Semper Prixus (pt 3).

You know who he is, his dad says. They’re on the back deck now, replacing the moms who all ran inside when they heard a crash upstairs followed by wailing accusations.

Everybody knows him, Kyle says. His dad is drinking right out of the bottle now, which his sister hates but Kyle would have to admit that he always thought was kind of cool, like his dad was Clint Eastwood or something.

He was with us in the war, his dad says. His hair was white even when he was young like us. Shark’s not a nickname, it’s his real name. I didn’t remember what his real name was until I saw it in the paper when he got an award. Private Sharkling Branch, what kind of name is that.

It’s not that weird, Kyle says. There’s guys working at the casino with those names, I think they’re gypsies or something. The pit boss’s name is Waterfall Ben. That’s pretty cool, kind of. They seem like okay people.

When he’d asked Waterfall if their names were Indian maybe, the man had roared with laughter like it was the greatest joke ever told. Older, he told Kyle. Much, much older.

Name’s aren’t for playing around with, his dad says. Your mom insisted on yours.

Would a rose by any other name smell as sweet? Kyle said with a smirk.

I know how much college you went to, his dad says, I paid every dollar. But Kyle knows that his dad is proud that his son graduated when his friends’ kids didn’t even go.

The Shark, he’s not right, Kyle’s dad said. No different than a dog, really, there’s just some that you meet then and there’s no way you’d ever hug it no matter how sweet people tell you it is because it just has that feeling. Right? The Shark had that, in gallons. We hung around him because we had to but we didn’t like him, but even so we tried to treat him like one of the guys and he paid us back by sneaking into our beds at night and grabbing on us.

Kyle gaped at his dad. What? Are you fucking serious?

His dad nods. Every one of us, all fourteen who shipped out from Rain City. His dad tips the bottle and drinks; Kyle has never seen him completely drunk – some people just can’t get there. All of his, hid dad sighs. Took a while for everybody to kind of put two and two together and figure out it wasn’t just them, but even then we were all back in the states and the best we ever did to get him back was kick him out of the VFW.

Why didn’t you report him? Why didn’t you guys just fuck him up? Kyle looks over his shoulder and sees his sister in the kitchen window, rinsing plates and trying to listen in.

His dad spreads his hands. Hard to say. Each of us brought it up at least once and I think one night we might have gone as far as getting gas and rope to do god knows what to him. But that’s the thing – we can’t. We can talk about it, we can think about it, but we just can’t do it. We couldn’t stop him back then, either. He’d get in your bed and put his hands on you and there was nothing you could do about it.

His dad suddenly grabs him, his slender hands gripping Kyle’s shoulders hard. Did he ever touch you? he demands under his breath. Did he? We know he’s done it to the kids. We even told their parents but nobody will hear it. Did he do it to you?

No, Kyle says. No, dad. I swear.

His dad stares at him a second longer, as if he can see the lie there in Kyle’s eyes, and releases him. Good, he says. That’s good.

Kyle leans back against the deck railing; the shadows are creeping up the lawn and inside the mothers are collecting their kids. This doesn’t make sense, he says. If he’s doing this why didn’t you tell anyone? You just, what, let him run around for years humping little kids and that’s okay?

We are going to do something, his dad says. That’s why I’m telling you.

Dad, Kyle’s sister calls out the window. Everybody’s leaving, come say goodbye.

What about the shark, Kyle asks. His dad hands him the bottle.

Everybody’s leaving, he says, and elbows his son. Come on.