Page 23 of Saving the Halfback

Fuck. I hated him. Art, my father, was no doubt drunk and high if the loud noises pumping from the windows were anything to go by.

I walked up the steps and tried to open the door as quietly as I could, though I was sure the music would cancel out any noise I could make. I stepped into the dark living room, the only lights coming from the TV and the dim dust-covered lamps on either side of the dingy couch. The room was nearly full of Art’s friends, and I used the termfriendsloosely. It must’ve been check day, which meant they were all only over here to help my father drink and shoot up whatever money he’d gotten for the month.

Most stood, some were slumped on the couch or the floor. One guy was getting a blow job in the corner of the room. A petite hand grabbed my arm. “Hey, big boy.” Tiff, one of my father’s regulars, stepped into me. She was a tiny, thin blonde who looked sickly. “Today’s the day you get your wings.”

Yeah, not happening. I never spoke to them, never had to. I could turn around and leave, and they would all forget about me the moment I wasn’t in their eyesight.

I pulled away from Tiff, causing her to stumble slightly. Quickly, I grabbed her elbow to right her and lean her against the nearby wall. She didn’t say anything, and part of me dreaded another overdose. Though I tried my best not to get involved, and my dad forbade me from calling the cops, I had made a couple of park drops and anonymous calls over the years.

I turned and headed to my room. If I thought about it too much, if I got too involved and wore my heart on my sleeve, they would just drag me under. I didn’t want this life.

Art stepped out of the bathroom as I walked by. “Where’ve you been?” he slurred, his pants still undone as he leaned against the doorjamb for support.

“Work,” was all I said.

He looked down at the plastic bag in my hands and reached for it, but I pulled it away. “Oh, I see how it is. You, you just th-think you’re better than me because you have a job.” He narrowed his eyes at me. “Watch out, everybody, working boyhere.” From the living room, there were a few hoots and hollers. I could tell from his eyes that it wasn’t the response he wanted. Didn’t he get it? No one had even heard what he said, and no one cared. They were all too stoned to give a damn.

I turned away from him but only made it a few steps before he stumbled behind me. I was larger than Art, and, especially when he was drunk, I was stronger than him. I told myself that every single time we had a fight. I could take him. I could. But I never did.

I heard the belt snap as he ripped it from his pants loops before I felt it across my back. I tripped, wincing against the burning pain. He always capitalized on my moments of surprise, and a fist landed across my cheek. I could retaliate, I could make this better, but there was that chance, wasn’t there?

Once, last year, I had finally fought back. I’d yelled at him and taken a swing, knocking him out with one hit and sending him crashing into the pavement. I’d broken the rule and called the ambulance when blood pooled from his head… It had cost me everything. After a few spewing lies from him, I was diagnosed with oppositional defiant disorder and put on medication that numbed my mind. I no longer took it, but it had cost me my only chance at freedom, my only chance at becoming emancipated.

He got such a kick out of it that, every chance he got, he tried to make me hit back. I never gave him the satisfaction again. No matter how many hits he got in, I would never capitulate. I would take his hits. I would feel the warm blood drip down my face. This was the hand I was dealt. This was the hand I had to take.

I could feel blood dripping down my cheek now, but I ignored it as I stood up, grabbing the plastic bag. I shoved my way past him and into my room as he followed me, shouting and banging on the door. Latching the lock into place, I backed up. Withhis friends all here—all high—I couldn’t stay here tonight. They would just fuel him even more. I wouldn’t be safe sleeping here, and I had practice in the morning.

My small room consisted solely of my bed and dresser. I kept no valuables in here…not that I had any valuables to keep. I tucked the bag of food into my backpack, then climbed on top of the bed to crawl through the window.

Outside, I walked to one of the dryers in the carport and opened it, pulling out a small black duffel bag. My overnight bag. I learned long ago to keep it outside, where I would have access to it without disturbing him. I also kept one in my locker at school.

My eyes burned with exhaustion as I walked back toward town. My legs trembled and ached, thanks to Chase. A beautiful stone house with an immaculately manicured lawn stood next to the local church. I walked up and knocked on the door.

A middle-aged woman with a sweet face answered it. Beyond her, I could smell whatever they were eating for dinner, and my stomach growled. Mrs. Wallum smiled at me. “Ethan. Did you eat?” she asked, opening the door wider.

“Yes, ma’am. I just need…”

She nodded at me. “Perry!” she called into the house, and soon, the priest came walking over to the door, reaching up and grabbing a set of keys while slipping on his shoes. This was routine for him. “Bye, Ethan.” Mrs. Wallum gave one last smile before closing the door behind Perry.

“Ethan, need somewhere to sleep?” he asked.

“Yes, sir.” I followed Perry down the steps, like I normally did in these situations.

“I must ask, are you hurt or in need of assistance?” His eyes roamed over my cheek as he repeated his usual lines, and I answered automatically.

“No.”

“Is there anything you would like to talk about? As you know, everything is confidential. I am merely a listener.”

“No.”

Perry never called the cops, though I’m sure if I asked for it or was in immediate danger, he would. He, like me, had learned there wasn’t a whole lot the police could do, and at times, especially for minors, they made things worse.

I followed him to the back of the church and down a few steps to an old wooden door. He opened it up. “Ethan, may I pray with you?” His soft question was what made me respect the man more. He never shoved things down my throat. Everything was up to me.

“No, thank you.”

Perry simply nodded at me, not demonstrating any disappointment. I stepped into the basement of the building and followed him down the hall to an empty room. Perry was silent while he helped me pull out the cot, and I began making the bed with the fresh linens they kept down here as he disappeared out the door. He came back a moment later with a bin and set it on a nearby window ledge. “We restocked, so help yourself.” It was a toiletry bin. Toothbrushes, toothpaste, hairbrushes, deodorant, razors, and shaving cream. The Wallums were good people.

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