Page 2 of Plum

“It’s easy. I’ll show you.”

He didn’t really, but I caught on anyway. It wasn’t hard. You throw a horseshoe at a stake. Eric had some kind of scorekeeping system that I couldn’t quite follow. It didn’t seem consistent, but the sun was shining, I was outside, and I didn’t have to watch my back. When Eric managed to keep his mouth shut, he wasn’t the worst company.

Besides, when I was walking through the house with Mom, I’d seen the kitchen. There was a woman in a white jacket fussing around, and the smells. Jesus, the smells. In those days, I was always hungry for meat, my gut twisted for it, and unless I was dreaming, there was going to be a roast for dinner that night. A fuckingroast.

We played a long time, Eric blabbing on and on while I fantasized about beef and potatoes, throwing horseshoe after horseshoe. And then Thomas Wade came home.

He strode across the perfectly manicured back lawn, my mom waddling at his heels, and for the first time that whole day, Eric shut up. Thomas Wade had a man’s bearing, one I imitated from that day on until I carried myself the same way, my movements as economical and effortless, my face as inscrutable and vaguely agreeable.

There was nothing weak about Thomas Gracy Wade, nothing that reeked of desperation and want.

I wanted tobethat man, and until I could, I wanted his respect. And even though I was only ten, I’d grown up on Gilson. I knew that strength respected strength.

Thomas Wade stood, arms crossed, watching us play horseshoes, and I started to pay attention to the score.

“Ringer!” Eric crowed, skipping forward to grab his horseshoe.

It clearly wasn’t. My gaze skipped to Thomas Wade. His eyes narrowed. He knew it wasn’t too, but he stood silently, his lips thinned.

I dashed forward, placing myself between Eric and the stake. “It’s not a ringer.”

“Are you blind?” Eric’s affableness was gone, his body coiled tight.

“The heel calks don’t clear the stake.”

“You didn’t even know what a heel calk was two hours ago.”

“I do now. Get a straightedge. We’ll settle it.”

“Are you calling me a liar?”

In essence, yes, I was. I didn’t deny it. I stood between Eric and the stake, saying nothing, waiting for the obvious fury turning his face red to boil over. I wanted him to throw a punch. I was shit at horseshoes, but fighting? I never lost. And I wanted to show the man in the shiny shoes and sparkling watch, the man who hadn’t once turned to look at my mother while she trotted huge and panting behind him, that I wasn’t a loser.

“If the horseshoe fits.” I relaxed my stance, ready.

Eric drew back and swung, but I deflected the blow—a sad, flailing mess—and drove a fist into his face. Blood spurted from his nose. He screamed in pain and fury, and I fully expected him to fall on his ass and cry, but he lunged for me, swinging wildly, missing easy shots. It was immediately clear to me that he’d never fought anyone before and that he was out of his mind.

“Adam! Stop this now!” Mom begged.

“Let them work it out, Laurel.” Thomas Wade took a purposeful step back.

I had permission. It was like shooting fish in a barrel. I hung back, waiting for Eric to open his weak spots with his undisciplined swings, and then I nailed his ribs, his gut, his kidneys. He began to weave on his feet, tears streaming down his face, diluting the blood, and I glanced over at the man grimly observing us.

I still can’t quite describe the look on his face. Disgust. Calculation. Indecision.

My mother worried at the hem of her maternity blouse, her gaze darting from Thomas Wade to Eric to me.

I saw an opening, and I was about to knock the kid out, when Mom shouted, “That’s enough.”

She flung herself forward, and I instantly froze, but Eric was too far gone. Thomas Wade had to jump in and shoulder his kid back so he didn’t accidentally punch my mother. Eric was crying and babbling, his father trying to talk him down, scorn clear in his voice, and Mom got real close to my face.

“What the fuck are you doing?” she hissed.

“All right, Mom. I’m done.” I was huffing and puffing, the blood pounding in my ears.

“The fuck you are. You beat his kid up, you think he’s going to let us stay here? You get back in there, and you take a dive.”

I was confused. My mom wasn’t talking like herself. She always put on airs, never swore, always pretended she didn’t know the words for the things we lived through and walked past every day.

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