Chapter Five
“Surprise!” a smattering of voices call out as Quinn walks into the living room.
There’s one of those latex balloons bouncing against the ceiling that says HAPPY BIRTHDAY. On the coffee table, there’s a sheet cake from the grocery store displayed next to a six-pack of beer.
Quinn sees George first, Mom behind him, making sure his little brother’s headphones are on tight.
Uncle Pat comes over and shoves a Pabst in his hand. “Seventeen, no shit,” he says, smacking him on the back.
“I thought you have work?” Quinn says to his mom.
Her supervisor, a mean-spirited man named Kenny Pearl, gives her the night shift on Friday and Saturday nights and is stingy with time off.
Uncle Pat says Kenny has had a thing for Mom since high school and was angry when she rebuffed his advances after Dad died.
Now Quinn understands why Mom wanted Quinn home by seven—for this party, not to watch George.
“My shift’s covered. Don’t you worry about it. Now let’s eat some cake.”
His mother peels the cellophane from the small paper plates and Quinn greets his brother by standing in front of him, nodding hello.
George is nonverbal, doesn’t like to be touched, but Quinn thinks he’s aware of what’s going on.
The way George cocks his head when Quinn greets him, the way his brother’s spine straightens when Randy, Mom’s shit boyfriend, is around.
The way George seems at peace when he and Quinn sit together, Quinn reading, George watching one of the nature shows he seems to like about wildlife or bugs.
George sits on the sofa, and Quinn sits next to him, puts a piece of cake in front of him on the coffee table.
“Want some cake, buddy?”
George turns his head away.
“Maybe later.”
Quinn doesn’t want any either. The grocery store cakes always taste like a pile of sugar covered with frosting. But he takes a slice, pretends to enjoy a bite for Mom’s sake.
Uncle Pat’s in the lounge chair watching TV. Already several beers in, he’s ranting about the presidential election, how the world is going to hell if “Slick Willy” wins. Quinn tunes him out, takes a drink of the Pabst, which is lukewarm.
It’s then that he notices George’s upper arm. Four bruises in a line, like fingerprint marks from a hand squeezing too tight.
“Mom,” Quinn says, pointing at George’s arm.
She looks over, says nothing.
Quinn jumps to his feet. “I swear, if Randy…”
“If Randy what?” a voice says from the doorway. Randy holds a brown sack from Hagers, probably more cheap booze. His hair is pulled into a ponytail. He’s a big guy, Randy. From years loading trucks at the factory. But he’s also soft from too much beer and fast food and hard living.
Quinn charges up to him, gets in his face. “If you touch George again, I swear…” Quinn feels his blood running hot, his heart slamming in his chest. Uncle Pat is already on his feet positioning himself between them.
“Calm down, Q,” Pat says.
“I didn’t touch him,” Randy says. “Now you best back the fuck off.”
Uncle Pat is pulling on Quinn’s arm now.
“Dammit, Nadine,” Randy says, “it’s always something. I don’t need this shit.”
Quinn’s mother says nothing. She doesn’t defend Quinn. Doesn’t defend George.
Quinn stares at her. She won’t lift her gaze to his. Quinn feels something—rage, disappointment. Then he says the words he’ll later regret: “Dad would be ashamed of you for bringing this piece of garbage into our lives.”
Quinn hears Randy yelling something, Mom crying, Uncle Pat calling after him, as he rushes out the door and into the night.