THE TREATMENT OF INJURIES

         Norman Laraby’s eyes are fixed on the kitchen window and what’s beyond, but his mind is occupied with snapshots of muddy fists that won’t stop grazing his face.   He only half registers the small tufts of snow that come sailing down outside the window.  Moments ago his mother crept outside the front door, shivering, and forced it shut against the wind.  Seconds before that she’d looked worried, placing a waffle on a paper plate and serving it to Norman with a fork and a cube of frozen butter. He’s wearing a full suit of thermal underwear that fits him like loose skin around a recently fat man.  Nothing ever fits him right.  It’s hard to find clothing for a 14-year-old boy who only weighs 112 pounds.  It was just a few years ago that his toes started touching the floor when he sat in chairs.  He feels it now—the rough tread of the carpet on the balls of his cold feet.  It’s not often that he’s up before sunrise and his head feels weighted, top-heavy.
            A large hairy fist comes down hard in front of him on the table.  There’s a chipped mug inside of it, and inside that a level helping of black coffee.  Norman throws his head back to look into the eyes of his father.
            “Here, drink some of this.”  It’s the deep voice of a housepainter mixed with the soupy congestion of an asthmatic.
            Norman lifts the mug up with both hands.
            “It’s not hot,” says his father. 
            He feels obligated to take a bigger sip than usual.  It tastes the way he always imagined bleach would taste.  His neck and shoulders rise and tighten first, then go limp and pitch forward.
            “Ha, there you go!”
            “What’s… what’s in it?”
            “Just a little bit of whiskey.  It’s got melting power, doesn’t it?”
            Norman can see the murky outline of his father’s reflection in the window.  With his flannel shirt tucked into his ratty jeans and his paint splattered Carhartt boots he looks the same way a lot of fathers in the neighborhood look before work.  He’s nearly bald and moves about with a limp he received 20 years ago in a bad car crash.  Norman stopped asking questions about the accident years ago.  He always got the same response.  “I hit a telephone pole.  My leg was smashed under the dashboard.  That’s it.  End of story.”
            “You ready?” his father asks, shuffling his body in front of Norman at the table.
            “Yeah, I think so.”
            “Let me see.  Show me your knuckles.”
            Norman holds both his fists up in front of his chin, shakes them there a few times.
            “Just one.  Just show me your right hand.”
            He drops his left hand to the table.  He rotates the right one out in front of him, squeezing it as if trying to smother something. 
            “Steady now, hold still.  That’s it.  Keep that thumb tucked.  No one should be able to break those fingers apart.”  He puts his own hand around Norman’s, shaping the contours into a stiff ball of muscle.
            “Yeah, okay,” says Norman.  When his father lets go his hands are clammy and stiff.
            “You’ll be just fine,” his father says, walking over to retrieve his thermos on the counter.  “Just remember what I told you.  Keep those eyes up, dip the shoulder, cock the arm…”  He switches hands with his thermos and runs the free one around Norman’s blowsy head of hair.  “You’ll be fine.  Eat that waffle.”
            Looking at the waffle makes him feel nauseous.  It’s all soggy and gray.  It doesn’t even look like food anymore.
            “You’re going to need that energy.”  He’s passing through the family room now, wrapping a wool scarf around his neck.  “Keep it simple, kid.  Controlled aggression.  I’ll see you later.  You’ll be just fine.”
            Norman could hear the sound of his father tossing his coat on at the door.  Cold air rushed in as he opened it, and following the loud bang of it being shut, the house was silent.  The low clanging of the heater in the family room started up again.  He wasn’t sure when he had started sweating, but he couldn’t stop.  The coffee mug was still in front of him and he picked it up by the handle.  This time he drank from it with determination.  He refused to make any face at all.  This time around he was ready for it, and that made a big difference, but it wasn’t the only reason.  It meant something to take in the full effect.  He wanted that burning sensation that came with it; he knew it meant something to be feeling that without shying away.

