Anger rose in my soul and my chest tightened. A frown pulled my eyebrows into a “V” and tears wetted my cheeks. If I were only big enough, strong enough to fight him. I’d pound him to a pulp and make him sorry. At least once every day I fantasized about what it would feel like to punch him in the face and drop him to his knees. Sometimes more. I would force him to apologize, leave all his money, and walk down our long driveway never to be seen again.
After a brief struggle, the whip sounded different but I couldn’t tell why. Over the next several minutes, my mom cried, begged, and screamed before eventually going silent. Only then did my dad relent. He stood tall; between the iron bars which separated the stalls, the sweat dripping from his face seemed normal. I had witnessed the same expression many times, just not after he had beaten my mom into submission. He panted like a tired dog, turned and exited the stall, locking it behind him.
Once I was certain he had left the barn, I went to her. Outside the locked door, a pair of jeans, a shirt, and her muck boots lay in a pile beside her parka. It made sense why the whip sounded different; she was naked. My stomach rolled, and I thought I would be sick. I unlocked the door and squeezed my eyes shut as I pushed her clothes through a crack in the door.
As she dressed, she reassured me. “One day, Jakey, I swear we’ll get away from him. I just need to save up enough money first.” She took a deep breath, wiped her face, and put on a fake smile. “Right now, though, we need to clean some chickens.”
I MOVED thechicken block outside so the rain could wash away all the mess. This was the absolute worst part of my chores. I hated killing anything—even if it was forfood. These poor chickens hadn’t done anything to hurt me, yet I had to hurt them. I was forced to end their lives.
Feathers scattered with the crushing blow of the hatchet. Blood spattered my clothes and stained the stump. The first time I cleaned the chickens, I forgot to take off my parka and tried to hide the stains when I went to school. Kids are so cruel when they don’t understand. Disturbed at the sight of birds running around, headless, until they finally died, I cringed. More feathers littered the ground as we readied the three dead birds to be plucked.
Lost in a memory, I did the rest of my chores in a daze. It was the best way to keep my mom from having to explain why she let him continue to hit her. When I was younger, Mom had hidden the horrible arguments well. She would make Dad wait until after I was in bed before they went to the barn to fight. I could still hear them, but I never said anything. She covered the bruises on her face with makeup or made excuses when I asked what had happened. Scared to know the truth, I convinced myself not to ask about it.
Mom had always told me how real men did something good for other people. Her dad had saved a man from a fiery car crash when he was younger, got burned himself, but never complained.
“Now, that’s my idea of a real man. Someone notafraid to risk their life to save someone.” Her advice was to make my friends and more importantly, strangers, happy; to help them be better people. In turn, I would be a better person; I’d have a purpose.
On my tenth birthday, Mom let the ice cream melt too much and a sticky residue coated a circle on the table. Dad slapped her across the face so hard she dropped to her knees. I guess he thought I was finally old enough to recognize the consequences of not obeying.
I was so surprised that all I could do was stare at her in disbelief. After he went to bed, Mom sat me down and explained that as long as she didn’t make him angry, he wouldn’t slap her again.
“He’s done this before?” I didn’t know what to think. She’d always been so happy and kind. It didn’t make sense to me how he would hit her in the face for punishment. Over something so stupid. “That doesn’t sound like a very good man, to me.”
With pursed lips, she nodded. She always promised she would never lie to me. I understood, though, that she also meant she would only tell me the parts of truth which she felt I needed to know.
“He’s done it a lot, hasn’t he?” My voice cracked.
Her eyes pleaded for me to understand. She tilted her head, then looked away.
Multiple emotions rushed through me, and I didn’tknow whether to be sad, angry, or disappointed. I settled on sadness. I wrapped my arms around her and lowered my voice. “Is that why Jasmine died?”
Surprised to hear my sister’s name, Mom’s breath caught. She pulled away from me and looked into my eyes. She didn’t even need to answer. I already knew.
Over the years, Mom talked about Jasmine every now and again. She didn’t say much, but I could sense the despair in her energy when she said her name. My little sister had been born three months early; she died just a week later.
EVERY WEEKEND, Dad would invite a bunch of his friends over for late-night parties. They would make drinks and play cards until I went to bed, then they would go outside. Mom said it was so they wouldn’t wake me up, but sometimes they were loud enough for me to hear every word, sometimes not.
They all used to play football during high school and would sometimes throw a ball around in the yard. One of the guys must have brought it with him because I’d never see it after they left. “Susie, come over here.” Dad’s voice rose to my open window, so I crawled out of bed and over to the window to hear the conversation.
“Why don’t you take the guys for a tour of your precious barn?”
I peeked at them through my bedroom curtains. Two men followed Mom to the barn; she didn’t sound happy about showing off our special place. She should have been proud of it, but the tone in Dad’s voice had been teasing.
“You’d think with all of us here, she’d do something with that hair.” One friend complained. “Why don’t you buy her shit to keep her prettied up?”
“Mind your fucking business.” Dad hissed and poked him in the chest. “You like her well enough, don’t ya?”
The man lowered his head. “Yeah.”
“Keep it up and I’ll make sure you don’t have a turn with her again.”
Tom Johnson, the only one of Dad’s friends who ever talked to me, strolled over to my dad. He was a good guy, in my eyes. “Hey, Robbie. You doing business tonight?”
“Why the hell do you think I invited everyone over?” Dad smiled and slapped Tom on the shoulder. “Just you wait; I got a good pile of crops for everyone to rummage through.”
Disheveled, Mom limped out of the barn. I wondered if someone had accidentally tripped her, the way she favored one hip. Her pretty blue shirt was buttoned crooked, and she ran her hand through her hair, trying to calm the frizzies. She frowned and wiped hereyes; I hated to see her so sad. When she glanced up to my window. I ducked, hoping she didn’t see me snooping.
READY TO snugglemy sweet Peanut, I opened the stall door with an ear-to-ear smile. The little fur ball and how she purred when she nuzzled my neck made all the bad stuff go away. It had been a couple of days since we had time to visit, and I wanted to apologize with a treat and a string for the kittens to chase.
