by Noah Bly
He leans down and begins to scream in my face. “Fuck you, Hester! We’re gonna talk now, and you’re gonna get rid of that skinny piece of crap tenant upstairs, and you’re gonna stop being such a bitch to Dad!”
His breath is foul and hot, and his teeth and tongue are about two inches from my nose. I reach up and slap him, hard, across the face. He tries to grab my hand but misses and loses his balance, staggering backward.
I grasp the handle of the screen door and yell at him. “I’m calling the police this instant! You can either leave now on your own, or you can leave in handcuffs in a few minutes!”
He regains his footing and stands there in front of me, swaying. His eyes are thin slits and his forehead is mottled and veiny. For a moment, I think he’s preparing to charge me, but then he spins around and stomps over to his car, leaving a trail of uneven footsteps behind him in the snow. He pops the driver’s door open on the Volvo and nearly falls into the front seat.
“Fuck you, Hester!” he bellows. “Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you!”
The sun is shining on the snow, and it’s a bright day. He’s too far away for me to be sure, but I could swear there are tears on his face and in his beard, glistening in the sunlight. It could be sweat, I suppose, but his face is contorted, too.
Just as it was on the day he learned of Jeremy’s death.
My heart twists to look at him as he slams the door and starts the engine. He pops the car into reverse and it surges back down the driveway, miraculously staying off the lawn and shooting out into the middle of the street without hitting anything.
And the second he comes to a stop and shifts into first gear, Alex appears on the sidewalk at the end of the block.
I fly off the porch and onto the driveway in my slippers, with my heart in my throat. Alex is walking fast with his head down and hasn’t yet seen Paul, but Paul is peering intently out the windshield at the approaching boy. He takes his foot off the brake and the car glides forward, its tires crunching over the snow and ice on the pavement as it nears Alex. I reach the sidewalk at the same moment Alex draws even with Paul’s car, but I’m still half a block away from the two of them.
What in God’s name is Alex doing home this early? He was supposed to be in class until late afternoon.
Paul rolls down the window and sticks his beefy, hairy head out the window. “Hey, shithead! Get over here!”
Alex looks up, startled. He sees Paul before he sees me, and his face darkens with fear.
My heart is beating wildly and I nearly take a spill on the sidewalk, but I somehow find the breath to call out. “Alex! Ignore him, and run this way.”
I may have been able to prevent my son from attacking me, but I have no illusions about what he’s likely to do to Alex if I can’t keep them apart.
Alex turns at the sound of my voice and sees me running toward him. He glances over at Paul again, then picks up his pace and moves to meet me. Good boy.
“Hey, I’m talking to you, punk!” Paul rages. “Get your ass over here!”
Alex grinds to a halt on the sidewalk. I’m only ten feet away from him now and I can see his face harden as he turns to face Paul.
Oh, Lord. Please don’t do this, child. You have no idea what you’re doing.
I reach his side just as he raises his voice to carry across the street. “What do you want, Paul?”
My chest is heaving from the run and from anxiety, but I take Alex’s arm in a firm grip and tug at him.
Paul is bellowing again. “It’s Mister Donovan, and I want you to get your ass over here, so we can have a conversation without the whole fucking neighborhood hearing it.”
Alex looks down at me. His eyes are remarkably calm as he studies me, and his face fills with concern. “Hester,” he whispers. “Where’s your coat? Why are you outside in your slippers?”
“I’m trying to save your life, you idiot,” I gasp. “Paul’s dead drunk right now, and very, very dangerous. Don’t you dare go near him.”
He swings his attention back to Paul, and gazes at him for a long time. Paul is simply sitting there, leaning out the window, waiting. Alex takes a deep breath and then reaches down to pat my hand.
“I’ll be right back. I promise.” He extricates himself from my clutching fingers. “I’ll be careful.” He steps away from me, picking his way through the knee-deep snow on top of the lawn between the sidewalk and the curb, and when he reaches the street he approaches the car with caution.
