Send Down the Rain(23)

Without a man to toughen us up, Mom had worked out a deal with the local martial arts school. Two for the price of one. We worked our way up the belt system in tae kwon do. This required self-control, the perfecting of complicated patterns of forms and physical dexterity and strength. We both had that. In truth, Bobby was a better technician than me. His form was more exact, and he just looked more graceful. When we tested for black belt, Bobby actually scored higher. But there was also a competition and tournament aspect to tae kwon do. Involvement in tournaments was not required in order to advance up the belts, but I jumped in because it meant I got to kick people in the head. I thought maybe if I kicked them hard enough, my dad would hear about it and come home. Tell me he was proud of me. That I measured up. That I had what it took.

Bobby watched me compete with no interest. He appreciated my ability, but he thought the idea of two guys trying to knock the sense out of each other rather silly.

One year I was sick in bed with the flu when our team was competing at a national competition. My instructor, Master Steve, came by the house to pick me up in the team van, but I was half delirious with fever and Mom put her foot down. Seeing me lying in bed, Bobby stepped up. Not because he had any desire to fight anyone, but because I couldn’t go. Because he was my brother. That’s all. Master Steve had a real dissatisfied look on his face when Bobby appeared in the doorway with my gear bag, but he relented.

Sometimes I wonder how differently our lives would have turned out had Bobby not gone.

When they returned that evening, the van slowed just enough to let Bobby roll out. He had been knocked out in his first match. A spin hook kick he never saw coming. When he woke up, Master Steve immediately threw him into another match, where some kid threw a back kick followed by a round kick. Bobby was out for the better part of ten minutes. Our team lost.

Master Steve reinforced verbally and publicly what my father’s absence had spoken silently. “You don’t have what it takes.” It became the lie that defined him. The ridicule and taunting from my team members were unrelenting. They nicknamed Bobby “Cockroach” for the way his hands had stiffened as he lay on his back, straight as a board, eyes rolled back in his head.

The following weekend, in a similar tournament, I flipped my switch and knocked out both kids, standing over them in angry triumph. My first of several national championships. I had wanted revenge for what they’d done to my brother. For what my father did to us. And I got it. Or so I told myself. What I didn’t realize was that Bobby had watched with both pride for me and shame for himself. Once more, I had done what he could not. Word spread, and even parents in the neighborhood picked up on it. Bobby became known as the kid who could not. I became known as the kid who could. He retreated to his books and hung up his belt.

By the time I turned thirteen, I had one real love. Cars. The faster the better. Wanting to get my hands on everything chrome, I volunteered after school at the auto repair shop in town. This meant they let me sweep the floor and wipe down greasy tools and listen to stories about fast cars. Come weekends, me and both my underarm hairs thought I knew enough to rebuild engines and replace brakes.

Fifteen-year-old Bobby worked afternoons at the grocery store. Gifted with an affable demeanor and gentle humor, he was everybody’s favorite bag boy. People looked at me with skepticism, wondering what trouble I was either in or about to get in, while people trusted Bobby and liked being around him. His tips proved it. We looked so similar, though, that people often confused us or thought we were twins.

I was lying under Mom’s wood-paneled station wagon one Saturday, wrestling with the oil drain plug and spilling oil all over the garage, when the hollering started. Doors were slamming and Mr. Billy was screaming, “Allie!”

I guessed that she had blockaded herself in her room. I wasn’t sure where her mom was, but from the sound of things Mr. Billy was about to break down her door.

I slid out from beneath the car and found Bobby coming out our front door. I looked at him, wondering what to do. His eyes were blinking real fast. He took one uncommitted step toward the Pines’ house and said quietly, “We . . . we better do something.”

Wrapped in Allie’s scream was a new sound. Fear. Bobby and I bolted through our yards and hit the Pines’ back porch at a dead run. I climbed the lattice and lifted Allie’s window. She was sitting on her bed, knees tucked up into her chest, staring at the splintering door and screaming, “No, Daddy!”

Bobby and I landed on Allie’s bedroom floor just as Mr. Billy broke the door off its hinges. Mrs. Eleanor took the first blow, which splattered blood across the wall and sent her rolling backwards like a bowling ball. She hit the base of Allie’s bed with a thud, where she lay muted and motionless. Mr. Billy stood there laughing, holding the brass doorknob in one hand and a Mason jar in the other.

I looked at Bobby, who was looking at Mr. Billy. Bobby’s pants were wet, and he stood frozen in a puddle of his own pee. He took a weak step toward Mr. Billy, who laughed at him and said, “Why don’t you go bag some groceries.”

I was sick and tired of people picking on Bobby, and I was sick and tired of Mr. Billy beating Allie and her mom. I jumped between Allie and her dad, straddling Mrs. Eleanor. He stood two feet taller than me. “Mr. Billy,” I said, “you need to back up.”





13

When I woke up in the hospital, Allie was sitting next to me. Tears on her face. Lip trembling. Holding an ice pack on my cheek. Mrs. Eleanor, whose face was equally swollen, sat holding my mom’s hand, their chairs scooted up next to the bed.