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Your daddy's demons are callin' your name
Don't you listen to them cause they've got no claim
Temptations may come, that ain't no sin
You get stronger every time that you don't give in
- Tim McGraw, Walk Like A Man
The floor was cool against his forehead, pressing up blond licks of hair into water that had pooled in the grout of the tile from a glass of water left sweating on the floor. A roasting, hot summer breeze blew back the petunia-dotted table-cloth and Clint reached a hand back to hold it down and scoot the chair closer, effectively trapping the cloth. His breathing seemed louder than the ticking of the clock on the wall, but he knew that was because he had to be quiet.
If he was found, it was all over.
Clint pressed his hands into the tiles, scooting up from laying flat on the ground to sitting comfortably underneath the small oak table, sheltered by the cloth that had stilled with the lapse in the air. He pressed a palm to his face, covering his mouth and watching the trees create dancing shadows through the window and onto the plastic barrier. His hearing wasn’t the greatest but he knew, over the sound of his muffled breath, that he heard footsteps. With wide eyes Clint Barton watched a looming shadow appear at the edge of the table and he pulled his knees to his chest, wiggling as far away as he could while still in his fort of safety. The shadow grew and blocked out those of the tree limbs and his gaze lingered to a pair of shoes not more than three feet away. The shadow bulged as its owner reached down, and pulled up the tablecloth. Fear settled in Clint’s stomach. He had been found.
It was over.
“Gotcha!”
Clint groaned and clambered out from under the kitchen table, the cherubic face of a scrawny five year old immediately transforming into an unpleasant scowl. “Barney, s’not fair! You cheated,” Clint grumbled and absentmindedly nudged the kitchen table so that the pushed in chair fell over into his older brother’s stomach.
“I did not!”
“Did too. I saw you peaking.”
“Clint you’re five, I’m nine. I’m older and I’m right, you need to learn to hide better,” Barney Barton adjusted the chair and placed his arms across his chest. Clint mimicked him and kicked out a socked foot at the air absentmindedly. He mumbled to himself as Barney rounded the table and knelt down to his younger brother’s height and ruffled Clint’s hair, to which Clint responded by swatting at Barney’s hand. “Remember what I said? This is good practice. You’re good at hiding Clint… but you need to be better!”
“Barney…” The voice of their tired mother entered the conversation. Mrs. Edith Barton wiped her hands on her cooking apron and placed one each on her boys’ shoulders. The boys took to playing hide and go seek every chance they could get, and Edith knew why. Mr. Barton, that was, Harold Barton, did not take kindly to his children, or his wife. Edith knew the boys could hide whenever Harold came home particularly drunk to avoid the inevitable. Or at least, Barney would tell Clint to hide. It broke her heart, each and every time, but there was no way to get out of it. No way.
The Iowan courts would not act in her favor, not when Harold used to work for the local Sheriff’s office. Not when her claims were seen as petty lies. Edith knelt at their feet, eye level with Clint and close to Barney. “Boys, I told ya once and I’ll tell ya again. Hidin’s okay, sometimes, it’s necessary. But you two can be more a man than your father ever was if one day you can stand up ta things like this.” Her gaze shifted to her elder son; Barney always noticed that his momma had nice eyes – kind eyes that were layered with tears more often than not, and the bright, bright, blue that was flicked with gray that skipped him and went straight on to Clint. Barney always thought that his momma didn’t deserve what Harold was doing to her; the bruises on her wrist, deep dark circles under her eyes, and the frailty in her movements suggested that his poppa wasn’t a good man all the time. And his momma was always telling him and Clint to be a good man one day.
