My dad came back from the kitchen holding a tall glass of orange juice and set it before me on the coffee table.
Thanks, Pops, I said. I lifted the glass to my lips and drank.
He sat back down on the chair, huffing. So, Enrique, my dad began. Your mother tells me that you have a girlfriend now.
Yep.
Allie, is it?
Ashley.
Right, right, Ashley, my dad said. That’s a pretty name.
Yes, it is.
How long have you two been together?
She’s in the car, Enrique said.
Oh, my dad said, frowning. Why didn’t you invite her in? My dad turned to me, confused, then back to Enrique. I thought you guys would be here for a while. I thought we could catch up.
You thought wrong, Enrique said.
I set the glass of orange juice down on the coffee table. Dad, I said.
What is it?
I looked at the bowl of empty peanut shells and imagined my father breaking them open, twisting them in his hands. I looked at Enrique, his profile, the little muscle twitching along his jaw line.
I know, I know, my dad said, shaking his head slowly, side to side. What I did was wrong. And I apologize, to both of you. I should’ve never abandoned you guys the way I did.
Enrique chuckled and looked down at the backpack.
What? my dad said.
You don’t get it, do you? Enrique said. That wasn’t the problem. We were glad you left. We were never so damn happy, to be honest.
He leaned forward in his chair. Now, Son, I know I wasn’t the best father to you.
To say the least, Enrique shot back.
I’m sorry, I’m truly sorry.
I know you are, Dad, I said.
Enrique put his hand up in front of my face. Don’t, he said. Just stay out of it.
What’s going on here? my dad wanted to know.
What are you sorry about? Enrique asked him.
My dad opened his mouth, but nothing came out.
Tell me, Enrique said, his voice rising. What exactly are you sorry about?
My dad bowed his head and wove his fingers together and said something under his breath.
What’s that?
Hitting you, he mumbled.
Louder.
Hitting you, he repeated. I’m sorry I ever hit you, Enrique. I was wrong and—
Are you sorry for all the times you beat me? Enrique said.
Yes, of course.
Like the time I went over a rock with the lawn mower?
Yes, Son.
And the time I scratched up the ceiling with the ladder?
Yes.
How about when you kicked me in the leg after I spilled juice on your goddamn sofa chair?
Yes.
And when I tracked mud into the house and got it all over the carpet?
Yes.
I was barely nine years old, Enrique said. Nine, he yelled.
My dad fell silent. I could hear the clock on the wall behind him, softly breaking the seconds.
How about the time I came home late from a party and you punched me in the stomach and then pushed my face in my own vomit? Are you sorry you did that?
Yes, Son.
And the time I accidentally broke the aquarium in the living room?
Yes.
How about this? Enrique said. He opened his mouth and ran the tip of his forefinger along his bottom teeth. These here are fake, he said. You knocked the real ones out.
My dad dropped his face into his hands. He stayed like that for a while and then he glanced up at Enrique. I’m sorry, Son, he said. Please, let me make it up to you.
Oh, yeah? And how are you going to do that? Enrique reached down and unzipped the backpack.
Stop, I said.
Stay out of this, Marcus, he yelled. The cords in his neck stood out and his face bloomed red.
Enrique, please, stop screaming, my dad said.
How are you going to make it up to me? Enrique asked again. How?
As soon as I move back into the house, I’ll show—
Move back into the house? Enrique said, jerking his head back. You’re not moving back into the house. I just told you we were happy you left.
But I haven’t been, Enrique. It’s been very difficult for me not having you two in my life.
Boo fuckin’ hoo.
My dad rubbed his hands together. He sighed. Look, he said. I’ve changed, I’m different now.
I can tell, Pops, I said. What I couldn’t tell was how long the change would last.
Oh, you’ve changed, have you? Enrique said.
I’m not who I was a year ago. I went and got some help, he said. A psychiatrist, like we did for you.
