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toward home, trailing Matthew by a few paces.

He did not like to walk with me, especially when

he had candy. It was nearly pointless to ask him

to share, but I always begged anyway. This time

was no different. All the way to the apartment, I

hobbled behind him, begging for some of his

candy. His laugh was his refusal, as he washed

down his candy with the cold Malta.

When we entered the apartment, I placed the TV

Guide on the kitchen table, and with a cold hand

pulled Bobby’s change from my pocket. Matthew

sat on the couch, announcing our arrival that had

gone unnoticed. Bobby hugged Matthew to him

with a wicked grin. I stood silently still in the

kitchen, waiting for permission to move.

“Bring me my TV Guide and my change.”

Bobby shouted at the television.

I brought him what he asked for and handed it to

him from as far away as I could stand. He smiled

as he flipped through the TV Guide, the change

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nestled in his grip. Closing the magazine, he

opened his palms and counted the coins. His

fingers tightened around the money.

“Where’s the rest? What else did you buy?” He

growled, staring at his fist.

“I got the TV Guide and took the change the guy

gave me and put it in my pocket. I didn’t buy

anything. You can ask Matthew.” I pleaded.

“I aint askin’ him. I’m askin’ YOU. What else did

you buy? A TV Guide cost 25 cents. I only got 60

some-odd cents here. So, what else did you buy?”

His slurred voice wavered as he emphasized his

words.

His rise from the couch was slow and telegraphed

but escape was impossible. The impending

beating threw me across the living room, but I

had no other answer to the question he repeated

as he tossed me around the room. When his

patience ran out, he grabbed his coat and

dragged me from the apartment and down to the

store where I’d bought the magazine.

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Bobby tossed me at the counter and I knocked

my head into a large jar of loose pickles. The

clerk looked across the counter in shock. Bobby

pulled my hair and showed my face to the man

and began his tirade.

“Wha’ did little bastard buy when he was in here

a minute ago?” Bobby screamed.

“Relax man. Leave the kid alone. Yeah, he was in

here. He bought a TV Guide and left with some

other kid. A bigger, blonde headed kid. The

blonde kid bought a bunch a candy.” The clerk

said nervously.

“Then where’s the rest of my change,” Bobby

said, opening up his hand to reveal the coins I

had given him.

“Hey man, relax. TV Guide’s 35 cents. The kid

gave me a dollar. That’s the right change.” The

man at the register looked around to the other

customers in the line and pulled a TV Guide

from the small rack on the countertop, pointing

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out the price on the cover. Bobby’s anger turned

to irritation.

“Next time I wanna receipt. Got me walkin’ all

day-- way down here in the gotdamn cold. Get

the hell outta here,” he demanded and swung me

by the hair toward the doorway. I heard someone

yell at Bobby, something about calling the police.

Holding onto the door, ready to leave, I watched

Bobby turn and swing wildly at an older man. His

stupor did not allow him to connect and the older

man scolded Bobby and told him to leave. Bobby

walked to the door and pushed me outside back

into the cold. As we walked hurriedly through the

cold, he warned me of the beating I had waiting

for me when we got home.

Later that night, a loud banging on the door and

the word “Police” shook the apartment alive.

Frantically, Debbie burst into our room and told

Matthew and me to sit on the couch. She

coached us to repeat the usual story of our regular

fights and sibling rivalry to explain my cuts and

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bruises. Meanwhile, Bobby moved in silence,

transferring all of the drugs into their bedroom.

After the last trip, he sat on the couch with the

rest of us. We all then pretended to watch

television.

From the couch I heard the pounding more

clearly, followed by a loud commanding voice:

“Open up, Bridgeport Police.”

With the apartment acceptably presentable,

Debbie opened the door as far as the chain would

allow. She spoke with the officers in a low voice,

then closed the door and undid the chain to

reopen the door. Four officers entered the

apartment in single file. Bobby stood up in a

defensive stance. The police were not a familiar

presence in the Village but had been to our

apartment on several occasions.

The officers questioned Bobby about the incident

at the store. From the couch, I heard that the

clerk had called the police about a disturbance

and possible child abuse. An officer stooped in

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front of Matthew and me while the others stood

surrounding Bobby and Debbie in the kitchen.

“Did he hurt you in the store?” the officer asked

me pointing to Bobby.

“No,” I answered softly.

“Did he hurt you after you left the store?” he

asked.

“No.” Bobby had taught me after our first

interaction with the police to only answer the

question I was asked, and to never give more

information than necessary.

“Does he ever hurt you?” The officer continued.

“No.” I answered.

“Does he ever hurt you?” The officer asked

Matthew who was sitting beside me.

“No,” he said with a laugh.

Surprised by his lack of concern, the officer asked,

“What’s so funny about that?”

“No one hurts
me
. We fight all the time, and I

win. That’s all we do is fight.” Matthew’s

excitement was nearly uncontainable.

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“Is that true? Do you two fight much?” The

officer asked.

I turned to Matthew with disdain, “Yes, but I

beat
him
one time.”

“Just one time,” Matthew blurted in annoyance.

“Did he,” pointing to Matthew, “do
this
” pointing

back to my face, “to you?” The officer asked.

“Yes,” I replied as Matthew gave a short laugh.

