Mary started to say something:Jack, honey…but she ran out of words. Mr. Ross glared at his son, trying to maintain an indifferent facade, but he was uneasy, and had even begun to crouch, as if preparing to defend himself. Jack looked his father up and down before shaking his head. Then he lurched, and when Mr. Ross cowered, he shook his head and laughed. “Someday,” he said, “life is going to put you in your place. But I won’t be the one to do it. I’m not getting my hands dirty over you. I’ll just let you know one thing: if I ever have kids, I can promise I won’t treat them the way you treated us.”
His voice was quaking, and though I was behind him, I could tell he was on the verge of tears as he continued: “You know what’s pathetic is that I was actually scared of you when I was a kid. For most of my life, really. But look at you. You’re just a sorry little man. And that’s all you’ll ever be.”
Mr. Ross didn’t speak, but it was clear that he was hurt. Jack turned to me, shoulders slightly sunken, looking weary, and said, “Let’s go home.”
I took his hand and pulled him back into the living room. His parents stayed behind us. Mike and Agnes were sitting on the sofa: she was fidgeting, he was looking down between his knees. “You two go on,” she said. “Mike and I have things to take care of here.”
They must have overheard the whole thing, and I could only hope that Jack finally confronting his father meant that Mike would do the same. There were things that family should have cleared up years ago, but it was better late than never. I nodded and walked to the garage with Jack, and when I saw how his keys shook in his hand, I recommended we take a taxi. “Nah, I’m fine,” he replied, and he surprised me by driving more slowly and calmly than usual.
I felt I should say something, but at the same time, I thought I should respect the silence, so I just looked out the window on the way and let him have his space. When Jack parked in the lot, he didn’t move for a moment.His hands gripped the wheel, and he struggled to control his breathing. I sat there with him, waiting, telling myself I would stay as long as it took.
At last he spoke: “So now you know…”
“You don’t have to say anything, Jack.”
“What did you think I was going to say?”
It was such a painful subject, and there was no way of dancing around it. It had come up a year ago, and no one had wanted to tell me the truth. Now I was certain: “He beat you, didn’t he?”
Surprise, pain, weariness crossed his face. “How do you know?” he asked.
“I know what an abuser looks like,” I whispered. “And I know what it feels like to be a victim.”
Jack leaned back. He looked so small, so vulnerable, like a little child. “It was just me at first,” he said. “For most of Mike’s life, it was like he didn’t even exist for Dad. I don’t know which is worse, honestly. My father always seemed to have this idea that he could shape me in his own image, whereas with Mike, it didn’t matter what he did, Dad just looked right past him. Mike wanted his affection, but nothing he did was good enough. I know it sounds weird to say it, but the abuse…it wasn’t that bad for me. After a while, it just became another routine. I know that’s twisted, but it’s how I felt. It happened all the time, and I took for granted that the same thing was going on in everyone’s house. When I was in high school, I hit this kid and I got suspended for three days, and I think that was the first time I realized it was wrong. I mean, who was I supposed to learn that lesson from? Not Mom, she never said anything. I spent those three days sitting by myself at home, and I started thinking… I don’t think anything Dad did to me could have shaken me, but the day I found him hitting Mike, everything changed. Mike had problems with drugs, you know. He always has, basically. And he had stolen money from Dad to get them. Dad lost it. It was really, really nasty.”
“I thought Mike just drank and smoked a little weed,” I interrupted him.
“He does now,” Jack said. “He cleaned up a lot when he saw me going down the same road. I’ve seen him get close to relapsing once or twice, but he’s kept himself under control, even if it doesn’t always look like it. I’ll never forget what he did for me…”
This was the first time I’d ever heard Jack talk about Mike like an older brother he cared about and not a mere inconvenience. It made me smile as he continued: “The way Dad was abusing Mike was different. Me he’d slap or shove, but he actually threw Mike on the ground and was punching and kicking him. Mike tried to cover his face, Mom was crying… And I freaked. I don’t remember the whole thing very well, but I know I jumped on him. He was stronger, but I was younger, and I had more energy.”
“How old were you?”
“Fifteen. I remember how he told me to stand back.Your brother’s a piece of trash and he deserves this, he said. That’s when I punched him in the face. I’d never done anything like that before. His nose started bleeding, and I got scared. He grabbed me by the neck, pushed me down on the glass table that used to be in the living room… That’s when I hurt my back. I used to play basketball back then. You saw the trophies. I loved it, you can’t even imagine. I was going to be captain of the team, probably the youngest team captain in the history of our school, but I had to forget all that. The trophies you saw were the last ones I ever won. The glass cut into my spinal cord. I don’t remember exactly what the doctors called it, neuralgia something, but my whole body hurt, and I had trouble moving my legs and one of my arms. They operated on me, and I was in physical therapy for nearly two years. I guess I should be thankful that I wasn’t handicapped for life, but I’ve never been able to play sports since, I don’t have the coordination anymore. You’ve probably noticed I can be kind of clumsy sometimes, and my shoulder gets these sudden aches… So that was one dream down the toilet…”
“Is that when you started…?”
“Yeah. It was just smoking weed at first, but one thing leads to another, you know. I realize it wasn’t the healthiest thing. If I could go back and change it I would, I promise, Jen. Mike really got himself together, and he tried to help me, too, but I cut myself off from the world. I didn’t talk to my parents, I actually blamed Mom, if you believe that. I remember shouting at her one time that if she’d done something sooner, none of that would have happened. But she was scared, and I know it was really my father’s fault. I couldn’t bring myself to ever tell him, though. I mean, I was horrified to even be in the same room with him.”
“So what did you do?”
“That’s when I got into movies. They were my escape. My only one, honestly. Mom wanted me to forgive her, and when I was in the hospital, she brought me all these books I wouldn’t read, but she also signed me up for a bunch of streaming networks, and something clicked. I’d watch four or five movies a day, then I’d stay up late reading about the film industry online…”
“And you figured out you wanted to be a director,” I said.
“No. That still took a while.”
I realized then that he’d gotten his first tattoo to cover the scar, and that was why he’d been so shy about showing it to me. I asked him when he’d done it, and he told me the story.
“I was pretty much healed by that point.” He grinned, “I got drunk and I paid some bonehead ninety bucks to do it. It was horrible. Then a couple of years later, when I was off the coke, Will told me he’d pay for me to get it fixed. It was a celebration kind of thing, like he and I had talked about how my life was going back on course, I was getting better…and I wanted things to stay that way. That’s one reason I didn’t stop you when you wanted to get that same tattoo, Jen. Because I saw you as part of my recovery. And I don’t want you to know about the scar underneath it. Iwant you to see the symbol of the new me that’s on top of it. And I know you were trying to change your life, too, and I hoped maybe having that same tattoo could help you create a new you as well.”
I looked down at my hip, where I had a little eagle with outstretched wings identical to the one on his back. I had always liked it, but it meant even more to me now. When I tried to catch his eye, I noticed his head was hanging. Did he really think…
“Jack, you don’t think I’m mad, do you?”
“You went and got that tattoo with an idea of me in your head that wasn’t who I really was. And that’s my fault. If you were mad, you’d certainly be in the right.”
“Jack…”
