Suckerpunch

by David Hernandez

  I’m not sure.

  Let’s find out.

  Enrique followed me into my bedroom and I opened up my Web browser. A few mouse clicks later and a map of central California came up. There, I said, pointing at the yellow star on the map. It’s pretty close to San Francisco.

  Sonofabitch, Enrique muttered. His face was rigid, the muscle along his jaw line flexed.

  I was pissed too, and as I had at Mr. Thompson’s funeral, I imagined killing my dad. With a hammer, a bat. With my own two fists.

  Enrique stared at the monitor and bit on his thumbnail. He turned to me. I’ve got an idea, he said.

  What? I said.

  Let’s go to Monterey.

  Are you serious?

  Dead serious, he said.

  And do what?

  Enrique smiled wickedly.

  A half hour later we were all talked out. Enrique’s eyes were wide, excited. The plan was reckless, yes, but there was something appealing about it. Maybe a part of me was also becoming like my dad.

  Later on that evening I casually asked my mom for his address. She was in the kitchen, chopping carrots into fat orange tokens on a cutting board. I want to send him a card or something before I talk to him, I said.

  My mom put the knife down and wiped her hands on a dish towel. Why the sudden change? she said, looking right at me.

  I just, you know, I said, stammering.

  My mom studied my face. You just what?

  I just would rather send him a card first, that’s all.

  There’s a few things I have to get off my chest, I said. I don’t think I could say it to him over the phone.

  Okay, Mijo, she said. She brushed the back of my head with her fingers.

  Minutes later she returned with his address written on a piece of paper and folded in half. If you want, I could help you pick out a nice card.

  No, thanks, I said. I can do it myself.

  She lifted the knife again. I’m proud of you, she said, chopping. I’m really proud of you.

  Holy shit, Oliver said.

  We were standing in front of the abandoned house where the drug addict was shacked up with his cat. Half of the house was eaten away by a fire and the other half was charred black. We could see the sky through the ribs of the roof.

  Damn, I said. What the hell happened?

  There was a fire.

  Duh. I mean I wonder how it started.

  The junkie, Oliver said. That’s how.

  You think he died?

  Probably.

  There was yellow CAUTION tape around the front yard, turning and twisting in the wind. The fire was days old, but the scent of its burning was still in the air. The chimney stood naked in a pile of debris like a brick monolith.

  I thought of the fire alarm in my own house, how one night it chirped incessantly in the middle of the night and woke everyone up. Enrique and I stood in our pajamas, rubbing our eyes as we watched our dad pull the fire alarm from the ceiling. He opened the back side and yanked out the battery. Go back to bed, he told us. But I couldn’t. Nothing would warn us now if a fire started somewhere in the house, swallowing the curtains, the walls, the furniture, and finally us.

  So tomorrow, Oliver said.

  Yes, tomorrow, I said.

  We should leave early so we don’t hit any traffic.

  Good idea.

  Hey, we have to take my dad’s car.

  How come?

  The horn, he said. My mom doesn’t want me to drive that far without a horn.

  That sucks.

  No kidding.

  Just as we were about to pull away from the curb I saw the junkie’s cat coming out of the bushes. She looked mangier than ever and was meowing like crazy. I opened the passenger door and the cat hopped in. She wouldn’t stop meowing.

  Shut that thing off, Oliver said as we drove.

  Dude, she’s hungry.

  We pulled into the drive-through at Taco Bell and ordered a burrito for the cat. When I held it up to her mouth, she sniffed the warm tortilla a few times before she took a bite. Then she was devouring it, ground beef and little strips of lettuce falling onto my lap. By the time we got to Britt’s house the burrito was gone. She slid her tongue over her black lips and blinked in the sun. We named her Catface.

  ’Sup, bitches? Britt said. He was pushing a lawn mower out of the garage and down the driveway.

  ’Sup, Bongoloid, I yelled from inside the car. You got the you-know-what?

  Yeah, hold on a sec.

  Britt left the mower by the grass and trotted back into the garage. Catface sat up on my lap and I rubbed the back of her head and she purred, a little motor revving inside her throat.

