Suckerpunch (8 page)

W
E WERE SEVENTY MILES
outside of Monterey when Oliver pulled off the highway and into a gas station. We were surrounded by flatlands and a few anorexic trees and nothing much else. There were dozens of dead bugs on the windshield, tiny winged things reduced to yellow streaks. The air was hot and dry and made my skin feel like cardboard. While Oliver was filling up the gas tank in the Picklewagon, I opened my sketchbook and worked on a drawing I had started the day before: a giant crow perched on a house, the bird's wingspan wider than the roof. Ashley leaned forward between the headrests.

That's cool, Marcus, she said.

Thanks.

How did you learn to draw like that?

I don't know, I said, making hatch marks on the side of the house. Family genes, I guess.

Ashley turned around. Can you draw, babe?

Nope. I didn't get that gene.

Ashley leaned forward again and looked over my shoulder. Hey, can you draw a picture for me?

Sure, I said, my hands getting all clammy. What do you want me to draw?

I want to get another tattoo, she said. When I was a kid I had a dream about this hummingbird. It was blue and green and it was drinking from a flower that was shaped like a heart. Would that be hard to draw?

Ashley's breath smelled like cinnamon bubble gum. I wanted to kiss her. I wanted her to know that I wanted to kiss her.

I could do that, I said.

Cool.

Where do you want the tat? Enrique wanted to know.

My chest. Right over my heart.

Enrique pulled Ashley toward him and started kissing her neck.

Oliver popped his head into the car window. Anyone need to use the bathroom?

Me, I said, and jumped out of the car and into the dry heat.

I had to get away from them. I was liking Ashley more and it was really starting to hurt. I thought about her coming to our house day after day, what that would do to me. I pictured her sitting at our dinner table, the side of her fork sliding through my mother's flan, the perfect shape of her lips as she slipped another sweet bite into her mouth.

The bathroom at the gas station had stall doors painted mint green and on one of them someone had drawn a gigantic penis with a black marker. The balls were two adjoined circles with short lines radiating outward, quick dashes that were supposed to be pubic hair. It looked like a dick stuck on a cactus.

Oliver walked into the bathroom whistling. That's about how big mine is, he said, gesturing toward the vandalized door.

Sure it is, I said. I was wetting my face at the only sink in the bathroom, and the mirror above it was all scratched up with more graffiti—gang names and
fuck-yous and a heart skewered on an arrow.

Oliver was pissing in one of the urinals and the back of his T-shirt was damp with sweat. So how long do you think your brother and Ashley are going to last? he said.

I don't know.

I give them a month.

He seems pretty happy with her, I said. For a depressive, I added.

Oliver hit the silver bar on the urinal to flush and zipped up and moved toward the sink. Hey, has your brother ever tried to commit suicide?

No, I said. Not that I know of.

Oliver's hands were under the faucet's column of water, wetting them.

Why, have you ever thought about it? I asked.

No. You?

Nuh-uh.

Oliver shut off the water and yanked out a few paper towels from the chrome dispenser. I wanted to tell you something, he said.

Shoot, I said.

Those pictures.

What pictures?

The ones in the glove compartment. That wasn't my aunt in the photo, he said. He wiped his hands on the paper towels and balled them up and then dropped them into the trash can. That was some woman my dad was screwing and got pregnant.

I leaned against the wall. Does your mom know?

Yeah. She went to the same church that my parents went to.

That's messed up.

I know, Oliver said. My father paid for her abortion. Three days later he hanged himself.

Shit, I said.

Enrique walked into the bathroom with a bounce in his stride. Thought I didn't have to go, he said, and stood before one of the urinals and unzipped. How much farther do we have to go? he asked over his shoulder.

About an hour, I said.

Oliver was quiet and his face was blank like a sheet of paper with two eyes. There was a small cricket on the floor and he watched it crawl across the tile. The cricket moved quickly in one direction, stopped,
moved quickly in another direction, stopped again.

