Victor … Kevin Lopez

by Kevin Lopez Reaching into the truck bed, he grabs the first dog by its hind legs, and in a singular motion, swings the poor thing above his head until it slams against the earth with a terrible dull thud. As the first dog is whimpering and writhing in the dirt, he grabs the second with both hands and cocks his right leg back. He lets the little creature fall from his hands and meet his tibia and metatarsals, sending it into the fading twilight until he, too, welcomes the earth with a sickening smack. Stop it. Stop it. Stop! ¡Pinche perros! I hold back my father as he chases those broken creatures into an empty field. Twilight races onward, chasing the night, and what only can be heard are the painful howls of those now destitute dogs and the heavy breathing of wrath personified.

• Fields of green, vast vistas of lush grass, and trees of towering heights open themselves up to the cloudless radiant blue sky. Great tracks of tobacco, corn, and cotton quiver under the wind’s gentle advances. The land of the south is serene, and waits patiently for the sun to take its slow but faithful walk across the expanse. The rolling hills disappear behind the horizon as we travel down a long stretch of gravel road. Before us is five acres of land, my father’s land. Here, I will spend a summer in Alabama, with my father and his family. My father is a sturdy man with walnut-colored skin that is marked with many scars. His hair is bespeckled with white, his unkempt brows are jet black, he wears a

Creative Works… 204 well-trimmed mustache, and the knuckles of his hands are knotted from decades of toil. His wife is a kind and sweet woman; her height struggles to reach five feet, but she displays a firmness in her small stature, like a circus master would when training a lion to act against its nature. Two half-sisters. The elder is born with autism; her dysmorphic feature is a broad forehead, but her blessing is an even broader smile. The younger is petite with a pointed nose and small teeth; she has the fortune of inheriting cajones to fight for her desires. My half-brother, who is the spitting image of our father in his youth, is playful with his siblings, but tentative around his older living portrait. Finally, there I am—a fourteen-year-old boy visiting his family for the first time in the deep south, after years of distance. • He drove with white-knuckled silence, gripping the steering wheel with the fury of a man who had been wronged, because he had been wronged. The two dogs who had recently been the victims of his skewed justice had belonged to a neighbor: a Border Collie and Jack Russell Terrier. These two dogs, on several occasions across the summer, had killed some of my father’s hens and chicks. He warned the neighbors that if they didn’t control their dogs, he would. After a fresh batch of chicks were found dead, he caught the dogs, tied them up, threw them in the bed of his truck, and ordered me to join him. We drove for over two hours, clear across the rolling hills of Alabama, until he was satisfied they would never find their way home. I was a kid. The summer had gone well up until that point. I had swam in the warm waters of the Tennessee River, played board games with my half-siblings late into

Creative Works… 205 the night, and learned of my father’s history. Yet, I was disgusted with him. The sound of heavy-ladened wind rushing past us and the steady hum of the engine was all that was heard on that journey home.

• The summer’s heat is fading, and autumn conspires her return. I have a few days left and am anxious to get away. An apology of sorts is arranged when my father says he has a special surprise for me. We go out into the chicken coop and he tells me to select a hen. I choose one with brown feathers streaked in white highlights. He grabs the hen, holds her down, and with the other hand, gives me a knife. Cortar el cuello. No. Como que no. I don’t want to do it. Es para ti. He looks sorrowful. I take the knife, slit her throat, and watch as she kicks and jerks— moments later she is still at last. Speaking softly and caressing her, he thanks her for her life. It is my first kill. That evening he makes it a point that I should have the honor of eating her heart. Like before, I resist, but give in to his advances. Tender is the heart– is my heart.

• The final race of the season, and my brother is set to run first. My father and I began at the front of the race. The gun sounds and we begin running– not on the path of the three mile course, but cutting across the park to meet my brother

Creative Works… 206 at the next juncture where we can cheer him on. My father leaps and bounds to each successive stop, all while yelling his son’s name and encouragement. ¡Vamanos, con ganas! ¡Corre! ¡Corre! ¡Vamanos, mi hijo! He runs alongside him for a stretch of the race, keeping pace with the son that bears his visage. I trail behind, watching the pair with happy delight and a pang of sadness. My father chases after his son, and I chase after my father.

• Driving to the airport, we laugh and exchange stories as the fields of green pass us by. The sun faithfully turns along its arch, and the wind blows cold, foretelling of the autumn ahead.

Our time has come. I embrace each member of my family in their turn, and he is last. We hold on firmly, biding this moment. He whispers softly. I love you, son.