by CeeCee James
David brought a knife.
Mom took it from him, then carefully slid it under the tape. I glanced at David with a deadpan face. Mom pushed back the box flaps and cooed, “Would you look at that!” She gave a happy humming sound while lifting out the books. When she was done, they were organized into two neat piles. I frowned. My pile was considerably taller than David’s. Mom patted the covers with satisfaction.
Dad came in from outside to wash his hands. He glanced at the pile on his way through to the kitchen.
“What’s all this?”
“The boy’s school books.”
“Hmmmp,” Dad turned off the water and searched for a dish towel. “You boys gonna do your school at home?”
He had a half smile that his moustache couldn’t quite hide.
“Yep.” I answered, suddenly not too keen.
Dad snorted. “Don’t get your hopes up, Ma. You know how boys are.”
Mom shooed him out of the house and then cleared the clean laundry pile off of the kitchen table to the sofa. Still humming, she set my books on the left, paused to look, then straightened the pile a bit more.
She couldn’t stop looking at David’s covers with their colorful cartoon animals holding balloons. She flipped to lesson one, a simple printing exercise.
“So fun!” she said to herself. Smiling, she pointed to the empty chairs and said in a Sunday-School teacher voice, “Sit! We’ve got a lot of work to catch up on.”
The happy voice was strained by noon, then lunch helped bolster her spirits. But, by the time we got to Math (“What in the world is ‘New Math,’” she grumbled.) the Sunday-School voice disappeared, never to return.
That was our first day.
Over all, the first week went pretty well, with us hitting all of our core school subjects. But, that wouldn’t be repeated, and every week after that was a crazy mess. Mom would sit us down in the morning to explain the assignments for the day. She could hardly get five words out before my youngest brother, Willie, asked her for something. Just as soon as she was done helping him she’d look at her watch and realize she was late for work, and run to change, her pink bathrobe flapping.
The next time we’d see her she had Willie’s hand firmly in hers, towing him out the door to drop him off at Grandma’s. She’d turn around and shout, “Get your work done. You boys be good!” and she was off.
This particular morning I was learning about how to diagram a sentence. It’d only been about a half hour since Mom had left, and already the words were swimming on the page. I rubbed my eyes to focus. What the heck was an adverb? Who even cares? A yawn about broke my face in half. I fidgeted in my chair, then stretched to wake up.
David was pouring over his math book with rumpled eyebrows, while his fingers tapped his whispered numbers on the paper. He was so preoccupied that he didn’t notice me watching him. With a grin, I slapped the table as hard as I could. He jumped and stared wide-eyed, then socked me in the arm.
“Don’t you punch me!” I grabbed his hands and pushed them away.
“You scared me!”
I laughed. “Books aren’t going to teach us how to get what we want from life.” After Mr. Bently, I didn’t want to see another book again. “C’mon, let’s get out of here.”
He slammed his book shut and flipped the pencil across the room. “Woohooo!”
We laced up our tennis shoes and then ran for the door, both of us getting hung up for a moment when we tried to get through it at the same time.
It was a glorious day, one of those days meant for living outside. The sun was so bright it made me squint, and I yanked down my baseball cap. It smelled like summer even though it was early May. Our dog, Rosy, lay in the shade of the house and thumped her tail in the dirt when she saw us. I gave her a whistle while I grabbed my bike from the side of the greenhouse, but she wasn’t going anywhere. My bike seat was hot when I jumped on, so I stood on the pedals and sped off down the driveway. David was right behind.
We raced up and down the street pumping the pedals as fast as we could. About a mile down the road I skidded to a stop.
There was a piece of plywood lying in the ditch.
David and I dragged it out and propped it up on some rocks to build a little ramp. We spent the rest of the morning zipping off the jump and pretending we were Evel Knievel leaping over cars.
The sun was directly overhead when David announced he was roasting hot and needed a break. He dumped his bike in the middle of the road and flopped down on the grass. I rode around his blue bike once, and it irked me to see it there.
