No Bullets

"It wasn't your fault."

Mother is here, he thought. I can smell her perfume. That’s her voice. I know she is here.

She walked through the door and his tearful baby eyes confirmed his thoughts.

"Mother? Your face is weird. Did you get a hurt?"

Her fingers brushed the bruise on her cheek. "It's okay baby. It wasn't your fault," she repeated.

"Do you want a dinosaur band-aid?" He went to his room and pulled a band-aid with a picture of a triceratops on it from his drawer. He gave it to his mother.

"Are you okay?" she asked him.

"Yeah. I want some juice."

"Please," his mother said out of habit. "Remember to say 'please'".

Six years later she was still crying over it. When Davie got into a fight at school, when the insurance company wouldn’t pay for her broken ankle, that one awful week when the electricity bill wasn’t paid and they lived in the dark. All those tears, but Davie knew she wasn’t crying about those things, but about Pete.

He knew she still loved Pete. She knew too. The only person who didn’t know, and must never know, was Pete himself. Davie knew he had to protect her, it was a child instinct. Three years old and watching his father throw wine glasses across the kitchen. One of them smashed on the edge of the counter, and the glass pieces exploded across the room. One lodged close to Mother’s neck and she had to get stitches.

“My mom’s real angry, too,” Davie told the counselor, once. “She’s mad at Dad and even me, half the time.”

“And why do you think she’s angry with you?”

“Well she told me it wasn’t my fault. When I was five, he left, she said it wasn’t my fault. But it really was. I realized.”

“How do you think it was your fault?”

Counselors are always asking what you think. They don’t want the facts, they just want your thoughts.

“I did something very bad.”

“What could a five-year-old do that is so awful?”

“I can’t tell you.”

And he never did.

Only a month after that conversation, Pete came back.

“He’s back and I am scared. He’ll hurt Mother or me, I know he will,” Davie wrote in his neglected diary.

Pete worked hard five days a week. He didn’t drink or gamble or brawl. He didn’t even run red lights. In fact, his only vice was violent rages over the weekends. Davie felt that it wasn’t Pete’s fault. Someone had said something about a difficult childhood. Davie felt he could relate, but he still hated him.

“Where’s that little shithead? Davie! Get over here!”

Davie put the diary away and went to the kitchen.

Pete clunked a box down on the table. “Got you something.”

“Thanks Dad,” Davie said. He opened the present warily. Pete was a real practical joker.

Inside was a new soccer ball.

“What do you think, son? We could set up a goal post and you can learn to block. I think you’d make a good goalie.”

Pete played soccer in high school and coached a team for a couple years, back in the day.

“Yeah. I guess.”

“Well go get some shoes on and we can do that now. If you’re any good at all we can start thinking of a scholarship.”

“A what?”

“So you can be sponsored for college. You play soccer and in return they pay for your education.”

“Cool,” Davie said, not understanding the significance.

Twenty minutes later Davie staggered back into the house, holding his head and half-sobbing.

“What happened to you?” Mother asked.

“I kicked the ball a little too hard. Accidentally got him in the face. But see, Davie, that’s the best way to learn to block with your hands instead of your head.”

“Accident? Like hell it was!” Davie said, angry.

Mother gave him an ice cube wrapped in a cloth. He touched his bruising eye gently.

“Well that’s nice! I’m your father, I would never purposely give you a black eye!”

Davie regarded Pete coldly. It’s time to reveal what I know, he thought.

“You’re not really.”

“Not really what?”

“Not really my father. I mean biologically.”

Now Pete looked at Davie’s mother coldly.

“You told him?”

“No, I didn’t—I swear,” she said.

“She didn’t!” Davie shouted.

“You told him!” Pete drew his hand back to throw the soccer ball. But then he stopped.

“Who is your father, then?”

“I don’t know,” he admitted gloomily. “But if I did I wouldn’t stay here another fucking second!”

“Don’t you swear at me.”

“Mother, make him leave!” Davie wailed.

“Shut up you little bastard!” Pete said, pinching Davie’s arm.

“Are you staying for dinner?” Mother asked. Pete nodded.

“I’ll make a roast. Davie, peel some potatoes will you? Pete, I left your closet empty, so you can unpack if you want.”

