How
Come?
Warnings: Child abuse. Character death
1985
“Hey
Mom, there’s this new kid in school, Brian, you gotta meet
him.”
“Is there? That’s nice, sweetie. What’s he like?”
“He’s great, really smart and he’s, I don’t know, he’s just so cool.” Michael was busing a table at the Liberty Diner after school, just as he did three days a week. He really couldn’t afford to miss the homework time, but he couldn’t afford to miss the money, either. “He said that he’d help me if I needed it in any of my classes this year.” That was a sure way to get on his mother’s good side.
“Did he? That’s nice, honey. Why don’t you invite him over this weekend? He can stay for dinner if you’d like.”
“Well, actually, he’s here.” Michael nodded to the front window. Debbie could see the shape of a tall, gawky teenager hanging around outside. She gave her son a look.
“OK, invite him in. Let’s meet him.”
Michael went to the door and gestured to his new friend. Her first impression was confirmed—tall yes, but he wasn’t gawky. He was slender and athletic and he looked pretty strong, too. In fact, he was a damn good-looking kid. It was his eyes that were the most striking thing about him. They caught you and even though he kept his face neutral, she got the feeling that he was taking everything in. The kid was sharp, all right. He also had some yellowish greenish purple bruises around his left eye. A fighter and probably a troublemaker. Oh great, just what Michael needed.
This one would be trouble.
1986
“How come you just don’t leave?”
It was about three in the morning and Michael was curled around Brian in his small bed under the motorcycle wallpaper. They always slept like this after Brian came over so that either Mikey or his mom could clean him up after his father had beaten the holy crap out of him—again. He hadn’t needed a hospital this time, just the first aid kit, so that was good, at least.
Somehow, sleeping with Mikey wrapped around him seemed to do more to help than the alcohol and the antiseptics and the bandages did. It was like this every time it happened, and it happened at least once a month, usually more.
Brian didn’t answer right away, just snuffed a little because he had been crying. Finally, after Mikey thought that he had fallen asleep, he whispered, “They’re my parents. They love me. I know they don’t act like it, but they do.”
“Bri…”
“They have to. If you had a kid, wouldn’t you love it? It’s like—I don’t know—parents always love their kids. They love me.” He turned as far onto his back as the pain would allow so that he could look at Mikey. “They have to, don’t they?” he snuffed again. “They feed me and they get me clothes to wear. They wouldn’t do that if they didn’t care about me.”
“Yeah, they must Bri. You’re right.” God, Bri, that is such bullshit, you know that.
Nodding, even though he didn’t really believe Mikey, he turned back onto his side, spooning them like they were before. Mikey could tell he was crying again, so he pressed against his back and slipped his arm over Brian’s waist, kissing his shoulder and whispering meaningless words of comfort that neither of them believed.
He had shown up in the kitchen a couple of hours earlier after letting himself in with the key that was always under the flowerpot. He had apologized about the blood dripping onto the kitchen floor when Debbie had taken his shirt off of him and had leaned down to clean it up. When she had asked what he had been hit with this time he admitted, reluctantly, that it had been a piece of zip cord with a plug still attached to one end. That was what had done the damage, the two little metal prongs of the plug.
She had seen this before and managed to not say anything since there was no point, just pressed her lips together, occasionally asking Michael for another bandage or piece of tape. She gave him some Tylenols since they seemed to help the most with the pain and slipped him one of her sleeping pills as well.
Short of calling the cops again or the priest again, that was about all she could do for him tonight. She’d check him in the morning—Saturday, thank God, so the poor kid could rest—and make sure that he was healing, give him a decent breakfast and make sure that he stayed at least the weekend.
His fucking parents.
At first she had put all the blame on his asshole father, but then she clued into the fact that his useless mother’s way of dealing was to light candles while her kid was bleeding. That pissed her off almost as much as the fact that he was being beaten like a gong almost weekly.
What the Hell was the matter with that school that they didn’t see that there was a problem? He had black eyes, broken ribs, he’d gone to school bleeding and probably in shock and no one fucking noticed.
Useless assholes afraid to open a can of worms and get involved.
She’d done what she could for tonight. Sighing deeply, her face set in grim lines, she finally managed to sleep.
Around eight thirty the next morning she was in the kitchen making French toast when she heard the boys moving around upstairs, voices, the shower running. They’d be down in a few minutes.
She poured the OJ and pasted a smile on her face, knowing that Brian would pretend that he was fine if it killed him.
