Cheated (11 page)

“You lied to us,” I said. Brody nodded in approval.

Aaron took a drink, then a deep breath. He was wildly twisting his hair with his fingers. “One night, he came home stinking drunk. It must have been when he was out of work, which was most of the time. Whatever was wrong was our fault. He had this belt, this big cowboy belt.”

“Cowboy belt?” I asked.

“I was born in Texas, a place called League City, just outside of Houston,” Aaron continued. “My parents moved there from Michigan after my dad got laid off from GM. I guess he found work there for a while. Something must have happened to his job, because I remember when I was real young sleeping in the car. Then he'd get work, things would be okay for a while, then it would all fall apart again. It was like living in a house of straw.”

“Man, that's messed up,” I muttered.

“So, when I was about eight, he'd been laid off again and just came home stinking drunk. He took that belt, with that big cowboy belt buckle, and he started on my mom. Called her a whore and a bunch of other stuff. Just beat the shit out of her, not the first time, but worse than usual. I started yelling loud.”

“Why did he do that?” I asked.

“Why do you think? He was drunk, angry, and out of control.”

“What happened?” I asked between drinks. Brody still wasn't talking. He bounced the deck of cards forcefully in his hand, making the table shake like an earthquake.

“Well, then my older brother, Stan—he was ten—tells my dad to knock it off. Well, that just sets my dad off even more.”

“Aaron, you have an older brother?” I asked.

There was a moment of silence before Aaron replied in a whisper, “I don't anymore.”

“Dude, I'm sorry,” I said, even though I knew nothing I could say would really matter.

“Stan told him to stop, screamed at him, and then my
dad said—and I'll never forget the words or how he said them—he slurred, ‘What are you gonna do about it?' and then laughed. Stan was a little guy, but he did something. He tried to grab the belt out of my dad's hand.”

Aaron took a drink. I noticed his hand was shaking as much as his voice and the table.

“It didn't take much. He hit him once hard across the face with the belt. It was like his face exploded. I couldn't do anything. Stan started crying and my dad is screaming for him to stop, but he can't because he's so scared and so hurt. My dad takes the belt and wraps it around his throat. He went limp within a minute.”

“Aaron, I'm so sorry.” I felt useless, and thirsty as I reached for the half-empty fifth.

“Stan wasn't a big kid; so that first shot knocked him down. Then the little shit cried, rather than just taking it. He'd beat us all before but not like this. If you cried, it made him madder, so I learned not to cry. I think the tears just reminded him what he was doing, which made him feel worse, which made him hit more. Anyway, that's what one of the counselors told us one time.”

“He didn't come back after you?” I asked.

“He didn't get a chance,” Aaron said. “My mom was like in shock, just kind of not moving. After he choked Stan, then he started toward my sister. She was in the corner of the room, crying, shaking, totally trapped. He was waving the belt over his head. He must have lost sight of me for a second because I ran into the kitchen and grabbed the phone off the wall.”

Brody continued to bounce the cards, while I pushed Aaron to continue. “The phone?”

“I wish now I would have grabbed a knife and rammed it into his heart. I wish I would have grabbed a pan or something and crashed it into his skull, but I was too little, too scared.”

“So you called the police?” I asked.

“I got as far as dialing 9, then 1, and then he caught me. He stared me down. Told me to put the phone down or else. He had blood all over his face, but I knew it wasn't his blood.”

“No way,” Brody slurred. His mouth rejoined the conversation. His eyes had never left.

“He grabbed my arm, ripped it out of the socket, but I'd already pushed the last 1.” Aaron started to cry. “I heard the voice say, ‘What is your emergency?' but not much more. My sister had jumped on my dad's back and was trying to choke him, and then I dove at his legs. It was pretty loud, so I think the 911 people knew something was wrong. Really, really wrong.”

“Did the police come?” I asked.

“It was too late. Stan was dead and Dad was gone,” Aaron said. I noticed his fingers had pulled more twisted hair from his head. “We didn't need police. We needed a body bag.”

“They caught him, right?” Brody chimed in.

