Criminal Zoo Read online

  Sheila and I stayed in our rooms the rest of that night.

  We had climbed out of the car hot, tired, and hungry. Dad hurried through the front door of our apartment. He saw the single sheet of paper immediately, snatched it off the table, and read it with shaking hands.

  A moment later, his hands fell to his sides, the paper cast to the floor. His head slouched forward, his eyes closed. He stood motionless for a long time. I looked at Sheila and shrugged. She shook her head as if my shrug had asked a question and the answer was no. I was confused, not really getting it. And then a look of rage shot across Dad’s face. He roared, slammed his fists into the front of the refrigerator, and then down onto the kitchen table. The floor shook from the blow. He picked up the table and threw it sideways. It slammed into the cabinets, dislodging two table legs.

  That’s when we headed for the bedrooms.

  It took a little while to sink in. Mom’s gone. What I knew instantly was that Dad was to be avoided at all costs. We could hear him throwing and smashing things. We heard several loud crashes and glass breaking. I think back to it now, and wonder why the neighbors didn’t call the police. But then I remember the neighbors were afraid of my dad. A couple of brief altercations with him had been enough to ensure that.

  Despite my stomach grumbling, it was not safe to leave the bedroom. Not for a while, anyway.

  Later that night, after Dad went to his room, I snuck into the kitchen. Sheila must have fallen asleep in her room, but I was so hungry I felt sick. I had to eat something, even if it was just peanut butter and a few crackers. And that’s exactly what I ate, as quietly as I could.

  After my snack, I walked into the living room. The ugly blue drapes usually covering the glass slider were open. A courtyard light shined through. Torn-up books littered the floor and the TV lay next to its overturned stand in front of the couch. The picture screen of the TV was shattered and pieces of glass shared worn carpet space with shredded pages of my dad’s King James Bible. Framed pictures, busted up like the TV, were everywhere. The bookshelf my dad built in the living room—one-inch-thick by ten-inch-wide wood planks spanning upright cinderblocks against the wall—were mostly barren. He had spray-painted the wood white and the cinderblocks blue, staring at it after he was finished like he had just crafted something pretty cool. He built it as a place to keep his war books. The bookshelf didn’t match anything else in the house, but then again, neither did any one piece of furniture.

  The war books looked like they had just been through a war.

  I sifted through the stuff, careful not to cut my fingers on glass, and found the contents of the only photo album our family possessed. I picked up the pages and looked at each. If you didn’t know any better, looking at the pictures you would almost think we were a normal family. Generic snapshots were stuck in the album pages—pictures of this holiday or that one, a birthday here and there, a trip once in a while. Nothing really stood out. Well, maybe one did, I guess. It was a picture of Sheila and me on a hotel balcony in San Diego, Mom standing behind us, her arms around us. We all smiled, like we were actually happy.

  Dad had just returned from active duty with the Marines. Came back from maybe Iraq? Or maybe it was Afghanistan. Or hell, it could’ve been Alaska for all I cared. Mom had driven us out, but I was too small to remember much of it.

  In the photograph, Mom wore a flower-print summer dress. She was pretty, for a mom. She had curly brown hair, brown eyes, and she had the softest skin I’ve ever felt. She always smelled like she had just climbed out of the shower, clean like Irish Spring soap.

  Mom’s gone.

  Why would she leave us alone with Dad? And why didn’t I get a note? Dad got one. Sheila got one. But I didn’t get shit. I asked Sheila what hers said. She told me it was none of my business.

  And then I understood. Mom wrote me a note, but forgot to leave it out. It was probably in her pocket right now. Wherever she was, she was about to find it and realize she forgot to leave it. And then she’d feel so bad, she’d come home to give it to me.

  Tears ran down my cheeks. Even though my dad wasn’t watching, I wiped them away quickly. I studied the picture. Like my mom, Sheila wore a flowery dress. I wore swim trunks and a T-shirt with a picture of a shark on the front. I liked sharks. My brown hair was messy from swimming in the hotel pool. I don’t remember much, but I remember having fun that day. Dad hadn’t gotten there yet.

