We did this for you.”

  My brother threatened to quit.

  At that my father backpedaled, apologized. The truth was: he loved that my brother was always the best player on the court. It gave him a sense of importance—leverage with coaches, status in the stands. He promised that he’d make it right with Baez. He’d call him personally to take the blame. I was heartbroken. My father succumbed so easily. He left out all of the details of our day together. He let go of our hope for a house, for a new beginning. And my brother refused to see the benefits of Rio Rancho. He was being stubborn for no reason. The joy of today gone, I felt alone in our bedroom. I was furious at them both.

  * * *

  I stood a little away from my father, embarrassed by his desperation. He was a few days into his comedown, still too volatile to be trusted. He
was waiting outside the locker room after a game, ready to force Baez into a conversation. It had been weeks. Coach had refused to respond to my father’s phone calls. My brother, as promised, had not played a minute since.

  The team came out of the locker room. Coach Baez walked right past my father, ignored him when he asked for a word in private. My father grabbed his shoulder. Baez pointed a finger in my father’s face, then went to walk away. My father shoved him from behind. The whole team watched as Baez slammed into the bleachers, pushed back off, turned, and punched my father in the nose. He fell on his ass, his legs splayed out in front of him. He looked around the gymnasium, stunned, an infant about to bawl, bleeding all over his shirt. I waited for my father to stand so as not to embarrass him further. I followed him to the bathroom, helped clean him up.

  At home, the lower rims of his eye sockets bruised, my father told my brother that there was still hope. After today, though, he would have to transfer. My brother had no other choice, my father explained. I grabbed the brochure from the Rio Rancho development, took the opportunity to sell him on the move. I pointed out the model home we liked, told him about the amenities we could choose from. I even mentioned the morning deck, the one that faced the mountains, the sunrise.

  “Let me call Rio Rancho’s coach,” my father said. “Just give me the go-ahead.”

  My brother got up, went to our room without saying a word.

  In bed that night I asked him what he thought about the house in the brochure.

  “We can’t afford any of that shit, dumbass.”

  “Fine,” I fired back. “Then what are you going to do about Baez?”

  He ignored me.

  “Your coach hit Dad in the face,” I said. “Aren’t you going to do anything?”

  The next day he quit the team.

  * * *

  Out in the park on Saturday my brother lowered his shoulder into my chest, knocked me to the ground, went in for a layup. My father, per usual, said nothing.

  On my first possession I pulled up for a jump shot.

  My brother flicked me in the balls.

  I called a foul.