The officer stood up and walked to the kitchen to

confer with the other officers. There was a

hushed discussion, and the officers walked to the

door. The officer that had spoken with Matthew

and I turned and called to Matthew, “Hey, son,

be nicer to your little brother. He’s your brother.

You need to be protecting him, not hurting him.”

Debbie opened the door and let the officers out.

Debbie went into the kitchen and waited by the

edge of the window. “They’re gone,” she said

finally.

“Good job boys. Damn good job. Dumb

mufuckas think they gon’ come up in ‘ere and say

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some shit to me? Shit!” Bobby said triumphantly

as he paced in front of the door. The officers’ visit

had sobered him up, and his speech was clear and

condescending. “Baby, get my shit and cook us

up,” he ordered. Debbie moved quickly toward

the bedroom.

“You two go to yo room and play,” he instructed,

waving a burning cigarette at us. We got up

quickly. Bobby called Matthew over to him. I

walked into the hall and waited closest to the

edge, where I was out of sight of Bobby and

Matthew.

“You did a great job, son. I’m proud of you. Stay

out here with us. You can watch TV with us.” He

said cheerfully. I moved on down the hall to the

bedroom.

Several weeks later, the police returned,

accompanied by a social worker I had seen

before. They interviewed Debbie in the kitchen.

Debbie held Ruby in her arms to give the

appearance of being a loving mother. The police

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walked through the apartment, inspecting each

room in turn from Ruby’s small, toy-filled room

to the bathroom. Matthew and I were

interviewed separately in our bedroom by the

social worker with a police officer standing guard.

She asked about the incident at the store, and I

repeated the story of the officers’ visit later that

same night. She asked about fighting with

Matthew and if anyone else ever hurt me. I told

her that the boys in the neighborhood often beat

me up and that Matthew and me fought all the

time: all things I had been coached to say. The

visitors left before Bobby came home, but when

he did arrive, Debbie told him what had

transpired. He was angry until he spoke with

Matthew and me and heard our versions of what

had happened and what we had said. He

dismissed me without comment but congratulated

Matthew and spoke of the pride he had for his

son.

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It was March 20, 1979 when the police returned,

this time accompanied by more social workers.

Bobby and Debbie were both home. The social

worker who had interviewed us earlier explained

that they were temporarily taking Matthew out of

the house, as it had been determined that I was

unsafe with Matthew in the home. Upon hearing

their words, I collapsed into tears and frustration.

My grief was irrepressible. I begged them not to

take Matthew, but they all assured me it was for

only a little while. They promised I would be

back together with my brother in no time at all.

My crying and pleas got louder and more

incomprehensible. I couldn’t explain that what I

really wanted was to be taken away myself

without having to explain why. The social

workers and the police officers all tried to calm

me, but there was no consolation for the betrayal

I felt. The police, the social workers, and the

teachers at school: I was sure they all knew what

was happening, but they left me and took the

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favored son away. I was more frightened than I

had ever been when the door finally closed and

Matthew was gone.

I ran to my room and closed the door. Collapsing

on my bed, I tried to stifle my tears, but they only

came harder. Debbie entered my room and sat

on the bed, rubbing my back. Her voice was

shaky, and her words were incongruous with her

quivering body. She tried to assure me, like the

police and the social workers, that everything was

going to be all right. The words only intensified

my fear, as I thought about being home alone

with Bobby.

The torment I feared never came. With Matthew

gone, it became apparent that there was no one

to blame for my disturbingly battered

appearance. The daily beatings ended

immediately. Bobby’s kindness that was so

frequently showered upon Matthew now

transferred to me. He brought me with him

everywhere he went, in and out of the Village.

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One night we sang “Y.M.C.A.” by the Village

People over and over at the top of our voices as

we drove a stolen van to a drug buy. He sat me

on his lap and let me “steer” the giant vehicle on

the way to buy. Sitting in the van waiting for him

to return, I listened to the radio, drank Yoo-hoo,

and ate pizza.

Bobby bought me candy and Yoo-hoo nearly

each day. I was allowed to play outside as spring

approached and the weather became warmer.

Being seen with Bobby had brought a certain

level of protection among the neighborhood

children. I could walk and play outside without

fear. I made friends with several of the other kids

and was allowed to visit them in their apartments.

My body healed, and my appearance became less

unsettling.

Debbie also went unharmed while Matthew was

gone. Bobby’s rage was all but gone, and because

she too escaped the beatings, she was able to turn

more tricks outside the apartment. Bobby and I

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sat on the couch and watched television, smoking

pot and drinking beer, while Debbie worked her

nights away. Debbie was more attentive to the

cleanliness of the apartment, and the refrigerator

always had food. The calm of the apartment was

palpable.

We laughed and had a good time around the

apartment. Each day I ate hot meals at the table

with Debbie, Bobby, and Ruby in her high chair.

Debbie bought an ear-piercing gun for Ruby’s

first birthday, and I was allowed to sit with

Debbie and her “friends” as they tried to figure

out how to use it. I was allowed to play with and

even feed Ruby for the first time while Matthew

was away. Since she had been born almost a year

earlier, I had been kept away from her, as I was

so despised by Bobby. He didn’t want “Debbie’s

bastard kid” near his own child, though Debbie

was the mother of both of us.

Four weeks went by, and each week was better

than the last. We were like a real family whenever

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the social workers came by. I was noticeably

happier and more relaxed than ever. Each time

the social worker got up to go, she would