Then his bedroom door flew open. He sat up quickly, and the blanket dropped to his sides when he saw the belt in his father’s hand. Carmen’s hand lifted into the air, and the belt came down on Tony with a hard crack. The beating went on for several minutes, and when it stopped, Tony lay in a ball wishing the boys had killed him.
Chapter One
Tony’s father, Carmen, had been placed in a Catholic orphanage after his mother died, when he was barely three years old. The nuns who ran the facility had believed in the saying “Spare the rod; spoil the child.” When Carmen turned six, his father brought him back home after marrying another woman. But his stepmother, with three children of her own, didn’t take to Carmen. She complained about his appearance and lack of manners. Over time, Carmen’s father beat him, trying to make his son into what his new wife wanted. But the more beatings Carmen withstood, the greater the anger the child stored inside. Many days of his childhood, Carmen walked around with black eyes or bruises on his body. Immediately after graduating high school, Carmen was thrown out of his home and out of his father’s life.
Carmen took a job as a roofer. He hated the labor-intensive work, feeling like it was below him, and a year later, after marrying Tony’s mother, Teresa, he was hired by a large rigging company in Philadelphia, where Tony’s family lived.
Teresa and Carmen had met in high school. Teresa had followed in her mother’s footsteps and had become a seamstress at a small bridal shop.
Ten years into Carmen and Teresa’s rocky marriage, with two kids, Carmen was laid off from his job and fell into a deep depression. To ease his sorrows and worries, he let his casual drinking become excessive, sloppy, and repulsive. The neighborhood watched the transformation, and he became a big joke to those who knew him. Because his rigging skills weren’t in high demand, Carmen couldn’t figure out what to do to earn a living.
Teresa bore the brunt of Carmen’s anger over what he considered a failed life. Tony remembered the first time his father had struck his mother. One of the neighbors had just left the house after dropping off pants for Teresa to hem.
“Why do ya have to let the neighbors in here?” Carmen had growled.
“Because I’m tryin’ to earn some extra money. What kind of question is that?”
“It’s the kinda question a man asks when his wife is actin’ like some sniveling beggar lookin’ for a couple of dollars. Look at cha—ya look ridiculous wit’ that measuring thing hangin’ around your neck, kissin’ that bitch’s ass so ya can make a couple of dollars.”
“Well, if ya got a real job, maybe I wouldn’t have to take in side work,” Teresa had fired back.
Tony had been lying on the floor in front of the television with his sister, Macie, who was three years younger than he was. He pretended like nothing was wrong, but Carmen’s anger escalated, and his father rose from his worn-out recliner. He thudded over to Teresa and punched her hard in the belly.
“Stop it,” Tony cried.
Like a grizzly bear drawn to a new noise, Carmen turned toward Tony and took a few steps in his direction.
Teresa grabbed on to Carmen’s shoulder, and he flung her off.
“You little bitch. Don’t cha ever try and get in my way,” Carmen yelled. He grabbed Teresa’s arm and twisted it behind her back, sending her to her knees.
“Carmen, stop! Please stop!”
“That’s where ya belong, on your knees suckin’ me off.”
As Carmen let go of her arm, he grabbed a handful of her hair, and she rose to her feet. Carmen put his face close to hers.
“Now get in the fuckin’ kitchen and do your fuckin’ job before I break both of your arms.”
Teresa was crying as she looked over at Tony, with Macie wrapped in a tight embrace. “Come on, Tony. Come help me in the kitchen.”
Tony cautiously walked by his father with Macie behind him. Her small arms were fastened around her brother’s waist. As Tony slunk by his father, Carmen jabbed him in the temple with his thick fingers.
“Get the fuck outta my sight. I can’t stand any of ya.”
Tony pulled Macie toward his mother as she started for the kitchen. When they were alone, Teresa grabbed her children and held them tightly.
“It’s gonna be all right,” Teresa said in a low, shaky voice.
“I’m scared,” Tony said. “What if Dad hurts us real bad?”
Teresa looked into her son’s eyes. “I’m scared too, baby. We just gotta keep ’im happy. That means doin’ what he says and stayin’ outta his way.”
