“Do you want me to help you get there? Because I need something here, Max. You can’t just call quits.”
Her words should have me thinking about sex, and foreplay, and what I can make her body do with my own. Instead, the word quit is running on repeat. She quit me.
“Like hell you can’t.”
“Whatever, I’m going home.”
I’m more relieved than I could have imagined when she stands to pull on her clothes.
Erin’s supposed to be my stepping stone, my distraction, but since I saw that fight, and saw her sitting in the stands, all I can do is compare the two of us and our situations.
Is she sleeping with him? Did she make him wait for any length of time? Does she say she loves him?
As Erin slams the door behind her, I hear her mutter the word quit again in an angry breath.
Quit.
If fuck is considered a bad word, quit sure as hell ought to be.
I flip on the TV and open my recordings, pulling up the MMA fight of Danny Hirsch. I’ve watched this so many times that if it were an old video cassette like the ones my grandma still has Disney movies on, it would likely be broken by now.
I lie in bed and fast forward to the parts I know she’s in. I watch her expressions, her smile. It took me several hours to of rewinding and playing short scenes of her to let the entire footage play through. It was near the end that I learned she wasn’t there because of the man sitting beside her; she was there for the fighter: Danny Hirsch.
I watch her lean over his body and kiss him, and hear the crowd grow raucous with cheers. Then I Google him again and seek any information that may tell me more. There are a few photos of the two together along with the man that’s at the fight with her. There are websites with allegations of him dating “the mysterious blonde” and a few reports on them having known each other for years. This gives me a small piece of mind, knowing that the internet and these sites often fabricate information for ratings. She didn’t know him after all … right?
I’d known for years that my parents fought. Our house in Arizona was fairly small and the walls were paper thin. I’m sure that even our neighbors knew. Their fights had never been physical. They were always verbal spars—my mom accusing my dad of not loving her enough, him accusing her of working too much, her accusing him of drinking too much, him accusing her again of working too much, and so on. There were plenty of times I’d been sure it was going to become physical when the accusations had turned to threats and the strained voices turned into angry volatile tones. My brothers had too, apparently, because on those occasions one or both of them would shove our dad into the attached garage and lock the door. It always seemed strange to me that he’d never left while in there. I have no idea what he did while he was in the garage; he had access to get out but he always stayed until Hank would eventually go unlock the door.
While he was in there, Hank or Billy would go and talk to mom while I tried to remain oblivious to the events by hiding under my covers and pretending to be asleep.
The fights escalated when Hank left for college. Although Hank could be a grade A-asshole to Billy and me when he wanted to be, his absence took a sense of peace from the house that had always been too fragile to begin with. Billy was only fifteen, and his hot temper didn’t serve to resolve the conflicts. Usually, he escalated the issues.
One night, the fighting had built, becoming particularly heated. Billy was failing miserably at calming things down. I crept out of my room and down the hall to the dining room where the three of them were converged. At ten, I still only came up to my dad’s chest, but I was channeling Hank, hearing the sternness of his voice as he used to direct our dad to calm down and get out.
My voice wavered a bit with the first word, then came out shockingly loud and clear. I felt triumphant as my dad stopped and turned to look at me, his cheeks flushed with alcohol and rage, then he laughed. It was a loud, cruel laugh, and my stomach rolled at the stench of bourbon permeating his breath as it reached me in waves. Even when it wasn’t on his breath, my father always reeked of bourbon; his pores excreted bourbon sweat.
Anger surged through me for him laughing in my face, especially in such a demonic manner. I’d never seen or heard my dad laugh when Hank instructed him to leave. Hell, I’d never heard him laugh like that period.
His laugh stopped as quickly as it had begun, and before I could react, he backhanded me. Hard.
The metallic taste of blood from my cheek hitting my teeth filled my mouth as my eyes grew round with surprise. My brothers had hit me many times, way harder than that even, but my dad had never hit any of us.
My shock was reciprocated on his face as his mouth fell open and he choked on a few incoherent words.
Billy punched him in the gut before the shock wore off, making him double over. Although Billy was a lot shorter than Hank, he was thicker, his muscles more compact, and he could deliver a punch that left you dazed.
My ears registered my mom’s screaming, and by the hoarseness of her voice, she’d been screaming a while. She threatened to call the police and demanded he leave. In all of their fights I’d never heard her tell him to leave, usually she begged him to stay.
I wake up with my heart pounding as I sit up and quickly scan my room. It’s still dark enough out to know I should still be sleeping.
Erin’s next to me, her naked leg stuck to mine. I pull mine away and roll so I feel the coolness of the sheets, offering me a chance to breathe. Maybe having her so close to me triggered the dream? I intentionally work to sleep on the opposite side of the bed from her on the nights she stays over, which is becoming a routine.
Zeus’s head lifts at the side of my bed from where he lies on his dog bed each night, and I drop my hand over the edge to reassuringly pat his head and let him know to go back to sleep.
He lies his box head on the mattress close to mine, looking lonely, and I make a quiet vow to him that I’ll take him running.
He doesn’t move.
We both know it’s not running that he’s missing right now. It’s her.
Before I reach the front door I can hear raised voices. They’re not just raised, they’re yelling.
I push open the door and see Billy head to head with our dad.
“… this some sort of game to you?” Billy’s a few inches shorter than him still, but he doesn’t hesitate in placing his hands on Dad’s shoulders and shoving him backwards.
“What? You don’t know us well enough to fight back yet?” With those words I know exactly where Billy’s mind is, mine has been there too. And the memory brings with it that horrible taste of blood, like I’m sucking on a penny.
“I would never—”
Billy punches him in the mouth, making his head whip to the side. “LIAR!” Billy shouts, grabbing the front of his shirt in his fist.
I don’t know why I’m defending my father, but I begin to peel Billy away, struggling against his anger that is stronger than my confusion.
“Go!” I yell at my dad, jerking my head toward the door. “Let him cool off.”
He opens his mouth to object, but I cut him off and instruct once again for him to leave. Finally, he does. As the door closes behind him, my arms drop from Billy. Though I’m no longer holding him, he violently shrugs his shoulders like I am, before turning to face me, his head lowered defensively and his hands balled into fists.
“Don’t give him the chance to hurt you again. He had thirteen years to come back and he didn’t! Why now? Because he no longer has to pay child support, or go to our games, or actually be a dad? Thirteen years, Max! Why in the hell are you letting him stay here?”