The Man He Never Was Page 5

  “What?” Quinn snapped his fingers and chuckled. “Poof! It disappears, huh?”

  “I’m serious.” Toren tapped his fingers on the table. “I think that’s where I was.”

  “Anger management school?”

  “More than that. What if I went to a place where they can fix things like an out-of-control temper on a deeper level—a spiritual level? Soul surgery.”

  Quinn rolled his eyes.

  “I’m just saying, Q, what if it was possible? That would fix everything. I might be able to convince a team that my anger wouldn’t be an issue, and if I could convince Sloane it was gone . . . she’d take me back. I’d get back the two most important things in my life.” Toren reached into his pocket and pulled out the letter he’d received in the package.

  Quinn read it with a skeptical expression before handing it back.

  “I’ve got to find out where I was and what they did to me.”

  “If those are your two most important things, then yeah. But seriously, Tor, if it’s not already gone, then you have to figure out a way to destroy that part of you.” Quinn’s eyes were full of grace and fire. “But my opinion? To make that happen, you have to figure out where your temper came from in the first place.”

  Quinn was wrong and right at the same time. Yes, he did have to make sure his temper had truly been annihilated, but he didn’t have to figure out how his rage was born. That he knew already. He’d taken enough psychology classes in college to know precisely where his temper came from. It exploded into life the summer of his fourteenth year, but the detonator was constructed when he was only ten, on a September afternoon in the basement of the house Toren grew up in. As Toren stared into Quinn’s eyes, the memory rushed in like a hurricane.

  CHAPTER 8

  “What’re you doing, squirt?” Toren whispered to his brother. “Get away from those.”

  “I just want to pick them up. I’m not going to throw ’em or anything.” Toren’s younger brother, Brady, grinned as he stood on their dad’s leather chair and peered into the glass case that sat on the shelf.

  Their dad’s prized collection of baseballs from the 1930s sat inside. Brady lifted the glass off the balls, set it down on the chair, then reached into the case and plucked up the ball in the middle, hit out of the park by Lou Gehrig, and tossed it up and down.

  “I’m just going to look. I promise.” He grinned. “Unless someone wants to play catch with me.”

  “Don’t be an idiot. You know what’s going to happen if Dad catches you? You won’t make it to your ninth birthday.”

  “He’s not going to catch me.”

  “And if he’s been drinking, which is ninety percent of the time, you’ll really get it.”

  “He won’t catch me!”

  “Just put it back, Brady. Don’t do this.”

  “Fine. Spoil the fun.”

  Brady set the Gehrig ball back in the carved-out indentation in the wood, then lifted the glass cover and started to set it back over the balls. But Brady missed the corner by a quarter inch. Then lost his balance on the chair. Toren watched as the glass case and the ball holder did a slow-motion flip and a half before shattering on the floor, the baseballs bouncing and scattering.

  Ten seconds passed before the thunder of their dad’s footsteps on the basement stairs sent both boys to the wall, their backs pressed against it as if they could part the molecules in the concrete and disappear.

  An instant later, their dad flung the door open. His gaze swept the room, stopping for only an instant on the shattered glass case and the five baseballs now strewn around the room. He fixed his gaze on Brady and Toren, then spoke, his voice barely a whisper.

  “Both of you? Or just one? Give me the truth.”

  Toren’s voice came out like a rustling of tissue paper. “Just one.”

  “Who?”

  “Me. I did it,” Toren sputtered.

  Toren’s father strode over and towered over him. “That right, huh?”

  The smell of beer floated down on Toren.

  “Yes. I’m so, so sorry, Dad. I didn’t mean to, I was just—”

  Toren’s dad smacked him on the head and pain shot through Toren’s skull. “You need to learn to be a better liar, kid.”

  His dad went to a cabinet on the other side of the chair and snatched out a thick belt, then advanced on Brady. “Bend over. Now.”

  After the third blow, Toren couldn’t keep the words inside. “Stop! That’s enough, Dad! You have to!”

  “You stay here!” His dad thrust his finger at Brady. “Do not move.”