Enrique started clapping sarcastically. Bravo, he said. Bravo, Dad. He went and got some help. Brav-o.
I’ve been treated, Son. I don’t have those urges anymore.
Enrique stopped clapping. What kind of urges would that be?
My dad said nothing. He leaned back in his chair and folded his hands on his lap and closed his eyes.
What urges? Enrique repeated.
Violent, he said.
Really? They’re gone now?
My dad opened his eyes. Yes, Enrique.
Soon after you left, I beat the shit out of Chuck Phillips, Enrique said. Didn’t I, Marcus?
I nodded.
You should’ve seen me, Dad. You would’ve been proud. His face was like ground beef after I was through with him. Enrique looked at me and slapped my thigh. Isn’t that right?
I nodded again.
Hey, Marcus, remember that day when Scott Duval came to school with two black eyes?
Yeah, I said. I remember.
He looked like a panda bear, didn’t he?
I said nothing.
That was me, Enrique said. He turned to my dad. I did that to him. In junior high, he sat behind me in history class. He liked to smack the back of my head for no reason. I’d be writing notes or taking a quiz or whatever and then bam, he’d smack me. So, I guess you can call it payback, his two black eyes. But I had to wait until I was bigger than him. Smart move, don’t you think?
My dad kept quiet.
I took a sip of my orange juice and set it down. We should probably go, I said.
Say, Dad, do you think I’m bigger than you now?
My dad glanced over at Enrique. You’ve grown, Son. Both of you have.
I know, but do you think I’m bigger?
He glanced over at Enrique once more and rubbed his chin. Perhaps, he said.
You know, I’m not sure that I am, Enrique said. He studied his chest and arms, stretching them out before him. He turned both of his hands—palms up, palms down. Nope, I’m definitely not bigger, he said. Good thing I brought this with me.
Then he reached into the backpack and pulled out the gun.
My dad lifted up both of his hands and leaned back in his chair, startled. His body stiffened. Enrique, he said. What are you doing?
What do you think I’m doing? Enrique said.
My dad’s face went completely pale. Put down the gun, he said.
Fuck you.
Please, Son.
Don’t call me Son.
Enrique stood up from the couch and I stood with him. Okay, you’ve made your point, I said.
No, Marcus, I haven’t. Enrique stepped around the coffee table and kept the gun leveled, pointed directly at my dad’s face.
Don’t do this, he said.
Are you afraid? Enrique asked.
My dad swallowed hard. He looked as if he was about to choke on his own fear.
Answer me.
Enrique, don’t.
Are you afraid?
Yes, my dad said. I’m afraid, yes.
Good. You should be.
Come on, Enrique, I said.
Let me ask you something, Dad, Enrique continued. Did you think it was fair?
What are you talking about?
The beatings.
No, it wasn’t fair.
I mean, I was just a kid. I didn’t really have a chance, you know?
I’m sorry.
I was only this tall the first time. Enrique held his left hand out just below his shoulder.
My dad’s chin began to quiver.
I had no chance whatsoever, Enrique said.
I moved toward my brother from behind and gently placed my hand on his shoulder. He spun around quickly and his elbow jabbed me on the cheekbone. I dropped to the carpet. Pain sparked inside my skull and bloomed white. I turned over on my side and looked up at my brother, at the gun in his hand pointed between my dad’s eyes.
This is going to be messy, Enrique said.
Enrique, please stop, my dad said, his hands still up by his face, his eyes squeezed shut.
Anything you want to say before I pull the trigger?
Enrique, no.
I was lying there on the living room floor, the pain still pulsing in my skull like a heart, when I finally opened my mouth: It’s a starter pistol.
Shut up, Enrique yelled.
Dad, it’s a starter pistol, I said, standing up. It doesn’t even have bullets.
Yes, it does.
He’s lying.
Marcus, shut the fuck up!
My dad looked at me and I saw the terror slowly vanish from his face. He lowered his hands and his body relaxed, settling into his chair.
