My Sweet Warrior by David Erlewine

In the attic, I find my old Raggedy Andy. The more I look at it, the more it resembles Brice’s tormentor, Will. Something in the grin; the freckles seal the deal.

Brice refuses to smack him. “Come on Rice-A-Roni,” I say, mimicking Will’s voice. “You look like a little girl. Give me your bike so I can ride it, beeyotch.”

Brice frowns. “You played with dolls as a kid? Dolls are stupid.”

“Just hit him.”

Brice rolls his eyes.

Later, after teeth-brushing, we sit in my bed. He reads passages from a book, ones I highlighted. “Come back with your shield,” he says, “or on it.”

I nod. “That’s what Spartan mothers told their warrior sons before battle. Would you believe it? Those moms were almost happy when their warrior sons died in battle.”

“What’s a worrier son?”

I smack my brow. Warrior. The way he says “warrior” sounds like “worrier.”

“A warrior son doesn’t take sh–”

Brice arches a brow.

“A warrior son always stands up to others. Warrior sons don’t sleep with their dads.”

He smiles and hugs me, burrowing his nose into my neck, flattening his body out on top of me. After a few minutes, he’s snoring, and I carry him to his room. He weighs no more than a 45-pound plate you see in the gym.

The next afternoon, Brice ducks as we pass Will’s house. I glance back. “Get your head up.” In the garage, before letting him out of his car seat, I say, “No punching, no dinner.”

Before bed, Brice is hungry enough to hit Andy. “Harder,” I say. “Put your hips into it.”

He’s a quick learner. “Good,” I say, “Now, pretend it’s Will.” After Brice lands three solid jabs and a good right hook, I give him a turkey sandwich and potato chips. I think about giving him a Coke but catch myself.

On Saturday morning, I spy Will at the far edge of our yard, kicking the tree. I glance at his house, at its open garage door. Back in the kitchen, I hold the doll between Brice and his Cheerios.

“Hey,” he says, milk dribbling down his chin.

I walk him to the front window. “Is that nice? Do you ever kick Will’s tree?”

“My Cheerios are getting soggy.”

“You’re a dork,” I say in Will’s voice, rubbing Andy’s nose against Brice’s.

“Stop it!”

I pick Brice up. His hair smells like Spider-Man bubble bath, a hint of strawberry.

My father, were he alive, would be ashamed of his grandson, a first grader, getting bullied by a pre-preschooler. I nudge open the front door and whisper “warrior son” in Brice’s ear. I point to the family crest on the wall, the coat of arms; our shield.

He looks at the crest, doesn’t struggle. I set him on the porch. I lock the door and move over to the window. The paper boy swings past, lobs the paper; good arm, that kid. Brice pounds the door. Will looks up from the tree, almost like he is sniffing the air.

About the author:

David Erlewine’s fiction appears in 3:AM Magazine, FRiGG, SmokeLong Quarterly, The Pedestal, and other places. He is JMWW’s flash fiction editor and blogs at http://whizbyfiction.blogspot.com.