Short Story / Vigilantes

        

Crawford was outside the house, calling out,  “Hey, you asshole”  I went over to the window and pulled up the shades.  He put his hand up and waved.  His breath broke white against the night air.  

“Shh”  

“Come on out, man.”  His body drifted backwards and then steadied.  

I put the shade back down and made my way downstairs.  Dad was passed out in his chair.  He had his mouth partly open, a low dry rustle making its way out of his throat.  I reached into his shirt pocket and pulled away some cigarettes, turned off the TV which had gone blue, and then tried not to slam the door on my way out.

Crawford was waiting in front of the driveway, breathing into his fists, shaking.  His face was pale, except for his nose, which had pinked in the cold.  I handed him a cigarette.  

“Shit, man.  Shit,” His hand shook as he touched the flame to the cig.  He took a drag, pulled the orange tip towards his lips, and choked against the virgin smoke.

“What’re you doing here?”

“It’s my sister.”  

“What’re you talking about?”  

“I know who it is.  She won’t say, but I know.  I know the son of a bitch who did it.”  

I looked back at the house.  Moths were beating nervously against the porch light, tapping the glass then swirling away to tap it again.  A jet cut the night sky—all of us below, we could hear it ripping.  Crawford flicked the cigarette into the street and spit something into the grass.

He took me by my shoulders.  “Look at me.”  His breath was sweet and sick and warm, hitting my face.  His fingers tightened around my jacket.  “Look at me.”

“What?”

“Are you my friend?”

“You’re drunk.”

“Are you my friend.”  He squeezed my shoulder, hard, pressing the words into my bones.  

“Yeah of course.”

“Then okay.”  Crawford let go and his face went slack.  “All right,” he said softly. He took a few steps into the street, and then turned around to look at me.  “Are you coming or what?”

        

I had only met Crawford’s sister Karen a few times.  She was a two years younger than us—a quiet bookish girl that Crawford shared his room with.  Her things were always neatly stacked on the dresser, little statuettes and beads and things.  Things that girls liked.  Whenever I was over at his house, she’d glance up at me over the rims of her glasses, close her book, and move to another part of the house.  

The only time we’d ever talked was a year ago.  It was the morning I walked his brother home after a night of hanging out.  It was spring then, and Crawford was hung over, and still a little drunk.  

She was on the porch, a paperback folded on her lap.  

“Kay, mom and dad home?” he said slow and gravelly.

“They’re upstairs waiting for you.”

“They seem pissed?”

She tucked in her lower lip and bit it.  I was watching a freckle below her ear move.  “You’d better get inside.”

Crawford looked at me, his eyes squinty and said, “I’d better get inside.”

He went into the house, and for a moment it was just me and Karen on the porch.  She looked down at her book.

“My brother.  He’s a moron, you know.”

I didn’t know what to say, so I mumbled something, turned around and went home.

  We made our way along the edge of the park.  Crawford walked slow over the uneven pavement, balancing a cigarette between his lips.  The smoke rose into his eyes, and he’d stop every now and then to wipe them.  Inside the park, the lamp posts looked like UFOs, making the air glow.  

“It’s cold, man,” I said, hugging myself to stay warm.

Crawford unzipped his jacket and pushed a thermos into my arms.  “Drink this.  This’ll warm you up.”

Something hot dropped down my throat and a queasy warmth bloomed through me.  “Oh…”  I squeezed my eyes tight.  “Ohh.  God.”

“Good, huh?”

I handed him back the thermos and made a face.  

“It’s my brother’s.”  He took a swig, shook his head, and kept on walking.

“Listen, with your sister…”

“You should see her, man.  I’ve never seen her so upset.  She’d been crying all afternoon.”  He shook his head.  “Probably still at it.”

“Look.  Let’s sit down for a second.”

We crossed into the park and made our way to the old soccer field.  The goal posts stood in the distance, humming against the wind.  Thick swirls of dust rolled across the field, kicking upwards to lick the moon.    We sat down on the bleachers and Crawford took a long pull on a cigarette, then licked his purple lips.  The smoke came out of him in a long ashen scarf.

“What do you plan on doing?”  

“I don’t know.  Find the guy.  Find him.  Find him and… and really—”

“Who is this guy?”

“I don’t know his name.  I know where he lives.  I’ve seen him on the street.  Skinny.  Kind of short.  Dark hair.  I know what he looks like.”  

He was shivering.  So was I.  “Forget it man.  It’s late and it’s cold.  Let’s just go home.”

He took another slug from the thermos and then passed it back to me.  My cheeks had turned numb, and the cold clamped down around my neck.  I took a deep swallow and wiped my eyes on my jacket sleeve.  The wind picked up, its roar filling our ears.  “How’re your parents taking it?”  I looked over at him.  He was staring at the soccer field.  There was no telling what he was thinking.

We finished what was left in the thermos, and Crawford flung it towards the field.  It landed somewhere we couldn’t see and couldn’t hear.  Like it had been swallowed up.  He shrugged against the cold and said, “Come on, we need some more.”

        

We headed out of the park, moving in big sloppy steps, taking fistfuls of the other’s jacket to keep from falling.  Except for the Korean, the strip a few blocks away had closed up for the night.  The vacant store windows glared coolly into the street, as a leaflet rustled down the avenue, dipping down to scratch the pavement.  

The Korean had his light on.  He was wearing a paper cap and there were copper stains against his apron.   His small eyes looked sleepily down on the deli counter.  And then, as if noticing us, he stared through the door out into the night.  

