Archive of Our Own

I wondered how Teddy could care so much for his dad, who'd practically killed him.

- Stand By Me (1986)

Colorado, summer 1974

***

Pete may restrict himself to a faux fag, but Hale smokes for real. Which makes what just happened especially unusual.

Our foursome was settled on the bleachers for yet another lunch hour. We expected to discuss as always; which teachers we hate, which teachers we wouldn’t mind seeing after school, which guys we hate, which girls we wouldn’t mind seeing after school - riveting stuff. Well, we were discussing these matters until a senior we wouldn’t mind seeing after school, Tracy, came ambling up the steps to our spot.

“Dixon!”, she called. “Got any green?”.

Hale took a sip of his Tab and squinted through the sun at her;

“Sorry, Tracy. ‘Fraid I’m going off the stuff.”.

“Far out!”. She seemed more amazed than anything else. It would be an understatement to say that Hale has long been a reliable source for high schooled-aged customers. “Well, I guess if you date the green lady again you’ll clue me in, yeah?”

“Square biz.”, Hale flipped her a wave before going back to his juice.

Thomas shot me an incredulous look over his head, but I wasn’t surprised. Pete huffed out a laugh;

“Gone square?”.

Hale fussed with his socks in an uncharacteristic gesture of awkwardness and chuffed out a sigh.

“Nah, just keeping a low profile. My folks are getting a little too hip for my own good.”.

By that, the other guys would guess he meant his mom had been getting on at him. Hale’s mom is really sweet, maybe to compensate for his dad’s more off-putting presence in their home. But me, I know better. Hale isn’t solely concerned about maternal nagging anymore. Pete on the other hand, looks surprised.

“But your mom is so nice.”, he said. We all turn a blind eye to his longing tone. It’s an open secret that Mrs. Dixon has a soft spot for baby bird Pete, whose mother has flown the nest. “She wouldn’t wig out over a bit of grass, surely?”.

Hale stays quiet, bats a ladybug away from his head. Thomas gives me a concerned look as if to say, I don’t know what we’ve stepped in, but we’ve stepped in something. I however, have a very good idea of what’s causing Hale’s newfound ‘Say No To Drugs’ ethos. I attempt steer us to easier grounds;

“So, how you guys feeling about Mackintosh’s Spanish test last period? I thought making us conjugate future passive was totally bogue this close to sum-”

At the same time Thomas presses; “Woah, woah, wait. What happened with your old lady, Hale? I wouldn’t be surprised if she smokes the stuff herself!”.

Pete frowns at the thought of mild-mannered Mrs. Dixon using hallucinogens. It’s a little too close to his own mother, I’d suppose. But he’s curious, I can tell from the stubborn scrunch of his eyebrows. He doubles down;

“Spill.”. He’s like a dog with a bone. He’s not dropping this anytime soon.

I take my glasses off in defeat and let the world fuzz up around me. One good thing about being as blind as I am is that I can tune out when things get awkward. I’ve seen too much already.

Hale pushes his half-finished lunch away from him. I can feel his preoccupation coming off him in waves. He’s clearly deliberating whether or not to share with us what I myself already know. Not that he’s aware of that. He swallows;

“It’s not my mom I’m worried about.”.

Pete hisses in sympathy and Thomas mutters a condoling “Shit, man.”. I try not to wince and put my glasses back on, resigned to the fact that we are discussing what I think we’re discussing.

You see, by process of elimination, this means that Hale is more concerned about the more nuclear half of his nuclear family; the storm cloud that is Mr. Dixon. The rest of us have only seen flashes of the man, but they were revealing flashes. Kids can very quickly sus out which parents are hip, which parents aren’t hip but are cool and which parents warrant a wide berth. Mr. Dixon is the latter.  

We all quiet to listen to Hale. The vacuum sound of a plane splitting the sweltering sky drones overhead, but none of us look up to guess the airline like usual. I’m curious myself just how much of the story he will tell. Understandably, Pete and Thomas are bracing themselves for tragedy.

“My dad found out it was me who torched the demolition papers.”.

“And you’re still alive?”, Pete quips to defuse the tension, though the look on his face is truly enquiring.

Before Hale can respond, Thomas asks somewhat awkwardly;

“Was it bad?”.

A girl scream-laughs at her friend tripping over on the oval. Hale palms some sweat off his brow and considers.

“Well, it wasn’t like usual.”.

‘Usual’ for Hale when he has the misfortune of his dad being involved is a rough shake or shove, and on especially unfortunate occasions, a reunion of head and wall, We’ve all heard the formers from Hale’s bedroom, and we’ve seen the evidence of the latter. Hale doesn’t make up stories about falling down stairs like a lot of kids or housewives do in the same situation. He’s open about the fact that his sporadic bruises have the common genesis point of the Dixon patriarch.

