by Angie Morel
Giving me a serious look, Rolo said, “No safety on that, just point and shoot.” He continued to look at me until I acknowledged what he said with a nod. Satisfied, he continued with the inventory.
“Now, this one here is my bacon. It’s a Smith & Wesson 9 millimeter,” he said as he placed it in the side cargo pocket of his pants. As I watched him, I realized that he’d taken the time to swap his shorts for pants while retrieving the guns. Pants that had a lot of pockets. Smart.
“These other two maybe I’ll teach you on ‘em later,” he picked up the one closest to me. “Mossburg 500 6-shot pump action shotgun,” he set it down and picked up the other one. “Standard AK- 47 rifle.” I watched as he laid it on a towel and swaddled the gun like it was a baby.
“How is it that you know so much about guns?” I asked as I shook out another towel and handed it to him.
“I just got an interest in ‘em, that’s all. I take ‘em apart, clean ‘em, read up on ‘em,” he shrugged, looking both embarrassed and proud.
I nodded. “Good thing to know.”
Deciding my school backpack would do, we dumped the books and placed the towel-wrapped rifles inside. I stuck the bat in there too, as that was my comfort weapon of choice, at least for now.
We went back and forth on the topic of me carrying a gun, which I wasn’t quite comfortable with yet. My reasoning was that I wanted to learn how to shoot first, which I told Rolo. Of course, that may change depending on the situation outside. If it came down to it, I’d stick as many guns as possible in my pants—and be fully prepared to shoot without knowing what the hell I was doing—if it meant keeping Mary safe.
Rolo ended up putting the gun meant for me in the mesh side pocket of the backpack, easily accessible, and placed the third handgun in the other pocket of his cargo pants, so he was loaded with two, one on each side. Looking to have at least some kind of weapon on me, I stuck Harvey’s blade, which Rolo had returned once he got back from his gun run, into my front pocket. Was it weird that I’d be more comfortable stabbing someone with a knife than shooting them with a gun? Probably. But either method would get the job done, I guess.
Next, Mary and I put a couple of changes of clothing in the pack to keep company with the guns. We took no food, because, well, there wasn’t any, and we were planning on ducking into D’s apartment on our way out to grab some anyway—plus another backpack.
We were ready. But there was one more thing I had to do before we left.
Grabbing a few stale saltine crackers (the only item left in the apartment to eat besides hot sauce, butter, and a few cans of cream of something soups) in addition to a glass of water, I made my way to my mom’s room. Opening the door, I stepped inside and then shut the door with my foot. My nose wrinkled. The smell was getting bad. We’d shoved my mom’s dead body under the bed so we wouldn’t have to look at it—but wow, in the closed up room there was no ignoring the smell.
I looked at Harvey on the floor. Over the past few hours he’d squirmed and wriggled his way across the dirty carpet and was now jacked up against the far wall. Taking a few steps to the bed, I sat on the edge and placed the water and crackers on the T.V. tray my mom used as a nightstand.
Looking at him I was torn. Both yesterday and today I’d attempted to talk to him, but he’d just glared at me with an intensity that was unnerving.
My plan was to leave the crackers and water within reach, tie one of his hands to the bed, allowing the other to be free. That way he could eat, and eventually get himself loose—after we were long gone, of course. There’s no way I’d leave him bound up, completely helpless, to slowly die of starvation. Rolo thought we should kill him and be done with it. Pretty harsh, but I guess loyalty within a gang only went so far when dealing with crazy shit like this.
Studying the bed, which consisted of a mattress, box spring and metal frame, I figured the best bet was to secure Harvey’s wrist to the metal frame. There was no other viable option. Standing, I moved towards my brother. When I reached him, I bent down and grabbed a couple handfuls of his shirt. Tugging him a few feet, I dropped him by the bed. Ripping a long strip from the bunched up sheet on top of the bare mattress, I wrapped it around the frame a couple of times, getting it ready for the transition. And then, kneeling on my still tender knees, my fingers got busy on the duct tape covering his mouth, or tried to anyway.
