my mother about it the next day, and she told me I was crazy. She said that if I had seen what I thought, it was probably for hunting or the firing range or something. I never understood why she always gave him the benefit of the doubt no matter how absurd the situation. Meanwhile, Dad hadn't come back. And he didn't return for a week, if I remember right. Doc thinks Mom was trying to convince herself that anything Dad did was okay with her so that they wouldn't fight anymore. I'm sorry, Doc, but nothing can convince me that Mom somehow believed it was okay for her husband to punch her in the head when she disagreed with him. To kick her in the ribs when she was on the ground. To pull her up by her hair just to scream in her face. If she thought that was an acceptable way for a husband to treat a wife, then the booze must have killed every brain cell in her skull.
I guess that's not impossible, considering how much she drank. It's a wonder that she wasn't a casualty of alcohol poisoning.
As for me, I'd long since put an end to my mother's abuse toward me. When I was fourteen, Mom had gotten angry with me for going out without telling her. I don't remember where I'd gone; I was probably wandering through the park or something. Regardless, she was screaming in my face. I knew the slaps would come next, and punches would follow. So I did something I'd never before done.
I grabbed the phone, locked myself in my room, and called the cops.
I'd never called the police on my mother before. Not due to her abuse of me, anyway. I'd called them a few times when she and Dad got excessively violent with each other, but my reasoning was always that I was afraid for my mother's safety. When they showed up, they sometimes asked if I had ever been abused, but I'd always lie and say no. I didn't want to be put into a foster home or be taken away from the life I knew, as silly as that sounds.
But this time, I was done. And I told her as much when I hung up the phone. I screamed at her through the door that I was going to tell the police everything if she didn't promise to stop. To my great surprise, she did.
To my even greater surprise, she followed through with that promise.
But she was happy to wail away on Dad. His ladies, too. And Dad returned the favor, giving one of her "gentlemen" a broken nose and black eye. I started finding reasons not to go home. I'd miss my bus just to take the long walk home. I'd go to the park a few blocks away and wander aimlessly until dark. I couldn't stand to be around any of it. Their behavior disgusted me. Their lifestyles disgusted me. They disgusted me. The drama in that damn house seemed to drag on with no end in sight.
Until that fateful day in March.
I warned Doc ahead of time that what he was going to witness was something that no one should ever have to see. I warned him it would be dangerous. I warned him that it was going to be traumatizing. I warned him that I have frequent nightmares replaying the incident over and over every time I sleep. I've tried very hard to forget the events of that day. I've tried very hard to erase it from the imprints of my memory. Doc knew what happened, but no more details than that. I've never wanted to talk about it, and I've never wanted to confront it. But on Doc's advice, I did so today. And it only served to reopen the wound.
It was eerily quiet around my house when Doc and I walked through the open door. My mother was sitting on the couch watching the holovision in her pink hoodie and jeans. Herbie was in his bedroom scribbling song lyrics in a notebook; I'd gone through a phase where I wanted to be the lead vocalist in a band. It seemed like a peaceful Thursday afternoon. But the peace was about to be shattered.
My father's pickup barreled into the driveway and screeched to a halt. He was screaming obscenities as he jumped out of the cab. When he charged through the door, he was waving the gun around and shouting something about my mother's affair.
"How dare you go sleepin' around behin' my back!" he yelled. "I oughta beat your—"
Mom leapt to her feet, seemingly unfazed by the weapon he was brandishing. "You're kidding me, right?!" she asked, holding up her hands. "You're gonna come cryin' to me about my cheating? You been with more whores than I got fillings in the past year alone!"
Herbie showed up in the doorway wearing an oversized black sweatshirt and some ratty old jeans. He said nothing, but his eyes flickered with signs of a raging fire within.
"I can do whatever I want!" Dad yelled at her, using the gun to point at himself as though it was his own finger. "I'm the man of this house, and my business is my business!"
Mom crossed her arms and snorted in disgust. "You ain't been a man in twenty years! When was the last time you brought home a paycheck, huh? And not money you done scammed outta some sucker at the bar. An actual paycheck for workin' a job!"
