June 2009

Earl twisted off the top of his beer and took a deep pull. A satisfied gasp after swallowing culminated with, “Well let’s see one of ‘em then.”

“I told you I took care of them — tore them all up.”

“Let’s see a new one then.”

“Don’t encourage the boy, Earl. This drawing’s going to stop.”

Earl leaned in his chair and gave his friend a playful shove. “Come on, Hunt. Let’s see what the boy can do.”

Hunter’s anger grew. “I told you— ”

“I’ll do one,” Thomas said. He was turned on the stool and looking at the two men. His face held an odd purpose.

“The hell you— ”

Earl shoved Hunter again. “Come on, Hunt, I want to see what the fuss is about.”

Hunter filled his glass to the top with whiskey, nearly emptying the bottle. He did not sip from his glass — he gulped from it, his brow a mess of tight wrinkles in the middle. He shook his head and tightened his lips. “Well go on then, boy — go get your stuff. Show my friend what you can do.”

Thomas wiped his hands, hopped off the stool, and left the kitchen.

Hunter glared at Earl. “You’re encouraging my boy to be a sissy.”

Earl laughed; his belly and meaty breasts shook. “Oh come on, Hunt, it ain’t that bad.”

Hunter swigged his beer then slammed it hard on the table; foam bubbled up and leaked down the neck of the bottle. “Says the man with an athlete for a son.”

Thomas returned with a thick piece of white paper and a pencil. “Can I work in the living room?”

Hunter waved him away with less courtesy than he’d give a mongrel dog. “Go on then.”

~*~

Thomas returned to the kitchen an hour later. The bottle of Jim Beam was dry now; empty beer bottles littered the cracked oak table.

“Took your time, didn’t you?” Hunter said. His word were slurred, his eyes bloodshot.

“Let’s see what we got,” Earl said. His words were more pronounced, but his torso rocked gently; he was equally drunk.

Thomas handed the drawing to Earl. The man looked at it close, held it away at arms length, then pulled it close again.

“Boy’s got some talent,” he said.

Hunter snatched the drawing from his friend’s hand. He glared at it. His vision was blurred from drink, but he squinted and focused intently. He thrust it back into Thomas’s hollow chest knocking him back a step. “What is this, boy? Explain it.”

Thomas’s posture straightened — he looked confident in front of his drunken father and friend. He held the drawing out with his left hand and traced his right finger over the picture as he explained it.

“It’s a boy, holding hands with his mom and dad,” he said.

Hunter blinked. Blinked several times. A feeling of empathy surfaced for a fleeting moment before it was buried quickly by years of conditioned rage. “Boy, I told you about your mother. Drawing a picture about me an’ her back together ain’t gonna make it so. You need to start accepting— ”

“It’s not you,” Thomas said. He pointed to the far corner of the picture. The details were small but there. A man was being enveloped by crows; a scarecrow looked on. “This is you.”

Hunter blinked some more. Drunk or sober he wasn’t getting it. “Well then who’s that there holding hands with— ”

“That’s Todd — Mommy’s friend. That’s me, Mommy, and Todd. I see them everyday after school. Todd buys me ice cream. He’s nice to me; he likes me; he likes my drawings.” Thomas lowered the picture to his side and drilled his father with the eyes of a grown man. “My mother’s not a whore.”

Hunter leapt to his feet, banging the table, the bottles clanking and rolling to the ground, shattering. He was on Thomas in two steps. He gripped the boy by the shirt and hammered home a punch to his face. Thomas went spark-out from the first blow, but Hunter was hardly finished; he was slavering at the mouth, his rage uncorked and bubbling. The boy was limp, nearly slipping out of the shirt gripped tight in the man’s fist. Hunter flung him against the wall where he bounced off then crumbled to the ground like a large puppet.

Earl hopped from his chair, grabbing hold of Hunter from behind in a bear hug. Hunter was a wild animal — growling, fighting, roaring. Earl held tighter, but Hunter was wearing boots; Earl was wearing sneakers. Hunter brought his foot high in the air, then down with his heel onto Earl’s instep. The big man cried out, releasing his grip. Quick as a gunslinger, Hunter grabbed one of the bottles from the kitchen table that had not fallen and whipped it down onto his friend’s skull.

Earl dropped to both knees, clutching his bloody scalp. “You crazy son of a bitch!”

Hunter picked up a second bottle, cocked it back; Earl brought up both hands to protect himself. “Get out! Get the fuck out of my house!”

Earl turned on all fours, his heavy frame doing its best to scurry along the floor and out of the kitchen until the distance was safe enough for him to rise to his feet and run. The back door slammed; an engine roared; tires screeched. The sound of the fleeing car dwindled to nothing in seconds.

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