And I knew what he was going to do before he even lifted his foot and slammed it down.

 

A week after my dad left us, the bruise around Enrique's mouth was almost gone when the kid who lived across the street, Chuck Phillips, gave him a new one—a dark purple shiner that made it look like my brother was wearing an eye patch.

We were tossing a Frisbee on the street in front of our house, Enrique and me, the blood-red disc gliding back and forth between us. Since it had only been seven days, I feared our father still might come back and imagined him pulling up into the driveway, standing with us, and snatching the Frisbee in midair.

The Phillipses' garage door opened and Chuck wheeled out on his BMX and came down the driveway, pedaling sluggishly. He rolled around Enrique and said something I couldn't quite make out, something about throwing like a girl. I tossed the disc and Enrique caught it and held it out to Chuck but pulled it away before Chuck could grab it. Chuck got off his bike and let it fall to the street and the front tire spun
by itself like a roulette wheel. He snatched the Frisbee from Enrique's hand and pitched it up into the nearest tree. Enrique pushed him in the chest, hard, so his head snapped back. Chuck swung and hit Enrique square in the eye and I ran toward them.

I was going to jump in like I did when my dad was beating Enrique in the kitchen. I was ready to put Chuck in a headlock and everything, but by the time I reached them, Enrique was already pummeling the poor kid, jabbing and kicking and pulling and jabbing. He clutched the back of Chuck's hair and ground his face into the pavement. When Chuck rolled over on his back I could see threads of skin on his forehead, blood streaming from the wound. His nose was crooked and two bloodworms slid out of his nostrils and down his cheeks. Enrique lifted his fist again. I grabbed his arm.

Let go,
my brother yelled.

Stop,
I said.

Enrique stood and kicked Chuck on the leg and pointed up at the tree. Get it, he said.

What? Chuck said.

Our Frisbee. You threw it up there, now go get it.

Leave him alone, I said.

Chuck coughed and wiped the blood leaking out of his nose onto his shirtsleeve. He looked up into the tree's architecture, the red disc stuck in the middle of it. I can't get up there, man.

Enrique cocked his fist and lurched forward. Chuck flinched.

Okay, okay, he said. Someone's got to give me a boost, though.

Enrique stood by the tree and wove his fingers together and held them at his knees. Come on, he said.

Chuck placed one hand on Enrique's shoulder and stepped onto my brother's locked hands, using them like a stirrup. Enrique lifted him up and Chuck reached for the lowest branch, grunting. A blood drop rolled off his face and disappeared in the grass.

Come on, monkey boy, Enrique said, looking upward with his hand pressed against his brow like a visor. How 'bout a banana, monkey boy? Enrique smiled, and his missing teeth were open windows on a white building.

I realized then who my brother was becoming,
what kind of boy he was backing away from.

You won already, I said. Leave him alone.

Enrique said nothing more. We looked up in silence and watched Chuck Phillips climb higher and higher, leaves spiraling down like ticker tape as his arm stretched out toward the Frisbee, a fat heart caged in the ribs of the tree.

 

We all pitched in and got a room at a Best Western just outside of Monterey, the bruised sky of dusk hanging over us. Enrique volunteered to approach the hotel manager, to say he lost his ID and that he could pay more if necessary, but it wasn't. The hotel manager was, according to Enrique, the biggest flaming homo that ever walked the earth.

He was practically batting his eyelashes at me, Enrique said. He sat down on one of the two beds in the room and kicked off his Converse sneakers. I think he was wearing blush, he said.

He didn't ask for your ID or anything? Oliver wanted to know.

Yeah, but I told him I lost it at a club. Then he told me how much he loved going to clubs and dancing. I
swear, I think he really was wearing blush.

Ashley sat beside Enrique and put her arm around his shoulder. Was he hitting on my boyfriend? she teased.

Fuckin' faggot.

Ashley quickly removed her arm. Don't say that, she said. God, I hate that word.

Which one? Enrique asked.
Fuckin'
or
faggot
?

