Page 76 of The Photograph

“Don’t you dare say things like that in my house,” he shouts.

Jesus, he hit me. As I put my hand on my aching face, my eyes start to water. He would lose his temper and sometimes lash out at us when we were younger, but he hasn’t done it in such a long time. Dad’s fists are clenched on the table, his skin all blotchy now, a muscle pulsing in his temple.

Mom and Nana are staring at him.

“You shouldn’t strike the boy, Sebastian,” Nana says quietly.

Boy, she called me. The boy. Not Alex. And that’s it? No one has shot out of their chair in outrage to come to my defense, orJesus, shouted at him for being the worst parent in the world? Does anyone in this family consider me at all? Suddenly I understand all Des’s propensity for drama. Sometimes it’s absolutely the correct response.

“None of you give a shit about me, do you?” I say, low and angry. “You don’t care who I am, what I want. It’s all fine if I keep to your agenda, but when I don’t …” Leaning over the tabletop, I get right into my father’s face. “You always think you can force us to conform with your fists. Well, all that happens is the people you hit hate you. Do you think any of us love you after you lashed out at us when we were younger? Do you think any of us are going to listen to what you say, ever again?” I take my napkin off my knee and fling it on the table, from where it slips onto the floor.

“Now, Alex—” Mom starts.

I glower at her. “And you! He’s bullied you all his life. You can’t even step up for your own son? Or any of us?” I sweep my hand toward the kitchen. “And you”—I point at Nana—“let him get away with it all.” I stare at my father. “You’re a spoiled brat,” I say as his face goes puce.

“You arrogant little shit,” my dad finally says, his hand twitching where it’s resting on the table.

“Are you going to hit me again? Or are you thinking twice about it because I might come back at you this time? Or maybe call the police to report an assault?” Mom presses her hand to her throat. “How would that appear to the neighbors, in your carefully curated life?”

I stand up. “I’m sure you don’t give a damn, but that’s the last you’ll be seeing of me. No one in their right mind stays in a housewhere the only other male in it answers every problem with his fists.”

And I walk out the door.

29

ALEX

Des’s mobile rings and rings in my ear. “Come on, come on,” I mutter as I kick along the sidewalk, glancing over my shoulder back down the road. It’s that dusky time of the day just before sunset, and thank God I had the presence of mind to grab my work bag and jacket as I headed out the door. Other than those things, I’ve only got my phone. I have no idea what time the trains run into Manhattan at this time of night, but when I glance at my wrist, it’s only 8:20. By rights, Des should still be in the office.

Des’s voicemail picks up:

“Hey, chickadees, it’s Des! Please leave me a message.”

“Hi, Des, it’s Alex. I was wondering if I could stay over with you tonight.” Nerves vibrate through me. “Something’s happened at home, and I need a bed.” My voice cracks as I tail off, mute. I can’t leave a voicemail with the whole sorry story. I take the phone away from my ear, stare at it for several seconds, then hang up.

By the time I reach the station, I’m sweating in the heat of a June summer evening. The timetable board shows a train in twenty minutes, thank God, and I’m grateful for the breeze,packaging and dust blowing past and disappearing up the track. Back toward the crossing, the street toward home is empty: No one has come after me to drag me back and face the music.

“You okay, son?” a voice says, and I turn around to find an elderly gentleman in baggy fawn nylon pants and one of those Jack Nicholson polo shirts that older people like so much. Gray hair cradles his temples and he’s completely bald on top, but traces of my dad sit in his face. This is where he’ll be in another couple of decades.

He’s waiting to look at the timetable.I step to the side. “Are you heading into the city?” I say.

“Yes.” He nods.

“Twenty minutes,” I add.

“Twenty minutes, Nancy!” he calls out to a woman I presume is his wife, and she lifts a hand as she walks slowly up the platform steps.

“What happened to your face?” he says, and oh God, why didn’t I think about this? How bad is it? My hand comes up to touch my cheek.I’m about to get on a train.Are other people going to come up and ask me if I’m okay? My parents always stressed the importance of telling the truth. Ha! I bet they wouldn’t advise that now.

“My dad hit me.”

He sucks in his cheeks and glances off to the side, then his eyes come back to mine.

“Do they live around here?” he says, waving an unsteady arm.

When I nod, he mutters, almost to himself, “And you left.” He purses his lips. “Of course you did. Where are you going? Do you live with them?”

I nod. “I’m going to stay with a friend in the city.” Studying my shoes, I scuff a foot against the tarmac. “At least I hope I am.”

---