Teresa swallowed hard. “Just make sure you’re a good boy.”
“But I didn’t do nothin’, and he hit me in the head just now.”
“That’s ’cause ya was lookin’ at him. Don’t even look at ’im no more. Not when he’s mad like that.”
“Why can’t we just go live with Grandma?”
“’Cause her and Grandpa don’t need our problems. We just gotta deal wit’ ’em on our own.”
Now, as he lay on his bed nursing the welts from his father’s beating, Tony rubbed his face with his hands. He kept looking toward the doorway for his father to appear while his mother started dinner. The room closed in on him until the small space made his breathing ragged. What are we going to do now? How can I help my family? Tony thought.
Chapter Two
The day after the hanging incident, Tony crouched low in the corner of the brick building in the schoolyard. His arms were crossed over his head to protect himself. The schoolyard was filled with children, playing and laughing, several watching him from a distance. The teacher and her aide stood across the long stretch of blacktop, unable to see through the crowd of rowdy second graders to where Tony was being bullied.
“Get away from me,” Tony whimpered.
“You’re such a dork. Maybe if we kick your butt again, we can knock the dork outta ya,” Vincent said. Five of Vincent’s friends stood around in a semicircle, egging on the harassment.
Vincent laughed wholeheartedly, and then he kicked Tony in the leg. Instinctively, Tony grabbed the spot where Vincent’s sneaker had landed, and Vincent smacked him on the top of the head. Tony put his hands up to cover his face, but Vincent didn’t let up. He kept on slapping and kicking Tony until all of his own rage was spent.
“You’re an idiot, Tony. Ya ain’t even smart enough to be in school. Ya should just stay in your house and never come to school,” Vincent said.
“Maybe we can hang him again,” Patton said.
Vincent smiled. “Would ya like that, Bruno? Gettin’ hung again?”
Tony hyperventilated. Tears stung his eyes. He held his breath and curled his hands into tight fists. He feared the boys; he feared his father. His life had become lightless. He felt as though he were in a deep, dark, wet hole filled with sticky hatred.
As Tony’s anguish escalated, he could no longer hold back his wails of sorrow. The group of boys watched him for a moment; then they walked away, satisfied. Tony lay in a fetal position on the pavement, wishing that someone would come to his rescue.
After several minutes, Tony sat up cautiously and looked around, embarrassed. Groups of children on the playground stood motionless, watching him. Several small clusters of children were giggling and pointing. Others wore faces of relief, happy that Tony’s fate was not their own.
In kindergarten and first grade, Vincent and his friends had stuck to verbal assaults. But now, in the second grade, they had become physically abusive with Tony, turning their teasing into torment.
Tony was scared to move but even more worried the boys would come back and make good on their promise to hang him again. He got to his feet and walked slowly toward the door that led into the building.
“Hey, Tony,” Brian, another second grader, said in a friendly tone, approaching him. “Here, do ya wanna drink?”
Tony turned toward the boy. He watched Brian for a moment; then a smile played on his lips. Tony’s throat was dry. He looked at the condensation on the soda can and i
magined the cool liquid sliding down his scratchy throat.
“Thanks a lot, Brian,” Tony said, reaching for the can.
Tony put the can to his lips. The liquid splashed over his tongue; then, as he swallowed, he tasted the dirt.
Tony choked on the contents and spit the foul mixture onto the ground.
“You’re such a moron,” Brian taunted, as the other kids laughed. “You’re so easy to pick on,” he added.
Tony fell silent. His head hung, and his shoulders drooped forward. He walked fast toward the doors of the building. He wanted to get inside, to hide from his peers.
Miss Cassidy, Tony’s teacher, scanned the schoolyard, and her eyes stopped on Tony. She rushed over to him as he gripped the door handle.
“Tony, what happened to you?” Miss Cassidy asked. Instinctively she gently touched his red cheek. Then she discreetly wiped away the saliva and dirt stuck on his chin.
“Nothin’, Miss Cassidy,” Tony said, his voice barely audible.