“Better move your bike, David.”
He shrugged and rolled onto his back holding a grass blade to his lips.
“I swear I’ll run it over.”
He blew a sharp whistle through the blade.
I pedaled up the hill. At the top I saw he hadn’t listened to me, and the bike was still lying there.
“That little creep doesn’t believe me,” I muttered.
I took my foot off the pedal and started to coast the hill. About halfway down I was pedaling as fast as I could, the baseball cards in my spokes rumbling like a motorcycle. I wanted to give him a scare he wouldn’t forget. His bike was lined up with my front tire and I called out, “Here I come!”
He sat up on his elbows to watch me. I’d planned to swerve at the last second, but, suddenly I was going too fast to change directions without wiping out. When I hit that bike I flew right over his seat in a way that would’ve made Ol’ Evel proud, and sent the seat skittering across the road like a top.
David’s mouth dropped open like a fly trap.
“Hey! That was my new bike seat!”
“Told you I’d hit it if you didn’t move it!” I felt bad, but I couldn’t say it. David snatched the seat off the ground with a glare and stuffed it under his arm. He jumped on his bike and stood on the pedals all the way home.
Dad was there when we rode up to the house. I was sort of surprised to see him off work so early, and felt a familiar pinch in my chest. He was half under his truck giving something underneath there a whack. Curse words punctuated each blow.
David chucked his bike seat against the shed with a thump and stomped over to tell Dad what I’d done.
Dad pulled himself out from beneath the truck with a scowl. He had grease and sweat on his face. It didn’t look like a good time to mess with him.
Dad didn’t blink during the entire tale. “Well, you know where the wrenches are. Fix it.”
David looked daggers at me and kicked a rock on his way to the shed.
Dad burped, then signaled at me. “Jim! Look behind the seat, and get me my black tire iron.”
I wrenched the yellow truck door open and leaned over the back of the seat. I froze, like a rattle snake was curled up there ready to strike. Propped next to the tire iron was a 5th of whiskey. It looked nearly empty. I swallowed. There was another empty bottle tilted next to it. I felt queasy as I grabbed the iron.
When I held it out to dad, I couldn’t meet him in the eye.
He yanked it from my hand and slid back under the truck. There was a clink, and his feet scrambled for purchase in the dirt as he applied pressure.
SNAP!
The iron gave a loud clunk as it slipped off the nut, and the truck shuddered. “Son of a bitch!” he yelled.
I took a few steps back.
The engine crashed and vibrated as he beat on the undercarriage. He pulled himself out like a red-faced troll and flung the tire iron across the yard. It flew end-over-end through the air and vanished into the black berry bushes.
David peeked his head out from behind the shed door for a moment, his brown eyes taking in the scene, before he disappeared back inside.
Dad looked around wildly for something to strike at. He knocked over his tool box with a kick that sent the tools flying into the dirt, then stumbled into the house.
It was a relief to see him go. I bent down to pick up a socket and wiped the dust off on my pants.<
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Just then there was a familiar grinding rattle sound in the air. Mom’s car bumped up the driveway home from work. Crap! I ran behind a cracked green planter.
The car stopped with a cloud of dust that floated by my hiding place. She got out and pulled out her purse, before popping the back seat. A loud crash along with a string of curse words came from inside the house. She froze and looked across the driveway at Dad’s truck. Her shoulders wilted. Willie came squirming out from the back seat chattering away about Grandma’s house. She took his hand and they disappeared inside.
Rosy walked over to where I was and gave me sweet eyes, so I squatted down and hugged her. I didn’t want to go in. I didn’t want to hear them fight and fail again by not picking sides.
Another crash came from the house, and then their angry voices carried over to where I was. Mom yelled, “Why don’t you just go to the bar then?”
Dad shouted back, “Shut the hell up!” The door slammed, and he came out with Mom’s car keys. He jumped into her car and ground the gears, and flew down the driveway with the car spitting gravel from the tires. I wouldn’t see him again that night.
