take what they want no matter who they have to walk over to get it."
"Well, he was a child," Doc said. "He had a lot he needed to learn about how to treat others. For whatever reason, he developed the perception that violence was the way to solve the problems in front of him. It is unfortunate that he had to experience what it was like for those on the receiving end of his abuse. I doubt he'd ever lost a fight before; it was probably a big shock for him."
"I suppose." Was all that abuse he dished out regularly just borne out of ignorance? "I guess he just . . . didn't know any better."
Wednesday – Day 3
And I thought yesterday had been bad.
This morning, Doc told me that he wanted to observe a bit of my childhood. Specifically, my relationship with my parents. He asked me to pick out a memory that I felt would give him a taste of my life at home. There were plenty of options from which to choose, but there was one specific day that stood out in my mind.
It was a crisp morning late in autumn. Doc and I arrived just down the road from my house. For the moment, the street was quiet. It would not stay that way. Most of the neighbors had gotten used to the screaming that emanated from our household on a daily basis, but I never did.
Our house was a run-down shack of a place. We never had the money for upkeep or repairs. Shingles were missing or crumbling; shutters were rusted and broken. The screen door was falling off its hinges. It was a disgrace. If my father had any sense of responsibility, he would've done something about our living conditions.
"It's quiet," Doc noted. "Is anyone home?"
"Mom and I should be," I replied. "But Mom is probably wasted."
Across the street, Donald Brock came out of his house and headed for his car. The last time I'd seen him, he was a good deal older with significant lines in his face. I waved to him out of habit before remembering the invisibility belt. He tossed a briefcase onto the passenger's seat of his sedan and drove off in a rush. Once he was out of sight, I pushed our old rickety gate open and approached the house. The screen was a mess, hanging halfway off of the frame and riddled with little holes. The inner door was open by about a foot or so. I was pretty confident I'd have no trouble entering. Herbie was probably going to be in the kitchen looking for anything for breakfast. And Mom . . .
I reached through the broken screen and gave the door a nudge. It swung open wide enough to provide a view of the couch. Yup. Mom was passed out with a nearly-empty bottle of wine on its side next to the couch. I pulled the screen door open and started to enter. Doc didn't argue; he must've also seen her drunken state. I walked to a corner beside the couch where Dad's old newspapers were piled up. Doc followed my footsteps and stood beside me.
"Is someone there?" a little voice called from the kitchen. Herbie came running in, a bit older with a scar on the bridge of his nose. He was wearing an oversized t-shirt with flaming skulls on the back. I don't remember exactly, but I'm assuming Mom just gave me one of Dad's shirts rather than do laundry. Herbie looked around for a moment, confused about the apparent footsteps he thought he'd heard, then closed the front door and kneeled beside his mother. "Mom? Mom! I can't find anything to eat." He shook her arm.
"Uhhnngghh," she moaned, pulling away. "Jus' find sumfin…"
"There isn't anything," he said, shaking her again. She didn't respond. "Mom! Come on, you said you'd get bread yesterday!"
"They were out," she grumbled. "Go away."
"The store was out of bread?" Even ten-year-old Herbie wasn't buying that. When Mom didn't answer, he groaned in frustration and ran back into kitchen.
"Where's your father?" Doc whispered in my ear.
I've read a number of horror stories where, if the characters dare to speak the name of the devil, he hears their voice and comes to devour their souls. I kind of wondered if that's what Doc had done, because as soon as he asked the question, I heard Dad's pickup pull into the driveway. "He's here," I murmured. "Get ready. I don't exactly remember how this all happens, but we should be ready to move if it becomes necessary."
Dad's footsteps stomped across the path outside, and the door flew open. He didn't say a word, just stormed in and dropped a black duffel bag on the floor near the kitchen doorway. He'd been gone for nearly two weeks. We didn't know for sure where he'd gone, but Mom was pretty sure he was with another woman and that some rather sordid things were going on between them.
He was a big guy into the old-fashioned motorcycles of past years and a member of a gang of biker enthusiasts. A black bandana was tied around his head, and he was wearing his black leather jacket and jeans that he always donned when he'd hit the local bars. He was the kind of guy you didn't want to run into in a dark place. Or a well-lit place, for that matter.
