A Love Like Blood by Victor Yates

times a day before coming to America and then identified as Muslim and Catholic. Guest conversations reflected both faiths. Almsgiving and as Allah has willed were heard after or before Glory Be , The Rosary , and Our Father . Father learned the Quran and the Bible in Somali, English, and Spanish. As an adult, he buried certain Islamic beliefs he believed interfered with being a photographer. Disgust for dogs was not one of them. Being that dogs leave impurities behind like little treats: urine, fecal matter, sweaty hair, dander, milk, or even worse, saliva. In order to hear God’s word, prayer space needs to be pure as a gold banner made of silk. The body needs to be pure as well. He would say, do not let a mutt come near you. If it touches you , you have to wash that part of the body seven times with river water .
    On the morning that I turned eleven, hearing a knock on our door lit up my face. Father would shake me violently for answering the door. However, I thought it was Grandfather with the camera I wanted. A beer-bellied man was beating on our neighbor’s door. An explosive cry from the other side of him jolted me. His Saint Bernard galloped toward us with globs of drool dripping down his mouth. Father screamed. Heavy footsteps hurried toward us, but it was too late. The demon dog leaped up, stood on his hind legs, and licked Father’s face. Stinging beads formed under my skin and burst through the skin at my elbows down to my wrists. I saw the globs and itched. The dog stepped with my father, compensating for his unexpected movements, and licked his face clean. Licking his face, he seemed happier than any other dog I had ever seen. The curse words from Father’s lips scared me more than the amount of thick drool. When I heard the words, kill, you, and Carsten, I bolted to my bedroom. The first lick of his belt’s tongue hit my neck. Gashes and welts covered my chest, legs, back, and arms. A permanent V mark is on my arm from the metal tip.
    The next day, a box wrapped in red foil was at the foot of my bed. An oversize card, with I’m sorry written inside, was taped to it. Tissue paper revealed a gorgeous Canon camera with a price tag. Numbers and plus signs whirled in my head, spinning away from me. I knew how much money Father made, our rent, and the amount he gave Grandfather every month. The math did not add up, but we stayed in our place. Now, I own twenty-nine cameras, and five of them are not I’m-sorry-gifts. But who would I be without these cameras?
    Still in pain a week later, I quit working with Father. Junior also refused to assist him. He beat us every day until Grandfather called and said the police arrested a friend of Father’s. He cleared his calendar. Before the drive, he yelled to dump out our garbage. I found a makeup case in the trash chute room. Black, rectangular, and shiny, it looked and smelled brand new. The light brown face powder glowed inside. Sneaking back inside the apartment, I locked myself in the bathroom and dabbed the puffy sponge on four whiteheads. The hard masses softened, becoming newborn skin. Excited, I dabbed the sponge on the scar on my forehead. My face looked even and smooth.
    At the jail, we moved with nervous caution through the series of lonely hallways. The clanks of locking gates did not alarm me. The security check sign leading to a closed room did. A female guard waved us inside with a gloved hand, then searched Junior and Father’s front and back pockets.
    â€œPockets,” she said to me three times.
    I stared at her stone-faced unable to move or speak.
    Father patted my shoulder, whispering, “It’s okay.”
    She smiled pointing to my front pockets and twirled her fingers around for my back pockets. I dropped carrot oatmeal cookies, Russian chocolate, peppermints, my wallet, and change, into the clear bin. After she said thank you and pointed to the door, I heard a camera click outside. The sound confirmed I should