8

I get my answer later that night.

I’m lying in bed looking through an old Captain America comic that I got about a year ago, trying to chill out. It’s an old one from 1987 called Captain America No More! in which the Red Skull devises a plan to destroy Captain America, but ultimately his plans are revealed and order is restored. The comic book isn’t worth jack, particularly in this condition, but it’s one of my favorites, mainly because Dad bought it for me.

The night I got it stays with me because Dad and I don’t generally hang out. Things have been pretty messed up between us since I was a kid, even before Mom and Mickey died, and I’ve felt like an inconvenience for the better part of a decade. I’d always envied the closeness he and Mickey shared and wished he and I could be like that. That we’d have something more in common than our shared DNA.

It’s not like Dad has never tried. It’s just always been on his terms. Back when Mickey and I were kids, my parents would save up all year, and every August they would pack us in the car for the long drive to Boston to catch a Sox game at Fenway. My dad had an old Chevy that had no air-conditioning and was prone to overheat, so it was always an adventure. And on the ride, Dad and Mickey would be shooting off all kinds of stats from the season: RBIs, home runs, batting averages, that sort of crap.

We had the cheapest seats, way in the outfield, but I never cared because I was more interested in doodling on my concession-stand napkin than watching the actual game. I mostly liked how we were all together and it felt like we were a family. Then, when I was ten, I screwed everything up.

The truth is, I didn’t really like baseball that much, which was sacrilege in my house. My father was convinced that if I played Little League, I would turn into an all-star like him and my brother. It didn’t matter that I had zero interest or ability and would rather take art classes; Dad was determined that I follow in his footsteps. He coached my team every year. I went along with it because I wanted to make him happy, but I was miserable.

One day, I saw a poster at the comic book store about a showing of Steve Ditko’s original sketches from early Spider-Man comics at a gallery in Boston, and he was supposed to be there in a rare public appearance with Stan Lee. Even though I knew it meant missing the last game of my team’s season and that my dad letting me go was probably a total long shot, I begged him to take me. He laughed it off as if it were trivial, just a bunch of drawings. I was so upset that I told him I thought baseball was boring as shit, that I didn’t want to play anymore and he couldn’t make me. He was so furious that his jaw clenched and a vein bulged in his forehead as he yelled at me that I didn’t make the rules. So at the game, bottom of the ninth inning, bases loaded, score tied, with everything riding on my at-bat, I decided to show him who’s boss.

When the pitcher threw the ball, I didn’t swing. I could see my father out of the corner of my eye, yelling at me to hit the ball. He was on his feet, pulling his baseball cap on and off his head, practically having a frickin’ coronary. With each of the next two balls, he kept yelling, asking me if I was a moron, then reprimanded me in front of the crowd, but I didn’t move a muscle. I stood my ground. I had to show him I wasn’t—and would never be—like him and Mickey.

While I felt like a jerk for throwing the game and letting down the team, I was tired of my dad trying to mold me in his image. I felt proud of myself for standing up to him. But happiness was fleeting, because when the game ended, the entire team—including my dad—completely iced me out. I’d humiliated him publicly. I’d pushed things too far with him, and I tried to apologize the entire ride home, but he didn’t want to hear it.

There were no more family trips to Fenway after that. He’d still go, of course, but he’d only take Mickey. Mom loved baseball, but Dad was adamant that I not “subject myself to that boring-as-shit game,” and Mom worried about leaving me alone, so she stayed home with me. I could see in her eyes how disappointed she was to miss it, which made me feel worse. I tried explaining to him that I didn’t really feel that way, that I had just been upset, but it didn’t matter. The damage was done. And after Mickey died, Dad stopped going altogether.

Most days Dad makes it clear that sharing a house doesn’t mean we have to share a conversation. So last year when he invited me out for a pizza and we found ourselves at the comic store, it was kind of a big deal. That night, Monica was working, there was no game on, and Dad wanted company. Sure, he spent most of the evening draining a pitcher of beer, ranting about how the Pats weren’t gonna be able to take it all the way to the Super Bowl, and checking out the boobs on our waitress, but it was progress. He didn’t ask me a single question about myself, but I was glad to be there with him. He’s pretty much all I’ve got.