Crawford crossed the street and I followed after him.

“Whoa wait.  What if he cards us?” I asked.

“He’s not going to card us.”

“My dad, he buys his smokes here.  They practically know each other.”

“Look.  He doesn’t care.  Look at him.  He’s just happy to have some business.”

“No.”  He looked at me and then stepped towards the store.  “Crawford!”

“What?”

“No.  I… I mean, I can’t.  I don’t want to.”  He furrowed his forehead like he was trying to remember something.  “Look, I mean, I’ll pay for it.  But I can’t… I can’t go in there.”  

He scoffed and stepped into the store.  A little bell perched above the door jingled right before the door slammed shut.  I moved off to the side and looked in at a neighboring store.  A row of wedding cakes had been lined up along the display window.  The night had smeared them all purple.  I leaned my face close against the glass, so I could feel my breath against my face, and tried to see if the cakes were real or fake.  Then, with a finger, I drew my name where the glass had fogged.  

I took a step back, wondered if anyone would recognize it in the morning, and then wiped it away with my sleeve.  

“Well fuck you then!”  The Korean’s door crashed opened.  Crawford was stepping out backwards, cradling a 40 ounce bottle under his arm.  His hands were set akimbo, middle fingers up like guns.  The Korean shouted something after him.  “Call the fucking cops, chink,” he answered back.  Crawford glanced quickly at me and then we took off around the corner.  

Our feet hit rhythmically against the pavement.  I looked behind us; the Korean didn’t seem to be following us.  We breathed sharply, hunched over.  Crawford looked at me and wheezed, “What?”   Then we both started laughing, our breaths, our bodies shaking.  

        

“Shut—Shut up,” the words caught on his lips.  We ducked behind the car parked in the driveway.  He put his hand against the bumper and then dropped on to his knees.  A moldy light like vapor bled through the window pane and a shadow paced behind the curtains.  The whole thing looked like a jaundiced eye, reading the street.  

Crawford hissed at me, “Shhh, shhh,” but I hadn’t said anything.  

I could hear voices pass through the walls, soupy and garbled.  

“Come on,” I said.  “Let’s get out of here.”

“Shhh,” he said again.  He picked himself up and wiped something from his lips.  “Shhh.”  

“Crawford.”  He stumbled up the driveway, and disappeared behind the house.  “Craw—!”  

The sky was filled with a noise like a yawn, and I looked up at another jet blinking across the sky—like a malfunctioning star.  I realized suddenly that I was sitting on the driveway, my head leaning against the bumper.  Across the street, Christmas lights went like ivy around a  house.  Dull greens and reds switched on and off, staining the brick like a million winking eyes.

I began to feel sick and I couldn’t keep my nose from running.  My upper lip was slick and raw from where I had wiped it.  In the distance, a shopping cart rattled and crashed.  I looked out  towards the end of the block, but I couldn’t make anything out.  

I leaned my head towards the lawn and tried to retch but nothing would come up.  The muscles in my stomach tightened, pumping up air.  I grunted and spat and ducked my head back behind the car.  

I closed my eyes for a minute and listened to absolutely nothing.  The heat of my body pulled away in threads, unraveling towards an icy center.  

And then there came a low crack.  I opened my eyes and tried to steady my vision.  A voice called out, and I could hear footsteps kicking up gravel, making its way down the drive.  I peeked over the trunk saw Crawford bounding towards me.  Behind him, a larger man pumped his arms and sped after him, his robe rising behind like a cape.  

Suddenly my body surged upwards, weightless.  My arms opened wide and caught the man in an embrace.  I carried him towards the ground.  A sharp pain surged through my arm as we fell.  I could hear the gravel shifting out of place as we landed.  The man let out a grunt and cried something out in a language I didn’t understand.    I squeezed him in my arms, the warmth of his body seeping into mine, his muscles struggling against my grip.

Crawford stood over us and started hammering his boot down at our squirming bodies.   There was a low crack against my arms.  The man’s body went limp.  A second blow caught me on the side of my head.  My vision went white, and I rolled off the man, clutching my face.  “Ohhh.”  I opened my eyes.  The night looked like an empty screen.

“Oh shit.  Oh shit.  Are you okay?”

He picked me up, and we took off down the street.

        

Crawford walked me back to my house.  It sat empty and dark on the block.  The side of my face felt raw against the open air.  I sat down on the stoop.  Crawford leaned his face into mine and studied my eye.  “You okay?”

I looked into my lap and nodded.  

“Okay.  Well, I… I should probably get home.  You’re a good friend, you know that?”  

I nodded.

He took one last look at me, tilted his head, and left.

I sat there in the cold for a while and watched him head towards the corner and disappear.  A sick feeling bubbled in my gut.  I scrambled toward the hedges, leaned over and threw up.  My throat seared and the air felt like sand scraping against my lungs.  I felt for my keys in my pants but couldn’t find them.  Then I sat back down on the stoop and tried to figure out where I might’ve dropped them.

I opened my coat and slipped my hands under my arm pits to keep them warm.  I closed my eyes and tried to hum a tune to keep my teeth from chattering.  I tried to imagine my dad finding me the next morning, my face scraped and scaled.  I tried to imagine his expression, but all I drew was a blank.  Then I thought about my keys, sitting in the gravel.  I could picture them, catching the lamplight, a stunned and dizzy man plucking it like a weed.  

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