Marvelous

by Travis Thrasher

  I’ve dreamt of saying no. I’ve dreamt of making a stand and fighting back. But he’s too big and too strong and too hard.

  “Come over here,” he says again.

  In that ugly, weak light, I can see the pockmarks of acne on his face. Maybe that’s what made him so mean. Maybe that’s one of the hundred reasons.

  “What are you doing with someone like her?” Dad asks. He says it like there’s something wrong with her. It’s the first time I’ve ever considered the fact that being with Marvel (which is not what’s happening) might be viewed in some kind of negative light.

  Dad looks me at me, squints, then picks up the small bottle of vodka and drains it. His eyes dim even more, then he takes hold of the bottle by its top. Suddenly he whips it at my face. It smashes against my skull, and for a moment I black out.

  I don’t know how long I’m out, but when I finally can open one eye I see him standing over me. I start to cry out, finally releasing the pain I feel in every inch of my body, but he cups a rough hand over my mouth.

  “Shut your mouth.”

  My mouth isn’t the only thing that shuts down. Everything seems to shut down. Every single inch of my body.

  “You stay away from her. You got that? Her kind only attracts trouble.”

  I can barely breathe, and I’m almost blacking out again. I nod my head and keep nodding it and I’d keep nodding it for the rest of my life just to get him off of me. Just to make him go away.

  “You’re going to tell your mother this came from the piece of trash that girl is living with. The one with the hot rod Trans Am. You got it?”

  Again I nod. The vodka bottle didn’t break, though it feels like it could’ve cracked my skull.

  “Go put some ice on that and go to your room,” Dad tells me as he walks out of the room.

  I feel like I’m falling. There is pain, but there’s something a lot worse. It’s the feeling that a bloody wound keeps getting gashed open time and time again. There’s no way it’ll ever go away. There’s no way it’ll ever heal, because some monster is going to keep ripping it open whenever he feels like it, only to scrape away at it. Again. And again. And again.

  By the time I’m at the refrigerator I’m shaking so hard I need to hold on to it so I don’t collapse. I’m not crying. It’s been a while since I’ve cried when Dad beat me. But I’m shaking violently and I’m bracing for the pain to go away.

  I know it’s going to be a long time before it does.

  Somewhere in the middle of the night, the side of my face throbbing with a dull, painful pulse, I have the worst sort of thought a kid can have.

  I think about what happened to me and then start thinking about Artie Duncan. Maybe the same anger and rage that gave me a knot on my temple and a black eye ended up killing him.

  Maybe the same hands that struck me were the ones that struck Artie.

  No, that didn’t happen, that couldn’t happen.

  I wonder what’s worse. Killing a complete stranger or bashing your son’s face in?

  I try to stop thinking this, because there’s nothing I can do with it. I don’t really think my father is a murderer, but then again, who knows? He could be. I don’t know why he would kill someone, but I don’t know why he likes hitting me either. I don’t understand where the anger comes from, but I do get that it’s there. It’s there and it’s real and maybe, just maybe . . .

  Stop.

  I think of Marvel telling me about her prayers. I’d like to be able to do that, pray to God. But really, truly, I don’t buy it. I don’t believe that a prayer I might say is going to do a bit of good. It might make me feel nice for a moment and take my mind off the reality of today, but tomorrow is going to be the same. There’s nothing a prayer is going to do to change the monster living with me or the madness he brings. Nothing whatsoever.

  So instead of praying, and instead of wondering if that monster is indeed a murderer, I think of Marvel. I want to dream about her.

  I want to imagine a shop where I can pick out a dozen different hats for her. A seventies-cool-vibes shop downtown where she holds my hand and smiles and I buy her whatever she wants. Then we walk the city sidewalks and look up at the blue sky and don’t have a single care in the world. We’re grown up and these dark days are behind us and all we have is each other.

  This is what I think about as I drift off toward sleep and unconsciousness. It’s a fantasy, but just as much of a fantasy as the prayers Marvel prays.