  His dad swaggered over to Toren. “What’d you say, boy?”

  “Please stop. You need to stop!”

  “You some tough guy, Toren? Huh? Telling me what to do? Is that what you are? Tough guy?” His dad smacked the belt against his own hand almost as hard as he had hit Brady with it.

  “No, I just think . . . I just wish you’d . . . stop it! Please. Pretty please.”

  His dad pressed his heavy body into Toren’s, pushing into him, and Toren staggered back a step.

  “Did you say please? Yeah, I think you did. In fact, I think you just said pretty please. I got a word for you. Pansy. Can you say pansy, Toren? You should be able to—that’s what you are right now. Little Pretty Please Pansy boy. Three little Ps.”

  Chunky laughter spewed out of his dad’s mouth.

  Toren whispered to his brother, “Get out of here.”

  “You think I’m deaf, pansy boy?”

  “No, I just want you to—”

  “Stop. Yeah, I get it. That’s it, right? You want me to stop, huh?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay, I’ll stop.” His dad grinned at Toren and kept bumping his chest into Toren’s head, pushing him back another step, then another. “Here’s how that’s going to work. You take the belt out of my hands and put me on my butt, and I’ll stop. How’s that for a deal. Huh? Ya like that? We got a deal?” His father’s voice rose to a roar. “We got a deal?”

  “No, that’s not what I mean. That’s not—”

  “Oh, I get it. Sure. You want to yap at me like a little dog, bark, bark, bark! But you don’t really want to do anything about it, do ya, huh?”

  “I don’t know what you mean . . .”

  “Sure you do. Take a swing at me. Come on.” His dad slapped his stubbled cheek with the palm of his oversized hand. “Take a swipe at your old man. Feel real good.”

  The words seethed out of him, and the rage in his dad’s eyes bordered on maniacal.

  “No, Dad, all I want is—”

  “You think you’re up for it? Taking me down?”

  “No, I just—”

  “I’d love to have you take a poke at me. See what you got inside. See if it’s anything more than squishy mush.”

  “That’s not what I’m saying, Dad!” Tears forced their way to Toren’s eyes.

  “Come on, tough guy.” His dad smacked his hand again with the belt so hard, Toren couldn’t believe the look on his dad’s face didn’t change. “You want some of the leather here? Or wanna try to give me some? Yeah? That what you want? Then let’s go. Right now, let’s go, you and me. Be a man, you little pansy!”

  “No . . . but . . . but . . .” Toren pointed at his brother. “He’s bleeding. He’s . . . he’s . . . You’ve really, really hurt him.”

  The tears in Toren’s eyes welled up and he screamed at himself not to let it happen, not to let them pour over onto his cheeks. He lost the battle. But at least his dad wasn’t beating his brother any longer.

  “Oh, man, this is good. Turning on the waterworks for your little brother. Wow. Nice job. We oughta put you in the movies. Yeah? Should we? Little pansy actor boy?”

  Another hard smack of the belt into his dad’s palm.

  “You think that doesn’t hurt me? Yeah? Well, it does. But you gotta figure this out if you want to do what you just did, go and pretend you can be a man, stick up for people. To do that, you gotta figure out how
to do something. You wanna know what it is? What you gotta do?”

  Toren pulled in quick breaths as he wiped tears from his cheeks.

  “Huh? Do you?”

  “Ye . . . yeah.”

  “You gotta keep it under control. All of it. Rein it in. Your emotions. The exact opposite of what you’re doing right now. Spilling your tears all over the world. Really? Really? What is wrong with you? You’re almost eleven years old. Figure it out. Lock it down. Keep a lid on it.”

  What leaked out of Toren’s mouth next were words he’d regretted saying every moment since. He didn’t know where they’d come from. Why didn’t he keep them bottled up? If only he’d stayed silent. If only he’d let the moment play out, just nodded and let his dad eventually walk away, like he had every other time. But that day he didn’t stop.

  “Keep a lid on it?” Toren balled his fists. “Like you keep a lid on your temper? Is that the kind of lid you’re talking about, Dad?”

