Mike closed his eyes as the blow came in, having learned from experience that open eyes can catch part of a finger and that was worse, and he tried to move with the blow to take the edge off it. Not that it mattered much because Vic was a pro and a pro knew how to swing. Mike never actually felt the blow—he almost never did—all that he had was an awareness of the moment before it landed and the moment after it knocked his body into motion, as if the blow itself was too intense for his mind to process. There was a big white flash like a photo strobe and Mike was falling, one sneaker tangled in the bottom rungs of his chair, his hands still holding onto the history book, the floor rushing up toward him. His shoulder hit the linoleum and he slid at least a full foot.
Vic crouched down, his face red and eyes intensely hot. He jabbed Mike’s forehead with a stiffened index finger with each syllable. “Don’t. Touch. My. Freaking. Keys.”
There was a second part to this performance, but Mike wasn’t in the mood to see how many of Vic’s buttons could be pushed this early in the day. “I’m sorry, sir,” he said in the most sheepish voice he could manage. “It won’t happen again.”
Vic glared at him, and his face showed the disappointment he must have felt for so easy a win. He snorted and stood. “See that it doesn’t.” Then he turned and left the kitchen. A moment later the front door slammed.
Mike lay there a moment longer, feeling the burn of pain on his cheek, assessing the kitchen from that perspective. It was immaculate, even the floor, and he appreciated that now that his cheek was resting against it, and even wondered if it actually was clean enough to eat off of. That was one of Vic’s requirements. How many times had Mike heard Vic growl at his mom, “That floor had better be clean enough to eat off of, Lois, or you’ll be pissing red for a week. Don’t even
A full minute passed and Mike wondered if Mom was going to come down to see if he was okay. She used to always do that, but lately…well, lately Mom tended not to hear much that she didn’t want to hear, or see much that she didn’t want to see. Nowadays she was almost always a little drunk, except when she was a lot drunk. He lay there and waited to hear her footsteps on the stairs. Nope. Nothing. Sighing, Mike rolled over onto his back, feeling the ache in his ribs flare along with his other bruises. He stared at the ceiling, enjoying the cool firmness of the waxed linoleum under him.
Slowly, with great care and no great hurry, he sat up. Then he stood up and righted his chair, sliding it back toward the table. He bent and picked up his textbook and set it on the table, then went over to the cupboard above the sink and got down the big bottle of Advil. Mom had bottles of it all over the house. He popped off the cap and shook six geltabs into his palm and popped them into his mouth, washing it down with two glasses of tap water. Then he went back to studying.
(2)
Tow-Truck Eddie came in from his part-time job and threw his hat onto the chair by the door, unbuckled his equipment belt and hung it over the back of the chair, and walked across the living room to switch on the TV. It was tuned to a religious station, but he used the remote to prowl around until he found the local news station, broadcast from the student-run TV studio at Pinelands College. Mayor Terry Wolfe was speaking to a group of reporters. Flashes popped so fast it looked like Wolfe was standing in a strobe light. From what he could tell it looked like the press conference had just started and Eddie stood there, fascinated, hanging on every word. He had always respected the mayor. It always seemed to Eddie that Wolfe shone with a very bright, very pure inner light despite his being a Jew. Of course, he knew from town chatter that Wolfe hadn’t seen the inside of a synagogue in years, so maybe the Light of Truth had broken through for him. Eddie hoped so. He liked the mayor and would hate to see him swept away when God cleansed the world.