On the way home, we passed Metropolis Comics. They were getting ready to close, and Victor, the old guy who owns the place, waved at me as we walked by.

“Who the hell is that?” my dad asked with a belch.

I waved back. “That’s Victor.”

My dad leaned in to me and grabbed the inside of my arm near the elbow, steadying himself. “He a friend of yours?”

“Kinda.”

He snickered and added, “Ain’t he a little old for you, Hank? What’s a guy his age interested in some young kid for?”

“Dad, he owns the comic book store. I come here a lot. He knows me.” Probably better than you do, I’d thought.

Dad stopped in his tracks and eyed the neon sign as if he was noticing the store for the first time. “Metropolis Comics, eh? I used to like comics when I was a kid. Who’s your favorite?”

I tried to play it cool. “That’s a tough call. So many great ones, but I’m going to have to go with the Silver Surfer.”

He raised his eyebrows. “Yeah? That the guy on a skateboard?”

“Surfboard, actually. That’s why they call him the Silver Surfer.” Dad had shared so little of himself with me, and now that we were finally speaking the same language, I didn’t want to mess it up. “Who was your favorite?” I asked him.

“Jeez, it was so long ago. I was about your age, maybe younger.” Dad shook his head.

I tried to imagine my dad as a teenager. I saw a photo once a long time ago. He actually looked a lot like I do now. It’s as if his life was divided into before and after Mom and Mickey died. Everything that came before was put in a box and closed up tight like the door to Mickey’s room. It’s different for me. I like to think about my mom and brother, to imagine the things they’d say or do if they were still here. It comforts me in a way I can’t fully explain. But for Dad, I guess the memories are too painful to revisit.

“I used to love the classics. You know: Hulk, Wolverine, Iron Man, Spider-Man.”

“So you’re a Marvel guy then?” Who knew?

“Absolutely. Superman and Batman were all right, but DC lost me with Aquaman. I always thought, how can you take someone seriously who rides a sea horse?”

We shared a laugh, and I felt excited, hopeful. Neither of us was yelling. We were having fun. I wondered what he’d think about Freeze Frame. I’d never shown it to him, but for the first time, I thought that maybe I could. I’d always been too worried he’d discount it the way he had the drawings I’d made as a kid.

“You like Captain America? That guy was wicked cool.”

“I do. He’s one of my favorites.” He grinned and slapped me on the back, saying, “Let me buy you a Captain America comic.”

“That would be awesome!” It was big. I remember thinking that maybe, maybe he’d forgiven me a little bit. I wasn’t even nervous that he’d upset a display or talk too loudly.

We spent about a half hour there, sifting through comics together and talking. Ultimately, the one he bought me set him back about fourteen bucks. I wondered if he’d even remember it in the morning. More likely, he’d wonder where his money went and assume I’d stolen it. It wouldn’t have been the first time.

But whenever I read Captain America No More!—tonight being no exception—it makes me remember what a great night that was, and how much I want Dad and me to be like that more of the time. So far, that hasn’t happened.

I reach the last page of the comic and am carefully putting it back into its protective plastic sleeve when I hear the sharp crack of something hitting my window. It sounds like the little pebbles from the driveway. I look out, but I don’t see anything. As I lie down and reposition the pillow behind my head, I hear it again.

Clack! Plink!

This time I put down my comic, open my window, and stick my head outside. The moon slices through the trees, casting long shadows in the side yard. A stray cat sprints across the grass to the shelter of some nearby bushes, but that’s about it.

It’s close to midnight, but I decide to go against the warning of every horror movie I’ve ever seen and head downstairs to check things out. As usual, Dad is passed out in front of the TV, a half-empty bottle of beer nestled in the crook of his arm. His head is slumped over his chest, causing him to snore like a jackhammer with each breath.

I carefully remove the bottle and place it on the coffee table next to two other empties and the remains of what appear to have been bean dip and a bag of Fritos. Late-night snack of champions. I think Dad drinks more when Monica’s not around to slow him down.