###

            Outside the wind is ice cold and blustery.  Norman folds his fingers inside the sleeves of his jacket.  A football jersey and two lightweight coats weren’t cutting it.  The wind was ripping through the layers with an impolite ease and thrashing any bare inch of skin it could find.  He put his hood up over his head and pulled the strings tight.  Hoods made you look tough.  That’s what he had decided back in his bedroom while standing in front of his closet.  Tough kids wore football jerseys to school.  They wore jeans with holes in them.  They never wore turtlenecks or mittens.  Late Friday nights when his dad watched boxing shows on TV all the fighters put the hoods up over their heads and got that look in their eyes like they were ready to pounce on something.  “Pow,” Norman said, thinking about it.  He watched the short burst of breath come white and clean from his lips and then quickly get swept away by the breeze.  It wasn’t helping much, but it kept him moving forward.
            Gilliam Junior High was only a few blocks away from his house.  The walk normally took anywhere from 6 to10 minutes to complete, but today Norman was taking his sweet old time.  Today, more than any other day, there was no hurry to reach the parking lot.  Kirby’s older brother usually dropped him off across the street five minutes before the first bell.  If Norman timed it just right, he could jump out from behind a bush and get the whole thing over with in a few seconds.  His older brother would have to be far enough away, and it would help if Kirby had a lot of things in his hands (books or a lunchbox or something), but it could be done.
            Three days ago, during art class, the teacher, Mrs. Fairchild, held up a painting that Norman had been working on and presented it in front of the class as a perfect example of the Cubism technique they had all been studying.  Kirby Klinefelter took one look at the canvas, and then one look at Norman, who was in the corner wearing a big smug-boy smile on his face, and decided then and there that Norman Laraby was a pussy.  Kirby leaned over and whispered into Matt Baylor’s ear, “Look at him.  What an art fag!”  There was some commotion after that.  A few of the boys that were sitting with Matt and Kirby wouldn’t stop laughing, and Mrs. Fairchild had to separate them.  Kirby was moved to the back and told to face the wall, but every time the teacher turned around he kept looking over his shoulder at Norman and laughing.  Norman was aware that three or four boys in the class were looking at him and sneering.  He’d never felt that way before—a mixture of pride and fear that made his face turn red, and a sharp pinching sensation in his bladder that made him feel like he had to urinate.  That’s how it all started.
            Matt Baylor’s dad, Frank, was doing some construction work on the same house where Norman’s dad was painting, and the next day, during their lunch break, Frank mentioned to him the anecdote that his son had told him the night before about Norman in art class.  It was delivered with a cautionary carefulness, as if he was warning Norman’s father that if he wasn’t mindful, all sorts of twisted shit could start happening with his son.  It was coming from a friend who cared about him and his son’s future.  A rage started building in Norman’s father.  For a while there he thought he might punch a hole in something.
            “Who said that?  Who was it that said that about Norman?” he yelled.
            “Matt tells me it was this kid named Kirby Klinefelter that said it.  He’s a pretty big deal at Gilliam.”
            Norman’s father stood up with his roast beef sandwich in his hand and started pacing the concrete floor.  His mouth was full of bread and meat. “That’s the biggest load of shit!” he said.  “Everyone knows Norm’s an athlete.  Everybody!”
            That night (last night) Norman’s father knocked on Norman’s bedroom door twice, and then let himself in.  Norman was sitting at his desk, reading a short story out of a textbook for English class. 
            “Put the book down, Norm,” his father said.  Norman obeyed without hesitation, knowing that he detected a seriousness in his father’s voice that he was not used to.  His father leaned over him, planted his palm on top of the closed book.  “Who’s Kirby Klinefelter?”  His breath smelled of warm beer.  “He’s got some kind of a problem with you?” 
            Norman felt that same numbness in his groin.  “I don’t know.” 
            “Did he laugh at you?”
            Norman didn’t know what to say.  He shrugged his shoulders, picked at something imaginary on his wrist.
            “Put that book aside.” His father demanded.  He stepped back, grabbed a hold of Norman’s chair and pulled.  “Stand up.”