He was moving his head back and forth, huffing through his nose. I had to place my other hand on his forehead to try and keep his head still as my fingernail worked on a corner of the tape. Finally able to peel enough to get a good grip, I ripped it off in one quick motion, going with the Band-Aid approach—the quicker off the better.
Although Harvey’s skin color was slightly darker than mine, it was still lighter than the average Latino, and the skin beneath the duct tape was angry and red. His wrists and ankles would soon be getting the same treatment.
Taking in the condition of my brother, I felt sick in the pit of my stomach. Even though he’d act as if he couldn’t be bothered by something so silly, Harvey always took special care in regard to his appearance. He’d stand in front of the mirror for minutes at a time, posing, making sure his look was just right.
There was little resemblance to that version of him now. In fact, his normal self would be mortified to end up like this. Snot had sprayed out and dried to a light crackle all around the bottom half of his face during his time of angrily breathing solely through his nose. That, in addition to the rectangular patch of red around his mouth from the tape and the look in his eyes, brought to mind one of those crazy paint or glue sniffers I’d see on my way to school some mornings.
A deep feeling of sadness came over me. True, we’d never been traditionally close, but what we had was a bond of protectiveness towards each other that siblings growing up in shitty circumstances sometimes shared. He even taught me how to fight a few years ago, and he’d been serious about it, too, not taking it easy on me, making sure I’d learn. That way I could take care of myself and Mary, even against the older kids. It was hard to dismiss that kind of history and leave him here.
Leave him here to possibly die.
Closing my eyes, I sighed, my mind ticking off the final steps required. And then a thought hit me, which would make a couple of those steps much easier. I wouldn’t have to rip the tape off his wrists and ankles—I had Harvey’s knife—I could cut through it. That would make it a hell of a lot easier on him and me.
But before any cutting, I’d need to tie one wrist to the bed frame with the strip of bedsheet—and only when that was done could the tape at his ankles be cut, followed by the tape at his wrists and my quick getaway. Timing was everything. Deeming myself ready, I opened my eyes and leaned forward, not realizing my other hand dangled dangerously close to Harvey’s mouth…
Like a snapping turtle his head shot out and his teeth clamped down on the meaty part of my palm—the section between my pinky and wrist. Barely able to contain the scream of pain that wanted to erupt, instinct made my free hand clutch at his jaw, to push, to do something.
SHIT!
As his teeth cut their way through my flesh in a sawing motion, I threw an awkward punch at his forehead, which did nothing but hurt my other hand.
“Rolo.” Amazingly, I was able to control my voice. His name came out in a clear and non-panicky tone. The last thing I wanted to do was alert Mary and D that something was wrong.
A few excruciating seconds later the door opened and Rolo poked his head in, absorbing the scene in an instant.
By now I was panting from the effort of holding back screams and a patchy and cold feeling pulsed throughout my body. Shock was setting in. Squeezing my eyes shut briefly, I opened them to give Rolo a desperate look, knowing he’d be able to figure out what to do.
It took me a second to realize he wasn’t there anymore. And then he was back, stepping into the room and closing the door behind him. Clutched in his hand was the baseball bat from my backpack.
Dread c
urled and twisted in my gut. I wasn’t stupid. I knew what it meant.
“Get ready.” Rolo swung the bat down on Harvey’s head before I had a chance to actually get ready. Maybe that was a good thing. Unfortunately it took five blows before my brother’s jaw went slack and I was able to pull my hand out. Harvey’s head had been on the floor when the bat came down so there’d been no give to ease the contact. The hits that Rolo delivered were devastating, each blow decorating the floor and bed with more and more blood.
Free from his teeth, I scooted away on my butt using my legs and good hand until my shoulder made contact with the wall. I leaned against it, breathing hard. Pinching my eyes closed, I cradled my bitten hand in my lap for a moment before daring to look. However, what snagged my attention wasn’t the injury itself—it was the red that speckled my skin and clothes. Harvey’s blood. Saliva flooded my mouth and I had to look away quickly, not even bothering to examine my wound.
The room started to spin.
“Come on,” Rolo said.
