Sutton: A Novel Part 6

Yeah.

That's what big brothers are for aint it?

No. I mean yeah.

Then.

I wasn't. Being a sissy. I promise I wasn't.

He's callin us liars, Big Brother says to Bigger Brother.

Grab him.

Big Brother jumps on Willie, grabs his arms.

Hey, Willie says. Come on now. Stop.

Big Brother lifts Willie off the sidewalk. He puts a knee in Willie's back, forces him to stand straight. Then Bigger Brother punches Willie in the mouth. Okay, Willie tells himself, that was bad, that was terrible, but at least it's over.

Then Bigger Brother punches Willie in the nose.

Willie crumples. His nose is broken.

He hugs the sidewalk, watches his blood mix with the dirt and turn to a brown paste. When he's sure that his brothers have gone, he staggers to his feet. The sidewalk whirls like a carousel as he stumbles home.

Mother, turning from the sink, puts her hands to her cheeks. What happened!

Nothing, he says. Some kids in the park.

He was born knowing the sacred code of Irish Town. Never tattle.

Mother guides him to a chair, presses a hot cloth on his mouth, touches his nose. He howls. She puts him on the sofa, leans over him. This s.h.i.+rt-I'll never get these stains out! He sees his brothers behind her, hovering, glaring. They're not impressed that he didn't tattle. They're incensed. He's deprived them of another justification for hating him.

The sidewalk whirls like a carousel. Sutton staggers. He reaches into his breast pocket for the white envelope. Tell Bess I didn't, I couldn't- What's that, Mr. Sutton?

Tell Bess- A stoop. Six feet away. Sutton lurches toward it. His leg locks up. He realizes too late that he's not going to make it.

Willie, Photographer says, everything cool, brother?

Sutton pitches forward.

Oh s.h.i.+t-Mr. Sutton!

It varies widely, for no apparent reason. Sometimes the brothers simply knock Willie's books out of his hands, call him a name. Other times they stuff him headfirst into an ash barrel. Other times they scratch, punch, draw blood.

They pretend there are offenses. Crimes. They stage little mock trials. One brother holds Willie while the other states the charge. Showing Disrespect. Being Weak. Kissing Up to Father. Then they debate. Should we punish him? Should we let him go? They make Willie plead his case. One day Willie tells them to just get it over with. The waiting is the real torture. Big Brother shrugs, sets his feet, rotates his hips to maximize the power. A straight right to Willie's midsection, the punch lands with a surprisingly loud whump. Willie feels all the wind rush from him, like the bellows in Father's shop. He drops to his knees.

When Willie is ten he tries to fight back. Bad idea. The beatings escalate. The brothers get Willie on the ground, kick their hard shoes into his kidneys, ribs, groin. One time they kick him so hard in the back of the head that he suffers nosebleeds for a week. Another time they twist his head until he pa.s.ses out.

His parents don't know. They don't want to know. Father, after a twelve-hour day, can't think about anything but supper and bed. Even if he knew, he wouldn't say anything. Boys are boys. Willie used to admire Father's silence. Now he resents it. He no longer thinks Father a hero. He goes one last time to Father's shop, sees it all differently. With every unthinking swing of the hammer, with every metallic clank, Willie vows never to be like Father, though he fears that in some inescapable way he'll always be just like him. He suspects himself of the same capacity for boundless silence.

And Mother? She sees nothing but her own grief. Three years after Agnes's death she still wears black, still broods over the Bible, reading aloud, interrogating Jesus. Or else she simply sits with the Bible open in her lap, staring and murmuring into s.p.a.ce. It's a house of sadness and muteness and blindness, and yet it's Willie's only refuge, the only place his brothers won't attack, because there are witnesses. So Willie clings to the kitchen table, doing his homework, using the rest of the family as unwitting bodyguards, while his brothers glide through the rooms, watching, waiting.

Their chance comes when Father is at work, Mother is paying the iceman, Older Sister is studying with a friend. Big Brother pounces first. He takes Willie's schoolbook, tears out the pages. Bigger Brother stuffs the pages into Willie's mouth. Stop, Willie tries to say, stop, please, stop. But he has a mouthful of paper.

Ten feet away Daddo stares above their heads. Here now, what's happening?

Reporter catches Sutton just before he hits the ground. Photographer rushes to Sutton's other side. Together they guide Sutton to the stoop.

Willie, Photographer says. What is it, man?

Mr. Sutton, Reporter says, you're shaking.

They ease Sutton onto the stoop. Reporter takes off his trench coat, wraps it around Sutton's shoulders.

Thanks kid. Thanks.

Photographer offers Sutton his barber pole scarf. Sutton shakes his head, pulls the fur collar of Reporter's trench coat around his neck. He sits quietly, trying to catch his breath, clear his head. Reporter and Photographer loom over him.

After a few minutes Sutton looks up at Reporter. Do you have siblings?

No. Only child.

Sutton nods, looks at Photographer. You?

Three older brothers.

Were you picked on?

All the time, brother. Toughened me up.

Sutton stares into s.p.a.ce.

You, Mr. Sutton?

I had an older sister, two older brothers.

Did they pick on you?

Nah. I was a tough little monkey.

Somehow he does well in school. He earns all A's, one B. He doesn't want to show his report card to anyone, but the school requires a parent's signature. He cringes as Mother hugs him, as Father gives a proud nod in front of the whole family. He sees his brothers fuming, conspiring. He knows what's coming.

Three days later they catch him coming out of a candy store. He manages to escape, runs home, but the house is empty. His brothers burst through the door right behind him, tackle him, hold him down, drag him into the foyer. He sees what they have in mind. No, he begs. No no no, not that.

