A Breath Too Late - Rocky Callen Page 0,53

you never stop saying.

It isn’t until the sky is full of light, orange, yellow, and shining on your face, that I see something new in your eyes. You start running. We pass by houses and broken sidewalks. Your feet move so fast. There is urgency and desperation in every step. I can’t pretend to use the pavement to propel me forward. I have to glide in my unearthly way to keep up. It takes me a while to figure out where you are going, but then it clicks as I see the factory ahead.

I trail you, desperate to pull you back. Don’t go there. Not there. But that is exactly where you are going. Toward the one person that I don’t want you to see.

You charge on. I begin to see all of your flaws. All the ways you are still a boy and not yet a man. All the ways you still need someone to protect you. I want to shove a world between the two of you, because every step you take closer to him is a step closer, I am afraid, to you being beaten and bruised.

The men beside him notice you first. They narrow their eyes and then take a curious step back. Then he turns around, and I freeze. He’s wearing that cool look, the one that comes before a punch or a threat.

“And why are you here?” he says.

“This…” You don’t stop walking. You just charge forward. I barely see when you cock your arm back. “… is for Ellie.”

The punch slams my father’s face to the side with a loud crack. My father stumbles back, shocked. He stands upright. “Watch your step, boy—”

“Or what?”

“Or I’ll beat you till your momma doesn’t even recognize you.”

The men beside him laugh. My father glances behind him to chuckle along, but I can hear the edge in it. You plow into him, grabbing his flannel shirt and pushing him back against the metal siding of a truck. My father goes for a punch, but you are so fast that he misses you. You don’t miss his jaw. Not the first, second, or third time. I stare in awe. You look too lean, too young, too sweet to leave a man bleeding, but you do.

My father slides to his knees and spits out blood. “You are gonna regret that.”

“I hope you have bruises.”

“What?” he asks, sputtering.

“I hope you are covered in black and blue bruises. I hope that every goddamn person sees them. You won’t be able to hide them, cover them up.” You lean down and punch again.

Father is wheezing.

I’m unsure if I like how there is blood on your knuckles or that the blood is his. Unsure if I like how you are much stronger than I ever imagined or that he is so much weaker.

But I do know this: I like watching you as you walk away, blood on your hands, sweat on your brow, and my father lying in the dirt.

* * *

You walk to my house and stand in front of it. Momma isn’t there.

You stare up at the house. Your eyes are red. You chew on your lip and then pull something out of your pocket and write on it. Before I can see what it is, you drop it in the mailbox.

The mailman is right behind you and you almost plow into him when you turn around. He says hello, but you just nod and make your way down the steps.

I watch you leave, but now that I know everything … I have to go back and face what’s left.

55

Momma,

I wait for you in the living room. I want to see you. I am amazed how much I want you to hold me. How much I miss the warmth of you.

You walk in the door and drop your purse on the couch. Your face is painted, but your brown eyes are dull and empty. There is a pile of mail under your arm. I breathe in deeply, waiting for you to sit down, but you never do. You drop the mail on the counter and start looking in the refrigerator for dinner ingredients. I want to see what August left in our mailbox.

You click the answering machine and a single message plays: “Hello, Mrs. Walker.” You flinch as you let the message play and walk over to pull out the dishes from the cabinet. “We are waiting to hear from you on how you would like to present your daughter’s body