Mrs. Luz was the old lady next door who played her radio really loud all the time. Her son, Juanito, had stolen the radio for his mother a few weeks ago, and it had been blasting at top volume ever since. Juanito was a drug dealer who occasionally supplied Kathleen with the methamphetamines a friend of his mixed up in a basement somewhere. Isaac knew this, and he hated Juanito.
A lot of people didn�t, though. Juanito had the reputation of being the Robin Hood of the Earl J. Norman Housing Project, someone who would supply you with a small amount of money or leave a bag of groceries at your doorstep when things got too bad. He�d also sell you black-market electronics at huge discounts. Once day last September, Isaac, Taylor and Zac had been sitting on stoop outside of the house when Juanito had come down the sidewalk, on his way to see his mother. He�d paused, smiled, and handed them a five dollar bill.
Taylor thought he�d dropped it, chasing Juanito up the stairs. �Hey, Mr! You lost your money!�
�That�s okay, kid.� Juanito was darkly handsome, dark eyes crinkling beneath arched eyebrows. �You keep it.�
�It�s a lot of money. . .� Taylor had breathed. �Don�t you need it?�
�It�s nothing, kid.� Juanito had winked at Taylor, and disappeared down the hall of the building.
�Wow,� Taylor had gasped. �Hey, thanks, Mr.!�
�He owes us way more than that,� Isaac had pointed out. �You know how much Mom blows on him a month?�
Taylor held the bill at arm�s length, watching the sunlight crinkle through it. �Wow,� he�d whispered.
Isaac shook his head. �I�d say burn it, but it�s money. . .� The night before had been especially bad, and all three of them were black and blue. �He really, really owes us...�
Mrs. Luz, thought Juanito was great. She didn�t know he dealt drugs, didn�t know where he�d gotten the radio he�d given her. Her son had told her that he worked as a security guard at the mall, and, at seventy-six, she was naive enough not to doubt him. Isaac tried not to talk about her, because he always worried he�d find himself blurting out the truth about her son, and what Juanito did for a living. He tried to avoid her as much as possible, but on the day after Christmas, she opened the door of her apartment while he was walking down the hall.
�Isaac!� Mrs. Luz called, pronouncing it like E-Zac. �Isaac, can you come here for a moment, please?� A Puerto-Rican immigrant, she spoke in a heavy accent and was most comfortable with the Spanish language, even after forty years in the United States. �Por favor?�
�Uh huh?� Isaac didn�t really want to, but he turned around and walked back toward her, stifling a cough.
Mrs. Luz was lonely, and she wanted company. �Would you like to come in? Do you want some Jello-O?�
�Uh. . . okay.� Isaac sensed, somehow that she needed to have someone with her,
that day upon day in a solitary apartment was too much for an old lady to bear alone. I can leave soon, he thought. I�ll just say hi, happy new year, and leave.
Mrs. Luz had no inkling of Isaac�s plan. Cheerfully, she began talking as if the nine year old was her oldest friend and she had been waiting for him to arrive all day. She talked about Christmas; hopefully Juanito would remember to stop by and see her. She talked about her girlhood days in Puerto Rico, and she talked about her dear, departed husband, Raul.
Mrs. Luz talked about her sister, and her niece�s baby. She talked about the nuns who visited her once a week to help her with the housework and to talk to her for awhile. �It gets ahead of me,� Mrs. Luz admitted. �I don�t get around as good as I used to.� Isaac felt his stomach clench when she talked about her dear, sweet son, Juanito, and what a kind, generous boy he was, even if he didn�t have time to visit his mother very often.
The worst thing Mrs. Luz said, though, was about the radio. She displayed the small black box proudly, pointing out all of the different features to Isaac.
�I�m so scared here alone at night, since Raul died. . .� Here, Mrs. Luz, a devout Catholic, crossed herself, casting sorrowful eyes toward heaven. �Juanito, he knows this. So he gives me a radio, so I can play music and have company.� She beamed. �He is such a good son, a beautiful son.�
Isaac swallowed hard. The radio was Mrs. Luz�s lifeline, her passport to rest of the world, and her comfort when she had to spend nights alone in her apartment. If Mrs. Luz didn�t have her radio, she�d feel scared and lonely. She would live in terror and in silence. Isaac had never felt more guilty in his life. He�d been hating that radio since she�d gotten it, but it meant so much to Mrs. Luz.