“Nothing, huh? Well, it doesn’t look like nothing to me. Come on. Let’s go inside and rinse your face with cold water.”
Miss Cassidy looked around and spotted Vincent and his friends gawking at her. She lifted both eyebrows and pinched her lips together at the moment that Vincent made eye contact—a sign to let the boy know she was onto him. Miss Cassidy took Tony by the hand and led him into the building.
Once they were alone, she knelt down and placed her hands on Tony’s shoulders. “Were Vincent and his friends picking on you?”
Tony shook his head slowly, but he wouldn’t make eye contact.
“Are you sure?” she pressed.
Tony nodded. He thought about snitching, but the bees buzzing around in his belly reminded him there would be consequences.
“How did you get that bruise on your neck? It looks like someone was choking you.”
“I ran into somethin’ at my house.”
“Tony, are you telling me the truth? Is there something you need to talk about?”
“No, Miss Cassidy. Can I go to the bathroom?” Tony said.
Inside the boy’s bathroom, Tony looked at himself in the mirror. He was repulsed by the hollow person who stared back at him.
“You’re a dork,” he said out loud. “Everybody hates ya. Why can’t ya fight back?”
Tony’s impulse was to bust the mirror to pieces and smash the pathetic reflection that glared back at him, judging him.
“I hate ya,” he said to his reflection. “I wish ya would disappear. Nobody likes ya. Not even your father.”
After a few minutes, Tony washed his hands and purposely took his time walking to his classroom. Every second in the hallway was time away from the mean kids. He opened the classroom door and stepped inside. The room fell silent; then several children snickered.
“Wah! Wah! Wah! I want my mommy,” Patton bellowed.
Tony wrapped his arms around himself as if he could ward off the cutting words and scathing stares that sliced through him and settled in the center of his heart.
“Patton! You stop that this instant,” Miss Cassidy said.
Patton looked at Miss Cassidy innocently. “What? I didn’t do nothin’.”
“I want you to go straight to the principal’s office,” she demanded.
Patton smiled at his friends but didn’t move out of his chair.
“This instant!” she yelled, surprising everyone, including herself.
As Patton slid past Tony, he whispered, “You’re gonna be real sorry for this, ya stupid jerk.”
Tony cringed and edged his way to his seat. He walked through the aisle of second graders cautiously. Only a few feet from his desk, one boy stuck out his foot and tripped him. Tony flew into the desk of one of the popular girls. She looked at him sympathetically at first, but realizing the other kids were watching her, she quickly pinched her nose with her thumb and index finger and turned away.
“Ew,” she said, pushing Tony away from her, “you smell bad, and you’re ugly.”
The other kids laughed, and Tony wished he could disappear, be invisible.
Finally sitting at his desk, Tony gazed at Miss Cassidy as she lectured the class about how to treat each other. Her voice was a constant buzz of white noise in his ears as she droned on about the importance of kindness, an alien concept to him. Tony’s thoughts wandered to his father. Carmen would never let people push him around; Carmen had mocked Tony for being weak since the bullying began in kindergarten. The thought of going home with more bruises boosted his anxiety. His heart thudded in his chest; he could feel every heartbeat. Tony knew his father would “give it to him” when he saw Tony’s swollen lip. It was the same cycle of insanity. After his peers beat him down, he would stand before Carmen for judgment. Meanness and cruelty seemed inescapable.
When the last bell of the day rang, Tony hurried to the bus and sat in the front seat behind the bus driver. As Vincent and his friends entered, they poked, slapped, or pinched him on their way to the back of the bus. When they arrived at his bus stop that day, he ran as fast as he could until he was rushing through the front door of his house.
Teresa looked up from her sewing machine. “What’s the rush? Hey, come over here—let me take a look at ya,” she said.
Tony walked over to his mother, and she lifted his chin.
“Those no-good little shit stains do this to ya again?” Teresa asked.
Tony nodded.
“Go upstairs and wash up before your father gets home.”
Tony hesitated. “Ma, Dad’s gonna be real mad when he sees me, huh?”
Teresa closed her eyes and lowered her head. “Don’t get all worked up. Your face will get more swollen, and then for sure your father will know ya got an ass whoop…Those boys were pickin’ on ya again.”
