Free Suckerpunch by David Hernandez

I asked.
    Oliver glanced over at the photograph. I don’t know, he said.
    Then another photograph of the same woman, this time sitting beside Mr. Thompson at a restaurant. I held this up to Oliver.
    Oh, yeah, he said, pausing. That’s my aunt. I didn’t recognize her.
    Ashley coughed. The car grew quiet.
    Don’t be so damn nosy, Oliver said. I thought you were looking for CDs.
    Yeah, man, Enrique chimed in from the backseat.
    Ashley slapped Enrique on the arm.
    What? he said.
    Oliver kept his eyes on the road and said nothing. No one knew why his father killed himself, but I felt as though the answer, at least part of it, was in my hands, bracketed on a 3x5 glossy. I slipped the photos back inside the envelope and shoved them in the glove compartment.
    We hit some traffic when we reached the 5 freewayheading north. Catface jumped onto my lap and pushed her head under my hand so I would run my fingers down her back, which I did. She squinted and purred.
    Ashley leaned in, her head between the headrests. Catface looks stoned, she said. Then added, She looks like Marcus did at the party.
    I wasn’t stoned, I said.
    Whatever, you looked like that.
    What party? Enrique wanted to know.
    The hotel party a couple months ago, Oliver said. At the Travelodge.
    Oh, that . I wasn’t invited.
    I invited you, I said.
    No, you didn’t.
    Yes, I did, I said, pretending I was getting agitated. Truth is, I didn’t invite him. He was moody as hell that day and I didn’t want him around.
    A silver sports car swerved in front of us a few feet from the bumper and Oliver pushed down on the horn.
    Asshole, Enrique said from behind my headrest.
    Â 
    Just before Oliver picked us up that morning my mom told me to look after Enrique. He was in the bathroom, brushing his teeth and spitting into the sink.
    Has he said anything to you? she asked.
    What do you mean?
    About your father?
    Not really.
    He’s been more quiet than usual.
    Ever since my mom told him that our dad wanted to talk to us and eventually come home, something inside Enrique recoiled. He moved around the house like a jaguar, his head low. I half expected him to punch another wall and make another hole. He’d sit in front of the television with his dumbbells and lift them to his chin, a vein bulging alongside his forearm like an earthworm.
    Just keep an eye on him, my mom said.
    I know.
    Call me when you can.
    I will.
    Make sure he takes his medication.
    Mom, I said. Stop worrying. If worrying were an Olympic sport, you’d get the gold medal.
    I can’t help it, she said.
    We’ll be back on Monday, okay?
    Okay. Just watch your little brother.
    Okay .
    Â 
    We hurtled up the interstate and there was nothing to look at on either side of the highway but flatlands. After we drove past some almond groves, it was miles and miles of dried brush. I let my eyes follow the telephone wires that slid up and down above the horizon. It was hypnotic—the ballet of wires, their rising and falling. For a handful of seconds it quieted my mind and I forgot what Enrique and I were scheming to do. It was his idea to drive to Monterey and confront our dad. It was his idea to put him in his place, to hear our dad explain himself before whipping out the pistol and making him feel the way he had always made Enrique feel.
    I pulled the pistol out of my backpack and examined it closely. With the red plastic ring off, it looked like a regular gun. I wondered what he would do when it came time for Enrique to shove it in his face. And I wondered what Enrique would say, how he would handle all that power.
    I looked over at my brother in the backseat. Theantidepressants always made him drowsy in the afternoon and his eyes were now closed, his head rested against the smudgy window of the Buick. Still, it amazed me that he was able to sleep—we were going eighty miles per hour toward a man who had tortured him for years. There was adrenaline in my heart as my