Thomas sits cross-legged on the faux
wood tile floor of the kitchen. Mother’s sunflower dress drapes to her ankles
and he caresses its soft edges against his cheeks. Her legs are smooth and golden and
shine even in the dark. Mother’s looking older, Father always says, but Thomas
finds her beautiful. The strands of gray in her brown hair only make her Mommy.
Under the table it smells like the pages of an old book, the tablecloth brown
with age and its edges frayed. Father is speaking, but Thomas cannot hear him.
His voice is muffled and gruff. Mother never speaks when Father is talking, she
only nods and agrees, hoping that today he’s calm. Father’s voice rises slowly
throughout his speech. Thomas pretends not to hear. He buys his time with
silence, but eventually it’ll run out. He stuffs his ears with his fingers and
hums softly to drown out Father’s rant.
Martha feels soft tickling from her
son’s fingers. She wants to
scream she’s so afraid. Everyday she’s afraid. She awakes in the mornings with
tears in her eyes. She wants to scream so bad, but she’s too afraid. John is
starting to talk about fags being the fall of the nation. The world is ending
and somehow it has to do with fags and niggers. While he talks he pounds his
fist upon the dinner table and shakes the silverware and nearly breaks the wood
in two, but he doesn’t even notice. Bits of mashed potatoes fling violently
from his mouth. He’s getting fatter every year, but his head stays the same
size. His voice is practically screaming, on edge and even cracks between his
damning and convictions. She never speaks, though. She only nods her head and
agrees between bites of chicken enchilada casserole and canned green beans. Sometimes
she’ll give an Amen just to cheer him up. Nobody speaks their mind besides
John. Thomas is sitting below her, playing with her dress, and Martha prays to
a God she doesn’t believe in for him to just keep quiet.
Thomas wonders why he can’t go to
school like the rest of the kids in the neighborhood. Monday through Friday at
4 P.M. the kids will march one by one from out the bus, while Thomas tearfully
watches from his bedroom window and thinks of a differently phrased question to
ask Father that will change his mind about everything. The kids gather by the
Pine tree in the Bryant’s yard to vote on which games they’ll play today. They
spend the evening laughing, chasing each other, and even sometimes they fight
and scream, but Thomas doesn’t care. He’d love to have a kid scream at him if
it meant he could have just one friend. He’d take all the abuse the world had
to offer if he could just have that one friend. At sundown the kids disperse,
and Thomas is left alone in his room. Thomas used to plead with Father to let
him leave, just once and he’ll never ask again. Mother hushes him now before he
has a chance to ask. She says there isn’t any use in stirring things up when it
can be avoided. Thomas doesn’t understand. He only wants a friend. And so every
day he sits beside his bedroom window and watches with a heart so empty it’s
almost dry.
Father is screaming now. Not even two
stuffed ears and a soft hum can drown out the noise. Thomas hears it all: the
fags, the sinners, the niggers, hell. Every bit of it seeps into his vernal brain
and soaks. Thomas begins to believe him, even respects him. At night when he
closes his eyes he sees his father’s face alive and real in front of him. His Christian
eyes and Baptist tongue piercing his only son’s heart. He’s a punisher, a
reckoner, and a sculptor. And Thomas doesn’t know anything else but to love
him.
“And I tell you what, Martha, Jesus
ain’t gonna take this for long. No, sir. He’s got plans for this nation, I can
promise that. Sinners keep gettin’ the best of this world and God wants it
back. To Hell with this world, I say. I say all these fags and nigger lovers
can take their seat in Hell as quick as they please. Now where’s Tommy? Tommy
where in the hell are you boy? You under the table again? Get your ass out from
that table boy before I kick your teeth straight into sand. What’d you say boy?
Did you say something? Get your ass back here. Get your ass back here right
now, you little hellion. Martha, go get my belt. Daddy gonna teach you, boy. Quit
your cryin’ and get my belt, you know damn well where it is. No, not there
damnit, not there either. There you go, right there. There it is. Yes sir,
Daddy gonna teach you. Now hand it over. Jesus eyes are all seeing, you cannot
escape His wrath. Where you at, boy? My eyes are one with God’s, you know
better than to run. Get back here, boy. Imma teach you what happens when you
get smart with me, a man of God, a man of strength and power, I am your father,
boy. That’s right, boy. Now pull down your pants. You heard me. Pull em down.
No, to your ankles. Yeah, just like that. Now touch your ankles. Imma teach you
to mess with Daddy. Oh, did you want some too, bitch? Get your ass outta here
before I beat you. That’s right, boy. Daddy gonna teach you.”
If only Thomas weren’t alive she
could die in peace. Thomas needs to go, Thomas needs to leave. It’d be better
for him anyways. That’s right, it’s for the better. Thomas needs to go, and
then she can die in peace. She can die in peace when Thomas goes.
DIE. DIE. DIE.
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