My heart sinks when I notice the front door is open just slightly. My feet move faster than I realized they would, and I’m at the front door, out of breath, in mere seconds. I push it open and see a man in the living room, holding Archie by the wrists in front of him.
He’s shorter than me, and has no muscle on his frame. Above his lip is a mustache the color of coffee. His eyes are lined with dark circles, and his hair looks like it hasn’t been cut or combed in over a month. His clothes are dirty, and his hands are, too. On his feet are steel toed work boots, worn and weathered, yet when I look at this man in his eyes, I know exactly who he is.
Archie spots me and lunges, but makes no ground as he cries, “Dean!”
Rawley, out of breath, lets his hands fall to his knees. “Dean, thank god.” He looks at Tanner. “Call 911.”
My mind is spinning. 911. The cracked door. The boys are… they’re scared. Even though Rawley shouts again, “We’re calling 911, fucker!” I can hear the fear in his voice.
Then the fucker speaks. “Get the fuck outta here McAllister, this is between me and my boys.”
I shake my head and move toward him, toward Archie, unafraid and unwilling to let anything happen to these kids. “You’re the guy who's been posing as a scout.” I look atTanner. “Is that him? Does it sound like the guy who called you? The scout?”
It makes sense now. He’s been harassing Clara June about Tanner’s football career. Of course it was him calling both me and Tanner, not having a name, being difficult and narcissistic. He was trying to find a way in.
Tanner nods, but doesn’t say a word. Rawley stands in front of Tanner, and I can tell there was already somewhat of a scuffle. The neck of his shirt is stretched loose, and sweat peppers his upper lip. Troy’s shirt is stretched at the hem, and tears are stained on Archie's cheeks.
He reaches for me again. “Dean!”
Tanner’s hands are shaking, but he’s holding his phone. Slowly, I tell him what his brother already has. “Tanner, step outside and call 911. They’ll send the police.”
I look at Rawley. “Go outside with him.”
He shakes his head. “No. No way.” He looks at his father. “You are not leaving here with Archie. No goddamn way. Over my dead body.” I’ve never heard Rawley use that kind of language, but the situation calls for it, and I’m proud of how fiercely he protects his little brother.
I make a move toward Troy, because truth is, I can take him. He’s weaker, he’s smaller, and I am filled with the strength of ten men from how angry I am. How this man hurt Clara June and these boys, and how he thinks he can walk in and out of their lives. No way. Not on my fucking watch.
Rawley stops me mid-lunge. “He has a knife.” He lowers his voice and repeats himself. “He has a knife. I saw it in his boot when we were fighting.”
Archie wails, and Tanner reappears in the doorframe. “I called the cops.”
Troy struggles with patience, struggles with words. “Tanner, godda— Tanner, son, this is all going too far. Now, all Iwant to do is talk to you about your football career. That’s all. Is that so bad?”
“I’m not going anywhere with you,” Tanner says.
Troy puts Archie in a headlock. “You will go get in my car this second.”
Knife or not, that’s it. I’ll get stabbed. I don’t give a shit. I will not let this piece of shit hurt these boys. No goddamn way. That is not the world I’m living in.
I move in on Troy, who shoves Archie to the ground hard. He wasn’t prepared, and isn’t able to brace himself, and I hear his little head knock against the coffee table, and the room fills with his wails of pain.
Troy swings, punching me in the face. I stumble back a few steps, but don’t try to hit him. All I want to do is get behind him, put him in a sleeper and get him outside, on the lawn, out of our home. The cops are coming, Tanner called them, so all I need to do is get him out of here.
I hate this man with every fiber of my being. But I have three sets of eyes on me right now, and I’m the man who's gonna take care of their mama for the rest of our lives. What I do in this situation, heightened, erratic and emotional or not, matters. It matters more than what Troy does, and I know it.
He hits me again.
“Fight back, Dean!” Rawley shouts, edging nearer to us.
“Stay back, Rawl. Get out front. Tanner, take Archie to Mrs. Salingers,” I tell him, as blood trickles through my mustache and down my lips. The taste of pennies is fuel. If he can make me bleed, he’d make them bleed, too.
I move in on him, and get close enough where he’ll swing, only this time, I anticipate it, and duck, moving behind him quickly. I lock my arm around his throat, and he lifts his leg, reaching for the weapon in his boot.
Rawley took Tanner and Archie outside, but he comesback, and I’m glad he does. “Rawl, grab his knife!” I shout. Rawley reaches, and Troy kicks, and connects with him. That’s my fault. I should never have asked for his help. The guilt that hits me immediately turns to violent rage, rage in which I must control for the sake of the boys.
I grab my wrist with my free hand as Troy claws at my arm. I drag him through the house, keeping pressure on his airway, then toss him into the lawn where he crumples onto his hands and knees, coughing and sputtering. I run back in, and help Rawley off the floor. He doesn’t have a cut, but a bruise is forming along his hairline. “Are you okay?” I help him to his feet.
He’s disoriented for a moment then nods his head, and we run out front.