  I pulled the picture from the album page, returned the page to the mess, and tiptoed back to my bedroom. I stuck the picture under my pillow, pulled the covers over my head, and fought hard for sleep. It took a long time.

  The next morning I jumped out of bed, thinking that maybe things weren’t as bad as they seemed the night before. Dad always made things seem worse than they really were. I was sure Mom was home, smiling, my note in hand. She wouldn’t leave us—not for good. Moms just didn’t do things like that.

  I headed into the living room. Sheila was cleaning up and putting everything away. My dad sat in a chair in the corner of the room, silently watching. I stood motionless, waiting for Mom to step into view. But Dad’s look said it all. Mom wasn’t coming back. And I wasn’t getting a note. Tears ran down my cheeks as I hurried back to my room.

  Mom had promised she would be there waiting for us when we got back from Grandma’s. But she lied. Why would she do that? Moms don’t lie. At least they’re not supposed to.

  After a full morning spent under my bed sheets looking at the San Diego picture, hunger overwhelmed sorrow. I knew it wasn’t advisable to be anywhere near my dad, but I couldn’t take the emptiness in my stomach anymore. Once again, I slid the picture under my pillow and ventured from my room and into the kitchen. As I passed through the living room, I chanced a glance at Dad. He hadn’t moved from the chair. He looked at me; his eyes told me today would be a good day to stay outside.

  Later that night, with the door to Dad’s room shut, I stood in the empty living room and looked around. Other than a couple of holes in the walls and no TV, it looked pretty normal. Sheila did a good job of cleaning up and putting everything back where it belonged. The only thing she didn’t return to its proper place was the photo album; the shelf where it once sat remained empty.

  We never saw the album again.

  Landing on a Pitchfork

  I spent a lot of my time in my room after my mom left. Dad was too dangerous to be around. Sheila obviously didn’t want to be there either. She was always gone, out with her friends.

  One day, while I was sitting on my floor, mostly just trying to hide from life behind my stand-up dresser, my dad came in. I was just sitting there, not doing anything, because to do anything would’ve taken more energy than I was willing to exert.

  Dad walked in and sat on the bed, facing me. He stared at me for several long, uncomfortable seconds, saying nothing. Just staring. I tried to maintain eye contact, but it was too hard. I looked at him, at the floor, back to him, back to the floor. Finally he spoke.

  “Samuel, life’s hard. It’s not meant to be fair. It’s not meant to be fun. It’s meant to be hard. It’s cold. It’s uncaring. Unforgiving. Life doesn’t give a shit whether or not it runs over you like a semi. In a nutshell, life is about survival. About making it out of one bullshit day and into the next.”

  He stopped, stared some more. I had no idea what to say. I looked at him, at the floor, at him.

  He continued. “Your mom left because she didn’t care about you. She didn’t care about me. She didn’t care about Sheila. She didn’t care about anyone or anything but herself. But that’s life. That’s what I’m saying. Life doesn’t care.” He exhaled loudly. I wasn’t sure where he was going with this, but I was cornered. I had no choice but to hear him out. He added, “And life is about death. But you have firsthand experience with that, now, don’t you?”

  Okay, I knew where he was going with it.

  “What
you did is already tearing the family apart. Your grandma, your aunts and uncles, your cousins, they all want you to pay for your sins. But you’re eight. So there really isn’t anything anyone can do. So they think they’re somehow going to come after me. But guess what? That’s not happening. I’m not going to have any liability for what you did.” He shook his head. “This whole thing went down as an accident. But we both know it wasn’t. There’s something wrong with you, boy. I see it in your eyes. But I don’t know exactly what it is. I can’t put my finger on it. Bottom line, you’re broken inside.

  “So here’s what we’re going to do. We’re going to move past all this bullshit that’s happened. Your mom is gone. And you’re not going to be seeing your grandma again any time soon. So you just sit there on the floor and do nothing. It’s probably the only thing you’re good at. Stay in your room and stay out of my way. Got it?”

