The Roy Stories by Barry Gifford Page A

door (thus I watched her though my back was turned) and beat me with a board, me screaming, “My mother’ll get you for this!”; and when my mother returned my not believing it was really her (she being so brown from the sun), and my momentary fear of her being an impostor, some woman hired by my grandmother to beat me because it was too hard on her heart for her to do it herself.
    This repeated paranoia, persistent tension, allowed no relief for me then but through my toy soldiers, sworded dragoons, Zouaves, and Vikings that I manipulated, controlled. Hours alone on my lined linoleum floor I played, determinedly oblivious to the voices, agonies perpetuated dining room to kitchen to bedroom.
    And there was the race we never ran. Nanny and I planned a race for when she was well, though she never would be. Days sick I’d sit in my mother’s bed next to Nanny and devise the route, from backyard down the block to the corner, from the fence to the lamppost and back—and Nanny would nod, “Yes, certainly, soon as I’m well”—and I’d cut out comics or draw, listening to Sergeant Preston on the radio, running the race in my mind, running it over and over, never once seeing Nanny run with me.

 
    Island in the Sun
    â€œOh, Roy, this poor thing!”
    â€œWho, Mom? What poor thing?”
    Roy was eating breakfast in their room at the Casa Marina in Key West, Corn Flakes with milk and red banana slices on it. His mother had a cup of Cuban coffee and a small glass of freshly squeezed orange juice on the table in front of her. She was reading the Miami Herald .
    â€œThis sick man in a big city up north who was beaten to death by teenagers. How terrible.”
    Roy looked out through the open French doors to the terrace and beyond to the Atlantic Ocean. The water was very blue and he knew it would be cold despite the bright December sun. If they decided to swim today, Roy thought, he and his mother would go to the other side of the island and swim in the Gulf of Mexico, where the water was always warmer.
    â€œWhy would they beat up a sick man?”
    â€œHe was mentally retarded and weighed three hundred pounds and wore a homemade Batman costume. The neighborhood kids liked to pick on him and call him names.”
    â€œWhat was his real name?”
    â€œJimmy Rodriguez.”
    â€œHow old was he?”
    â€œForty-two. Listen, Roy: ‘Mr. Rodriguez lived alone in the city’s most crime-ridden district. Neighbors told police that he would often shout at drug dealers and prostitutes from the sidewalk outside the apartment building in which he lived.’”
    â€œDoes it tell about how it happened?”
    â€œTwo fourteen year old boys and one thirteen year old girl hit him with soda pop bottles until he fell. Then they kicked him and poured soda on him while they shouted, ‘Fatman not Batman! Fatman not Batman!’”
    â€œEven the girl?”
    â€œMm-hm. The kids kept beating and kicking him even after he was dead, a neighbor, Feliciana Domingo, told police. Oh, Roy, this is really sad.”
    â€œWhat, Mom?”
    â€œBatman had bought the bottles of soda pop for the kids who killed him.”
    Roy had never lived in a real neighborhood. He was eight years old and had grown up in hotels. His mother put down the newspaper, picked up her cup and took a sip of coffee.
    â€œWhat happened to the kids who did it?”
    â€œI don’t know, it doesn’t say. They’ll probably be sent to a reformatory.”
    Roy’s mother put down her cup, lit a Pall Mall, inhaled deeply, then blew the smoke toward the terrace. White curlicues floated in the air for a few seconds in front of the dark blue water, then vanished.
    â€œWhat does retarded mean?”
    â€œSlow, Roy. Batman’s brain didn’t work fast.”
    â€œMom, I’m full.”
    â€œOkay, baby, don’t eat any more. As soon as I finish my cigarette, we’ll