Brett wasn’t a loon. (Beat) Sometimes. W...

Brett wasn’t a loon. (Beat) Sometimes. Well. I hit him. In the mornings, right before he went to school. Just about the time he’d start on a bowl of cereal. And a lot of the time, she’d be there. Pace. Your Pace. But I’d hit him anyway. Brett liked her to see it. After I hit him, Brett would take Pace aside and ask her if she saw it. Of course she saw it. She was standing right beside him! But Brett wanted to make sure. Then one morning I’m just about to hit him when he says “Wait a minute, Dad. You’ve got a headache so you just sit back down and take it easy. I’ll take care of it.” So Brett hauls off and hits himself in the mouth. And I mean hard. His lip busts and starts bleeding. I’m so surprised that I sit back down and just stare at him. Next morning, the same thing. Brett stands in front of me and hits himself in the face. Twice. I don’t say a thing. I just watch. Sometimes him doing it himself, instead of me, made us laugh. Together. The only time we did that. Laugh. (Beat) I knew Brett ran that train. It wasn’t the first time. Maybe it was fate.

Wallace, Naomi. The Trestle at Pope Lick Creek. Broadway Play Publishing, Inc. 2000. pp. 60.