by Trevor Shane
The memory of the knock on the door still scares me. It made such a hollow sound on the door. I heard a loud thump and then there was a long pause as if whoever was knocking was waiting for the echo to disappear. I was sitting in the kitchen with you on my lap. At first I didn’t think anything of it. People knock on doors. They just weren’t supposed to knock on ours.
By the second thump your father had gotten to his feet and was walking toward us. He had been in the living room, lying on the couch, reading the newspaper. I tried to let him rest on Sundays, knowing how hard he worked all week. I watched him come toward us. He didn’t make a sound as he walked. He had learned to walk like that, swiftly but silently, long before I ever met him. When I saw him walking toward us like that, that’s when I finally realized that I should be afraid. You should know that before you were born, your father was a very dangerous man. I had done everything that I could think to do to tame him but it wasn’t until you were born that he really changed. You made him happy and content. I saw it in him every day. When he heard that knock on the door, though, he changed back to that dangerous man almost instantly. I could see the paranoia come back into him and, I’ll be honest, I was glad.
It wasn’t until your father was a step or two away from us that I finally looked toward the front door. The front door was made of a light brown wood and was framed by two thin stained glass windows that threw colors—reds, greens, blues, and yellows—onto the floor. When I looked at the door, I saw two figures standing on the other side of the stained glass. Because of the colors, I could only see the silhouettes of two large, hulking bodies. The third man behind the door, the one knocking, wasn’t visible through the glass. Your father, without any hesitation, stepped between us and the door in case his body to block the visitors’ view of me and you, should the men press their eyes against the stained glass windows. When your father reached us, he extended his hand and slipped his thumb in your mouth. You immediately began to suckle his thumb like a nipple. Right after he stuck his thumb in your mouth, we heard the third knock.
I held you close to me. “Be right there,” your father shouted toward the front door. Then he turned toward us and spoke in a whisper. “Take Christopher. Go out the back door.” He paused for a second, waiting for me to nod so that he knew that I understood. I nodded and he went on. “Don’t go to the car. Just get away from here as fast as you can. Go straight. Make distance.” I wanted to say something but your father placed his free hand over my mouth. He shook his head to tell me that I shouldn’t speak, that I shouldn’t make a single noise. I was glad that he did it because I had no idea what I was supposed to say. “Go now. Whenever you have a choice, go north.” I knew I should have been asking questions but I couldn’t think of the right questions to ask. Fear had taken up all the space in my mind. “I’ll find you,” your father said to me, answering the most important question without waiting for me to ask it. Then he took my hand, held it in front of his face, and kissed the tips of my fingers. After he kissed my hand, he slid his thumb out of your mouth and slid in my thumb in its place. I felt you grasp my thumb with your gums and a split second later your father turned toward the front door. He didn’t look back to see if I was doing what he asked me to. He knew that I would. I loved your father. I didn’t want to leave him. But I had to. Your father wasn’t telling me to run for my safety. He was telling me to run for yours.
I’ve gone over that afternoon in my head again and again, trying to figure out if I could have done anything to stop what happened, if there was any moment where I could have done something to change our fates. The idea haunted me for weeks. It ate up every moment of every day. Then I realized that I couldn’t linger on the past. Even if I could have done something different, the fact was that I hadn’t. The past is the past, Christopher. It’s irrelevant unless it’s got something to teach you about the future.
I turned back toward your father for a moment just as he was reaching his hand to the doorknob. The hulking shadows were still standing behind the stained glass. It was time for us to go. We had to get outside of the house before your father opened the front door and hope that no one saw us. We stepped out of the sliding glass door leading out of the kitchen. I was holding you in my arms, ready to run. I hadn’t thought to take anything with me. We could worry about food and diapers later. Your father told me to run, so I planned on running. Straight lines. North whenever possible. Your father’s instincts told him that the knock on the door meant danger and my instincts told me to believe him.
