That Which Makes A Good Man Cruel

[Latin For Dragula]

Dad looked tired. More than usual, like it wasn't just a bad night's sleep eating at him behind his eyes. It's funny how he was only just starting to pick up stuff like that, when he thought about it. Maybe it's because he looked the same way to somebody else. A few years with his brothers would make anybody real familiar with the kind of fatigue sleep don't fix.

He could see the truck outside, chipping paint highlighted under the sun, gear sorta strewn and tied down all through the back. They always stopped here at Mac's on the way out for a trip, just the two of them. He never knew what it was actually called, there wasn't a sign out front or anything. Just called it Mac's because that was the name of the guy who owned it, some friend of his dad's. It was their place. Usually it signaled a nice break from the rest of the family, something both of them desperately needed every once in awhile.

Why were they so damn unhappy, then?

Damn. He let the word roll around in his head for a moment. He wasn't supposed to say stuff like that, Mom said. Wasn't polite or gentlemanly or whatever. There was a part of him that wanted to cuss at the notion, assert himself as a man who said whatever he damn well pleased, but even in his head there was real slow, shaky embarrassment that came with the word. With the house miles back, he could still feel her frown and hear those quiet, mild whispers reminding him that cussin' and fightin' and hell-raisin', those were things boys did, not men.

His brothers, for the most part, were Boys. It was up to Ty and his father, she said, to be Men. Show them the way of things, lead by example, turn the other cheek, all that brittle advice that sounded so sweet when she was saying it but turned jagged and bitter in his ears when he saw Marcus's big, dumb grin, or that sick way Yetunde looked right through him. He just, he just wanted to...

A gentle brush of fingertips across his hand pulled him back to the present. His father wasn't looking at him, but out the window at the peeling truck. For a little while, he didn't say anything, just brushed a dark, rough finger across the back of Ty's hand. Without turning to look at him, he cleared his throat, like he was going to say something.

"I'm...sorry."

Ty didn't know how to react to that. Before he could ask him to speak a little more plain, he started back up. "I am...not the best, eh, father figure. This I know. I know. You know, yes?"

The words choked up in his throat. He didn't know what he was supposed to say to that, and his dad's hand was up and waving dismissively before he had to dwell on it too much longer. "I know, you don't...you don't have to, you know, say. Just...I know things are...ah, am not very good at this. Difficult. Things are difficult, at home."

Where was he going with all this?

"Your teacher has been calling again, yes? Says you have been, eh, scrapping. Other students, again."

Oh.

Again, his father didn't give him a chance to speak, even as something closer to speech started to gurgle up from his throat. "No, no, nothing. We know it's true. Nothing serious, of course, of course, that's what they say. Yelling, stomping, names." His eyes rested heavily on his son's face at that note. "Things your mother, she does not want to hear, yes?" Ty could only cast his eyes downward towards the table.

His father's whole hand came to rest on top of his. "I'm not...I cannot, you understand, tell you not to, not to fight, eh?" He was looking out the window again, at the clouds drifting over the sun. "Because you have to. You, and me, especially, we have to...have to struggle, just for little things. These people, they see the world through, ah..." His hands came up to form circles around his baggy eyes, with a slight smile. "You know? They believe in fairness, in, ah, zero tolerance," he intoned, his mouth fumbling around the word some, though Ty got the gist," in the system, in...how they say, The American Dream. Anybody can be anything, if they try."

Ty looked up at his father's face and saw him frowning, noticed for the first time the increased pressure as he held his hand. "It's all bullshit, Ty. All of it. You are, you know, you are a man now, so I will not sugar coat it. People don't want to see your dreams fulfilled. They want to grind them down and make you work for them, make you the little man that makes their dreams come true, you see?"

He paused, looking real confused, as if he'd lost track of where he was or what he was talking about. Ty got one them...intuitions, you call 'em, that they weren't just talking about him anymore. Finally, Amadia's eyes turned back to him from the sky, and his other hand reached up, clasping Ty's hand between his own in a gentle embrace. "You can't let them knock you down, of course. People like us, son...we get knocked down, we're not allowed back up, you see? They leave us in the dirt as long as they can. Do you understand?" Ty gave him a brief, shallow nod, the dryness of his mouth making him want to pull away for a drink but too caught up in the gravity of his father's gaze. "Good. Don't scrap, don't hurt people if you can avoid it. Calm that temper, it makes you, ah, it makes you...target, you know? But don't stop fighting. Don't ever stop fighting. Remember that, son."

They ate the rest of their meal in silence. Ty didn't have anything to say, and the whole thing seemed to have drained the sociability from his father until they were a couple hours down the road and he managed to force some animation into his spirits again.

The trip itself was uneventful. Looking back, he wouldn't remember much about that weekend in the woods. It was almost as if he was never even there, like his body had climbed up into the truck and left the rest of him trembling in the booth under his father's words and the lazy shadow of a grey afternoon.