Ashley stared at Enrique hard. Are you homophobic? Because if you are, I need to know.

I was sitting up on the other bed with my back against the headboard, watching their exchange. Catface yawned and arched her back.

No, I'm not homophobic, Enrique said. I just don't like it when some butt pirate is eyeing my brown eye.

Hey, is anyone hungry? Oliver was sitting at the small round table in the corner of the room, flipping through the Yellow Pages. Should we order some pizza or what?

You can be such a prick sometimes, Enrique. Ashley stood and turned around and sat on the bed opposite my brother, her ass just inches from where I'd stretched out my legs. When she leaned forward,
the waist of her skirt opened like a pocket and I could see her panties, a thin strip of pink fabric.

Come on, Enrique, stop drinking the Haterade, Oliver said.

Are you going to order pizza? I asked.

You need to calm down, Enrique said to Ashley, and picked up the remote and turned on the TV.

Yeah. Should I get two larges?

I
am
calm. Don't tell me to calm down.

One pepperoni and one cheese? Oliver held the phone in his hand, the Yellow Pages split open on the table.

I like black olives, Enrique said, clicking through the channels.

You know I don't like olives, Ashley said, annoyed.

Oops, I forgot.

That's passive-aggressive.

Okay, forget the olives, Enrique said. Get whatever, I don't care.

The air between Ashley and Enrique was sour. I always hoped that they'd fight one day, that one fight would lead to another fight that would lead to their breakup, but I never thought I'd witness that first fight.
I tried to contain my excitement.

Ashley tapped the side of my leg with the back of her hand. Scoot over, she said. I did and she sat up beside me, arms crossed, so the side of her right arm touched the side of my left arm.

While Oliver was ordering the pizzas, Catface jumped on Enrique's bed and he pushed her off the mattress with his socked foot. She fumbled to the carpet and meowed and moments later jumped on the other bed where Ashley's and my feet were. She stared at me with her topaz blue eyes and blinked slowly, wondering if I was going to kick her off the bed too.

E
NRIQUE'S PSYCHIATRIST
was in Downey, four flights up a beige building with windows tinted so dark it looked as if the entire structure was filled to the roof with ink. There were six palm trees rising from the sidewalk and a brick path to the front entrance, a heavy wooden door that reminded me of castles and galleons.

Enrique's appointments with Dr. Kumar were every two months, usually a Wednesday, and my mother always drove him and waited in the lobby for his session to end. Always, that is, except for the day she was sick in bed with the flu.

Can you take him, Mijo? she said, coughing.

Do I have a choice? I said.

The lobby at Dr. Kumar's office was a small room with eight cushioned chairs pushed against the walls, four on each side with a glass coffee table in between and magazines fanned out: old issues of
Time
,
Sports Illustrated
,
People
, and
National Geographic
. It looked like any other lobby. There was even an aquarium against a wall with colorful fish that glided from one end of the tank to the other. They were vibrant, striped, quick in the water. One fish was velvet black and had its mouth suction-cupped to the glass. It reminded me of Enrique when he was a kid, how he'd press his mouth to a window and blow, lips smashed, his cheeks ballooning out.

Help yourself to some water if you like, the receptionist said, pointing to the watercooler beside the aquarium.

Thanks, I said.

She smiled and turned back to her computer. She had bleached blond hair, almost white. Her face was pale, her lips colorless. She looked like the ghost of herself.

I stared at the fish for a while, sliding back and
forth, but that got boring really quick so I picked up a
Sports Illustrated
from the bottom of the pile. Buster Douglas was on the cover wearing his fat red boxing gloves and heavyweight title belt. The issue was ancient, from 1990. The cover barely held on to the staples. I was surprised no one had swiped it yet and sold it on eBay.

I thought about Buster Douglas pounding on Mike Tyson, the stunned crowd as Tyson was knocked out, fumbling around for his mouthpiece, dazed by the fists of an underdog.

I never punched anyone, never got into a fistfight, but I often wondered how it would feel. To hit and be hit. To hurt someone who was doing the same to you.

