Avenging Angel

by Lloyd B. Abrams

Hector and Angelina loved each other. A lot. They sat next to each other in literacy class and Angelina giggled when Hector pulled his desk close. The teacher didn't mind as long as their whispering was in English.

Then the baby came.

Hector dropped out of school and found work with a landscaper: cash, off the books, but steady. Angelina wanted to graduate but attended school only when she could, staying home with little Isabella when her mother couldn't babysit because she was on a bender.

While Angelina was home, she sat and watched TV, and ate the chips and the candy and the fast food her mother refused to stop bringing home.

Hector hated getting razzed by his compadres about Angelina getting fat. "Why doncha go for a walk with the baby? Get some exercise?" He begged her. Nagged her. Often he raised his voice. Sometimes he got really loud.

"Hector, papi, please" and she would start to cry. He couldn't handle that, and he would storm out. At the park, he could usually find someone old enough to pick up a six-pack for him. But he'd always stagger back and apologize, promise it'd never happen again, and she'd take him in her flabby arms and hold him, and every so often she'd satisfy his need until the baby woke up crying.

In time, he became so embarrassed he didn't want to be seen with her. When they had to go somewhere, they'd take a cab if he had a few extra dollars. Otherwise, when he was pushing the stroller, he'd order her to walk behind them.

"It's my baby too, you know," and then she'd sob, which would make him even more pissed off. One time, he got so furious that he grabbed her and slapped and punched her for talking back. It wasn't only the nasty bruises on her arms and face. It was as if this Hector was someone she did not know.

After that, things changed.

Angelina's mother refused to allow Hector back into the apartment. "No li'l girl of mine s'goin' to be hit by a cochino like you!" He screamed and pounded on the door, dead-locked from inside. A fed-up neighbor called the police, and Hector was led away in handcuffs, snarling, "I'll get you, you fuckin' bitch! I'll kill you, you puta!"

Angelina's family closed ranks. Her brother Victor's army tour was up and he came back to live in the cramped 11th Street apartment. Her estranged father, Ernesto was getting sober and also found his way back. All took turns caring for Isabella. All took turns hating Hector for the way he had treated Angelina.

Hector's friends called him a marricon and a pussy for putting up with all their shit. "She's your baby, Hector. You got your rights." After downing the better half of a six-pack of Corona Extra, they goaded him into climbing the rickety row house steps to demand to see his baby. They didn't stick around for the aftermath.

After ten solid minutes of Hector's banging on the door, Ernesto and Victor charged out. One held him while the other punched him, karate-chopped him, then slammed him against the wall. As he slumped to the floor, they kicked him in his ribs, in his kidneys, in his balls, and finally stomped his face. On this full-moon Saturday night, it took longer than usual for an ambulance to show up and take Hector, bloody, broken and unconscious, away to an ER. When the police knocked on doors - someone had to have heard something - they found that no one saw nuthin.

With no insurance coverage, Hector limped out of the city hospital three days later. In his pocket were a couple of sample packs of Oxycodone with acetaminophen and a script for more.

As Hector healed he got stronger but no money was coming in while he languished in his mother's apartment. She kept threatening that he'd goddam better get back to work before someone took his place.

He called his boss, who told him they'd pick him up on the corner in the morning as usual, but warned him that he'd better do a full day's work. The Oxycodone was almost gone and he had no money for refills. He was still sore all over and his stomach ached so bad he couldn't eat. But he was outside at seven sharp.

He struggled through the day, hurting like crazy. During a break for lunch, he scrounged around the truck and found an old Lawn Boy blade and a sharpening file. When they dropped him off, the boss asked "What you need that for?" and Hector replied, "Got somethin I gotta do ... I bring them back ...t'morrow."

His mother was out when he got home. She worked the night shift at the rehab center. He took two of his last three pills, scarfed down some macaroni and cheese, and washed it all down with a couple of cans of Pabst. After, he sat out on the fire escape, sharpening one end of the lawn mower blade until the edge was razor sharp. Then he wrapped layers of black tape around the other end.

He sat sipping the last two beers, swallowed down the last pill and waited until after midnight. Then he strode over to Angelina's.

He put his ear up against the door. No voices. No TV. Nothing. He took out his key. It still fit in the lock. He turned it just so and slowly pushed the door open.

He tiptoed over to the couch where Angelina was sleeping, cradling Isabella, and stood over them, praying silently to himself. Tears rolled down his cheeks.

He lifted the blade over his head. Just as he slashed down towards Angelina neck, her body shifted and he buried the blade deep into the baby's forehead.

Angelina woke up, shrieking, "Madre de Dios! Hector, what did you do?" Her mother, father and brother came running.

Hector stood like a statue, mouth agape. The blade clanged onto the linoleum. He crumpled to the floor, drew into a fetal position, and waited for the blows that were sure to come.

Rev 5 / October 23, 2009

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October, 2009…Copyright © 2009, Lloyd B. Abrams