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       A stoop. Six feet away. Sutton lurches toward it. His leg locks up. He realizes too late that he’s not going to make it.

       Willie, Photographer says, everything cool, brother?

       Sutton pitches forward.

       Oh shit—Mr. Sutton!

      It varies widely, for no apparent reason. Sometimes the brothers simply knock Willie’s books out of his hands, call him a name. Other times they stuff him headfirst into an ash barrel. Other times they scratch, punch, draw blood.

      They pretend there are offenses. Crimes. They stage little mock trials. One brother holds Willie while the other states the charge. Showing Disrespect. Being Weak. Kissing Up to Father. Then they debate. Should we punish him? Should we let him go? They make Willie plead his case. One day Willie tells them to just get it over with. The waiting is the real torture. Big Brother shrugs, sets his feet, rotates his hips to maximize the power. A straight right to Willie’s midsection, the punch lands with a surprisingly loud whump. Willie feels all the wind rush from him, like the bellows in Father’s shop. He drops to his knees.

      When Willie is ten he tries to fight back. Bad idea. The beatings escalate. The brothers get Willie on the ground, kick their hard shoes into his kidneys, ribs, groin. One time they kick him so hard in the back of the head that he suffers nosebleeds for a week. Another time they twist his head until he passes out.

      His parents don’t know. They don’t want to know. Father, after a twelve-hour day, can’t think about anything but supper and bed. Even if he knew, he wouldn’t say anything. Boys are boys. Willie used to admire Father’s silence. Now he resents it. He no longer thinks Father a hero. He goes one last time to Father’s shop, sees it all differently. With every unthinking swing of the hammer, with every metallic clank, Willie vows never to be like Father, though he fears that in some inescapable way he’ll always be just like him. He suspects himself of the same capacity for boundless silence.

      And Mother? She sees nothing but her own grief. Three years after Agnes’s death she still wears black, still broods over the Bible, reading aloud, interrogating Jesus. Or else she simply sits with the Bible open in her lap, staring and murmuring into space. It’s a house of sadness and muteness and blindness, and yet it’s Willie’s only refuge, the only place his brothers won’t attack, because there are witnesses. So Willie clings to the kitchen table, doing his homework, using the rest of the family as unwitting bodyguards, while his brothers glide through the rooms, watching, waiting.

      Their chance comes when Father is at work, Mother is paying the iceman, Older Sister is studying with a friend. Big Brother pounces first. He takes Willie’s schoolbook, tears out the pages. Bigger Brother stuffs the pages into Willie’s mouth. Stop, Willie tries to say, stop, please, stop. But he has a mouthful of paper.

      Ten feet away Daddo stares above their heads. Here now, what’s happening?

       Reporter catches Sutton just before he hits the ground. Photographer rushes to Sutton’s other side. Together they guide Sutton to the stoop.

       Willie, Photographer says. What is it, man?

       Mr. Sutton, Reporter says, you’re shaking.

       They ease Sutton onto the stoop. Reporter takes off his trench coat, wraps it around Sutton’s shoulders.

       Thanks kid. Thanks.

       Photographer offers Sutton his barber pole scarf. Sutton shakes his head, pulls the fur collar of Reporter’s trench coat around his neck. He sits quietly, trying to catch his breath, clear his head. Reporter and Photographer loom over him.

       After a few minutes Sutton looks up at Reporter. Do you have siblings?

       No. Only child.

       Sutton nods, looks at Photographer. You?

       Three older brothers.

       Were you picked on?

       All the time, brother. Toughened me up.

       Sutton stares into space.

       You, Mr. Sutton?

       I had an older sister, two older brothers.

       Did they pick on you?

       Nah. I was a tough little monkey.

      Somehow he does well in school. He earns all A’s, one B. He doesn’t want to show his report card to anyone, but the school requires a parent’s signature. He cringes as Mother hugs him, as Father gives a proud nod in front of the whole family. He sees his brothers fuming, conspiring. He knows what’s coming.

      Three days later they catch him coming out of a candy store. He manages to escape, runs home, but the house is empty. His brothers burst through the door right behind him, tackle him, hold him down, drag him into the foyer. He sees what they have in mind. No, he begs. No no no, not that.

      They push him into the closet. It’s pitch dark. No, he begs, please. They lock him in. I can’t breathe, he says, let me out! He rattles the knob, pleading. He pounds the door until his knuckles and nailbeds bleed. Not this, anything but this. He scratches until a fingernail comes clean off.

      He weeps. He chokes. He buries his face in the dirty coats and scarves that smell like his family, that bear the distinctive Fels-cabbage-potatoes-wool scent of the Sutton Clan, and he prays for death. Ten years old, he asks God to take him.

      Hours later the door opens. Mother.

      Jesus Mary and Joseph, what do you think you’re doing?

       Mr. Sutton, do you feel up to continuing?

       Yeah. I think so.

       Reporter helps Sutton to his feet, guides him to the Polara. Photographer walks a few paces behind. Sutton eases into the backseat, lifts his bad leg in after him. Reporter gently shuts the door. Photographer gets behind the wheel, looks at Sutton in the rearview. How about a donut, Willie?

       God no kid.

       I think I’ll have one. Could you pass them forward?

       Sutton hands the pink box across the seat.

       Photographer picks a Bavarian cream, passes the box back. Reporter gets in, turns up the heater. The only sounds are the heater blowing, the radio crackling, Photographer smacking his lips.

       Now Reporter unfolds Sutton’s map, leans toward Photographer. They whisper. Sutton can’t hear them over the heater and radio, but he imagines what they’re saying.

       What are we gonna do with him?

       What can we do, brother? We’re stuck with him.

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