Herbie came back into the room. He was carrying a glass of water. "Dad, Mom didn't buy any bread," he said. "Can you get some? I have to leave for school in an hour."
"Dammit Herbert," he growled, snatching up the stack of mail from the chair beside the door. "I just got in. Can't I rest my feet for even a minute without you nagging me?"
The little boy's face turned red as he hung his head. "Sorry, Dad. I was just hungry, that's all."
"Then why don't you get your good-for-nothing mother to make something for you?!" he yelled. "She ain't doin' nothin' else around this dump!"
Mom, it seems, wasn't quite as asleep as she'd wanted Herbie to think. "I been doin' more than you," she growled, pushing herself into a sitting position. She held her head with one hand while the other blindly grasped air beside the couch in search of the wine bottle. "Where the hell you been at?"
"You didn't pay the cable bill, dammit!" Dad yelled, throwing the envelope at her. "Now I ain't gonna be able to see the fight!"
"It's not like you're bringin' home the money to pay the bills," she shot back. Her hand finally found the wine bottle, and she gulped down a mouthful. "Now, where you been?"
"It just so happens," he began, yanking a rolled up bill out of his pocket, "that I been out bringin' home a paycheck while you been here getting plastered!" He threw the money at her. "Now get that damn cable bill paid!"
Mom unrolled the bill. It was a fifty. A single fifty dollar bill. "Fifty bucks?!" she exclaimed, standing. "You call that a paycheck? What, did you win this playing poker or something? This ain't even gonna pay for the groceries, let alone the bills!"
"Make it stretch. I ain't missin' the fight. Besides, I don't see you helping out with money."
"Someone's gotta take care of Herbert!" She was getting closer to him, now. A long pink fingernail pointed back at Herbie. He looked white as a ghost, up against the wall beside the kitchen door. He knew what was coming.
"Can't that damn boy take care of himself yet?" Dad screamed back. Love you too, Pops.
"Maybe he'd be able to if you'd spend some time with him!" Mom screamed. She was inches from his face. "Instead, you're always running off with that hooker from the bar!"
Dad's eyes raged. Without a hint of hesitation, he balled up his fist and punched Mom in the mouth. Whether or not he used all his strength, I don't know, but it sent her staggering back toward the couch. He followed her closely, giving no room for escape. "Dammit, don't you ever call her a hooker!" he screamed.
Mom's lip was bleeding. She looked dazed, but she had enough clarity of mind to reach back for the glass ashtray on the end table and smash it across Dad's head. Herbie screamed and backed into the kitchen, tears flowing from his eyes. Though I hadn't realized it, they were flowing from mine, too.
Dad used some more colorful words for Mom that I'd rather not write here. Then he placed both hands on her chest and shoved with all his might, throwing her body onto the couch with frightful force. When she hit the seat, her head smacked into the window behind the couch and went through it, leaving a small hole in the center of a web of cracks, the lower section of which was coated with crimson. Mom instinctively gra
bbed the back of her head and slumped over.
I thought about intervening more than once. But again, I didn't want to mess with history. It was too great a risk to take. All I could do was watch . . . and cry.
Dad screamed and knocked over the chair and end table, smashing a lamp in his violent rage. Finally, he tore the door open and marched to his truck. A screech of tires later, he was gone.
Herbie rushed to his mother's side. "Mom? Mom, are you alright?"
Mom's speech was slurred. "Git 'way from me," she said, pushing him with one hand.
Herbie wasn't getting the hint. "You're bleeding! Let me help you!"
My mother, in a moment of what I can only call drunken brilliance, pulled her hand away from her scalp, stared at the blood that coated her fingers, then reached for the wine bottle. "It's not that bad."
And Herbie, in a moment of what I can only call stupid brilliance, grabbed the wine bottle and threw it into the kitchen as hard as he could. It shattered against the kitchen cabinets, sending the remaining wine splattering across the sink and floor.
Not surprisingly, Mom didn't like that. Her fist clocked Herbie right in the face. "How dare you?" she screamed as he dropped to the floor. I can still remember the pain of her fake diamond ring slashing through my cheek. "Dun' you ever touch my wine!"
When it happened, I thought I deserved the beating that followed.