"What are you doing here?"
I was sitting at Ace's kitchen table, eating some cereal and leafing through the newspaper. It was early. Not even seven o'clock yet. I'd barely slept at all, haunted by Ray Brower's face.
Ace had just come out of his bedroom.
I looked up at him questioningly. "What do you mean?" I asked him. It's not like I'd been anywhere else the past four months.
Ace shrugged. "I dunno man, I thought you were gonna go see your kid brother. Try to smooth things over."
I snorted. "Yeah, 'cause that would go over well." I'm sure Ace felt the brunt of those words, knowing that pulling the knife on Chris would make it that much harder to smooth anything over. But I hadn't meant for him to take it that way. I glanced at the clock. "'Sides, he's probably not even back yet. They're on foot, remember?"
Ace bobbed his head up and down. "Right."
I leaned back from the table, letting the chair stand on just two legs. "I guess I have thought about it," I admitted. I was up half the night thinking about Christopher.
"Good. You two need to work it out," Ace said. He walked over to the stove to start some eggs. I knew what that meant. Brandy had stayed the night again. She and Ace were getting more and more serious each day. It brought me some relief though, knowing that Ace hadn't spent the night alone. It was probably a distraction from his grief.
"I just don't think he'll want to hear what I have to say," I sighed. I glanced at Ace, hoping to look him in the eyes, but he was focused on his eggs, so I had to settle for looking at the back of his head. "Why are you pushing this?"
"Because, Eyeball," he said softly, his back still turned to me. "You ain't ever gonna forgive yourself if you don't."
So here I was, sitting outside of my house on the front stoop, waiting for Christopher to come back. I didn't dare go inside. I had no desire to. Besides, it was oddly quiet - no shouts coming from inside, no plates shattering against the walls… The last thing I wanted to do was disturb the peace.
So I waited, reflecting on all the times I'd sat in this exact spot, when a fight had broken out inside. Sometimes Christopher would join me, and we'd just sit there in silence, grateful that our house was secluded, a good enough distance from neighbors that no one could hear what went on in there.
I guess it didn't really matter. Everyone in town still knew Pop was an abusive drunk, Ma was a cop out, and Dave was felon. My family had no good to its name. And it dawned on me that I hadn't done much to clear it.
I sighed heavily. How did Christopher live here? How had I? Just being back on this stoop made my gut twist, reminding me of the constant fear I was always in. For eighteen years of my life, this is where I'd spent every night. It wasn't until about two years ago that I'd started staying elsewhere, once Ace got his own place and I wised up.
My thoughts were interrupted when I caught sight of Christopher's form on the horizon, sleeping bag slung over his shoulder.
I stood, realizing I hadn't prepared a single thing to say to him. I let my hands hang to my sides, feeling the weight of Denny's baseball cap in my pocket against my thigh. I'd grabbed it earlier this morning, hoping it would give me the strength to make it through this.
Christopher approached me slowly. "What are you doing here?" he asked, frowning, contempt in his voice.
I licked my lips nervously. "I wanted to talk to you."
Chris sighed, eyeing the door, clearly not wanting anything to do with me. "About what?"
"About us."
That floored him, and he looked at me, eyes wide and considering. But then he shook his head firmly and reached for the door.
I grabbed his arm. "Chris, please." I wasn't above begging.
But he pulled his arm out of my grasp. "Eyeball, I don't have time for this," he said, but there was no bite behind his words. "I'm exhausted, man. We can't do this right now."
"If not now, when?" I demanded, desperation flooding my voice. "Chris, I'm sorry, okay? I'm sorry. God, you don't know how sorry." I didn't bother specifying what I was sorry for. Because I was sorry for all of it. Everything. Abandoning him, further disgracing our family name, Ace pulling that goddamn knife… He'd been wronged in so many ways on account of me. But he had to know I was sorry. We had to make this right.
"I know you're sorry," Chris breathed softly, eyes downcast at his feet. "I know you are." He looked back up at me, and it was in that instant that I realized how old - mature - he looked. His eyes held wisdom and sadness that I hadn't seen in anyone his age before. And he did look tired. Dark circles stood out against his pale face. "I just don't know if being sorry is enough."
I ran my hands through my hair and felt my eyes start to prick with tears. "Chris…"
"You should go." His voice was soft, but firm. He swallowed hard, turned, and stepped in the front door. He let the door close behind him, leaving me, alone and crushed, on the front porch.
I didn't move off that stoop. I couldn't. I was too numb.
I sunk down, my back against the door. I pulled Denny's cap out of my pocket, my gut already aching with regret. I should've done things differently. I should've been better.
I traced the New York Yankee's logo on Denny's cap with my thumb, over and over, letting tears slip down my face. I was scum. Chris knew it, I knew it. No wonder he wanted nothing to do with me.
But then something snapped me out of my self-pity fest. Something that made the hair on the back of my neck stand up.
My father's voice, loud and threatening, reverberated through the front door. "Where the hell have you been, boy?" And then I heard a crash, followed by my mother's scream.
I was on my feet in a flash, flinging the door open with all my might. I bolted into the kitchen - that's where all the noise was coming from - and skidded to a halt when I laid eyes on the scene in front of me.
Chris was lying on the ground, having been thrown into one of our wooden kitchen chairs. The broken pieces of the chair where strewn all around him. He was curled in to a ball, his hands outstretched in front of him to block his face, as my father stood above him, kicking Chris in the gut, swaying drunkenly, and undoing his belt. My mother was standing by the doorway, watching.
All I saw was red, and to be honest, I don't remember much of what happened. One second I was in the doorway, the next, I had knocked my father to the ground before he knew what hit him. My mother's screams were just an afterthought.