I must’ve lost a couple of moments there because I didn’t realize he’d moved and now stood in front of me, offering his hand. Grabbing it with my good one, I let him pull me up, keeping my injured hand close to my chest. A little unsteady at first, I waited to be sure I wouldn’t pass out before taking a step. I had to get out of this room. Now.
When I got to the door I couldn’t help it—I turned, taking one last look at my brother.
That’s when it hit me, like the punch line of a cruel joke. Death by baseball bat…Harvey had died exactly like his dad.
Like the majority of the women in our complex, my mom got pregnant young. She was sixteen when she’d met the darkly attractive Emilio Hernandez. As she put it, it was true love the moment their eyes met at a concert she’d snuck out to attend with non-parent-approved friends. Her devout Irish-Catholic middle class family booted her out, mortified that their youngest daughter would dare consort with a gang member, a Mexican gang member at that, and then was stupid enough to get pregnant by him.
Unfortunately for her, the bliss of wild Romeo love didn’t last long. Emilio was killed before Harvey was even born. He was caught alone somewhere he shouldn’t have been, jumped by rival gang members, and beaten to death with baseball bats, or so we’d been told.
I knew this information because Harvey’s dad had been the only one of our fathers she talked about. In part because he was her first love, and in part because he was the only one her drug-numbed brain could remember. The man who fathered me was unknown, as was his race, but I was pretty sure Mary’s dad had been a black man named Bobby. I remembered him from the month he’d hung around the apartment, even if my mom didn’t. His skin gleamed like dark polished wood and his teeth, in contrast to the darkness of his skin, were so white they appeared to glow.
It didn’t matter though; the only man my fish-belly white mom lamented about was her Emilio. She had a whole bag full of if-onlys and what-ifs, convinced that had Emilio lived, her life would’ve been a dream. But he didn’t. He’d died and ruined her life. And he, like the son he never met, died when he was eighteen.
Chapter 5
With clean skin, or at least as clean as I could get it without taking a shower, I felt marginally better. I’d taken time to use a soapy washcloth all over and change my clothes after the “Harvey” incident. I had to. Knowing it was my dead brother’s blood splattered all over me made my brain not work right until all traces of it had been forcefully scrubbed off my skin and my clothes disposed of. Rolo had understood.
I was quick about it—the whole episode only set us back fifteen minutes.
“It’s clear,” I whispered.
Scuttling single-file down the hallway, I made it to D’s apartment door first, and then Mary, and then D, with Rolo bringing up the rear. After we were all in, I shut the door silently behind us. Collectively we breathed a sigh of relief. And then held our breath—it smelled pretty ripe in here, too.
As I turned, my hand knocked against a table by the door. I sucked in air through my teeth. My gnawed hand, while throbbing steadily since the incident, exploded with pain. The pain had an icy feel to it as it crawled up the outside of my forearm towards my elbow. The others noticed my reaction.
“First thing, we gotta take care of your hand. D, you got first aid stuff?” Rolo asked. The only thing my apartment had in stock by way of first aid products were standard-sized plastic strip bandages, good for paper cuts, but little else.
“Yep, I’ll get it,” D said as he disappeared down the hallway. He came back with gauze pads, tape and antiseptic. “Will these do?” he asked, directing his question at Rolo, as if I couldn’t comprehend such simple things while dealing with my injury.
“Uh, yeah D, they’ll do. Give ‘em here,” I said, looking at him pointedly, holding out my good hand. He handed the items over and I made my way to the living room, sitting on the floor next to the sofa, dumping the stuff in front of me. Rolo went into the kitchen to grab some food while D and Mary plopped down on each side of me, ready to inspect my injury.
A hand settled on my thigh. I looked down and then over at Mary. She nodded solemnly, giving me a couple reassuring pats. I returned her serious nod. She didn’t know what happened to Harvey after he bit me, and I wasn’t going to tell her. Luckily, I’d been able to slip into the bathroom to clean up, and then into our bedroom, without being seen. D was a different story. Even though he wasn’t privy to the scene in my mom’s bedroom, I had a feeling he understood the outcome.
