June 27, 1975

JUNE 27, 1975

I woke the next morning feeling as though I’d never slept. I remembered waking up a few times from bad dreams, but had no memory of the dreams themselves. I moved to the window, my eyes still caked with sleep and feeling groggy. I wonder how Matt’s feeling, I thought, remembering how my dad always looked the day after. I opened the window wider than I’d left it overnight, letting the blast of cool sea air bring me fully awake. It was a picture-perfect day. The sky was a deep blue, unmarred by a single cloud. The ocean water near the shore looked greenish-blue, with the sun turning the whitecaps silvery as they crashed to the beach. Seagulls made a fuss over toward the marina, and a handful of sailboats dotted the ocean farther out, their colorful sails lending vivid contrast to the darker deep sea.

I dressed quickly and ran downstairs, not bothering to check on my brother. Mom was in her seat at the kitchen table, drinking coffee. We exchanged good mornings and I asked her if I could check out the beach.

“Sure, that’s what it’s there for. Be careful crossing the street—and don’t wander too far.”

“I won’t,” I replied, halfway out the door.

“Ryan,” she called, “where’s your brother? Is he going with you?”

No, Mom, he’s too hungover. “I think he’s still asleep, you know how teenagers are.” It got the laugh I’d hoped for and I was on my way. I really didn’t want to be there when she figured out he had been drinking. I crossed the street—checking both ways if only to appease my mother—and stood looking up and down the beach. Going north would take me . . . I really didn’t know, the beach seemed to stretch endlessly in that direction. Heading south would bring me past the marina and eventually to town. The marina and town certainly sounded more exciting than miles of sand, so south it was.

It was already warming up. June in New England is like the joker in the deck of seasons. You sometimes get summery weather with temperatures in the eighties, but other times, the fickle hand of so-called spring clings to June with a desperate grasp. That means cool, cloudy, gray days.

That day was leaning toward what New Englanders called the “dog days”—when the temperature and humidity both raced into the nineties and you wished you were just about anywhere else on Earth. I took my time, checking out as much as I could while staying on the lookout for something cool—a shell, some pirate treasure, anything.

As I approached the marina, I remembered the seagulls I’d seen from my window flocking in this area. I scanned the beach carefully, moving closer to the incoming tide. I couldn’t find any evidence of what they’d been so excited about and assumed they’d eaten it, when a wave broke in front of me, depositing . . . something . . . on the wet sand. I moved closer, trying to figure out what I was looking at. I thought it was the remains of a lobster but the color was wrong and so was the shape. This thing was long, with a segmented body, but didn’t have the same head as a lobster. Besides, it was bright green. It was definitely some kind of crustacean, I could tell by the armor-like exoskeleton. Unfortunately, there wasn’t much else left of it to help with its identification. Another wave came, soaking me to the knees, and when it receded, it took my mysterious creature with it. I splashed into the water—I was already wet, why not—but couldn’t find the thing.

Something happened, much like when I’d answered the phone and heard that ominous silence. My arms erupted in goosebumps, but not from the cold water. I was afraid. I high-stepped it out of the waves, sure that a vice-like claw was about to get my ankle. I reached the sand safely, breathing too hard. I looked down. It would be an uncomfortable stroll in sopping socks and sneakers, and just as unenviable to carry them the whole way. And wouldn’t you feel better being back in the cottage, away from the open water? I turned back toward home to change into my flip-flops.

I heard the ruckus as I crossed the street. It wasn’t Mom yelling at Matt. It was, to the vindictive side of me, even better. The downstairs bathroom was on the side of the house and the windows were open. All the windows were open and the sounds of Matt violently vomiting up last night’s fun seemed to be pouring out all of them. I heard Mom knocking on the door and asking if he was all right. Sound sure carries around here, I thought with a smile.

I stepped in the house just as my brother was coming out of the bathroom. He looked like death warmed over, like shit on toast, like five miles of bad road, pick your idiom. And for a second, just like the night before, he looked like Dad. He might have been able to pull off the old “I ate something bad” story, but the smell oozing out of the bathroom, and likely from him as well, was unmistakable: the sour odor of old beer.

“Goddamn it, Matt,” Mom said coolly. “I trusted you.”

