Work Text:
I can hear him at the door.
"I can take care of that septic tank issue for you mam."
But Mom tells him he needs to come back when my Father is home.
In the hallway, I see him tall, hat in his hand, red hair standing everywhere.
He says, "Just so you know, I’ve never had a problem with Puerto Ricans living here. No matter what the neighbors say. I always thought that you Hispanic women are the most beautiful women in the world.
And ya know, I tell you what, I’d be willing to cut you a deal, I’ll cut you a deal to do some of the work around here. I’ll cut a deal with a fine woman like yourself. If you know what I mean."
I step out then, into the hallway.
He draws back surprised.
I walk past him and my mother and into the kitchen.
I open the silverware drawer. I pull out a knife, I will it to be sharper than a butter knife is, but it is steel. And I will stab that red headed man with it.
I am only nine, but I will stab this man. Or I will break glass or I will find fire.
I know this as sure as the sky is blue that I know the taste of the summer peach.
I know that I will kill this person.
I was just was drinking a glass of milk, and watching Spiderman.
But I know, with utter certainty that I will kill him, or perish in the process.
Almost as if it has already happened, I know it.
I walk back into the living room, clutching the knife tightly in my fist.
Maybe he’s already decided to take his leave. Maybe he’s seen the cold rage in a nine year old boy’s eyes.
He places his cap back on his head, nods to my mother and backs out the front door.
I see him through the window get into his truck and pull off.
I throw the knife into the sink and walk past my mother, go back into my room.
But the anger doesn’t subside, the rage doesn’t leak away, instead it builds.
My skin feels hot, my jaw clutched tight. I see myself ending the red haired man in different ways.
Knives, guns, scarves, sticks, shards and I wonder if, in another world, there waits another me sitting in his room not clenched, not furious, but relaxed sitting in the same chair after washing the blood off a butter knife.