I knew to lie. My parents had been drunks, out of work drunken bums but they never laid a hand on me or Tracker. It was their one saving grace. But I'd heard all the pounding and shouts on the phone with Craig, and I'd seen how he got so mad and near tears when I'd bumped into him playing basketball. It shouldn't have really hurt that much, unless, of course, he was hurt already. Which he was. I could see it now. So when he said with the fake casualness, when he said, "did your parents hit you?" I knew what to say back.
"Yeah. All the time. But I guess you wouldn't understand that," I said, and sat on the railroad tracks. I peeked at him and saw the look of relief on his face. A look like now maybe someone would understand.
"No. I totally get it. My dad, he, he hits me, too," Craig was picking up the little rocks that surround the tracks, tossing them aside.
"It went beyond hitting," I said, and I kind of felt guilty for lying to him. But I thought it was the best way to go. It was the only way he'd admit things, "it was worse than just hitting. I had to get out of there,"
He wasn't looking at me beyond quick glances, and the rocks he was throwing were going further and with more force. The sun was just shining down on us full force, but fall was around the corner.
"Yeah," he said, "me, too. My dad, he doesn't just hit me. He gets so angry, and I make him angry. I used to think it was all my fault. I guess it is, but what the hell does he want from me? I'm not fucking perfect,"
He turned to me, looked at me with that look that's hard to describe. Like he was sad and angry at the same time, kinda.
"No," I said, "I know what you mean," I felt in over my head. I didn't really know what he meant, but in a way I did. I used to blame myself for my parents drinking and quitting their jobs and us never having shit, sometimes I blamed myself. But mostly I blamed them.
"He'll strap me with that belt, he'll grab onto my wrists, throw me against walls, kick me, punch me," Craig wasn't looking at me as he confessed this. He was looking off into the distance and I was quiet, not knowing what to say or do. What do you do with this?
"Just yesterday he did it, he trashed my darkroom, and when I went down there he followed me and well, you know," I just stared at him. Jesus.
"Uh, yeah," I said.
"And today, on the phone with you. He was beating down my door with a fucking golf club, and if I hadn't gotten out of there he would have beat me with it. So I'm leaving,"
Shit. Jesus. But where was he gonna go? British Columbia? What in the hell would he do there? He'd be living on the street.
"Look, Craig, c'mon. Where are you gonna go? You'll just end up on the streets. I mean, look. I moved in with my brother. Isn't there anyone you can stay with? Like maybe Joey?"
The scowl. Throwing more rocks.
"Joey? Joey doesn't want me to have anything to do with him or Angela, just like my dad said,"
"Even if we explain it to him? Or, um, if you do? He's your step-father, I'm sure he wouldn't want you staying with your dad if you're getting beat-"
"Joey doesn't care," Craig said quick, "he just wants me to be out of his life, he said it this afternoon,"