A tap on the shoulder made me jump. David was suddenly next to me from where he’d been hunkering down in the shed. I’d forgotten about him. His eyes took half his face, and he sighed. I gave him a pat on the shoulder, wishing I’d taken him away earlier so he wouldn’t have heard them.
“It’ll be okay. Let’s go fix your bike. We’ll pretend we’re Daytona mechanics.”
The front door opened again. This time it was Mom who called us to come in the house. “You boys get in here now and show me your papers!”
We both groaned. There was still music to face about the unfinished schoolwork.
Chapter 7
Clattering pans on the stove woke me up. I rolled over and looked at David, wrapped like a blanket burrito in his bed with just a tuft of hair sticking out the top. Downstairs, Mom was cooking breakfast. “Get up, Boys! It’s not Spring Break yet!”
Groaning, I sat up. We’d been homeschooling for three months, and it already felt like forever. Dad whistled the tune to some TV show as he got his things together to leave for work. Then, he was out the door. I grabbed a t-shirt out from under my pillow and yanked it over my head, before crawling to the ladder. With my feet on the outside of the rungs, I slid down.
Willie had just turned four, and sat swinging his legs at the table with a stack of pancakes steaming in front of him. I pulled up a chair next to him. The house smelled cozy and reminded me of Christmas time.
Mom flipped a cake onto a plate and set it before me. “My word, Jim! Check out your morning hair!” she said with a smile.
I tried to smooth it down real quick and reminded myself to go look for a baseball cap later.
David came clunking down the ladder with a grumpy face. He slumped into his chair and rested his cheek on a hand, pushing his eye all squinty. I ignored him and grabbed the peanut butter to grease my cakes. A second later I reached for the syrup too, but Willie snatched it from me.
“Gimme that, you have enough,” I said, wrenching the syrup bottle away.
“Mom!”
“Boys, you better share.” She glanced at her watch.
“Oh my word! I’m late, again! David, get your science done today. I mean it this time! I’m not joking.” She pointed a finger at me. “Jim, work on your math, and for heaven’s sake, print neater. It looks like you dipped a chicken in ink and let her walk all over your paper. Willie, be good for your brothers.” She took her last swig of coffee and set the cup in the sink. After kissing each of us on the tops of our head, she grabbed her purse off from the chair and hurried out.
David pushed away from the table and walked over to the stove with sluggish steps. There was one remaining pancake in the pan.
“Guess this one’s mine huh?” he said glumly.
“Hurry up and eat!” I said. “I’ve got big plans for us today.”
I took my plate to the sink, and then walked to the little cubby that housed the washing machine.
Mom had finished a load that morning, and it sat overflowing in the wicker laundry basket. I tipped it towards me; it was a load of whites. Yes! I wiped my sticky hands on the back of my pants and grabbed the wicker basket. Carrying it across the living room to the couch I called to my brothers. “Sock war!”
They scrambled away from the table. David inspected the laundry and began to sort out all the socks. I went to the wall outlet to plug in the overhead fan. Dad had meant to wire it in to a switch a long time ago, but instead had left the wire bare and hanging. I grabbed the two wires and jammed the stripped copper into the outlet. SNAP! A few sparks. And the fan was in motion. Only one speed; High.
David had pulled out a good amount of socks by now and scrunched them up into balls. They looked like a pile of snowballs. We lay on our backs and took aim at the spinning fan blades.
“Fire!” I commanded.
Three balled up sock missiles shot up. The fan swatted them across the room like a batter behind home plate. Willie and David had a brief argument about whose sock went the furthest, before we aimed again.
We did a few rounds of this until we grew bored. Socks were strewn all over the house, and the basket of laundry was scattered across the couch. David flopped down on the pile of clothes.
“All right, guys,” I said. “Outside. It’s time for my master plan.” That perked up their ears. My brothers stuffed their feet into their muddy shoes left by the door and followed me outdoors.