I flip on the porch light. Then as quietly as I can, I open the front door, hoping the hinges won’t squeak too loudly. The screen makes a yawning creak as it resists my push, but Dad’s out cold and doesn’t seem to hear it over whatever crappy rerun is blaring on the TV. I tiptoe outside and down the steps. It’s long since stopped raining and the sky is clear, but the ground is still wet and the air is heavy with a damp chill.

I survey the perimeter of the property for potential serial killers, but everything is still. It’s only when I walk around to the side yard below my window that I step on something that makes me yowl.

I squint and kneel for a closer look. Yep, it’s as I suspected: the charred remains of a male Barbie. I can’t see the original hair color because the plastic’s blackened and melted into a twisted lump, though the doll’s feet have miraculously retained their shape. I can’t read the writing on its chest because it has been obliterated by flame, but if I had to bet on it, I’m pretty sure I’d know what it would say. The message couldn’t be clearer.

“Peyton?” I half yell, half whisper, hoping she’ll pop out from behind a bush like she usually does.

There’s no way she could have hightailed it out of here that quickly, and the urgency to find her overshadows the fact that I am not wearing any shoes. I hop down the gravel driveway, turning in circles, looking for any sign of her.

“Peyton?”

No response. The only sounds are the leaves rustling when the breeze kicks through the trees and a dog barking somewhere up the road. I call her name again and am about to give up and head back inside when I catch movement by my neighbor’s trash cans. Tomorrow’s garbage pickup, which means it’s as likely to be a raccoon as it is Peyton, but I decide to take my chances. It’s clear she’s angry and isn’t coming out if she’s hiding, so I say my piece.

“Peyton, I get that you’re pissed at me. What I did was shitty. I don’t know why I said what I said. Seeing Amanda threw me off. She was talking to me, which rarely happens, and I got carried away. I wasn’t thinking.”

The breeze picks up again and I bear-hug myself, because even though the calendar says it’s early May, someone forgot to tell the weather this week. My toes are starting to go numb. How long does it take for frostbite to set in?

I address the trash cans again. “I’m an asshole, Peyton. You didn’t deserve that. The truth is, it’s been a long time since anyone was nice to me. You could have busted me right from the start. But you didn’t, and even though you might do and say some freaky shit, I think you’re pretty cool. I shouldn’t have taken advantage of your trust like that.” I sigh deeply and add, “And if it makes you feel any better, I’ve felt miserable all night for what I said. Because it isn’t true, Peyton.”

I stand there for another minute waiting to see if she appears, and when she doesn’t, I turn toward the house. “Nice job, jackass,” I say under my breath. Only I would pour my guts out to a garbage can.

On the porch, I go to open the door, but the knob doesn’t give. Stuck again. Dad’s been saying he’ll get around to fixing it for forever, but that day has yet to come. I jiggle it again, a little harder this time, but nothing. You’ve got to be kidding me.

I look for a stick on the ground, and when I find one approximately the right thickness, I attempt to jimmy the lock, but the stick splinters in my hand.

Unbelievable.

I have no choice but to knock gingerly for Dad. He doesn’t answer. I knock harder and step back from the door, jogging in place to try to keep warm. My adrenaline starts pumping, anticipating what’s to come.

I hear Dad stirring inside, cursing and stumbling his way to the door. “Who the hell is knocking at this hour of the night?” he bellows. He throws open the door, his brow lined with annoyance, prepared to give whomever is on the other side a piece of his mind, but his eyebrows shoot up in confusion when he sees it’s me.

“Hank? What the hell are you doing out there? What happened to your clothes and shoes? Somebody messing with you?” He peers past me as if the answer is hiding behind me in the shadows.

“Everything’s fine, Dad.” I push past him into the house, leaving muddy footprints on the carpet as I pass, but not caring because it’s warm in here.

He closes the door behind him and grunts. “How could everything be fine? You’re outside half naked in the middle of the night. Are you telling me that’s normal behavior?”

“I heard something outside, so I went to check it out. I got locked out. Sorry to wake you, Dad,” I say and start for the stairs. It would be a miracle if he lets me off this easily.