If you can’t tell, I harbor downright disgust for Hale’s dad. That’s lessened as of late. My friends don’t dig when I tell them that Hale’s dad isn’t this omnipotent power. He’s a shitty guy, who can be left, reported or otherwise overcome. Pete’s maybe a little too self-absorbed to realize he can step into someone else’s business to make a difference. And Thomas is too brain-washed by his own dad’s fairly-wielded authority to realize that not all fathers are Ward Cleaver. Hale does know that his dad is a touch aggro, but he still has this accepting mindset that I find totally bananas. Thankfully my own parents agree that the Dixons are incompetent parents, but my mom, who is a family law attorney, says there needs to be evidence of consistently abusive behavior to build a case for Hale. And unfortunately, or fortunately for Hale, Mr. Dixon is too sporadic in his anger to have any good chance of facing legal retribution.

“You’re not banged up.”, Thomas observes, scanning Hale’s exposed chest under his unbuttoned paisley shirt.

“He didn’t hit you?”, Pete asks, baldly surprised. I intervene;

“We don’t need to talk about th-”

Hale kicks his legs around under the bench and stops me with a fainter version of his usual grin.

“Nah, Jonah - I don’t mind. And hell yeah, he hit me.”.

He doesn’t seem as flip as he usually does when parental retribution is brought up. More earnest, somehow. I watch Thomas flicking through the options in his head.

“Belt?”, he asks.

Pete takes a long sip of his drink and looks out toward the parking lot. If Thomas hadn’t given us the skinny on Pete’s business last week, the gesture would have meant nothing.

Hale shakes his head and his bandana slips down over his eyes, causing his dark hair to fall into his face. I push the bandana back up before he can himself. When I do, we all see that hellion Hale is… blushing.

“Paddle?”, Pete asks, looking doubtful. It’s not like Mr. Dixon to come prepared to discipline. He’s a little too spur-of-the-moment to designate a weapon to his son’s correction.

Hale’s flush deepens. Any chance of blaming his color on the glaring sun is shot. He glances at me.

“Any takers?”.

“His hand.”.

I don’t phrase it as a question because it isn’t. I know exactly what went down this weekend. I’m just hoping Hale doesn’t pick up on my certainty.

Instead his eyes widen at having it out in the open. And if it’s possible his face flames even more. But he offers a rueful smile. “Bingo.”, he confirms softly.

Pete blinks in surprise. Thomas takes his time to process.

“Jump back!”, he scans us incredulously. “Are we talking over the knee?”.

He whispers this last part as if we’re not the only people on this side of the field. Even I squirm at this, despite being a stranger to the position. I hate these conversations, almost as much as I hated Hale’s dad. Hale decides not to be too embarrassed, just nods.

“Your dad put you over his knee like a little boy?”, Thomas looks like he has a bad taste in his mouth.

“Yup. For the sake of my self-esteem let’s say less Little House on the Prairie, more Lawrence of Arabia, dig?”.  

“Heavy, man.”, Thomas consoles.

We all sit in reverent silence for a minute, appreciating the gravity of Hale’s penance.

“So?”, Thomas opens, raising his eyebrows.

“So what, Thomas?”, I snap tiredly.

“Let’s hear it.”. He’s looking expectantly at Hale. I sit up straighter.

“Man, you do not need to tell us about this.”.

I really hate this culture we’ve developed of bonding over one another’s experiences that are a biproduct of bad parenting. And not just because I can’t join in. Hale looks accepting somehow.

“I don’t mind. Really. Especially since we all heard about-”, he looks at Pete and my fist closes on my soda can in warning. Thankfully he catches himself and Thomas and I share a panicked glance. “I just don’t mind you guys knowing, is all I was gonna say.”.

Hale has always been a pretty straightforward guy. We all lean forward on our elbows to listen better.

“Well, you guys obviously know about my foray into spoliation.”.

“What does that mean?”, Pete asks self-consciously.

“Destruction of evidence, the burning of court documents-”, Hale lists off.

“Got it.”, Pete interrupts.

 “-civil disobedience, socialist rebellion…”.

Hale waffles on. What he’s referring to is his most recent act of protest. The county-sanctioned Women’s Center is scheduled to be bulldozed to make room for a bank. Most kids either don’t know or don’t care. But Hale knows that his mom attends meetings there, conveniently held during the 9-5 workday. He’s got a little more invested in the place than the average kid.

It also helps that his dad heads the construction crew tasked with the demolition. Meaning that Hale has insider access to the paperwork legislating the destruction of the local women’s safe haven. He also knows enough of the trade that getting the papers approved is half the work. His logic: destroy the papers, save the Women’s Center.

I also disagree with the destruction of the Women’s Center, obviously. But I’ve always gone about things differently from Hale. I went to my parents about it and asked them to write to the mayor or maybe circulate a petition. They did and, like often happens, the mayor said he was sorry. Just not sorry enough to rescind his approval on the demolition. I was bummed but content that I’d done my best. Not Hale though.