I grabbed the shovel from where it’d been leaning against the porch. Dad had used it last week to dig out the garden, which is what had given me the idea.
I marched to the middle of the yard.
“Under my feet is the world’s greatest military fort.” My brothers blinked at me. “C’mon, let’s dig it out, and have all the neighbor kids come over. We’ll have the best Army game ever!”
They jumped up with loud whoops, excited to make our yard the envy of the neighborhood gang.
David ran to the greenhouse and grabbed the other shovel. Willie was left with Mom’s gardening trowel and he frowned as he held it. I told him he could be point man during our army game which reduced the sting.
We started to dig. The dirt was easy to move because it was mostly sand.
“This is going to be the best foxhole ever!” David declared. Sand was plastered across half his face and sprinkled throughout his hair.
We burrowed deeper and deeper. Soon we were hauling out five gallon buckets of excavated dirt with a rope. We didn’t want to stop because it was so hot outside, and it was cool at the bottom of the hole.
When we couldn’t see over the top of the pit we decided it was deep enough. David and I tugged a piece of plywood left over from the roof out of the blackberries. We dropped it on top of the hole with a loud, “Fwop!” and covered it with dirt and branches.
It was awesome.
Dad drove up the driveway, home from work. He climbed out of the truck, pausing when he saw the branch mound in the front yard.
“What the heck is that?” He walked over, his face emotionless.
My two brothers both spun around to look at me. I could read their eyes; “This is all on you, Bub.”
“Umm, a foxhole.” I answered.
“How deep?” He nudged the plywood up to inspect the inside.
“Maybe, mmm, three feet,” I hedged a little, unsure of how he’d take this info.
“I’m thinking five.” he said dryly. He stared at each of us. We shifted back and forth under his gaze. Then a tiny smile appeared at the corner of his mouth. “Now, you can enjoy burying it all back up again.” He winked at me, with that smile that meant he was proud. I loved it when Dad was sober.
*****
It didn’t last long. Dad came home just before dinner time the next night drunk and angry. None of us knew why he was so mad.
There was a furious look in Dad’s eyes as he walked into the
kitchen with a whiskey bottle in his hand. Chills ran up my spine, and I backpedaled away from him to join Mom and my brothers in the living room corner of the garage-house.
“Dammit to hell!” he shouted. His eyes appeared black when he looked around. Catching his reflection in the kitchen window he punched the glass with a “Twack!” The double panes quivered but the glass held. Obscenities poured out of his mouth, dark and vicious as he swung his head searching for something to throw.
I wanted to puke.
This was not my dad, this was a madman. And when he appeared, we all knew to hide. Mom had all us boys sheltered behind her in the living room as she watched him guardedly. None of us made a sound. We were afraid to even move and attract his attention. My muscles started to shake, from fear or adrenaline, I didn’t know.
He twisted from the window and stumbled over to the table. His arm lashed out and swept the dishes clattering to the floor. He lifted the whiskey bottle for a swig, dribbling it down his front, and then wiped his mouth on the back of his arm. With a growl he slammed the bottle on the counter. I couldn’t believe it didn’t shatter, and he glared at it like he was mad it hadn’t. His eyebrows furrowed as his fist clenched.
“Tell me I have demons,” he slurred. “Where’s Pearl? You tell me I have demons?” He took another gulp off the bottle before peering into it. “They taste pretty damn good to me.” In a funny side-step forward he tripped on his own dragging feet. He flung his hand down where he thought the table ought to be and fell over on a rolling cup.
“Confound son of a bitch! Son of a… Where are my sons? C’mere boys and help your old man up.”
Mom tightened her arms around us, but she needn’t worry. We didn’t move a muscle.
Dad pulled himself up with one worn hand on the table. “Forget it, I’ll do it myself. I don’t need anybody.”
Mom let go of us. “Run for the car.” We all ran, with me being the last one out. Every other time we left I’d always given a quick glance at Dad, hoping he’d care that we were leaving.
