Cote Smith - Hurt People

My brother paused.

“What happened?” I said.

“I don’t know,” he said. “That’s all he told me. Said he would tell me the rest next time I saw him. But I haven’t seen him since.” He stood up and brushed off his shorts. “There, now you know some stuff. Happy?”

He started down the ladder, told me to hurry up. He didn’t want to get grounded again. I climbed down and sat in the cart, and my brother put his arm around me and drove. I thought about the story he’d just told. How sad it made me feel, how it felt like a secret my brother shouldn’t have shared. We rolled through the hills like this. Once in the garage, we parked the cart in the back, in the dark where it belonged. We left the key in the ignition, the rabbit’s foot where we found it.

* * *

When we got to the pro shop, Rick was there, not our mother. His arm was in a blue sling that looked homemade from a pillowcase. This didn’t stop him from pointing to his wrist, giving his big Rick grin.

“Hey, hey!” Rick said. “Look who it is!” He raised his good arm, readying the imaginary crowd for his grand announcement. “Gather ’round, everybody! They’ve returned! It’s Duh and Little Duh, Duh’s dumber brother!” We mumbled hello. “So where the hell have you been?” Rick said.

“Nowhere,” my brother said.

“Ooh, that sounds nice. Have to go there sometime. Where is nowhere, by the way? A block away from nothing, down the street from wherever?”

“Leave us alone,” my brother said. “We didn’t do anything.”

We tried to hurry by Rick, but he stepped in front of my brother, not letting us pass.

“That’s funny, because earlier I stepped outside to have a chew and you know what I saw? I saw two little shits driving my cart around. You shitheads know anything about that?”

“No,” my brother said, and he looked right at Rick. His mouth didn’t drop, giving away his lie.

“Oh, right, right, of course you don’t. Because if you did, you know there’d be a whupping coming your way. You’d get a big old piece of Rick’s wrath.”

“Where’s our mom?” my brother said.

“Hey, let’s not get off subject now. I’m still curious about the cart.”

“Is she in the van?”

Rick wrinkled his tan face, annoyed that my brother wasn’t taking him seriously. “Listen,” he said. “I saw you goons out there. Now ’fess up or we’re gonna have problems. Even one-armed Rick is still a man you don’t want to mess with.”

My brother looked around. There were no customers nearby, no signs of our mother. “Fine,” he said. “We drove the cart around a little bit. You’re the dumb one who leaves your key in the ignition.”

Rick nodded to himself, scratched the side of his stubbly face. He let out a big breath and I could smell the cheap cafeteria beer. Flecks of chew speckled his chin.

There was a pop, a wet smack.

I heard the slap before I saw anything, before I could realize what happened. I looked at my brother, now on the ground, rubbing his head. Rick stood over him, holding his good hand in the air. He turned to me. “You two think you can do whatever you want,” he said. “Just like your dad. Where do you want it?”

I shook my head, even though it wasn’t a yes-or-no question.

“Your punishment,” Rick said. “Where do you want it? The head or your rear.”

“I didn’t do anything,” I said.

“You didn’t stop anything either. Know what that’s called? Called an accomplice. Called guilty by association. You do time for that, too.”

“Leave him alone,” my brother said, still on the ground. He kept one eye closed, as if that would shut out the pain. “You can’t punish us. You’re not—”

“That’s right. I most certainly am not,” Rick said. “Know how you can tell? ’Cause I’m not a cheater. I would never do that to your mother. She might be a pain in the ass like you boys, but she’s still one of the good ones.” He adjusted the strap on his sling. “Besides,” he laughed, “who’d want to be your dad right now? I’ve seen the paper. The man couldn’t catch a cold.”

The word cold made me think of my dad curled up on the couch, shirtless and alone.

“Shut up,” I said.

Rick laughed. “Or what, retard? You gonna call the fuzz? He can’t help you, OK?” He stuck out his hurt arm, the one he always used to pinch us, and poked my chest. “Face it, moron, Father Fuzz is a failure.”

Later that night, when I was in my bed, my brother snoring above me, I replayed the day in my head. It was then I realized that it must’ve been me who screamed that high-pitched noise, announcing my attack. At the time, I only saw Rick’s sling, swinging lazily in front of my face. Teasing me until I couldn’t take it anymore, until my mind must have gone white with rage. And then I must’ve screamed. All of this right before I grabbed Rick’s hurt arm and pulled down as hard as I could.

Rick cried out in pain. His good arm flailed until he caught my head by my hair. I tried to twist away and find my brother, who was on the ground clutching his stomach. Rick must have hit him when I went for his arm. “Goddammit,” Rick said. “Why the hell would you do that?”

“Let me go.”

“No, no, no. I was gonna let you off easy. A smack on the ass or something. But now…” His grip on my hair tightened. My face felt like a mask Rick was ripping off. “Now you’re in for a real treat. But don’t worry, it’s in your best interest. You won’t do anything stupid any time soon.”

He dragged me to the cafeteria and threw me in a chair. There was no one here either. The grill was no longer going.

“Man, did you step in it,” Rick said. “Stepped in it big time.” He let go of my head and began to undo his belt buckle, which he had welded in prison. “I’m doing this for your mother, you know. She may hate it here, but there are worse places. Worse things in life.”

He licked his thumb and wiped a dirt spot off his buckle, twisted around to put it in his back pocket, already occupied by a puck of chew. This was my chance to escape. But when I tried to get up, Rick’s good arm flew out and caught me by the thigh.

“Sit,” he said, and his fingers sank into my leg like animal fangs, shooting a sharp shock down my entire side. “Stay.”

He slid the belt off his waist and held it by its tail, like it was a deadly snake ready to strike. I rubbed my leg, sure I would never use it again.

“What are you doing?” I said.

“Good question,” Rick said. “Let me show you.” He grabbed me by my neck and threw me over his lap, on top of his oil-stained jeans. “Think of it as preventative medicine,” he said, and folded his belt in half in front of my face, so I knew exactly what was coming.

I closed my eyes and prayed for my brother. I hoped that he was faking hurt, that he would sneak up on Rick and put him in a choke hold, a combat move we had sort of learned from our dad, but were never supposed to use. Unless it was an emergency.

“Let him go,” a voice said, soft. It couldn’t belong to my brother. I opened my eyes and lifted my head. It was Sandy. Standing alone, her hair imprisoned by a hairnet, a small frying pan in her hand.

“Oh, mind your own damn business,” Rick said. He wrapped the belt around his good hand, tested the tightness of his grip. “He broke the rules, so he gets punished. He gets the same treatment as me and you.”

“Maybe,” Sandy said. “But that’s not up to you.”

Rick stopped what he was doing. He rested both of his arms on my back and gave Sandy his attention. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means you should leave the punishment to the parents and go on about your business.”