AUTHOR'S NOTE: Just to let you know, I have made some edits to these first two chapters, mostly by expanding details. They should read a little better now. Please review! And thank you for reading! There's more to come...

Chapter Two

Dreams of Blood and Paint

Michelle Dessler-Almeida covered her mouth, feeling sick at the sight of her beloved husband unconscious on the screen. The O.R. camera quality was not great, fuzzing out the gory details, but she knew what those hunched doctors and nurses were doing. She could picture their sharp tools shining with Tony's blood as they fought to repair his neck.

His warm neck she loved to kiss and nuzzle up to.

Suddenly she saw his smile and felt his close embrace, both fading like smoke. She was losing him. She might never hear his voice again.

Fighting back tears, she closed the window on her computer. She couldn't see him this way. She reached for a framed photo on her desk. Her beloved had his arm around her, their smiles impossibly big. His presence was radiant. Though they sometimes quarreled, they knew they would always make up, always find the grace and love to put the other first.

Michelle bowed her head. "Dear God in Heaven, reach down and preserve Tony. If it's Your will, guard him with Your grace. Please bring him back to me."

Out of her sight, the surgery continued, and with it, Tony's feverish dreams of the past.

— — —

Tony was a minority at school, one of the few whiter kids who kept their heads down and crept soundlessly through the crowded, noisy halls. He had been pushed into enough lockers and robbed of enough lunches, but none of this phased him. At home he would get worse. Here at least he had a friend, so he would take the war zone of school over anything else.

Even with the bullies in the hall and the guns in the school yard.

"Curtis!" Tony reached out to clap his friend's hand.

"Almeida, you look like crap," the older boy observed, nodding at the fresh layer of bruises patterning Tony's eye, cheekbone, jaw, and neck.

"For once, you don't," Tony shot back.

Curtis Manning was repeating his senior year for the second time, but he connected with the junior boy unlike anyone else. He too rooted for the Cubs, in spite of the White Sox fans who surrounded them. He also had a violent father who had almost ended him more than once. Recently, Curtis fought back and threw him out of the house, but he didn't expect the respite to last.

The boys met in gym class last year when Tony, who walked to school in holey sneakers, tried to steal Curtis' basketball shoes from underneath a locker room bench. Curtis caught him and walloped him, but Tony fought back when his attacker took hold of his Cubs hat. They rolled and thrashed around the slippery tiles, crashing into benches and the legs of unsuspecting boys, throwing wild punches and tangling with towels and sweaty gym clothes. Heavy with muscle and brute force, Curtis had a clear advantage. Though scrawny and underfed, Tony wrestled him like a wild animal, panicked, frantic just to escape with his life and his hat.

They only stopped when their T-shirts ripped and Curtis saw the raw belt marks on Tony's shoulder. Tony recognized the cigarette burns on Curtis'.

They shared a scrappy lunch on the bleachers, and Curtis offered a stolen beer can for Tony to hold over his black eye. They took turns sipping from it, and they shared their dreams of joining the police force, or the military. Tony wanted to be a marine like his dad. Curtis had his eye on something more like the FBI.

The next day, Tony found a new pair of shoes in his locker, with a note from his new friend: Maybe now you can outrun me, Cubby.

It was because of Curtis Tony got his first job. Curtis had the idea to skip class one day and spraypaint slogans over a back wall of the school. As they embellished their art, a security guard yelled at them from across the school yard. They ran, aiming to climb the chainlink fence, but the guard caught Tony by the collar. Curtis had the chance to escape, but he stayed with his friend. The first time someone stood up for Tony, a gesture so small yet so monumental it gave the boy a renewed hope. They were ordered to paint over the graffiti, and when they finished, they kept the brushes.

Curtis' uncle ran a motel, and he needed several rooms repainted. Curtis caught Tony after algebra and asked if he wanted a job. "Bring your brush, and wear your old shoes!"

Tony liked having work after school. He and Curtis laughed and talked while they painted, and they listened to the radio at a head-banging volume. Curtis had a long list of favorite artists: Tupac to the Notorious B.I.G. to Salt'N'Peppa. Tony's taste ranged from Lighter Shade of Brown, which he discovered from a fellow Hispanic student, to Led Zeppelin, which his father used to play while working on his car. They pumped the beats and slapped the walls with their brushes, making an uproarious game of it, until a hotel guest banged on the other side of the wall demanding quiet. Tony didn't mind turning down the music. He still had the work, which offered freedom, and the friend, who offered hope.

He also had a plan for his new savings, which he guarded in absolute secrecy. Nobody could know about his new source of income.

When he and Curtis finished painting for the day, they quickly changed out of their stained clothes and said goodbye.

"Don't let him get you," Curtis warned. "And if he tries, you be the one to throw the first punch."

"Yeah," sighed Tony with a curt nod, knowing full well he would never get the chance.

Pocketing a new wad of greasy bills, he caught the city bus home. The sun had begun to set, but he still had time to join the kids practicing baseball in the dirt yard behind the projects. The thwack of the bat and the smack of the ball in the glove were sounds that anchored him, comforted him, prepared him for the war he was about to face.

At last he had no choice but to trudge up the long concrete steps to the trashed hallway he crossed everyday. The spraypaint on these walls had nothing on what he and Curtis could do.

Reluctantly, he unlocked the heavy door and pushed it open. He smelled weed — Miguel. In the main room, Richard huddled alone between the coffee table and the torn striped couch.

Tony looked around warily for anyone else. The adults' door was shut, but the boy's door stood ajar, releasing the fumes from Miguel's joints.

"Hey, Rich," said Tony, "did you eat?"

The boy shook his head. In one hand, he clutched an empty chip bag he had probably pulled from the trash.

