Fear and Courage

Chapter 2-2

As the evening temperature cooled less than it should, Dad called Brian. “Come on, we’re going for a ride.”

It surprised Brian that Dad wore a suit and tie, reserved for church and funerals. What the hell is going on? They drove three blocks in their ten-year-old Plymouth and parked before the McNamara house. Brian tried to match his dad’s strides marching to the door. Oh, no. The s**t is gonna hit the fan. Dad knocked.

Mr. McNamara opened the door and stared. In his Southern drawl, he asked, “What do you people want?”

Dad wasn’t fazed. “Sir, my name is Tom Truttle, and I’d like to chat with you about some trouble between our boys. Might we come in?”

“I don’t let n*****s in my house.”

Dad didn’t miss a beat. “My son here says your Robby stopped him from riding his bike on this street earlier, another boy pulled my son off his bike, and your Robby punched and kicked my son. He was also slapped and kicked by Steve. They seemed upset a black boy was in the neighborhood.” Dad kept his voice calm but deep.

Mr. McNamara laughed. “Well, I haven’t heard of it, but if your boy don’t like it, he shouldn’t be on our street.”

“Not your street. It belongs to all of us. I won’t have my boy harassed. Tell your kids to keep their hands to themselves and there won’t be trouble.”

Mr. McNamara’s jaw set and his eyes narrowed. He secured his hands on his hips, but it didn’t seem too intimidating as he stood in dirty boxer shorts and a dull white, holey T-shirt. He was average build with a bit of a belly and balding head. He shook a fist at Dad and closed the gap between them. “Listen boy, you threaten me and I’ll just kill ya.”

Dad took a step back with his right foot, and Brian saw the writing on the wall that the balding little shrimp of a man didn’t. “Look, Mr. McNamara, we have a fine neighborhood here, but if you try to harm my boy or me, I will defend myself. If your boys pick on mine, I’ll have the law on you—”

“Don’t you threaten me, you f*****g—”

“Look!” Dad’s voice took on the don’t-screw-with-me tone. “Your boys committed the sin against my son, and it’s not the first time. My threats are legal and yours are not. Any person who makes casual threats—”

“What? You’re saying I’m not a man? Just because you’re big don’t make me afraid of you. I’ll kick your fat black ass in front of your brat and then I’ll kill you.”

Dad’s volume lowered, but his tone stayed deep. “You don’t know what it is to kill.”

“Oh, and you do, huh?”

“I was in Korea in the army in ‘52. I know what death is.” The depth of his tone startled Brian.

Before Dad could retreat, Mr. McNamara jabbed a finger into his chest once, twice, and a third time. “You’d better get your black asses off mah property.”

Dad was slow to respond. It was his way. He often said “give a man enough rope and he’ll hang himself.” Then McNamara shoved a palm in Dad’s chest. Dad’s big hand wrapped around it and twisted it back, dropping Mr. McNamara to his knees. He tightened his face and squinted in obvious pain. “Ohhh.”

Dad glared. “I come here peacefully and you assault me! If you or your boys ever touch me or my son again, you’ll regret it! Ya’all have committed what California law calls ‘assault and battery.’ It’s punishable with up to a year in jail.”

McNamara spit out, “I swear, I’ll kill you.”

Still holding the wristlock, Dad glanced at a shotgun mounted over the fireplace. With his other hand, Dad pulled back his coat and showed his revolver in his waistband. “I pray for peace, but am prepared for war. Do you understand?”

Mr. McNamara glared and raised his other hand, curled into a fist. Dad tightened the wristlock, making McNamara wince and cry out.

“The proper answer is ‘yes, sir.’”

The man sunk lower on his knees as Dad tightened the wristlock. Through his moan of pain, Mr. McNamara said, “Y-yes, sir.”

Dad let him go. “I hope we can all get along since we have more in common than different.” Dad offered his best polite smile. “Have a good evening, sir.”

Mr. McNamara stood and took two steps toward the shotgun. Dad stared and McNamara lowered his raised hand. “Get out.”

* * * *

During the drive home, Brian said, “Dad, I’m sorry I got you into all this.”

“I said never be sorry for being. You did nothing wrong.”

“Why’d you have your gun?”

“Insurance. I would only use it if absolutely needed. Your mamma and I, wherever she is now, moved out of the South for things like that and worse.” He stroked Brian’s back. “I’m hungry.”

At the house, they got leftovers from the fridge, heated them, and ate. Dad remained quiet with a faraway look in his eyes. Later, he couldn’t get interested in anything on TV, so he stood, stretched, and said, “I’ll be in my room reading.”

Bile rose in Brian’s throat and he fretted, feeling he’d done something wrong, that maybe he was the reason his mom had left.