  I stared, hatred for him welling in my heart.

  “Boy, I asked you a question. You get what I’m saying?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He stood, stared at me a second, and then walked out. Not one more word.

  After he left, closing the door behind him, I thought about not seeing my grandma anymore.

  I liked going to Grandma’s. No matter what time we got there, she had a bowl of golden hominy warmed and ready for me. I was probably the only kid on the planet who liked hominy. She had Velveeta cheese for Sheila.

  Grandma was the only person in the world who made any effort to comfort me. One night, as a young boy lying on a bed of blankets on the living room floor, when I feared the dark—actually, I still fear the dark—Grandma kneeled beside me. It was just me and her. Everyone else had gone to bed. Sheila got a bed, because she was a girl. I got the floor.

  “I’m scared, Grandma,” I said.

  “Of what, honey?”

  “Of the dark.”

  “Listen,” she said. “Just listen.”

  I did for a few seconds, not saying anything. She stared down at me, also quiet. After a moment, I said, “Grandma, all I hear are the crickets.”

  “Exactly,” she answered. “And that’s how you know you’re safe. If something bad is out there, the crickets will be silent.”

  She was right. From that moment on, when I heard crickets chirping, I knew nothing bad was out there.

  The crickets were silent in the Confinement Center. And they are still silent in the Criminal Zoo.

  Grandma’s house had to be seen to be appreciated. Grandpa built it out of rock, mud, and wood from the surrounding area. The roof of the house looked like it was made mostly out of tar paper. Inside was a low ceiling with exposed light bulbs. There was no means of moving air—hot or cold—and it was far longer than it was wide. Grandpa added a new room, lengthening the house, each time another child was born. After nine kids, the place looked more like a broken-down train with its wheels buried in the earth than anything else.

  Those in the house, until just recently, relied on ditch water for everything from taking baths to irrigating alfalfa. A plastic container filled with already-boiled water sat in the refrigerator. If we came in thirsty from playing outside and the container was empty, a refreshing drink was at the far end of a boiling and cooling cycle.

  Supposedly, the last room of the house—unoccupied since Aunt Rachel died after getting bucked off her horse—was haunted. That’s what my older cousins said, and they swore they weren’t making it up. I never slept back there to find out.

  Grandpa died when I was still pretty young; I could never remember the name of the disease, but I guess after he got sick, he suffered a lot. I didn’t really know him very well, except I remember him being mean. I also remember he had a really scary German Shepherd named Max. He bit me when I was pretty little. Hence my reasons for not wanting a Brutus later in life.

  During the days, there were always things to do with my cousins, who lived just down the dirt road. We played in the fields, explored the hills, and chased tadpoles, blue gill, perch, water snakes, and frogs in Grandpa’s pond. I have no idea why everyone called it that. Maybe Grandpa dug it, or paid good money for it, or just told everyone it was his.

  I hung out the most with my cousin Jeremy, who was closest to me in age. He always seemed to do everything better than me. We spent a lot of time climbing on the haystack in the barn. It had to be at least twenty feet high. The grownups would come out and yell at us to get off. We would climb down, they’d go back into the house, and then we’d climb right back on. That haystack was better than any playground toy ever built.

  Then, during an otherwise normal trip to Grandma’s, Jeremy fell off the haystack and landed on a pitchfork. He should have been paying more attention to what he was doing, instead of screwing off and laughing at me.

  As he fell past me, I swear he did it in slow motion, screaming, his eyes wide, his mouth in the classic O shape. I smiled. I don’t know—the moment just seemed perfect.

  None of the family members who came to the hospital would sit by me in the waiting room. Not even my grandma. They all just glared, like I’d meant to wiggle the hay bale Jeremy was standing on. I was climbing. It was loose. He stood above me, on the edge, making fun of how slow I was.

  But did anyone ask who left the Goddamn pitchfork lying in the hay? No. Not one person asked that.

