...

Chapter Seven

Max

Steady beeping machines coaxed Tony Almeida out of unconsciousness. He blinked a few times, adjusting to the soft, bluish light. It took him a few more minutes to realize somebody was sitting beside him.

"You're alive?" The boy leaned over and poked his face.

Tony wanted to swat his hand away, but his arm wouldn't move. It was encased in a sling and bandages. So was his leg.

"Hey, Rich," he mumbled.

Richard smiled, a rare expression. "I thought you died," he said, like whispering a secret that now embarrassed him.

"Must've come close," Tony groaned. "You okay, squirt?"

"Yeah. You saved me."

Tony winced. "I'm the one who put you in danger. I could have prevented everything."

Suddenly he heard a woman's voice. "He's awake? Oh, thank God!"

His surroundings slowly cleared, and he saw Tina rise from a chair near the door. In another chair sat Max, head bowed, a small paper bag on his lap. He didn't move, but Tony cringed at the mere sight of him. The last thing his stepfather gave him was a severe beating and a banishment from home. Normally when the man wasn't beating him, he was still berating him and reminding him that he had no family. Seeing Max sit in such sober silence now was unsettling.

Tina rushed to Tony's side and stroked his curly dark hair. "Oh, Anthony, you did what I should have done. I was a coward to leave my son. I can't thank you enough for protecting him."

Tony managed a faint, bashful smile. "Thanks for being here."

Tina leaned in to kiss his forehead, an unexpected gesture that comforted him. "Your mother should never have left you," she said softly. "I'll never forgive myself for not staying with my boy. She ought to feel ashamed for doing the same."

Tony said nothing, feeling oddly moved by this woman he hardly knew. Her honesty rang true, her repentance poured out with the tears that bled her mascara.

"I will really try to do better," she went on. "I hope someday I'll be forgiven."

She then reached out for Richard's hand. He nestled up to her side, and Tony remembered what it felt like to have a mother who cared.

"Ma'am," he said, voice parched. "I've saved a little money. I just wanted to know if I can take Richard to a game in a couple weeks?"

"Why, he'd love that! Wouldn't you, Rich?"

The boy nodded vigorously.

Tony glanced quickly at Max, looking for a reaction, but the man only stared at the floor.

Tina leaned close again. "Now you just focus on healing, young man, and you'll be out of here in no time."

Tony smiled. "Yeah."

"I need to get Richard some lunch. We'll check on you later."

"Alright. Thank you."

Richard waved goodbye as he left the room with his mother. The door closed, and a sinking feeling settled in Tony's gut as his gaze fell to his stepfather's silent form.

What was the man thinking? Was he angry? Did he want to finish Miguel's job and kill Tony? Surely he wouldn't attack him in the hospital... would he?

Max sighed and straightened up, and Tony flinched. Surprisingly, the man's eyes looked red from sadness. He ran a rough hand across his nose.

"I was just like Miguel when I was young," he said in a low, gravelly voice. "And my father was no good. I hated him. I hated how he beat the living daylights out of me. But you know what? Now I'm just like him."

Tony held his breath, speechless.

"I could have done right by my son," Max went on. "Could have done right by you. I coulda been the father you boys needed. Now I see that Miguel is growing up to be just like me, and you've only known violence at my hand. I screwed up, like my father always said I would."

Finally Max looked Tony in the eye, and Tony wasn't used to what he saw. He saw a boy like himself, a boy who lived in fear of harm, and a man who had learned only to harm in return. He too could be like Max if he wasn't careful.

Max wiped his nose again. "I hated your Daddy because your Mom chose him. I hated you because you're not my son. I don't know if I can ever stop, and I don't deserve your forgiveness. But you need to listen to me, Tony, and listen well."

Max rose to his feet and walked across the small room to the bed, paper bag clutched in one hand. Tony stared up at him, immobile. He couldn't run, but he no longer desired to. He wanted to listen.

Tears hung in Max's eyes. "Don't grow up to be like me," he said gravely. "Don't you dare. I want you to be like your dad, and fight for your family. Can you do that?"

Tony nodded. He wanted to say something but couldn't find the words.

Max sighed. Then he opened the paper bag and pulled out a white mug which he set on the bedside table. With one hand, he turned the mug so Tony could see the red and blue Cubs logo.

"Just a little something to help you take your pills," Max muttered. "Get better, Almeida."

Tony swallowed and managed a hushed, "Thank you, sir."

The man nodded, turned, and left the room, leaving Tony with a whirlwind of thoughts.

It wasn't the end of their war. After that day, Max still drank and lost his mind and beat Tony black and blue, when he could catch him. That day wasn't a fix-all, but it marked a change. The beatings were fewer and the rages briefer. Max tried hard to straighten himself out, though his habits still dragged him down. But Tony found that he could forgive the man now. He could see him as a broken, hurting man who stubbornly clung to his vices, and Tony pitied him. But he would not emulate him; rather, he would show him grace where grace had never been shown. And every time he held that shiny white mug, he remembered that he could make the right choices and follow an example of self-sacrifice, rather than one of cyclical violence. Tony always had a strained relationship with his stepfather, but he respected the man for what he had taught him.

The mug stayed with him through every job and venture, a steady reminder of his choices.