Her face was a kaleidoscope of emotions. I saw anger, hurt, fear, and confusion. But most of all, disappointment. I stood by the door, seawater pooling around my feet, waiting for his answer. He looked at Mom, and I know he saw the same look on her face, because he burst into tears.

“I’m sorry, Mom, I’ll never do it again. I just wanted—”

Mom held up a hand, silencing him. “Do you know how many times I’ve heard that from your father?” She glared at him, glared through him.

Matt’s mouth fell open as the tears dripped from his face. Words can take on many forms when they’re used as weapons. They can cut and they can bludgeon, but they can also tear you down and make you face yourself. At that moment I realized Matt was considering his potential to be like our father, and he did not like what he was seeing. He looked away from Mom, seeing me for the first time, and crumbled into a deeper despair. Not only had he disappointed his mother, he’d embarrassed himself in front of his kid brother, becoming the thing he hated the most. He ran past Mom and up the stairs, his wretched sobs echoing behind him.

Mom’s protective armor cracked, and the tears came. I rushed to her and hugged her. It was all I knew to do. I didn’t have any words to make it better, didn’t know if those words existed. She stepped back after a moment and wiped her tears away. She was strong, my mother, and she recovered from life’s disappointments quickly. She was an expert at it by then.

“What happened to you, son number two?”

I feigned shock, “Even after that, I’m still not number one?”

Mom laughed, a real, happy laugh, and gave me another hug.

“I saw something cool on the beach but a wave took it out and I followed. Ocean: 1, Ryan: 0.”

Mom laughed again. “What was it? Pirate’s booty? A mermaid?” Her eyes had cleared and were now bright with mischief.

“Nothing that cool,” I said. “A weird crab or lobster-like thing, just the shell. I think the seagulls got the rest.”

She scrunched up her face “I thought you said cool, not gross. Go on, get out of those wet things. Put your sneakers outside.”

I took my sneakers off and put them in the sun to dry, then peeled off my socks. I padded upstairs, leaving wet tracks on the hard wood. The gurgling noise greeted me from behind the always-closed bathroom door—why did it always do that when I walked by? I paused at my brother’s room, worried that I might hear him crying, but all was quiet. I went in my own room and grabbed one of the comic books from the pile. The beach exploration could wait, the energy had been sucked out of me thanks to the scene downstairs. And to whatever it was that had scared me in those waves. I felt lethargic and tired. The bedroom was already hot so I took the comic book and went outside searching for a shady spot. There was a small patio in the yard with an umbrella table and some mismatched beach chairs. I found a tattered web-strap chaise lounge, positioned it in the shade, and fell onto it.

The comic book was called “They Come Out at Night,” and its cover featured some kind of one-eyed bat-like creature swooping down on a scantily-clad woman. I dove in, reading the story about the monster called Popobawa that had been captured in Africa and shipped to the United States. The ship was wrecked in a storm off the coast of North Carolina, smashing the crate that held the beast. It flew to shore and terrorized a small town. I read the whole thing, cover to cover, only to have the story end on a cliffhanger. There must be more of these in the attic. The thought of going up there to find the next installment sounded good, but the heat had sapped the rest of my strength and my eyes took it upon themselves to close.

It wasn’t a nightmare about a bat creature chasing me or a sea monster pulling me into the waves that woke me. It was just Mom, asking me if I wanted lunch. I blinked and wiped the sleep from my eyes just as my stomach rumbled.

“I guess that’s a yes,” Mom said with a smile. “I’m going to make sandwiches and see if your brother can hold something down.”

I sat up, looking again at the comic book. Another trip to the attic was definitely in order. A flash of red caught my eye as I stood. One foot was completely fried. As I slept, the sun must have moved beyond the umbrella’s reach. I look like an ass. I arranged the chairs so we could enjoy lunch in the shade, as Mom and Matt came out. Mom had a tray of sandwiches and Matt carried a pitcher of lemonade and some paper cups and napkins.

“Look who’s alive,” she said, cheerily enough.

I knew her words were meant to poke at my brother’s open wound. His expression didn’t change and he remained silent. Wise move, I thought. He still looked like crap, but he’d gotten some color back, at least. Mom set us all up with ham-and-cheese sandwiches while he poured the lemonade. When Mom and I started eating, Matt sat staring at his sandwich like it was about to jump up and eat him. He sipped his lemonade carefully, waited—probably to see if he was going to puke it back up—then drank some more.