So last weekend he used his dad’s foreman keys to sneak into the trailer in which the construction records are kept. I know he was quick, because I waited by the gate out of moral support. In then out. We quickly went off-trail into the brush and Hale swiped his lighter under the papers until they crumpled into ash. I poured my water bottle over the debris for good measure. I’m not a heathen. I hadn’t approved of Hale’s mission in the first place, but I was sure that we’d gotten away with it. I still have no idea how he got caught. I give in to my curiosity;

“I’m out to lunch. How the hell did he find out?”, I inquire, trying not to sound too outraged. Hale rolls his eyes.

“His orangutang spazoid apprentice narked on me.”.

That was the only unknown variable in this tale for me. Maybe we hadn’t been as slick as we’d thought.

“Jonah was there for this next bit.”.

Hale looks at me imploringly, silently asking me to carry some of the narrative weight since I’d been dumb enough to get myself involved in the real thing. I’m not used to seeing that expression on his face, so I give in. You could say I have a soft spot for Hale. How could I not after what I saw?

“Last Sunday-, it was Sunday, wasn’t it?”, I check and Hale nods. “Hale and I were doing homework together in Hale’s room.”.

“Ooh! Hale and I?”, Thomas laughs heartily and flaps a hand in a you’re-so-fancy-with-your-correct-grammar gesture.

“Close the shades.”, Pete barbs. He’s laser-focused to hear how Hale’s tale plays out. Probably he’s looking to compare it to his own experiences.

“And we heard Mr. Dixon come home.”.

I wanted to add “Mad, as usual.”, but didn’t want to rag on Hale. You often hear Mr. Dixon before you see him; he’s the type to slam the door, slam his beer down, slam the soles of his construction boots down on whatever surface he’s walking on. And yell. Jesus, that man can yell.

Sunday, Mr. Dixon got home from his shift in the middle of the afternoon. As soon as we heard the front door slam we knew he was hacked off about something. Turns out working a long, hot shift followed by a meeting from the site administrator to let him know his fifteen-year-old had been interfering in company business did little to soothe his characteristically short temper.

Hale’s shoulders had tensed up over his Spanish book and I’d looked up at him worriedly. My mom entered our house one time like that, when she was dealing with a particularly infuriating case, and my dad told her to go back outside and come in again when she learned to leave her work at work, and she did just that. I wondered why Hale’s mom couldn’t just tell Mr. Dixon to cool his beans.

“Should we peel out?”, I’d asked when I heard his raised voice in the kitchen. Hale paled a little, but shook his head.

The footsteps started coming our way. Hale and I made eye contact that seemed to span minutes before he took a flying leap off the bed and froze by the door to listen.

“…little prick knows better than to… got the paper-pushers on my ass now…”.

This was interspersed with a placating feminine tone that was shouted down repeatedly. If Mr. Dixon wasn’t a mountain of a man and I was a more violent person, I would have loved to punch his nose in for the way he treated his family.

Hale looked like he was about to be sick. He’d realized that his dad wasn’t just mad in general, he was on a rampage for him specifically. He knew what that meant.

“Demolition papers?”, I asked, trying to fend off the lance of guilt in my stomach. Hale nodded, throat constricting like he was trying not to dry-heave.

“You gotta beat feet, man. Leave!”, he choked out, eyes bright with animal fear.

It was then I realized I was still lying face-down on Hale’s leaf-patterned bedspread, my feet stilled in the air and my pencil suspended above my legal pad.

Something thumped dully off of the hallway plasterboard and we heard Hale’s mom shriek. I hoped not in pain. Hale flinched, turning an agonized look my way.

He pointed to the window before stepping outside his bedroom door and closing it behind him. Mr. Dixon bellowed like a bull. I could hear three muffled voices in the hall now, Mr. Dixon overpowering the others, his footsteps restless like some caged predator.

“You? You climbed out of Hale’s bedroom window?”, Thomas verifies disbelievingly.

I’m not offended by this since I really am not the guy who enjoys jumping from second stories. I nod my head anyway, knowing he’s right in doubting me.

“Man, am I glad you left when you did!”, Hale laughs. I wish I had.

Momentarily alone in Hale’s room, I’d snapped out of my head and began frantically tossing my things into my backpack, giving up when I dropped my 2B pencils and kicking them under Hale’s bedside table. I heard another anonymous thump against a wall or floor and Hale cry out. Multiple pairs of feet were progressing rapidly toward Hale’s room.

In two strides I was at Hale’s bedroom window. I tugged upward to open it. It wouldn’t budge. I shook the latch, feeling panic gripping me. Tried forcing the panel up again to no avail. I got only a splinter for my efforts.

Maybe they’re not coming in, I mentally begged. This was immediately disproven when I saw the doorhandle twitch as they paused outside. I heard Mrs. Dixon’s desperate “Calm down, please! Rog!”.

I whirled around Hale’s room, backpack on my shoulder. What. The. Fuck. Do. I. Do. Now.

