Mr. Mercedes

She relived her meeting with Greensmith many times over the years, always ending with the same bitter pronouncement: ‘I paid a hundred dollars I couldn’t afford to a lawyer in a suit from Men’s Warehouse, and all I found out was I couldn’t afford to fight the big insurance companies and get what was coming to me.’

The year that followed was five years long. There was a life-sucking monster in the house, and the monster’s name was Frankie. Sometimes when he knocked something over or woke Deborah A

She went into Hair Today as a sub whenever she could. On these occasions she called Brady in sick at school so he could babysit his little brother. Sometimes Brady would catch Frankie reaching for stuff he wasn’t supposed to have (or stuff that belonged to Brady, like his Atari Arcade handheld), and then he would slap Frankie’s hands until Frankie cried. When the wails started, Brady would remind himself that it wasn’t Frankie’s fault, he had brain damage from that damn, no, that fucking apple slice, and he would be overcome by a mixture of guilt, rage, and sorrow. He would take Frankie on his lap and rock him and tell him he was sorry, but there was only so much a man could take. And he was a man, Mom said so: the man of the house. He got good at changing Frankie’s diapers, but when there was poo (no, it was shit, not poo but shit), he would sometimes pinch Frankie’s legs and shout at him to lay still, damn you, lay still. Even if Frankie was laying still. Laying there with Sammy the Fire Truck clutched to his chest and looking up at the ceiling with his big stupid brain-damaged eyes.

That year was full of sometimes.

Sometimes he loved Frankie up and kissed him.

Sometimes he’d shake him and say This is your fault, we’re going to have to live in the street and it’s your fault.

Sometimes, putting Frankie to bed after a day at the beauty parlor, Deborah A

Sometimes Brady loved Frankie. Sometimes he hated him. Usually he felt both things at the same time, and it gave him headaches.

Sometimes (mostly when she was drunk), Deborah A

Sometimes Brady would look at Frankie and think, You’re in the way. You’re in the way, Frankie, you’re in the fucking goddam shitass waaay.

Sometimes – often – Brady hated the whole fucking goddam shitass world. If there was a God, like the Sunday guys said on TV, wouldn’t He take Frankie up to heaven, so his mother could go back to work fulltime and they wouldn’t have to be out on the street? Or living on Lowbriar Avenue, where his mother said there was nothing but nigger drug addicts with guns? If there was a God, why had He let Frankie choke on that fucking apple slice in the first place? And then letting him wake up brain-damaged afterward, that was going from bad to fucking goddam shitass worse. There was no God. You only had to watch Frankie crawling around the floor with goddam Sammy in one hand, then getting up and limping for a while before giving that up and crawling again, to know that the idea of God was fucking ridiculous.

Finally Frankie died. It happened fast. In a way it was like ru

His mother was making pancakes for supper. Frankie was playing with Sammy. The basement door was standing open because Deborah A

‘Rrr-rrr,’ said Frankie. ‘Rrr-rrr.’

He pushed the fire truck. Sammy rolled to the edge of the basement doorway, bumped against the jamb, and there he stopped.

Deborah A

‘Oops,’ she said. ‘Sammy faw down go boom.’ Her voice was very flat.

Brady walked over. This was interesting.

‘Why’d you do that, Mom?’

Deborah A

Frankie opened his mouth and began to blat.

‘Quit it, Frankie,’ Brady said, but Frankie didn’t. What Frankie did was crawl onto the top step and peer down into the darkness.

In that same flat voice Deborah A

Brady turned on the light and peered over his blatting brother.

‘Yup,’ he said. ‘There he is. Right down at the bottom. See him, Frankie?’

Frankie crawled a little farther, still blatting. He looked down. Brady looked at his mother. Deborah A

‘Oh my God, Frankie fell!’ Deborah A

Frankie’s neck was broken, even Brady could tell that, because it was all croggled in the back, but he was still alive. He was breathing in little snorts. Blood was coming out of his nose. More was coming from the side of his head. His eyes moved back and forth, but nothing else did. Poor Frankie. Brady started to cry. His mother was crying, too.

‘What should we do?’ Brady asked. ‘What should we do, Mom?’

‘Go upstairs and get me a pillow off the sofa.’

He did as she said. When he came back down, Sammy the Fire Truck was lying on Frankie’s chest. ‘I tried to get him to hold it, but he can’t,’ Deborah A

‘Yeah,’ Brady said. ‘He’s prob’ly paralyzed. Poor Frankie.’