The screams keep me awake.
It’s past midnight, and I have school in the morning, but I keep hearing the screams.
I hear shouting and crying. Dad’s voice is shouting. Someone else’s voice is crying. Someone’s voice I don’t recognize, but I do know it’s a man’s.
Then it stops. Finally, my heart can slow down. Finally, I can stop imagining what’s going on downstairs.
But then I hear the footsteps. They stomp up the stairs, and I wince when I hear Dad’s harsh voice call my name. Then he calls Duncan.
“Get down here, now! Both of you!”
I climb out of bed, put on a night robe, slip my feet into warm slippers, and open the door, squinting into the bright hallway.
“What is it, Dad?” I mumble, rubbing my eyes. I look down the hallway and see Duncan standing in nothing but tight spandex shorts, the kind cyclists wear, but they have a built in, padded crotch. On Duncan, it bulges.
I snap my eyes up from his center. The lights cause dark shadows to form along the lines of his muscles. He’s got a really great—
“Put on some fucking clothes!” Dad yells at Duncan. “Then you and Dee come down to the living room.” He storms off back downstairs.
I go toward Duncan. He looks concerned. “This isn’t going to be good,” I whisper, pulling my night robe tighter around me. My eyes linger on his chest for a moment before I force myself to look up, to meet his eyes.
“You should stay up here.”
“No,” I tell him. “Dad will shout at me. I don’t want to deal with his bullshit.”
“I’ll deal with your father,” Duncan says.
“Hey,” I say, growing indignant. “I can handle myself. I don’t need you to protect me. You’ve only been here one day!”
Duncan regards me for a moment, then disappears back inside his room. He comes out wearing his t-shirt and jeans, and together we walk toward the steps.
It’s all dark downstairs except for the light pouring out of the corridor into the living room. I can hear whimpering.
I slow down on the landing, and my hand touches Duncan’s by accident. He grips onto it, holds it, and it’s like electricity shoots straight into my arm.
We look at each other. There’s no more screaming anymore, there is only sobbing.
I pull my hand out of his, and my skin is left burning. “Come on, Duncan, we have to go down. Stop trying to protect me, I don’t need it.”
“He’s been drinking. I can smell it.”
“I know.”
“He just wants to use you to make a point, Dee.”
“Isn’t that what he’s doing with you?” I ask. A few seconds later I wish I hadn’t. The bite was unnecessary, even if he didn’t flinch. “Come on. Let’s get this over with.”
Together we walk into the living room. Dad is sitting in the sofa looking toward the fireplace.
Just in front of the fireplace is a man on his knees. He’s got his head bowed, and there’s something dripping off his chin.
It’s blood.
“Frank,” Dad says. Frank, behind the man, lifts his head up by his hair. I gasp when I see the bruised and broken face. It’s completely misshapen, split open on both his cheekbones, and his eyes are swollen shut. I look away immediately. My hands start to shake.
“This is my family, Mr. Jung,” Dad says. “This is who you are hurting.”
“Please,” the man says, shaking his head. “I didn’t hurt anybody.”
“When you don’t pay me what you owe me, you hurt my livelihood. My livelihood is my family’s livelihood. Now, you’re an eastern fella, aren’t you? Aren’t you all always talking about family, tradition, all that? Isn’t it strong in your culture over there? I trust you’ll understand how important family is. My family is important to me.”
“Please,” the man says.
I grit my teeth together. I hate my father. I hate being in his family. I hate all this bullshit.
I look up at Duncan, but all he’s doing is staring blankly at the man. How can this not affect him?
“You see my beautiful daughter,” Dad says. “She’s going to be a teacher. And my son, he’s going to be a champion fighter. They are who I care about most in this world.”
I roll my eyes. Dad only cares about himself. Duncan only just got here. It’s all a show. It’s all dramatics.
“Please,” the man says. “I’ll get your money. I need more time.”
“When you come into my town,” Dad continues, waving his hand. “And open your fucking little shops, your laundries, your fucking liquor stores, then I get to tax you. This is how it’s always been. This is how it always will be. If you don’t pay your tax, then you don’t get to run your God damned fucking business! If you don’t pay your tax, my family suffers!”
Dad’s breathing hard, snarling. He’s rabid… I can almost imagine saliva dripping from his mouth.
“I don’t have it yet!” the man cries, his voice a dribbly slur. He can barely enunciate anymore, his lips are so puffy. “Business is not good.”
“That’s on you!” Dad roars. “Go to business school! I don’t fucking care, that’s not my problem. My problem is you have not paid me what you owe me. You are two weeks overdue. I expect it by Friday.”