I’m not sure what I thought would happen if Mr. Dixon found Hale’s accomplice in his room. He couldn’t hurt me. I couldn’t stop my parents from pressing charges if he did, no doubt about it. But Hale’s urgency had panicked me, since he knows his family better than I do. And Mr. Dixon’s so damned big and loud that it’s difficult not to let the noise fill up your head and chase all the reason out of it.

Like a saving grace, I spied Hale’s closet. It’s not a closet in the traditional sense, in that it lacks a door. There’s only a mesh curtain, which in this case, would just have to do. I had just snicked the curtain rings across the valet rod when all three Dixons exploded into the room.

“How dare you, you careless little prick!”. Mr. Dixon had Hale by the collar of his shirt, the seams of the floral fabric popping in his grip as he shook Hale like a ragdoll. Hale’s hands were up defensively around his head, his eyes and mouth screwed tight shut. “What were you thinking, fuckin’ around with those papers?”. He aimed an ambiguous strike at Hale’s head, from which his son flinched away. Hale still caught part of the blow and even with a fraction of the strength, his head rocked to the side.

“No'oo!”, he called plaintively.

I’d only heard him call for his mother like that once before, when we were much younger and Hale crushed his nuts against the frame of his bike. Usually he and his sister call her ‘Momma’, taking cues from how Mississippian Mr. Dixon refers to her. Like then, she was jolted into action.

“Roger, please!”.

Hale’s mom, who had been trembling on the sidelines, rushed forward and was hanging off of Mr. Dixon’s arm. Her beaded skirt swirled around her calves. Her neat brown hands were dwarfed by her husband’s sunburned bicep.

He turned to look down at her, still gripping Hale’s shirt. Her warm brown eyes were leaking tears but set hard with determination.

“Kookou'unei?”.

I don’t imagine he spoke much Arapaho, but her plea was clear. His blue eyes seemed to read something in hers and he let Hale go with a vicious shove that sent him barreling into a potted succulent. He pointed a beefy warning finger at Hale to stay put. Hale nodded, still trying to catch his breath and rubbing over his throat where the taut fabric had rubbed his skin red.

“Just talk to him, Rog. We can get the papers back to the site and no one’s any worse off.”, Mrs. Dixon pulled her husband’s attention back to her.

Mr. Dixon considered for a moment, body language softening marginally as he silently communicated with his wife. He looked back up at Hale, menacing still, and drawled;

“You have got one chance, boy, to tell me where those papers are. So help me Jesus.”.

Hale blinked rapidly. I felt like I was going to pass out. I braced myself on the side of the closet. If Mr. Dixon killed Hale, I would testify in court. That’s all I could think of. Nothing could have pulled me out of that closet.

“I burned them.”, Hale croaked out.

Mrs. Dixon’s hands dropped from her husband’s arm and she made a whimpering sound in her throat. Hale’s legs shook beneath him. Mr. Dixon’s eyebrows hit his hairline and he whistled, in the least jovial way possible. It sounded more like steam from an overboiled kettle. He ran his huge hand through his tawny hair.

“You burned ‘em?”.

It came out in a bass, dangerously low. And it clearly wasn’t a question, more like he was testing the words out in his mouth. Hale nodded anyway and whispered,

“Yes, sir.”. He closed his eyes and added like a wish, “Please don’t yell.”.

Mr. Dixon took a step back and barked out an incredulous laugh.

“Don’t yell at you? Boy, you’re lucky I’m not beatin’ your ass black and blue! Most daddies would be fixin’ to-”

“So do it.”, Hale pressed. “Just…”, Hale took a sobbing breath, his first tears of the ordeal leaking down his cheeks, “please don’t yell.”, he swiped impatiently at his eyes. I couldn’t believe he was looking the man full in the face or making requests when Mr. Dixon was in this kind of mood.

Father and son stared at each other like a Mexican standoff. Mr. Dixon broke away to cut his wife an Is he crazy? look, but she just nodded.

Mr. Dixon shrugged and yanked off his belt, doubling it over like he’d done this a thousand times despite this, at least to me, looking like the first. The limp leather looked lethal in his big hand, and I felt nausea roll over me at what I was about to witness. Maybe I would have to reveal myself after all to stop this violence. I’d never wished for my own father as much as I did at that moment. He’d have known exactly what to say to Mr. Dixon to make him realize he was acting in a way that discredits the supposed evolution of our species.

But Mrs. Dixon beat me to it. She dashed forward, more confident now since Mr. Dixon didn’t seem quite the raging bull he had when they’d entered the room.

“Oh, Rog, no! No belt. Just niskohun!”. Mr. Dixon looked at her uncomprehendingly and she blinked impatiently. “Just spank him. He deserves it. But no belt. I beg you.”.

“Christ almighty! Carolyn, are you fuckin’ serious? The kid is fifteen damn years old!”, he yelled. He looked disbelievingly at Hale, who was trembling by the wall, his chest rising and falling jerkily at the raised voice. He’s usually so mellow. I hated seeing him like that.

