Sutton. J. Moehringer R.

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СКАЧАТЬ to pump the bellows, make the flames in the hearth swell. Father holds up a hand, signaling careful, not too much. Every other week another blacksmith shop burns to the ground. Then the smith is out of work and the family is on the street. That’s the fear, the thing that keeps Father hammering, Mother scrubbing. One bad turn—fire, illness, injury, bank panic—and the curb is your pillow.

      If Father never speaks, Daddo never stops. Daddo sits in a rocking chair by the parlor window, the one with the curtains made from potato sacks, delivering an eternal monologue. He doesn’t care that Willie is the only one listening. Or doesn’t know. A few years before Willie was born, Daddo was working in a warehouse and a jet of acid spurted into his eyes. The world went dim. The hard part, he always says, was losing his job. Now all he does, all he can do, is sit around and blether.

      Most often he talks about politics, stuff that goes over Willie’s head. But sometimes he tells larky stories to make his youngest grandson giggle. Stories about mermaids and witches—and little men. To hear Daddo tell it, the Old Country is overrun with them.

      What do the little men do, Daddo?

      They steal, Willie Boy.

      Steal what?

      Sheep, pigs, gold, whatever they can lay their grubby little mitts on. Ah but no one holds it against the lads. They’re just full of mischief. Bad little actors.

       Do you remember the exact spot where you were born, Mr. Sutton?

       Sutton points to a tan brick building, some kind of community center. Tell them Willie Boy was—here.

       Was it a happy childhood, Mr. Sutton?

       Yeah. Sure.

       Photographer shoots Sutton in close-up, the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway behind his head. The expressway was built while Sutton was in prison. God what a monstrosity, Sutton says. I didn’t think they could make Brooklyn uglier. I underestimated them.

       Cool, Photographer says. Yeah, brother, right there. That’s tomorrow’s front page.

      Willie’s two older brothers despise him. For as long as he can remember it’s been true, a changeless fact of life. The sun rises over Williamsburg, sets over Fulton Ferry, and his brothers wish he were dead.

      Is it because he’s the baby? Is it because he’s William Junior? Is it because he spends so much time with Father at the shop? Willie doesn’t know. Whatever the reason—rivalry, jealousy, evil—the brothers are so united against him, they pose such a seamless two-headed menace, that Willie can’t tell them apart. Or doesn’t bother. He thinks of them simply as Big and Bigger.

      Willie, eight, is playing jacks on the sidewalk with his friends. From nowhere Big Brother and Bigger Brother appear. Willie looks up. Both brothers hold egg creams. The sun is bracketed by their giant heads.

      So feckin small, Big Brother says, glaring down at Willie.

      Yeah, Bigger Brother says, snickering. Feckin runt.

      Willie’s friends run away. Willie stares at his jacks and his little red ball. His brothers move a step closer, looming over him like trees. Trees that hate.

      It’s embarrassin, Bigger Brother says, bein known as your brother.

      Put some meat on your bones, Big Brother says. And quit bein such a sissy.

      Okay, Willie says. I will.

      The brothers laugh. What happened to your friends, Willie Boy?

      You scared them.

      The brothers pour the egg creams over Willie’s 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?

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