            For the rest of the evening Norman’s father stayed in his bedroom and helped him practice for something he was calling “self-defense.”  Norman stood with his knees slightly bent and took turns punching his father’s open paws—right then left, left then right, right, left, right, left, right.  They both broke a sweat.  Every time Norman put his head town, his father gripped his chin and raised it to meet his eyes.  “Head up, head up!”  They practiced uppercuts, jabs, and even takedowns.  Speed was the number one thing to have at the ready.  “Keep moving, never stop,” his father said, dancing and weaving around in front of his bed.  “Be there before he knows what’s coming.  Pow!”  Everything in the room was shaking.  Norman stepped back to dodge a fist and knocked a heel against his desk.  His father drew back to illustrate a punch and banged his elbow against the wall.  Several times each of them tripped over a bedpost, sending pillows to the floor.  Around eight o’clock Norman’s mother knocked on the door.  “You two going to skip dinner?”  She asked through the door.  Norman’s father put a finger to his lips.  “Probably, yeah.  I think so.”  He was out of breath, panting and clutching at the knee on his bad leg.  Mother left and the workout continued.  As time passed his father’s limp became more and more pronounced.  Now and then he’d stop to grimace.  “I’m fine.  I’m okay, I’m okay.”
When the lesson was through they were both exhausted.  The last time Norman felt this winded was during the mile and a half run for gym class.  His father hadn’t seen this much exercise since his time spent on flag-football teams at the community college.  He bent forward, using his son’s shoulder for support.  “Get some rest, Champ.  Tomorrow will be a day you won’t soon forget.  Kirby Klinefelter won’t forget tomorrow.” He took a few deep breaths before continuing.  “Hopefully you’ll only need to do this once.  If you do it right, that’s it, done.”  Norman wanted to know if his father had ever had to do anything like this when he was a kid.  The answer was a simple, emphatic “yes” with very little explanation.  “Unfortunately, it’s part of growing up.”  Right before his father left, he looked into Norman’s eyes from across the room and said, “Hey, I love you.” 
            It took him hours to fall asleep.  His clothing was damp with sweat and it felt cool against his skin.  His arms felt sore but buoyant.  He kept picturing his father being trained by his father for a moment just like this one.  Twenty years ago, maybe more…  How had he felt?  Did he lay awake like this that night and think about how all this meant a lot more to his father then it did to him?  It was okay, Norman thought, he liked the idea of making his father proud.

###

            The weather had gotten much worse.  Snow was piled up along the road in white waves of ice.  Frozen flakes were coming down at horizontal angles now, slicing through spaces that Norman’s hood and sleeves couldn’t plug.  Snow covered parked cars along the sidewalks like crystal blankets.  Every step was a challenge.  Howling winds pushed against Norman’s body, catching his clothing and pinning it back against his legs, arms, and chest, daring him to battle back.  He wouldn’t be denied.  There was something the same about this challenge and the one at the kitchen table.  Drink the coffee without making a face, force your way through a blizzard without stopping.  It was all part of the same thing.
            He could see the school up ahead now—the long brick building covered with slick sheets of ice, the flag slapping against the pole as if the weather was punishing it for something.   Kids were probably being sent home before they even reached the hallways.  As he got closer, he noticed cars turning around in the parking lot and heading for the exit.  A few kids packed snowballs and hurled them across the street at one another.  No one was going inside.  The first thing that Norman felt was an overwhelming sense of joy.  It was an automatic reflex to the news of a day off from school.  But soon after came the realization that Kirby probably wouldn’t even show up.  He had almost forgotten about Kirby.  That would be fine.  If Kirby didn’t show up, he wouldn’t have to worry about anything.  Maybe the whole thing would just blow over by tomorrow.  If it snowed two days in a row, who could fault him for just dropping the whole notion and going about the rest of the year as if nothing happened?  Sure, if anything like art class happened again, he’d be ready, he’d have to do something, but for now he was off the hook.  A feeling of freedom took hold of him and he started running toward the school.  As he ran, he reached down and scooped up some fresh powder in his bare hand to make a snowball.  The school was right across the street.  As soon as the cars slowed down, and the crossing-lady gave the signal, he’d run across into the parking lot and let the first person he saw have it right in the face!  But, then… oh shit… there he was.
