omeone
is coming up the driveway. Out from under the hood, frayed timing
belt in my hand, I turn and see a man from up the street. Dress shirt
and tie—kind of thing I’d only wear to a funeral. His
sleeves flap around his arms, and I guess that whatever work he does
he doesn’t have to use his muscles. His face is angry, and he
moves like he’s going to plow right through me.
“Hey
. . .” I start, but he plants his hands into my chest and shoves.
“You sonuvabitch!” he shouts.
“What
the hell?” The back of my head sizzles where it bangs against
the hood. I steady myself. If he shoves me again, I’m not even
going to teeter. Then I’m going to knock the little fucker’s
teeth down his throat. I’ve been in fights with guys a helluva
lot bigger than him. He starts telegraphing a punch. I’m ready
to block it and drop my right fist into his breadbasket. Then a whimpering
from the street distracts both of us. The guy turns around. I could
put an arm around his neck and rabbit punch his kidneys for the next
two days. I know this guy’s never been in a fight—not
a real one.
“Daddy,
don’t fight,” a little boy cries from a bicycle.
I recognize him immediately. Two hours ago I’d had him by the
neck. I’d held him off the ground and shook him.
*
* *
My ex-wife had dropped our son Billy off that morning. Some kids came
over and asked to play with him. They’re a little older than
Billy, but I let them play in the backyard because I’d built
a great swing set with two slides, blister bars, and a canopied sandbox.
I like to see kids enjoying it.
Popping
the hood an hour later, I heard Billy crying—kind of screaming
that brings images of broken bones, missing fingers, deep puncture
wounds. I never moved so fast. In the backyard, Billy lay crumpled
in front of the swing set. The other kids were frozen. Boy at the
top of a slide. Little girl on a swing. Another boy, not far from
Billy, was holding Billy’s red hat in his hand, the one with
the earflaps. Dad gave Billy that hat. Just last week I’d put
the hat on Billy and it fit perfectly. The old man had given me a
hat just like it when I was a kid. He died last month.
I checked Billy. Nothing seemed broken. No blood.
I looked at the other kids, but they hadn’t moved. The boy was
still holding Billy’s hat. Something took hold of me. Both of
my hands closed around his neck and I picked him up. His little legs
dangled.
“Little
bastard, you little bastard. What the hell did you do? What the .
. .” I was in enough control to see his eyes go out of focus.
I set him on the ground. The other kids were gone. After he got some
air, the boy started to cry nearly as loudly as Billy had.
“Now
you know . . .” I had started to say, but he got up and ran.
I held Billy until his short, quick breaths died down. The hat lying
on the grass reminded me of my father. He taught me everything I know
about fixing things and about being a man. He didn’t believe
that a man should cry. Eventually Billy fell asleep.
*
* *
Now
the little boy is back. His father can’t get him to go home.
“All right, then you tell him what you told me,” the man
says. “Look . . .” I start to say, but the man puts a
finger in my face and tells me to shut up.
I do.
“Tell
him,” the man says.
“The
hat . . .” the little boy begins, everything pretty broken up
with sobbing, “I had the hat . . . I was holding it . . . Jenny
was swinging . . . Billy walked in front . . . she hit him with her
feet . . . accidentally . . . knocked him down . . . knocked his hat
off . . . I picked it up for him . . . I didn’t hurt him.”
The
news sets me on the grill of my car. “I just thought . . .”
I start to say.
“You
just thought what . . . you could kill my kid for taking a HAT?”
I see the punch telegraphing again, but I don’t even roll with
it. It lands against my cheek like a two-by-four and knocks me to
the ground. When I look up, I can see the way he’s holding his
hand. He’s not going to throw another punch.
“If
you ever touch my kid again, I’ll kill you,” he says and
starts down the driveway, still cradling his fist.
His son is in awe of him, and I guess that this is my apology. The
boy will always have this memory and know that his dad is a real man.
This will be the day daddy knocked out the roofer from down the street.
Eventually, they’ll move -- nobody stays in the neighborhood
for long. The story will go with them. Then I’ll be faceless,
probably bigger, more threatening, a wrench in my hand.
It
will get around, but I’ll be able to explain it to friends.
What was I supposed to do? Tear this guy apart in front of his boy?
Nobody will doubt that I could have knocked his dick in the dirt,
and they’ll have to respect my reasoning.
Using the car to get to my feet, I can feel my cheek throbbing. Then
I hear something near the house. It’s Billy at the screen door.
He’s up from his nap, but he’s crying. “My daddy,
my daddy,” he sobs.
I
remember hearing something about five marking the age that kids begin
to hold onto their memories. I turn and charge down the driveway at
the guy in the street. The first punch lands on the back of his head.
•• 