In the 1950s you could drive over the railroad tracks, past almond, apricot, and plum orchards, past alfalfa fields. Farther down the dirt road on the right was the little house my parents rented. Our white asbestos siding contrasted nicely with the wide bed of geraniums. It would still be a few more years until the construction of Interstate 10 would take out Benny and Armando’s house, the nursery, and the feed store. Some childhood memories are vivid because they include emotions that compound the visual images, some of them linger because they can’t be resolved.

I was one of those kids who looked normal in group pictures. But I was afraid of nearly everything: noises in the night, what might happen while standing close to the locomotives—how I might accidentally fall under the wheels. I was afraid my parents might spank me or yell or maybe stop loving me. I was afraid of my younger, bigger sister. And I was afraid of Larry Green, our local bully.

Yet, my cousin Rusty struck fear on a different level. The kind of helpless fear that wrenches the gut, seizes the mind because we don’t know how to prepare. Rusty was like a locomotive; dangerous, inhuman. I had watched him set cats on fire, and perform “autopsies” on small creatures he had captured and tied down. Once, he set a couple of fires in vacant lots. I followed him as we ran until we were out of breath. Then he punched me in the shoulder and warned me not to tell. For days I could hardly move my arm. I was afraid my pain would be evident, that my parents would question and pressure me to disclose why I was hurt. I had reason to believe that the truth could maim or kill me. No one ever hit me as hard as Rusty.

For my seventh birthday, my mom invited some classmates and their moms, including Larry Green and his mom. I suppose my Aunt Stella and my cousin Rusty were visiting from out of town because they were there too.

After the blown candles, the cake, and the presents, the moms sent us out to play. I imagine that they leaned back in dining room chairs, drinking coffee, smoking Lucky Strikes with lipstick filters and examining the lives of those not sitting at the table. Us boys played in the front yard—just outside the window.

The first fight was between Bobby Barnfield and Billy Hall—both kids small and thin like me. Pushing and ineffective hitting took place. No doubt the moms sighed, stubbed out their cigarettes and used loud language as they marched out the front door; threats issued, order restored. Fights were always a thrill, but because it was my party, I couldn’t just enjoy the fight. My mother had given me one of her looks.

No sooner had they gone back in the house, than two big stocky kids, Chucky Adler and Tommy Clayton, started fighting. They punched each other until a bear hug stumble dropped them to the center of our exuberant circle.

This time the moms were pissed off. They came out yelling—not just at Chucky and Tommy, but at all of us. Couldn’t we just play? Did we have to act like a bunch of hooligans? If anybody hits or shoves anybody else, then everybody is going home. The party will be over! In the silence that followed, we displayed submission and mumbled acknowledgements with lowered eyes. But our blood still carried the potent elixir of violence. Casting dirty looks over their shoulders, the moms headed back to the house. I watched my mom for the signals that might tell me if the fighting was my fault.

The long spring pulled the screen door closed with a slam. And then a real fight started.

Larry Green punched my cousin Rusty. Larry used to brag that his dad was a sheriff, that sheriffs were allowed to drink on the job. According to Larry’s dad, local policemen didn’t have that privilege. I took that as a fact. More than once, I’d seen Larry’s dad slap his wife and kids. As a result, Larry used to beat me up every couple of weeks. He always talked like his dad when he was getting ready to punch me.

But Larry’s provocations, his actions and responses, were tame compared to what I would later learn about my cousin. Since he was a toddler, Rusty’s father had been raping him. Rusty was the youngest of three and also took regular beatings from his older siblings. Rusty hit without concern for his fists. The people Rusty hit were not just foes, they were demons. At nine years old, Rusty was a danger to anything that could be damaged.

When Rusty hit Larry back, the rest of us boys got our first glimpse of vicious hatred. Larry’s head snapped back, blood flew, and he hit the ground like he’d fallen out of a tree. Whether or not he intended to get up didn’t seem to matter to Rusty, who bent over and punched Larry’s head and back.

Larry spun around, pulled his legs and arms up, bleeding through the dirt that already covered him. He tried to crawl away.

Rusty kicked with the kind of authority that displayed firsthand knowledge. He kicked in the head, kicked in the ribs and stomach, kicked in the balls, ass, and legs. He kicked as if he intended to kill. I felt the danger and feared the consequences.

Then Larry’s mom, a small woman with black, horn-rimmed glasses came running out. With maternal fury, she grabbed Rusty by the arm. And Rusty, who certainly would have feared any hostile touch, spun around and punched Mrs. Green in the mouth. Her glasses went flying and she went down like a dog hit by a car.

I looked at the moms—including my mom, who seemed to be frozen just outside the door. I looked back to Rusty who was crying hard—he always cried when he beat people up—as he turned back from Mrs. Green to continue kicking and hitting Larry. Both boys grunted with each blow. Meanwhile, Mrs. Green was on her hands and knees in the geraniums, moving her mouth slowly as if she had a hair stuck in it.

And then I felt this surge of pride in my cousin. For just a few moments, I had a champion. And my cousin gave me the feeling that I was safe. I experienced a vicarious transfer that made me believe that I was in command. With my fists bunched, I enjoyed that feeling of safety.

I remember my Aunt Stella, Rusty’s mom, standing off to one side; her left arm across her waist, right elbow resting there, right hand holding a cigarette, tilted away. Someone begged her to do something. But she leaned back a little, exhaling smoke, and shook her head. “No. I know better than to mess with him when he gets like this. I just wait until he gets tired.”

And finally, Rusty did get tired. He hung his head, backing up against the house, gasping and sobbing. Mrs. Green put her glasses back on unevenly, circled to the opposite side of Rusty, and took Larry by the arm, lifting and pulling him to safety. Mrs. Green and Larry held each other, hunched together, and staggered through the alfalfa, toward home.

The rest of us boys gave each other the bug-eye. I felt like I could outrun a car or tear a tree out of the ground. Carefully, the moms took their kids by the arm and led them to the cars.

Rusty slumped against the house, his hands limp. He drooled and snuffled like a two-year-old. Just outside arm’s reach, his mom was leaning over speaking softly, saying, “Rusty? Rusty honey? It’s okay Rusty. It’s okay.”

I had the shakes like I was freezing. I was afraid that somehow, I was going to be in trouble. I worried that with everybody gone I might then be isolated and I could think of no form of safety. No doubt, my mom was making some kind of a list. I felt like the last chicken in the cage.

Departing cars left dust vortexes twirling in their wake. The geraniums were a mess. A freeway was coming to demolish our peaceful way of life.