            Kirby Klinefelter was standing right across from him on the opposite side of the street.  They were about to cross the street toward each other.  Norman broke off and headed back the way he came.  Kirby hadn’t seen him.  He was walking with two other boys, Matt Baylor and Peter Gagne.  No one had noticed him sprinting back up Reynolds Road toward the elm tree.  Norman felt the ball of snow in his hand.  It was getting hard, packed tight into the shape of a grenade.  Norman set it down and furiously started packing another one.  In a minute they’d all three be upon him.  No doubt they’d all wait for Kirby’s brother to come back and pick them up in his car.  Matt was the biggest one.  He’d have to be taken care of first.  Here was the plan: leap out from behind the tree and fire a snowball right at Matt’s face from close range.  Pick up the second snowball and hit Peter right between the eyes.  While Kirby was still stunned, pop him one good one right in the jaw.  And then run, run away as fast as he could. 
            “Hey, we should ask your brother if we can borrow his snowmobile and take it for a ride over in Miller’s field,” Peter was saying as they approached.
            He didn’t know he was going to do it, but when Norman shot out from behind the tree he started screaming.  “Ahhhhhhhhhhhh!”
            The first snowball landed square on Matt Baylor’s shoulder.  Norman had a hard time finding the second one on the ground.  His frozen hand was searching for it amongst the other infinite globes of whiteness.  By the time he finally found it and secured it in his fist, Peter and Kirby were converging on him like army troopers.  “Oh, you little fucking faggot!” Kirby yelled.  The second snowball had to be thrown from a seated position and barely made contact with Peter’s waist.  Norman tried to stand up but his feet were slipping out from underneath him.  Kirby lunged for him, both arms out wide.  If he could just spring to life right now, thrust himself forward and make one good connection everything would be okay.  Norman cocked his arm back and leapt forward at Kirby’s face but his foot slipped again.  And then he was going down.  Kirby grabbed his wrist and pushed him back flat against the ground.  Norman tried shoving his other forearm up for protection, but it was too late.  Kirby had already landed a hard blow to his right eye.  Matt and Peter were loving it.  “That little son-of-a-bitch!  Get him!”  “You little pussy!”  Kirby was shouting as he struggled to move Norman’s hands away for another clean shot.  Someone yelled something from the street.  “Hey, what’s going on?  Quit that.  You boys knock that off!”  It was the haggard voice of Mrs. Hummel, the crossing guard.   Kirby hopped up to his feet.  He grabbed a pile of snow in his arm as he moved his legs from around Norman’s torso.  He shoved the pile of snow in Norman’s face, then kicked some more on top of him before running away.  Matt and Peter called out as they ran for cover.  “Norman Laraby’s a pussy!”  “Norman Laraby is gay!”
            Norman lay there on his back for what seemed like a long time.  Snow covered his neck and chest, most of his face.  With one eye he watched the snow come down above the elm tree.  Its branches looked like skinny arms trying to carry too much weight.  The wind whistled over his hooded ears and cheeks.  He didn’t know what he was going to do.
            “Hey, are you okay?”  Mrs. Hummel stood over him.  She was smoking a cigarette.  Something about her neon orange gear made her look monstrous.
Norman snapped out of it.  He stood up, brushing snow from his body and shaking it free from the top of his head.  He didn’t say anything.
            “Hey, Norman, what happened?”
            He put his hands in the pockets of his coat and started heading for home.
            “Are you okay?”  She managed to ask before doubling over in a violent coughing jag.
It was easier walking back.  The wind was behind him.  He wasn’t ready to go home yet.  At the end of the block there was a gas station.  He’d go there until he could figure something else out. 

###

            Bells rang out over the door, and everything inside looked radiant under the fluorescent lights.  It was at least eighty degrees warmer inside the mini-mart, and Norman stood right under the heater and tried to see how long it would take till he could feel his hands again. 
            “Aye, Norm!”