I grimace. Dad is just one big bully.
“That’s not enough time,” the man says. “I can’t get it to you by then.”
Dad looks at Frank, who nods and then thumps the man in the gut, drawing a howling moan of pain from his lips. He hauls him up to his feet, then slaps him across the face, dropping him back down to his knees.
“Look at my family,” Dad says. “Look at them!”
The man looks up at me. My eyes are red. I know I shouldn’t cry but I can’t stop the tears from forming. I feel nothing but compassion for him, and wish I could make it end.
“I will be very angry if you hurt my family’s livelihood again. Now get the fuck out of my house. You’re getting my carpet dirty.”
Frank hauls the man up, pushes him out of the room. I hear the front door open then shut.
“That is what fucking happens when you don’t follow the rules in my fucking town!” Dad belts out, casting angry looks at us. He pours himself a big glass of something brown, and drains it in one gulp. Then his eyes settle on me.
I shrink as he approaches me. I don’t miss that Duncan straightens his back, steps a little forward and in front of me.
“Are you crying?” Dad asks me.
I shake my head.
“Are you crying, damn it?”
“No,” I say, my voice barely a whisper.
“You’d better not fucking be, not in front of anybody else, you got that? I can’t have you crying in front of anybody. It’s a bad look.”
“What you did to him looked worse,” I say.
“Oh, now you’re going to get all sanctimonious on me? How do you think you have the life you do? Damn it, Deidre, why are you always so difficult?”
I shake my head. “You’re a monster.”
Dad opens his mouth to shout at me, and I wince, shutting my eyes, recoiling, taking a step back. I know it’s going to be bad.
But the shouting never comes. I open my eyes to see Duncan’s hand on Dad’s shoulder. He’s not saying anything, just staring at Dad.
Dad’s eyes flicker between us, and then he fixes them on Duncan. “You better watch and learn,” he says, his voice lowering. “You need to know how it works.”
“It’s late,” Duncan says. “Don’t we have an early start tomorrow? Long drive?”
Dad straightens his back, rubs a hand rapidly over his dome. “You are correct,” he says.
Duncan’s hand comes off Dad’s shoulder.
I’m just shocked. I’ve never seen something like this before. The whole atmosphere changed. The air between us three has gone ice-cold.
“Had a bit too much to drink tonight,” Dad says, joking. “It’s the good stuff. It was a gift from Mr. Jung.”
Dad holds up a bottle of what I can now see is brandy. “Them Chinese fellas love their brandy, don’t they?”
“Jung is a Korean name, Dad.”
“Whatever,” he slurs at me.
“You should go to bed,” Duncan says, his voice even. “You don’t want to be hung-over tomorrow.”
“I haven’t been hung-over in two decades, boy,” Dad fires back, some of his nastiness returning. He pushes past Duncan, and starts climbing the steps, hanging precariously onto the railing. “Tell Frank to lock up on his way out. I expect to see him at seven tomorrow morning.”
“Right,” Duncan says.
We both watch Dad climb up the steps, wait until he disappears up to the third floor. We hear his bedroom door slam shut.
I look at Duncan, and he meets my eyes. I see… anger in his. He turns around, begins to walk away.
“Where are you going?” I ask.
His steps stop. The features on his face soften, and he comes back to me, grabs my hand, and pulls me with him.
“Where are you taking me?”
But he doesn’t answer. He pulls me through the house, and into the gym. A hard slap against the light switch, and the room buzzes into brightness.
Immediately, he’s setting something up; the frame and the punching bag.
“You feel angry right now?” he asks me when he’s finished setting it up. His eyes, now a blazing blue, are hard on mine.
“Yes,” I tell him. “Angry… and sad.”
“Do you feel powerless?”
I tilt my head to the side. That’s a strange question. “I guess so.”
“Come here,” he says. I step toward him, and his fingers go to the edge of my robe.
“Hey.”
“You can’t wear this.”
“What if I’m not wearing anything underneath,” I say, pulling away from him.
“Aren’t you?”
“I am,” I say. I take off the robe. Beneath it I’m wearing my pajama pants and a t-shirt. “But you can’t just go taking off my clothes like that.”
From the equipment cupboard, he produces a pair of gloves. “These are a bit big.”
“What are we doing, Duncan?”
“Trust me,” he says. “Okay? Will you please trust me, Dee?”
I shrug. “Fine, okay.”
He takes my hands into his, and begins to wrap a bandage around them, delicately, but tight.
“What’s that for?”
