Cote Smith - Hurt People

“Oh, hush,” Sandy said. “You’ve already eaten.”

“I’ve thought the same thing, to be honest,” my mother said. “I mean, we were so young … but I never acted on it. That’s the difference.”

Steamboat walked over to Sandy and whined. “What? I don’t know what you want,” Sandy said. “You’ve had your fill. Go on.”

“But now I think … I mean, I just don’t know how long we can live like this. What if something goes wrong? What if the van has quit for good or something happens and we need to go to the doctor?” Sandy took my mother’s hand. “We just, we need help,” my mother said. “That’s all.”

“I know you do,” Sandy said.

Above them the ceiling fan whirred. Steamboat put his head in Sandy’s lap and whined, until she scratched his head and said OK. It’s going to be OK.

* * *

When the wine box was empty, my mother said we should get going. She had an angry son at home.

“Do you want to call a cab?” Sandy said. “You don’t want me driving.”

My mother said no, she didn’t have the money for that. But it was fine, she knew whom she could call. He should be off by now. Sandy showed her the phone in the living room, returned to the kitchen, where I was petting Steamboat. She asked me if we ever had a dog, and I said yes, but not anymore.

“He was a German shepherd,” I said. “His name was Baron.”

“How nice,” Sandy said. “Was he a retired police dog?”

“I don’t know. He was old.”

“Well, I’m sure you were very kind to him. I bet you treated him like a brother, didn’t you?”

My mother returned.

“He’s on his way,” she said. She gave Sandy a big hug, told her she could never thank her enough. Sandy said to hang in there and walked us to the door. She petted the side of my head like I petted Steamboat.

“I know it might not seem like you have much,” she said, “at times. But you have this beautiful boy. And a bigger one just as good.” She flipped on the porch light, so it wasn’t so dark out there. “Let’s let that count for something.”

* * *

Outside, the rain had stopped. The sky had cleared in parts, forming small pools of stars, and a bright white moon lit the path ahead.

The van was where we left it, the way we left it, broken and alone. I rubbed its side mirror and said I was sorry for leaving it behind. I promised it wouldn’t happen again.

Rick showed a few minutes later, windows rolled down, bad music blasting.

“Look who comes crawling back,” he said. He grabbed a flashlight and some tools out of his trunk. “You two stay on the curb. Let Rick the fix-it take a look.” But Rick didn’t have any better luck than my mother, though he did know a good mechanic, someone who owed him a favor and would tow our piece of junk for free. He put his tools away and opened the door for my mother and me.

The back of the car was a disaster, full of greasy clothes, golf cart parts, used or stolen pro shop supplies. An air freshener in the shape of a racecar hung from the windshield, but did little to mask the strong smell of gasoline. At the golf course, I once saw Rick show up early for his shift to fill gas cans he must’ve brought from home — pumping from the same white tank used for the golf carts — and sneak them off to his car when no one was looking. I never told my mother this or discussed it with my brother, imagining that if I ever got in trouble with Rick down the road, this information would be valuable. That I could somehow use it against him.

My mother sat in between Rick and me, so I could have the only working seat belt. After we got on the road, Rick put his arm around my mother and pinched my neck. “I thought testicles traveled in twos. Where’s your bro?”

“At home,” my mother said.

“Doing what?”

“Waiting.”

“Oh, I get it. You’re bonding with the baby,” Rick said, and flicked my other ear, much harder than my brother ever would.

“Cut it out!” I yelled.

“Whoa, look at this guy. Look at how upset he gets when he’s away from his brother. Do not separate the two.”

My mother put her head back and closed her eyes. “Rick, my head is killing me.”

Rick sniffled. At the golf course he always complained about his allergies, saying you had to be pretty stupid to make someone work a job they were allergic to. Then he’d laugh and say, but hey, that’s the government for you.

“You didn’t let me finish,” Rick said. “I was gonna say him and his bro are lucky. I had a brother growing up, but we weren’t thick as thieves like them two.”

I tried to imagine a younger Rick, a Rick with a brother. I pictured the two of them riding around in Rick’s cart, chucking water balloons at little girls and laughing.

“We were always at each other’s throat. My dad used to throw shit at us, we got so loud.” He sniffled again, wiped his nose on his arm. “My mom said we would grow out of it, but we never did. I hated my brother and I still do. I don’t know where he is, and I don’t care. If I saw him today, all he’d have to do is grin that shit-eating grin and my hate would be just the same.”

We took a right at a stoplight, onto Limit Street. When we were a couple blocks away we saw a police car’s reds and blues lighting up a family’s driveway. An officer was talking to a father on the front step. A boy and a girl watched from behind the screen door, clutching their pillows as if they were precious treasure.

“Did your brother visit you in prison?” I said, and I could feel my mother open her eyes, alarmed at my question.

“No,” Rick said. “Nobody did. That shit only happens in movies.”

“What about your parents?”

“You don’t have to answer that,” my mother said to Rick. “He’ll be quiet now. Won’t you?”

Yes, I said, and we were silent the rest of the way. I put my cheek to the window and shut my eyes, not sleeping but not thinking either, until I heard the turn signal click and felt the familiar dip of our apartment’s lot. My mother pushed me out, and we walked halfway to our building’s door before she told me to stop.

“You didn’t thank him, did you? Run back and thank him. Hurry.” I asked her if I had to, and she said yes. He helped us, didn’t he? Since when do we not thank those who lend us a hand?

I ran to Rick’s car, idling in the parking lot. He was watching us, waiting to see that we got in safe.

“Thank you,” I said.

“Wasn’t a thing,” Rick said. He put the car in drive, but kept his foot on the brake. He leaned his head out the window and looked past me, at my mother. He sank back into his seat, gripped the steering wheel tight, like it was a balloon that would fly into the sky if he ever let it go.

“You’ve got a good mother,” he said. “You like being with her, and so do I. But if you think she’d ever visit you or your brother in prison, you’re dead wrong.” He turned up the radio, reached for a seat belt that wasn’t there. “Nobody wants to see living proof of the mistakes they’ve made.”

THE STRANGER STORY was ruined by the storm. It had slipped my mind until we stepped inside our building, the halls and stairwell buzzing with lights and things unseen. But as we made our way up the stairs, I remembered what we were returning to, my seething brother, waiting with closed fists for me, the liar. I pushed my hand into my pocket, so I could have the editorial ready to show him before he pummeled me. Here , I would say, hands up in surrender. Don’t shoot. Don’t shoot . In reality, what I pulled out of my pocket wasn’t paper. It was a watered-down wad, a spitball that came apart in my hand when I tried to unfold it. I sighed. My evidence, my chance at forgiveness, was gone.