            It was Billy Lang.  Norman had completely forgotten that he was working the counter at the gas station now.  Billy was one year older than Norman in school.  A few months ago, after getting suspended for a few days for skipping classes, he’d just dropped out altogether and started working at the Amoco.  He had been on Norman’s baseball team.
            “Hey, no school today, huh?  Wooo hoooo!  Whatcha gonna do?” 
            Norman blew some warm air into his cupped hands.  “Huh?  Oh, I don’t know.”
            “Hey, come here, would ya?”  Billy was waving him in with full arm circles.
            Norman gave in and started walking toward the counter.  With all the flashing liquor lights behind him and the tiny objects laid out before him, Billy looked a little like a craps dealer in Vegas.  He still had the horrible acne.  His face was covered with patches of prickly red and maroon lumps.  He had the willowy, fragile limbs of a cartoon sketch.
            “Whoa, hey, what happened to you?”  Billy leaned forward over the counter.  Norman stopped walking.
            “What?”
            “Come here.  Come closer!”
            Norman obeyed. 
“Damn, killer, you’ve got one hell of a shiner startin’ up around your eye.”
“I do?”  Norman reached up and put his hand over his right eye.  It felt hard and cold, much rounder than usual. 
“What happened?”
“Nothing.  Nothing, man.  Hey, can I get a pack of smokes?”
Billy looked behind him, then made a dramatic scan of the aisles with his eyes.  He pointed to the camera above his head. 
“Oh, yeah, okay.”
Billy sunk into his chair, took a deep breath.  “What kind do you want?”
“Really?  Could I get some Marlboro Reds?”
Billy reached under the table and put the pack up on the counter.  Norman stepped up and started pretending to search for something in his coat.
“Take em’,” Billy whispered.  He plucked a book of matches out of a box and flipped them onto the counter.  “I would have never guessed that you smoked.”
“I don’t really.  But I think I want to start.”
“Might help you land that Nikki Eisenhower.”
“Maybe,” Norman said, squeezing the cigarettes and matches into his pocket.
For a moment there was silence.  Norman put his head down, squeaked his sneakers around on the tile floor.  Billy’s expression changed.
“You sure you’re all right?” Billy asked.  “That eye doesn’t look so good.”
“I’ll be okay.”
Billy reached under the counter again and this time came up with a set of keys on a huge chain that included a plastic card with a stick drawing of a man in a tuxedo.  “Go in the bathroom out back to smoke.  It’ll keep you warm.”
Norman took the keys.  “Thanks.”
The bathroom smelled of stale piss and mildew.  A heating vent above the stall blasted hot air around the tiny space in loud gusts.  The sink was stuffed full of wadded up toilet paper.  Norman ran some hot water.  There was a mirror above the sink, but he was afraid to look at it.  When the water was hot enough he washed his hands and splashed some of it on his face.  The eye felt tender and puffy.  Norman raised his eyes to the mirror.  His cheeks were rosy from the wind.  His left eye looked ashen and watery.  His right eye was only open half way.  A pouch of bluish black skin was pressing against the pupil, blooming there as if it meant to just keep on growing until it overtook the entire eye in a mass of doughy flesh.  Norman tried pulling gently at the skin but it hurt too much.  Parts of it were already turning purple around the edges.  He’d never had a black eye before.
Norman locked the stall door behind him and climbed atop the toilet.  He sat on the water tank with his shoes on the seat.  He pulled out the cigarettes and the matches and set them on his lap.  Looking at them made him think of Billy.  Billy was such a nice kid.  It made him sad to think of him sitting behind that counter with his acne and his white smock.  Norman could picture him making hot dogs and ringing up gas and getting people’s smokes for them under the counter whenever they told him to.  He’d be there for a long time.  He had given him a free pack of cigarettes and asked him about his eye like he really cared.  God damn it that broke his heart. 
Trying to force the image away, he unwrapped the pack of smokes.  He struck a match and held it to the end of one of the cigarettes.  He’d seen his father do it a million times.  His father smoked a pack of Marlboro Reds everyday.  The first inhalation filled his mouth with air and the little bit of smoke that managed to slip past into his lungs made him cough like he’d never coughed before.  When he was finished coughing he felt dizzy and his head was throbbing.  His nose was running.  He had forgotten that he was still holding the lit cigarette and it was starting to burn a hole in the left arm of his jacket.  When he wrenched it away some of the smoke blew right into his bad eye.  It stung and burned and he couldn’t touch the eye without it making him cringe so he stopped everything and flicked the cigarette between his knees into the toilet.