  She can have her dreams, and I’ll have mine.

  Mom is already out the door to work before I get up. It’s a good thing, because I look like I was hit by a Metra train. Carter is the first to see me, and he just looks at me with tired eyes as if he’s sleepwalking.

  “What happened to you?”

  “Don’t worry about it,” I tell him.

  “You get into a fight?”

  “Does it look like it?”

  “Looks like you lost,” he says.

  “Yeah, sorta does, huh?”

  Alex is going to grill me more, I know, but I’ll just make up some story. Sometimes I think Alex knows more than he lets on. I see this fear in his eyes, and I try to deflate it because I don’t want him suspecting a thing. I’m pretty sure Dad hasn’t ever hit the others. Carter is his boy, and Alex he just ignores. But sometimes I see a look and wonder if Alex suspects the truth. So I’ll try to stay clear of him for as long as possible.

  I cut a couple of lawns before heading over to see Devon. I’m not about to go to the record store, not the way I look. But Devon is the one guy I can hang out with who won’t make this into a big deal.

  When he answers his door, he lets out a groan and a curse. “That hurts me to look at it,” he says.

  “Yeah.”

  I follow him inside the air-conditioned house. I’m still sweaty because I haven’t been home since cutting the grass.

  “You want an ice pack or anything?”

  I shake my head. “Just something to drink.”

  I’m chugging down some lemonade while Devon just watches me. “One more year,” I tell him. “That’s it. Then bye-bye.”

  Devon knows the truth. He guessed after an incident like this. All he managed to get out of his mouth was “Did your father—?” before I interrupted and told him yes. That was all I said, and I asked him to never bring it up again or say a single word about it. Devon promised, and he’s kept his promise.

  “I’m going to get as far away from here as I can,” I say. “Not the town, but him. You know?”

  Devon nods but still doesn’t say a thing. The guy might be awkward and sometimes dorky, but this is the kind of friend I need. Someone who doesn’t feel the need to say something just to talk, because there are times when there’s nothing good that can be said. Sometimes you have to just let the silence fill the broken places.

  “That eye is gonna be dark for a while,” Devon eventually says.

  “Got any makeup?”

  “I can raid my mother’s stash. God knows she wears enough.”

  I laugh.

  “So how’s Marvel?” Devon asks.

  “Great. I think. Fireworks were awesome.”

  “Oh, yeah? Did you have fireworks yourself?”

  I wince at his corny statement. “Not really. She doesn’t want a boyfriend.”

  “She acts like she likes you.”

  “Yeah, kind of. I don’t know. She’s got some tough family issues going on.”

  “Seems like you guys would make an ideal couple,” Devon says.

  I laugh. “Yeah, I guess you’re right.”

  “I like her whole art seventies fashion look she’s got going on.”

  “Every day I work with her is a trip because she’s always wearing something new and different.”

  “Since when does Harry need two extra people working with him?” Devon asks.

  “He doesn’t.”

  “So, what? You’re working for free or something?”

  I smile, and Devon
realizes he’s correct.

  “You’re a fool.”

  “You saw her.”

  “Yeah, but you’re still a fool,” Devon says. “No girl is worth that.”

  “Some are.”

  “Look what happened with Taryn,” he says. “Look at all the time and energy.”

  “Don’t remind me.”

  “So what do you want to do?” he asks.

  “How about some Xbox? I’d like to see some blood. Some other people’s blood.”

  We’re about to head upstairs when Devon stops me. “Oh, hey, I meant to tell you—they arrested someone for Artie Duncan’s murder.”

  For a moment I feel a little light-headed.

  They arrested Dad and he’s in jail and now it’s all going to come out about the beatings and the nightmare and everything.

  “Who?” My voice is weak.

  “I don’t know—some guy in his twenties. Ordinary guy. They found some incriminating stuff. At least that’s what Barton said.”

  “Barton. Please. You trust him?”

  “He overhears stuff.”