The snow is too deep for me to get through it without breaking my neck, especially in these slippers. I’ll freeze to death soon if I don’t get back inside, but I fling my arms around myself and do a dance of frustration on the sidewalk.
“Come back here immediately, you little jackass!” I hiss at his back.
He ignores me and stops a few feet away from Paul’s door. Even from that distance he must be able to smell the booze on my son.
Paul has one arm hanging out the window of the car, and he’s glaring at Alex, and all of a sudden it occurs to me how much Paul and Caitlin look like each other, and their father, too. Paul’s eyes are brown and Caitlin’s are green, but they both have the same belligerent glower Arthur has when he’s angry, the same brooding intensity.
Paul takes a drag on his cigarette and blows the smoke in Alex’s direction. “I just tried to visit my darling mother, but she wouldn’t let me in the door.” He’s pretending not to see me. “The bitch even threatened to call the police if I didn’t leave.”
The wind takes the smoke away before it reaches Alex, and I watch it vanish, along with the steam from his breath. He’s standing at an angle to the Volvo, just out of Paul’s reach, and I can see his face as he appraises my son. His expression is flat and unreadable.
He shrugs. “Good for her.” His face may be composed, but his voice is high with tension. “What do you want to talk to me about?”
Paul’s forehead and cheeks get redder and he leans out the door a little more. “I want you to move out of my dad’s house. And I mean right now. Today.”
“Alex,” I cry out. “Come back over here. Please?”
He doesn’t answer, or turn to look at me. He’s entirely focused on Paul. “It’s not your dad’s house,” he says quietly. “It’s Hester’s.”
I wince. Is the little fool trying to get himself killed?
Paul sits bolt upright, and almost bangs his head on the roof of the car.
“Shut your fucking hole, asswipe! And stay the fuck out of my family’s business, or I’ll fucking kill you. Do you understand?”
His hand is hovering by the handle of the door, ready to open it. Alex’s eyes dart to me and up to the house, as if considering his options. He could probably outrun Paul with no problem by himself, but if he has to tow me along with him his speed advantage is nil.
“You pathetic little piece of shit,” my son continues. “Who the fuck do you think you are? I’m doing you a favor by telling you to move out.” He pauses for another puff and raises his eyebrows. “Surely you realize you’re living with the biggest goddamn cunt in the universe?”
I don’t even bother to pay attention to this crude statement; Paul is unhinged at the moment, and doesn’t even know what he’s saying.
But Alex’s reaction is somewhat different.
Without a moment’s hesitation he steps forward and punches Paul in the face as hard as he can. Paul reels back, blood spurting from his nose, and Alex starts kicking the side of his car like a madman.
“Shut the hell up about Hester!” he yells. “What kind of a dick-head talks like that about his own mom?”
“Stop it, Alex,” I scream. “Please, please, stop it!”
Paul recovers and flings the door open so hard it makes a loud popping noise right before it swings back at him in force as he’s trying to get out. It slams into his legs and he screams in rage, and then he slides past it and falls down on the icy street. Alex gives the Volvo one more solid kick, right in the headlight, and glass goes flying with
a high, sharp crack.
Paul is up on his knees by then. “You little fucker!”
“Run, Alex,” I wail. “Run!”
Alex hops back a few feet, to get distance from Paul. I look both directions in a panic to see if there’s anyone nearby I can ask for help, but the street is empty.
Alex shakes out his hand; I wouldn’t be surprised if he broke a knuckle or two when he struck Paul. “You shouldn’t talk about your mom like that,” he says coldly. “She deserves better from you.”
Paul is on his feet, and he’s panting for air so badly it looks as if he might collapse. But he’s huge, and he’s out of his mind with rage, and I know there’s no way Alex can handle him in a fight, even though Paul is drunk and middle-aged, and in horrible shape.
“She deserves nothing from me except my contempt.” Paul almost sounds calm as he starts lumbering toward Alex. “I’m going to tear your fucking head off, kid. And then I’m going to have you arrested for assault, and what you just did to my car.”