What would Nikki Eisenhower think of this?  Norman sat with his head back against the wall.  This was something that no one could be proud of.  Last night he had pictured Nikki Eisenhower with her oversized breasts and her tight burgundy sweater that rolled down around her neck.  When they saw each other in Spanish class she’d know that he had punched out Kirby Klinefelter and she would pick the table right beside his and she’d smile at him and wink at him with those soft blue eyes.  She’d respect him, and he’d get passed one of those girly notes that everyone else but him always seemed to be reading instead of paying attention.  What a stupid thing to think might happen!
He looked at the spongy cigarette floating in the bowl and thought of his Dad.  His Dad had always wanted him to be an athlete.  Truth was Norman had always wanted to be an athlete, too.  But he didn’t want to do it because he liked it.  He wanted to do it to impress people, to make people look at him in a different way.  Last spring his dad had vowed to make him into a baseball player.  For weeks they spent everyday in the back yard.  His dad would hit grounders at him and make him stab them and throw them into a waste can he had set up sixty feet away across the yard.  At first his dad went easy on him, but as the weeks wore on, the grounders got faster and harder to handle.  Soon they were racing across the lawn at lightning speed.  “Keep your ass down!” his father would yell.  “Keep your ass down, keep your glove down!  Don’t be afraid of it.”  A few times the ball had ricocheted off the glove and slapped him in the throat or bicep.  “It won’t hurt you.  That’s what your body’s there for.  Stay in front of it.  Way to knock it down!”  Once, when Norman missed the waste can so badly that the ball caromed off the neighbor’s fence and rolled out into the street, his father had screamed, “Ah, Norm, come on now!  I wouldn’t field you like that.  Your coach isn’t going to field you if you throw like that.  Throw it like you mean it!”  But come April it had all paid off.  For the first three games Norman was the starting third baseman for the Gilliam Wildcats. (“The man’s position.  The hot spot!”) Those first few games felt better than anything.  Once or twice he even heard a few people chant his name from the stands, but he couldn’t bat worth a damn, and during the fourth game when he made a crucial error that let in two runs, he was benched and never saw the field again.  He remembered hearing his father stand up in the bleachers.  He was drunk, holding a 40 oz. bottle wrapped in a bag and hollering, “That’s horse shit!  Put Norman back in!”  But little by little his father stopped coming to the games all together. 
Someone was pounding on the bathroom door.  “Hey, come on!  I’ve gotta piss!”
Norman jumped down from the toilet and walked to the door.  He put the keys under his arm and pushed past the man surging in. 
Back inside the mini-mart Billy was over at the “Brew Station” making another pot of coffee. 
“Hey Billy,” Norman said walking up to the counter.  “Thanks a lot for everything.”  He put the keys on the counter and turned to leave.
“No prob, Laraby.  Hey Norm,” he called out as Norman was about to leave.  “That black eye makes you look tough.”
“Really?” said Norman.
“Yeah, show that to Nikki.  She’ll think you’re a real man now.”
“Yeah,” said Norman, “thanks.”

###

Walking past the cars at their pumps, Norman felt a sense of achievement well up inside of him.  He had never thought of it that way before.  If he came home and showed his dad the shiner, he’d think that he was really in a battle.  He had a battle scar now.  Wounded in battle.  That was something honorable.  He couldn’t wait to get home. 