She�d put pineapple in the Jell-O, so it hadn�t really gelled; Isaac didn�t much like orange Jell-O anyway. Still, he stirred it around with his spoon a little bit, wanting to be polite, and pretended that he was eating. Finally, he asked Mrs. Luz if she wanted him to wash his dish before he left.
The sparkle went out of Mrs. Luz�s eyes. �Are you leaving?�
Isaac scanned the kitchen. Dirty dishes spilled out of the sink and were piled in stacks on the countertops. A glass of orange juice had spilled on the table, the bright liquid hardened and sticky. �I could stay a little while, and help clean up,� he offered. No one should live like this, he thought. Once you were too old to take care of yourself, your kids should take care of you. Someone should.
Mrs. Luz clasped her hands together. �That is lovely, thank you.�
Isaac lifted a bottle of dishwashing liquid from the ledge on the back of the sink and scanned the room, looking for a sponge. �Don�t mention it. I�m glad I can help.�
The dishwashing liquid had congealed at the bottom of the bottle, an opaque pink substance that clouded the sides of the plastic container. The outside wrapper was sticky to the touch. Squeamishly, Isaac twisted open the cap, ignoring several small cockroaches that had crawled into the gunk around the sides and died. He filled the bottle partway with water, replacing the cap before he shook it. Foam squirted through the opening at the top of the bottle and leaked around the sides. Isaac started on the dishes.
Mrs. Luz sat at the kitchen table, keeping up her side of what would have been, to a less lonely person, a highly unsatisfying conversation. Isaac, so wrapped up in cleaning the dishes that he wasn�t concentrating on much else, answered only every once in awhile, and then with an �Uh huh,� or �Oh,� when Mrs. Luz seemed to require some sort of response from him. Within forty-five minutes, he�d taken care of about two thirds of the dishes in the kitchen; the front of his shirt was dripping wet with water he�d spilled and his arms were aching. Still, Isaac kept on.
He was tired when he finished, examining the wrinkled pads of his fingers and wishing he were somewhere quiet.
�Mrs. Luz,� Isaac said, �I really have to go. I have to make dinner.�
Mrs. Luz nodded sadly. �Si, si. Do you really have to?�
Isaac took a deep breath. �I�m sorry.�
Mrs. Luz nodded again. �Si. You had better go, nino. Thank you for helping me with my. . . dishes. You clean very well. Thank you.�
�Thanks,� Isaac rubbed his eyes with the back of one hand. �It was no big deal. Happy New Year.�
Mrs. Luz nodded. She was missing a lot of teeth. �Si. Happy New Year to you.�
Isaac grinned. �Thanks. See ya!� Worried she�d call him back, and afraid he�d be unable to refuse her forlorn gaze, he dashed into his own apartment and closed the door behind him.
Kathleen looked up. �Where were you?�
Isaac swallowed. His mother was almost never home this time of day. �Next door?�
�Why were you next door?� Kathleen demanded.
�It. . . It was my fault, I guess. . . the old lady asked me to go in, and then I helped her do the dishes. It. . . it kind of took. . . a long time,� Isaac stammered.
�Did I give you permission to go next door?� Kathleen shouted.
Isaac shook his head. �I. . . I didn�t think you�d mind.� It was cold in here. His wet shirt stuck to his chest, and he realized he was shivering.
�I do mind.� Kathleen narrowed her eyes and turned toward the kitchen. �Roy?�
�Yeah?� When you were nine years old, a lot of people looked like giants. Isaac would have sworn up and down, though, that the man who came out of the kitchen had to be taller than average. He had a huge potbelly that swelled over the belt of his jeans, small, glittering blue eyes and solid, brawny muscles that strained against the fabric of his stained white T-shirt. Isaac swallowed hard. He�d never seen Roy before.
�What did your father do to you when you went running off all over creation and didn�t even bother asking him first?� Kathleen demanded. She was confident of what Roy�s answer would be, and she was right.
Roy�s wine colored skin turned a shade redder. �He woulda whupped me.�
Kathleen glanced from Isaac to Roy. �My boys don�t have a father around to make�em listen.�
Oh, God, no. Isaac thought. Oh, please, no. . .
�What are you sayin�?� Roy whistled through his front teeth when he talked.
�I�m saying I�d appreciate if you�d do me a little favor.� Kathleen smiled coquettishly. �Would you, sweetheart?�
Even Kathleen had been taken aback by the load of construction supplies Roy had been carting around in the back of his van. Still, she hadn�t stopped the man when he�d come back upstairs brandishing a two-by-four as if it were a matchstick. �It�s for your own good,� she told Isaac. �You have to learn to obey my rules.� Isaac only half-heard her. Out of the corner of his eye he watched Taylor take Zac�s hand and dart off down the hall, in the direction of the bathroom. Good, Isaac thought. They won�t have to see what�s coming.
