Eric Clarkson’s father rang our doorbell at 7:00 A.M. the morning after I smashed his son’s car window. I had been sitting in my bed, vibrating from lack of sleep and a sense of what I was sure would be a raging storm. So when I heard the bell, I sprang to my feet, my entire body shaking with fear or excitement or dread. Whatever it was, whatever was to come, I think I wanted it. Like I needed it all out in the open, something real that I could confront and survive. Or not.
I thought I would just stand up in the hallway and listen. But I found myself moving to the stairs, taking each step downward as silently as I could. In contrast, my father’s steps from the kitchen into the foyer seemed to rock the foundation of the house like a series of earthquakes.
He didn’t see me as he opened the door. But I could see Mr. Clarkson. He was my father’s height, but larger. Where Dad’s face was gaunt and tightly drawn, his was prominent and full. His thick chin jutted like mine would one day.
At first, my father stood his ground. His back was straight and his shoulders back. He may have smiled, which would be typical when around the neighbors, but I couldn’t see his face.
Mr. Clarkson, though, did not. His mouth was sharp and set. I don’t even think Dad noticed Drew’s lacrosse stick in his right hand.
My father spoke first, his tone friendly and mildly inquisitive. “Hey, Jeff?”
Mr. Clarkson did not speak right away. Instead, he lifted his arm, holding the stick between them. My father’s head tilted as he looked at it. But he made no move to take it from Mr. Clarkson’s hand.
“Is something wrong?” he asked.
When he finally spoke, our neighbor’s voice sounded like he could barely contain a desire to rip my father’s head off.
“I found this in my son’s car,” he said, his teeth barely parting.
“I—”
“The window was smashed in,” he continued.
Like I said, I couldn’t see my father’s face. I imagine that moment as if I could, though. He must have been dumbfounded. Desperately wanting to think I had done it. If Mr. Clarkson had left it at that, maybe Dad could have convinced himself. But that’s not how it happened.
“I’m tired of your son’s shit, Patrick,” Mr. Clarkson said. “Eric’s been putting up with it for years. What, does he think he can bully my son out of the starting lineup? Is that it? Is that how you raised him?”
My father’s shoulders slumped. He took a step back.
“I . . . I don’t know . . .”
“Get him under control. Or you’ll be dealing with me. You understand that?”
Mr. Clarkson thrust the stick into my father’s hands. He bumbled it and it fell to the ground, awkwardly striking the threshold before hitting him in the shin.
“And you’re paying for the damn window,” our neighbor said as he turned and walked away.
My father didn’t move. His hands hung limp at his sides. It didn’t even look like he was breathing. Then, as if nothing had happened, he reached out and slowly shut the door. When he turned, I saw his face and I guess I knew. His eyes were as fiery as his cheeks. Sweat shined on his forehead. The muscle above his left cheek twitched. Worst of all, he never blinked as he stared right through me. His yell shattered the stillness, rattling my skull.
“Andrew!”
My eyes widened. I turned and looked up the stairs, every nerve in my body firing at once. I had never heard my father speak like that, even to me. For it to be directed at my brother, I can’t fully explain how that felt. Maybe like a child waking up Christmas morning to find stacks of beautiful presents under the tree, only to remember that his parents can’t afford all of it. That these amazing gifts, all addressed to him, will break them, break all of them.
Drew appeared at the top of the steps. He stood there and I saw the look of confusion on his face. What surprised me, though, was that he didn’t look at our father. He stared at me. I started to shake, more on the inside than out. I had a second to think he would launch himself down the stairs, tear my eyes out, rend my face to strips of bloody skin, all with that thin half smile on his face.
That never happened. None of it. My father yelled his name again and Drew startled. He hurried down the stairs, his mouth agape. I think he tried to say something, maybe a question, but I don’t know. Because my father went at him. He crossed the foyer to the steps as my brother reached the bottom. He never slowed. Instead, his fist reared back and he struck Drew in the face, either his orbit or the ridge between his eyes.
The back of Drew’s foot caught on the step and he went down. My father kept coming. He threw himself atop my brother, grabbing the front of his shirt and screaming into his face.
“How dare you embarrass me like that!”
He shook Drew and my brother’s head struck the edge of one of the steps. His eyes looked unfocused, dazed. But my father just kept screaming and screaming. He rained down obscenities and kept repeating that Drew had embarrassed him.
“Don’t you think? Are you that stupid? What? You expect me to drive through the neighborhood now, with everyone looking at me, thinking how bad a parent I am, how I have no control over my own son. Is that it?”
His fist reared back, but he didn’t strike Drew again. Instead, his rant ended abruptly. My father let go of my brother’s shirt and pushed himself upright. He stared down at Drew for a second, shaking his head. Then he turned and walked slowly away.
I stood there, finding myself suddenly alone with my brother. I couldn’t take my eyes off him. He looked battered and broken on the steps, weaker than I ever imagined he could. Our eyes met. I saw his tears. And he knew I did.
That moment stretched out. After everything, after all the years of him towering over me, beating me down with his words, with his smile, you would think I ate the moment up. I should have devoured his pain, the fear in his eyes, the shock dripping off him like a sickness. But I didn’t. Instead, I felt an overwhelming panic. I fought the urge to cover my face, cower away from him. I imagined him flying off the steps, coming at me as I thought he would before. I couldn’t have been more wrong, though.
Drew did get up, yet his movements were sluggish and unthreatening. He stared at me. He took a step toward me. And his hand did come up. I even flinched, but he didn’t strike me. Instead, he reached out, and—I can never forget this—he touched my face. His palm felt like fire against my cheek. But that smile was gone. His eyes looked full of a pain I never expected.
“You’re not alone, Liam,” he said, and in my hunger, I accepted his emotions as real. I lived this moment like it wasn’t just another move in our timeless game. “I promise that you’re not alone. We’ll stand up to him. Together.”