Larry turned his head. He looked at Agrippa with those large, unblinking eyes. “Are the loud boys going to be okay?” The question hit Agrippa like a physical blow. He gripped the steering wheel tighter. He could have lied. He could have offered a comforting platitude, but Agrippa had made a promise to himself the day he brought Larry home from the hospital. He would never lie to his son. The world was confusing enough without the people you trusted muddying the water.
“They’re going to the hospital,” Agrippa said carefully, choosing his words. “The doctors will fix them up, but they’re going to be hurting for a while.” Larry processed this information, his small brow furrowing. “You hit them.” “I did,” Agrippa admitted. He didn’t look away from the road. “I hit them because they wouldn’t let us leave and they tried to hurt me. When someone tries to hurt you and you can’t run away, you have to stop them.” “You stop them fast,” Larry said. It wasn’t a compliment. It wasn’t an accusation. It was just a factual observation from a 6-year-old who liked to organize dirt into neat piles.
“I did,” Agrippa repeated, his voice barely a whisper. “I didn’t like them,” Larry stated firmly, turning his attention back to the window. They stepped on the flowers. Agrippa let out a slow, shuddering breath. He felt a sudden, intense pressure behind his eyes, a stinging sensation he forced down with sheer willpower. He wasn’t crying over the violence. He was crying over the impossible, terrifying responsibility of raising a decent human being in a world that so frequently demanded brutality. They pulled into the cracked concrete driveway of their apartment complex. The building was a brutalist block of gray concrete, stained with rust from the fire escapes. It wasn’t pretty, but it was theirs.
Agrippa parked the truck, killed the engine, and walked around to the passenger side. He lifted Larry out, the boy wrapping his arms securely around Agrippa’s thick neck. Carrying his son, Agrippa felt the grinding pain in his knee, but he ignored it. The weight of the boy was an anchor, keeping him grounded in the present, pulling him away from the dark memories of steel cages and blood-stained canvas. Inside the apartment, the air was warm and smelled faintly of the cinnamon oatmeal they had eaten for breakfast. It was a small space, a combined living room and kitchen, a single bathroom, and two cramped bedrooms. But it was meticulously clean. The floors were swept, the few dishes they owned were stacked neatly in the drying rack, and Larry’s toys were organized into labeled plastic bins against the wall.
Agrippa set Larry down on the faded rug in the living room. “Go wash your hands. Macaroni and cheese tonight?” Larry nodded, marching diligently toward the bathroom. Agrippa walked into the small kitchen area. He filled a dented aluminum pot with water and set it on the electric stove, turning the dial to high. He leaned heavily against the cheap laminate counter, closing his eyes, letting the silence of the apartment wash over him. He lifted his hands, turning them over under the harsh buzzing fluorescent light of the kitchen. His knuckles were slightly red, the skin stretched tight over the bones, but otherwise, they looked entirely normal.