Cote Smith - Hurt People

“That spot just won’t grow,” the woman said. Her voice was the same as the one that came out of our dad’s box, only less staticky. “All the neighbor kids use it as base when they play hide-and-go-seek. You boys from around here?”

“We used to live there,” my brother said, and pointed at the woman. Or, he pointed through the woman and at our old house. “But we don’t anymore.”

“Oh,” the woman said. She twisted around and studied the house, as if she didn’t already know what it looked like, as if she didn’t live here every day. “Oh, OK. I didn’t think I’d seen you before. Would you like to come in or something? Are your parents around?”

“We can’t,” my brother said. “Our dad’s waiting.”

“Oh,” the woman said. “OK. Well.” Her eyebrows arched up, like she wanted to say more, or help in some way. Then her phone rang, startling the woman into a jump.

“That sounds like our phone,” I said.

“Do you have one like it? I love the darn thing. I can take it anywhere! The only thing is that sometimes I pick up other people’s calls.” She laughed. “Makes me feel like a spy or something. Anyway.”

I looked at the phone, at this woman who wasn’t my mother. I looked at the cruiser parked out front, my dad listening in.

“We have to go,” my brother said, and took off as the woman said it was nice meeting you. I followed slowly behind, wondering how my dad could do this.

We got in the car. The static box wasn’t on. My dad put his notepad in my brother’s lap. He told him to hold it, and put the cruiser in drive. Well, how was it? he wanted to know. I sat against the door and was glad I could stare out the window as we drove, happy that I didn’t have to look at my dad. We stopped at a light across from the women’s prison. A police cruiser exited the facility and drove past us, the driver nodding in our direction. Our dad nodded back. He asked again how it went. What did we think of the old place?

“It was OK,” my brother said.

I kept my eyes on the prison. One woman was roaming the grounds, no guard in sight. I wanted to roll down the window, tell her to run.

“Look at that,” my dad said. He shook his head. “That’s somebody’s mother, or wife maybe. Can you believe that? Man, if she were my wife—”

I took the notepad, still open to MW, resting in my brother’s lap, and studied the letters. “If she were my wife,” my dad repeated, and again I didn’t listen to the rest. I was too focused on the M and the W. In my mind I took the two letters and I separated them. I pulled them apart, putting enough space between them so that I could fill in the missing pieces.

“Son?” my dad said.

“What,” I said.

“I asked you about the old house.”

I closed the pad and looked out the window. The woman was still standing there, staring in our direction. She raised her hand and waved, turned on her heel, and walked back toward the prison. “It wasn’t what I remembered,” I said.

The light turned green and my dad eased off the brake. “No,” he said. “I imagine it can’t be.”

* * *

My mother came home in a bad mood and yelled at us before I could even think about telling her what I had found out about my dad, how he had been using our phone to spy on her. Her face was tight and makeup-less, her mouth small, like she was ready for a fight. She paced around our small apartment like a cartoon bull or wolf, ready to blow the whole place down. Finally she grabbed the phone out of the kitchen, the new box of wine she’d brought home, and went to her room. Stay out and play, she said through the door. Give me peace.

We went to our room and played with our toys, but through our thin wall we could hear everything our mother said. She called Sandy and was complaining about Rick. She had confronted him about what had happened at the golf course. She told him in no uncertain terms to never touch us again. That wasn’t his place. Not his job. And Rick said, What is my job then? Whose job is it to make sure your little shits don’t screw up their lives? Because it doesn’t look like you’re up to it. Or their asshole father. That’s when my mother had slapped Rick. She didn’t mean to, it wasn’t premeditated or anything, but she had done it. Out of instinct, she said. And to be honest, it felt good. It seemed like a mistake now, not the way to handle things, but at the time nothing felt better.

She went quiet for a while on the phone, listening to Sandy and replying with the occasional “mm-hm” and “I know.” I pictured my dad out in the parking lot, listening in. I pictured him jotting short notes in his police pad. R hit boys? MW slapped R. R & MW split? He would underline the last line, maybe draw a smile next to it.

I stopped listening and tried to play with my toys, like my brother was his. He was in the middle of one of his epic plots. One man had a tough decision to make. Should he go after the gang who wiped out his entire family, a journey he knew could take the rest of his life, cost him who knows what, or should he stay behind with his new bride, the sister of his fallen wife, and start a new family? The man was having a terrible time deciding. The sister pleaded with him to stay, to appreciate what he had here in front of him. There’s nothing out there but more sorrow, she said. More misery. If you go, you’ll never find anything good again.

My brother made the man nod, as if in agreement. He put the toy man’s hand to his toy chin to make him think. He gave the man a monologue. Maybe it would be better to stay. Maybe his new wife was right. The man turned and looked at the wife. He extended his plastic hand and put it to his wife’s plastic cheek. He wants to stay, I thought. Make him stay.

* * *

There was a loud pounding on our apartment door. My brother and I were sleeping in the living room. The hallway light flicked on and through sleepy eyes we watched as our mother shuffled to the door in a tank top and short shorts. She undid the chain and told whoever was knocking to hold their horses.

Rick burst in. He brushed past my mother and turned on the kitchen and living room lights, stunning my senses.

“Hey,” my mother said. “Hey, hey.”

Rick ignored her. He stomped into the living room and almost stepped on my brother and me with his work boots. His eyes were red, I assumed from the gasoline he reeked of.

“You two rubes need to go to your room,” he said. “Hear me?” My brother and I sat up, confused. I scooted my back to the box fan. “Hello?” Rick said, cupping his good hand over his mouth to make a megaphone. “Earth to morons. Come in, morons. Get your asses to your room. Your mother and I need to talk.”

“Rick,” my mother said, “we’ve done our talking for the day. Go home.”

“I know that,” he said. “But I didn’t say what I wanted to say.” He stepped around my brother and eased himself into the couch, careful not to bump his injured arm, wrapped in a new sling, a darker blue than the one before. “I feel like … I feel like I let my anger get the best of me. Earlier. But now I’m ready for a real sit-down.” He patted the empty spot next to him. “So sit down.”

My mother rubbed her arms like it was cold. “Boys, you better go to your room. Take your fort with you.”

My brother stood up, pillow in hand like a shield. “Why do we have to go? We were here first.”

“Just do it, OK?” my mother said, her voice remaining calm. “Because I said so.”

“So,” my brother said.

Rick laughed. “See, that’s what I’m talking about. They don’t listen.” He leaned back in the couch and scratched the skin beneath his sling. “Boys need rules. That’s what I was trying to tell you. If not, they run wild. Go down the wrong road.”