She reached across him cautiously and took the belt from his hands. He let her. Maybe I’d been wrong to peg her as the battered housewife type. It looked like she had a lot more influence over this beacon of brute force than her mild demeanor implied. She backed out of the room and closed the door, happy that he couldn’t do much damage with his hands that she wouldn’t be able to hear from outside.

Mr. Dixon hooked his thumbs in his empty belt loops and stared Hale down from across the room. Hale looked like he had his feet under him again but he kept quiet, unable to hold eye contact for more than a second at a time.

“Unless I’ve got a retard for a son, you had to know I’d fly off the handle if I found out.”.

“I was trying to protect the Women’s Center.”, Hale explained simply.

“Protect the…”, Mr. Dixon massaged his temples as if staving off his temper. “Did it occur to you that nobody cares what a teenage kid thinks about this? Grow up. Get a job in community conservation. I don’t care. You do not, under any circumstances, trespass my place of work, and burn the documentation you don’t agree with!”.

“I’m sorry.”, Hale observed distantly. “I’m sorry.”.

“You’re sorry.”, Mr. Dixon scoffed. He shook his head and sat down on Hale’s bed, looking like Goldilocks on the smallest bed. He crooked a finger at Hale. “Git over here.”.

Hale swallowed and approached his father, equal to his height now that the man was sitting down. I could only see Hale from the back. Mr. Dixon graveled;

“Britches down.”.

He looked like he was expecting a fight, but Hale just sucked in his lower lip and took his pants down, the tan suede gathering around his shelltoes. His paisley shirt partially covered his butt, although I could still see the equally loud pattern on his briefs.

Mr. Dixon patted his thigh and gave Hale no help bending over, which he did clumsily, new to the position. The man shucked Hale’s shirt up to his armpits, revealing the smooth expanse of Hale’s caramel-colored back and legs, broken only by his underwear. Hale’s feet and shoulders were dangling over his hand-knotted rug, the platform of his father’s lap so wide that he was supported chest to mid-thigh. I could see both Dixons faces now.

With the kid across his lap and no longer thrashing from his fists like a fish on a hook, Mr. Dixon looked like he didn’t know what to do with this submission now that it was voluntary.

Hale shifted in anticipation. Mr. Dixon was looking up and down the length of his son as if he didn’t know how to proceed. For all I know, he didn’t. He placed his hand flat between Hale’s bare shoulder-blades and ghosted a swat above his underwear. Hale twitched his hips nervously. Mr. Dixon cracked his hand down on the swell of Hale’s ass.

“Woah!”, Hale yelled in surprise, rocking forward.

Mr. Dixon repeated the almighty swat on the other side and Hale just gasped like a beached whale. I had no experience with this stuff, but damn he was going hard right off the bat. His palm was big enough to span an entire half of Hale’s ass and heavy enough that bringing it down as hard as he was resulted in a bruising force. The calluses from his construction job couldn’t have felt great for Hale either, adding a drag and burn that had Hale curling his toes. Thirty full throttle wallops had Hale groaning woefully.

At the animal sound, Mr. Dixon paused. He could see the dusky red swelling out from under his son’s underwear and all of a sudden a strange look came over his face. It seemed to hit him that his son’s flesh was soft and sentient; his kid felt every smack he dealt to his backside just like he felt when he was shaken and shoved by his much bigger father.

I wanted to laugh when I saw Mr. Dixon looking so worried about the state of Hale’s rearend; I’m not sure what the man expected when he smacked my friend full strength. I was surprised when Mr. Dixon took hold of the leg-holes of Hale’s briefs and tugged them upwards and inwards to reveal Hale’s plump reddened haunches in their entirety.

Hale squirmed in discomfort as his dad ran his hand roughly over his now bare cheeks, as if taking the temperature of the skin. He apparently decided that Hale was just fine, since he began to lay into him again, using his fingers to whip into all of the harder-to-reach areas. I was relieved that he wasn’t hitting Hale as hard this time, but judging from Hale’s reactions, this technique seemed to sting more. Hale held out for as many whacks as he could before begging;

“Aw, daddy, please!”.

Hale didn’t often adopt his dad’s bluegrass accent, but he did now. Mr. Dixon tautened his hold on Hale’s underwear, much to his son’s discomfort before replying grimly;

“Don’t you ‘daddy’ me, mister. You asked me not to yell at you anymore, and I won’t. But I am fixin’ to blister this bottom for you before I let you up.”.

He did sound remarkably calmer. Hale whimpered, rolling his hips to alleviate the burn. I couldn’t believe he hadn’t reached back or shed a tear. He stared despondently at the rug beneath him.

“I’m sorry I got you in trouble at wo-work. P-please!”.

“Gettin’ me in trouble?”, Mr. Dixon repeated disbelievingly, “If that’s what you think this is about then I reckon we have much deeper fields to plow.”.