“But when you can do it safely. And you both know safety in this house right now is protecting each other…” Her gaze narrowed, and Barney felt himself nodding under the pressure. He knew it made his momma upset when he stood up to his poppa. Clint knew, too, because Barney would come back to their bedroom late that night and crawl into bed and cry and Clint could hear it, and despite the fact that he was five and not the brightest crayon in the box in Kindergarten, he sorta always knew what was going on. “Now stop foolin’ around, and go upstairs to play,” Edith glanced at her watch worryingly. “He’s going to be later than usual today and I’ve not the slightest clue when he’ll be in here. I’ll call you down for supper…”
Clint reached forward and wrapped his arms around his mother’s frame, whispering in her ear gently, “I’ll be a good hider, momma I promise.”
“You’ll be more than that one day, Clint.”
At the time, Clint had no idea what his mother meant. And in all honesty, because he was five and his brother Barney was pulling him by the arm up the stairs as he looked backwards at his mother, who for some reason had tears in her eyes (why was she crying? Clint thought…) but it was quickly forgotten by the time the boys had reached their room.
“I’ll teach ya how to fight today,” Barney started, reaching under their bed for a pair of red woolen socks stowed under a floorboard. The socks were ratty and had worn patches and holes in them, but Barney knew his parents couldn’t afford the boxing set he’d always wanted so he took a pair of his poppa’s red socks (thankfully, his poppa hadn’t noticed that night) and pretended they were boxing gloves. Barney had asked Clint once after a particularly sour dinner with their hung-over father that resulted in a black eye if Clint wanted him to teach him how to throw a punch. After a few minutes of insisting that their mother wouldn’t be angry if she ever found out, it became ritual to brush up with the ratty red socks on how strong Clint could get his right hook.
Five minutes into Clint practicing by mundanely punching one of their pillows (he wasn’t much in the mood today, not after the confusing sentence his momma had whispered into his ear…) the boys heard the gravel of the driveway crunch under the tires of their father’s pick up truck as it wove to a stop. Clint dropped the socks where he stood, and quietly crept up to his bed by the window, little fingers grasping the window sill as he leaned and glanced out.
Sometimes, they could tell the mood of their poppa by the way he got out of the truck and came into the house, and other times they had no warning at all. Clint’s keen eyes watched as his father entered the small clapboard home empty handed. No bottles half-empty were in his hands this time, but there was a strange glint in his eyes. Barney stood by their bedroom door; his face pressed against the door jam and he listened.
“Edith!”
“…Over here, Harold…” they heard their mother call from the kitchen timidly. Barney bit at his lower lip and Clint climbed down from his bed to cross the room and listen, too, but his elder brother held out a finger to stop him. The creaking floorboards would remind their father that they were home. Sometimes, it was easier to be forgotten than face his drunken state. Clint’s feet were halfway to the ground but he quickly pulled them up onto the bed, crossing his legs and sitting anxiously on his hands.
“Barney…”
“Shh, Clint I can’t hear…”
“Get your things,” their poppa stated loudly. He had the tone to his voice that he had after he had had a lot to drink and was in a particularly good mood with himself. He could hear his mother shuffling around the kitchen and Clint pictured the scene in his mind; his momma, back pressed up against the kitchen counter and her hands covered in flour from baking all afternoon. She’d take off her apron and nervously press down her hair, forgetting that she still had to wash her hands and ending up with flour in her hair. She did that a lot, Clint noticed. He used to think it was funny until the sound of his laugh would set his poppa off in a particularly bad mood.
“S…Should I get the boys?”
“Nah! Leave the little shits up there! I want nuttin’ to … to do with ‘em I just wanna… I just wanna leave so would you GET YOUR THINGS, EDITH!”
“Barney…”
“Shut up, Clint!”
Clint didn’t understand. Did Barney not hear what their poppa had just said? They were going to leave; Clint just didn’t understand… Both boys froze in momentary panic when the sound of footsteps came up the stairs, but they soon realized that the pressure of the feet falling was too light to be their father in such a state – it was their momma. Their doorknob turned and Barney backed away across the room, tripping over a loose shoelace in desperation. The door opened and their mother appeared (Clint guessed correctly, there was flour in her hair and her eyes had that reassuring glint in them, but his stomach rumbled uncomfortably – something was wrong… her eyes were wet…there was a red mark on her cheek…).
