Dinner with Hannibal Lecter and Family: A NOVEL

By Wendy Jenks

Meet the players:

Mike, the protagonist, is a friendly and engaging man who desperately wants to have a loving, or at least friendly relationship with his twenty-two-year-old daughter, Zoe.

He also wants to get his life back on track, but frequently gets in his own way.

Scotty and Joe are Mike’s two best friends since grade school:

Scotty was a chubby red-haired kid who was picked on by the school bullies, now an easygoing, affable gent who wanted to be a landscaper but ended up building houses.

Joe was the peacemaker; a couple of quiet words from him sent the bullies away, their fists loosened, their sneers faded, their feet dragging. Of the three boys, Joe is the one who realized his dream: he married his high school sweetheart, Kathy, and created a successful business, a bar which they named Joe’s Place.

Zoe, Mike’s twenty-two-year-old daughter, had been programmed by her mother to hate her father. In today’s world, she wants nothing to do with him. She’s already a senior teller at a local bank, and if rumors are to be believed, in line for a promotion.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Hawes & Jenkins Publishing, Inc.
• Release date: Nov 9, 2023
• ISBN: 9781637842300

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Dinner with Hannibal Lecter and Family

A NOVEL

Wendy Jenks

ISBN 978-1-63784-229-4 (paperback)

ISBN 978-1-63784-230-0 (digital)

Copyright © 2023 by Wendy Jenks

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods without the prior written permission of the publisher. For permission requests, solicit the publisher via the address below.

Hawes & Jenkins Publishing

16427 N Scottsdale Road Suite 410

Scottsdale, AZ 85254

www.hawesjenkins.com

Printed in the United States of America

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

About the Author

Chapter 1

I woke to palm trees and a light drizzle, but last time I looked, there weren't any palm trees in Albuquerque. I was seeing them through the windshield of my '63 Chrysler Imperial ragtop, my head butted up against the driver's door, my long legs sprawled half on, half off the front seat. Last thing I remember, I was leaving Sandia Casino with a woman I'd met there, and all I remembered of her was red spiked heels, red nail polish, and red, red lipstick.

I pulled my six-foot-two self upright and looked around. I was in a large square parking lot with palm trees loosely defining two sides of its perimeter. There were only a few cars scattered about, and two teenage boys were skateboarding diagonally across the white lines.

Although I had a pretty good idea of what I'd see, I tilted the rearview mirror toward me. My bloodshot eyes looked like they would hemorrhage at any moment, I had four or five days' worth of stubble on my face, and my hair was sticking up in the back from my head being scrunched up against the car door. Whitish spittle caked the side of my mouth, whitish, no doubt, from the antacids my stomach has come to rely on. I wiped it off and looked down. I was wearing the same clothes I'd put on before going to the casino, my shirt stained and smelling of old beer.

Not someone you'd want coming toward you on a moonless night.

Up ahead and just beyond was a dilapidated one-story wood building with a large garish sign advertising The Best Caramel Corn On The Boardwalk. Lordy. I was at the beach. But what beach?

Coffee. I needed coffee. Not the bullshit stuff with the fancy names, the lattes and the cappuccinos, but good ol' American coffee—strong, no cream, no sugar. And aspirin. I leaned over, opened the glove compartment, removed a ziplock bag and three Bayers, popped them into my mouth, mashed them with my back teeth, and swallowed the nasty stuff.

Needing a smoke, I fished a cigarette out of my breast pocket, and with it between my lips, hunted for matches. I didn't find any, and the lighter in the car has been broken for years. Damn it. I put the cigarette back, then turned the ignition key. It started right up, and I had a quarter of a tank of gas.

I eased the car toward a ticket booth at the far end of the lot where, I presumed, someone would collect a parking fee. No one was there, so I drove through and turned right onto a wide straight boulevard with tall palm trees lined up in the median strip, block after block.

