The Broken Places

by Susan Perabo

  “Hey,” Paul said. “No butting!”

  The kids didn’t pause, didn’t turn around, paid him no attention.

  “Hey, asshole . . .” Ian took a few quick steps forward and grabbed the wrist of one of the kids, the younger one, and jerked him backwards a few feet. The kid was maybe ten, a year or two shorter and skinnier than Paul. He looked up fiercely at Ian.

  “Lemme go!”

  “How ’bout starting at the back of the line?”

  “We’re meetin’ somebody,” the kid said, trying in vain to shake free from Ian’s firm grasp. “We’re meeting my brother’s friends.”

  “I don’t think so,” Ian said cheerfully. “I think you’re getting your little black ass to the end of the line.”

  The older kid had stopped now, a few yards ahead of them, and turned back irately. “C’mon, Gary. Quit your —” Then he noticed Ian’s fingers wrapped tightly around his brother’s wrist. “What’s up with that?” he asked, genuinely surprised.

  “No butting,” Paul said confidently. “Start at the back of the line.” He was impressed with himself, liked the confidence that being beside Ian gave him. Ian didn’t treat him like a baby. Ian was his friend.

  “Let go of him,” the older kid said to Ian. He looked to be about seventeen. He wore a Chicago Bulls jersey and a thin gold chain around his neck.

  “We been standing here a half hour,” Ian said. “You can’t just —”

  “We’re meeting somebody,” the older brother said. “Up ahead in line.”

  “Yeah, so I heard. That’s a pile of shit, man, and you know it.”

  The weekend father stepped forward, touched Ian’s back. “Let ’em go on,” he said, smiling gently. “It’s no big deal.”

  Ian’s jaw clenched. “You afraid of these guys?”

  “It’s not worth it,” the father said. “Just let ’em have their way.”

  It was the wrong thing to say. Ian turned to the older brother with a sneer. He still had his fingers clenched around the younger boy’s — Gary’s — wrist.

  “You think everybody’s just gonna let you pass ’cause you got on your bad-ass Michael Jordan shirt and your Mr. T gold chains? Is that it?”

  Paul suddenly felt sick to his stomach. “Ian —” he started.

  “Shut up, Paul.” His eyes didn’t leave the older brother. “That what you’re thinking, boy? That we’re just gonna move aside?”

  The big guy swaggered back toward them, slowly. He was in no rush now; Space Mountain could wait. Paul looked at Gary. His bottom lip was trembling. This was not their affair. Sure, they could talk big, give each other a little junior high dose of crap, but why not end it there? He wanted to say to this Gary, hey, you want to head over to Frontierland? They got another coaster over there, you wanna give that one a whirl?

  “Let him go,” big brother said, coming to a halt about six inches from Ian, squaring his feet.

  Ian smirked. “Or what?”

  “Come on, man. No more games.” He was right up in Ian’s face now. The couples in front of them bunched forward; they were looking around for assistance, for help. Where was that goddamn big-headed mouse now, when they needed him most?

  “I’m not playing games,” Ian said. “You playin’ games, Mr. T?”

  “I said let him go.”

  “And I said or what?” Ian’s felt beanie had shifted so that the plastic mouse ears were off center, tilted slightly left as if the mouse were drunk or dizzy. Why notice this? Paul asked himself. Why, of all the things to notice —

  “Think you can take me, nigger?”

  The big guy swung. Ian was obviously waiting for it; he easily ducked the punch and let loose a swift right uppercut to the gut. The older brother doubled over and Ian kneed him between the eyes, knocking him to the ground. The little brother, now free, wrapped his arms around Ian’s waist and tried to wrestle him to the cement. Paul backed away, into the chest of the weekend father.

  “Hey!” the man was shouting. “Hey! Hey!”

  Ian twisted around and flung the little brother off him; the kid — Gary — stumbled into the iron railing and toppled to the ground. Ian stood over him for an instant, his fists clenched, giving big brother enough time to recover himself. He grabbed the back of Ian’s T-shirt, whirled him around and smacked his face against a concrete pillar. Blood exploded from Ian’s mouth and the redheaded girl screamed. Tottering backwards from the pillar, Ian took another punch — this one in his right eye — and Paul thought now, now, now, willed himself to move forward into the brawl, to make himself useful, to . . . to what?

