Kill Switch

“He is doing fine, thanks.”

I turn back toward the race, where it is already apparent that Harry Horse has better things to do than try to run faster than the other horses. Still, it’s thrilling.

“Does he talk a lot of crazy?” Zeke asks me.

“As a matter of fact,” I say without looking at him, “my grandfather doesn’t talk any crazy at all. He gets tired. He forgets. Otherwise, he is sharper than me. Here, look,” I say, showing him my ticket and my selection of no- hurry Harry.

“Listen to me, son. I love this man. Probably more even than you do-”

“No,” I snap.

Da looks over his shoulder, grinning broadly at me. “I know, he’s terrible. Who bets on a horse named Harry anyway? Horse actually looks like he’s laughing.”

“He’s laughing at me, Da,” I say, patting his shoulder.

He slaps my knee. “You are a good kid anyway, Young Man.”

“Stop gloating, Old Boy, and watch the finish.”

He hoots as he does just that, and somehow we are managing to have fun even with Zeke here trying to bleed the sunshine right out of the day. I don’t know which horse is Da’s, but judging from his mad, hat-throwing celebration, I think he won.

As that happens, something very different happens between Zeke and me.

“Let me tell you just this one thing, Danny-and I am going to call you Danny because I want to talk to that beautiful kid who always showed respect and decency to this fine man right in front of us. He does talk some crazy. And when he does, you need to encourage him to talk about something else. I love this guy here and that means by extension I love you, too. So with whatever time you have left with your Da, talk about family, talk about sports, talk about girls and food and flying pigs and music and whatever else passes the time. But if he talks about his work, steer him away.”

Zeke gives my neck a small squeeze, both friendly and frightening.

“I am not even supposed to be here,” he says. “I won’t do this again. Understand? I shouldn’t even have come. This is a personal, friend visit. If you see me again, it’s going to be business. I am here out of courtesy, and I shouldn’t even be.”

And the impulse returns, protective, defensive, angry, whatever, but it doesn’t feel exactly smart.

“So, then, go,” I say.

And you know what? He does. He does what I say, and he goes, slipping away in the post-race mayhem, while the Old Boy fusses around the floor for his hat.

Da pops up, hat on head, ticket in hand. He looks around like he knows something is not right, something is missing, but he cannot quite figure out what.

Winners and losers-and there is no mistaking which is which here-begin making their way down the sunny concrete steps, toward the collection windows, the betting windows, the bars, and the bathrooms, all loading up to shoot the same shots again on the next race and then the next one.

“Whatcha win, Da?” I ask, hand on his shoulder as we bump along down.

He hands me over his ticket and I look at it and we both look up at the results board.

My horse beat his horse. And everybody else’s horse beat my horse. My grandfather may realize this, and he may not.

“Will we go for it again, Old Boy?”

“Let us go for it again, Young Man.”

He straightens his flat cap, and we go for it again.

2

Shut up, Da said.

He never liked to say that, or to hear it. It meant he was furious.

Shut up.

I didn’t even say anything, I said.

It was my fault. I was not supposed to leave him. Alone. I was never supposed to leave him alone.

It gets really hard, though. Sometimes. He was sleeping. He slept pretty regular, and so I knew. Approximately. I could go around the corner, breathe some air, think some thoughts. Get a chicken burger. Just around the corner. Just.

Shut up, he said again.

Why, Da?

Shut up, Darius, is what he said. To me.

Who, Da? Who said shut up to you?

Little puke. That little, little puke.

Who’s the puke, Da?

Largs. Little puke Largs. And Zeke. Me, shut up?

When did they tell you to shut up?

Where were you, Young Man?

I am sorry, Da. Really.

Do I smell chicken?

Da? When did they tell you to shut up?

Right there. Up there. On the landing.

The landing. Halfway up the stairs? That landing? Our landing? In our house?

I got a little lost.

What were you doing on the landing, Da? I left you on the couch.

His face. The crumpled face. The don’t-know face, but knowing that not knowing is really bad. Knowing enough to be humiliated about not knowing. That face.

Were you going up or coming down when they came to you?

That face. That diabolical sad face.

Lots of people did that, though. My own dad did it. Pause on the landing, trying to remember what he is after. Common.

But not knowing whether you were halfway up or halfway down. That is different. That is way-bad different.

I was lost, Young Man.

And they came and found you. Zeke. And Largs the puke. They came and found you.

Where were you, Daniel?

So sorry, Da, so sorry. Will not happen again. I will not leave you again.

And I never did. Until I was told. I never did again. I could say that at least.

So they found you, on the landing, when you were lost.

Just shut up, for crying out loud, Darius. Just keep your mouth shut.

How did they know you were lost?

Because I said so. I said I am lost. And I said, Daniel? I said, Daniel…

I could have cried, I could have. He would have punched me dead in the face, which would have helped.

I am sorry, Da.

You didn’t come.

I am sorry. I am sorry.

So they came.

How did they hear you? How did they know to come?

You mean when you didn’t come?

Yes. Da. I mean that. Yes.