To Tony’s delight, his father didn’t make it home before he’d gone to bed that night. As he drifted off to sleep, he imagined being the strongest boy in the world and hurting every single person that had hurt him.
Chapter Three
“Tony! Get your ass downstairs, boy!” Carmen screamed.
Tony jolted out of a deep sleep and rushed out of bed. He pulled on the jeans he had left on the floor from the day before. From the top of the stairs, he looked down at his father, who was waiting for him. An icy chill ran up his spine as he hurried down the steps.
“You gotta be kiddin’ me? Look at ya. You’re a mess. I don’t wanna claim ya as my goddamn kid. If ya got outta bed earlier, you’d been able to brush those monster teeth and wash that goop outta your eyes. You disgust me, boy.”
Tony walked into the kitchen and kept his eyes glued to the green-and-yellow linoleum floor. He told himself every night before he went to sleep he would wake up before Carmen screamed his name. He had even asked his mother to wake him or buy him an alarm clock, but she had warned that Carmen would have both of their asses for spending unnecessary money. Carmen expected the boy to wake up on his own, and that meant that he needed to program his brain.
“Pick up your feet when you walk. What’s wrong wit’ cha? You’re too lazy to lift those cinderblocks off the ground. Nah, that’s right, ya rather drag them around like an ape,” Carmen commented.
Tony could tell his father was in an especially bad mood. His words seemed to grind out from deep within his throat, releasing a steady growl the way a dog’s insides rumble before letting out a real bark. Tony sat in his chair at the table, and Teresa put a bowl of cereal in front of him.
“What’s wrong wit’ your face?” Carmen asked.
Tony looked over at his mother, who quickly looked away.
“Don’t look at your ma. I asked ya a question, boy. What the hell happened to ya?”
Tony gathered enough courage but was still too scared to make eye contact. “A couple of kids were pickin’ on me at school. I couldn’t stop ’em. There were lots of ’em and only me.”
Carmen mimicked in a high-pitched tone, “There were lots of ’em and only me. I don’t
care if there are fifty of ’em. If they mess wit’ ya, fight the hell back. You see this shit, Teresa? You’re raisin’ a little pansy over here. Look at ’em. He can’t even look me in the eye when he talks. How did ya get to be so damn wimpy?”
Tony’s eyes burned with angry tears. He knew that crying would only infuriate his father more, but he couldn’t prevent them from spilling over.
“Oh, for Chrissake, get a goddamn grip on yourself. You’re cryin’ like a little girl. You cry more than your little sister.”
Tony stood up from the table and pushed his chair back. “Why are ya always yellin’ at me? It ain’t my fault. I don’t do nothin’ to make the kids pick on me. Besides, I never learned how to fight.”
Carmen glared at Tony. “Ya listen here—fightin’ ain’t somethin’ ya learn; it’s just somethin’ ya just know how to do. It comes from bein’ born in the city. Ya should know how to protect yourself, and ya ain’t gonna do that by lettin’ some little punks kick your ass all the time. Ain’t ya got no man instincts? What are ya, a girl?”
“Carmen, please, let’s have a nice breakfast,” Teresa said softly, trying to smother the burning embers just waiting to ignite. “We shouldn’t encourage Tony to fight.”
Carmen pushed up to the edge of his chair, his face next to his wife’s. Teresa shrank away from him.
“Encourage it? You’re damn straight I encourage it. I welcome it. How do ya think I feel havin’ the kid that everyone picks on? It makes me look like shit in front of my friends.”
“I’m sorry, Carmen.”
“Damn right you’re sorry. You’re a sorry excuse for a woman is what cha are.”
Tony looked down into his soggy cereal. It reflected how he felt on the inside: heavy, mushy, and drowning, with no escape from the murky place in which he lived.
Carmen watched his son. He wanted to break him.
In a low, deep voice, Carmen said, “When I was in school, I was the guy that everyone feared. Now I’ve been given a boy who ain’t got no guts. Ain’t got no fight in ’im. I wish ya was never born.”
Mean Little People Page 2