  “Fuckin’ nigger!” Ian shouted, blood bubbling over his lips. And then went berserk. He downed the big brother with one furious jab to the throat, and then — once the guy was on the ground — started kicking him savagely in the stomach. Big brother covered up, one arm over his face and one over his belly, but Ian kept kicking. It was his fake foot he was kicking with, keeping balance with his real foot, and Paul knew there was no give in those steel toes as they connected with ribs.

  “Stupid nigger . . . stupid motherfucker . . .”

  The little brother lay on the ground, holding his own stomach and sobbing tears of surprise. Finally the weekend father stopped shouting “Hey” and made a flailing grab at Ian’s shoulders, yanked him backwards; they both tumbled onto the ground at Paul’s feet. The redhead was sobbing. Paul couldn’t move; his feet were tingling and frozen to the spot on which he stood.

  Ian broke free from the father’s tenuous grip, regained his footing for a moment and then pounced on the little brother, who was now up on his hands and knees beside the railing and frantically trying to scuttle away. Ian took a fistful of Gary’s hair in his right hand, then lifted the boy’s head an inch or two off the pavement and slammed it into the iron railing. It was a sound Paul would never forget, a resonant twong, part cymbal (the railing) and part bass (the head). Ian yanked the head back in preparation for another shot against the railing. He was going to kill this boy, Paul thought. He was —

  “Ian!” Paul yelled, finally finding his voice. “Ian, stop!”

  Ian stopped. He looked up at Paul, bug-eyed and bright red with fury. Paul wasn’t even sure he knew who he was. There was blood streaming from his mouth, and he let go of Gary’s hair, staggered to his feet, then pulled off his T-shirt and pressed it to his face.

  “Jesus!” the father said, staring at Ian’s back.

  It was the swastika he saw, carved deep and dark into Ian’s left shoulder blade. The man scooted backwards on his butt to his daughter, his arms outstretched to protect her. Everyone behind him cowered, literally cowered. They all crouched down and covered their heads, as if Ian were waving a pistol.

  “Police!” someone was yelling. “Police!”

  “Come on,” Ian said, roughly grabbing Paul’s arm. “Let’s get outa here.”

  They didn’t speak the whole ride back to the hotel. Ian sat in the cab with his shirt to his face. He was shaking violently, twitching from his lips to his feet. Paul was trembling too, and trying not to cry, trying to get the twong of the boy’s head against metal out of his ears. What if they died? What if Ian had killed them? But no, they were moving when Ian had taken off his shirt, still moving, still crying. But the older brother . . . his lung could be punctured. And Gary’s head — twong.

  “Asshole,” Ian was muttering under his breath. “Asshole asshole asshole asshole asshole asshole asshole asshole . . .”

  The cab driver glanced warily at them in his rearview mirror, sped up.

  When they got to their suite Ian made a beeline for his room, slammed the door so hard the windows rattled. Sonny was sitting on the balcony smoking a cigarette and Paul went straight to him. He’d forgotten, in this terrifying moment, that his father was no longer fixer of all things.

  “Ian beat up some black kids,” he wailed.

  “What?” Sonny exploded, leaping to his feet. “Where is he?”

  “In his room.”

/>   Sonny pushed past him, stormed across the room to Ian’s door, turned the knob. It didn’t budge.

  “Get out here,” Sonny yelled, shaking the door violently.

  “Fuck you, Sonny!”

  “Get your ass out here right now!”

  The door swung open. Ian stood there bare-chested, scowling defiantly. His lips were gruesomely bloated, his right eye swollen nearly shut. His chest was streaked with blood.

  “Jesus,” Sonny said, stepping back instinctively. “Guess they put up a fight, huh?”

  “They started the fight, Sonny. I finished it.”

  “He kicked them when they were down,” Paul said. “He was gonna kill ’em.”