They push him into the closet. It's pitch dark. No, he begs, please. They lock him in. I can't breathe, he says, let me out! He rattles the k.n.o.b, pleading. He pounds the door until his knuckles and nailbeds bleed. Not this, anything but this. He scratches until a fingernail comes clean off.

He weeps. He chokes. He buries his face in the dirty coats and scarves that smell like his family, that bear the distinctive Fels-cabbage-potatoes-wool scent of the Sutton Clan, and he prays for death. Ten years old, he asks G.o.d to take him.

Hours later the door opens. Mother.

Jesus Mary and Joseph, what do you think you're doing?

Mr. Sutton, do you feel up to continuing?

Yeah. I think so.

Reporter helps Sutton to his feet, guides him to the Polara. Photographer walks a few paces behind. Sutton eases into the backseat, lifts his bad leg in after him. Reporter gently shuts the door. Photographer gets behind the wheel, looks at Sutton in the rearview. How about a donut, Willie?

G.o.d no kid.

I think I'll have one. Could you pa.s.s them forward?

Sutton hands the pink box across the seat.

Photographer picks a Bavarian cream, pa.s.ses the box back. Reporter gets in, turns up the heater. The only sounds are the heater blowing, the radio crackling, Photographer smacking his lips.

Now Reporter unfolds Sutton's map, leans toward Photographer. They whisper. Sutton can't hear them over the heater and radio, but he imagines what they're saying.

What are we gonna do with him?

What can we do, brother? We're stuck with him.

FOUR.

Willie comes home to find Mother in the parlor, reading the Bible to Daddo. His brothers are out. For the moment they're someone else's problem. With a sigh of relief Willie pulls a chair next to Mother, rests his head on her shoulder. The Fels smell. It makes him feel safe and sad at the same time.

The late fall of 1911.

Mother skips back and forth from Old Testament to New, slapping at the crinkly pages, murmuring, demanding an answer. The answer. Each pause gives Daddo a chance to tap his cane and offer commentary on the sublime wisdom of Jesus. Now she lands on Genesis, the story of Joseph and his brothers. Willie's mind floats on the lilt of her voice, the soughing of the potato sack curtains. And when they saw him afar off, even before he came near unto them, they conspired against him to slay him. And they said one to another, Behold, this dreamer cometh. Come now therefore, and let us slay him, and cast him into some pit, and we will say, Some evil beast hath devoured him: and we shall see what will become of his dreams.

Willie lifts his head from Mother's shoulder.

And it came to pa.s.s, when Joseph was come unto his brethren, that they stript Joseph out of his coat, his coat of many colours that was on him; And they took him, and cast him into a pit: and the pit was empty, there was no water in it.

Willie puts his hands over his face, shakes with sobs. Mother stops reading. Daddo tilts his head. The boy, he says, is moved by the Holy Spirit.

Maybe he'll be a priest, Mother says.

The next day she pulls him from P.S. 5 and enrolls him at St. Ann's.

Photographer is peeking in the rearview, driving fast. Peeking faster, driving faster. Reporter, trying to make notes, can't keep his pen steady. He turns to Photographer. Why are you driving like someone is chasing us?

Because someone is chasing us.

Reporter looks out the back window, sees a TV news van riding their b.u.mper. How the h.e.l.l did they find us?

We haven't exactly been inconspicuous. Maybe somebody witnessed a certain bank robber fainting in the middle of the street ... ?

Photographer mashes the gas, runs a red light. He spins the wheel to the left, swerves to avoid a double-parked truck. Sutton, tossed around the backseat like a sock in a dryer, tastes this morning's champagne, last night's whiskey. He realizes that he hasn't eaten solid food since yesterday's lunch at Attica-beef stew. Now he tastes that too. He puts a hand on his stomach, knows what's coming. He tries to roll down a window. Stuck. Or locked. Converted cop car. He looks around. On the seat beside him are Photographer's camera bag and cloth purse. He opens the camera bag. Expensive lenses. He opens the cloth purse. Notebooks, paperbacks, The Autobiography of Malcolm X, Norman Mailer's The Armies of the Night, a plastic baggie full of joints-and a billfold. Sutton touches the billfold.

He sees the pink box of donuts. He lifts the lid, feels the contents of his stomach gathering on the launchpad. He shuts his eyes, swallows, gradually fights back the rising wave of nausea.

Photographer makes a hard right, steers toward the curb. The Polara fishtails. Squealing brakes, shrieking tires. They screech to a stop. The smell of scorched Firestone fills the car. Reporter kneels on the front seat, looks out the back. They're gone, he says to Photographer. Nice job.

I guess it pays to watch Mod Squad, Photographer says.

They sit for a moment, all three of them breathing hard. Even the Polara is panting. Now Photographer eases back into traffic. Tell me again-what's our next stop?

Corner of Sands and Gold. Right, Mr. Sutton?

Sutton grunts.

Sands and Gold? Christ, that's a block from where we just were.

Sorry. Mr. Sutton's map is kind of tough to read.

I was. .h.i.tting the champagne pretty hard when I made it, Sutton says.

The Polara hits a pothole. Sutton's head hits the roof, his a.s.s. .h.i.ts the seat.

You don't need to drive like a maniac anymore, Reporter says.

It's not me, Photographer says, it's these roads. And I think this Polara is shot.

Willie is shot, Sutton rasps.

The Polara hits another pothole.

One-sixth gravity, Sutton mumbles.

We're almost there, Mr. Sutton. You okay?

Just realized something kid.

What's that, Mr. Sutton?

I'm in the back of a radio car without handcuffs. I think that's part of what's got me on my heels this morning. That's why I don't feel like myself. I feel-naked.

Handcuffs?