Semper Prixus (pt 1).

His nephew does not want to hug him; his sister makes the kid do it anyway and Kyle wishes she wouldn’t because feeling those little arms barely circle his neck like they might get burned combined with the perfunctory pat on the back is worse.

He finds her in the kitchen later, washing dishes; he’s been playing with the kids of the neighborhood moms while they got loaded on white wine in the back yard. She’s been crying again and tells him not to start. That’s all they do, she says, rinsing a plate and nodding out the window to her friends, seated in a circle of lawn chairs while they hiss and giggle. They just want to tell me what an asshole Peter was. Like that’s supposed to make me feel better.

Stevie seems to be doing all right, Kyle says; he doesn’t remember where they came up with his nephew’s nickname.

I’m glad he’s having fun. She pulls the plug on the rinse water. He should get to have some before everything’s different.

She falls onto a kitchen chair, resting her chin on her hands. Dad’s ecstatic, of course.

Kyle looks over his shoulder; his father is in the living room, watching television.

His sister adjusts the bandage on his wrist; the black tines of the stiches stick through.

Please don’t say anything to Stevie, she says. I don’t think he’d understand it.

He’s ten, Kyle says. Come on.

His sister gets up. Not a word, she says, I mean it. There’s enough bullshit going on around here without having to deal with your issues, too.

She goes down the basement stairs; Kyle can hear her beating up the washer, while overhead the boys are thundering from one end of the house to the other.

Hey, his father yells from the other room. Hey, get in here. I want to talk to you.

His father hasn’t talked to him in months; Kyle rubs his face until it’s red, makes sure that his stitches are covered, and then comes to his father as commanded.