Close to Home

They sat around the pond, Lake Mini-Ha-Ha, and listened to the story of when Kyle got a fishing hook pierced through his cheek through the inside of his mouth and then tugged as his uncle tried to cast the line. They squirmed under the mighty oak tree and got closer together because that's where human nature points, even if you are boys and girls. Kyle had a long scar on his round, tan face. He is the only kid Melchor Garza knows who goes to the bus stop every Memorial Day and Presidents' Day. Days when school is closed, and there are no yellow buses. Melchor would watch and laugh from his window. They were neighbors, but Kyle's dad, Mr. Carter, was the leader of their Cub Scout troop, and all he ever talked about was moving. Somewhere west and cheap. He had calluses on his hands and a handlebar mustache. He worked in construction and was rarely seen without his bright highway vest, even though he spent most of his time in a caterpillar. He ate a hot dog from Gina's every day, ever since he was Kyle's age: 12. He hated Kyle. Thought he was an idiot.

Kyle went on and one in front of Amanda, Erika, and Melchor about this fishing line in his mouth and how he was getting dragged around.

"Were you screaming?" asked Erika.

"Of course I was. It hurt! Look."

Amanda, whose face resembled an 8 and was covered in zits, rolled her eyes. She smoked cigarettes and said one day she was going to work as a nurse and get pregnant, and nothing else. She and Erika were best friends, but this was not always so. Amanda had accused Erika of stuffing her bra, and they almost killed each other until they realized how vicious and fun they could be together. They were the only girls Melchor knew who did not play sports. They beat up boys, smoked, and never cried in the principal's office. They looked at each other, and their glance at each other carried more meaning than whatever it was Kyle was saying. He was so stupid.

Kyle said Melchor's house smelled like tacos and laundry detergent, and word spread fast after he punched Kyle in the face. Amanda and Erika knew every detail, and though school was not in session, everyone got blown up on AIM. Kyle was Bootysmak69, Amanda was Amanda1988, and Erika was Mallmonster300. Melchor didn't have internet. He had a father who also worked in the trades but was made of red leather and smoked Marlboro's, drank with two others on coolers, and did a little bit of cocaine. His Mother was always inside but never came to the door. His little brother always answered, and it annoyed him that his mother did not know English. Their father didn't either. Jerry was eight. He didn't look like anyone else in the family, where Melchor was the spitting image of his father, Carlos, who had a thick, broomstick-bristle mustache that Melchor was told would one day grow, as he had already inherited the silence of his father while under their roof. The man at the head of the table hardly spoke, and his sons and wife never knew when he would burst into random fits of violence. The root of this violence was not understood. No one knew where it came from or why, but they all got a piece of it. One minute, he'd be opening the refrigerator, and then backhanding their mother. Melchor asked Amanda and Erika if their fathers were like that, too. If he was going to get his mustache, would he also get his temperament? It was the only thing in life that frightened him. That thought of being his father in every way. Kyle said his father hit him, but Amanda, Erika, and Melchor thought he should be hit. Erika said she did not have a dad, and Amanda's mom's boyfriend was a nice guy.

"Why did you start smoking, Amanda?" asked Melchor.

"My mom."

"She gives them to you?"

"No, I steal them. First it was butts from the ashtray, and then I started taking a few from her or Ron's pack."

Melchor looked at his neighbor.

"Kyle? Do you hit your little brother?"

Kyle farted, and the girls closed their noses and said there was nothing more disgusting than Kyle Carter.

"Look at the scar on my ass!” He pulled down his camouflage shorts. "Slipped in the shower. My mom found blood on my towel.”

"Pull up your pants, asshole," said Amanda.

"You have hair in your ass," said Erika. "Disgusting anus hair."

Kyle pulled them up.

“Yeah, I beat chris up all the time."

"Why?" asked Melchor.

"I dunno. My dad hits me. Gets the job done."

"What job?"

"I dunno, I guess the dumb shit I do. I used to not know it was dumb shit."

Melchor Garza touched the skin between his lip and nose.

"Erika, you've beaten up Kyle, and you've said numerous times in class how you want to have a daughter when you're 16, just like your sister. Why?"

She snapped her finger.

"I like her, and it looks good. Plus, she's got a man. I want a man."

But what did Carlos want?

They split up and headed home after Kyle had farted in the girl's face. During his walk home, Melchor couldn't help but feel like each step was a step closer to his dad, a man he didn't really know or talk to, but like his uncles and aunts had said, he was the spitting image of him, while his younger brother, Jerry, looked more like their mom, though no one agreed with that. They teased him, saying he was from Cuba.

Melchor thought about the worst things he had done in his life, but the list was small and forgettable. He and Danny Hill once threw their leftover Chinese onto some parked cars. Chris Doulas, his older brother, Tommy Doulas, and he once stole gas at the train station. He made fun of Cynthia Lopez for still sucking on her thumb. He wasn't proud of any of these things, but wondered if this was just the beginning. What would happen when he did what his father did with Marcos and Mario in the garage? He once watched his dad kick his little brother and didn't do anything about it because his ribs still hurt from the night before, but was he capable of that? Was he going to be like that one day? Was Melchor, Carlos? And what was his father? He didn't talk, he drank and did drugs, and then, without a reason, would hit them. What was that? Melchor wondered what he was becoming. The last time he touched his father's vein-riddled forearms, they were red and hot. His red eyes were less cool and rarely showed any expression, either in his eyes or on his worn face. Melchor didn't want to be like that and thought about what he would be losing if it were happening. His grandfather died long ago, but by all accounts, he was just like his dad, and now Melchor was next in line.

When he got home, there were police lights outside his house. The sun was gone, and he could see his mom talking to a Spanish-speaking officer. Her nose had been broken, and Jerry had already been taken away by the ambulance. His father was cuffed in the back seat of a squad car. He looked at his eldest with dead eyes, and there was no emotion on his face, but the lights flashed, and he did not blink.

His Mother saw him and gave Melchor a hug and a big kiss on his forehead. He cried and asked what had happened, where was Jerry?

"Tu padre lo golpeó con una pelota de béisbol."

The cop assured Melchor that his little brother would be alright. They just had to stitch him up. She was a blonde, white woman named McCarthy. She said his dad would be going to jail.

His Mother never came to the door, and Melchor knew the score. She would never testify, but maybe Jerry could. He asked his mother in Spanish if he would one day end up like his father, and she said, "No. You love us."