He gave her a shove, his finger wrapped around the trigger. "Money is money! It don't matter where I get it so long as I do! 'Sides, that don't make it okay for you to be out there hangin' on other men!"
Mom raised her arm and slapped him as hard as she could. "You don't want me to hang on you!" she screamed. "For twenty damn years I been tryin' to win your attention! So long as you're gonna be sharin' sheets with sluts, I'm gonna get my affection where I can!"
The butt of the gun struck her cheekbone, knocking her to the couch. "I'm the man of this house!" Dad screamed again. "And you're gonna do what I say!"
Her cheek had been split open, and blood trickled down her jaw. "I ain't your little slave that you can just order around," she growled, returning to her feet.
Suddenly, my father aimed the gun at her forehead. The blood drained from Herbie's face. Mom didn't help the situation. She pressed her head against the weapon's barrel. That made Dad seethe with anger. "I'll do it, I swear I'll do it!"
"Then do it!" she screamed, tempting him with the unthinkable. "Pull the damn trigger and end it!"
I looked at Herbie; he seemed torn between stopping them both and not wanting to get shot. Watching him made me feel selfish. How could I not have acted? Why didn't I do anything?
Then it happened. Mom knocked the gun away with her forearm and grabbed hold of Dad's wrist. With both hands, she twisted his arm as she darted behind his back in an attempt to wrench the weapon free. Dad struggled against her, pushing and pulling and twisting and yelling, until the inevitable shot rang out.
Herbie's breath caught; I seem to think I didn't take another for at least four hours. Mom dropped to her knees, a crimson stain spreading across her shirt. With little more than a whimper, she slumped to the floor, clutching the wound. My father stood over her for a moment, eyes wide in apparent shock. Still, despite his pale face, he didn't exactly look like he regretted it. His chest heaved with each breath, and he stared at the gun as though it was both the holy grail and a hissing cobra. I wonder if he even knew how he felt.
Then his head whipped around. Herbie's eyes grew to the size of golf balls. There was no question what the old man had planned next. And Herbie wasn't about to stick around for it. He nearly exploded through the back door and raced into the yard with Doc and I close behind. Adrenaline carried him over the old fence and through several neighbor's lawns before he emerged along the street behind ours, running with enough energy to carry him across the state line.
"I'm sorry, Herbert," Doc said in a low voice. "I'm so terribly sorry."
I wasn't listening. A sudden realization was beginning to dawn on me. "I have to see," I murmured, turning back toward the house. "I have to see."
I ran back inside the house. There, on the living room floor, I found my father cradling my mother in his arms. It was almost surreal to see him showing that kind of affection. Her chest was heaving with short erratic breaths. Blood was gathering on the floor beneath them. Her life was fading. And my father was crying.
My father was crying.
I couldn't believe what I was seeing. The old man, my old man, was showing something I didn't believe existed in that black heart of his. Remorse. Regret. Sadness. Sorrow. Pain.
"I'm sorry,
Honey!" he cried, pulling Mom close. "I'm so sorry! I told you we done needed to get off the D!" The "D" referred to "Dread," a highly addictive narcotic that was popular at the time. Among the side-effects were violent fits of rage. Alcohol compounded the effects.
My mother smiled at him. She smiled at my father! "You know just as much as me that things are gonna be better this way." She reached up and brushed some of his graying hair from his eyes. "Just see that Herbie doesn't go off and throw his life away, ya hear me?"
Dad shook his head, sobbing uncontrollably. "I ain't no father," he groaned. "I don't know the first thing about how to take care of that boy."
"You don't have to take care of him," she whispered. "Just make sure he don't think of followin' after us. Don't let him get mixed up in this kinda nonsense. He's gonna do big things with himself. You'll see."
"But what am I gonna do without you?" Dad pleaded. "I ain't nothin' without you, ya know. Them other girls, they don't give me what you've always given me. It's why I married you an' not them!"
My mother's eyelids seemed to be drooping, but she still had enough left in her to respond. "Do you know why I married you? Because I believe in you. The whole reason I get so angry when you ain't got a job is cause I know the potential you got inside you! Yeah, we had problems. But