“Yeah, and that bastard fought to the end. He wouldn't confess to what he did. He wouldn't admit to anything, so there was this trial, and I had to testify against my dad.”

“Were you scared?” I asked, as I flashed back on my own fear of truth telling.

“Dude, I was shitless. I remember I was wearing these gray pants and my grandmother helped me put on a tie, a red tie.” Aaron spoke clearly as if he were describing a scene before him, not behind him. “And the one lawyer, the prosecutor, asked me what happened. And I told them everything, but it was hard. A lot harder than this because my dad was like twenty feet away, sitting there staring at me, just like he did in the kitchen the night he killed my brother. I had to sit there and say the words that sent my dad to prison. I've never ever forgotten that.”

“And so you guys moved here?” I asked.

“After it was over, Mom moved us up here because we couldn't live in Texas anymore. She grew up in Flint and her sister lives here. She found a job, and then met my stepdad.”

“You ever see your dad again?” Brody asked, then motioned for the rum.

“No, not once, although I hope to one day,” Aaron said. His eyes were wet with tears and terror. “But it won't be soon because he's on death row and his number's coming up.”

“Then when?” Brody said, then took another rum-only drink.

“Not in this life, but in another,” Aaron said. “I'll find his sorry ass in the fiery furnaces of hell, and then I'll get my revenge. This time I won't be eight. This time I won't back away.”

We were all silent as we passed the bottle of rum around,
the liter of Coke mostly untouched. The table was littered with Aaron's hair, tears, and truth.

“Your mom should have left him,” I said, breaking the silence. “None of this would have happened, if she'd just left him.”

“And do what? A high school dropout with no job, no money, and three kids to feed. Where was she going to go?” Aaron asked.

“What about calling the police?” I asked.

“She'd done that. Nothing happened. Maybe my dad would spend the night in jail, but that was it.”

“But still.” I couldn't find the right words, so I tipped the bottle again.

“This isn't a spanking for spilling a glass of milk, dudes, this was a massacre. The counselor said my father by that time so hated his life that he felt trapped and needed to strike out against everything in it.” Aaron's words were loud and clear even if his voice had started to slur.

“The bastard should have just killed himself!” Brody shouted.

“But he couldn't,” Aaron replied.

“Why?” I asked, then took a drink straight from the bottle.

“Because he was weak, because he was a piece of shit. People who are weak get the shit that's coming to them if you ask me,” Aaron said, then stood up. He slowly looked around the room, then tipped over the table. The cards and our glasses flew all over the floor.

“Aaron, man, relax,” Brody said. I had to hold in a laugh at the idea of Brody as the voice of calm. Brody was an
F-five tornado, but Aaron's winds were whipping up wildly. When I stood up quickly I realized that during Aaron's story we'd all been drinking a lot. I took one more quick swig, and then set the Bacardi bottle on the floor. I started to pick up the cards, but when I bent over, the the liquid making its way down my throat didn't have enough force to stop the heaving energy of the contents of my stomach from making its way up. I bolted from the living room, slid into the bathroom, and had perfect aim as I threw up into the toilet.

“I just heard his lung come up!” Brody shouted from the other room. It was funny, but I didn't laugh. I was too busy trying to catch my breath and clear the remnants of vomit from around my mouth. Even as the salty spit collected in my throat, I pledged this would be my last Friday night drinking with Brody and Aaron. This wasn't a road I wanted to stagger down again.

“You okay?” Aaron asked as I made my way back into the living room.

But before I could answer, Brody shouted, “Mick, you stupid clumsy motherfucker!”

“What did I do?” I asked. I wiped off my mouth, then saw the rum spilled on the dirty carpet, which had sucked up the stain. The bottle was now almost empty.

“You spilled it, man, it's all gone,” Brody said as he slammed his fists into his legs.

“I'm sorry. I screwed up,” I offered. My voice was a mix of embarrassment and anger.

“What now?” Aaron asked.

“You'd better figure something out,” Brody said, then
poked me hard in the shoulder with his right hand. “This is your fucking fault. You cheated me out of my drunk, dude.”