Tony opened cupboards until he found some crackers and trail mix. Then he sat with Richard to share the pitiful meal.

"Richard," he said after a while, "have you been practicing your pitching?"

"Yeah. When I can."

"Let's work on it more tomorrow, alright? I'll be home earlier."

"Okay."

Tony finished another cracker, then dared to ask, "Where's Max?"

Richard shrugged. "He got mad and went out."

That was never good.

"Maybe we should clean up and go to bed now, alright?" Tony whispered.

"Sure."

Tony saw the hollowness in the boy's eyes, the lack of hope that he would ever get anything better. Tony hated it. He hoped that his savings would soon dispel that gloom. He had a plan that would make the listless boy feel as special as Tony did at his age, when his father was his world.

He put Richard to bed, tucking him in when no one else would, whispering away the fears of monsters. He then retreated to his own room, where Miguel turned, startled to see him.

He wasn't alone. Another boy counted out stacks of cash on his mattress.

Miguel rose quickly to shove Tony back out of the room. Tony dodged his grip, so Miguel just shook a fist at him. "Not one word or you're finished, got it, hermano?"

Tony locked his gaze with his brother's. This was no small matter. He recognized that other boy from one of the gangs who roamed the school grounds with guns tucked in their jeans. Miguel was bringing some kind of trouble into the home.

The older boy made another grab for Tony's throat. Dodged again.

"Alright!" said Tony, hands raised. "Just leave us out of it."

Miguel gave him a dirty look before returning to their room.

Unsure how long this secret meeting would go on, Tony sat on the couch with his hat in his hands. His foot tapped nervously. He wanted to put his own money away where no one could find it.

He froze at the sound of the door unlocking. How could he let himself be caught in the open? He rose quickly, hoping Miguel would let him at least retreat behind a closed door.

Too late. Max slammed the front door. Drunk. He raised one shaky hand to point in Tony's direction.

"What're you doing here?" he slurred.

"I live here." Tony fought to keep his voice level.

"Don't talk back to me." Max paused to steady himself. He started to turn away, toward his room, but then he stopped. He faced Tony again. His eyes burned with exhaustion and alcohol, his muscular arms trembled at his sides, his coat released a faint whiff of unfamiliar perfume.

Tony didn't want to engage. He started moving toward his room.

Max spoke loudly, as if to stop him. "Not so fast, boy. How come I'm just now hearing about a little spraypaint incident at school? From a week ago?"

Tony had nothing to say to this man. He continued toward the door.

Max advanced suddenly. Already his hand reached Tony's collar.

You be the one to throw the first punch... Curtis' useless advice echoed in his mind. Tony clenched his fists anyway.

Max leered closer, his breath reeking of beer. "Your mother left me with a wreck nobody can fix. What am I supposed to do about that?"

When Tony still said nothing, Max shook him hard.

"She should have taken you with her. Then you'd both be dead and out of my way."

"She's not dead," whispered Tony.

He should have expected the slap that split his lip. He nearly fell over but caught himself on the wall.

"She's as dead as you're about to be," said Max as he reached down to unbuckle his belt. "Why are you still here, humiliating me and my family? You're not my son!"

Tony couldn't hold back the tears of anger. He had been asking himself the same question for years. On the other side of the thin wall, he knew that Miguel could hear every word and every blow, but he would never dare to step in between his father and his half-brother.

All at once, a beefy hand dragged Tony to the floor. The belt, now doubled up in the other hand, swung back and landed with such force he had to bite his tongue. Max did not let up but snapped blow after blow across Tony's back and arms. Tony tried to grab at his hand, tried to ward off the swinging strap, but each biting smack sent him cringing into a tighter ball.

Finally he cried out. He received a swift boot to his midsection.

"You'll never learn, will you!" bellowed Max. He swung a few more sharp lashes as Tony tried to scramble away. Fire seared his skin.

At last Max dropped the belt. The buckle clunked on the cold floor. Tony was in too much pain to feel relieved, so he just continued drawing himself away against the wall.

"What do I have to do to make you learn?" Max panted.

Then he spotted the gravest mistake of Tony's young life. The blue cap dropped on the floor during the scuffle.

Before Tony realized what he was going for, Max snatched up the hat. With a nasty grin, he pulled a lighter from his pocket.

"No!" Tony reached out.

"The only thing worse than you," spat Max, "are the stupid Cubs." He flicked the flame to life and touched it to the grimy, comfortable fabric.

Tony still hadn't caught his breath when he lunged at Max. The man backhanded him and watched him fall again.

Rage pounded in Tony's head, sharper than the welts screaming over his skin. He rose quickly and grabbed for the hat, but Max held it above his head. Flames plumed around the cap, devouring its fatherly comfort. Then it dropped to the floor in a trail of smoke and ashes, and Max stomped on the blue embers.

Tony knew better than to swing at him, but he took a shot anyway. His fist connected with Max's jaw, startling him.

He stared angrily at Tony for a second. Then he caught him around the neck and hauled him to the door. He opened the door and roughly threw Tony out into the hallway.

"Don't come back until you learn your place, you Almeida bastard."

He spoke Daddy's name like a curse.

The door slammed and locked. Tony just lay there, every bone aching. He wanted to kill that man, but doing so wouldn't bring back his father. At least he had the hat to remember Dad by; now he had nothing.

For a second he thought of Richard, unguarded, but he didn't think Max would bother the sleeping child. But what if the child awoke and bothered him?

He couldn't stay there worrying about it. Gangs owned these hallways. Shaking with anger and pain, Tony limped to the stairs and made his way down to the cold street. There he found a payphone. Sirens cut the night and distant gunfire popped the air as he shakily dialed.

When the line picked up, his tears fell freely. "Curtis, can I stay with you tonight?"