  She probably has rabies, Oliver said.

  Cats don’t get rabies.

  Mangy cats do.

  Don’t make me sic her on you.

  She’s got rabies, man. I can tell.

  Catface, sic Oliver, I said. Sic ’im!

  Britt walked up to the truck and pointed the gun at my head. You talkin’ shit, Freak Show?

  You crazy sonofabitch, I yelled.

  Calm down, Nub. It’s not loaded.

  I don’t care, I said, and pulled the gun from his hand, irritated.

  Don’t lose it, man.

  Can I take this thing off? I said, fingering the red plastic ring at the end of the barrel.

  Go ahead.

  I dug my fingernail under and peeled off the plastic ring and handed it to Britt. I slipped out the gun’s cylinder and made sure all the chambers were empty.

  You sure you don’t want to come with us? Oliver asked.

  I can’t, Britt said. I’ve got to help my dad paint the garage this weekend. Whose cat is that?

  Mine, I said.

  So you finally got pussy.

  I aimed the starter pistol at Britt and squeezed the trigger. It clicked loudly like a snapped pencil.

  I went to the market later that night, this time with a short list. Just eggs and milk and tinfoil. I was opening up a carton of eggs, making sure none of them were busted, when Mrs. Thompson came up to me rolling an empty cart.

  You’re going to think I’m following you, she said.

  I laughed. How are you doing, Mrs. Thompson?

  Gloria, she corrected me.

  That’s right, I’m sorry.

  That’s okay.

  How are you doing, Gloria?

  I’m getting by, she said. It’s still hard, you know? She leaned on her empty cart.

  I’m sure it is, I said. I can’t even imagine, I added. I didn’t know what else to tell her. There should be a book, some manual out there for situations like this:

  How to Talk to a Widow Without Sounding Like a Dipshit.

  So Oliver told me the two of you are driving to Las Vegas, she said.

  We sure are, I said, which was a lie. Oliver said he’d drive us to Monterey if we could go to San Francisco afterward to try to score some drugs from his uncle. We told our parents that we were going to Las Vegas to see Cirque du Soleil.

  When are you guys leaving?

  Tomorrow morning.

  You keep a close eye on my Oliver, okay?

  I always do, I said. Another lie. I was racking them up.

  I need some eggs too, she said, reaching for a carton. She opened the lid and the next thing I knew she was crying. With one hand she covered her eyes while the other still held on to the open carton of eggs. I took the carton away from her and placed it back on the shelf.

  You’ll be okay, I said, even though I had no idea if she would.

  I’m sorry, I’m sorry, she said, her voice cracking. I miss him. I still love him.

  I know, I said. And then I said something completely stupid: He still loves you, too. Which was a truckload of crap, really. Mr. Thompson was underground in a casket with a heart pickled in embalming fluid. He wasn’t ever going to be able to love Mrs. Thompson again.

  I gave her a hug and remembered I had her lacy underwear stashed in the back of my clos
et. Standing there, my arms around her, hers around mine, I suddenly wanted to be completely loaded. I wanted my head numb and the world distorted around me. Everything was too vivid—the chicken breasts wrapped in plastic, the shopping carts that rattled behind me, the humming freezer, the child singing in the next aisle.

  She continued sobbing.

  It’s okay, I said. I looked at the shelf of eggs over her shoulder and thought about their brittle shells.

  7

  OUR DAD’S RAGE FOLLOWED us after he left. It trailed behind our footsteps from room to room, invisible. Sometimes we could see it, like the holes Enrique made in his bedroom, or the sheets of paper I scribbled on violently with a pencil held in my fist. Now we were taking our rage straight back to its source.

  Oliver pulled up to my house in his dead father’s car, a gunmetal blue Buick. It had a bumper sticker that announced the owner of the vehicle cared about the environment despite the dark plume of smoke the muffler coughed out whenever we accelerated after a stop. We dubbed the car “the Picklewagon.”