  What happened next remained a blur in Toren’s mind, even in the dreams he had about the Incident, as it came to be known. His dad shoving him onto the floor, his knee in Toren’s back. Then his dad yanking Toren’s jeans down and the belt striking him till he could no longer feel the shooting pain of each blow. And then darkness.

  He awoke hours later, after the sun had relinquished her reign over the day to a dark night with no stars. His mom was beside his bed when the pain was too much, trying to explain why they couldn’t go to the hospital. She was there when he fell back under, when he woke for the second time, and all during the days of Toren’s recovery. There in the middle of the night when he woke, screaming, nightmares flooding his mind.

  His dad shuffled into Toren’s room eight days after the beating and stood in the doorway, leaning on the doorframe.

  “How ya doing, champ?”

  Toren glanced at his father, then to his bedcovers.

  His dad pushed off the doorframe, an edge to his voice now. “I said, how are you doing?”

  “Good.”

  “That’s my kid.” His dad ambled up to the edge of Toren’s bed. For once, his breath didn’t reek of alcohol. “Hey, things got a little out of hand there a few days back. Sometimes what I’m feeling inside just kinda gets . . . so, uh . . . I’m . . . I’m . . . you know.”

  Toren sank his teeth into his tongue and stared at the poster on the far wall of his bedroom. His grandpa had given it to him, a picture of Dick Butkus. A moment later the bed shook.

  “Hey, kid, look at me.”

  Toren narrowed his eyes and looked at his dad.

  “Don’t give me that look, boy.” A storm stirred inside his dad’s eyes and they went black as he leaned in. Toren silently prayed for his mom to come in before his dad lost it again.

  “You hear me?”

  “Yes, Dad.” Toren swallowed. “I’m sorry.”

  “Okay.”

  They sat in silence, Toren trying to hold his dad’s gaze, the man’s eyes expressing the exact opposite of his attempt at an apology. But after a few short seconds Toren dropped his gaze and fixed it once again on one of the greatest linebackers ever to play in the NFL.

  “Hey, look at me.”

  Toren stared up into his dad’s darkness as he said, “We’re good, right?”

  Toren nodded.

  “And if your mom asks, I said what I needed to, and you’re feeling good and I’m feeling good and it’s all in the past, right?”

  “Yes, Dad.”

  “All right.” His dad patted Toren’s shoulder and strode toward the door at the same moment his mom walked in.

  “There.” His dad sneered at her. “You happy now?”

  Her hands trembled, but her face was blank. She’d learned not to show weakness, irritation, fear, anything that could be interpreted the wrong way—which it was most of the time.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  “Yeah.”

  His dad walked out the door, but his mom stood frozen, her lips the only part of her body that moved, silently counting. If his dad didn’t spin back in thirty seconds, history said he wouldn’t return. They listened for the sound of the TV coming on in the living room, or of the front door slamming as he left for the rest of the night. Thirty seconds later, Toren heard the TV blare to life, the signal to his mom that it was safe to come talk to him.

  She closed the door softly, then eased over to his bed and sat on the edge.

  “How was that for you, Toren?”

  “It was good.”

  “Because you can tell me if it wasn’t. You know that, right?”

  “Yeah, I know.” He gave her a weak smile. “It was good.”

  “Really?” His mom rubbed his hand. “Your dad is sorry, he is so sorry. He’s a good man and he loves you, but sometimes he gets . . . well, sometimes he . . .”

  She trailed off and looked away, still believing that Toren couldn’t see the lie in her eyes. The look that screamed with the force of a tempest that she wanted to leave his father. But she couldn’t tell that story, couldn’t tell about the countless times he’d lost it with her and slapped her so hard she slumped to the floor in a daze. He never hit her with a closed fist, but a slap was every bit as brutal. Toren and his brother heard them through the living room walls, down the hall, and into the upper and lower bunks they slept in.

  When she married his dad, she’d vowed to keep her family together no matter what. She made a promise to stay with Toren’s dad for better and for worse. So she told herself stories she made up in her head and told them to the neighbors and her sister and her mom and dad, and anyone else who wanted to know. Life was grand at the Daniels home. Always had been. Always would be.

