Flesh and Blood by Michael Cunningham

interest in outdoor games.
    Billy shrugged. He opened the Coke, which made a fizzing sound. “Latin America,” he said. “Major imports and exports.”
    “Right,” Constantine said. “Imports and exports. They ship a lot of diamonds out of Latin America, don't they?”
    Billy sent him a blank-eyed, satisfied expression. Constantine knew the look. It was the victor's mask, the deep calm of superior accomplishment.
    “No, Dad,” Billy said with elaborate patience. “No diamonds. They export, well, bananas and coffee. And other things.”
    Constantine felt his anger rising. Maybe he was mistaken. Maybe it was some other country that mined diamonds. Maybe it was Africa, or Brazil.
    “You're a smart kid, ain't you?” he said. “You're a real smart kid.”
    Maybe his voice carried a sharper edge than he'd meant it to. Sometimes the things he heard himself say didn't match what was in his heart.
    “I don't know,” Billy said.
    “You don't know. Well, what do you know? I keep hearing from your mother all about how smart you are.”
    He watched his son's face. Billy stood before him in his frail armature of bone and pallid skin. His eyes, unnaturally large in his skull, ticked with unknowable thoughts.
    “Where's Costa Rica, Dad?” he asked.
    “Huh?”
    “Costa Rica. The country. Do you know where it is?”
    “What are you talking about, Costa Rica?”
    Billy said, “I forget. Is it north or south of Panama?”
    Constantine waved him away. “Go on,” he said. “Go finish your homework.”
    “Okay,” Billy said. He glanced at Mary and she looked back with such direct complicity Constantine's breath caught in his chest. He suspected that they plotted together, shared stories about his failings. Billy slurped his Coke and started out of the kitchen. He had a precise, girlish walk. He might have been balancing coins on his toes.
    “Listen, mister,” Constantine said to his back. “I don't like your attitude.”
    “Con, just let it go,” Mary said. “Billy, get on upstairs.”
    Billy turned. His thin face was swarming with an emotion Constantine couldn't name. It might have been rage. It might have been terror.
    “What's the capital of North Dakota, Dad?” Billy said.
    “What're you saying to me here? What are you saying?”
    “Con,” Mary said. The anticipation in her voice only made him angrier.
    “What's seven times nine?” Billy asked. “How do you spell 'rhythm'?”
    “Mister, I'm warning you. Who in the hell do you think you are?”
    “I'm a smart kid,” Billy said. “That's what you called me.”
    “Well, you get the hell out of here. By the time I count three, I want you out of my sight. One.”
    Billy left the room. Constantine saw the relief on Mary's face. She held her list.
    “Two, three,” he said. He turned back to the counter to finish filling his plate. He was spearing a pork chop when Billy called from the stairwell, “The capital of North Dakota is Bismarck.”
    Constantine ran from the kitchen and mounted the stairs by twos. He caught Billy on the top stair. Mary was close behind, hollering, but her cries only fueled Constantine's passion. He grabbed Billy's skinny arms, lifted him off the carpet.
    “What did you say to me?” Constantine said, and he heard the clenched power of his own voice. Billy looked into his face with an opaque, stubborn expression.
    He said, “Seven times nine is sixty-three.”
    When Constantine hit him he felt he was obliterating a weakness in the house. He was cauterizing a wound. The back of his hand struck Billy's jaw hard, scraped across his teeth with a cleansing burn. He heard Mary's scream from a distance. Billy's head snapped back and Constantine hit him again, this time with the heel of his hand, a smack solid and sure as a hammer driving a nail deep into pine. When he let go of Billy's arms Billy crumpled and rolled down a few stairs, where Mary held him to her breast. She shouted and wept. Constantine couldn't hear what she was saying.