At this pronouncement, Hale started to whimper in earnest. With that, the man returned to his previous force and walloped my friend across both ass-cheeks. Hale shot forward and howled plaintively, his hands hurtling toward his rug to catch himself. I really thought he was going to hit the floor. I guess that Mr. Dixon realized he hadn’t been holding onto Hale very well thus far, since he caught Hale around the middle and hauled him in tight to his side where he dangled.

“You ain’t goin’ nowhere.”, Mr. Dixon graveled. He said it threateningly, but Hale seemed to melt over his lap and silently took hold of his dad’s ankle.

This new position left Hale’s tube-socked feet liable to kick his father, so with a little gymnastics Mr. Dixon pinned Hale’s legs between his thighs. He did so not before scrapping his attempt at modesty and shucking his son’s underwear off.

I didn’t know how much longer this could go on. Hale’s bottom was now hoisted to prize position, revealing what looked like two steamed hams. I was starting to panic – I’d felt safer about all this when Mrs. Dixon authorized this treatment of her son, but she was nowhere to be seen and Hale’s bottom looked undeniably tender. And by Mr. Dixon’s own utterance, he wasn’t near done. He did, however, look more at ease. Hale’s tears were picking up despite this brief reprieve.

“Now, now. Stop your fussin’. You earned your sore rearend fair and square, so you’re gonna get it.”. Mr. Dixon landed a swat that was almost affectionate. “You tell me, what was the fool thing that got you here? And don’t say some crock of shit about makin’ me look bad.”.

Hale sucked in air and blew it out rapidly a few times, on the verge of hyperventilating.

“I don’t kn-know!”, he was crumbling into tears again. I wanted to cry myself. “Daddy, I’m real sorry.”.

Mr. Dixon looked concerned for the first time. He unfurled his arm from around Hale’s waist and roughly massaged the back of his boy’s flushed neck like a kitten. Hale hiccoughed and sobbed under his hand. The man gently tugged on and smoothed his son’s jet hair.

“Listen. You listenin’ to me?”.

Hale forced himself to take a few deep breaths and swiped at his eyes with his sleeves.

“What would your momma do if her baby boy got hurt, hm?”. He absentmindedly patted Hale’s ample thigh.

Hale babbled something nonsensical in reply.

“I bet you reckon a construction site is a safe place for you to be, don’t you.”.

Hale made another noncommittal sound in response.

“What if, instead of Bradley seeing you breaking and entering on company property, some officers did?”.

“Jail?”, Hale piped up quietly.

Mr. Dixon tilted his head to the side, considering.

“Well, you’re not big enough for jail yet, but the detention center would take you for shit like that, no questions asked. But that’s still not what I’m thinking of.”. The silence hung heavily in the air. “You know what cops do to brown kids where I’m from? If you think I’m bad… The pigs up here aren’t any different. They don’t care if your daddy’s white. They see brown.”. Anger had seeped back into his voice. “You’ll be sitting on a paddled bottom at breakfast. They could put you in hospital. Or in a grave!”.

I felt guilt sink in my stomach like lead. None of those consequences had been in my mind while I waited for Hale at the site gates.

He began laying spanks onto Hale’s previously untouched sit spots, pinkening up the only remaining caramel slice of flesh he had. Hale mewled and threw his hand back, his reach falling short of his stinging crease. Mr. Dixon let his son’s harmless hand cover his bottom for a few seconds before pushing it away. Hale bucked his hips in frustration and again grabbed his dad’s ankle with both hands.

“I know of one little boy who is never going to trespass property again, don’t I?”.

“Yessir, I won’t. I promise I won’t.”.

“I believe you, son.”. Mr. Dixon surveyed his son’s spent posture. “I’m gonna give you fifteen more good ones that you’ll sit on tomorrow and we’ll be done.”.

He didn’t wait for Hale’s response before buffeting the teenaged butt in front of him with the last few powerful strokes, bringing the underside of his son’s ass up to a beaming beetroot color. Hale was bawling like a preschooler with a skinned knee.

Mr. Dixon clucked and ran his hand experimentally over the deep heat of Hale’s bottom. “Now this is one mighty sore backside.”.

I wanted to roll my eyes. But Hale nodded in earnest agreement, working on bringing his crying under control.

Mr. Dixon unclamped his legs and fished Hale’s underwear off the rug, slipping them up his dangling legs and onto his hips. He then sat ineptly as Hale blubbered over his knee. He patted Hale’s back in an inadequate display of comfort. When his son made no move to get up, instead remaining slumped over the man’s knee, Mr. Dixon peeled Hale up himself and set him on his feet.

“Water under the bridge, bub.”, he said, chucking Hale under the chin. “I’m gonna send your momma up for you.”.

He patted his thigh and stood up, looking back once at Hale before heading for the door. He turned  at the sound of a tear-mangled voice.

“Dad…”.

It was sort of a whine but too timid to be considered one. Mr. Dixon turned back with his hand on the doorknob, looking like he’d been caught sneaking out.

Hale was hugging himself; a pitiful sight in his unbuttoned shirt, underwear and socks, tears still flowing.

