CHAPTER 18: Shane
I stood in the front doorway watching Annabel drive away. I could feel Juju standing behind me. I could hear her breathing. She wanted to say something, but knew there was nothing she could say. I wanted to turn around and strangle her, but again, this was not her fault, at least not entirely.
She had no idea I had feelings for Annabel or that Annabel had feelings for me.
I should have said something right off the bat, but I didn’t have the chance.
Juju wasn’t the problem.
I was the problem.
Me and no one else.
I was the one who left people hurt and lives destroyed.
I was like a Texas tornado, plowing through lives and leaving nothing but destruction in my wake.
The best thing I could do for Annabel was to get the fuck out of town before I hurt her anymore. That’s what I did. I hurt those I loved the most and then ran away.
That’s what I’d done to Annabel.
And that’s what I’d done to my little brother, Kenny.
* * *
Saturday, August 23, 2006. I was eighteen-years-old. Angry. Alone. Lost. Drowning in self-pity and wallowing in sorrow. I had just graduated from high school (barely) and was looking to find work on an oil rig because I wasn’t smart or rich enough to go to college. In the meantime, I was working as a busboy at the Red Lobster just to earn gas money.
Annabel had not talked to me in months.
The violence from my old man had gotten worse. It seemed now that I was a couple of inches taller than him and had some meat on my bones he thought he had to hit me harder and more often to prove that he was still in charge. Sometimes I thought about defending myself, I was certainly capable of it now, but I was afraid that once he realized he couldn’t bully me anymore he would turn his wrath on Kenny. I couldn’t let that happen. Kenny was a defenseless little kid. He was the only reason I was staying in Gulf Breeze. I had to protect him.
Kenny was twelve, about to start sixth grade. He needed school supplies for the semester that would start that Monday. Naturally, my mother, who rarely had a thought my old man didn’t put in her head, had forgotten all about the supplies. She didn’t have money and told Kenny he’d have to borrow supplies from his friends.
Kenny was upset.
I was pissed off.
I grabbed the keys to her old Chrysler and told Kenny to come on. I would drive him to Wal-Mart and buy his supplies out of my tip money. My old man was out drinking somewhere and mom was locked in her room. We didn’t bother to tell her we were leaving because I figured she wouldn’t care.
I’ll never forget the big smile on Kenny’s face as we drove away from the house. He was so grateful he had a big brother to look out for him. He looked up to me. I was his hero. I was the one constant that he could rely on.
An hour later Kenny was dead.
And I knew my old man would be out for blood.
* * *
We went to Wal-Mart and got Kenny’s school supplies. He was so happy because they had a Star Wars notebook he wanted. I spent almost my entire take-home pay for the week. I didn’t mind. His smile was worth every penny. I would give my last cent now to see his smile just one more time.
It had started to rain as we pulled out onto the highway.
The old Chrysler’s windshield wipers were old.
They barely cleaned the rain off the windshield.
I slowed down because it was hard to see.
It was Saturday evening and the traffic was heavy.
I turned off the highway onto Main, then onto Dilbeck Street.
We were a block away from home.
I stopped at the four-way stop and looked both ways.
I pressed the gas pedal and drove slowly into the intersection.
I never saw the drunk guy in the pickup truck that T-boned us on Kenny’s side.
It happened so fast. That’s what people say after they survive a car crash or an attack of some kind that just came out of the blue. It happened so fast. I didn’t have time to react. I never saw it coming…
I always wondered how that could be. How could something happen so fast that you couldn’t see it coming? How could your world change in the blink of an eye?
I didn’t remember the sound of metal crunching or glass breaking or tires squealing or Kenny making a sound as the pickup slammed into us at fifty miles an hour, throwing me hard against the driver’s door and impacting Kenny’s body with enough force to snap his neck and kill him instantly.
When I came to I was sitting on the back bumper of an ambulance with an oxygen mask over my nose and a blanket around my shoulders. The EMT was telling me how lucky I was. A few scratches and bruises. Nothing broken. Pupils were fine. No concussion. Lucky. He kept calling me lucky. I didn’t feel lucky.
“My brother?” I asked. I looked past him at the carnage in the intersection. The pickup had literally impaled the old Chrysler, crushing the passenger side. The driver of the pickup had crashed through the windshield and was lying under a sheet twenty-yards down the street. The driver’s side door of the old Chrysler was hanging open. The EMT said they’d used the jaws of life to pry open the door and get me out. A wrecker was hooking to the back of the pickup truck to free it from the side of the Chrysler. There were three other EMT’s and six firemen standing back, waiting so they could pry the dead body of my little brother out of the mangled wreck.
“My brother,” I said again.
“They’re gonna get him,” the EMT said, putting a hand on my shoulder, giving it a pat. “We need to get you to the hospital for some x-rays, make sure you have no internal injuries.”
“I can’t leave him,” I said, trying to stand up. My legs failed me. My head went swimmy. I blacked out.
* * *
The x-rays showed no internal damage. The left side of my body was scraped and bruised from hitting the door. I had minor cuts from flying glass. Somehow, I had come away with fewer injuries than I’d normally sustain from one of my old man’s beatings.
I was just fine.
I could get dressed and leave.
Your shirt was bloody, the nurse said. Here’s a scrub shirt you can wear home.
Your parents are waiting outside.
My brother...
