exactly when Mr. Lopez arrived. But would Rubin still be alive when his father arrived? Dad stood to Rubin’s right and a little behind him, just out of his field of vision. Pal and Mountie flanked Dad, their ears at attention, tails stiff. They sensed his hostility. Dad stroked the dogs’ heads while they sat. Was he readying them for the attack? He leaned over both of them and looked to be adjusting their collars. Rubin didn’t deserve to die for what he’d—we’d—done.
I closed the door quietly behind me, but the dogs turned and looked at me, and Dad followed their gaze. He looked at me hard but didn’t tell me to go back in the house. My legs felt like rubber and I walked on them unsteadily, slowly making my way to Dad. I was there to ensure Rubin would live long enough to be picked up by his father, but that didn’t mean I had to go anywhere near him.
Pal and Mountie lowered their heads for me to pet and I did, figuring as long as I had my hands on them it would be difficult for Dad to sick them on Rubin. Pal had bad ears and I rubbed behind them; he moaned with pleasure. As long as he was in this state, I knew he was immovable. Mountie, though larger than Pal, was only a year old, and due to his immaturity, he always waited for Pal’s lead. As long as I kept Pal occupied, Rubin was safe.
I switched hands three times, my fingers tiring, before Mr. Lopez’s van turned the corner and stopped in front of the gate. He left the engine running and his door open, walked around the front of the van, and said: “What do you mean hanging up on me, Señor Royal?”
“You’re lucky that’s all I’ve done,” Dad said.
If I had been in Rubin’s predicament, I would have run to my dad. But Rubin remained standing where he was.
“Go on,” Dad said, “get your ass out of my yard.”
“Don’t talk to my son like that.”
“I’ll talk to him and you any way I damn well please.”
“What’s the matter?” Mr. Lopez said.
“I can’t prove anything because Wesley won’t talk, but I think your son’s a queer, Lopez.”
“How come you say that?”
“Why else would he lock himself in the bathroom with a younger boy? I don’t know what you’ve taught him.”
“What I’ve taught him? I haven’t taught him to lock himself in the bathroom with anyone.”
“Then he learned it on his own,” Dad said. “I don’t give a damn where he learned it, I just want him and you away from my son. Shit, there’s no telling what y’all did to him when y’all had him alone at the beach.”
“Señor Royal, I hope you’re not saying what I think you are.”
“Queers have to learn their ways from somewhere, and there’s no better teacher than a boy’s daddy.” Dad grabbed Rubin by the arm, opened the gate with his free hand, and pushed Rubin into his father. Pal and Mountie growled and ran at the gate showing their teeth.
“Get in the van, son,” Mr. Lopez said.
Rubin’s eyes locked with mine; his eyes were black pools that told me I’d pay for letting his secret out.
“Señor Royal, I thought you were crazy before, but now you’re proving it.”
“I’ll show you crazy.” Dad punched over the fence. Mr. Lopez, small and quick, ducked, so Dad’s fist was only a glancing blow to the top of his head. Mr. Lopez popped upright, showing no ill effects, and Dad caught him with the other fist under the right eye. This was a solid lick and Mr. Lopez staggered. But now he was too far from the fence for Dad to reach him, so he opened the gate and the dogs ran into each other trying to squeeze through first. This gave Mr. Lopez time to run around the van. Once in, he gunned the engine and flung gravel and stones in the air as the dogs chased him down the street. They gave up their chase after two blocks and returned home with their tongues lolled out.
CHAPTER 13
“What’d he try to do to you in there, son?”
The anger was gone; his act of violence had exorcised it. He was concerned-Dad now. I wanted to tell him the truth so he’d stop asking me that question. The truth would hurt him, but every time he asked me and I avoided a direct answer, his stress level increased; if I waited too long to confess, when I finally did it might kill him. I wanted to believe that if I told Dad the truth, everything would be okay. For some reason I thought that by a simple utterance the situation would be made right. But I didn’t want to say it to Dad’s face. I wouldn’t be able to stand the reaction. This admission, I knew, would release all of Dad’s inner demons, and I couldn’t face that alone.
“Nothing,” I said. “I told you we weren’t doing anything.” My voice was shaky, but I stuck to my story.
“Goddammit, boy! If that salt-water nigger hurt you, let me know. I’ll take care of it. I won’t be mad at you.”
Nice words, but still scary when they’re shouted at you by a wide-chested man towering over you, flames of Hell sparkling in his eyes.
I stuck to my story.
Mom had returned home that afternoon. She’d been out tending to the plants that the nursery had leased out. She and Dad went into their bedroom and shut the door, something they
rarely did. I thought maybe I should have met Mom at the front door and told her everything: Rubin’s closet, the beach, and what happened that day. But I didn’t. I wanted to hear what they were saying, but I didn’t want to risk getting too close to their door, so I stood in front of my bedroom door and could hear a low rumble emanating from their room. It was Dad’s gruff voice, but he was controlling the volume. I took another step forward. The wooden floor beneath the carpet groaned and I ran back to my room.
A few minutes later, Dad, his eyes glaring, quietly stormed past my bedroom door on his way outside and Mom entered my room in his wake.
“Your daddy told me you and Rubin were in the bathroom together.” She sat on my bed and smoothed a section of sheet with her hand and patted it for me to join her. “What were y’all
doing?”
“He was washing his hands and I was peeing.” I made sure to tell her exactly what I’d told Dad. But lying to Mom was more difficult because it hurt me inside. Lying to Dad was easier because I knew that he was a liar, that he had lied to me.
“You know, Wesley, boys aren’t supposed to use the bathroom at the same time.”
“Dad and I do sometimes.”
“That’s with the door open, son. And besides, you can trust your daddy not to do anything to you.”
Did Mom know that Rubin had done something to me? Or was that what Dad had told her? That had to have been what he grumbled about: his son in the bathroom with a salt-water nigger acting queer.
“Did Rubin do anything to you?”
Mom took my hand when she asked this. I couldn’t run from her eyes, they were like Wonder Woman’s magic lasso: I could not lie to her when they enveloped me. But I had to fight.
What had happened, I didn’t want to tell anyone, not even Mom. I felt that even she, despite all of our teamwork and closeness, would turn her back on me if she knew the truth.
“No.” I faced Mom on the bed, but kept my eyes to the left of her face, focused on the Captain America drawing hanging over my bed. That was all I had to show for what I did, what Rubin did—what we did. The drawing, marvelous in color, became ugly; its spirit darkened and menaced me.
“If he did something to you,” Mom said. She took my chin in her hand, tears welling in her eyes. “If he did something to you, son, now’s the time to say so. Don’t let it pass. Abuse, once you let someone get away with it, becomes easier for them to do. They think less of you, almost to the point that you ain’t a person no more; your feelings don’t matter; it’s all about them