“Not hungry?” Mom was smiling at him but her eyes were lasers.

Matt shrugged and picked up his sandwich gently, like if he was nice to it, it might be nice back. I watched as he took a tentative bite, chewed miserably, and swallowed it like bad medicine. He put the rest of the sandwich down and went back to his drink.

“So, tell us about the cookout,” Mom said. When Matt didn’t respond, she added, “That wasn’t a question, Matthew.”

There it is, I thought, the full name.

“Mom, I’m sorry,” he mumbled, shifting in his seat.

“I know you are. Now. But what about next time some pretty girl offers you a beer?”

My brother stared down at his plate for a long time before answering. First, he looked at me with pleading eyes, then, finally turned to Mom. “What if I’m like him?”

The horror on his face nearly made me recoil. Mom’s mouth dropped open slightly, clearly expecting anything but that question. Her brows came together and deep frown lines appeared on her forehead. She looked old.

“If you keep doing what you did last night, that possibility becomes stronger each time. You might think I’m just trying to scare you, but there are studies that show alcoholism is a disease, not a choice. And like any disease, it can be hereditary.” She leaned forward and took one of my brother’s hands in both of hers. “You are not your father, but you do have some of his genetics. If you’re not careful, the alcohol could get a hold of you the way it did him. And I can’t – won’t watch that happen to you.”

Matt stood quickly, knocking his chair backwards, and practically fell into Mom’s arms. His body shook with sobs and he wailed his apology over and over. I got up and went inside. Some things are private, and there are some things a son and little brother don’t need to bear witness to.

***

The rest of the day was uneventful. I did take my walk on the beach, but found nothing worth writing home about. When I got back, I decided it was time to look for the next issue of “They Come Out at Night.” I mentioned the comic books to Mom and she was fine with me going back into the attic to look for more. She looked so sad and detached that I think I could have told her I was running away to join the circus and she would have nodded and told me to have fun.

The attic was a furnace. I rummaged through the boxes intent on finding out what happened to the Popobawa, ignoring the dozens—maybe hundreds—of other comics. Finally, dripping with sweat and parched, the prize was mine: five more issues of “They Come Out at Night.” I put the rest of the comics neatly back into the boxes and hustled to the ladder, ever watchful for those pesky nails. As I folded the stairs away, Matt’s door opened. He looked like shit. He eyed the comics I was holding, probably hoping they were Playboys.

“What are you doing?”

I held up my prize. “I found a bunch of old comic books in the attic. I read the first one of these and wanted to read the rest.”

He reached out to me, gesturing with his fingers to hand them over. I reluctantly gave the comics over. He flipped through them, seeming interested.

“Where’s the first one? I’m grounded for a while so . . . ”

I smiled. Even though the Popobawa was a great secret, my secret, it would be cool to talk about it with someone. “In my room, I’ll grab it for you.”

Matt slunk back into his room with the first issue, and I hustled greedily to my bed to devour issue two and find out if the Popobawa survived the bombs the army dropped into the sewers to kill it.

By the time Mom yelled up the stairs that it was time for dinner, I was halfway through issue three and Matt had already come in to grab number two. We both left our rooms at Mom’s call and my brother smiled for once.

“Can you believe it got away through the sewers and out to that island?”

I laughed, “Wait until you see what happens the next time it finds people.” His eyes widened; we were both hooked.

We ate out again that night, this time in a little Italian place in the next town. Things between Matt and Mom were civil, if a little cool, but we had some laughs and the food was pretty good. Truth be told, I couldn’t wait to get home and read about Popobawa. The way Matt squirmed in his seat and kept looking at me, I think he was in the same boat.

“I know summer just started,” Mom said abruptly, “but I have to get you both enrolled in school.”

I suddenly felt nervous. Sure, I knew we’d being going to a new school in the fall, but it had seemed more like a vacation being at the cottage, not somewhere we would live, and go to school, and where we would be for the winter. A crawling fear settled in my gut, not mixing with my cheese ravioli at all. I’d be the new kid. Worse, I’d be the new kid without a father.

Mom must have sensed the mood change. “It’s going to be all right, you guys. The school system here is excellent. You’ll fit right in.”