I imagined Enrique in red trunks, my dad in blue trunks, the twelfth and final round. Enrique on the ropes and my dad throwing punches into his midsection, his own belly spilling over his trunks, love handles jiggling with every jab. Enrique's left eye swollen shut, a deep cut on his brow dripping blood. My dad throws an uppercut and misses and Enrique bobs to the side and throws his own uppercut, landing square on the chin. The crowd gasps as my dad's knees
buckle, as he teeters and falls with his arms limp at his side. He slams to the canvas and the referee counts him out, cameras flashing everywhere, the crowd roaring, chanting my brother's name in three syllables:
En-ree-kay, En-ree-kay, En-ree-kay!

The door to the lobby swung open and a man walked in wearing blue jeans, a sweater, and a baseball cap. He stood at the receptionist's desk with his back toward me as he signed his name on the clipboard. When he turned around I saw that his entire face was scarred, mottled by fire. He had no eyebrows, no hair that I could see under his hat. He picked up a
Time
magazine and sat directly across from me.

I tried not to stare.

Birthday candles, he mumbled.

What?

My face, he said, pointing at it. I was blowing out birthday candles and
whoosh
!

Really?

No, not really. He smiled and his splotchy pink skin stretched over his cheeks.

I felt like a dumbass so I flipped through the
Sports Illustrated
and started reading this article on Jennifer
Capriati. There was a photograph of her fiercely swinging her tennis racket. She'd just turned pro and was only thirteen years old when the issue came out.
Thirteen
. I was four years older and hadn't accomplished squat except graduate from middle school.

I lost money because of that guy, the burned man said.

I looked up from the Capriati article. What guy?

Buster Douglas.

I flipped over the magazine to the cover and looked at Buster's plump face, his dopey smile.

It was a fluke, he said.

What really happened to you? I blurted out.

He closed the
Time
magazine and tossed it on the coffee table. I'm a fireman, he said. Was, I mean.

Oh, I said.

The roof caved and I fell down with it.

The door to Dr. Kumar's office opened and Enrique walked out carrying a brown paper bag. The bag reminded me of the lunches my mom would pack for us, our names felt-tipped across the brown paper. The one my brother carried now was blank. It could've belonged to anyone.

You ready? Enrique said.

I stood up and looked at the burned man. See you later, I said, even though I probably wouldn't.

He nodded and did this quick hand motion, a salute with two fingers against the bill of his baseball cap. It was all backward. I should've been the one saluting him.

In the hallway, Enrique began to snicker.

What's so funny? I asked him.

That guy looked like a circus sideshow.

Don't be a dick, I said.

Am I right or am I right?

 

I woke up with Oliver's bare feet beside my face. We'd slept on the same bed at the Best Western, our heads on opposite ends of the mattress like the dual profiles of the jack of spades. Quietly I climbed out and looked at Enrique and Ashley on the other bed. They had made up the night before and her arm was now flung across my brother's chest, her green hair splayed on the pillow like the fronds of a palm tree.

In the bathroom I splashed water on my face and brushed my teeth and got dressed. I opened my wallet
and pulled out the folded piece of paper that had my dad's address written in my mom's neat handwriting.

There was a knock on the bathroom door.

It's me, Enrique said.

I opened the door and my brother's eyes darted like a hunted animal.

What's wrong?

My meds.

What about them?

I forgot to bring them.

That was smart, I said.

Enrique stepped into the bathroom. He turned on the faucet and cupped his hand underneath and lifted water to his mouth. He splashed water into his hair and raked it back with his fingers.

You'll be okay, I said. You took one before we left yesterday morning, right?

He looked at me and said nothing.

Are you kidding me? I said.

I had other things on my mind.

How do you feel now?

I feel okay, he said, but it'll probably hit me later on this afternoon.