Looking into Brody's angry eyes and Aaron's sad face, I knew I'd better come up with a way to save the night I'd ruined. I thought for a moment, then said, “the Scarecrow.”

“What about him?” Brody's voice was finally down to his normal loud level.

“Let's get him to buy us something else to drink.” Even as I said it, I realized I was too drunk. But I'd screwed things up with my friends, and it was my job to make things right.

“I'm sure if we offer him a few bucks—” Aaron started to say.

But Brody cut him off. “Offer him beer instead.”

I nodded, then walked toward the kitchen and grabbed some paper towels. I soaked up the stain, trying to hide the evidence. Aaron started picking up the mess he'd made on the floor, while Brody went to the bathroom. The room was totally silent, still, and calm. After we cleaned up, we headed out toward the place where we'd seen the Scarecrow earlier.

When we got to the rundown little shack, Brody cupped his hands, winked at me, then yelled, “Come out come out wherever you are!” I faked a laugh for Brody's sake, but what I really wanted to do was open my mouth and say,
Let's call it a night. We don't need to do this
.

“Who is it?” A voice emerged from behind the heavy growth of weeds and shrubs.

“You want some beer?” Aaron said, then took a step closer. “Mister, come talk to us.”

“We ain't gonna hurt you,” Brody promised.

The wind kicked up as the Scarecrow emerged from behind the shrubs. From even a few feet away, I could smell the beer on his breath and the stink of the piss that stained his pants. His hat was pulled almost over his eyes; his mouth and face were covered in sores. “What do you want?” His voice was rough and tough, like the bricks that lined his hovel.

I took a step forward. “Hey, go buy us some beer and you can keep some.”

“How many?” the Scarecrow asked.

“Buy us a twelve-pack and we'll give you two,” I told him.

“Four,” the Scarecrow responded.

“Fuck you!” Brody shouted.

“Two,” the Scarecrow said immediately.

“Get us Miller High Life, longnecks.” Brody barked out the beer order like some TV drill sergeant. The Scarecrow grunted and held out his hand. My heart sank when I saw the skin on his right hand. It was red and raw, like it had been burned. I handed the guy a twenty, then we followed him in silence for the short walk to the Big K Market. The Scarecrow went inside while we waited behind the store under the buzzing neon light and silent security camera.

“How do you think this happened to him?” I asked Brody and Aaron.

“What?” Brody replied.

“The Scarecrow, how do you think he got like this?” I asked.

“Who knows?” Brody replied. “Who cares?”

“You sound like ex-Dad,” I joked, but nobody was laughing anymore about anything.

“To fathers,” Brody said, then made a mock toast, which I didn't join.

“To dead dads,” Aaron added. “May they rot in peace.”

“Where the fuck is he?” Brody slapped his right hand against his left bicep. “Dude, I think the Scarecrow ripped us all off. Stupid worthless drunk.”

“Stupid worthless drunk,” Aaron repeated.

I looked up at the security camera. If it had infrared sensors, the images of the three of us would be screaming, bloodred blotches of anger, impatience, and resentment. I felt a sudden urge to change the tone of the evening, which had taken a sharp turn onto a dark road.

“We're here live with Brody Warren, former star of the Swartz Creek Dragons football team,” I said, waving Brody over to come stand next to me, then holding my hand in front of me.

Aaron cupped his hands to make a sound like the roar of a crowd. Brody waved to the security camera and pretended to sign autographs as he walked over to me.

“Brody, how do you think the team is going to do this year without you?” I asked.

“They suck,” Brody said, then laughed.

“And that's because you're not on the team?” I said.

“Totally,” Brody replied. “Most of the guys are losers, cheaters, and whiners.”

“To what do you attribute your success?” I asked.

“Rum, Coke, and good friends,” Brody said, then slapped me hard on the back.

I laughed, then looked straight into the camera. “Anyone you want to say hello to?”

“Here's a shout-out to my brothers and my mom,” Brody shouted, then raised his fingers in the “we're number one” pose. “I'm going to Disney World!”

“It has been a pleasure interviewing you,” I said as I noticed the Scarecrow walking toward us slowly. It looked like the bag he was carrying weighed more than he did.