My own good. . . Isaac thought, not wanting to open his eyes. Obey the rules. . . He�d stood there and taken Roy�s beating as long as he could, but a fifty-two pound nine year old is no match for two hundred and eighty pounds of solid force. For awhile after the initial blackout, he�d faded in and out of consciousness. He wasn�t sure how much time had passed. Obey the rules. . .
Isaac felt his eyelids slide open and he tried to take a deep breath. Sometimes, when you fell on hard cement, all the wind was knocked out of you and you couldn�t breathe. That was how he felt now, only it was ten times worse than hitting the asphalt on the playground. His heart was racing and he felt as if someone were putting intense pressure on his stomach, just beneath his rib cage. Isaac swallowed, tasting blood.
He pushed himself up as slowly and carefully as he could, pain shooting through his entire body and knocking him dizzy. He had to find Taylor and Zac to let them know it was safe to come out. He�d just sit here a minute and wait for his head to clear.
�Ike?� Taylor peered around the doorway, his eyes large and terrified. �Ike, please don�t be dead. Please, please don�t be dead.�
�I�m not dead,� Isaac managed. He rose unsteadily, gripping the wall, and stumbled over to the bed. �I�m okay, don�t worry. Where�s Zac?�
�He fell asleep. It�s kind of late. There�s lots of blood,� Taylor observed. �Do you want me to get something to wash it off?�
�No.� Isaac rested his forehead in his hand, trying to focus on something. �You guys have to eat dinner. . .�
�I made sandwiches,� Taylor volunteered, grinning. �I made�em all by myself. I could make you one if you want.�
Isaac couldn�t face the thought of food right now. �No. Thanks anyway. It�s good you made�em. . . on your own.�
Taylor sat down next to his brother. �Do you want to see what kind of bruises you got?�
Normally, Isaac was interested in this. After a particularly bad time with their mother, they would all compare bruises. Sometimes you could even find shapes in them.
�Uh uh.� Isaac coughed. When he looked down at his hand, he realized that it was specked with fresh blood on top of the old. Shakily, he stood up.
�Are you okay?� Taylor called, worried.
Isaac didn�t answer. It was all he could do to make it to the bathroom before a paroxysm of coughing brought up a good deal more blood. Terrified, Isaac concentrated all his energy on keeping himself from crying. He didn�t want to deal with this. . . he didn�t know what to do. . .
�Ike?� Taylor was coming down the hall. Quickly, Isaac flushed the toilet and dropped the lid. He pretended he�d been looking in the bathroom mirror the entire time.
�Ike, I was worried. . .� Taylor began, then paused. �Boy, you really did get beat up. Are you sure you�re. . .�
�I�m okay,� Isaac lied. �I�m really okay.�
�You�re lucky it�s Christmas break. You couldn�t go to school looking like that.�
Isaac nodded. �I know.� He cupped his hands beneath the bathroom faucet and splashed some water on his face, trying to wash off the blood. It took a little while, but most of it came off. He didn�t look at his reflection. He didn�t want to think about what had happened.
�Are you sure you don�t want a sandwich?� Taylor asked. He was concerned about his brother. Isaac was perched on the edge of the bed, leaning forward with his elbows resting on his knees and his forehead resting on his hands. His skin was sheet white, prickling into goosebumps and beaded with sweat. If Isaac wanted a sandwich, Taylor thought, he�d know his brother was all right.
�No,� Isaac told him. �No, I really don�t.� His stomach had started to hurt. He knew he couldn�t eat anything.
�Ike, it�ll be better tomorrow,� Taylor promised, sympathy in his eyes. �Maybe she won�t be home tomorrow.�
Isaac blinked. It was taking a long time for him to absorb information. �Tay. . . is the bed moving?�
Taylor was taken aback. �Moving?�
Isaac squeezed his eyes shut. �Rising and falling.�
Taylor shook his head. �No, it�s still.�
�Am I moving?� Isaac wondered.
�You�re shivering,� Taylor told him. �Maybe you should go to bed.�
Isaac struggled to maintain his grip on consciousness. �Are you sure it isn�t moving?�
�I�m sure,� Taylor was getting worried. His brother was talking like a crazy person. �It�s definitely not moving.�
Isaac drew in as deep a breath as he could. He was shivering, he realized. He wasn�t sure how long he�d be able to stay awake. . .
