Man
It's hard, being a man. They never tell you that, but it is.
I could blame my father for never setting a good example, but he's too easy a target. If he weren't already dead in the ground, the weight of my scorn would drag him down under the earth anyway.
But yes, he was my first exposure to what a man is, what a man can be. And there was a time, too long a time, when I thought he was perfect. I'd stare up at him, my neck straining with the effort, eager to catch any word that perfect man might toss my way.
A perfect man earns a decent wage, and makes sure there's food on the table for his family. He greets customers with a booming voice and a wide, toothy grin. He doesn't waste time with things like Cub Scout meetings or soccer play-offs, because he's far too busy.
There were other things about him, too, things I didn't understand. There were the green and brown bottles that made him holler. There were the nights when my mom would say something under her breath, and he'd shove her into the wall. I didn't know what I was missing, what grand logic lay beneath his actions... but hey, I wasn't a man yet, so maybe I wouldn't understand until I became one myself.
The first five years of my life went by this way, with the toothy grins and the bruises on my mother's ribs (never the face; the face was needed to greet the customers). Things were consistent, and confusing, and consistently confusing, and then everything changed.
My mother got pregnant again.
He couldn't punch her in the stomach anymore, or push her into the kitchen cabinets. Couldn't kick her down the basement stairs or throw a chair at her. And so one night at dinner, when she whispered something under her breath, he turned and backhanded me. I landed on the floor, seeing black spots and sucking in my cheeks to keep from crying. If my mom didn't cry when he hit her, then neither would I.
After the baby was born, things went pretty much back to normal. Sure, I'd get a couple cuffings a week, and occasionally he'd take out the belt, but for the most part my mother was back to being the target. Only difference was, I'd flinch when she got hit, because I knew how much it hurt.
Having a sister was weird at first. She'd follow me around, one thumb in her mouth and her pointer finger curling over the top of her nose. In the morning, I'd open my door and she'd be there, waiting. Holding up an old copy of The Berenstain Bears for me to read to her.
It wasn't so bad, actually. Some days it was kind of nice. I'd never had anyone idolize me like that. I'd never had anyone love me like that.
So I read to her while she sat in my lap and patted my arm with her chubby little fingers. I played hide-and-seek with her. Even tied her red wagon to the back of my bike and took her for rides.
We were a pair, Sara and me.
She'd cry and cry every September when I went off to school, so in exasperation my parents decided to enroll her in kindergarten when she was only four. But she was already reading pretty well by then, already knew how to count up to thirty. She'd paint me pictures of tigers and spiders, and even though my friends teased me, I'd plaster them across my bedroom wall.
Just about when I reached junior high, the punk rock era hit Tomales Bay. Following my classmates' lead, I dutifully grew my hair until it reached my shoulders (which took twice as long as it did for my straight-haired friends) and tore holes in my jeans. My father hit me twice as often, telling me I was scaring away business from the B&B. But I got my first girlfriend, who liked my long hair and let me get to second base with her.
Totally worth it.
We were making out in the laundry room one day when Sara ran in. All gangly legs and arms, like a newborn colt, and begging us to play hide-and-seek with her. My girlfriend smirked and told her to go hide, that we'd find her. Once she disappeared from sight, we went back to making out.
And that's when the shit really hit the fan. Sara hid under my bed, waiting for us to come find her, but instead my mother came in to bag up the trash. Sara handed her a bag of weed she'd found under my bed. So helpful, that kid.
I was grounded for a year, and my father broke my arm. It meant yet another trip to the hospital, where we knew all the nurses by name. Knew which ones wouldn't report us to Social Services; my mom always steered us toward them.
So there I was, my arm in a sling and my girlfriend running off with some guy who was actually allowed to leave his house. And there was only one person to blame. I locked myself in my bedroom and listened to The Who, Alice Cooper, The Sex Pistols. Ignored Sara completely.
And the years went by that way, even after I wasn't grounded anymore. I spent three full years in my room playing music, writing bad poetry and smoking cigarettes. And that's why I didn't catch on at first.
I knew they were going on trips together, my father and Sara. Camping and hiking, and even fishing on a boat a few times. I just sulked, thinking about those Cub Scouts meetings he'd missed. I didn't notice how after a while, Sara never seemed excited about going. I didn't notice how he'd make her sit in his lap more and more often, how she'd squirm uncomfortably and he'd enjoy it.
She cried in her room most nights, but I just assumed... I don't know what I assumed, actually. Truth be told, I was a seventeen-year-old boy, and my kid sister's angst wasn't high on my list of priorities.
But then, one night at dinner, my father announced that Sara was going to become a woman that weekend.
It all came together in one sudden, horrible realization. My father was smirking, and my mother was ashen, and Sara was staring at her plate of chicken fingers as if they were the only ones in the room who could help her.
The next day, I gave her a pair of earplugs. Told her to wear them every night, that they'd make her sleep better. She just nodded at me in bewilderment. And every night, I sat outside her door. Wondered how long she used to wait outside mine when she was little, sucking her thumb and clutching that tattered Berenstain Bears book.