  She’d undoubtedly already made up a story about what happened to his brother’s backside and his own backside, and too soon she’d believe the lie herself and convince herself that Toren and his brother believed it as well. But he wouldn’t. He knew the truth.

  “So you and your dad, you’re okay now?”

  “Yeah, it’s okay.”

  “You mean that?” She scooted closer.

  “Yes, Mom.”

  “Because you can tell me if it isn’t.”

  “Yeah, Mom, I know. You just told me that!” Toren’s gaze dropped to his hands. “Sorry, I didn’t—”

  “No, Toren. It’s fine. I know I already said it, but I wanted to make sure. Make sure you’re really, truly okay.”

  When Toren went back to school a few days later, the other kids stared at him. A few asked where he’d been. He didn’t give any of them a straight answer, not even his friends, until a kid new to the school plunked down next to him at lunch on Toren’s third day back.

  “So what happened to you?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Yeah, right.” The kid glanced around as if to make sure no one was listening. “You can tell me. I can keep a secret.”

  Toren had the odd feeling he could tell the truth to this complete stranger. Still, he didn’t even know the kid’s name.

  “I was out back goofing around in my tree fort and fell and scraped my face and stuff and fell on my back and hurt it.”

  “You gotta come up with something better than that.” The new kid took one of Toren’s french fries, stuffed it into his mouth, and grinned as he chewed. “Want to try again?”

  “What do you think happened to me?” Toren said.

  “I know what happened. I can see it in your eyes ’cause the same thing happens to me sometimes. Your dad loses it, even when it’s not your fault, and beats the tar out of you. And then you gotta pretend it’s okay, ’cause if you don’t, your dad will beat on your mom a little. Sometimes more than a little, okay?”

  Toren didn’t answer, but his head gave a slight nod of agreement.

  “I don’t know what you’re going to do about all that going on, but I can’t take it going on like that without thinking about a way out. Now I have a way out. Now I have a plan.”

  Toren stared at the new kid. There was a strength
in his eyes and a hint of danger. More than a hint maybe.

  “You ever want to hit him back?”

  “What?” Toren frowned at the kid.

  “You heard me.”

  Toren turned back to his lunch and took a drink of milk.

  “I’ll tell you if you want me to.” The kid leaned closer. “About my plan to take care of my dad. You can use it for your dad if you want to.”

  Toren nodded again.

  “I’m going to get strong. Stronger than my dad. Start lifting weights soon. Maybe learn some karate too, or kung fu, and then I’m going to get in my dad’s face, stare him down, tell him I hate him. Then when he comes after me with the belt, I’m going to take it out of his hands and do to him what he did to me.”

  An anger boiled deep inside Toren as the kid spoke. “I don’t hate my dad.”

  “Yeah, you do.”

  Toren poked at his cheeseburger, the churning in his stomach making him not so hungry. “What’s your name?”

  “Letto.”

  “You’re new here.”

  “Yeah.”

  Toren gathered his lunch and got up. “I’ll see you, Letto.”

  “Yeah, see ya around, Toren.”

  That was the day Toren made the vows. Just the way Letto had laid them out. First, he would get stronger than his dad. Whatever it took. Second, a day was coming when he’d stare his father down and take the belt out of his hand. And his father would never hit Toren’s mom or Brady ever again.

  “Toren?”

  He pulled himself out of the memory and stared at Quinn. “I’m here.”

  “What else?” Quinn drummed his fingers on the table. “With Sloane, I mean. Anything else you want to tell me?”

  “I need you, Quinn.”

  “I’m here, man. But you have to get things fixed.”

  “I did. That’s what I’m saying. I’ve changed. Radically. I’m a different guy.”

  “I hope so. If that’s true, you might have a second chance with your kids. With Sloane. That’s gonna take time.”

  “I know.”

  “So what are you going to do to stay occupied, keep from obsessing about it?”

  “Work out with you.”

  “And the rest of each day?”