How is my brother…
Goddammit, tell me about my brother…
Your parents are outside.
They’re waiting for you.
They’ll talk to you about your brother.
They didn’t have to tell me that Kenny was dead.
I had seen his crumpled, bloody body inside the car before I passed out.
I put on my jeans and boots and the scrub shirt.
It hurt a little to walk, but I was okay.
I walked down a long sterile hallway.
My parents were in the waiting room.
My mother was sitting in a chair with a handkerchief to her nose. When I walked in she didn’t even look up. I knew what she was thinking. Why him? Why did I live and why did Kenny die? Why couldn’t I been the one? I was thinking the same thing myself.
My father saw me coming.
He got up from the chair and stood watching me with his shoulders hunched and his thick arms at his side and his hands balled into tight fists. His face was red. His eyes were red. He had been crying. I had never seen my father cry. I didn’t know he even had the ability to cry.
As I got closer, I could see his face contorting into a mask of rage and hate. He looked like a mad bull about to charge. I knew what was about to happen. I didn’t care. I put my hands in my pockets to keep them out of his way and headed straight toward him. An easy target. One he knew well.
This time I couldn’t blame him for wanting to beat the hell out of me.
I had killed his beloved son.
I hoped he would take the opportunity to do the same to me.
* * *
“You…” That’s all he said. You…
I stopped a few feet from him. I could feel the heat of his anger washing over my face like a harsh wind blowing through a bonfire. I stuck out my chin and closed my eyes. It was the first time I had ever welcomed a beating from him. I wanted him to hit me. I wanted him to beat me to a pulp. I wanted to feel the pain of his fists on my face and his boot in my ribs. I held my breath and waited.
Then… nothing.
I slowly opened my eyes and stared at him. He was still there, eyes red, nostrils flaring, fists balled, the veins at his temples throbbing.
“Well?” I asked.
“You…” he said again. “You killed my boy…”
I frowned at him. I glanced down at my mother, who had buried her face in the kerchief. She was rocking back and forth like an autistic child.
“Yes,” I said, my eyes locking with his. “I killed Kenny.”
“You…” His eyes overflowed with tears and he shook his head. “Goddamn you…”
“Yes, goddamn me,” I said quietly. “Now, hit me.”
His forehead cut into deep lines. He frowned at me from beneath his bushy eyebrows. His fists stayed at his side. Tears ran down his cheeks. Snot streamed from his nose and over his lip. He growled at me. “What did you say?”
“I said hit me, you son of a bitch. Hit me like you always do.”
I had never seen my father look confused before. He blinked quickly and shook his head. “You just need to go. Don’t come home. Don’t ever come home again.”
I was stunned more by his words than I had ever been by his fists. He put a hand on my mother’s shoulder. I had never seen him touch her out of affection, only out of anger and violence.
I don’t know why I didn’t just walk away. Kenny was dead. I didn’t love my parents and they didn’t love me. The only thing bonding us together was gone. It would have been so easy to just sever the tie and leave.
But I didn’t.
I wanted him to hit me.
I wanted him to beat me senseless like he had done so many times before.
His unwillingness to take his anger out on me was unacceptable.
I had gone from punching bag to nothing.
I wasn’t even worth the effort of his beatings anymore.
I was nothing more than a bad smell that he thought he could wave away.
No.
No, goddamit, he was not going to get the satisfaction of sending me away, not without something to remember me by.
I slowly took my hands out of my pockets and pushed him.
Hard.
I’ll never forget the look of shock in his eyes.
“What the fuck are you doing, boy— “
I hit him just once.
In the nose.
As hard as I could.
I could feel his nose breaking against my fist.
The cartilage splitting and the veins popping open.
The blood gushed from his nostrils.
It covered my hand before I could pull it back.
It washed over his face and shirt.
His knees buckled and he went down hard, cracking his head on the floor.
I stood there with my fist cocked and ready, but it was done.
He was not getting up.
There were hospital guards there now.
They grabbed my arms and pulled me back.
I was big and strong and out of control.
I elbowed one of the guards in the nose and knocked out the other with one punch.
I started for my father. I wanted to kick him in the ribs so he’d know how it felt. I wanted him to clutch his sides at the pain of just taking a breath. I wanted to do to him what he had done to me my entire life.
Then, chaos broke out around me.
Doctors and nurses running, hovering over the old man.
Three cops appeared, coming out of nowhere with handcuffs and tasers and metal batons.
They beat me until I went down, then one of them pushed a knee into my spine and clamped the cuffs hard around my wrists and dragged me away.
The last thing I saw was my mother’s face.
She lowered the handkerchief and looked down at the old man.
She looked at me.
And smiled.
* * *
I spent two nights in the county jail because no one was willing to bail me out. I didn’t even bother to use my one phone call. It would have just been a waste of breath.
I was being charged with assault and battery.
The hospital guards were fine, no permanent damage, but the hospital was pressing charges.
My old man had a broken nose and a mild concussion from his head bouncing off the hard floor.
He was already home, according to the public defender they assigned to me, who, by the way, was about as useful as tits on a two-by-four. He said I was facing two years in the state pen. It was his idea to plea me out if I’d join the military. He was an ex-Navy man. He called the recruiter and the judge.
Two days later, Gulf Breeze was just a distant memory.
I should have never come back.
I should have just left well enough alone.