  After a long wait, the doctor came in and gave us the news. “One of the tines penetrated Jeremy’s aorta.” I didn’t even know what an aorta was, but apparently if it gets penetrated, it’s bad. “I’m sorry, but he had already lost too much blood by the time he got here. We couldn’t save him.”

  Aunt Ellen, Jeremy’s mom, starting screaming. Loud. Everyone ran to her, huddled around her, crying. Everyone but me, my dad, and Sheila. We all just sort of stood there, watching. Well, I was watching. And then I turned to Sheila and my dad. They were staring at me.

  “What?” I asked, looking at Sheila.

  My dad’s look turned hateful. “Shut up, Samuel. Just shut up.”

  The doctor approached the huddled mass and said, “I’m so sorry for your loss.” He gave them a look of deep compassion and then turned and left the room.

  I looked at my dad. His look drove my eyes into the floor.

  Whoever left that stupid pitchfork lying in the hay really screwed everything up.

  A Treat For Brutus

  In the governor’s Criminal Zoo, there were no lawns to mow. No leaves to rake. No hedges to trim. No sprinklers to move. Zoo exhibits had far more important things to worry about. Like surviving another day of torture at the hands of the real animals—the ones bent on hurting you.

  I often think back to the days spent in the hot west Texas sunshine, sweating my ass off doing things I once thought were bullshit chores. I used to complain. I wouldn’t anymore.

  “Son of a bitch!”

  I slammed down the lever controlling the lawnmower’s throttle and the engine shut off. I had just taken another rock to the shin and it hurt like hell. I stared at the garage sale mower for maybe a second before I kicked it. Even with tennis shoes on, that hurt almost as much as getting hit by the damn rock.

  I pulled off my work gloves, my fingers hot and sticky, and wiped sweat—along with grass and dirt—from my forehead. My T-shirt was covered with the same. I surveyed the yard. For as much as I watered, it sure wasn’t very green. I think I mowed more dirt than grass. I dropped the gloves on top of the lawnmower and went into the house. It was just too damn hot; I would finish the yard later.

  Carla was still in bed. That’s where she always was when there was work to be done. In bed with that damn beast of a dog sleeping next to her like it was his job. I swear Brutus was every bit as lazy as Carla.

  An ice-cold glass of tea—yeah, that’s what I needed. I went to the cupboard, grabbed a glass, and slammed the door closed. If it woke Carla and the stupid mutt, good. It was almost t
hree in the afternoon. Just because she worked the graveyard shift didn’t mean she needed to sleep all day. I moved to the fridge, filled my glass with tea, and sat at the kitchen table. My mind drifted back to our kitchen table in the apartment. After Mom left, it only had two legs. A victim of Dad’s rampage. He propped the legless end up on cinder blocks. Yeah, it looked as stupid as it sounds.

  The tea was good, refreshing, unlike the interior of the house. The shitty little window-mount air conditioner wasn’t doing a very good job of keeping up with the heat. How could Carla sleep? Even with her little fan on the bedside table, it had to be uncomfortable. And that dog—big, hairy, and smelly—lying next to her? Gross.

  I thought about Brutus for a moment, thought how nice it would be to have him gone. I told Carla we didn’t need a stupid dog. I told her I could protect her. My thoughts were never too far from finding a way out of the Brutus era. Besides, why should Carla get what she wanted? I never got anything I wanted. Not a Goddamned thing.

  Suddenly a pretty cool idea hit me. I rose from my chair and walked to the cupboard where Carla kept the dog biscuits. Brutus knew where his treats were kept. I opened the cabinet door, allowing the creaky hinges to declare my intentions. Brutus came bounding in a few seconds later. He shook his head, flapping his ears back and forth as if it accomplished something more important than sending his flea-infested hair in every direction. Then he stared at me.

  “What, you want something?” I stared back.

  Brutus tilted his head and gave me a look that I interpreted as saying, “I hear you talking, but I’m barely smart enough to know how to breathe.” He wagged his bushy tail, his tongue hanging out of his mouth. Saliva dripped onto the linoleum.