Windward Review Vol. 20 (2022): Beginnings and Endings

might do. But Donny wouldn’t wear a
helmet, so it might kill him, as well.
Not the goal.
Simple solution: a week out of
the psych ward, I told him to get his
piles of Nintendo, Power Ranger, and
Transformer knickknacks into the
basement before I threw them out.
While he packed boxes, I loosened a stair
near the top of the flight. He accused
me of trying to kill him as he lay on the
basement floor. Couldn’t move a finger
as we waited on the ambulance. It wasn’t
true. I didn’t want him dead. I just wanted
his attention.
Once he was in the wheelchair,
I thought we pretty much licked the
problem. He’d be at least 18 by the time
he ever walked again. My job was done.
Got him alive, if not kicking, to the age
of majority.
The wheel chair did get his
attention. Unfortunately, it was focused
on those buckets of anger. His birthday
was a few weeks off when it got really
quiet. A scary quiet. No yelling from the
TV room for another soda or his phone.
His father had called. He’d heard from
his side of the family that his son had
an accident. When he got the full details
from the source, he cut the conversation
short. Said a birthday gift was on its way.
Last Donny heard from him.
No news there.
As for what came after, never in a
million years could I imagine his leaving
his room in that condition. He couldn’t
get that wheel chair out a front or back
door without my hearing the snap of the
screen.
Wrong.
He swears his punk friends
cooked up the idea, an armed robbery
from a wheel chair. Who would guess
that poor soul rolling towards you was
dangerous? Jeff, a soccer bud from his
Billy goat days, filched his father’s gun.
Donny held it on his lap, hidden under
the afghan his grandmother knit for
his christening. When the woman they
were following heard the wheel chair
near, she stopped and turned.
“Excuse me, Ma’am,” one of them
said. “please give us your purse.”
According to the court record, she
saw Donny holding the gun underneath
that blanket, panicked, and threw her
purse at them. When she began to
run, Donny shot her in the back. Laid
her flat on the sidewalk wet from rain.
Those idiots crossed a lawn to get away,
then backtracked home. The police
were at our door in no time. The wheel
chair made muddy tracks straight to
his bedroom. He was inside shaking
and crying and smoking a cigarette.
I walloped him upside the head for
smoking in his room. He asked if the
woman was alright, which showed some
remorse. His lawyer ran with that. While
he couldn’t get him a juvenile trial, he
did snag a reduced sentence.
Donny’s little sister, Maya, turns
13 next week. Her father’s better than
Donny’s dad, but not much. He’s in town
but does enjoy his drink. That’s how we
met. I got sober long enough to leave
him. Maya will be fine. I’ve been checking
her regularly since she was 12 to see if
she’d pierced, poked or burned any part
of her body. As best as I can recall, that’s
how her brother got started. I wished I’d
paid closer attention then.
21 Windward Review Volume 20