I frowned, the implication of Mom’s words not lost on me. My brother didn’t seem bothered either way. He doesn’t get it. I ate the rest of my dinner as fast as I could, the need to get home making me panicky. Not to read comics, but to talk to Matt. I passed on dessert and waited endlessly as the others ate theirs. Finally, we headed home.

Matt was still grounded, so he sulked up to his room the minute we got back. Mom tried to get me to watch television, but I feigned a mighty yawn, blamed my exhaustion on the heavy Italian dinner, and went upstairs. The bathroom gurgled as I walked by, once again scaring the crap out of me. Will I ever get used to that? On impulse, I flung the door open and flicked on the light. Nothing save for a small puddle of water in the tub. I turned off the light and closed the door, still none the wiser.

I knocked quietly on my brother’s door, slipping inside when I heard a groan that I took to be an invitation.

He was engrossed in issue two of “They Come Out at Night” when I walked in. I closed the door softly behind me.

“I’m still in solitary, Ry, you shouldn’t be in here,” he muttered, not bothering to look up.

“Did you not hear what Mom said at dinner?” He didn’t lift his head but I saw his eyes flicker in my direction. “The school system here is excellent,” I said, in a poor imitation of Mom’s voice.

“So?” Matt put the comic book down. “What are you talking about?”

I moved closer to him, whispering, “How would Mom know about the school system here?” Don’t you see? She knew we were coming here,” I hissed. “She researched the schools and probably already had our report cards transferred, or whatever it is you have to do to change schools. She planned this.” I watched the gears moving in Matt’s brain.

“And the way she got the truck and found a place to live!” His eyes widened. “And where’d she get the money to even rent this place?”

In all the time I’d known something was wrong, right up until my decision to get involved and even after, Matt and I never spoke about what my father was doing. The pain he’d inflicted on Mom using both words and fists. I didn’t know the word “taboo” back then, but that’s what the subject was.

Matt patted the bed beside him and I trudged over, taking a seat next to him. “How long have you known? You know . . . what he was doing?”

My face burned and I suddenly felt like crying. As if talking about it made it real. Made it so I couldn’t ignore it anymore. “Since my seventh birthday,” I said, my voice catching as the tears came.

***

We were living in a little house on a dead-end street in Malden. Malden is a pretty big city but where we lived felt like a small town. Everyone knew their neighbors and hung out on their front porches in the summer. Kids played hide-and-go-seek or kickball in the streets and yards, and those same kids walked to the corner store to get milk and bread and cigarettes for their parents. Malden Square boasted the Granada Theater, three or four bowling alleys, a hobby shop that sold coins and models and all kinds of other cool stuff, and enough shops and restaurants to offer something for everyone.

My seventh birthday party was going to be held at Pleasant Lanes, a downstairs bowling alley that featured eight lanes, a few of which were almost level. Mom had reserved three lanes and had invited most of my classmates. She was going to bring pizza from DiPietro’s and it was going to be the best day ever.

It started out great. Everyone showed up and we had a blast bowling. I got some cool presents—including the Aurora “Creature from the Black Lagoon” model—and the pizza, as always, was the best. Then my father showed up. It was no surprise to me or Mom or the other parents that he was drunk, but I’d done a pretty good job of hiding that, hiding him from my friends. That day, the secret was out and on full display—not just to my party but the rest of the Pleasant Lanes patrons as well. He made a big, sloppy ass of himself. I’ll spare the details but the highlights were when he managed to bounce his ball into the next lane and knocked over most of the pins, and when he ran down the alley and did a belly flop into the pins, screaming, “I got a strike!” He was escorted unceremoniously off the premises and asked never to return.

All that would have been laughed off eventually. I mean, him sliding into those pins was funny. But later that night, Mom laid into him hard about embarrassing me (and her) in front of everyone. By that time, he had refined his drunkenness by downing a couple six-packs of Black Label or Narragansett or whatever cheap, shitty beer he was on then. Mom sent me and my brother to bed, but I couldn’t fall asleep with them arguing. The yelling escalated and I heard the ugly sound of flesh slapping flesh. Eventually, the noise became blunter, more muffled. Punches. Then I heard sounds from their bedroom that I didn’t understand.

The next day, Mom stayed in bed. When Dad went out to the bar, I snuck in to see her. Her face was a mess of bruises and she was having trouble breathing. Dad figured out too late to only hit where the clothes covered. I think she had some broken ribs.