It’s loaded, Enrique shrieked, the gun still pointed at his head.
But it was too late: My dad believed me. Whatever power Enrique had held over him was now gone. I saw it in my brother’s face, his trembling mouth.
My dad stood up and casually took the gun out of his hand as if Enrique were passing him a television remote. Enrique’s arms dropped to his sides, his chest caved. When my dad tried to hug him, he lifted his hands and pushed. Get off me, he shouted.
I forgive you, my dad said.
Enrique shook his head in disbelief.
I moved around the couch and opened the door and walked out.
I’d heard and seen enough.
14
WE LEFT THE BEST Western early the next morning. The first drops of rain hit the windshield and smacked against the roof of the Buick like someone on a typewriter. Everyone was quiet as we headed out to San Francisco to see Oliver’s uncle, to pick up some uppers and whatever else he had for him.
I pulled down the sun visor and leaned into the little rectangular mirror there to get a closer look at where Enrique caught me with an elbow, my cheekbone swollen and purple like a plum. I touched the bruise gently and imagined my hands around my brother’s throat, squeezing.
The rain came down harder and the wipers went back and forth across the windshield. Catface meowed in the backseat. Oliver asked me if we were heading in the right direction and I just nodded. I wasn’t in the mood to talk.
Everyone in the car said as little as possible. We all, to some degree, hated one another.
The land around us was beige and lonely and the highway cut right through it. We came around a bend and we were surrounded by hills, and up along their backs there were windmills, hundreds of them—an army of white propellers whirling in the rain.
I was looking up at one of them, watching the giant blades turn sluggishly as if it were coming to a stop, when Oliver slammed on the brakes.
Up ahead there was a gray plume of smoke rising from a flipped-over truck, the windshield shattered into a mosaic of glass. On the shoulder of the highway there was a jackknifed horse trailer, silver and dented like a beer can.
Oh my God, Ashley said.
Oliver stopped the car and we all stepped out onto the road. I jogged toward the truck, where the driver was upside down and still seatbelted in. Enrique kneeled down and knocked on the driver-side window. The driver turned toward us, his forehead bloodied. He fumbled for the car door and slowly jerked open the cracked window.
Are you okay? I asked.
Ayúdame, the man said.
Oliver crouched and turned onto his back and reached up inside the car, struggling to release the seatbelt. Damn thing, he said. It’s stuck.
¿Necesitas un cuchillo? the man asked. His forehead was slashed with bits of glass stuck in it and the blood leaked into his hair.
Do you need a knife? I shouted.
No, I got it. There, Oliver said, and scooted out of the truck.
The man’s head was bent and his shoulders rested against the roof of the truck. Enrique and I reached in and pulled him gently out of the car like a newborn.
¿Qué pasó? I asked the man.
Un camión, he said. Él entró en mi vereda.
What’s he saying? Oliver asked.
He said another truck went into his lane.
Mi caballo, the man said, sitting up and looking at the ruined trailer. Mi caballo.
The rain came down fast and loud, soaking our clothes and flattening our hair against our foreheads.
The man rose and staggered over toward the trailer by the roadside and we followed him. Ashley was already standing there, her arms folded across her chest.
The man’s horse was vanilla white and spotted with tan freckles. One of his hindquarters was twisted grotesquely where a bone poked through the skin. Blood seeped out of the wound and down his ruined leg and dripped into the muddy earth. The horse snorted and twitched and whinnied, his eyes big as Ping-Pong balls.
A guttural sound came out of the man’s throat and he began to weep, his hand over his mouth. Ay, Dios mío, he said. Mi caballo lindo.
We stood there beside the man with the rain pelting us and looked down at the horse, the horror in his eyes.
Traffic backed up on both lanes. A woman in a BMW looked on with her mouth half open while a child in the backseat made squiggles on the fogged-up window with his fingertip. A man on a cell phone stepped out of his car and ran toward us, the rain darkening his shirt. The police are on the way, he said. Is anyone hurt?