Fucking
bastard.
1987
Christmas morning, around seven thirty, Debbie pulled open the door to Michael’s room. “Come on, up and at em…Let’s see what Santa brought. I know I heard reindeer on the roof last night. I did, they woke me up. Come on sleepy head!”
Debbie loved Christmas.
She would decorate the house and the yard and herself to within an inch of everything’s life.
Michael was at the point where, much as he loved her, he’d really rather have another hour of sleep, but knew that wasn’t an option. Resigned, he smiled up at her and pushed back the covers.
The tree was garish/beautiful as only a shiny aluminum Christmas tree can be. There were angels and twinkling lights, tinsel and fake snow. It was truly tacky and Debbie loved every single glass bead and plastic icicle.
There was a small pile of presents, wrapped and bowed and waiting. They tended to the practical, but that was alright. Michael had managed to save enough money from his lawn mowing and snow shoveling to get her that Chloe perfume she had coveted and so she was happy. She would be happy with anything that he gave her, of course, but he knew she had wanted this since that day at the Big Q when he had seen her look through the glass case at the expensive scents, knowing it wasn’t something she really needed and so wouldn’t get. There were too many bills to pay for her to buy something like perfume.
Brian had reminded him about it two weeks ago when they had gone shopping together.
By eight Brian was standing on the front steps, knocking to come in. They knew he’d be there.
He was empty handed when he came in, taking off his coat and gloves and sitting himself on the floor by the tree.
Debbie handed him the first box. His own batch of lemon squares followed by an inexpensive sweater. He exclaimed over both, shyly. The idea of gratitude was difficult for the boy and Debbie knew not to expect all that much in the way of thanks, just as they all knew that the real gift to Brian, forever locked in the twin steel traps of his brain and heart, was that he had a place to go where he was safe and welcome. Nothing else would count as much for him in his life as the surety of that knowledge.
“Hey, Mikey, I couldn’t put what I got you in a box—here.” He handed an envelope over. Inside was a confirmation for a full year’s subscription for Captain Astro, Captain Marvel, the Silver Surfer, Batman, the Teen Titans and the Legion of Super Heroes.
His face lit up, Michael hugged Brian, hard.
Then Brian turned to Debbie and pulled a small package out of the pocket of his chinos. It was a small flat box, beautifully wrapped. Inside was a set of ten delicate gold bangles, real gold. Her hug almost smothered him.
He spent the day with them, not bothering to go home. He attended Christmas mass with Debbie and Michael and ignored his family when he saw them in a neighboring pew.
1988
Mikey heard the sound of the kitchen door being unlocked, opening and closing. He’d had a feeling that he would tonight and so had been lying, half awake until he was sure.
They had gone to a movie that afternoon. OK, they probably shouldn’t, but all that they had missed was a pep rally for the stupid football team and who cared about them anyway? It had been Brian’s idea, of course. It was always Brian’s idea.
Michael knew that he shouldn’t always go along, but he was just so persuasive that he couldn’t turn him down. Besides, it was always more fun with Brian.
His mom was starting to get tired of the drama that life with Brian involved, though. She never said anything, of course, because she knew just how much Brian depended on being able to come over to their house when things got bad, but Debbie had her own problems to deal with and she sure could do without the great big truck load of angst that Brian carried around with him. It had been going on since Bri had moved in a couple of years ago and was getting worse.
His fucking parents.
They really were a couple of turds as far as Michael could see.
They shouldn’t have cut. The office had called them down last month and told them that if they cut once more they would call their parents and both boys knew that they meant it.
Debbie wasn’t a problem, she’d yell at him, maybe ground him or something, but it would blow over.
Brian’s parents, though, they were another story.
Michael put his feet on the floor and made his way down to the kitchen. Brian was sitting, partially slumped onto the table, at one of the chairs. He was about to turn on the overhead when he heard “No, don’t. That one will hurt my eyes.”
Michael turned on the smaller floor lamp that was in the doorway that divided the kitchen from the living room then turned to look at his friend.
Shit.
“I think I need a doctor this time.”
“OK, I’ll get my mom.” Brian barely nodded.
He put his hand gently on Debbie’s shoulder to wake her. “Mom?”
After a moment, “Yeah, honey?”
“It’s Brian.”
“OK.” She knew.
Down in the kitchen she took one look and asked, “Can you walk, sweetie?”
