Lawrence winced, fighting the strange feeling washing over him. Shooting pain ran through his body, then subsided. His head swam and his body became as light as a feather as the universe went black. After a moment, he regained consciousness. The pain was gone, save for a dull headache. He was in his happy place once more.
He stood in the foyer of his childhood home in New Orleans. He could smell the sweet odor of delights wafting from the kitchen. Mama was cooking. Daddy would be home soon. He looked down at himself. He was wearing a dirty Saints T-shirt and his jeans and shoes were caked with mud and grass stains. His arms were bruised. Not such a happy place after all.
He carefully slipped out of his shoes, remembering Mama’s rule about dirt in the house, and tiptoed through the hall into the kitchen.
Mama stood at the counter, kneading dough before throwing bits into the fryer. Lawrence walked over to the stove and looked up at her.
“Mama?”
She paused from her labor and turned to smile down at him. For a second, he basked in her warm grace. “Well, hi there honey. I’m just making some snacks for you and Daddy. He should be home any minute. How was practice? Oh, dear lord! You’re hurt!” She knelt down beside him and began helplessly dabbing his face with the hem of her apron.
“Where’s Joe?” The words welled up from his subconscious.
“Who’s Joe, honey?”
“He’s a friend, Mama. I think,” Lawrence looked into space, trying to remember. A familiar large and important face came into view in his mind’s eye. “Um, I think we were playing a game and we both got hurt. I was supposed to look out for him.”
“Well, it sounds like that Joe’s a mean boy. Let my son get all beat up! I bet he started something, didn’t he? You stay away from him until I have a word with his parents!”
“No, Mama. Remember what you and Daddy said about responsibility? I was being responsible, and then I wasn’t being responsible. I think. I don’t know. I have to find out if he's OK!”
“Now, don’t go worrying about someone you ‘think’ you were responsible for. Sounds like you must’ve hit your head, honey. Maybe we should go see if Doctor LeFarge is in this afternoon!”
“No. I think I’ll be OK, Mama. Don’t worry. I’m just worried about Joe is all. He’s nice.”
Mama rose to her feet and shook her finger at him. “No more talk about this Joe character until Daddy gets home! You hear me?” There was a fire in her eyes he had never seen before. He nodded and looked at his shoes. The silence between them was suddenly broken by the familiar sound of Daddy's pickup roaring into the driveway. The truck door slammed and keys jangled from behind the front door. “Now, we’ll see what Daddy has to say. Have yourself a seat.” She pointed to the table.
Reluctantly Lawrence sat down with a sigh. He hooked his shoes under the stool and stared into the gloss sheen of the tabletop as Daddy came through the doorway. He looked unusually grungy, motor oil smeared under his eyes making him look like a bloodshot raccoon.
“Hey, honey.” He embraced and kissed the corner of her mouth sweetly. He turned and eyeballed Simon and his bruises. “How’s it going, my little all-star? Take a spill?” Lawrence looked up, but before he could speak Mama butted in.
“Look at him, Daddy! Now you tell him what happened, Simon D.H. Lawrence!” The intensity of her glower multiplied. Daddy slid into the chair across from Simon and watched him patiently. Simon stuttered, and then told him exactly what he had told Mama.
“So,” his father paused and reached into his work shirt pocket for some gum, “new kid on the block, huh?” He extracted a stick, unwrapping it methodically before tucking it in his cheek. “Fighting ain’t right, son. We taught you that. Did you fight back?”