�Ike?� Zac had woken up the other room, looked around and realized that he was alone, except for the blaring TV. It had taken every ounce of courage in his body to get off the couch and into the other room. Now he stood in the doorway, his hair tousled from sleep and his eyes filling with tears. �Ike, I thought you were. . .�
�I�m okay,� Isaac said again. By now he had almost convinced himself that it was true. �Come on and get in bed.�
Zac was too small to climb onto the mattress without taking a flying leap and launching himself from a foot or two away. The impact of his little brother landing on the bed sent a jolt of pain through Isaac�s body. He clenched his jaw as tightly as he could.
�Are you sure you�re okay?� Taylor asked again.
�Yeah,� Isaac breathed, trying to forget the last few twinges of throbbing pain that echoed through his body. �Yeah, I�m okay.�
Taylor didn�t really believe him. That night he lay awake for a long time, unable to fall asleep. If he tried to squirm in one direction, Zac would kick him. If he tried to squirm in the other direction, Isaac would stir uncomfortably. �Tay, don�t move around so much.�
Taylor sighed. It was, he decided, a situation in which he had no choice but to lie where he was and be uncomfortable, he decided. When he did sleep it was lightly, unrefreshingly. He kept jumping awake every time the mattress creaked.
When the front door opened at 3:37 that morning, Taylor opened his eyes with a start. He recognized his mother�s footsteps, though, heavy on the cracking linoleum floor, and tried to will himself back to sleep. She wouldn�t hurt them any more tonight. She would be too stoned.
Taylor stiffened as the bedroom door creaked open and a dark shadow fell across one wall. His mother leaned heavily against the doorframe, her breath noisy in the relative stillness of the night. She didn�t say anything. She didn�t move for a long time.
Taylor kicked Isaac beneath the sheet. Isaac awoke abruptly, gasping. He sat up too quickly and had to rest on his elbows for a second. It took him a little while to see his mother in the door. When he did he drew back, shifting his eyes away. He was worried he was going to be hurt again, and he tried to mentally prepare himself.
�I�m sorry.� In the dim hallway light, Kathleen�s black eye was clearly visible; her lip was swollen, split and red. �I should never have let him do that. . . I�m really sorry.� A tear ran down her cheek, leaving a trail of her already smudged black mascara.
�It�s okay,� Isaac assured her, and he really believed it was. It was just a mistake, he thought. It really isn�t a big deal. �Are you okay, Mom?�
�I shouldn�t have let him do that,� Kathleen slurred. �I shouldn�t have. . .�
�Mom. . .� Isaac climbed out of bed slowly; his muscles had stiffened. �You should lie down. Come on. . .�
He took his mother�s hand and led her out to the couch. �We won�t bother you,� he promised. �We�ll be really quiet in the morning.�
Isaac stood there for a moment, gathering the strength it would take to walk back to his room and wondering if there was anything else he could do to help his mother. Sighing, he trudged to the bathroom and lifted a bottle of Extra-Strength Tylenol off of the sink. The childproof cap wasn�t on securely; he wouldn�t have had trouble opening it anyway. Isaac shook out two for his mother; she would have a hangover in the morning. He paused for a moment, then took a few himself, more than he was supposed to, he knew. In fact, he wasn�t even supposed to take regular Tylenol for three more years. He hurt a lot, though. He didn�t think there was anything else he could do.
Sighing, Isaac tiptoed down the hall. He heard the pitter-patter of small feet scampering across the bedroom floor; Taylor managed to leap back into bed before Isaac entered the room, but he couldn�t convince his older brother that he�d been sleeping.
�You should have been asleep,� Isaac whispered.
Taylor didn�t open his eyes. �I am asleep.�
�No you aren�t.� Isaac curled on his side on the mattress. Slowly, the world began fading around him.
Taylor drew in a long, shuddering breath. Instantly, Isaac was up again.
�What�s the matter?�
Taylor shook his head.
�Seriously, Tay, what�s the matter? Why are you crying?�
�I�m not,� Taylor sniffled.
Isaac rolled his eyes. �Yeah you are, don�t lie. What�s wrong?�
�It�s not supposed to be like this,� Taylor buried his face in the pillow. �Why is she like that?�
Isaac shook his head. �I don�t know.�
�Why can�t she ever get better?�
�I don�t know.