I stepped outside onto the hard red dirt, holding you against me. The sun was low in the sky but the day was still hot. I have vivid memories of how still the air was, like we were on a movie set. The desert opened up in front of us. It seemed endless. That memory has been burned into my brain. It tortures me. I had no idea if I would ever see your father again but I swear I didn’t hesitate. I clutched you against my chest, my thumb still in your mouth, and didn’t look back. I looked forward, past the tree with the ghost of the tire swing that had never been and would never be. Beyond that was just flat, sunscorched land. I couldn’t see a single other house or road. That’s why your father had chosen that house. He thought the isolation would make us safer. I wanted to get you as far from the house as possible before you cried out. I had no idea what your father was planning on doing. Nothing would have surprised me. He had already volunteered to sacrifice his life for you once, before you were even born, when we were running from Charleston, but somehow he’d been saved. I didn’t know what your father was going to do but I knew that my job was to run, so I ran. We made it about ten steps from the back door before I heard the horrible cracking sound. It was a sound that I recognized, a sound I was getting all too used to hearing. I stopped running, the noise lodged in my ear, caught somewhere between the sound of a whip cracking and the explosion of a cannon. The sound wasn’t coming from inside the house like I half expected. It was coming from right behind me. I stopped short as if I’d run to the edge of a cliff. I held you even closer to me so that they wouldn’t be able to shoot you without shooting through me first. I heard the cracking sound again—just one more time. This time, I saw dirt kick up five feet in front of me, like a tiny plume of red smoke rising from the ground. You started crying. Even with my thumb in your mouth, you began to cry louder than I had ever heard you cry before. I wanted to cry too. I wanted to cry with you. I knew that your father, if he was still alive, would hear your cry and he would know that I failed.
I turned and looked behind us. Two men were standing by the back door of our house, the one that we’d just run out of. One was holding a small pistol by his waist. The other had a rifle cocked up against his shoulder, aimed at the ground in front of us. “I’d suggest not running any farther,” the man with the pistol said. His friendly tone didn’t stop me from hating him. “Why don’t you come inside with us?” he said. He was an ugly man, short and stocky with a bulbous nose. The other man kept the rifle up near his shoulder, pointing it in our direction and making it impossible for me to see his face. I walked back the ten paces toward the house. I didn’t have a choice. Then I walked past the two men and into the house. I tightened my grip on you as we walked past them. I had no idea what they were planning on doing with us but I wasn’t about to let you go, not without a fight. I pressed you into my chest, trying to make you feel like you had nothing to be afraid of. The two men followed us inside the house.
It was much cooler inside, out from under the desert sun. Once we got inside the house, I looked around. Everything seemed to be in order. There was no evidence of any fighting or struggle. The scene was eerily calm. Your father was sitting on the couch in the living room. From where I was standing, I could see another man sitting in a chair on the other side of the coffee table, facing your father. Two other men were standing by the front door. I recognized them as the men from behind the stained glass by their shape alone. They both had guns. The two men who followed you and me inside stopped just inside of the back d
oor and stood there. Together, they had all the exits covered.
The man sitting across from your father looked up at me when we walked inside. I felt a chill run down my spine. Then he looked at you. Everything I needed to know, I saw it in that look. I saw hatred in that look. The man scared me. He turned back toward your father. “Come on, Joe,” the man said, feigning disappointment, “you really thought that we wouldn’t post anyone by the back door?”
“I didn’t realize it was you, Jared,” your father replied. “If I knew it was you, I’d have known that you would cover all your bases. Not everyone is as meticulous as you.” Your father sounded despondent. I listened for any hope in his voice but heard none. I looked at the man sitting across the table from your father. I knew the name Jared. It was the name of your father’s oldest friend. Your father had told me stories about how he and Jared grew up together. I wanted that to give me hope. It didn’t. Not after the look that Jared gave you. Something was wrong. Something was very wrong.