Back in school Davie told the counselor through gritted teeth, “Gone for six years and then here he is again and everything is just like it was! In one afternoon comes back, moves all his shit in, gives me a black eye, and breaks our lawnmower.”

“Why do you think he broke the lawnmower?”

“It was an accident. He tried to mow a rock.”

“What about the black eye?”

“He threw a ball at me.”

“Why do you think he did that?”

“I know he did it because he was mad. I wasn’t doing it right.”

“Doing what?”

“Soccer. I’m supposed to be a goalie and get a scholarship.”

“Do you like that idea?”

“I don’t know. It doesn’t matter. I have to do what Pete says.”

“Why do you feel you have to do what he says?”

“Well, I just have to. It’s like going to school or doing chores. It’s a rule isn’t it?”

“Don’t do anything you feel is wrong, alright?”

“What do you mean?”

Before the counselor could explain, the clock chimed and Davie left in a hurry.

For four years, he practiced soccer every day. When high school came around, he got on the team and did very well. During this time Pete left, returned, and left. When he was there, Davie and his mother learned to deal with a constant sense of dread. When he was gone they learned to deal with never having quite enough to eat.

Finally, it was summer, Davie was fifteen. He was working a good job, six days a week. With the extra income they could buy a new television, a stereo, while still paying all the bills on time. And Davie still had a hundred dollars in his wallet to buy whatever he wanted.

And Pete came back. Again.

“We have plenty of money right now. We don’t need him this time.” Davie said. Pete glared at him.

“But he needs us. Look, he has no place to go,” his mother reasoned. “All the help he’s given us, he deserves some help now.”

“He deserves nothing. Are you really going to let him move in again? After everything that happened last time?”

“People change, Davie.” Pete said.

“You don’t. You don’t even count as a person.”

“Fuck you. Your mother is tired of your attitude. You can fuck right off.”

“Don’t try to turn her—“

“She is! You tell him what you told me.”

“I’m not tired of you Davie. It’s just that you make life difficult sometimes, and I think you could use a father figure,” his mother said weakly.

“Oh yeah he’s a brilliant father isn’t he? He actually missed my last three birthdays. He broke my arm for getting an F last year!”

“Accident! It was an accident. Shit, bastard!”

“My arm still ended up in a cast for eight weeks!”

They’d had a fight and Pete ended up shoving Davie, who fell down the stairs and snapped a bone in his wrist.

“Don’t you remember all the times he hit you?” Davie pleaded to his mother.

“Just that one time. It’s not a big deal. He’s not some kind of monster, Davie, he is your father.”

“Mother if you let him stay then I’ll be moving out. That is all.”

“But Davie, please,” she began.

“Let me talk to him,” Pete said. He steered her gently to her room and shut the door.

“Alright you son of a bitch,” he hissed. Then he tackled Davie to the floor and punched him in the face. One hit to the temple and Davie was out cold.

Pete went into the kitchen, opened a cupboard and felt around behind a bunch of pots and pans until he found his gun. It was a small revolver that held only five bullets and didn’t do much damage beyond point-blank range. Then he found his belt and some string and waited for Davie to come round.

“Okay, this is a gun. And it’s pointed at your head. Now do exactly what I say or I pull the trigger.”

Davie could feel the cold iron muzzle pressed behind his ear. He nodded breathlessly.

“Get up, slowly, and don’t make any noise.”

They went outside and walked toward town. They kept on, right past the shops and the school and the bus station, until they reached a forest. Pete tied Davie’s hands behind his back, wrapping his wrists in hard, unbreakable knots. He made a gag out of a sock and made sure Davie couldn’t make a sound.

Then he strung the belt around Davie’s neck, pulling it through the buckle until it was tight. Davie began to cry. Pete found a thick, old log, and placed it upright. He made Davie stand on the log while he attached the end of the belt to high tree limb with more string. Then he gave it a jerk, made sure it was solid, and stood before Davie, admiring his handiwork.

“No one will find you for weeks. I’ve got your mother under my thumb, as you’ve realized. She’s not going to be looking for you. You can kick the log out from under and die of suffocation within ten minutes, or you can take your chances, hope to be found, and die within a few days for lack of food and water. You better stop that bawling or you won’t be able to breathe through your nose any more. But know this; if you are somehow rescued, I’ll find you and shoot you. Oh, that reminds me,” he moved the gun close to Davie’s face.

“No bullets,” he laughed.