Printed on the first sign I came to was Oceanside Pier, which meant I was probably in California; the arrow pointing to the right told me I was headed south. I pulled into a gas station, filled up. It was chilly, probably in the midforties, and the rain made it seem colder. I hustled over to the convenience store, where I poured myself a large coffee and grabbed a couple six-packs from their cooler and a California road map from a rack. I stood in line at the checkout. The woman ahead of me paid her bill, but before leaving, turned around to me, her nose and lips pinched up, all prissy and disapproving. I was tempted to give her a back-atcha look, but didn't. Instead, I lugged the beer onto the counter and asked the kid at the register for a couple packs of Marlboros. There was a clear plastic jar on the counter full of freebee packs of matches. I reached in and took a handful and stuffed them in my jeans pocket as the kid swiped my card and handed it back. I asked him if there was a Dunkin' Donuts in town. He didn't know, but waving his hand in front of his face, said, You stink, man.

In the men's room, I tried the coffee. Bitter. I poured it down the sink and popped open a Budweiser, drank that while I washed up best I could—face, chest, armpits—and wished I'd bought a razor along with the Budweisers.

Outside again, I put the beer on the ground and the map under my arm. It takes a determined tug to get the driver's door open, and some cursing. If I pull it too far, it disengages from the top hinge somehow, making it necessary to lift the door—larger and heavier by today's standard—back in place. Inside, closing it is easier if I use both hands—one on the handle, the other on the arm rest—and I have to put up with a rasping skreeee that comes from un-oiled somethings, but, and this is the important part, there's satisfaction in hearing that solid thromp as a perfectly good door connects with a perfectly good car.

The door open, I tossed the Budweisers on the front seat, took off my shirt, and threw it over the beer, then slipped into my jacket and zipped it up to the neck. I unfolded the map, found Oceanside, then I-40 East, which I'd pick up in Barstow, a two, maybe three-hour drive from here. Then the interstate all the way to Albuquerque, which was another ten or so hours. A long trip and lots of time to think.

Just outside of town, I spotted a Krispy Kreme and headed straight for it.

Got any fresh coffee? I asked the pretty young thing behind the counter.

She nodded. It just finished perking.

I paid for six glazed donuts and a large coffee, grabbed a newspaper, and sat at the booth farthest from the entrance, my back to the other customers. By now my hands were shaking so bad that I had to use both of them to get the cup to my mouth without splashing it.

Two more coffees and one newspaper later, I started feeling half human again, confirmed I was in California, and that I was missing six days. A blackout, though not my longest.

My longest lasted three weeks. During that one, evidently I'd gotten behind the wheel of a Greyhound bus while the driver and half his passengers were still in the station's food court. He's left the keys in the ignition, and I'd driven off. When the cops caught up with me, I had pulled the bus onto the shoulder of the road, and somewhere along the way, I'd misplaced my passengers. Got jail time for that one. No trial, no lawyers, just brought before a judge for him to hear my sad story, me all humble and contrite.

Considering I was charged with kidnapping, it could have been a lot worse. I lucked out. Got a judge who was a member of AA. The whole while I was pleading my case, he was nodding his head, a knowing grandfatherly look on his face. Just as I was thinking I should conjure up a couple of tears, he banged his gavel and began lecturing me about the destructive forces within every beer, every bottle, his face anything but grandfatherly. Now it was me nodding all serious-like, agreeing with him and saying, Yes, sir. I see what you mean, Your Honor.

Then he shook his gavel at me, and leaning forward over his desk, the gavel still in hand, asked if I was hearing him. I nodded. Yes, sir, I surely am. Every word. His eyebrows lifted, and he squinted down at me over the rims of his glasses, measuring my sincerity, I suppose. He laid the gavel down and lectured me some more. Somehow I convinced him I'd start going to meetings, turn my life around. What I really wanted to tell him was that I liked my life just fine the way it was. I decided against it, seein' as how I was standing there in bare feet.

The judge said, I could give you a year in the county jail and a five-thousand dollar fine.

He looked like he was waiting for a response, so I swallowed my wise-ass remark, and instead, told him, "I hope it doesn't come to that, sir.

After studying me for an unbearably long time, he announced, Thirty days in the county jail, plus a month of community service, and banged his gavel. Next, he said, dismissing me. I was handcuffed and taken to the jail, but because of overcrowding, no priors, and good behavior, the county cut me loose after two weeks. I left town—Cincinnati—without doing the community service, which probably makes me a fugitive in Ohio. I never did find out what happened to those passengers, or my shoes and socks either.

