Robert Garner McBrearty

A Mark on the Cheek

I’m at a neighborhood cafe one day, reading, when the bullethead comes in. Military, or ex-military. Tanned, lean, hard, early fifties, handsome for a bullethead. As he orders, he stares intensely into the barista’s eyes, as if he can win her over with the sheer force of his will. She’ll quit her job on the spot and walk off with him. Right. She passes over the coffee and retreats. He glares, turns huffily away.

From the moment he walked in, he knew I was watching him. I pretend to be interested in my book. No dice. He beelines toward me, sits down at my table, gives me a hard look. He doesn’t sip from his coffee. We chat for a couple of minutes, and I try to fend him off with small talk. Then he leans in, tired of the crap.

“I know you,” he says.

“I doubt it.”

“You’re a fighter, just like me. I see it in your eyes, the way you watched me when I came in.”

“I didn’t fight in a war.”

“Maybe not. But I know a fighter.”

I shrug. “A few years of karate, a little boxing.”

He sneers. “That’s a joke. Let’s take it outside if you’re so tough.”

“I don’t want to fight you.”

He taps on the table with his knuckles as if he’s won a point. He grins. A gold tooth flashes way back in his mouth. “I scared you, didn’t I?”

“Yeah. Sort of.”

He nods slowly, studying me. He leans in closer, his breath hot. “What would you do if I slapped your face?”

I took his slaps before. I can feel the hand there, remember the red marks it left on my cheek. I took it silently, standing there, not knowing how many slaps there would be, taking it because that was what was expected, fearing something worse if I didn’t take it.

“I would hit you back this time,” I say. But I hear the tremble in my voice.

He makes as if to slap me, but his hand slows, stops an inch from my face, hovers for a moment as if wishing to caress.

His hand folds in on itself and drops lifelessly. Something like tears, a moistness, appears in his eyes. “I won’t bother you again.”

My chest aches as my father walks away, and in my throat rises an urge to call out to him, but I only watch as he disappears, maybe for the last time.

—

Robert Garner McBrearty‘s stories have appeared in his four collections and in many anthologies and literary journals, including The Pushcart Prize, The Missouri Review, Narrative, New England Review and New Flash Fiction Review. His new collection of short stories is forthcoming from University of New Mexico Press. More information about Robert’s writing can be found at http://www.robertgarnermcbrearty.com.