  “Hopefully it’s the right guy,” I say. Hopefully, for many reasons.

  “Bet the guy is a total weirdo, you know?”

  “I just want the killer put in jail before the school year starts.”

  “Yeah, totally,” Devon says.

  I follow him to his room, ready to empty a gun on whoever I can find on-screen. It’s nice to imagine things. Even if it’s killing someone.

  Mom walks by me in the kitchen holding some dry cleaning, then stops, drops it, and turns toward me with a scream. “Brandon!”

  She’s by my side and suddenly acts like I’m two or something. She’s holding the side of my head in absolute horror. It’s way too much, but that’s Mom. “What happened?” she asks, her eyes the size of apples.

  “Nothing.” This is a ridiculous comment, and I know it. But that’s what boys say to their concerned mothers.

  “Brandon Jeffrey, what happened to you?”

  “It was a fight.”

  “Well, I can see that, but who did this and how did it happen? Do you need stitches? Why didn’t you tell me about this last night?”

  I love when she asks like half a dozen questions all at once, because that means I don’t have to answer all of them.

  “It’s just someone I know. A girl I know.”

  “A girl did this to you?”

  In the other room Carter laughs.

  “Shut up or you’ll be looking the same way,” I shout. “No, not a girl. A girl I know—her uncle did this.”

  “Why?”

  “I guess he didn’t like me hanging around with her.”

  “But why? Here, I have to pick that up.”

  I go over and grab the dry cleaning off the floor. Mom has just come home from work, and she’s still in high heels and a business suit. Dad usually looks like the day after a pub crawl while Mom looks like she’s working for Donald Trump. I guess paralegals have to be all dressed up and everything.

  She makes me sit and puts together an ice pack for my face.

  “The swelling has gone down,” I tell her. “Believe it or not.”

  “This is awful. Did he assault you on the street? Did you see him coming?”

  “No. It was just a nice hit with a beer bottle.”

  See, I’m just tweaking the details some. Changing a vodka bottle to a beer bottle. Changing Dad to Marvel’s uncle. It’s not really lying, right?

  Righhhhhhhttttttttt.

  “I want to know his name, and I want to—-”

  “No way. I’m staying away from him.”

  “We should report this to the police.”

  “Mom, that’s when bad things happen. No, it’s fine. It was just a warning. That’s all.”

  “This is not fine. Have you seen what you look like?”

  “I’m trying not to.”

  For a moment, Mom exhales. Then I see the tears coming.

  “Mom, it’s fine. Really, I’m okay. It’s okay. I’ll stay away from him.”

  Mom is so tired trying to do her job and keep up with the house. Occasionally she breaks down and cries. I know she’s worried about Dad. Well, worried might not be the word for it. More like afraid. Or terrified.

  I wonder if he hits you like he hits me.

  But I don’t think so, because Mom has never asked me, not once. The question I sometimes see in Alex’s eyes never shows up in hers. Dad still loves her in his own sick way, I think. I know he keeps things from her, even how much he drinks. But there’s no way I can tell Mom what happened. It would destroy her.

  “I’ll stay away from him,” I tell Mom. Then I hug her. I’m not touchy-feely, but occasionally mothers need a hug. “It’s going to be okay.”

  “I’m sorry I didn’t see that this morning.”

  “You leave at six,” I say. “I’m not getting up that early.”

  “I’m sorry I’ve been so busy.”

  “Hey, I’ve been busy too.” I smile and try to make a joke and assure her that everything is okay. And for now it is.

  The holiday has passed and the wound is going to heal and the anger will probably stay away for a while. They’ll forget about this, and I’ll bury it in the same place I’ve buried all those other soul-destroying memories. I put it in a deep, dark well and let it go. I have to. That’s the only thing I can do.

  My phone rings, and I answer even though I don’t recognize the number on the caller ID.

  “Brandon? What happened to you?”

  It’s the Monday evening after July 4, and I haven’t seen or spoken to Marvel in four days.