This time I didn't know if I'd done anything illegal or immoral, but in case I had, I wasn't sticking around. With another half dozen doughnuts for the road, I headed for Barstow and I-40 east, and to help get rid of the shakes I had another quick beer, then a third. After that I spaced them out. I picked up two more six-packs in Flagstaff, and a pack of cigarettes. The drive home took twelve and a half hours and fourteen beers. I spent a lot of that time brooding over my life, these blackouts. Problem is, I like to drink. I like drinking in bars with my pals, and I like drinking with women. A few beers at home suits me just fine, and I'm a big fan of Jim Beam, too; with a couple shots of whiskey in my belly, I'm out on the dance floor doing the two-step with some fine-looking gal.

What I don't like, what seems to get me into hot water, are these damn blackouts. All I have to do, I figured, is quit the hard stuff and cut back on the beer. I've tried this before but never set a limit on how many beers I could have per day, so it didn't work. So how many was the question. A six-pack didn't sound reasonable, so I decided on two six-packs a day. And that's it, I promised myself. No more blackouts.

If I were to tell Joe my plan, he'd dummy up on me, his way of giving his opinion without saying a word.

I was sure my job at GoGoPizza belonged to someone else now, but I didn't want to work there anyway. Delivering pizzas on the night shift, or any shift for that matter, is a job for seventeen-, eighteen-year-old kids, not a forty-one year-old man. It's embarrassing. What I should do is get back into what I know best—construction, thanks to my years with the Seabees. Operating a hoe, especially the bigger ones, was exhilarating and made me feel fearless and powerful. Those suckers can kill you in a heartbeat, so I treated them with respect, and after a while, it felt like it was mutual; you take care of me, I'll watch out for you.

So go ahead, Joe. Say it. Tell me I'm crazy. I don't care. That's how it was. Them and me, we had an understanding.

Then there's the matter of Zoe, my daughter, my number 1 concern. Right now she won't have anything to do with me, and I have to get that turned around. I have to. If I could have one wish granted, that's what it would be—father and daughter in a loving relationship. Or at least friendly with each other. I want her to know I'm not the son-of-a-bitch her mother made me out to be, that she can come to me any time, for any reason, that I'll be there for her. I need to turn things around because, whether she knows it or not, she needs me. Needs someone she can go to for advice in complicated times. Advice regarding her relationships with men, her career, money management, and the like. A person who won't have their own agenda getting in the way of forthright advice, and that someone is me.

She weighs heavy in my thoughts and my heart every day. I gotta find a way, and cutting back on the drinking will only help. Curb the drinking and get a decent job. That's what I gotta do.

I was home in time to catch some sleep, but my hangover had only diminished, not disappeared; the shakes and a queasy stomach were giving me fits. I gave up. I swung my legs off the bed and sat a minute, letting gravity and my head duke it out. I reached for my cigarettes on the bedside table—a wooden crate turned upright—walked out to the kitchen, and took another beer from the fridge. Number 1, I said, pulling up on the aluminum ring. I can do this.

Holding a Marlboro between my teeth, I turned on the stove's burner, bent down close to the flame, and sucked life into my cigarette. I took it and the beer with me to the bathroom, enjoyed a long drag from each, then parked them on the sink.

I turned on the shower. When the water was as warm as it was going to get—coolish-tepid is about all you're going to get in this apartment complex—I cursed but stepped in anyway and scrubbed myself with the washcloth I keep on one of those hangs-on-the-shower racks, the kind where the bar of soap always falls through instead of staying put.

Toweled dry, cigarette stub dropped into the empty can, I left the bathroom, sat down on the edge of my bed, and rubbed Vaseline on my cracked heels, pulled my socks on and walked back to the kitchen. There was still some OJ in the fridge, but unscrewing the top and smelling it, I had to pour it down the sink and wash two aspirin down with water instead. Should have washed them down with the beer because the water in this place is gawd-awful, but I didn't think of it soon enough. This apartment complex is old and run down, and my place—2B—is testament to that. My place is a dump. Ironic because half of what's in here came from the county landfill. When I returned to Albuquerque in '09, I'd borrowed a pickup and gone to the dump to see if I could find anything useable. I arrived just as a guy and his wife were unloading some beaten-up furniture from their truck, including a sofa. The couple looked clean and reasonable dressed, so I figured it wouldn't be infested with nasty critters. I told them I'd like to have it, and if he would help me get it into the bed of my pickup, I'd help unload the rest of what was in his.