I remember grabbing a pan off the stove and hitting Pop in the head with it. It knocked him unconscious, and then everything stopped.
Chris made a sound in the back of his throat. I wasn't sure if it was a moan or whimper, but either way, it drew me to him immediately. I dropped down beside him, cupping my hand behind his head, pulling him away from the debris of the broken chair.
I felt something hot on hand and drew it back, horrified that my palm was damp with blood. "Jesus Christ," I breathed. He must've hit his head on the table on his way down. I pulled Chris closer to my chest, feeling him tremble beneath my arms. I looked up at my mother who was still frozen at the door, and I vaguely noticed that she was sporting a black eye of her own. "How can you just stand there?" I spat at her.
She didn't say anything to me. She was looking at me like I was some kind of ghost. And hell, maybe that's all I was to her - after not coming around for so long. But still, that was no excuse for what she did next. She dropped down beside Pop, pushing his hair out of his eyes. Her priorities were clear as day. Unbelievable.
I swallowed down my anger, trying to focus on Christopher instead of my sorry excuse for parents. "C'mon, Chris," I said as gently as I could manage, giving him a light shake. "We need to get out of here." Before Pop comes around.
Chris nodded into my shoulder. "Okay," he whispered.
"Can you walk?"
Another nod.
"Alright, c'mon." I hoisted him up by the armpits and we shuffled out of our house without looking back.
Once outside, Chris stopped in his tracks and brought his hands to his head.
"Hey," I said lightly, putting a hand behind his back as he swayed. "You good?"
"Dizzy," he explained, blinking his eyes.
"Hop on my back, then," I said, kneeling down in front of him so he could get on. "I'll carry you." I wasn't wasting any time. I wanted to get Chris as far away from Pop as possible.
"No, I'm okay—" Chris tried to protest.
"Damnit Chris, just get on my back," I said sternly, looking at him over my shoulder.
And fortunately, my firmness worked. Chris put his arms around my neck and his legs around my waist. "Where are you gonna take me?" he asked into the crevice of my neck as I started walking toward Ace's house.
"Somewhere safe."
"No," Chris whispered as he laid eyes on Ace's house. "You can't take me here."
"Chris, I would only bring you here if I knew it was safe," I told him. "Trust me on this, okay?"
Chris swallowed. "Okay," he breathed, but his arms tensed around my neck.
I opened the door to Ace's place slowly, praying that the other members of the gang weren't there. They weren't and I breathed a sigh of relief. Ace was there though, sitting on the couch, Brandy pulled into his face. They were… well, they were making out.
"Nice," I heard Chris mumble in my ear.
They looked up and pulled apart from each other once they became aware of our presence. "Oh hey, Eyeball," Ace said smugly as I let Chris down from my back. Ace's eyes flashed to Chris. "Hey, kid." It was the softest tone I'd ever heard come out of his mouth.
"Who's this little cutie?" Brandy asked, winking at Chris.
"Brandy, this is my kid brother, Christopher," I told her. "Chris, Brandy." I leaned over so I could whisper in Chris's ear. "You hang tight with Brandy for a minute," I told him. Then I straightened up. "Ace, I need to talk to you."
Chris grinned at me, obviously not bothered by spending a brief moment of alone time with the beautiful woman on Ace's couch. I pulled Ace into the kitchen.
"I can't believe you actually brought him here after what I pulled," Ace said, running his hands through his hair. "You sure know how to spice up the tension, eh Eyeball?"
"Look, I didn't have many other options," I told him. "Pop was on the warpath. This ain't gonna be a problem, is it?"
"No," Ace said quickly. "I figure it's the least I can do. He can stay here. Long as he wants."
Somehow, I'd figured as much.
I got Chris cleaned up in the bathroom. First, I made him put pressure on his head, but it turned out the bleeding had already stopped. That brought a lot of relief. He also claimed he wasn't dizzy anymore and he seemed to be functioning well enough that I didn't suspect an concussion.
"How're you doin'?" I asked, as I pulled his T-shirt off his head for him. I was just checking him for further injuries. I knew Pop had kicked him in the gut pretty good.
"Just peachy," he deadpanned. "You know, you don't have to be in here," he said. "I can clean myself up."
But I barely heard him. I was staring at his abdomen, where he was covered in red splotches. "Oh my god. Chris, what the hell?"
"What?" Chris asked, looking down. And then he chuckled when he realized what my reaction was to. "Oh," he said. "Leeches. We ran into some leeches."
"God, you're a fuckin' mess," I told him.
"Don't I know it."
After he'd taken a shower, I got Chris set up in the spare bedroom. He really did look exhausted, and since I was pretty certain he didn't have a concussion, I figured it would be okay to let him sleep.
I helped him into the cot. "It's not very comfortable," I told him. "That's why I'd come home some nights."
"Beats sleeping on the ground," Chris said, his eyes already starting to droop.
I chuckled lightly. "Get some sleep."
I had already turned out the light and was halfway out the door when Chris spoke my name.
"Hey, Richie."
I stopped in my tracks. "Yeah?"
"Thanks for fighting back," he said softly.
I swallowed back the lump in my throat. "Should've done it years ago," I said hoarsely, unable to help the regret seeping into my voice. Then I slipped out the door, letting it close behind me, afraid if I stayed in that room any longer, I'd dissolve into tears.
You just have to do something to make him listen. Denny's words echoed in my head, and I realized he was right. Actions speak louder than words. Standing up against my pop had gotten Chris's attention.
He was listening now.
And even though I knew he and I had a long way to go, a lot of trust to build back up, I knew that today had been a start. A good start.
We would fix this.
We would be okay.