It had stopped snowing, but if anything that just made it colder.  The plows hadn’t been through yet, and everything was covered with at least six inches of snow.  It was sneaking in through Norman’s low-tops and soaking his socks.  Cars rolled by at speeds less than twenty miles per hour—nervous people coasting over packed ice and gripping the steering wheel with clenched fists.  The wind kept changing directions, blowing splinters of snow at him from all sides.  No one was out on the sidewalks, and this gave Norman that feeling again, that shock of bravery that danced through him.  By the time he reached his doorstep he could hardly feel his feet.  The door was locked but his mom was there to let him in.  She was still dressed in her suit from work—starchy blue pants and a pinstriped blouse—but her hair was undone now, falling in tiny brunette curls around her neck and shoulders.  She looked lost, sick with worry.  Everything about her looked defenseless, and it was times like these that Norman was always reminded that he had inherited his height and weight problems from her.
“Honey, where on earth have you been?  I expected you over an hour ago,” she said.  “Here, hold on.”  She slid a short distance in her socks to the sofa and picked up the blanket that had been draped over the backrest.  “Put this on.  You look frozen.”  As she was folding the blanket around him she started tugging at Norman’s hood.  “What?  Take this down.”  Norman had clamped his fingers around the ears of the hood and was refusing to let go.  “What’s wrong with you?  Honey?  Honey, let me take this hood off of you, it’s covered in ice.”
“I’m fine, ma.  Let me be, honestly.  Please, it’s fine.”  But in the commotion the hood had fallen down across his back. 
“Oh, Norman,” she said.  Her first instinct was to reach out and touch the eye but she jerked back quickly, almost as if she were about to put a hand on an electric fence.  “What happened to you?”
“It’s nothing.  I told you.  I’m fine.”
“Sweetheart, it is not nothing.  My Lord…”  She bent down to scoop some hair away from his eye, and then she ducked in close to his forehead.  She was close enough to bite his cheek if she wanted to. 
“Ma, please.  Ma!”
In her panic, his mother had started to cry.  All the bravery was beginning to drain from Norman’s heart.  If he looked straight at her it might be too much; he might start crying too.  His mother was nuzzling him now, grabbing him hard around the shoulders and trying to stamp kisses around his good eye. 
“Mom, come on.  No!”
“Honey, sweetheart, what’s wrong with you?  Why are you fighting me?  I’m not used to this.  Let me take care…”
“I don’t need it.  I’m fine, I told you already.  I’m fine!”
For a few moments they stared at each other.  Norman’s mom was on one knee in front of him, staring up at his eye with tears trickling down her face. 
“You smell like smoke,” his mother said.  Jesus, she didn’t know him at all anymore. 
“Where’s dad?” Norman asked, taking hold of himself and turning away.
“I don’t know,” his mom said, blotting away tears with the heel of her palm.  “I thought he’d be home by now, too.”
“You know where he is,” said Norman.  “You know why he’s not home.”
“He should be home soon.  I don’t know…”
“I’m going to my room.”
“Norman, Norman, sweetheart!” she called after him.  “Honey, please tell me what’s wrong.  Let me get you something for your eye.  Will you let me help?”
Norman was surprised at how hard he slammed his bedroom door.  He wasn’t sure what emotions were most prevalent in him now.  There was so much pent up energy bouncing around inside him.  He thought about punching a pillow or kicking some dirty laundry into the air, but he restrained himself.  He sat on his bed and looked out the window.  Snow was being swept from high drifts against the fence in the backyard.  Millions of white particles shot through the breeze, curling, floating higher until they disappeared out of sight. The window rattled in its frame.  It was getting dark out already.  The automatic light came on in the driveway.  In a few minutes his father would drive up in his truck, and Norman would watch him work his way out of the cab, fumbling to get one leg out and then the other—shamefaced and whipped.  Norman thought about going out to meet him halfway to the door.  His father would understand.  He’d know what had happened, and still Norman would tell him everything, every detail.  But then somehow that didn’t seem right.  That idea of rushing out to meet him, opening up, telling him about how it had felt to hit the ground and be covered with snow…about the names he had been called…about how much it had hurt.  No, his father would be drunk.  He’d come staggering through the snow, dragging his leg behind him like a carcass, and that would be it.  He wouldn’t tell his father anything.  If his father asked he’d tell him it was nothing, an accident of some sort.  There was something to keeping quiet.  He didn’t know what it was but there was something about the ice and the snow and the wind this time.  He could feel it.