The couch is upholstered in some kind of brown and yellow plaid material. I used to think of it as Early American trash. Now, with it having faded to indistinguishable colors and worn through in places, it's not deserving of a title, but if I were to give it one, I think Bonfire Ready would suit it.

I also found me a coffee table—wood veneer with chipped edges and needing a shim under one leg—which serves as my dining room table, as well. In my bedroom I have a bed, an upright chest of drawers, and the bedside table—a wooded crate turned upright.

There's always construction going on somewhere in Albuquerque by builders who could use an extra worker, contractors who could give me a couple of days here and there. All I had to do was find them. I dressed, put my lucky 1921 silver dollar in my pocket, grabbed my jacket, and headed over to Scotty's. He'd know. He's a building inspector for the county,

From grade school through to graduation, me, Joe, and Scotty were a tight threesome and probably closer than if we'd been brothers. Of the three of us, Scotty and I were the ones who were picked on by the school bullies, Scotty because he was chubby, because he had bright red hair, and because they could make him cry. In defense, he turned comedian, acting nutty and laughing as if the bullying didn't faze him. And me? I was the scaredy-cat, tormented because they knew I wouldn't stand up for myself. Instead, I disappeared into a fantasy world devoid of violence.

But no one ever bothered Joe, and not because he was a scrapper; just his showing up caused fists to loosen, arms to drop, and sneers to fade. A couple of quiet words from Joe sent the bullies away with their shoulders drooping and their feet dragging. I think of Joe as one of those born leaders; he could have gotten the tyrants to do anything he wanted.

On weekends, the three of us mostly rode our bikes to all the places we weren't supposed to, and most days, we ate our packed lunches inside our secret hideout down by the old rail yard on the south end of Second Street. I should go there one of these days, see what's happened to it.

We were always supposed to be home before dark, but Scotty and I almost never were; we were usually at Joe's house having dinner with him and his mom and dad. Everyone knew why I didn't want to go home—my father, good ol' Frank, was a nasty drunk and beat on me and my mom—but Scotty never shared much about his family life with us. All we knew was that his mother had died when he was three. To this day I don't know what was so bad at his place that he stayed away as much as possible.

The day we graduated from high school, Scotty, Joe, and I had hung out together long after everyone else had gone. Scotty retrieved a couple six-packs from the trunk of his car, and we parked ourselves in the middle of the football field, daring anyone to tell us we couldn't bring alcohol onto school property, a trial run of our newly acquired manhood. We reminisced about the past and talked about our futures. Of the three of us, Joe was the only one who realized his dream, which was to marry his high school sweetheart, Kathy, and own a business, which turned out to be a bar they named Joe's Place.

Scotty wanted to be a landscaper, ended up building houses for twenty years, got tired of the hassles, and gave it up. Now he's a building inspector for the county, part time, and likes being on the other side, the one doing the hassling.

And me? My dream to see the world before I settled down was derailed by none other than yours truly; I got Carol, a girl I hardly knew, pregnant. At the budding age of seventeen, I did the right thing and married her.

Chapter 2

Mike and Scotty

Saturday, midmorning

I bought a six-pack in Allsup's on the way over to Scotty's. He saw me through the window and made a rolling motion with his hand. Hey, Mike, he yelled. Come on in.

I did, and pulled a Budweiser from the pack, and handed him the rest.

Here, gimme that, he said, reaching for my can. I got cold ones in the fridge.

Nah, I'm good. I popped the top and took a couple of hefty swigs. Beer number 2.

Scotty never lost the chubbiness that had plagued him in school, and he still had a full head of hair, but the bright red had paled to a light blondish brown with only traces of red. Watching him hobble down the hall, I remembered him on his bike the first time he rode it without holding the handlebars. He was riding toward Joe and me, his eyes focused on the pavement directly in front of him, his arms out to his sides, the bike wobbling mildly as he struggled to stay upright. Guys, guys, he yelled. Lookit me! Guys, look at this!

