Chapter 6 Jay
I know something is wrong the moment Henderson's truck pulls into the driveway.
It's Thursday evening, and Ivan and I are in the kitchen doing dishes from dinner, falling into the familiar rhythm we've developed over the months.
Mrs. Henderson is in her bedroom with the door closed, which is where she usually is by this time of night, hiding in her own space and pretending we don't exist. The TV is on in the living room playing to no one, some game show with canned laughter that fills the empty house.
Everything is quiet and calm, the kind of deceptive calm that makes me nervous because I've learned it never lasts, that calm is just the eye of a storm.
The truck door slams. Not the tired slam. Not even the regular angry slam I've learned to recognize. This is something else entirely, something worse, a violence in the sound that makes my whole body go tight with instant dread.
"Go to our room," I say to Ivan, keeping my tone calm even though my heart is starting to pound hard against my ribs. "Now. Quick. Don't ask questions."
But it's too late. The front door bangs open so hard it hits the wall, and Henderson is there, filling the doorway like a thundercloud, and I can tell from one look at his face that tonight is going to be bad.
Worse than bad. His eyes are bloodshot, the whites gone pink with burst vessels, and his jaw is set in that particular way that means he's been stewing on something for hours, building up a rage that needs somewhere to go, needs someone to hurt.
He's drunker than I've seen him in weeks, swaying slightly as he stands there in the doorway, and his gaze sweeps the kitchen until it lands on Ivan.
"You," he says, and the word is thick with whiskey and venom, dripping with malice. "Get over here."
Ivan is frozen at the sink, his hands still submerged in the soapy water, and I can see the terror on his face even though he's trying desperately to hide it.
He's gotten better at hiding his fear over the past months, but not good enough, not for something like this.
Not when Henderson is looking at him like he wants to destroy him.
"What did he do?" I ask, stepping forward slightly, trying to put myself between them, trying to draw Henderson's attention away from Ivan. "Whatever it is, I'm sure he didn't mean—"
"Shut your goddamn mouth," Henderson snarls, and he doesn't even look at me. His eyes are fixed on Ivan like a predator watching prey, unblinking and hungry. "I said get over here, boy. Now. Don't make me come over there."
Ivan pulls his hands out of the water slowly. They're shaking, trembling so badly that water drips off his fingers in a steady stream. He wipes them on his jeans, leaving dark wet patches on the denim, and takes a step toward Henderson.
Everything in me is screaming to stop this, to do something, to grab Ivan and run, but I know from bitter experience that interfering too early only makes it worse. I have to wait. I have to pick my moment carefully. If I move too soon, Henderson will hurt both of us worse.
"You think I'm stupid?" Henderson says as Ivan approaches, his voice rising.
He reaches out and grabs Ivan by the collar of his shirt, yanking him close with brutal force.
Ivan stumbles forward, barely keeping his feet under him, and I can see his throat working as he swallows hard.
"You think I don't know what you been doing? You think I'm too drunk to notice?"
"I don't—I don't know what you mean, sir," Ivan says, and his voice is barely a whisper, thin with fear.
"The food," Henderson spits, his face inches from Ivan's.
"You been stealing food from the kitchen.
Don't you dare lie to me, boy. I counted the cans in the pantry this morning and three of them are missing.
Three cans of beans. You think you can just take whatever you want?
You think this is a charity? You think I work my ass off to feed ungrateful little fucking thieves? "
It was me. I took the cans. Three cans of beans over a period of weeks that I hid in the back of our closet for emergencies, for nights when dinner isn't enough to fill our stomachs or when Henderson decides we don't deserve to eat at all.
Ivan doesn't even know about them. I was going to tell him eventually, was going to show him where I'd hidden them, but I hadn't gotten around to it yet.
"That was me," I say. "I took the cans. Ivan didn't have anything to do with it. He doesn't even know about them."
Henderson finally looks at me, turning his head slowly, and the smile that crosses his face makes my blood run cold. It's not a human smile. It's the smile of something that enjoys causing pain, that feeds on suffering. It's the worst smile I've ever seen on his face, and I've seen a lot of them.
"That so? You took them?"
"Yes, sir," I confirm, meeting his eyes even though every instinct tells me to look away.
