Lineage by Joe Hart Page B

doorway bigger and brighter than the sun in a cloudless August sky. There was no hesitation. There was no restraint. The blows that rained down on Lance came from all directions at once. His face was punched, his stomach kicked, his shins raked, until he no longer stood but lay folded against the opposite wall of the narrow hallway, trying in vain to fend off the strikes even as he squeezed his eyes shut so tight he saw glowing orbs of gold behind the darkened lids.
    He learned later that his father’s truck had broken down at a job near town. Anthony’s employer had delivered him home early, unbeknownst to Lance. At the time Lance hadn’t understood what had been unfolding in his parents’ bedroom. Much later he realized it must have been what passed for sex between the elder Metzgers . His father first striking his mother and then moving on to perhaps more sinister tortures Lance preferred not to imagine.
    These memories ran through Lance’s mind as his hand rested on the knob once again. This time he knew his father was somewhere nearby, he had seen the outline of the Chevy sitting blackly in the driveway, and he was older.
    The first time he had been seven.
    The doorknob turned once again, and Lance was struck by déjà vu so profoundly he imagined he could see the pink scars of his father’s back as soon as the door cracked open enough to reveal the room beyond. The door swung wider and light from the kitchen crept across the furniture and other objects, which looked like crouching beasts in the darkness. Lance let the door touch the wall before releasing the breath he was holding. The room was empty.
    Lance pulled the bedroom door shut and ventured back out to the porch. He stood on his tiptoes as he looked out the darkened window, straining his eyes to see if the faint shape of his mother’s car was still parked on the far side of the Chevy. He couldn’t tell from where he stood. Lance turned to his left and made to look out of the window set in the middle of the front door, when he noticed shadows moving in front of the house. They were solidifying and shifting from side to side. Too late, he realized the shadows were the thin outline of his father hurrying up the last few steps to the door.
    Lance stumbled back, a cry of fright caught in his throat, as the screen door was thrown back and the inner door thrust open to reveal the bony form of the man beyond. Anthony stepped into the entry, a thick woolen shirt buttoned around stooped shoulders, his unshaven face an oblong shape without emotion. He shut the inner door without turning from his son, who stood on the threshold of the kitchen, light sketching the boy’s outline and throwing his face into darkness.
    “What’re you doin ’?”
    Lance stood stock-still, every muscle locked in place as if he had been encased in concrete and left to cure. A hundred phrases and questions ran through his mind as his father stepped closer and squinted into the light from the kitchen to read his features. He could smell the older man—a mixture of sweat and clothes worn too many times without washing. 
    “You still knocked silly?” Anthony asked as he stopped a few feet from Lance and glared down at him, the scowl pulling his angular face into a rough point. Lance found the strength to shake his head, but no more.
    “Well get the fuck out of my way then.”
    Lance stood fast. His feet weighed a thousand pounds apiece, and he felt his fists clenching in on themselves. Not for the first time he felt as if he were watching his own life transpire from the sidelines. He watched from the bleachers of his mind as heat swelled within his own chest and his heart began pumping double time. Just before his father was about to sweep him aside like refuse from the garage apron after a storm, he spoke. “Where’s my mom?”
    His father stopped before he had taken a step, and stared at Lance with almost a newfound realization. The boy can talk. He can think on his own. Well,