“Prevents injuries. Keeps your fingers from bending in ways they shouldn’t. And your wrists.”
He wraps it around, precisely, methodically, in a crisscrossing pattern he’s obviously committed to memory.
When they’re tight, he motions for me to ball my fists, and so I do. He slaps each of them, grips onto them, shakes my wrists.
“Good,” he says before fixing the boxing gloves over my hands. They’re bright blue, big, cushioned, surprisingly snug on the inside. And very warm.
“You’re right handed,” he says. “So you lead with your left hand and your left foot. It may feel a little weird at first, but you want your strong arm in the back, not the front.”
He bends down and grabs onto my thigh, and I yelp as he places it in position.
“Your left foot here,” he says.
“Okay,” I say, nodding.
“Okay, like this. Jab, yeah? With your left. Yes, just extend your arm quick, straight out in front of you, then pull it right back in.”
I do it.
“Faster.”
I do it faster.
“Watch,” he says. He demonstrates it for me, lightning fast. He whacks the punching bag, his arm is out and back in an instant, like a snake striking. The thud against the bag is so loud it shocks me, and the chains rattle.
“Go on, you do it.”
I jab, and my fist hits the bag. It thuds.
“Like that?” I ask.
“Pretty much,” he says. “Do it again.”
“Why?”
“Trust me.”
I hit the bag again, listen to the thud, the chains rattle.
I hit it again.
Thud.
Rattle.
Again.
Whack.
Thud.
Rattle.
Again.
My hits become harder, faster. I become better at it in a matter of moments.
“Okay. Now, use your left foot to pivot.” He holds me by the waist, turns me. I keep my left foot in place, but rotate my right foot around until I’m facing the other way. When his hands leave me, my skin is left tingling.
“Good,” he says. “This is where you get your power from. It’s not in the arms, it’s in the hips and legs. This is a one-two. See? I jab with my left.” He extends his left arm straight out. “But it’s a fake or a test. He’ll counter, dodge or slap it. Then I cross with my right.” He throws a punch across his body with his right, at the same time pivoting on his left foot, getting his body behind the punch. “Your legs give you the power. It’s a combo. Try it.”
I do it slowly first. I jab with my left, straight out, then I pivot my weight, cross with my right with more power.
“Again,” he says.
I do it again.
“Harder,” he says.
I hit harder.
“Faster.”
I hit faster.
Again.
Again.
I hit the bag, jab, pivot, cross, pivot, jab, pivot, cross, pivot.
The chains rattle constantly. The bag thuds with each of my hits. My hits get harder, faster.
Jab, cross.
Jab, cross.
Jab, jab, jab, punch, punch punch, punch…
I wail on the bag, hitting it as hard as I can, throwing my whole weight into every punch. I hit it and I hit it and I hit it until I realize that my eyes are wet, that tears are streaming down my face.
I keep hitting it, harder and harder.
I hit it so hard it shakes the bones in my body.
I hit it so hard my hands ache.
And then I hit it some more.
And then I kick it.
I kick it, and I kick it, and I kick it, and I scream as I beat on the bag, again, again, again, again.
And then I’m spent. It’s over. I’m sweating, heaving, panting. I’m no longer crying. Somehow, I feel better.
I fall backward onto the mat, landing on my bum, and I hold onto my knees, sucking in oxygen. I glance up at the clock and see that twenty minutes have passed.
Twenty minutes!
I wipe my no-doubt red eyes, turn them on Duncan. He sits down opposite me, crosses his legs. He takes my right hand and begins to undo the glove. He takes them off one by one, then starts unwrapping the bandages around my fingers and wrists.
His fingers are so soft, so gentle with me. I just watch as he tends to me.
“You’ve bruised your knuckles a little,” he says quietly, holding my right hand and running his fingers over the knuckles. His touch sends sparklers sizzling through me.
I close my fist in his hands, squeeze, feel the pain of the bruise in my knuckles as the blood rushes there.
His hands close around mine, and then I unball my fist, and our fingers link at their tips.
“Is this what you do?”
He nods. “It works.”
“I never knew.”
“The bag is designed to be responsive. Your mind does the rest. I find it therapeutic.”
“I hate living here,” I say. It just slips out of me. “I hate everything about this place. About my life. I hate seeing all this shit. It’s not the first time I’ve watched Dad ‘teach a lesson’, and I know it won’t be the last. I can’t stand how he treats people.”
“I know,” Duncan tells me. “You’ll be able to move out soon. Once you go to college, right?”
I take in a deep breath. “Yeah. But you won’t.”