I jumped to the side as Scotty plowed into Joe and knocked him on his ass, sending the bike and Scotty into a horizontal skid into the gravel. Joe was cursing, Scotty was brushing dirt and pebbles from his scraped elbows, and I was laughing so hard I was doubled over and holding my sides. The memory put a big grin on my face.

His gimpy leg is the other reason he gave up his business; he hurt it real bad on the job and said it slowed him down too much, wore him out trying to work like he used to. That limp of his is worse every time I visit.

He came back with a cold one for himself, shuffled across the room, set his beer on his table and phhlumped down onto his recliner.

Sit, he said, motioning to his sofa. Where you been?

Around.

The regulars over at Joe's Place have been asking about you, and Iggy's been wanting you to take a look at the grill.

I don't do grills. I guzzled down half my beer.

Past few nights, some kid's been dropping by. Real good on the guitar, sings good too. Sounds a lot like Travis Tritt.

I drew my Marlboros from my pocket, tapped a cigarette out, patted my breast pocket. No matches.

Scotty shook his head. How come you never buy yourself a damn lighter?

I lose 'em.

He reached for his on his side table, tossed it to me.

Thanks. I lit up, took a long drag.

Throw it back. I'm not having you run off with it.

I'm looking for work, Scotty, I said, tossing it over. Who's hiring?

Leo's been trying to break your record at the dartboard. You'd better get yourself over there before he does.

I shrugged. At Joe's Place a few years back, after winning a game of darts, I threw sixteen bull's-eyes in a row. No one's ever gotten close to that. Know anyone who's hiring?

Mike, you gotta get over there.

Goddammit, Scotty, knock it off. How many times I gotta tell you I'm not going over there? Not now, not ever! I'd raised my voice to him, yelled, really, and I was instantly sorry. Our silence was louder than a freight train rumbling through his living room. I drank what was left of my Budweiser, crushed the can, and rose from the sofa to get another from his fridge. Scotty neither spoke nor looked up as I passed by. I returned, a beer for each of us. Sorry.

He dismissed my apology with a wave of his hand, but shook his head. You are your worst enemy, Mike.

Leave it, I told myself. Leave it be. You know anybody who's hiring or not?

He let out a long sigh. Yeah, I know a few. The chief, for one. He's doing a big place up in Santa Fe. Heard he finished the electrical and plumbing, so he's probably hanging drywall now.

My back can't take carrying sheets of drywall up and down stairs any more. Besides, I don't like the guy. He hires mostly illegals, pays them next to nothing, and works them ten, twelve hours a day. One of them gets hurt, he's on his own. The guy's a bastard and should be strung up by his thumbs.

Then there's Ebert, Scotty said. You know him, he's the Ebert out near Rio Rancho. Needs someone for his backhoe. He might be your best bet. Seems he always needs another set of hands.

Scotty ran down a list of who else might be looking to hire, then we shot the breeze for an hour or so while I drank two more beers. I had lost count but thought I'd had four. So where you been? he asked again.

Told you. Around.

Around where?

California.

California? What were you doing in California?

Stuff.

Stuff.

I nodded. Yeah, stuff.

Okay, so don't tell me. I probably don't want to know, anyway. He grinned. I did too.

You hear about Nora? he asked.

That she's seeing someone else? Yeah, I heard.

Does it bother you?

Nah. I've known all along, and I think she did too, that I'd never settle down with her. I hope it works out. Have you ever heard Toby Keith singing ‘I'm Just Talkin' about Tonight'? Scotty shook his head, and I told him, That's me. A one-night stand.

I don't believe that. The problem with Nora was that she was too namby-pamby for you.

Namby-pamby? Nora?

Scotty nodded, said, She used to go along with anything you said.

I grinned. What's wrong with that? I'd never thought of Nora as just going along, more like she was just a real nice person. Seriously. What's wrong with that?

Nuthin', I guess. I just happen to think you need a woman with some backbone, is all. That you wouldn't be happy with any of the Noras of this world. She's one of those women a guy could run roughshod over without her even knowing it.

I flinched. There had been any number of times I'd pressured Nora into going where I wanted to go, do what I'd wanted to do, like the night I talked her into going to Joe's Place so I could play ‘just a coupla games of darts.' Ended up with me playing till three in the morning and her falling asleep in a booth.