He is, Oliver said, pointing to the man stumbling over to his ruined truck. He got on his hands and knees and reached up into the smashed-out window on the passenger side. He unlatched the glove compartment and all its contents dropped onto the roof of the truck. Then he was coming toward us through the downpour, carrying a gun and mumbling something in Spanish.
What the hell? Enrique said.
The man on the cell phone turned around and hurried back to his car, his shoes splashing on the highway. He’d already done all he was capable of doing.
The horse grunted and the rain spattered against his body. The man crouched down with his gun and rubbed the horse’s neck.
I can’t watch this, Ashley said, and walked back to our car.
We stood there—me, Enrique, and Oliver—and watched the man consoling his animal. There was only one option and the man held it in his hand. It was a Colt .45, long-barreled and steel blue.
Lo siento, he said, and stood up and pointed the revolver at the horse’s head.
Enrique turned away. Oliver turned away. I didn’t.
Lo siento, the man said again.
The horse groaned and it sounded like there was thunder inside him. There was a long pause and it seemed as if I could count the raindrops if I wanted to.
The man lowered the gun and covered his eyes with his hand. No puedo, he said.
Enrique turned around, then Oliver.
Por favor, the man said, alguno de ustedes.
What did he say? Oliver asked.
He wants one of us to do it, Enrique said.
The man cried and grabbed the revolver by the barrel and held it toward us. Yo no puedo, he said.
The horse snorted loudly, his body shuddered and flinched.
Por favor, the man said. Mi caballo está sufriendo.
Enrique turned and walked toward our car with his hands shoved deep in his pockets.
The man held the revolver out for Oliver, who folded his arms and took a step back. No way, uh-uh, he said.
The man held
the gun toward me. Le pido, he said, weeping.
I took the revolver from him and the man pulled the hammer back for me. En la cabeza, he said, and tapped his forehead with his middle finger. Aquí, he said, and then walked away. His legs buckled under him and he hit the pavement. The woman in the BMW jumped out of her car. She held her umbrella over the man while another motorist rolled up his jacket and placed it under his head. Oliver turned away and headed back to the Buick.
I was alone with the horse. The rain came down and the puddles splashed around me in a thousand little explosions and the horse grunted and shook violently, his eyes wild and helpless.
I looked at the revolver in my hand and saw that my nubby finger wouldn’t reach around the trigger. I thought of the brick that severed it, how seconds before Enrique was sitting cross-legged on the grass as I pedaled toward the ramp. I thought how soon after I lost my finger my dad beat Enrique for the first time.
I switched the revolver over to my left hand and it felt strange holding the gun that way, like I was using someone else’s hand, someone else’s fingers.
I aimed between the horse’s eyes. If I had known a prayer I would’ve said it then, but it wouldn’t have mattered anyway. We were two different animals. The horse understood things like field and hay, sunlight and sky. Not mercy.
I pulled the trigger and the gun blast threw me down onto the wet pavement. My ears buzzed and rang like feedback from a guitar and were still ringing when the police arrived and kept on ringing all the way home.
15
MY DAD CALLED MY mom soon after Enrique and I left his apartment and told her everything that happened. When Oliver dropped us off the next day late in the afternoon and we walked into the house, she went off. What were you two thinking? You lied to me. You said you were going to Las Vegas. I can’t believe you would do such a thing. Where in the hell did you get the gun? Marcus, what happened to your face? I didn’t raise you two to behave like animals. How can I ever trust you again? Marcus, go put some ice on your face.
I went into the kitchen and opened the freezer and packed a Ziploc bag with some ice cubes. Then I went upstairs into my room and closed the door and lay on the bed with the bag of ice pressed to my cheek. I thought about the horse. I thought about my dad and Enrique and the horse again, always the horse, broken and shaking in the rain.
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