The Removed(57)

When I knocked on the door, Vin didn’t respond. I called his name. I unlocked the door, opened it slowly, and saw him sitting cross-legged on the floor at the bottom of the stairs. A few empty water bottles were scattered on the floor. The blanket was balled up in the corner. When he realized the door was open, he struggled to sit up. I didn’t enter the room, but stood there waiting for him to speak. He managed to stand up. “Are you a fucking lunatic?” he said. “Why did you lock the door?”

Something flashed in my mind as I glared at him. He was of some other presence. Maybe he could’ve killed me. Maybe I could’ve killed him. But I saw where that anger would lead me: a place in which Luka had no dad, a new pain that would not resolve an old pain.

“Do you remember hitting me last night?” I asked him.

He looked down at his hand, and I wondered if he felt remorseful. He was shaking his head in disbelief. I hadn’t thought he could ever be capable of being so cruel, but now I knew, and I needed to let him know. I felt as though I were staring into the face of a different man, someone I had never seen before. He seemed fatigued, unkempt, pitiful, like someone who had been through hell, through turmoil, and realizing this, if only briefly, gave me a sense of satisfaction.

“I’m bleeding,” he said, compliant and not defensive. “My hand is bleeding.”

“Fuck you.”

He wiggled his fingers, and I saw a little bit of blood on his knuckles.

“Do you remember that your cop dad shot a teenage boy?” I said. “It was fifteen years ago. Do you remember that?”

He looked up at me, trying not to blink. He was like a weak soldier, and I was like a spirit before him, full of rage for what he had done.

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“That boy was my brother, Ray-Ray. The boy your dad shot and killed. That was my brother who got shot.”

“My dad shot your brother,” he said, as if he was thinking aloud.

“Your stupid racist dad shot and killed my brother.” I could hear my voice go weak.

“I’m bleeding,” he said again. He kept wiggling his fingers.

“Christ, Vin, you make me sick. You deserve to bleed. You deserve to suffer for the murder your dad committed.”

He looked serious, but I couldn’t tell what he was thinking. “Look, I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t know he did that. There must be some kind of explanation. My dad’s not a killer. He was a police officer, there were some messy cases over the years. Lots of people died.”

“Please.”

“I don’t know everything he did at his job. I was a little kid back then.”

“Fuck you.”

He panicked. “Hey, I really didn’t know. Why are you bringing this up? Have you just been waiting to confront me about this?”

“My God, Vin, he got away with murder!” I told him. “Your dad should’ve been tried. He saw an Indian kid and just shot at him. Ray-Ray never even owned a BB gun, much less a real gun. Some other dude was the shooter, not Ray-Ray. There was no trial. It feels like a cruel joke on my family.”

He ran his hands over his face, then clenched his jaw. His hands were fists. I saw a vein bulging in his neck. “Settle down, Sonja,” he said. “My dad’s got lung cancer. He’s on chemo. He’s weak and dying.”

“It feels like a cruel joke,” I said again. “The pain we went through. Every single person in my family is still fucked up. My dad’s tried his best to keep us together, but he has Alzheimer’s and can’t even recognize us sometimes. My brother is an addict, and my mother has been depressed for years because of this. Where could we find justice? Can you tell me that?”

He shook his head.

I didn’t say anything more, nothing. I set his phone on the floor and left, leaving the door open, then headed outside and began walking down the road toward my parents’ house. A moment later I turned and saw him walking to his car. He started the engine and pulled away.

In the end, whatever I thought didn’t matter. Calvin Hoff was old, and someday soon he would be eaten by cancer and die. That was the only justice I could hope for.

FOR THE REST OF THE AFTERNOON I thought of Luka. If I could’ve snatched him up from Vin, I would have. He would’ve been safer with me anyway. He would love living with me. I would push him on a swing and see the rush of wind in his hair and eyes as he looked at me. I would take him shopping for clothes and to get haircuts at the barbershop downtown. I would take him swimming, like I used to take Ray-Ray.

Thinking of Ray-Ray reminded me that I needed to visit his grave before the bonfire, so late in the day I rode my bicycle to the cemetery. It was a long ride, and my legs were tired from riding uphill. I felt a sense of density when I got there, as though the air had left my body. As I walked my bike toward Ray-Ray’s grave, I saw a young girl reaching down to pick up rocks beside the road. She was alone, talking to herself, I think, though I couldn’t hear exactly what she was saying. She wore a white dress and a long necklace. Her hair was long and dark and hung loose to her waist. I walked toward her to see her better. She was classically lovely, with sharp cheekbones and contemplative lips. When she looked up, she stood and smiled.

“I’m picking up rocks,” she said, and laughed.

“Who are you with?” I asked. “Is your mother around?”