Mr. Dixon sighed and turned back. Hale looked up at him with big eyes as he approached, vulnerability emanating from his posture. Mr. Dixon peeled back the duvet of Hale’s bed and tipped his head in that direction, rushing Hale in.

Hurt flashed across Hale’s eyes as he climbed into bed, stomach down of course. Mr. Dixon pressed his hand onto Hale’s back in silent comfort before heading for the door again, no doubt in search of his wife. This time, Hale piped up with a little more of his usual mettle;

“Wait.”, he commanded, as if he couldn’t believe he had to ask again.

Mr. Dixon looked genuinely shocked that Hale was requesting his presence and gave a hesitant “Yeah?”.

Hale sat up as much as he could and just stared at him. Mr. Dixon sighed in defeat and walked over, sitting on Hale’s bed next to the lump under the covers. He laced his fingers together in a gesture steeped in uncertainty. The man’s eyes traveled around Hale’s room with distracted curiosity. He trained his eyes on the various plants, some dog-eared book called Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance  and a Jefferson Airplane poster crowning his headboard. Along with the usual teenage crap all over the floor of course.

“Should pick up around here when you’re feelin’ better.”, Mr. Dixon groused.

Hale sat up before quickly settling up on his knees, the covers falling loose around him. He looked Mr. Dixon over with a calculating eye while the man dusted some loose dirt off of Hale’s rug with the sole of his boot. Both Mr. Dixon and I jumped when Hale surged up on his knees and wrapped his arms around his dad’s neck, tucking his chin over his shoulder.

Mr. Dixon patted Hale’s forearm where it clamped around his neck. Hale waited a few seconds for any engagement, and got none. I was tempted to bust out of that closet and tell the man he was lucky that Hale could bear to touch him. Hale isn’t like Pete who can be sustained by his fellow man’s solidarity and trust. Hale wisecracks like hell, but he’s always open about his love for people.

“I’ll send Momma up with some soup, alright?”.

“No! I'm not tired and I'm not sick. I'm upset and my ass hurts. Stay with me.”.

Frustrated with receiving nothing more than consoling pats, Hale took matters into his own hands and swung his pelvis down to sit on his dad’s lap, anchoring himself with his arms. Mr. Dixon swallowed.

“Okay…”, he registered, eventually dwarfing Hale in his built arms. It occurred to me in that moment, as Hale nearly disappeared behind a screen of biceps and work shirt, that Mr. Dixon could really fuck Hale up if he wanted.

Lost in my realization, Mr. Dixon caught onto the fact that Hale was crying again before I did, notified by the shuddering breaths my friend was taking. His dad rubbed his back, looking miserable too.

“You don’t gotta get so tore up about this. Look, you acted a damn fool but it’s done and dealt with.”, he rubbed over Hale’s shaking spine and added wryly in a flash of Hale’s own humor, “I didn’t hurt your rearend all that bad – it’s still there, I promise.”. Hale fisted his dad’s work shirt and seemed only to dissolve further into tears. Mr. Dixon appeared to think hard for a few seconds, searching through recent events for what had upset Hale so badly. “Son, hush a minute.”, he ordered, thinking he had it. “Hale.”, he said a little harder. Hale suppressed the wailing but his ribs rose and fell dramatically under his dad’s palm. He opened;

“I can tell this really… hurt you, hurt our relationship, I mean. And I’m not gonna do it ever again. I don’t wanna be that kinda father.”.

The noble expression on his face was shattered when Hale pushed himself back as if checking the man’s face for signs of amnesia. His look of bewilderment veered into mocking;

“Are you pulling my chain? I seriously can’t tell if you’re joking.”.

Mr. Dixon spluttered for a second, totally lost. Finding his dad’s statement genuine, Hale laughed in bitter disgust. It sounded so ugly on him. His laugh is usually so raucous and full of sunshine. He stood up too, all trace of tears abandoned and turned toward the window, shaking his head like this whole thing was hilarious instead of miserable.

“Wait! Wait a second!”, Mr. Dixon said, snapping into life. He made a clumsy grab for Hale’s wrist and pulled Hale back around in front of him. He looked down at the leather bracelets under his grip and loosened it, holding Hale’s hand in both of his instead. “Talk to me.”, he implored.

“I guess I’m just surprised you think we have a relationship.”

Hale tugged for his hand back but Mr. Dixon wouldn’t give it. Instead, furrowing his brow, holding on.

“Elaborate.”

“For starters, you’re always mad.”, Hale stated matter of factly.

Mr. Dixon spluttered for a second, staring between his knees as if searching for some truth. Denying this charge would be implausible given his conduct of recent years. He settled on clarifying; “Well, I’m not mad at you.”.

Hale failed to stop some hurt bleeding into his voice; “Not only are you not not mad at me, but you’re mad exclusively at me.”. Mr. Dixon looked genuinely uncomprehending. “You dislike me, and I want to know why.”. Hale folded his free arm across his waist and added snarkily, “I think I’m pretty good company.”.

