He dragged me to the cafeteria and threw me in a chair. There was no one here either. The grill was no longer going.
“Man, did you step in it,” Rick said. “Stepped in it big time.” He let go of my head and began to undo his belt buckle, which he had welded in prison. “I’m doing this for your mother, you know. She may hate it here, but there are worse places. Worse things in life.”
He licked his thumb and wiped a dirt spot off his buckle, twisted around to put it in his back pocket, already occupied by a puck of chew. This was my chance to escape. But when I tried to get up, Rick’s good arm flew out and caught me by the thigh.
“Sit,” he said, and his fingers sank into my leg like animal fangs, shooting a sharp shock down my entire side. “Stay.”
He slid the belt off his waist and held it by its tail, like it was a deadly snake ready to strike. I rubbed my leg, sure I would never use it again.
“What are you doing?” I said.
“Good question,” Rick said. “Let me show you.” He grabbed me by my neck and threw me over his lap, on top of his oil-stained jeans. “Think of it as preventative medicine,” he said, and folded his belt in half in front of my face, so I knew exactly what was coming.
I closed my eyes and prayed for my brother. I hoped that he was faking hurt, that he would sneak up on Rick and put him in a choke hold, a combat move we had sort of learned from our dad, but were never supposed to use. Unless it was an emergency.
“Let him go,” a voice said, soft. It couldn’t belong to my brother. I opened my eyes and lifted my head. It was Sandy. Standing alone, her hair imprisoned by a hairnet, a small frying pan in her hand.
“Oh, mind your own damn business,” Rick said. He wrapped the belt around his good hand, tested the tightness of his grip. “He broke the rules, so he gets punished. He gets the same treatment as me and you.”
“Maybe,” Sandy said. “But that’s not up to you.”
Rick stopped what he was doing. He rested both of his arms on my back and gave Sandy his attention. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means you should leave the punishment to the parents and go on about your business.”
“Oh yeah?” Rick said. He pushed me off him and stood up. “Well, do you see his parents around anywhere?” Sandy slowly blinked her eyes. “Me either,” Rick said. “But I’m here, aren’t I? I’m the one who’s always around, OK. I see these brats more than their goddamn dad.”
Sandy sighed, and for a moment it seemed she could see Rick’s point. “It’s not the same, Rick. You don’t know what it’s like.”
Rick laughed to himself. For some reason, what Sandy said was funny to him. He unwrapped his hand and threw his belt over his shoulder. “Oh, so now you’re an expert. On parenting.” He sauntered over to Sandy, until the two were close enough to kiss. “You. Of all people. Is that right?”
Sandy met his eyes, her jaw clenched. “Don’t.”
“What?” Rick said, his voice dropping to a whisper. “You don’t want to trade parenting tips?”
Sandy squeezed the frying pan’s handle, and her arm veins popped up like little rivers.
“OK, how about a freebie?” Rick said, turning his back to Sandy and looking straight at me. “A free lesson from me to you, Sandy. Here it goes: If you ever have a baby that won’t quit crying, don’t shake it to make it stop.” He turned around, smiled at me. “For God’s sake, I mean, you don’t treat a baby like a jug of juice.”
Sandy’s eyes dropped. She looked at me, biting her lip, as if she wanted to apologize with all her heart for burning my breakfast every day I ever knew her.
Rick licked his lips, proud of himself. “Nope, last time I checked they don’t give out mother-of-the-year awards to a lady with a dead baby on her hands. I’m pretty sure they put people like that in jail.”
Sandy lowered her head. Hit him, I thought. He isn’t looking. Do it.
But Sandy didn’t. She relaxed her grip on the pan, twirled it by its handle, and composed herself. “Are you sure you want to be airing each other’s dirty laundry?” Rick stopped his cocky pacing. “’Cause there are some things I heard about you, you know, things that you probably don’t want getting out.” My mind went to the gas cans Rick filled in secret, when he thought no one was looking.
Rick scratched his sling. “Bullshit. You don’t know nothing.”
“You’re right,” Sandy said. “I don’t. But Cornbread does. He only told me a little, says there’s some code among guys who’ve done time together. But I bet if I really wanted, I could get it out of him.” She rolled her tongue in her mouth, combing her teeth, and her whole body loosened in a way I’d never seen before.
“Go ahead,” Rick said to Sandy, “fetch your magic Negro. Just because we jailed together doesn’t mean he knows shit.”
“O-K,” Sandy said, stretching out each letter. “Hey, maybe I’ll fetch the boys’ mother while I’m at it.” Rick quickly turned around. I couldn’t see his face, but I bet it was filled with fear. “How much does Aggie really know?” Sandy asked, her voice cold. “I’m sure she knows about the stupid things that landed you in jail. But does she know about what you did in prison? The stuff you did to survive?”
Rick walked away from Sandy and me and stood by a tall cafeteria window, his reflection milky in the glass pane. “She knows enough.”
My brother came into the cafeteria, still holding his stomach. The mark on his face where Rick had hit him was easily visible.
“What’s going on?”
Sandy and Rick exchanged a quick look.
“Nothing, sweetheart,” Sandy said, and just like that she reverted to her former self, the ex-con cook who always treated me like I was the world’s most precious metal. “Just having some words with Mr. Rick. But I think we’re done.”
Rick stayed by the window, gloomy. “I was just trying to help,” he said, staring at his reflection, the only other person on his side. I liked to do the same thing when I was alone in our bathroom. I liked to whisper and watch my lips form the words. This is what I look like. This is what other people see.
* * *
Our mother was waiting in the van. Her big blond hair hung out the driver’s window, soaking up the sun like Baron used to do on car rides. She had an hour to drive us home and feed us, she said, before she had to be back at work for the late shift. She didn’t ask why we were late, where we had been, not until the van was parked and we were walking up to our building’s pea-green door. “Why was I waiting?” she said. There were no sounds at the pool. The fireflies were out, lighting up what was left of the summer. “At the golf course, I mean.”
“We were detained,” my brother said.
My mother laughed a tired laugh.
“Detained?” she said. “That’s a funny word for you. Hey, what happened to your face?”
“A golf ball hit me,” my brother said. “I guess it was only a matter of time.” He tried to pull open the building door, but my mother stuck out her long arm and held it shut.
“Hold it. You’re not lying again, are you? Turn around.” My brother slowly spun around, and my mother brushed the hair covering his face. “I’m not ignorant,” she said. “I know there was no siren that day. I canvassed the neighborhood. No one heard a thing.” She cupped her hand on my brother’s cheek and examined him, her thumb tracing his red mark, now a dark bump. I watched her and put my hand to my face, where my head had hit the patio door.
“The Bump Brothers,” my mother said. She leaned in and gently kissed my brother’s bump. “Listen, you don’t have to tell me where you were that day, though you can if you want. Just tell me what happened to your face. And I don’t want another lie. I’ve had enough lies to last a life.”