Balance of Power

    By then, Kerry was as big as he would ever get: five feet ten, one hundred fifty-five pounds. He was a full three inches shorter than his handsome brother, the state senator, that much shorter and sixty pounds lighter than his father, the policeman. Beyond boxing there were not many sports for a boy who was neither big nor fast of foot nor a natural leader, let alone one who still lost his temper in frustration at his own lack of talent.

    Finally, Kerry made himself a serviceable soccer goalie. "Serviceable" captured Kerry's senior year—Bs and Cs, no honors won, a slot the next year at Seton Hall University, a few blocks from his home. For the longer range, Michael suggested that Kerry go into the police department. "It's enough for a lot of us," he said, "and no point worrying about why you're not your brother. After all, who is?"

    Kerry did not answer. His father's failure was etched in the deepening creases of his face, the bleary eyes, and the only relief he found beyond drink was abusing his wife and belittling his son. Kerry's mother seemed almost broken. Perhaps, Kerry thought, his father's women had been her final degradation.

    Michael still sat at the foot of Kerry's bed, but often now he talked of the women he met in bars or on the job, so much younger, so much more admiring. Quietly disgusted, inexperienced himself, Kerry simply hoped that this diversion would help Mary Kilcannon. But the beatings Michael gave her grew worse, especially after his second citation for police brutality: the time Michael had beaten a black man into a concussive state for trying to "escape." It brought him a reprimand, a month's suspension, and a dangerous self-hatred; the night after this happened Mary Kilcannon needed two stitches on her upper lip.

    Kerry drove her to the hospital, despair and hatred warring in his heart. When she came out of the emergency room and into the night, Kerry simply held her, cradling her face against his shoulder.

    "Leave him, Mom," he murmured. "Please. It can't be God's will that you should stay."

    "It's only the drink . . ." Mary closed her eyes, adding softly, "Divorce is a sin, Kerry. And what would I do?"

    The look on her once-pretty face, now so pale and thin, pierced him. When they came home, Michael Kilcannon lay passed out on his bed. For a moment, Kerry wondered how it would feel to kill his father in his sleep.

    Mary watched his face. "I'll call the priest," she said quietly. "I'll call Father Joe."

    It was far safer to call Liam, Kerry thought. Surely there were policemen who cared nothing for his father, prosecutors who owed Liam Dunn a favor. But the priest was his mother's wish.

    "Yes," Kerry said. "Call Father Joe."

    The next Saturday, the slender, balding priest came to the Kilcannons' home and spoke quietly to Kerry's father. His mother stayed in her room. For several hours his father sat still and silent and then, before dinner, left.

    He returned after midnight.

    Kerry heard his feet on the stairs, heavy, decisive—then the ponderous breathing as Michael reached the top. He did not stop at Kerry's room.

    Kerry's mouth was dry. He lay on his bed, dressed only in boxer shorts, listening for sounds.

His mother screamed with pain too deep for Kerry to bear.

    For a moment, Kerry's eyes shut. Then he stood without thinking and went to his parents' room.

    His mother lay in a corner, dressing gown ripped. Blood came from her broken nose. Her husband stood over her, staring down as if stunned, for once, by what he had done.

    Kerry stood behind him. He felt so much hatred that he barely registered his mother's fear as she saw him.

    The look on her face made Michael turn, startled. "You," he said in surprise.

    Kerry hit him with a left jab.

    Blood spurted from his father's nose. "You little fuck," his father cried out.

    Kerry hit him three more times, and Michael's nose was as broken as his wife's. All that Kerry wanted was to kill him; what his father might do to him no longer mattered.

    Kerry moved forward . . .

    "No," his mother screamed, and Michael Kilcannon threw a savage punch.

    It crashed into Kerry's shoulder; he winced with pain as Michael lunged forward to grab him.

    Kerry ducked beneath his father's grip and hit him in the midsection.

    The soft flesh quivered. Michael grunted in pain but kept coming, eyes focused with implacable anger. Arms blocking Kerry's next punch, he enveloped him in a murderous bear hug.

    Helpless, Kerry felt his ribs ache, his lungs empty. His father's whiskey-maddened face was obscured by black spots, then flashes of light. Kerry felt himself lose consciousness. With a last spasmodic effort, he jammed his knee up into his father's groin.

    Kerry felt his father stiffen. His eyes were great with surprise. Panting for air, Kerry lowered his head and butted his father's chin.

    Michael's grip loosened. Kerry writhed free, almost vomiting, then stumbled to his right and sent a flailing left hook to his father's groin.