Cote Smith - Hurt People

We decided to wait inside.

My brother leaned against the porch’s screen door, seeking relief from the heat, or maybe listening for the pool.

“What are we going to do?” I said. “We have nothing to do.”

“You’re going to shut up,” my brother said, his tone taking on our mother’s. “That’s what you’re going to do.”

He got up and brushed by me, purposely nudging me with his knee as he passed. In the kitchen he took an ice tray out of the freezer and slammed it against the counter, much harder than necessary. He dropped a few cubes into a glass, filled it with cloudy city water, and drank it all without coming up for air.

“I didn’t do anything,” I said. “Don’t tell me to shut up.” Outside, I heard sprinkles of rain. I slid the glass door shut and faced my brother. He came out of the kitchen with his glass of ice cubes.

“Oh yeah?” he said. “Watch this: Shut. Up.” He crunched an ice cube with his mouth open. Broken bits littered the carpet.

“Fine,” I said. “Be a jerk.”

“I’m not the jerk,” my brother said. “Mom’s the jerk. You’re the jerk. Baby.”

“I’m not a baby,” I said.

My brother laughed. “Hm, could’ve fooled me.” He reared his head back to chomp more ice, his teeth gnashing it into chunk after chunk.

“You’re the baby,” I said.

“Oh yeah?” my brother said.

“Yeah. You won’t even ask Chris anything. You’re too afraid.”

He stopped his chewing and set his glass down on the bookcase. The A book, which showed the woman’s naked anatomy, was slightly pulled out from the last time my brother looked at it when our mother was gone. He took a step toward me and told me to apologize.

“For what,” I said. “For you being a baby and a jerk? A baby jerk?”

My brother balled up his hand. “Say you’re sorry.”

“No,” I said. “It’s not my fault you’re a jerk. A jerk worse than Ric—”

I didn’t get to finish his name. My brother let out a yell and charged at me. I wasn’t ready for him, and my body flew like my brother’s did when I pushed him into the pool. I heard a loud thud and didn’t realize it was my head hitting the glass door that went to our porch. I was on the floor with my hand held to my head but I didn’t get why. I was crying but didn’t understand that either. I wanted to sleep, but somewhere my dad wouldn’t stop playing a record. The record was a country one and it kept skipping. The singer sang, I’m sorry, darling, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to. Over and over. It sounded like the singer could cry too. I opened my eyes and tried to focus them past the throbbing. The singer reached out to me, still singing I’m sorry , and rubbed my shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” my brother said. “I didn’t mean to.”

My mother walked in at that moment and the record went away. She saw the living room, me on the floor and my brother standing over me, and gasped. It could have been a crime scene.

“What happened? What did you do to your brother?”

“We were playing is all,” my brother lied. “He wanted to play.”

“Stand up,” she said to me. She didn’t take out a small notebook to jot case notes down, like she should have. Her eyes were all over the room. “Is your brother telling the truth?” This wasn’t good interrogation technique, our dad would say if this was a movie. You never interview suspects two at a time. Not at the crime scene. You pull them aside and shake them down one by one. Otherwise, one person’s idea of the truth gets passed on to another, until everyone is remembering what happened the same way, even if that memory has big blind gaps, or is one large lie. “Is he?” she said.

Of course, there were other ways the interview could go wrong. One suspect could use another’s story against him. In my case, I could listen patiently to everything my brother said, true or untrue, then tell my mother no, it happened just the opposite.

“Well?” my mother said.

I rubbed my head where a bump was coming up. “I wasn’t playing,” I said. “He shoved me for no reason.”

“That’s not true,” my brother said. He looked at me like he couldn’t believe I was lying, even if it was just a little bit. “He kept calling me names.”

“No, I didn’t,” I lied. “He’s been doing this for months. Hitting me all the time. Making me do things I don’t want to do.”

“Is that true?” my mother said.

“No!” my brother said. “He’s making it up.”

“It is too true. He said if I don’t do everything he wants, Dad will never come back, and it will be all my fault.”

“I never said that!” my brother said, so dumbfounded that he started to laugh.

“You think hurting your brother is funny?” my mother said.

“He’s lying.”

“What’s wrong with his head?” my mother said. “Why is there a red spot? Is he making that up too?”

My brother turned away. He said he was sorry again, and for some reason didn’t try to further explain himself with the truth. My mother said my brother would be sorry from his room tonight. That was her verdict. The interview was over. The case was closed.

“You know, I came back with good news,” she said. “The van is fixed. I left it running outside. I wanted to grab you boys and go out for ice cream.” She looked at my brother. “But you made a mess of it, didn’t you?”

“Who cares about ice cream?” my brother said. “You can’t make everything better with ice cream. Dad sucks. You suck. This city sucks. I hate this damn family.”

“Hey!” our mother said again, and she looked at me as if to confirm that it was my brother who just said these mean things. “You can go to your room right now,” she said. “I’ll tell you when it’s time to come out.”

My brother kicked the TV as he stormed back to our room. I didn’t want to look at my mother. I was afraid if she took a good look, she would see right through me, the lies I had created.

“The van’s still running,” my mother said, her voice quiet. “How about we get some ice cream to put on that bump of yours.”

I thought about my brother, alone in our room, using our toys to act out the pain he would later put on me. I turned and looked at the glass door. There was a small smudge where my face had hit.

“Don’t worry,” my mother said. “We’ll get some for him, too. A peace offering.”

I said OK and we went out to the van. It should have felt good to ride up front.

* * *

We went to the same fast-food place my dad took us to, though it was different after dinnertime. All the big men were out of uniform and in their stained jeans. They wore shirts that told you the kind of car they owned, or dreamed of driving. They brought their wives and kids with them, and most didn’t talk to either as they spooned scoop after scoop of ice cream. A few teens entered and exited, laughing, but the men kept straight faces.

My mother ordered two small cones for here and a sundae to go. The sundae came in a cup with a clear dome lid. I put my hand around the base to feel the warmth of the hot fudge racing to the bottom, melting the ice cream. There wouldn’t be much left by the time we got home. “We should have gotten this to go,” my mother said. “That would have been the smart thing.” I nibbled away my cone’s chocolate shell. “Though it’s nice having some alone time with my baby boy. And I’m not sure your brother deserves much of anything tonight.”

“He’s not that bad,” I said. I took a bite of my ice cream cone, leaning over the booth’s table. The person before us had left an issue of the local newspaper, sports page up.

“You’re just too sweet,” my mother said. “Always have been. Mr. Marshmallow.” Her words seemed like a trick. She was saying nice things to pile on the guilt, to make me confess about the lies I had told about my brother. But once this story was out, I knew I would only feel relieved until she asked what else I was hiding.