The blood was still leaking from his nose and his left ear, but the thing that had her really concerned was the way he held his stomach all hunched over the way he was. He just looked at her. It didn’t look like he’d be moving under his own steam.
Moving next to Brian, she spoke softly, “Michael, call the police. We’ll need an ambulance.”
He turned his head enough to look at her. “Don’t call the police. Please.”
“Honey, we have to report this. If we don’t the hospital will anyway.”
“No.” He was close to tears. “They’ll arrest my father.”
“Brian, sweetie, if he did this to you, he should be arrested.” She put her hand on his cheek.
“No. Please.”
Michael was standing by the kitchen phone. “Mom?”
She glanced up at him. “Brian.” He seemed to be losing focus. Taking his hand, she squeezed carefully. She noticed that his arms had a number of bruises as if he had tried to defend himself. His eyes opened slightly. “You need to see a doctor. I’m going to get you to the hospital and they’ll help you. OK? We’re going to call the ambulance to get you now.”
He forced himself to concentrate. “If they arrest him again he’ll lose his job. My mom will lose the house. He’s the only one making any money. You can’t call the police.” He was staring to shake.
“Mom?” Michael didn’t know what to do, but he was scared to death. Brian had never been beaten this badly. This was scaring the shit out of him.
Standing, Debbie crossed to the wall phone. “You stay with him, see if you can get him moved to the couch without hurting him any more than he already is.” She picked up the receiver and dialed a number.
After a few rings she began talking. “Fred? It’s Debbie…Novotny. You know, from the diner. I’m sorry to call you so late and all, but I need your help…Could you come over?…You know, the same old place…Bring your medical bag, would you?…As soon as you can make it…Thanks, sweetie.”
Michael had managed to get Brian stretched out on the old couch with a blanket over him.
“Mom, I think he’s unconscious.” Michael’s eyes had that look that they sometimes got—like a cornered puppy.
She bent over him, his breathing was shallow and he did seem, indeed, to be completely out. “Fucking bastard. Who the fuck beats their kid like this? Son of a bitch.”
About ten minutes later they heard steps on the front porch. “Fred—come in. Over here.”
He was a young doctor, graduated from Pitt and recently having completed his residency at Children’s Hospital. Gay, he was a regular at the diner and another one of Debbie’s strays.
“Could you put some more lights on so I can see, please?” He knelt beside the couch, pulling the blanket out of the way and lifting Brian’s tee shirt as far as he could. “What the fuck happened to him? Bashers?”
“His father.”
“Fuck.” He was starting his exam: pulse, temperature, checking his eyes and gently probing his stomach and ribs. “He needs to be in a hospital. He needs x-rays and should have a couple of IV’s. He’s in shock and I’d guess that if he’s not already, he’ll likely be slipping into a coma any time now. It looks like there’s a good chance that he has a concussion and at least three cracked and broken ribs. I’d also roll the dice for internal damage.”
“He’s afraid that if he’s taken to a hospital that his father will end up in jail. He’s the only breadwinner in the family.”
“If he’s not taken to a hospital, he’s going to have other problems.” He was continuing to feel various bones and joints. “How old is he?”
“Seventeen.”
“Fuck, too old for the foster care system, not that it doesn’t suck.” Fred sat back on his heels. “Debbie, he’s got to go to a hospital. He’s hurt pretty badly.” She nodded as he got up to use the phone.
“Mom?” Michael was scared. It hadn’t been this bad before. It had been getting worse lately, but not like this. Brian almost seemed to get some kind of weird pleasure out of baiting his father, as though he was challenging him to see how far he’d go.
“The ambulance will be here in a few minutes, Deb. Do you want to call his parents to meet us there or should I just call the police?”
“Does it make any difference?”
“Probably not.”
The ambulance arrived without Brian regaining consciousness and within half an hour he was in surgery. It was discovered that in addition to the concussion and the three badly broken ribs, he had suffered a ruptured spleen which had bled into his abdominal cavity. The damage was repaired as much as it could be and he was moved into the recovery room.
Debbie had insisted, over his objections, that Michael go home after they knew that Brian had come through the operation and was listed in serious but stable condition, promising that they would comeback first thing in the morning after he had been moved to a regular room.
It was about four that morning that the alarms went off.
It seemed that a clot had formed in one of his arteries and, breaking loose, had reached his heart. He was pronounced dead at the same time that his father was being fingerprinted on assault charges. They would be shortly changed to murder in the second degree.