LITMIR.BIZ

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head and walk away. You scared them, they say, imitating Willie’s thin voice.

      Another time they make fun of Willie’s big nose. Another time, the red bump on his eyelid. They always make sure to tease him in the streets, away from any grownups. They’re as sly as they are heartless. They remind Willie of the wolves in one of his storybooks.

      When Willie is nine his brothers stop him on his way home from school. They stand directly in his path, their arms folded. Something about their faces, their body language, lets Willie know this time will be different. He knows that he’ll always remember the high blue of the sky, the purple weeds in the vacant lot on his left, the pattern of the cracks in the sidewalk as Big Brother knocks him to the ground.

      Willie writhes on the sidewalk, looking up. Big Brother smirks at Bigger Brother. What are we gonna do with him?

      What can we do, Brother? We’re stuck with him.

      Didn’t we tell you to quit bein such a sissy, Big Brother says to Willie.

      Willie lies on his back, eyes filling with tears. I’m not.

      Is it liars you’re callin us?

      No.

      Don’t you want us to tell you when you’re doin somethin wrong?

      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 shirt—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 shit—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 passes 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 space. 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 space.

       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

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