by Brook Wilder
The humid, smothering air covered me in sweat as my sobs slowed to a ragged panting. I wiped my eyes and sensed that someone was watching me. I turned, ready to yell at the old lady to leave me alone.
But it was Oscar. Oscar stood in front of me.
His hurt eyes stared into mine and I wept. I wanted him to hold me, but I didn’t want him to touch me. I had to do the right thing, but what would that be?
I jumped up and tried to run past him, but he caught my arm and held it tight.
“Please let go of me,” I sobbed.
I wouldn’t look at Oscar as I twisted my arm out of his grip. But I didn’t run away. Breathing hard, I looked away from him.
“Were you trying to kill that man?” I willed my voice to be steady.
He glanced away. “He’s responsible. I need him to admit it.”
“By beating him in a churchyard?”
Oscar didn’t speak. Instead, he kicked a bottle across the blacktop. We watched in silence as it rolled away, the glass tinkling against the pavement.
I sighed then spoke again, “Were you going to kill that man?”
His jaw tightened, “I told you, he was responsible.”
“No, you’re not telling me anything,” I shouted. “If I hadn’t shown up, were you going to kill him?” I wanted to hit him, to make him as angry and frustrated as I felt at that moment. Instead, I closed my eyes so I wouldn’t have to look at him again.
“Felicity, I’ll take you home.” He took my hand, and I snatched it out of his grasp. He looked surprised and his lips tensed into a hard line.
“Do you say this to your father when he shoots a man?” he asked.
I looked at him in shock. “It’s not the same,” I replied.
He scoffed. “Because he wears a badge? There are people I also need to protect.”
“Don’t do this, Oscar. You know it’s not the same.”
“Miss? Is this Mexican bothering you?” A man spoke to me from the fence. Our arguing had attracted the attention of two men. They wore plaid shirts and baseball caps that identified them as recruits of the Disciples. The Disciples were the largest club in the area and proud of their Christian white heritage. My father had told my mother once he’d rather deal with the vilest members of the Cazadores and the Outlaw Nation combined than talk to these white supremacists.
“No, mind your own business,” I said. Something about them seemed familiar, but I couldn’t place them.
They laughed.
That was not the appropriate reaction.
“A decent woman with an illegal is our business,” replied the taller man. “What’s a white woman doing with a man of another race?”
“We’re all members of the human race, you nosey punk,” I answered back. “Now, beat it!” Despite my anger, but they just chuckled to each other. They found my threats comical.
Oscar did nothing. He just watched and waited. I didn’t know if he was armed or not. I let out a sob in frustration.
And then I recognized them. They were the two men from Mission Avenue. The ones who had followed me down the street until Oscar had told them off. I didn’t know they were Disciples, and now I wondered why they had been in Oscar’s neighborhood.
“Oscar,” I said in a small voice, “Please, I want to go.”
These two men had toyed with me before, but today, they weren’t playing. I could tell by the growing tension they weren't going to back down until they proved their misguided point.
The stocky man walked up to Oscar. “Boy, run on home and leave our women alone.” He turned to share a snicker with his tall companion.
In a flash, Oscar punched the man so hard that a trail of blood flew out his nose.
I stepped back as Oscar unleashed raw rage on the foolish man. The tall man, maybe less foolish by then, and I watched in horror as Oscar shook his limp friend like a ragdoll with no stuffing. I should have run, but my legs wouldn’t move.
Then it happened. My eyes met the tall man’s and even though I knew what he was thinking, there was no time to react. He grabbed me to use as the only leverage he had to stop Oscar.
He wrapped his arm around my neck and held me against his filthy body. “Hey dumbass, I got your woman.”
I struggled against his unyielding arm in vain, the tightening pressure making me choke and gag, as he taunted Oscar. Shit, this is bad.
Oscar paused, turned to us, and narrowed his eyes. There was the most agonizing beat of time, and then he tossed the first man’s limp body to the ground.
The filthy asshole who held me tightened his hold to the point where I began to claw at his skin for my life. Everything seemed to slow down. Was this my end? Was this how Faith had felt with those monsters?
“You can’t touch our women, but I can,” the man shouted.
He tore my dress, exposing my bra. Then he grabbed my breast and squeezed it hard. I tried to scream, but his arm pressed tighter against my throat. Oscar sprung across the distance and landed on the man in one motion. I fell to the ground, then scurried out of the way as Oscar struck the man in the face over and over. With each blow, an arc of blood flew into the air until the blacktop of the playground glistened with deep red splatters.
Oscar didn’t stop, not even when the man couldn’t fight back anymore. He kept hitting the man, until nothing was left but a bloody, lifeless mass on the ground.
The man was dead, but I didn’t care. I should have been sick, but instead, I felt relief.