The last time I saw Enrique off his medication, a couple months after Dad left, he was curled up in his bed, facing the wall. He cried for hours, his body quaking underneath the blanket. Afterward, his face went rigid, his temper spiked. He grabbed a lamp and slammed it over and over against his desk until the lightbulb popped inside.

I sat down on the toilet seat. Maybe we should drive home now, I suggested.

No, he said. We're already here.

I don't think it's a good idea, Enrique.

Where's the pistol anyway?

It's in my backpack.

He's probably the reason I still need those pills in the first place, he said.

I stared at the bathtub, the drain and black rubber stopper. I know, I said. Then I started crying like a damn baby.

Hey, my brother said.

I'm sorry I didn't do anything.

It's okay, man.

I should've helped you.

You think you could've stopped him?

I don't know, I said, wiping my eyes with the back of my hand. I should've at least tried.

You jumped on him that last time, he said. Surprised the shit out of me. Usually you just sit there like you're watching a school play.

I chuckled. I cried some more. That bastard, I said, sniffling.

Let's do this, okay?

I stood and went to the sink to wash my face for the second time. I patted myself dry with one of the motel's white towels hanging from the towel rack.

Okay, I said.

 

They were all inside the Picklewagon waiting for me to get off the phone. Oliver honked the horn and I walked to the window and pulled back the curtain, the phone cord stretching behind me. I raised a finger and mouthed,
One minute.

Enrique's fine, Mom, I said. I told you already.

Make sure he takes his pills.

I do.

You have to watch him take them. Sometimes he forgets.

I've been watching, I said.

How was the circus? she asked.

We're going tonight, I lied.

Can I talk to Enrique? she asked.

He's in the shower.

Oliver revved the engine and began tapping the horn, making it chirp.

I have to go, I said. Oliver wants to use the phone.

Be good, Mijo, she said.

Once I was outside, Oliver slammed the horn and didn't let go until I was in the car and sitting in the passenger seat. That's funny, I said, my voice flat.

What did she say? Enrique asked.

She just wanted to know if we were enjoying ourselves, that's all.

Some of us are, Oliver said as he pulled out of the parking lot. He readjusted his rearview mirror. Right, Enrique?

What are you talking about? Ashley said.

You didn't hear anything last night? Oliver asked me.

I shook my head.

I'm sure, Ashley said. Like I would do that with you guys there.

It sounded like you did.

Ashley's voice was stern. I was having a nightmare. Enrique, tell them.

We did the hokey pokey all right, he said.

Ashley punched my brother on the arm. You're a pig, you know that?

Catface jumped from the backseat and climbed onto my lap.

Damn, I was kidding, Enrique said, rubbing his arm. She was having a nightmare.

Is that what all that groaning was about? Oliver asked, still unconvinced.

Yes
.

What was your nightmare about? I asked.

Ashley leaned forward in her seat. It was really weird, she said. This witch was chasing me all around school. And there was this man hanging from that huge tree by the gym. It was awful. His face was all blue and he was kicking his legs like crazy.

The car grew quiet. It was as if the world was on mute. And then it hit Ashley: Oliver's dad. The cord, the basement.

Oh my God, she said. Oliver, I'm
so
sorry.

It's okay, he said. Where am I going, Nub?

I had the map unfolded on my lap, a black circle marked around the street where my dad lived. Make a left at the next light, I said. We're looking for the Monterey-Salinas Highway.

I completely forgot that—

Ashley, don't sweat it, Oliver interrupted.

There it is, I said. Get in your right lane.

Oliver turned on the blinker and merged over. I rolled down the window and the coastal breeze blew in, smelling of the Pacific. We drove past a vineyard where thousands of sticks were evenly spaced on the dirt with vines coiled around them. We passed a golf course with perfect grass and pine trees out of a textbook, white carts gliding over the green landscape. I saw a man standing in one of the sand traps, one gloved hand on his waist, the other holding his club like a cane. Thinking.

How far away are we? Enrique wanted to know.

I looked down at the map. The black circle I'd made with a Sharpie had bled through to the other side.

Not far at all, I said.