"Well then." He lets go of Ivan's collar and Ivan stumbles back, catching himself against the counter, his chest heaving.
Henderson turns to face me fully, and I brace myself for what's coming, ready to take whatever he's going to dish out.
A beating. The belt. His fists. Whatever.
I can take it. I've taken it before. As long as he doesn't touch Ivan.
But then he turns back to Ivan, and bile rises up in my throat.
"Shirt off," he orders Ivan. "Now."
"But I didn't—" Ivan starts, confusion and fear warring on his face.
"I know you didn't," Henderson interrupts. "That's the fucking point. That's exactly the point, idiot. Your foster brother here thinks he can steal from me and I won't do nothing about it. So, I'm gonna teach him a lesson about consequences. And you're gonna help me teach it."
He points at me with one thick finger. "You. Stand right there by the refrigerator. Don't move. Don't speak. You're gonna watch every second of this. You're gonna see what happens when you steal from me."
I understand what he's doing and the cruelty of it takes my breath away, makes me feel like I've been punched in the chest. He's not punishing Ivan for the cans.
He's punishing me. Making me watch while he hurts the person I care about most in the world, the only person who matters to me.
Making me stand there helpless and useless while Ivan suffers for something I did, for my mistake, for my theft.
"Please," I say, and I hate how desperate I sound, hate the begging in my voice, but I can't help it. "Please, I'll take the punishment. It was my fault, all my fault. Beat me instead, I don't care, I can take it, just please leave him alone."
"That's exactly why I'm not gonna beat you," Henderson says, and there's satisfaction in his voice, pleasure at having found the perfect way to hurt me.
He doubles the belt over in his hand, leather sliding against leather, and the buckle clinks against itself with a sound that makes my skin crawl.
"I told you to take your shirt off, boy. Don't make me ask again."
Ivan's hands are trembling so badly he can barely grab the hem of his shirt.
His fingers keep slipping on the fabric.
He pulls it over his head finally and drops it on the floor, and I can see the faded marks from the last time Henderson took the belt to him—pale lines across his back that are almost healed, almost invisible.
In a few seconds there will be new ones. Fresh bleeding ones. Worse ones.
"Turn around," Henderson orders.
Ivan turns around slowly, facing the wall. He's staring at nothing, his eyes fixed on a spot on the faded wallpaper, and I know he's trying to go to his safe place, trying to find the barn in his head where I'm sitting next to him with my arm around his shoulders, where he's safe and warm.
But I can see from the way his whole body is shaking, from the way his shoulders are hitched up by his ears, that it's not working, not this time.
Because this time I'm right here watching and that makes it different somehow, makes it impossible to escape into his mind when the person he's trying to imagine is standing here witnessing his humiliation and pain.
"You watch and don't close your eyes," Henderson says to me, turning to make sure I'm looking, making sure I can see everything. "You watch what happens when you steal from me. You watch what your choices cost."
The first crack of the belt against Ivan's bare back makes a sound like a gunshot in the small kitchen, sharp and explosive.
Ivan's body jerks forward from the force of it, his back arching, but he doesn't cry out, doesn't make a sound, just like I taught him.
His teeth are clenched so hard I can see his jaw muscles bulging.
Good boy. Good, brave boy who shouldn't have to be this brave, who should never have had to learn these lessons.
A red welt rises immediately across his shoulder blades, angry and violent against his pale skin.
The second crack. The leather bites into his skin lower down, across the middle of his back, and I watch the stripe appear, watch his body flinch even as he tries to hold still.
The third crack catches him across the ribs on his right side, and this time I see his knees buckle slightly before he catches himself.
I'm counting them, the way I always count them, as if keeping track somehow matters, as if knowing the exact number will help anything at all.
Four. Five. Six.
Ivan's back is crisscrossed with angry red welts now, stripes that overlap and intersect like a horrible map drawn on skin.
Some of them are already starting to bleed, thin lines of red welling up where the leather has cut deep enough to break through.
And Henderson isn't stopping, isn't slowing down.
His arm rises and falls with mechanical precision, and there's something terrible in his face, something that looks almost like joy.
Seven. Eight.