“So there’s the cause of all our problems,” Jared said to your father, pointing at you like a witness identifying a murderer in a courtroom. He looked almost silly, pointing at a baby like that.
“His name’s Christopher,” your father said. “Christopher Jude.” I could tell what your father was trying to do. He was trying to break through to his old friend.
“I really don’t care what his name is, Joe. You shouldn’t either.” Jared’s words were flat and emotionless. Jared reached into the waistband of his pants and pulled out a tarnished silver revolver. He placed it on the coffee table in front of him before looking up at your father again. When he looked at your father, all the hatred in his face was gone. It was replaced by something else, something more compassionate. “He’s one of them, Joe.” Jared spoke in almost a whisper, loud enough for me to hear him but quiet enough for your father to understand that the words were meant only for him. Jared was trying to break through to your father too.
“He’s my son, Jared,” your father said. Even in that moment, surrounded by strange men with guns, those words made me feel strong, but only for a moment. Jared nodded his head. I thought that maybe he was going to agree with your father.
“I always knew that one of you two was going to get into trouble,” Jared said, shaking his head. “I just always figured it would be Michael.” He laughed for a second and then stopped laughing as quickly as he’d started. “You still have time, Joe. I made sure of that. They haven’t written you off completely. Give me the kid. Give me the kid and you can still come back into the fold.”
“I can’t do that, Jared.” Now your father was whispering too.
Jared leaned further in toward your father, placing his elbows on his knees. “I really thought that once you had the kid—once you actually saw him—you’d come to your senses. I thought that once you realized what your kid was, you’d come back to us.” Jared began to chew on his lower lip. “That’s why we waited, Joe. That’s why I’ve been protecting you all this time.” My skin rose when I heard those words, before I even understood what they meant. “I just thought that if I gave you time, you’d come to your senses.”
“So it was you that saved me in Charleston?” your father asked.
“You think you would have made it this far without me protecting you, Joe?” Jared responded. He almost looked like he was about to start laughing again, but he didn’t. “Come on, Joe!” Jared raised his voice. He made a fist and slammed it on his knee. “Do you realize the risks I took to save you? We took three of their men out protecting you in Charleston. They accused me of using you as bait, of using you to draw them in. Do you realize what the penalty for that is, Joe? I risked everything for you.” I couldn’t tell who sounded more distraught, Jared or your father. “You’re my best friend. I just kept saying, ‘Give him some time. He’ll come around.’” Slowly, it all started to come together in my mind. These people in our house, they were the reason why we made it out of Charleston together. They had been protecting us so that they could come back and take you from us.
“So was this all still part of your Fixer job?”
“Don’t do that to me, Joe,” Jared said. “You know that this goes way beyond that.” Jared looked out the open window for a moment. “You know you’re fucking killing your mother?” Jared said to your father.
Joe just nodded in response. I knew that he had already written your grandmother off. “What about Michael?” your father asked, wondering about his and Jared’s other best friend, the third member of their trio.
“Michael doesn’t get it, Joe,” Jared replied. “He busted off when he heard you were on the run. You confused the hell out of that kid. He doesn’t know what to do without you.”
“So he’s on the run too?” Some hope returned to your father’s voice.
“No. Nobody’s chasing Michael. He didn’t do anything wrong. If I bring you back, he’ll come back in a second. It’ll be just like old times.” Jared put his hand on the gun on the table. He pushed it to the midpoint of the table so that it was as close to your father as it was to him. I didn’t understand if it was supposed to be a peace offering or a challenge. I still don’t understand the rituals. I looked away from the gun. Everyone was too calm. I wanted to scream. You had fallen asleep in my arms. The sky outside was turning a dark pink as the sun went down. Long gray shadows began to emerge throughout the house.
“So what do you want from me, Jared?” your father asked.
“I just want you to do what’s right,” Jared answered. “It’s just the kid, Joe. You can keep the girl.” Jared motioned toward me with a nod of his head. I wanted to call him a bastard. I wanted to ask him who the hell he thought he was but I didn’t dare make a sound. “This is for your own good, Joe. I’ve known you a long time. I love you. I’m trying to help you.” Hearing the way Jared said those words, I almost believed them myself.
