Mingo was the only one he wanted, Peter told them. He didn’t want to rumble, just a mano a mano, fair fight with that runty bastard. They’d check out the gazebo first, then try the park entrance near Highland.

“Gettin’ him alone is the trick,” Sully said.

“We get him alone,” Shane nodded, “we get that fuckin’ club away from him, then he’s yours.”

Their shadows were huge in the dim lamp light of the park and Peter felt every inch as big. He was ready to knock that huge deformed bobble-head right of his skinny shoulders. They approached the gazebo with caution, and finding no one there proceeded to the park entrance. The concrete eagles were a little prouder tonight, Peter thought, as he viewed them from a distance. Fists of arrows had replaced olive branches.

Shane extended his long arms like a crossing guard in front of Peter and Tom. Suddenly they heard voices. Through the entrance walked a guy and what looked to be a girl wearing a hooded sweatshirt. The guy was obviously Mingo.

“This is too good,” Shane snorted.

“He’s goin’ to make out!” Tom laughed.

Sure enough, Mingo walked the girl, probably one of the vultures from Ria’s porch, over to a thick tree and pushed her back against it. He lowered himself towards her.

“What do we do?” Peter asked.

“What do we do?” Shane echoed. “We fuckin’ go after him.”

“But…”

“What but?” Shane objected. “You want him or not?”

Peter was suddenly undecided. Shane pushed him and Tom forward. They cut a wide arc and circled around behind Mingo and the girl. He had unzipped the sweat jacket and his hands were all over her. Tom had trouble controlling his laughter. Shane snorted.

“Go, man” Shane said. “Stay low. You get up behind him, smack him hard in the kidney, then pummel his ass.”

Peter shook his head.

“What? He set three guys on you. Think he fights fair?”

“Shit, just go,” Tom snapped.

Peter bowed his head and crept out of the shadows. It was fifty feet of rolling ground to the tree where Mingo was burrowing through the girl’s chest. Peter stayed low, practically duck walking the first thirty feet, then sprung up and sprinted. He heard a yelp as the girl opened her eyes and spotted him, then he swung hard and heard the dull thud of his fist on Mingo’s back.

Mingo was down, fighting for air. Peter swung back-handed, striking him in the side of the head. The girl fell to the ground beside him, bracing herself with her hands under her backside. Her chest was bare, the tube top pulled down to her waist, her white breasts exposed to the dim light. She scrambled to pull up her top, then, frustrated, pulled the sweatshirt closed. Peter saw her dark eyes, the pursed lips, his Bernadette. She kicked at the grass until the got her feet under herself and tried to stand.

“I’m sorry,” Peter muttered. He put out a hand, but she shrieked, “No!” and Peter turned to see the silver flash of Mingo’s hand. His head snapped as his cheek cracked just below the eye. Sparks, then dull images, another silver flash and his jaw snapped upward. His back hit the wet turf. He blew wind as his rib cage convulsed, once, twice. He tried to get his arm down to block Mingo’s foot. Then he was on him, hand raised, silver bolt, then a roar, rush of bodies, and he was washed away. Peter heard muffled noises. Thumping. One crack. Another.

A girl was crying.

Peter was falling. The rolling lawn had dipped and he was skidding, shredding grass as he sledded down. He reached the bottom, then hurtled forward, his head spun up. There were voices in his ears, on both sides of his head.

“Fuck, he okay?”

“He’s okay.”

“He’s fucked up, man.”

“Peter? Pete, c’mon, man!”

“Should have kept on him. Shit. Why’d you let him up?”

“Fuck it, Shane, shut the fuck up!”

“Shit. What are we gonna do?”

“Get him home.”

“Home? Needs a fuckin’ hospital.”

“Pete, say somethin’, man!”

The ground shifted. Peter lurched. “Home,” he said. “Gotta… sneak me in.”

“What?”

“Don’t…nobody see. Caroline. Call Caroline.”

Peter dozed. Must have. Next he knew, the blurry face of his sister was dancing in front of him.

“Can you get him in?”

“I’m not sneakin’ him in. Dad!”

“Car….”

“He could fuckin’ die!”

“No,” Peter coughed. “Just sleep.”

“Dad!” Caroline shouted. “You don’t go to sleep with a concussion, Peter. Peter?”

“Just sleep.”

“Who’s responsible?” his father bellowed. “You two ain’t scratched. You stand by and watch the whole thing?”

“Inside, Dad,” Caroline was crying.

Lifted, Peter spun. Ascended. Light. Too bright. Made his head hurt. Lowered, his ribs stabbed. Coughed, needed to spit.

“Oh, god, oh, god. Tara, get some ice.” Mother’s voice. Mother’s hands. Cradling. Wiping. “What have they done? What have they done?”

“Call an ambulance!” Caroline cried.

“What do you think, Peg?”

“I don’t…”

Peter shook his head. “No hosp…” Ice on his face. Stings.

“Why aren’t you moving?” Caroline cried. “I’m calling the cops!”

“What?”

“No,” Peter choked. “No… cops!”

“Caroline, calm down.” Mother’s voice.

“He doesn’t want the cops. You hear?” Father barks.

“I don’t care what…”

“You smell the beer on him?”

“So?”

“You don’t know what he’s been up to. What he did.”

“Dad…”

“Enough. He got beat up. This shit happens when boys get beer in ‘em. A lesson for him. That’s all. Now just let your mother take care of him.”

“Dad, his pupils…”

“Your mother will take care of him! That’s enough! Shut…just go upstairs, will you?”

The room spun; a blurry white orb settled over him. Peter was shrinking beneath the accelerating light.

“What have they done to my boy? My baby boy?”

There was comfort in his mother’s caress. But rebellion swelled beneath his cracked ribs. She had no right to be tender. He could make peace with oblivion, but not with her. He would not go so lightly or easily, cradled in mother’s hands, shrunken by the harsh glare. He would fight his way back to the dark, to the open, to the lush expanse of night.

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