“Boys, stay in here for the night. Do not go outside and do not open the doors. I’ll be back,” She had her bag in her hand, which meant that she and poppa were going out. Sometimes they did leave without Barney or Clint but they always came back, sometimes too late, sometimes half an hour after they left. Each time their mother seemed run dry and different and their father reeked of more alcohol than the state of Iowa could ever sell.
Clint watched as she grabbed Barney’s chin and kissed him firmly on the top of his head, whispering something into his hair. Barney had nodded and gave their momma a hug before she rushed over to Clint (“EDITH I FUCKING SWEAR TO GOD GET DOWN HERE!”).
Identical sets of eyes stared at one another briefly, and suddenly he was wrapped in the warmest hug Clint would ever remember. As she pulled away, Edith Barton told her baby boy, “Come on. Stand up straight, Clint.” Clint always did as his momma asked him to and got down off his bed. She put her hands on his shoulder and smiled, “I’m proud of you. I’ll be back, Clint.”
That was the only lie his momma ever told him.
Their parents didn’t return that night. Or ever. Blue and red flashing lights woke the boys up and strange people in uniforms came into the house to investigate and found the Barton brothers curled up in the corner of Clint’s bed from which they could see the patrol cars out the window. It was clear that the police weren’t expecting two young boys to be in the house; they were State troopers, and not the local police who knew the Barton family well enough to recall that they had two wiry, thin and reclusive but mild-mannered sons.
They were told more lies that night, something that would become expected for the rest of their lives.
Orphanages in Iowa were steadily going out of fashion, so foster families were the best option for the Barton boys. They were neither good nor bad. Both boys did their duties to earn their keep with each new family, but it was clear that they were antsy and rather moody siblings. Barney was getting old enough that he wasn’t afraid to speak back and hold his ground. Both boys had found a freedom in their father’s death, as morbid as that may’ve seemed to the outside world, and he’d often pick fights and then retreat upstairs without finishing them to make sure his younger brother was still in the house, safe and sound.
It was Clint who wanted to run away first.
Eventually, they did. The circus served as a refuge and they lived out many pathetic years under that tent, learning about travelling, about archery, about performance, about grinning when you wanted to throw up (something the boys were hauntingly good at), and about treachery, thievery, and betrayal.
Sometimes Clint had lain awake at the foot of the caravans, afraid of what he knew, and afraid of what he had seen since the age of five. With his hands behind his head on the dirt and dew covered grass, he would stare up at the stars and ignore the obvious noises of Barney and the newest gymnast doing…adult things (Clint muttered to himself unhappily. Barney was jealous Jacques had given him the headline show; Clint didn’t ask for it, so in return Barney was fucking every over-age girl he could convince that he was over 18. It wasn’t hard, he looked exactly like their poppa now with the mussed up brown hair and unshaven stubble growing in). Sometimes, in the stars he’d see the face of his mother, and the earliest memory he had of her telling him to stand on her toes in the kitchen as they twirled around to the grainy-sounding radio. He would chew on a piece of straw for lack of anything else to do, play with the ridiculous purple show cowl Jacques had made for him, and think of what their momma would say if she knew what Barney was doing at age fifteen (the sins of the father are the sins of the son, you can’t undo what has been done…).
If there was one thing Clint remembered most though, after the circus and now seventeen and hiding in a tree, eyes on the sky as a bright red and yellow suit zoomed across, it was how to hold his own, and as his momma once told him, to stand up straight and walk like a man. With a renewed determination, he climbed down the tree (with some difficulty – Jacques had trained Barney well enough with knives so that his brother could defend himself properly, which mean taking it out on his own blood at the risk of spilling his cover) and grabbed a tabloid from a nearby vendor on the streets of New York..
No, Clint thought, tossing away the apple core he held in his other hand and reading the headline (STARK ENTERPRISES HIRES IRON MAN AS BODY GUARD) – he was going to walk like a hero.