  “Shut up, you chickenshit!” Ian shouted. “Where were you when I was getting my ass kicked? There were two of ’em on me, Sonny. Two of ’em. Stupid niggers, thinking they could —”

  Sonny thrust his cigarette into Ian’s face. It was hard to tell if he meant to punch him or burn him or just shut him up; the butt glanced off Ian’s cheek and dropped to the carpet. “You know what you are?” Sonny said coldly. “You’re a mean, stupid country dog, pissing and growling and biting everything that scares you. And someday somebody’s gonna come along and run you down in the road and you’re not even gonna know what hit you. And nobody’s gonna give a shit you’re gone, nobody’s gonna shed one tear. You’re just gonna be one more thing to scrape off the road. Is that how you want it? ’Cause it’s right around the corner, Ian.”

  “Don’t you lecture me,” Ian said, his swollen lips quivering. “You’re not my dad and you’re not my fucking hero, Sonny. I’ll do what I want.”

  “And what is that?” Sonny asked. “Do you have any fucking clue what —”

  Ian slammed the door. Sonny spun to Paul, his eyes as wild with fury as Ian’s had been right before the final flurry of blows in Tomorrow-land.

  “I can’t let you out of my sight for one goddamn day, can I?”

  “Me?” Paul asked, stunned. “I didn’t do anything.”

  “Did you try to stop him? Or did you just stand there doing nothing?”

  “I —” Paul started. Had he tried? But he couldn’t have stopped him, could he? Not with Ian like he was, crazy, fists flying. “I didn’t know what to do,” he said. “I didn’t —”

  “You act,” Sonny said, slapping his fist in his palm. “You see something go wrong, you act. You don’t stand there doing nothing. You don’t stand there waiting for it to be over. You take charge of the situation. You fix it. You save lives. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

  Paul’s jaw went rigid. He lungs expanded, his eyes narrowed, and he stood a little taller in his shoes. In his chest hardened something unfamiliar, something that he thought must have been courage or strength, when in fact it was only walls dropping around his heart.

  “Yes sir,” he said coldly. “Yes sir, I understand.”

  Sonny scrutinized him furiously. “Do you?”

  Could the dark kill you?

  No, Sonny told himself. No. Just breathe. There’s air here. Breathe.

  At the end, his father had been without light and breath. Disoriented, his air tank depleted, the thick black smoke in the master bedroom had sealed shut around Captain Sam Tucker like a body bag. From outside, the house was a wall of light. Inside, Sam turned circles in the pitch-black, finally stumbled backwards into a closet. And there, among strangers’ clothes, he lived his last moments. A shoe . . . a child? A shoe . . . a child?

  Stop, Sonny told himself. Stop. Don’t. Not now. Beside him, Ian slept. Ian was counting on him. ( . . . call in some guys who know what they’re doing . . . ) He had to remain focused, keep himself together. ( . . . rescue response team in Pittsburgh . . . ) He had to think of some way to get them out of here. Ian’s life was in his hands, his hands alone, his hand . . .

  The smack of a screen door behind him. His hand moist around the handle of a small suitcase. They would never again return to that house. Why should they? It had been her house, not his. The squeaky cot in the station, the alarm in the middle of the night, the rush of voices, Phil tugging his arm. On his feet, in his shoes, down the pole, the glare of chrome, the roar of the engine, his father’s voice shouting instructions, the rise of the siren. And then . . . sailing into the night . . .

  “Ian . . .” he whispered. He didn’t want to be alone. Not now. Not here. Not for this. His father had been alone at the end, the contents of the closet his only company. Empty shoes and shirts and dresses, abandoned shells all of them, blackened by smoke and curling in the heat, dancing as they melted, while his father sat dying, thinking —

  Stop, Sonny told himself. Sleep. Sleep and all is forgotten. Sleep and slip away, die quietly. Die first, die before Ian. Both dead, no blame. And if he dies, and Ian lives, still no blame. His father knew this. His father had to stay in that house. If the little boy dies he has to die too. He cannot come from that house empty-handed. Better to play it safe and die than presume the child is not there and come out alone. For, if the boy dies and the fireman lives, what waits for him outside, in the light?

  I do . . .

  “Paul,” he whispered.

  Paul . . . Paul . . . this boy beside him? The boy in the shoe? The boy on the squeaky cot? No — no — Paul, his son, the boy somewhere above him, the boy who sat on the branch of a tree all day, the boy who said I just want to see what you do and now all these boys were melting in the dark, all the boys, in the dark, the body bag sealing around them as they gasped and clawed for light.

