The neighbor's son

 

We began with music. In retrospect,

I didn't expect seduction.

 

I was barely sixteen. He was only fourteen.

 

We had know each other all our lives.

 

We were both sweating and afraid, but he was eager and said,

"We have to hurry before my parents come home."

 

We undressed, faced each other, and awkwardly embraced. Then the world went silent,

 

but only for a moment.

 

There was a full length mirror nailed to the back of the bedroom door.

His glistening, naked backside and my arms were reflected.

I leaned forward to kiss him. His eyes were closed. As I noticed

the reflection of our embrace slowly move to the side, I thought:

there's no where to hide in this room.

 

I was the first one to see his father. He shouted:

"Boy, what are you doing to my son!"

Before I could speak --

and I tried to speak --

his mother was at the door. His father slapped me and then his son.

His mother stood between the two of them. She began to shout and cry.

 

I grabbed my clothes. It was suddenly so loud. I ran for the door. When I last saw him,

he was standing there, staring at his father, with his fists clenched.

He was still naked, his body sweaty and tense. I went running down the stairs.

 

As I put my clothes on in their living room, I could hear shouting, screaming and breaking glass.

I understood few words --

I was getting dressed as best I could --

but I did hear his mother say:

"Not my son, no you will not, not my son."

 

I never thought it would happen this way.

 

---

 

The end

 

We had been in the house for only five minutes.

My husband had gone to place a new clock

in our son's bedroom.

I had stopped on the landing

to remove my coat.

When I heard him shout,

I dropped everything and ran upstairs.

 

As I entered the bedroom,

I saw my husband slap

the boy from next door.

The boy was naked and searching for words.

Then my husband turned to slap my son,

who was also naked,

but searching for nothing.

He was radiant and indignant.

I knew when my husband raised his hands,

he would try to kill our boy.

 

The neighbor's son

collected his clothes

and ran downstairs.

I turned to stop him,

to have him explain himself,

but as my body moved toward the door,

my husband picked up my son

and threw him across the room:

 

My boy.

 

He was so thin and lanky,

his frail, nude body crumpled on the floor.

 

I tried to calm my husband.

He pushed me aside and muttered,

"I'm going to kill the boy!"

 

Then,

my son -- the youngest one --

took his right hand,

and with the speed

and blind decision

of a crazed man,

he raised a lamp

and brought it down

against the side

of his father's face.

 

And so they began

like two men,

holding their ground,

entangling their bodies

in a mythical rage,

an aged, old battle.

One atop the other.

Each one a stranger

to the two

that I had know

before.

 

 

I had slightly opened the door

when I saw the clothes:

two pairs of pants on the floor,

shirts and underwear on the bed,

shoes just inside the room.

I paused and thought:

Teenagers having sex,

a parent's worst embarrassment.

I wondered

if we knew the girl.

 

I opened the door.

 

First, I saw two bodies standing in the middle of the room.

When I recognized a boy's face

that did not belong to any of my sons,

a sharp pain deepened from the rear of my head

throughout my entire body.

 

Limbs entwined. Naked bodies,

touching each other. Two young boys.

His hand on the back of my son's neck.

His hand gliding across my son's torso,

caressing his buttocks.

My son's hand on his exposed thigh,

slowly rising. Groins rubbing.

The smell of salt and sweat. Music

on the radio.

 

I was disgusted.

 

The boy from next door

didn't expect someone else's father

to hit him.

I didn't expect

to raise my hand and swing.

But once in motion. . .

 

My son was glowing.

He didn't cringe or cower.

After the first blow,

he was embittered and invigorated.

But it was his eyes

that frightened me the most.

Even as I heaved him across the room,

the anger in his eyes

did not leave my field of view.

 

That's probably why

I didn't see the lamp coming.

I only saw his face, a wrath

that I will never forgive.

 

I don't remember

pinning him to the floor.

Nor do I remember

hitting him anymore.

I only realized later

that it was her tugging

on my right arm

that stopped me.

 

My wife was crying and cursing.

My son's lips and nose were bleeding.

His face was swollen.

Blood was dripping from the left side of my face

onto his chest. His neck

and throat were blueing

from the bruising,

but I still cannot forget

 

his eyes.

 

They were clear and present,

penetrating the moment.

 

I slowly rose,

as my son sat up.

 

I was wet all over.

My hands were shaking,

and my legs were wavering.

I couldn't see clearly. And I thought:

 

something terrible has happened here.

 

 

 

 

 

I looked down at my son.

He was bloody and bare,

wiping his mouth

with the back of his hand.

As I stood, towering above him,

I said,

"This is finished."

As he coolly raised his head

and squarely met my gaze,

I thought:

No,

 

this is just the beginning.