Your father rubbed his hands together. “I don’t want my son involved in any of this, Jared. I don’t want him to grow up to be a killer.” Your father shook his head. His voice was full of a resolve that I had never heard before. “So if I hand Christopher over, what are you going to do with him?”
Jared leaned back in his chair. He knew the answer to this one. “I’m going to put him where he belongs. I’m going to hand him over to the other side. I’m going to follow the rules, Joe, just like you were supposed to.”
“And when he turns eighteen?” your father asked, knowing the answer before he asked the question.
Jared shook his head. He knew that your father knew what he was going to say. “I’ll kill the evil little fucker myself,” Jared replied. I gasped when I heard those words. Jared heard me and looked toward us with nothing but contempt. That look told me what Jared thought of me. I had corrupted his best friend. I’d stolen his brother.
“No” was all your father responded, shaking his head from side to side as he did so.
“No, what?” Jared asked.
“No, you’re not taking my son. No, my son’s not going to be part of this War.” Your father spoke the words like an incantation, like they could give him some control. But they were just words. No matter what your father hoped, there was no magic in them.
“It kills me to do this, Joe, but I’ve done everything I can for you. We’re taking him. One day you’ll thank me for this.” Jared leaned forward and picked the gun back off the table. He stood up, tucking the gun into the back of his pants. “I gave you a chance to do this the right way. When you come to your senses, my door will be open. Hopefully, I will still be able to talk them into letting you back in.” Jared walked toward us. “Take the kid,” he ordered the others, pointing at you again. Two of the four gunmen stepped toward me. One of the others lifted his gun and pointed it at me. I suddenly realized what was happening. They were going to literally pry you from my arms.
“Wait,” your father yelled before anyone reached me. Your father spoke with such authority that everyone in the room stopped for a momen
t. “Before you walk away, are you going to apologize to me, Jared?” Your father stared straight ahead at the wall. He didn’t look at Jared when he spoke. He didn’t look at us either. I thought he had given up.
“For what?” Jared asked, clearly believing that he had nothing to apologize for.
“For ripping my heart out,” your father replied. They were the saddest words I’ve ever heard spoken.
“You first, friend,” Jared replied with equal force. Then he gave a quick nod to his partners and they started to walk toward me again. The first man to reach me grabbed my arms with a grip like a vice. He stepped behind me and pulled my elbows together behind my back. As he pulled my arms apart, my grip on you loosened. I could feel you begin to slip from my fingers. Right before you fell from my grip, one of the other men grabbed you. He held you in front of him, not the way you hold a child, but the way you hold a wild animal.
“Don’t let them do this, Joseph!” I cried out. I didn’t know what else to do. “You’re supposed to be his friend,” I shrieked at Jared. I was crying now. I didn’t know what I would do if I lost you.
“I am his friend,” Jared whispered to me. He sounded angry now, like he wasn’t used to not getting his way. Once they had you out of my arms, the first man let me go. My legs wouldn’t hold me up any longer. My muscles didn’t work. I fell in a heap on the floor. They were taking you and I didn’t know how to stop them.
The sky had gotten dark outside. No one had turned on any of the lights in the house so it was becoming dark inside, too, making it difficult to see. I looked over toward the couch where your father had been sitting. I wanted to curse him for letting this happen. I wanted to scream at him for not stopping them from taking you, but I would have been screaming at an empty couch. Your father was gone. Jared and his henchmen were making their way toward the door. The man with the rifle was in front. The man holding you was right behind him. I looked over again at the empty couch and then I scanned the room to see if I could see where your father had gone. My eyes caught the deep purple of the sky and I noticed the open window. Your father was already outside. He was waiting for them. I wanted to do something. I wanted to help him somehow but I had no idea what your father was going to do.
