House on Fire

Chapter 3

  Thinking back, I kind of took Mom for granted. Dad was the one I wanted to impress.

  He was a big man, and his soft, deep chuckle came easy back then. If you were in trouble, he’d help you out. If you made trouble, he’d straighten you out. There was never a question whether anyone should mess with him – you shouldn’t.

  He set clear limits, and made sure we knew the rules – and the consequences for breaking them. Those were constant, and strictly enforced. He was willing to negotiate, but once a deal was struck, it was law. There were no excuses and no time off for good behavior.

  The bad part was that Dad always, I mean always, knew everything. It was impossible for me to withhold anything from him and get away with it. He’d look at me with those piercing gray eyes and raise a bushy eyebrow, and I knew I was caught. Fortunately, it was my nature to be disciplined. It was easier to follow the rules – and petition for changes as needed – than to try to bend or circumvent them. Jessie, on the other hand, broke rules all the time, and didn’t seem to care if she got in trouble.

  Dad could be strict, but there was never a question of whether he loved us. He loved his family more fiercely than a lion. I learned something about that fierceness during our first winter back in the UP.

  I was angry with Mom over something, I don’t even remember what. I swore at her – a word from Jessie’s list – and Dad heard me.

  He took me to my room, and knelt on one knee so his face was level with mine, just inches away. He didn’t raise his voice. In fact, it was barely above a whisper, but that made it scarier.

  “Okay, Son,” he said, his voice like distant thunder, “Let me explain this to you, man to man. Do you think I’d hesitate for a moment to die for you?”

  I shook my head.

  “That’s right. I’d die for you, and I’d die for your Mom. I’d kill for her, too.” I truly believed that. I nodded meekly.

  “You know that I was in the Army. What you don’t know is that I learned to look a man in the eyes and use all my muscle and weight to thrust a nine-inch steel bayonet right through his clothes and into his guts. I learned to twist it sideways and rip it out under his ribs. I was really good at it, and I started to like it.”

  The gentleness of his voice clashed with the violence of the words. There was no doubt in my mind that he was physically capable... but he liked it?

  “That’s why I had to get out of the infantry,” he went on, “That part of me was taking over.

  “We all – all men – have some of that savage passion in us. I know you do. You and me, we’re the bulls of our species, and bulls can be dangerous. We have to respect each other’s pride and territory.

  “Son,” he said, pausing between each word. “Don’t ever mess with a man’s wife. A man will protect his woman tooth and nail, with a thrust, a twist, and a rip. Understand? That woman in the kitchen is not just your Mom. She is my wife. My wife,” he hissed. “Do you get it? Don’t disrespect her, and never, ever, harm her. Not with your fists, not with your words.”

  Then the Dad I knew was back, the fury contained and his arms around me.

  “I love you, Son. I don’t want to be your enemy – don’t make me one. Don’t provoke me again. Now go out there and apologize to your Mom. And not just some wimpy, sniveling excuse. Stand tall, admit you were out of line, tell her that you’ll never do it again, and ask for her forgiveness. We’ll talk more later.”

  Judge Franks told me that the job of being a kid was to test and find the limits, and that knowing the limit was security. Dad made sure I was very secure. When Mom died, that glimpse of his violent passion for her helped me understand his barren and ruthless grief.