  I didn’t know Ashley was coming along until she showed up that morning with her backpack and green hair rubber-banded into a ponytail. Enrique was holding Catface, scratching her throat. I pulled him to the side. Does she know what we’re doing? I whispered.

  He shook his head no.

  Good, I said.

  Ashley snuck up on Enrique and pinched his ass. What’re you two whispering about? she wanted to know.

  Personal stuff, I said.

  Oliver slapped the roof of the car. Come on, he said. Let’s go.

  We climbed into the car and headed down South Street and onto the 605. In the backseat, Enrique was tickling Ashley, who giggled and tried to tickle him back. He said he was tickle-proof and sat still to prove it. Ashley’s fingers went over his stomach as if she were playing a piano. Nothing.

  See? Enrique said. I was born without a funny bone.

  Ashley leaned close to Enrique’s ear and whispered a few words and he grinned. That’s true, my brother said. That’s so very true.

  Enough already, you two, Oliver said from behind the wheel, his eyes on the rearview mirror. You’re going to make me blow chunks.

  Ditto, I said.

  I twisted the radio dial from the passenger seat, every station fizzed with static. I turned the knob forward and back, forward and back, determined to find a song, any song. I found a Marvin Gaye tune before a wave of static crashed over his voice.

  Open the glove box, Oliver said. Maybe there’s some CDs.

  I clicked open the glove compartment and rummaged through its contents. There was a road map and a pink takeout menu from a Chinese restaurant. There was the little white kite of a dead moth. There was an envelope from Kodak plump with photographs and I flipped through them casually as if they belonged to me. There were pictures of a narrow house wedged between two more narrow houses. A red front door and tiny foyer. A living room with a shag rug and a glass coffee table, a black leather couch. A bedroom with too many pillows piled against the headboard. A photo of a woman taken outdoors, surrounded by foliage. She was in her midforties, blond curls with the wind caught in them, big eyes and a big smile.

  I held the picture up for Oliver. Who’s this? I asked.

  Oliver glanced over at the photograph. I don’t know, he said.

  Then another photograph of the same woman, this time sitting beside Mr. Thompson at a restaurant. I held this up to Oliver.

  Oh, yeah, he said, pausing. That’s my aunt. I didn’t recognize her.

  Ashley coughed. The car grew quiet.

  Don’t be so damn nosy, Oliver said. I thought you were looking for CDs.

  Yeah, man, Enrique chimed in from the backseat.

  Ashley slapped Enrique on the arm.

  What? he said.

  Oliver kept his eyes on the road and said nothing. No one knew why his father killed himself, but I felt as though the answer, at least part of it, was in my hands, bracketed on a 3x5 glossy. I slipped the photos back inside the envelope and shoved them in the glove compartment.

  We hit some traffic when we reached the 5 freeway heading north. Catface jumped onto my lap and pushed her head under my hand so I would run my fingers down her back, which I did. She squinted and purred.

  Ashley leaned in, her head between the headrests. Catface looks stoned, she said. Then added, She looks like Marcus did at the party.

  I wasn’t stoned, I said.

  Whatever, you looked like that.

  What party? Enrique wanted to know.

  The hotel party a couple months ago, Oliver said. At the Travelodge.

  Oh, that. I wasn’t invited.

  I invited you, I said.

  No, you didn’t.

  Yes, I did, I said, pretending I was getting agitated. Truth is, I didn’t invite him. He was moody as hell that day and I didn’t want him around.

  A silver sports car swerved in front of us a few feet from the bumper and Oliver pushed down on the horn.

  Asshole, Enrique said from behind my headrest.

  Just before Oliver picked us up that morning my mom told me to look after Enrique. He was in the bathroom, brushing his teeth and spitting into the sink.

  Has he said anything to you? she asked.

  What do you mean?

  About your father?

  Not really.

  He’s been more quiet than usual.

  Ever since my mom told him that our dad wanted to talk to us and eventually come home, something inside Enrique recoiled. He moved around the house like a jaguar, his head low. I half expected him to punch another wall and make another hole. He’d sit in front of the television with his dumbbells and lift them to his chin, a vein bulging alongside his forearm like an earthworm.