Alex is watching him warily. “No, Paul, I don’t think you are,” he tells him. He should be smarter than to goad my son like this, but his pride won’t let him stop. “Because Hester and I are going back home in a second, and we’ll call the cops. And then they’ll put your fat ass in jail for public intox.” He wipes his nose on his sleeve. “How does a night in jail sound to you?”
Paul blinks and stops moving forward. “The cops will believe me, not you. I’m the one who’s fucking bleeding.”
He is bleeding. His brown and white beard has patches of red in it, and the front of his coat is getting drops on it, too.
Alex shrugs. “They’ll also believe you’re fucking wasted, dude. You smell like a scratch and sniff ad for Dewar’s.”
Paul may be completely drunk, but he’s not stupid. He pauses for a moment, then he starts swearing in a low stream. He kicks at the street several times before finally getting back in his car, and he slams the door once he’s behind the wheel.
He gives Alex a frightening smile through his open window. “I’ll see you again, then,” he says. “Very, very soon.”
Alex nods and rolls his eyes, pretending to be unconcerned. “I’m terrified. Music teachers scare the shit out of me.”
In truth, he should be wetting his pants. Paul is insane at the moment, and he wants to hurt Alex more than anything else in the world. He may even be crazy enough to try to kill the boy in spite of the consequences.
Without warning, he pops the car in gear, cranks the wheel in Alex’s direction and stomps on the accelerator. Alex barely makes it to the side of the road before Paul slams into the curb at his heels; the Volvo bucks and stalls out as Alex scrambles to my side and hustles me behind the safety of a large tree a few feet away. The snow on the grass slows us down, but I’m glad it’s there because it’s also keeping Paul from getting any traction. He turns the engine over and revs it a few times, and for an instant I think he’s going to just keep on coming, no matter what.
But at last he backs off into the street. The front left tire of the Volvo wobbles a bit. Paul sticks his head out the window, and waggles a finger at Alex. He’s not even looking at me.
“See you around, Alex. That’s a promise.”
My heart is in my throat as Alex and I watch him drive away. The car weaves from side to side down the road, like a snake. We look at each other in frozen silence for what seems like forever, until the wind becomes unbearable and herds us back home.
I can’t stop trembling. Between the cold and the fear of the last few minutes, my limbs are quivering as if with palsy, and the warmth of the house isn’t helping at all. Alex is standing next to me at the kitchen window, and he looks frazzled and half-mad.
I’m sure I appear much the same to him.
Without even thinking about it, I begin assembling the ingredients for Irish coffee. It’s only ten past noon, but I desperately need something to calm my nerves and get my blood moving again. Alex watches as I grind the coffee beans, then he moves over to the door and kicks his shoes off. He pads back into the kitchen on bare feet and holds out his left hand for me to see. The middle knuckle is swollen and red.
“I hit him really hard,” he says. “I think I broke his nose.”
His pale blue eyes are enormous, and he seems to be in a state of shock.
“I wouldn’t be surprised.” I clear my throat, not at all sure of how to proceed with this bizarre conversation. Part of me is furious with him, but my voice remains gentle. “And do you believe this was a wise course of action?”
He nods. “Yeah. He called you a name.” His tone is matter-of-fact, but there’s an edge of hysteria in it, too.
“You’re lucky to be alive.” I breathe once, then again. “Striking him was absolutely the worst thing you could have done, child.”
A lecture will do no good at this point, I know, but I don’t know what else to do. The coffeemaker begins to percolate.
He makes a face. “He was way too drunk to catch me. But I think …” He trails off for a moment, then he bites his lip and continues. “I think he’ll be back before too long.” He meets my gaze. “Am I right?”
I don’t answer him. He’s still holding his hand out, looking at it, so I take it by the wrist and inspect it. “Can you bend your fingers?”
He flexes them for me, making a fist and wincing. “Sort of.”