“I don’t!”, Mr. Dixon defended. “I do not dislike you! Don’t you put words in my mouth, boy!”.

Hale sighed in contempt, trying and failing to pull his hand back again. “Aw, great – I’m ‘boy’ again. I have a name you know.”.

“Watch yourself.”, the man warned, and added as an afterthought; “And your momma picked that name. I’d never name a kid after a hunk o’ ice.”.

“See, you even hate my name! Seems the tradition of blaming me for things that aren’t my fault is long in the making.”.

Mr. Dixon hardened to match his teenager.

“Son, you’d do well to keep in mind that I used my hand this time just to please your momma. You keep this disrespect up and I can take a belt from your closet and strap your bare bottom with it.”.

My heart almost dropped out of my ass. I mentally begged Hale to just for the love of God shut his mouth. I wasn’t scared of Mr. Dixon as much as Hale at that moment. Hale may be an open book, but even he has his limits. Discovering my hiding place was a surefire way of torpedoing my most treasured friendship.

Hale just sagged at the threat, looking exhausted.

“Let’s drop it. We’re never gonna understand each other.”. He looked dolefully at his captured hand. “Can I have my hand back please?”.

Mr. Dixon reluctantly released Hale’s hand, but prevented Hale from turning away by continuing the conversation;

“But I wanna understand. I mean I don’t, but I want to.”. Hale gave him a guarded look. “And I absolutely do not dislike you. You’re my boy! I-”. Hale cut him off;

“But you don’t like me either.”

Mr. Dixon leaned back on his hands, looking genuinely perplexed.

“What in the world gave you that idea?”.

Hale’s acid tone returned;

“Let’s see. For starters, you yell at me all the time. You either knock me around or ignore me. And you don’t respect anything I stand for.”.

“What I don’t respect is you doin’ stupid, self-righteous things like trespassing property like you’re invincible. I worry about you, bub. For heaven’s sake, you are just a kid!”.

“I’m only a kid to you when I’m doing something I think is important. The rest of the time you treat me like I’m some bum outside a bar.”.

“I give you your space because I get that you have your own set of beliefs. I believe in that.”.

“Gee, thanks dad.”, Hale snapped. Mr. Dixon slapped his thigh resoundingly, then continued as if nothing was amiss;

“You can’t tell me you honestly prefer getting bent over my knee like a baby to being treated like a man.”. Mr. Dixon was sure he had Hale there. After all, what fifteen year old boy’s fledgling masculinity would willingly suffer this humiliation?

“I am telling you that.”, Hale said simply. “I don’t know how else to say it. I hate when you yell at me and I hate when you push me around. If my ego has to suffer, then I guess that’s alright.”.

“Well…”, Mr. Dixon trailed off, considering. “If that’s how you feel…, I guess that’s alright then.”.

“Alright.”, Hale smirked.

Mr. Dixon cast him a measured look before standing up and once again pulling back the duvet cover. This time Hale flopped in without complaint and pulled the cover around his neck, eyes shutting.

“I really wore you out, didn’t I?”, Mr. Dixon said softly from the foot of the bed.

Hale hummed in agreement, half asleep.

“We’re both gonna do better. You are gonna stop givin’ me heart attacks and I’m gonna stop bein’ such a…”.

“Ogre?”.

“Hush up, you.”.

He left the room and Hale slept unmovingly. You can bet I sat in that closet, anxious to make my escape.

Two hours later, I did. Hale woke up in degrees, stared at his ceiling for a while, then got up and pulled on some pajamas. He padded out of the room. I listened for his footsteps reaching the bottom of the stairs before creeping to the window once again and releasing the latch I’d missed in my panic the first time.

Crawling onto someone’s rooftop was less difficult than I’d built it up to be. I slid the window panel down behind me and scanned the ground for signs of Hale’s family members coming out into the early evening haze. Seeing nothing, I jumped, and ran until I got to the next block.

“But that’s not even the end of it.”, Hale says.

“It wasn’t?”, I ask, forgetting my deception.

“Nah, I went down to the garage after my mom checked he hadn’t killed me. I went to see him and he was working on some random shit. I could tell he was nervous I’d freak out, but I hugged him anyway.”.

Pete asks the question we’re all thinking;

“You went to him like, willingly?”.

Hale nodded and smiled his easy smile.

“Sure! I was trying to show him I think things’ll be different. Until he felt the joint in my pocket.”.

We all gasp in horror. Hale’s relaxed manner is no indication that he got off scot-free for this repeated infraction.

“Relax! He just took it out my shirt and put it in his.”. Hale giggled like he was high already.

“He didn’t mind?”, Thomas asks.

“Not this time. But he said if I do it again he’ll give me a ‘damn good reason’ not to.”. Hale does the voice he’s always done for his dad; gnarled and way too hick. “From now on, I’m strictly boho minus the blow.”.

***

The End