  Just keep an eye on him, my mom said.

  I know.

  Call me when you can.

  I will.

  Make sure he takes his medication.

  Mom, I said. Stop worrying. If worrying were an Olympic sport, you’d get the gold medal.

  I can’t help it, she said.

  We’ll be back on Monday, okay?

  Okay. Just watch your little brother.

  Okay.

  We hurtled up the interstate and there was nothing to look at on either side of the highway but flatlands. After we drove past some almond groves, it was miles and miles of dried brush. I let my eyes follow the telephone wires that slid up and down above the horizon. It was hypnotic—the ballet of wires, their rising and falling. For a handful of seconds it quieted my mind and I forgot what Enrique and I were scheming to do. It was his idea to drive to Monterey and confront our dad. It was his idea to put him in his place, to hear our dad explain himself before whipping out the pistol and making him feel the way he had always made Enrique feel.

  I pulled the pistol out of my backpack and examined it closely. With the red plastic ring off, it looked like a regular gun. I wondered what he would do when it came time for Enrique to shove it in his face. And I wondered what Enrique would say, how he would handle all that power.

  I looked over at my brother in the backseat. The antidepressants always made him drowsy in the afternoon and his eyes were now closed, his head rested against the smudgy window of the Buick. Still, it amazed me that he was able to sleep—we were going eighty miles per hour toward a man who had tortured him for years. There was adrenaline in my heart as my mind spiraled and shuffled pictures of my dad, his rage, Enrique, his blood, the gun. There was no way I could possibly sleep.

  Ashley scraped off her nail polish and dropped the flakes of maroon into the car’s ashtray. When she saw me looking at her and not Enrique, she winked. I turned back to the road ahead that rolled under the car like a giant conveyer belt.

  Sometimes I fantasized that Ashley was with me and not my brother, which I did then, post-wink. I imagined us doing it in a movie theater, on a Ferris wheel, a ski lift. I pictured her on top of me in the backseat of a convertible speeding toward a canyon, both of
us coming at the same time in the air before we pull the ripcord on our parachutes and watch the convertible explode into a bouquet of flames on the canyon floor.

  Enrique snored quietly, his mouth cracked open.

  I want to make a little pit stop, if you don’t mind, Oliver said.

  Not at all, I said.

  It would be good to stretch out my legs, Ashley added. She arched her back and twisted her body to the side. Her shirt rose above her skirt and I could see the butterfly tattoo inked there, perched on her hip-bone, the wings splayed and green.

  The highway curved and Oliver took the next exit and made a left down another road and soon I could see the planes glittering on the horizon, lined up in a row like toys.

  What’s that? Ashley said.

  It’s an airplane graveyard, Oliver said. The world’s largest, supposedly.

  No shit, I said.

  When we were close enough to see the logos on the tailfins—the dark blue arrow of Delta, Virgin Atlantic’s scrawled handwriting, the abstract and smiling face of Alaska Airlines—Ashley fished out her digital camera from her backpack. What a trip, she said, and took a picture. There must be at least two hundred of them.

  Look at the doors and windows, Oliver said. They’re all taped over.

  How come?

  Probably to keep the dust out, I said.

  What I want to know is how the pilots who flew these planes got back to wherever they came from. Ashley snapped another picture.

  Good question.

  Oliver pulled off to the side of the road. Let’s check them out, he said.

  What about him? Ashley motioned toward Enrique, who was still sleeping with his head against the window.

  Screw him, I said.

  I already did, Ashley said, smiling.

  Oliver walked ahead and his boots kicked up beige clouds of dust. He hopped over the chain-link fence first, then me. Ashley climbed the fence last because she didn’t want Oliver or me to peek under her skirt while she went over. Once we all made it over the fence we headed toward a 747. In the chrome of the fuselage we could see our reflections, distorted like a carnival mirror. Ashley reached up and slid her hand across the aircraft as if she were petting a whale. Jesus, she said to herself.

  Oliver dug up a stone and tossed it at the plane’s tailfin and it gonged like a church bell.