The kids at school teased me about Dad’s antics and I laughed along with them. But inside, a sickly rage was blooming. Now I knew. Now I watched. I stopped talking to him and did my best to avoid him completely. Every time he hit her, that rage grew, blossoming into a pure, distilled hatred. Until one day I couldn’t take it and joined the fray. And here we are.

I finished telling Matt about the party, and he nodded and put his arm around me when the sobs got the worst. It’s the moment I’ll always remember best about having him for a big brother.

***

After dinner, as if by some unspoken agreement, we all drifted to our rooms. I dove back into “They Come Out at Night” to find out what happened to Popobawa. There were fireworks somewhere in the distance. I went to my window but could only see the flashes in the sky, like those of faraway lightning. I finished that issue of the comic as the fireworks ended with a five-minute finale that made Bayport sound like part of a war zone.

The sudden quiet was wonderful. As my ears adjusted, the sound of gently breaking waves reached me. The night air had cooled and I slipped under the sheet. The surf had a hypnotic quality to it, and my eyes were suddenly heavy. I’ll rest for five minutes, then get the next issue.

I dreamed I was back in Malden, waiting by the phone for my friend, Rickie Goldwater, to call. We were planning on going to the movies. Finally, the phone rang and I leaped to answer it, but the receiver was stuck and I couldn’t pull it from the cradle. The piercing rings were hurting my ears. I yanked with all my might and the phone came loose. I held it to my ear and heard a scream.

I came awake with a gasp, covered in sweat and wondering how fast a heart could beat before it burst like an overfilled balloon. I rubbed my eyes, thinking about Rickie Goldwater. He was a good kid but was on the pudgy side, which made him a target for the bullies. I wondered how he was doing, in that sleepy way you think about weird things. Then I heard my mother crying.

I crept out of bed and tip-toed to the hallway. There was a light on downstairs and Mom was definitely crying. No longer caring about stealth, I hurried down the steps and found her in the kitchen. She was sitting in one of the chairs, arms crossed, staring at the phone while tears ran down her face.

I realized the dream had only been partly a dream. The ringing phone was real. Probably the scream, too. And there was only one caller that could cause such a reaction. He’d found us. I ran to my mother, startling her, and fell into her arms, unable to hold back my own tears. We held each other tight. I don’t know who was comforting whom, and it didn’t matter.

Sometime later, I was sitting across from her at the table. “Do we have to move again?” It hit me then that I didn’t want to move. All my friends were back in Malden, but somehow, in a very short time, this place had become home. Maybe it was the absence of the specter of violence that haunted the old house that made this place feel right. It had been a bumpy start, especially for Matt, but it was getting better. We were getting better.

Mom shook her head defiantly. “No, honey. No more running.”

I nodded, a funny warmth spreading outward from my chest. Mom was a hero. A badass. My father was the weak one. Drowning his shitty life with booze. I wondered what had gone wrong for him to end up like that. But it was a cold, clinical wonder that held no compassion. I would do anything to protect Mom from him. Anything.

“What are we going to do? Does he know where we are?” My brave thoughts did not translate to my voice. I sounded scared.

Mom lit a cigarette, taking a long, slow drag. She flicked a gaze toward the hall. I turned to see Matt rubbing the sleep out of his eyes.

“What’s going on?” His voice was thick with sleep but held an edge of worry.

“Dad,” I said.

“He found us?”

Mom blew out a puff of smoke. “He’s in the process,” she said calmly. “He knows we’re in Bayport so it will only be a matter of time before he finds the right house.”

“We’re not moving,” I said, my voice stronger. “Mom said no more running.”

Matt moved to the table and sat. “Good,” he said with a firm nod.

Mom took another drag. Her eyes were hard, staring at the wisps of smoke from the orange tip of her cigarette. “Before we moved, I checked Bayport out thoroughly. The police here have a reputation for protecting women in . . . situations like mine. Like ours.” She puffed thoughtfully, then tapped the butt out in the ashtray. “I went to the station when we got here and let them know what was going on. I gave them records of your father’s arrests and told them it was likely he’d find us eventually. I never thought it would be this fast. I’ll go back to the station tomorrow and give them an update. But, no,” she turned to look at us, her expression fierce, “we’re not going anywhere.”