She Was Nine

She was nine, her sister older. He was a big thirty-five mean drunk coming down from Saturday night, slicked-back black hair, Hawaiian shirt, dark wolverine eyes. He hit her arm hard, uttered an order under his breath. She looked down (small tears). What else could she do but pull away, turn away sideways, offer less of herself as a target if the first blow hadn’t dispelled his anger? Her sister’d been there before. She knew what to do — drop back a half-step, look down too (don’t see), shed quiet tears for her sister.