“It needs ice.” I order him to sit at the table, and I get some ice cubes from the freezer and wrap them in a dish towel. “Put this on your hand for a few minutes.”
He obeys me, and I finish making the Irish coffee, grateful for the distraction. He watches me without comment as I wander around the kitchen, and I pour him a mug, too, and sit across from him in silence. We’re both too rattled to talk. I’m sure there are other things I should be doing, but I can’t seem to think what they might be.
The sun is flooding through the window over the sink, reflecting off the tin panels on the walls, and the patch of sky I can see from where I’m sitting is a deep, vibrant blue. I can just make out the top of St. Booger’s head; it appears as if the birds have been using it for target practice, because even from this distance I can detect several thin black streaks decorating his snow-covered scalp.
There stand I, I muse, and smile in spite of myself.
I gather my thoughts as best as I’m able and lean forward. “So why on earth did you get so angry with him?”
Alex waves a hand and blushes. “It doesn’t really matter.”
“Surely it’s not just because he called me a name?” I hesitate. “He’s always been partial to the word ‘cunt,’ by the way. Sometimes he even uses it affectionately.”
His eyes flicker with anger. “What kind of a person says something like that to his own mom?”
I reach across the table and pat his forearm. “Sticks and stones, dear.” I smooth the fabric on the sleeve of his flannel shirt. “And thank you for being upset on my behalf, but you shouldn’t have let him get to you. He was quite drunk.” I grip his arm for a moment. “But now that you’ve angered him, I fear what he may do to you if he indeed gets it in his head to come back.”
He sighs. “I know. I hope he forgets all about it, but I don’t think that’s going to happen. He was bleeding a lot, and I think he’s going to hunt me down the first chance he gets.” He slumps forward and rests his head on the table. A lock of his red hair brushes against my fingers. “God, what a day.”
I squeeze his arm again and decide to put Paul out of my mind for the time being, as best as I can. If he returns, I’ll find a way to deal with him then.
“Did you see Eric today?” I ask.
“Yeah,” he grunts into the tabletop. “He even tried to stop your whacko daughter from castrating me in public.”
I wince. “You had a run-in with Caitlin, too?” I release him. “And Eric intervened?”
The top of his head bobs on the table. “Yeah. She was pretending to be pissed because I skipped classes this week,
but it was really because I live with you. So I basically told her she was full of shit, and she kicked me out of her room. But before I walked out Eric spoke up and told her he thought she was being unfair.” He turns his face so that his freckled cheek presses against his sleeve. He looks worn out. “She was still yelling at him when I left.”
He closes his eyes. “Then I waited outside to thank Eric after class, but when he saw me, he told me he only said something to her because she was being such a bitch, and not to think we’re still friends because we’re not.” His voice roughens. “That’s why I came home early.”
“Oh, dear.” I take a big swallow of my Irish coffee. It’s really too hot to drink, yet, but I quickly take another, not caring if I scald my mouth. “And here I was, feeling sorry for myself simply because my oldest child threatened me on the porch this morning, and then attempted to run over both of us.”
He lifts his head and gawks at me. “He threatened you?”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Well, no, not in so many words. He just blustered a great deal, and wouldn’t leave until I mentioned the police.”
I push his mug closer to him and tell him to drink, and he complies. A trace of whipped cream ends up on his upper lip.
He licks at it. “So he was already pissed when he saw me.”
“I’m afraid so. I apologize for the poor timing.”
The phone on the wall rings and we both jump in our chairs. Alex stares at it.
“You got a new phone in here.” He removes the makeshift ice pack from his injured hand. “When did you do that?”
“I took the one from Arthur’s office this morning.”
It rings again, and I make no move to answer it.
He manages a grin. “I thought you said you got rid of the one that was in here because phones don’t belong in kitchens.”
I grin back. “I lied, of course. I was embarrassed for destroying it during a tantrum.”
Ring. Ring. Ring.
The answering machine in the library finally picks up; my recorded voice floats across the entryway and into the kitchen, greeting the caller in polite, no-nonsense tones.