As Oscar tired, it dawned on me that it was too quiet.
I turned just in time to see the first man watching Oscar as he reached under his shirt. I picked up an empty bottle threw it at him. It hit the ground, missing him, but the sound of shattering glass got Oscar’s attention.
“I missed you at your house,” the man spat as he shouted. “But I won’t miss you again.”
He pointed the gun at Oscar except I was between them. Not thinking or caring, I lunged toward the man.
But my attack was short lived.
Something knocked me to the ground before I could get to him. My cheek stung from where something had hit me.
“Dirty whore,” the man spat.
I froze and waited for him to shoot. I’d end up dead just like my sister. True awareness bloomed in my mind of what that meant and I let out a pitiful sob.
But then Oscar charged the man with a guttural growl. The gun went off. I felt a sweep of air above me as Oscar lifted the man and threw him into the derelict swing set. Shaking, I backed away and huddled next to a dirty trash can.
Oscar pulled the man up by his neck and wrapped the chain from the swing around it. He pulled, the muscles in his arm bulging with the effort, until the man stopped struggling. When the gun dropped to the ground, Oscar let the lifeless body fall.
But then I felt it.
I felt ill having witnessed the man who had loved me so tenderly kill with his bare hands. I was scarcely hurt because Oscar had protected me. I hadn’t shared my sister’s fate.
I looked over his muscles covered in blood and sweat, and remembered with vivid clarity how it had felt to know I was going to die moments before. I’d needed a protector, and he protected me. Did I have the right to chastise him for how he’d saved my life?
Slowly, Oscar turned his gaze toward the street as if he was searching for anyone who would dare to challenge him. But there was no one. Only drawn curtains and locked doors.
I whimpered and Oscar reached for me, but his hold wasn’t gentle. He wouldn’t hurt me, but he was determined I follow him without resistance. Without hesitation, I let him. I clung to him as he walked me back to the church.
“Listen to your father,” he said leaving me at the door. “I’m no good for you.”
I was safe again and had him to thank for it. I watched him walk away as my body crumbled to the ground.
Chapter 18
Felicity
I pressed my head against the car window as Jane drove us back to my parents’ house. Th
e smoothness of the glass soothed my sore cheek, though it did nothing for the ache in my neck. Jane had remained at the church to serve and was still there for clean-up when I reappeared alone. We worked in silence as we washed pans and folded up tables. Only occasionally would the sound of sniffing interrupt the silence as I held back tears. I didn’t want to talk. I just wanted to leave this place and never come back.
Even though Jane was in her new apartment, she still came to the house. I was thankful she was here for me. The thought crossed my mind that if I had moved in with her, I wouldn’t have to face my parents now.
“Felicity? Jane?” My mother approached us as soon as we walked through the door.
She had a sixth sense when something was wrong, especially when it involved her children. The night Faith was shot, Mom couldn’t sleep even though Faith had come home late before. Mom knew deep down in her heart something had gone horribly wrong.
My mother hissed through clenched teeth when she saw my face and dress. I didn’t realize I looked that bad.
“Felicity, what happened to your face?” Mom said. “Jane, what happened to my girl?”
I side-stepped her arms and went into the bathroom. My reflection in the mirror startled me. A broken strap of my dress dangled from my shoulder. A small trail of blood added a gruesome touch to my filthy dress. My cheek was bright red, and already changing to a dingy blue in the middle.
In a stern voice, mom’s questions persisted as if Jane was responsible for my bruised appearance.
“There was a fight at the soup kitchen but it’s okay,” replied Jane.
“A fight? Did someone call her father?”
“No, Francine. It was just a bust-up. Nothing serious.”
“Nothing serious?” My mother answered. “My baby has a mark on her cheek!”
I hadn’t noticed the mark earlier, but I’d felt the pain. Holding back tears, this time of anger, I left the bathroom to face my mother. I wasn’t a baby and I could stand up for myself.
“Mother, it’s not Jane’s fault.”
Her eyes widened with surprise as I set my mouth into a thin line that could rival hers.
“I’m not blaming her,” she replied.
“Then stop bombarding her with questions,” I said. “She could have been hurt as well.”
Mom sighed as the realization came too late. The soup kitchen was in a bad part of town. The old church didn’t exist in a cocoon of safety. Bad things could happen there, and they did.
“Well, maybe we shouldn’t go back,” replied my mother. “There’s a good church not too far from here.”
“The rich don’t need free food,” snipped Jane.
I gave Jane a harsh look. Right now, my mom needed to be reassured, not judged. Jane looked away.
“Mom, nowhere is safe,” I said. “There’s no such thing as a safe place to be. I can spend my days in my bedroom, and I still wouldn’t be safe. Dad can’t shoot all the bad men out there.”