He doesn’t.

“What the hell is that in your hand?”

I look down to see that I’m still holding the charbroiled Barbie. “Oh, this was on the porch. I think a stray cat left it. Probably got into someone’s trash.” I force a smile and tuck the gnarled plastic into my pocket. “’Night, Dad.”

I make it up three stairs before he stops me.

“Since when are you a Boy Scout investigating noises?” He chuckles and reaches for his half-empty beer on the coffee table and takes a swig. “You gonna clean up this mud you tracked in? You think I’m your maid or something? Get down here.”

“Yes, sir.” I slink my way to the kitchen for a rag. I wet it, put a little dishwashing soap and water in a small bowl, and head back to the living room, where he stands over me as I get on all fours and start to scrub at the stains.

After a minute of supervising, Dad plops himself on the couch, throws back the rest of the beer, and then says, “You think I don’t know what you’re up to? Sneaking around in the middle of the night? Probably up to some trouble, and I won’t have it. I got enough crap to deal with without having to mop up your messes.” He says the last part with a scowl.

“I wasn’t sneaking around, Dad. I told you, I heard a noise.” I keep my head down and concentrate on making concentric circles. I know better than to make eye contact with him when he gets like this. It’s the liquor talking. I won’t let him bait me.

“Don’t you mouth off to me. I’ll knock you into next Sunday.”

I can feel his eyes boring into me, daring me to look up. He’s never actually hit me, though he’s come close a few times. I’ve learned to stay out of his way when he’s like this.

“We both know you’re as chickenshit as they come. Scared of your own goddamn shadow. You expect me to buy that excuse? What were you gonna do, fight off an intruder? You don’t even know how to throw a goddamn punch.”

I really want to tell him that’s because he’s never taken the time to show me anything worthwhile, but I opt to keep my mouth shut instead. It’s not worth it. Not when he’s like this.

“What happens when you graduate this year? If you graduate. What are you gonna do with your life? You want to end up like me? Do ya?”

This is what’s known as a trick question, and Dad is loaded with them. If I answer no, then he’ll go on a tirade about how I look down on him, how I think I’m better than him. If I say yes, we’ll both know it’s a lie because his life is shit, a wretched existence shadowed by a series of unfortunate events and bad choices, made tolerable by an abundant supply of cheap beer. I can tell you, whatever I do with my life, it won’t be working some crap-ass factory job, getting drunk every night, and talking down to everyone around me to compensate for the fact that I’m a miserable son of a bitch.

I may not be an AP Scholar or the quarterback of the football team, but it wouldn’t matter if I were. At the end of the day, I’m the one who’s still here and my mother and brother are the ones who are six feet under. And that pisses him off. They were the only bright spots in his life, and he’ll never let me forget it. What he doesn’t realize is that Mom and Mickey were the only good things I had too. We’re in the same damn boat, he and I, and he can’t even see it.

Dad pounds the empty beer bottle on the table and it falls over, but he doesn’t pick it up. It rolls in a semicircle, then falls to the floor. He stands up, stepping over it, and heads toward the stairs, bumping into me as he passes. “You better watch yourself, kid.”

I don’t answer. I just keep scrubbing.

It takes another fifteen minutes to get every trace of the mud out of the carpet. I pick up the abandoned beer bottle, throw the empty food containers in the trash, shut off the television, and head back to my room. I can hear him snoring through his closed door, like someone is drilling into the sidewalk. In the morning, he’ll act like nothing ever happened.

By the time I get to bed, it’s past 1:00 a.m. I close my eyes, but I can’t sleep because my brain is going a hundred miles an hour. What happened with Dad is bad enough, but this thing with Peyton is eating away at me like a cancer.

The girl burned a Barbie with my name on it. She only does that when people genuinely hurt her, and I know I did. But someone can only hurt you if they matter to you in the first place. And this weird sense of loss I’m feeling, believing I’ve caused some irreparable damage to our friendship, makes me realize that in some messed-up way, she’s started to matter to me too.

Which is crazy.

The thing is, my gut tells me it’s about to get even crazier.