He left the room and headed for the front door, opening it a fraction before it was slammed wide on its hinges. His father barged in, pushing past him and knocking over a lamp on the foyer table.
“So this is where you’ve been hiding out,” Mr. Stahl said. He took an inventory of the space and nodded his satisfaction. “Nice place.” He turned to his son. “Nice curtains. You pick those out?”
Jeremy stood stunned. He’d nearly forgotten his father—even marked him off the hit list because his pathetic existence no longer mattered. He thought the right thing to do was to allow his father to live in solitude, hopelessness, and loss—a fate far worse than a bullet to the head.
He never counted on his father searching for him. Why would he? He didn’t miss Jeremy. Maybe he missed hitting him, but he didn’t miss him. Money, perhaps? Did he come for money?
“What do you want?” Jeremy demanded.
His fists were already balled. Experience and instinct moved them into position the moment his father plowed through the door.
“I wanted to know what happened to you,” Mr. Stahl replied. “You stopped coming home.”
“This is my home,” Jeremy said.
Mr. Stahl snorted. “This ain’t your home, Jer. Your home is with me.”
“Why? You don’t give a damn about me,” Jeremy spat.
“What are you talking about? I thought we had a nice time the last we saw each other,” Mr. Stahl replied. “We shared some beers!”
Jeremy cringed at the memory. He shared many beers with his father that night. Jokes, too. He woke up the following day, sickness churning inside his gut. More than just alcohol. It was the sickness that comes after a night of compromising one’s convictions—the sickness that signals acute guilt over immoral behavior. Male bonding, and with his enemy! He made himself vomit the following morning. The act released him from that house forever.
“Dad, I think you should leave,” Jeremy said.
Mr. Stahl frowned. “So you think you’re too good for me now? You’re livin’ on your own in this fancy apartment, and that makes you too good for me?”
“I don’t think that at all. And nothing in this apartment is mine. It’s on loan.”
“How much is your rent? How you paying for this?”
“That’s none of your business,” Jeremy replied. There was no way he’d tell his dad about his arrangement with Roy.
“Well, I think I may have a hunch,” Mr. Stahl said. His cheerful demeanor vanished, and he stared down his son with narrowed eyes—vicious and calculating. “You stealin’ my guns?” he asked softly.
Jeremy’s eyes gave him away immediately—large white marbles with only a tiny swirl of green in the center. Guilty.
He shook his head.
“Don’t lie to me,” his father warned. “You stealin’ my guns and sellin’ them or something? Is that how you can afford to live here?”
“No,” Jeremy croaked.
“Then where’s my rifle? Where’s my 9 mm? They used to be in the goddamn safe!”
Jeremy backed slowly down the hallway. His only chance was to lock himself in the bedroom.
“I’m gonna ask you again, Jeremy Neil Stahl.” His father exhaled slowly. “Where are my guns?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Barely a whisper.
Mr. Stahl grunted. In a flash, he lunged for Jeremy, who was too slow to make it to the safety of the bedroom. The men collapsed on the hallway floor; Jeremy’s dad had the advantage on top of him.
“Get off!” Jeremy bellowed.
Large, meaty fist to his left side. He groaned and twisted.
“Where are my guns, you little shit?” his father spit in his face. “My guns!”
Jeremy grabbed his father’s face with both hands—pushing and squeezing—trying to position his fingers right under his dad’s eyeballs. He could press hard. He could pop them out.
“After all I’ve done for you!” his father roared, the words muffled behind his son’s palms. He slapped them away and grabbed Jeremy’s throat.
“No, Dad!” Jeremy wheezed, pulling on his father’s fingers.
“Give me my goddamn guns!”
His chokehold tightened, and then his hands left his son altogether. For a split second. Brief reprieve before frenzied fists came down hard, pounding over and over and over again. Punch to the face. Punch to the ribs. Punch to the gut, and to the face again. On and on his father’s fists flew about his body in a pattern of destruction. Blood oozed. Blood sprayed. Blood seeped into the carpet.
I’m dying, Jeremy thought, reeling from the punches, feeling his life force ebb slowly away.
His father would not relent. His fists lay claim to every part of Jeremy’s body until he closed his eyes, submitting to his fate. But her face flashed before him, staring in confusion.
Get up and fight, she said.
I can’t.
What’s the point of all that weight lifting if you’re not gonna do anything with it?
I’m tired.
Hey, guess what? We’re all tired. We all wanna go to sleep. But if you go to sleep now, you’ll never wake up.
I just can’t anymore.
You can! You have to! Now get the fuck up and fight!
With what?
Your fists, Jer. That bat in the corner. Don’t you remember putting it there?
He glanced to his right. His baseball bat, tucked inconspicuously in the shadows. His only hope, salvation. He drew in a deep breath. His ribs sparked and screamed, but he held the breath and counted: One, two, three, four. He paused. Five.
He grunted and heaved, pushing against his father’s shoulders with all the strength he had left. His father lost his balance and fell over. Jeremy dove for the bat, securing it in his bloody fists. He brandished it above his head, used all his momentum to swing it down and around in front of his chest, like he was going for a homerun world record. The bat smacked his father’s head, thrusting his body forward—chest flattened on the floor. His father gurgled and moaned, attempted to push himself up. Jeremy swung again—a second and final time—and his dad hit the floor once more. This time he lay perfectly still.