I thought about Oscar. He couldn’t do it either. Not for me, or his mother, or anybody.
“Your sister will be gone two years in September.” Her voice caught. “I can’t...won’t go through that pain again.”
Mom’s prim and proper mask slipped, and I saw a shaken and frightened woman. I pulled her to me and held her tightly in my arms. My mother had comforted me with kisses on every scraped knee, but who had comforted her? It was an awful thing to lose a sister, but she had lost a daughter. My father was no comfort; he concealed his pain by focusing on work.
“Mommy, it’s okay. It was a just a scuffle, but the men were asked to leave by the workers. You know, the nice men who help out. They keep the place safe.”
I spoke to her as if she were my child. But Mom wasn’t a child, and she knew better. She pulled away from me, and her sharp eyes studied my battered appearance as if it were telling her the truth.
“Felicity, I know.”
I started but didn’t talk. And Mom had Jane’s attention, too.
“Know what?” I asked.
She looked at me and Jane. “The men at the soup kitchen are dangerous men. Nieto, who’s running against the mayor, has gang ties. Your father told me this. It’s unlikely the scum will win, but he’s flexing his power in the city. Those men at the kitchen are not decent people.”
Jane scoffed, and Mom turned on her with a raised voice. “You don’t think I don’t know that they pick you up at the end of the block? You can hear their bikes in the house with the windows closed.”
Our surprised looks gave away our guilt. Mom felt her little victory over us and swiftly recovered from her momentary lapse of weakness. Her words became visceral as her intent was to shock and hurt. She could use her tongue more skillfully than any man in a MC could cut with a knife.
“These men you mistakenly think are good are hunters. It’s in their being. I know because your father is a hunter. He'd never survive a meek desk job, so he got a badge to hunt his prey. Northside or Southside, these men are all the same. They thrive off danger. It’s a high to them and it's stronger than any drug, alcohol, or ...even fucking.”
The word shot out of mom’s mouth and her smirk told us she was pleased with our astonished expressions. She continued.
“We can’t tame them. Your father would rather beat a man senseless than have sex with any woman. Oh, you’ll be a distraction for a time, but then they get restless and the only thing that appeases them is the hunt. And if he doesn’t get to hunt, he’ll take it out on you until you’re broken.”
The house was silent. My family hid their emotions so well that we could barely find them ourselves. Even after my sister’s death, we shut down. Sure, there were bursts of anger, love, or pain, but the reasons for those emotions were never discussed.
Satisfied, Mom smoothed the front of her dress. Her hair was perfect, her makeup flawless except for the faint telltale marks of tears.
“Are you staying for dinner, Jane?” Without waiting for Jane’s reply, Mom said, “I’ll set another plate.”
She left us standing there, unable to move as the weight of what she’d just said hung in the air.
Chapter 19
Oscar
Felicity hadn’t texted or called since what happened in the playground. It was as if we’d never met. I spent my days at Mama’s bedside and my evenings riding with the Cazadores. Emilio congratulated me for ridding the neighborhood of scum and avenging the MC. I was the hero again.
I didn’t feel good but there hadn’t been an alternative way to resolve things. I couldn’t dwell on it. If they had damaged her, I would have done worse than what I did. After the stocky one had hit her, I could see nothing else. I’d heard a rush in my head and my eyes locked onto him.
No man would touch Felicity, but what did it matter if she didn’t want me?
I walked out of mother’s house and headed up the street. Old man Diego sat on his porch enjoying an afternoon beer. He straightened up when he saw me approaching his house. Diego was ready to show me newfound respect.
“Oscar, mi hijo, sit down. You want a beer?” The old man pointed to a small plastic cooler by his chair, but I shook my head.
“You mind if I smoke?” The unlit cigarette rested on my bottom lip. I’d already lit the match.
The old man laughed. “Would it matter if I did?”
I waited until the flame burnt the tip of my fingers then I lit the cigarette anyway.
“How’s your momma?”
“Good,” I replied. “I saw her this morning. She can breathe on her own.”
“Good,” said Diego. “It’s a real shame things like that still happen here. This was a good neighborhood.”
“You mean until I showed up,” I replied.
“No.” The old man waved his hands around as if he could physically clear up the confusion. “People don’t curb themselves now that they know there’s a Cazador around.”
“Those two men that were on the street, do you know where they live?” I corrected
myself. “Lived?”
Diego’s face was solemn as he eyed me. The old man missed nothing. “The men didn’t live on the street. They hung out around the corner at the bodega. I knew when you came back, they’d stop coming by, and I haven’t seen them since the shooting.”
“Did you see anything the night of the shooting?”
“No.” Diego sipped his beer as he thought about it. “One of the women brought me a plate, and I went to bed.”