  Light. Yes. In his sleep it was light. So light he squinted, shielded his eyes against the flames shooting from the house where his father sat dying, so light the eyes of the melting boys shimmered as if they burned from within, their faces so washed in light they were indistinguishable from one another, indistinguishable from himself. Which one was he? He was this one, the one thinking, but they were all thinking the same thing, all thinking of light and light and light and dark and dark and dark and —

  “S’all right, man. I’m right here. Feel me? I’m right next to you, man.”

  Words spilled from Sonny’s lips as he felt frantically for Ian’s hand.

  “. . . do you know who you are?”

  Sonny

  We’re gonna have to get out of here, kid. And we’re gonna have to get out now. This house isn’t gonna hold itself together much longer.

  Ian

  (sniffling) Go without me, Sonny. You find the way. After that, if there’s still time, you can come back for me. (laughs ruefully) I’m not going anywhere.

  Sonny

  (forcefully) Listen to me, Ian. Either we go together or we don’t go at all.

  Ian

  But I can’t move, Sonny.

  Sonny reaches above him, wrenches the pry ax from where it is lodged in the ceiling.

  Ian

  What’re you doin’?

  Sonny

  I want you to think good thoughts, Ian. I want you to think about the sun shining on your face. Close your eyes and go there, Ian. Go to where the sun is . . .

  Ian

  Tell me what you’re doing, Sonny.

  Sonny

  (gently) I’ll tell you what I’m doing. I’m gettin’ us the hell out of here.

  “Cut!” Lilly Douglass shouted. “Blood!”

  Two young men trotted onto the set. Dale Markham stood up slowly, shook his head, wiped some authentic sweat from his brow. He looked over at the row of directors’ chairs at the edge of the set, nodded at Sonny soberly, respectfully.

  “You got balls of steel,” he said.

  Paul turned deliberately to his father. Sonny pulled a cigarette from his shirt pocket and turned it over and over in his hand. He was as pale as someone midway through a faint. Paul had found him asleep on the balcony at nine a.m., already sweating in the morning sun. If he’d been strong enough, he would have carried his father to bed, let him sleep through this day. But he couldn’t carry his father, and so here they were, witness
ing the climactic scene, the climactic lie.

  “Can I get some water over here?” Roger Rhodes yelled from his spot on the floor. “I’m burning up.”

  “Poor baby,” Ian said, nudging Paul. Paul didn’t acknowledge him. He didn’t want to have anything to do with Ian. His right eye was purple and open only a slit, his lips and chin bruised blue. He’d gotten a thousand looks on the set that day but no one had asked him what had happened. Why bother to ask? It was Ian . . . enough said.

  Dale Markham came over, crouched in front of Sonny, weighing the pry ax in his hands. “How’d you do it? Fast? No hesitation?”

  “No hesitation,” Sonny echoed, blinking sweat from his eyes.

  “Hey, buddy,” Markham said, swatting him playfully on the knee. “This bothering you? No need for sweat now. Your job’s over.”

  “Yeah,” Sonny mumbled. He looked across Paul at Ian.

  “You keep your eyes open?” Markham asked.

  “Yeah,” Sonny said, looking back to him. “I mean . . .” He shrugged, half smiled. The cigarette broke between his fingers and shreds of tobacco fell at his feet. “It’s hard to remember everything. Kind of a blur. Just . . . it was real fast. That’s how I remember it.”

  Paul looked at the floor. He hated his father. He hated Ian. It was a sensation that made him feel strong, old, unafraid. This was the secret, the thing that had exceeded his grasp for so long. Finally he had the upper hand. He was better than either one of them. He was better than any of these idiots, better than tight-ass Lilly and Roger the fag and has-been Dale Markham. He didn’t need to be afraid anymore, of anyone, because none of them could hurt him. His jaw taut, he watched the techies rig the blood bag inside Roger’s jeans. There was a hole cut through the denim that his ankle and foot went through and disappeared safely under the floor. The blood bag fit snugly into the ankle of the jeans; it would explode on impact.

  “Further up,” Ian said softly.

  “What?” Lilly asked, turning to him.

  “The cut . . .” Sonny added meekly. “It was a little further up.”

  Ian knocked on his jeans where the temporary prosthesis began and Lilly frowned thoughtfully. “Why don’t you two take a look up close before we shoot? We really want to get this right.”