They’d done this. They’d hurt sweet Mrs. Wilde. Maybe they’d murdered her baby, too.
They’d run back to their house last night before the rest. In the dark of their adjoining rooms, pretending to sleep, Mark had dry-heaved. Michael had put the heel of his hand into his mouth and bitten hard enough to leave a mark that was still angry eighteen hours later. A swollen semicircle of teeth.
Today they’d traded bedrooms. An old game from preschool that they hadn’t played in years. They’d been answering to the wrong names. It was an effort to be someone else. To run from their very skins, except it didn’t work. As brothers, the new skin they assumed wasn’t much different.
They directed outward, too. They flung their dirty laundry from closet bins. They took gardening shears to the trampoline and punctured it in six places. They tore up all their mother’s green beans and mint. And now, tracking bitumen through the house, they jammed pillows deep inside their cases and let fly against lamps and books and each other.
“Clean this up. Money doesn’t grow on trees,” said Dominick, a man of medium build with a giant belly. Bitumen oil crammed the crevices of his ears. The Tiffany lamp lay dead at his feet.
“Mom cleans,” Mark said.
“Don’t be gay,” the other said. Michael.
Together, almost of one mind, they hit their dad too hard with double pillows.
“You’re such a fat slob,” Mark said, his expression a pained and furious grimace.
Dominick stepped on blue stained glass; the bulbed eye of a dragonfly. Blood ran along the floor. His eyes watered. Real tears from their giant hulk of a father, with fists like boxing gloves. This wasn’t what they wanted. They wanted to be yelled at. Punished for what they’d done. Set straight and exonerated. They wanted a capable person to take charge of this house, and reverse the terrible thing that had happened first to Shelly, then to Mrs. Wilde, and now to all of them.
“Come on, Dad! Grab a pillow!” Michael cried. He swung again, this time with his fist, straight at Dominick’s groin.
They expected him to yell.
Daintily, he walked backward, feet trailing blood. His voice stayed soft. “Boys. I know it sucks being cooped up, but you’re being too loud. Do something quiet. Play the video game your mother bought you.”
The Markles smiled sidelong. Finally. It would happen. Finally, this would bring order. Mark pointed at the PlayStation. The thing they’d been bought, for selling out the Wildes. “Too much static. There’s no point,” he said.
The PlayStation was smashed to wires and plastic. Tiny pieces caught the hard sunlight.
“Why do you do these things?” Dominick hissed, cheeks wet with tears. Then he shut Mark’s door, leaving them quite alone.
* * *
Dominick found his wife, Linda, in the kitchen. She was a round woman who wore overalls and soft, comfortable shoes with open toes.
“I can’t take them,” he said. “They’re monsters.”
Normally, she defended them. Talked about the nanny on TV, who claimed it was super important to be your kid’s advocate and best friend. This time, she burst into tears. “They’ve been so bad today!”
He made his way to her slowly, like if he took long enough, he’d figure out what to say. Behind, he left a trail of blood. Linda patted the seat beside her. Without air-conditioning, the heat was thick and miserable. She took one foot at a time, running her fingers along them, scouting for three tiny shards, which she pulled.
“Remember their Penguins teacher? She always talked about how well behaved they were. She called them her angels…，” Linda said. “She said Mark was a leader. She said Michael was an artist. Special, she called them.”
“I don’t remember. Which preschool?”
“Cathedral… I got a call from their camp last week. The director used the word cruel. She said they’re cruel to other children. How is this happening? Who’s teaching them this?”
“We give them so much. They can’t even say thank you,” Dominick answered. She dabbed his feet. The cuts were shallow but his muscles ached. Though he didn’t do the heavy lifting anymore, he still worked long hours managing construction sites. She squeezed his arches and at first it hurt more. But then the pain ran out like juice from a lemon.
“They won’t even help me in the garden.”
He looked around. This house had been a mess for a long time. Nice things, teak tables, antique chairs. But because of its child inhabitants, it was falling apart. He felt ashamed to admit that. A personal failure.