The Tangle Than Binds (April 9, 2009. New Pink Moon. Issue 3)

Mother was dragging the clunky secondhand vacuum about, repeatedly banging the metal extension hose against the bed where my younger brother Luke was trying to sleep. She was cleaning while delivering a bitter, disjunctive monologue about her wretched life up North and Daddy’s multiple transgressions. Finally, Luke gave up on holding the pillow over his head, and shouted at Mother, “I don’t give a shit, shut your stupid-ass mouth.”  

“Lonnie Lee Jenkins!” Mother shouted Daddy’s name at Luke, “That’s who you are.  Jist like yer daddy. Don’t appreciate nuthin’ and don’t think about nobody, but yerself.” 

Daddy, nursing a migraine and awakened by the ruckus, jumped out of bed and grabbed his belt. His eyes were glazed over, his hair greasy and disheveled, and his face reddened by rage.  He leapt at Luke like a vicious unleashed mongrel and yanked the covers off him.  Shoving him against the back wall of the bed, Daddy began whipping Luke with the belt. Midst the crying and recoiling of all us children, Mother grabbed at the belt to try to intervene, so Daddy turned from Luke and slapped her a couple of times, then shoved her down on the bed.  He then ran back to his bedroom, half-way threw on his clothes, and finished getting dressed as he scrambled out of the house, disappearing until late evening. 

We children surrounded the bed, trying to comfort Mother and Luke with our presence.  “Git away now,” Mother commanded.  “We’re OK, and there ain’t nuthin’ to be done. It’s up ta Jesus to do His work yere.”  She got up and retreated to the bathroom, while Luke pulled the pillow over his head and hunkered down on the bed facing the wall, refusing to show anyone his tears. After this incident Luke had not tried cursing out loud again, but I figured he had plenty of evil words silently reserved for Daddy and Mother.   

The above scene is catapulting through my mind on the Sunday afternoon of the Thanksgiving weekend following President Kennedy’s assasination.  This time I'm the one who has screamed a curse at my Mother for relentlessly belittling my desire for an education. Daddy’s head snaps in my direction.  He springs up from the table where he’s seated, spills his coffee, and knocks over the chair as he lunges forward.  I throw my hands over my face and head for protection, and then gasp in relief—and horror—as Daddy begins slapping and pummeling Mother. 

“Oh, Lord, oh, Lordy,” Mother whimpers, bent over and cowering in the corner.   

“Stop it right now!” yells my middle brother Gary, as he and Luke jump up from the floor where they’re watching TV and run to pull Daddy away from Mother.  She manages to get up and run, and, once again, locks herself in the bathroom.  

“Goddam, woman!” shouts Daddy.  Seizing his jacket, he turns to me and snaps, “I’ll be back to drive you to that there college in one hour.  You jist be ready.”  

He stomps out of the apartment, slamming the door.  I hear the tires screech as he pulls away, and I run sobbing to the bedroom with my little sister Dory at my heels—this time the child is attempting to comfort me. Luke and Gary bang on the bathroom door, assuring Mother that Daddy is gone. 

After about fifteen minutes, Mother comes out of the bathroom with a huge bruise on her left cheek. She busies herself in the kitchen, while the boys hover behind comic books with the TV on extra loud in the living room. They’re afraid to leave Mother alone, but neither do they want to see her bruised face nor hear her whimpers.    

As he has promised, Daddy returns an hour later, shamefully looking downward, cap in hand, to take me back to college. The family lulls about, outwardly with blank stares and restrained voices, but beneath those demeanors are roiling pits of rage, shame and despair.  Mother busies herself in the kitchen, keeping her back to Daddy.   

Midst the muzzled silence and despite the throbbing in my head, I have somehow managed to gather my books and personal items and stuff them into a shopping bag.  As Daddy and I move toward the door for the return trip to Montclair State College, Mother emerges from the kitchen to foist upon me some dried out, unappealing Thanksgiving leftovers that she has packed up in greasy, recycled tin foil.   

“Thar mighn’t be no food when ya gits back to that ‘ere dormitory,” Mother observes, in a wavering voice.   

I accept the packet because it’s easier to do so than not, and, holding back tears, mumble, “Thanks,” as I hurry out of the apartment toward the car.   

Mother steps outside the door and calls after me, “Ya come on back when ya kin now, this yere’s yer home.”  I nod, trying to smile and swallow despite the thickened lump closing off my throat.  I wave toward my sister Dory, who blinks back tears.   

In the car, I lodge the shopping bag and food between me and my father and sh ift my body as far as possible toward the car door.  Feigning sleep most of the way back to the college, I avoid looking directly at Daddy, whose rigid face and sad eyes are locked in the reverie of a very private pain. After an achingly long and silent car trip, as we pull up in front of the dormitory, Daddy shrugs and tries, as a goodbye, “I don’t know what ta tell ya.”   

“It’s OK,” I respond, quickly opening the car door and grabbing for my shopping bag suitcase.  I inadvertently knock the foil-wrapped leftovers to the ground beside the car, where I ignore them.  “Thanks for bringing me back.”

“Hold on jist a minute,” Daddy calls, before I can shut the car door and turn away. Taking out his wallet, he reaches toward me with a five dollar bill.  “I want you take this here.”  

The money feels like an embarrassing bribe—a gesture inhabiting a murky area somewhere between acknowledged guilt and deficient restitution.  I don’t really want to take it, first, because I do not intend to forgive either of my parents, ever, and second, because I know that Daddy can’t afford the money.  But, doubting my ability to continue to dam my tears there in front of the dorm, and determining that Daddy’s departure, and my discomfort, will be prolonged if I try to refuse or explain, I accept the bill, and mumble, “Thanks, I can use it.”  

As my father turns the ignition key, I add, “Be careful drivin’ home.” 

“Bye,” Daddy calls after me, slightly lifting his right hand as I turn away. His gesture seems so pitiful that when I’m sure he won’t notice, I look back and watch the car disappear.  I try to imagine the sadness and confusion in his mind, but soon have to run around the side of the dormitory building to avoid meeting up with other returning students, and to prevent myself from throwing up.  Braced against the cold stone wall fashioned to look like bricks, I manage to get my sobbing and nausea under control before returning to complete the first semester of my freshman year of college.