  “What do you mean?” I ask, as if I have no idea what she’s talking about.

  “Harry gave me your number.”

  “Ah, I was guarding that from potential stalkers.”

  “Are you angry at me?”

  “Am I angry at you?” I ask in disbelief.

  No, I happen to be angry at my father, but I can’t really share that, can I?

  “I thought maybe because of what I said . . .”

  “No. No, it’s not that.”

  “Then what’s wrong?”

  I look at the clock; it’s almost nine, when the record store closes. “Are you still at the record store?”

  “Yes. I actually could’ve gone home early, but I was just hoping you might stop by.”

  “Are you calling from your cell?”

  “Yes,” she says.

  “You mean I finally have your number? Watch out, world. It’s all downhill from here.”

  “Stop it,” Marvel says.

  “So you actually wanted me to come by today, huh?”

  “I haven’t heard a word from you all weekend.”

  I know how long it’s been. I know how many hours.

  “So you actually did want to hear from me?” I ask, teasing with her.

  “Stop.”

  “’Cause you know, the last time we talked—”

  “I know.”

  “I still don’t get that. I mean, even Devon said you acted like you’re interested in me.”

  “You’re a good friend.”

  “Oh, that’s right,” I say. “A good friend. The term every guy wants to be called. ‘I was her best friend and watched her walk off with Mr. Right.’”

  “Stop it.”

  “So you totally missed me, didn’t you?” I ask.

  “I missed some parts. Your sarcasm, I don’t know.”

  A part of me wants to bolt out of the house and get on my bike and meet her in front of Fascination Street Records. But then I remind myself about the purple and orange bruise on the side of my skull.

  “Are you coming in tomorrow?” Marvel asks.

  “A part of me would like to see you today.”

  “It’s what I said, isn’t it?”

  “Well, you did sorta say we can’t be together. That it has something to do with God and all that.”

  “Don’t make fun of me.”r />
  “I’m not. I’m just telling you what I heard.”

  She’s quiet for a moment.

  “Marvel?”

  “I know how it sounds.”

  “I just don’t get it.”

  More silence.

  “But I don’t have to get it,” I tell her. “I’m okay with it.”

  “You’re okay with what?”

  I think for a moment. My not seeing her has nothing to do with what she told me. It has everything to do with how I look and the truth behind it.

  If you want her to tell you the truth maybe you should start by telling her some.

  I can feel my heart beating. I don’t know if I’m ready for this. I really don’t.

  “Brandon?”

  “Wait there, okay? I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

  “What?”

  “Yeah. I just—just wait. I’m ready.”

  “You’re ready for what?”

  “For you to know. See you soon.”

  I rush to get there, not because I want to see Marvel so badly (though I do) but more because I know if I don’t hurry, I might change my mind. So I pedal as fast as I can and try not to think about what I’m about to do. My heart is beating so fast I can feel the throbbing in my still-swollen temple.

  Marvel waits on the curb. She’s wearing her hair down without any hat or scarf to accent it. She seems at peace just standing there, waiting. Smiling, she gives me a wave. As I get closer, I see when she notices my face. It’s pretty hard to miss the dark welt on the edge of my head like I’m some Frankenstein.

  When I finally get off the bike, her mouth is slightly open and she’s visibly surprised. More like shocked.

  “I know this looks bad, but it’s actually a lot worse,” I tell her.

  “Brandon—”

  For a moment I stare at the record store, then look around in all directions. But nobody is around us. There is still some light in the sky, enough to allow her to see the ugly truth.

  I just stand, nodding like a fool, needing to get this off my chest. “So I gotta tell you the truth. I thought I’d hide it, but I’ve been bugging you about personal things and, to be honest, you’ve shared more with me than I’ve shared with you.”

  “What happened?”

  I swallow. Hard. “Every now and then, my father likes to throw a punch. It’s usually in the stomach, where it won’t show. He’s a total drunk and a total wreck, and most of the time it’s just that. But every now and then . . . well, yeah. This happens.”