Picking up the antiseptic, D squeezed some out and got ready, holding his ointment smeared finger up like he was saying I’m number one. After a second I let my arm drop to reveal my bitten hand.
All three of us leaned our heads in.
It didn’t look good.
In addition to being puffy and bruised, it still oozed blood from the jagged tears that Harvey’s teeth had made in my flesh. On a positive note, at least it was my left hand. Making a slow fist a couple of times, my jaw clenched at the pain. It was doable though, so I didn’t think there were any broken bones. Some muscle damage, maybe.
All and all, I thought it would heal okay.
“Okay, go,” I told D.
As he rubbed the ointment on I suppressed a shiver and tried to think of something to distract me. My eyes caught on his earbuds. No more dangle. He must’ve stuck the dislodged one back into his ear at some point. Funny, I hadn’t noticed.
“What are you listening to, anyway?” I asked.
Studying him, I thought about how uncomfortable it must be having those things plugging your ears all the time—but then again, he was never without them, so he was used to it. Probably felt weird not to have them in. My eyes followed the wires from each ear down to where they joined together at his chest, forming a Y. The single wire continued a few inches before disappearing into the pocket of his basketball shorts. It looked like a fairly bulky device hiding in there. Must have a hell of a battery life.
He didn’t say anything for a long time, to the point where I assumed he hadn’t heard my question, perhaps too focused on applying the ointment. As he rubbed I winced a bit, and was getting ready to say something else when he spoke.
“It…it was my dad’s,” he finally managed, turning my hand over to treat the other side. “The only thing he left behind.” Brown eyes popped up to mine before dropping down again. His finger stilled.
“It’s just a crappy old mp3 player, not an iPod or anything. Doesn’t even work.” He shrugged.
Wait. What? I was confused. “But you’re always singing along to songs.”
“I listen to the radio in my room, and I’m, uh, really good at remembering song words and stuff, you know? So I go around singing what I hear, and people think I’m listening to this. That way it doesn’t seem so stupid.” Shaking his head, he started to rub again.
“Oh.” I could tell he was embarrassed, so I added, “Wow, you’re really good. You totally fooled me.”
“T
hanks.”
He finished with the antiseptic and then put the gauze pad on, securing it with tape. Changing subject, I asked, “I don’t suppose you have anything to wrap it with, to help the pad stay in place if the tape stops being sticky?”
“Uh, let me check,” he said, rising to his feet and leaving the room like he couldn’t get out of there fast enough. A few minutes passed. He was probably searching the bathroom for not only the wrap, but a way to forget the entire conversation.
“Asha,” Mary said softly, her hand still on my thigh. “Are you going to be okay?”
“You bet, Junebug. We’re all going to be okay.” The lie came easily.
“Why do you call her Junebug?” D asked as he came back in the room. He returned to his position on the floor and started unrolling the self-stick binding that he’d found. As I held out my hand, I noticed that his earbuds and mp3 player were missing. Searching his face, I saw an unspoken plea to not mention anything about it. Guess he thought it was a good time to let go of the past and move on. He cleared his throat and started wrapping.
“I call her Junebug because she was born in June. Why do you have so much first aid stuff?” I asked. It was my turn to want the change of topic. I didn’t want to tell him that it was our mom who’d originally given Mary the nickname. Unfortunately when she used it, the emphasis was on the ‘bug’ part. So I started calling her Junebug as well, only using it as a term of endearment instead.
“Oh, uh, my sisters used to be in sports before they got too fat. Anyway, Tanya broke her wrist playing basketball a couple years ago. She had to wrap it for a while after the cast, and um, these were left over from that.”
By the way his eyes flickered and the distracted way he was talking, I could tell his mind was brought back to his mom and aunt, dead in the next room over, as he wondered if his sisters met the same fate. And speaking of his mom and aunt, it was a good thing D was sitting with his back to the kitchen opening, that way he couldn’t see what I was witness to; Rolo stepping over the two bodies like they were piles of dirty laundry as he gathered the things they needed from the cupboards. Best to distance yourself that way, and pretend things weren’t what they were.