Scotty asked if I thought I'd ever get married again.

I don't know. Maybe if I met the right woman.

Define ‘right woman.'

I wish I could, Scotty.

He chuckled. You up for a couple games of backgammon?

Why? You in the mood for a whoopin'? We'd been playing backgammon for years, and I usually beat him. We'd kept score, too, and it was somewhere in the neighborhood of 2500/400.

Put a ten-spot on the table. Play me two games, and I'll wipe your ass with it.

Like hell you would. But no, I gotta get going. Tried calling Zoe, but had to leave a message. Ummm…have you seen her lately? Scotty was my go-to person for information on my daughter. She'd known him and Joe her whole life.

I was at the bank yesterday, he said, taking care of some business. She wasn't there, and one of the other tellers said she left early and was spending the long weekend up at the cabin. Scotty waited for me to comment. When I didn't, he said, You haven't made any headway with her, I guess.

No, I said, studying the ash that was forming at the end of my cigarette. Always the same. I leave messages, she never returns my call.

Dammed shame, Carol poisoning her against you like she did, turning a daughter against her father. A mean, spiteful woman is what she was.

I played a part in that, too, don't forget.

You don't still think things would have been different if you'd stayed around, do you?

No matter how many times Scotty has tried to make me think otherwise, I blame myself for the rift between Zoe and me, and right now I didn't feel like rehashing it. Rising from the couch and finishing my beer, I said, Water under the bridge, Scotty. I gotta get going. I carried the empties to the kitchen, returned with another for him, but he didn't want it, so I held on to it.

He sat forward and started pushing himself up.

No need to be formal with me. Sit back down. I'll let myself out. Nice talking with you.

See you soon.

You bet.

Driving home, I thought about Scotty's assessment of Nora and recognized he was probably right. Too namby-pamby for a guy like me.

Namby-pamby, one of the many names my father had branded me with. How I'd hated him. Still do, but now it's a latent hate, and I don't know if that's due to the passage of time or me burying memories. The worst of it all was the beatings he gave my mom, drunk or sober. When he'd start in on her, I'd slip out my bedroom window, run down the street and around the corner to a house that was boarded up and probably condemned. I'd go round to the side and sit with my back against the wall. And I'd I cry. Cry because I couldn't save my mom, cry because I was a yellow-bellied coward who wouldn't even try to stop his father from beating on his mom. I'd wait until I thought it was safe, then drag myself home like a dog that knows he's done wrong, my tail between my legs, so to speak. Pretty young to find out you're a gutless scaredy-cat.

He used to come after me, too, calling the beatings spankings, but they were far from that. He broke my arm twice, and I know for sure that the second time was on purpose.

Back then I couldn't understand why my mom didn't protect me, why she didn't just pack up the two of us and leave the bastard, and because she didn't do either, I think I hated her a little bit. Mostly, though, I loved her.

The stranger asked my father, Hey, Frank. Who you got there? Bending down, the man said, I bet your name is Mike, right?

Leery of men who were friends of my father's, I nodded, but barely.

You forgot how to talk, boy? my father asked.

I shook my head, knowing instantly that it was the wrong thing to do. He slapped the back of my head with such force that I stumbled forward. Then speak up! Answer the man's question.

I had forgotten what the man had asked, but he came to my rescue. You're Mike, Frank's son, right?

I almost nodded again but caught myself in time. Yes. I studied the ground between my sneakers and the man's pointy boots. He asked what I wanted to be when I grew up, but my father answered for me.

He's gonna be a prize fighter, ain't that right, boy?

I knew what was coming, and a tremble rippled through me. He was going to make me box him.

He whacked my arm. Put 'em up, boy. Let's show him how good you are.

The world fell away, leaving only me with my father, who'd been itching to beat on me all day. He had that look, something in his eyes that told me I was in for it good, and he was going to enjoy it. I was close to tears and hung my head.

With the flat of his hand, he clipped the underside of my jaw, making my teeth bounce against each other. Thought I told you to put 'em up.

Leave him be, Frank, the stranger said, He doesn't want to.

You a coward, boy? my father asked. "Is that what