On the third night, he came.
Showed up in the hallway reeking of liquor, rubbing his hands together. Told me to move out of the way.
I don't know if I carried the butcher knife knowing it would happen. All I knew was that he wasn't getting past me, wasn't getting into Sara's room. He got two hard punches in before I plunged the knife into his chest.
It went in easier than I expected. I stared at the handle, and he stared at the handle, and we stared at each other. He was groaning, a low sound of agony, and I'd still have stabbed him again if it meant Sara was safe.
My mom found us a few minutes later. He was lying on the floor, nearly dead at that point, and Mom looked at him like he still might spring up and push her down the stairs.
You're seventeen, she whispered, her lips trembling. You're seventeen; they'll try you as an adult.
I told her I'd handle it, I'd take my punishment. In the distance between a knife's tip and hilt, I'd become a man.
Take a shower, and go back to bed, she whispered. Go.
We argued back and forth, while my father gasped his last breaths. Finally she grabbed the knife by the handle, pulling it out and shoving it into his stomach. Then into his chest again, then his stomach. He let out a low moan and was still, and she kept stabbing him. There was blood on the walls, on the carpet, on her cheek. She had a serene look on her face, and I wasn't sure I'd ever seen a serene look on her face.
She looked up at me when she'd finished, a satisfied smile on her lips. Let me be a mother to you, just this once.
I went to a group home out in Marshall, and Sara went to live with a foster family near her school. Mom went to jail, after a jury decided that nobody can stab a man twenty-two times in self-defense.
Every day after school let out, I flipped burgers at McDonalds and washed dishes at Friendly's. Saved and saved and saved, waiting for the minute I would turn eighteen and could take care of Sara.
I'd like to say that that happened. I'd like to say I earned a ton of money and was able to rent us a second-floor apartment in a decent neighborhood. I'd like to say I helped Sara with her homework at night, that I taught her about algebra and Hemingway and the difference between right and wrong.
Truth is, I'd only earned eight hundred dollars by the time I hit eighteen. Eight hundred dollars wasn't bupkis in the real world, a world where my kid sister needed food and clothing and a radiator that worked. So I bought a bus ticket and left town.
There were five years in Milwaukee, laying pipe. Ten in Florida, working for a construction company near Miami. A year in Phoenix, looking for work and living off unemployment checks. Seven years in Austin as an apartment handyman. When I heard from a buddy that there was a construction company up in Vegas willing to pay good money, it seemed like an easy choice.
I'd been on the job for six weeks when it happened. Our crew found a little girl's body, dumped like a heap of trash in a casino construction site. She'd been stabbed several times in the chest and throat, from the looks of it. And there was blood seeping between her legs. I vomited on my own shoes.
The cops came, and a bunch of people who wanted to interview us and take our fingerprints, like we were the criminals. But none of us argued, not even that guy named Butch with the bad temper, because we all knew that was someone's kid lying over there.
A black guy and an older white guy led us over near the curb. Started interviewing us, one by one. I noticed the older guy kept throwing glances back at where we found the dead girl. When I looked over there, I could see a woman standing over the body, staring down at the girl's face. Eventually the older guy whispered something in the black guy's ear, and lumbered over to talk to the woman. I watched her frown at him, shake her head in response to whatever he was saying, and finally throw her hands up in annoyance, stomping over to where we were standing.
She fished a notepad out of her back pocket and nodded at the guy next to me. I'm Sara Sidle, with the Las Vegas Crime Lab.
There was more, I'm sure. She probably asked what the guy's name was, and whether he had a criminal record. Whether he'd seen the little girl before, and whether he'd moved or touched anything at the crime scene. She probably said quite a lot, but I didn't hear a word of it.
She looked the same, that's all I could think. Same big brown eyes, sharp eyebrows, same mouth that always seemed poised to frown. Her hair was smooth and straight, and considering the mess of curls she'd had when she was little, that had probably taken some work. She was blessed with my father's metabolism, and cursed with my mother's posture.
There was a diamond ring on her left ring finger, and a locket around her neck that I suspected held a photo or two. Somebody loved her.
When she turned to me, she glanced down at her notepad. You're the guy who threw up at the scene?
I nodded dumbly.
She folded her arms, looking at me suspiciously. Any particular reason?
It reminded me of the night Dad died.
o-o-o-o-o
They got married that summer, Sara and her older guy. They made me the best man. I told them I didn't know about being the best, but I'd do my damnedest to make sure Sara's day went off without a hitch.
I kept my word, too. Helped the caterer set up, helped the deejay with his electrical equipment. Helped that balding man out the door when he drank too much and started yelling something about a fraternization policy.
And at the end of the reception, when my kid sister and her new husband darted out the door, ducking to avoid getting rice up their noses, I didn't stop her. Didn't tell her I could afford a second-floor apartment in a decent neighborhood, didn't tell her I could keep her safe this time. I let her go, and I waved at the car's brake lights as they disappeared from sight.
It's hard, being a man. They never tell you that, but it is.