Individually Wrapped Horrors

by Eric Joel Kleinschmidt, Sr.

  I remember a lot of really cool things about our mom. She was such a great lady, you know? Energetic, outgoing, neighborly, smart as the day is long, pretty and always smiling—or trying to smile—even in the face of adversity. She never yelled at us, well, not like the old man did. If she scolded us, there was love and teaching in it, not spite and dark-hearted malice. Whether it was Mom showing Molly how to cook or properly clean something or doing the scrapbookin’ (as Mom always called it), there was always that teacherly way she had about her. I guess this whole thing really began with mom. This whole stupid, pointless mess. Mom…she was a real go-getter and Dad was a real louse. We were very young yet and not really sure of exactly what it was we were seeing every day, but he was essentially sucking the life out of our mother, one disappointed and wounded teardrop at a time. Her friends stopped coming by for fear of dad’s tirades. His drunken tirades at that. She would try new things and really want to improve herself all the time. He had a way of bringing her down and making her ideas seem small and stupid. He made her feel small and stupid. He laughed when she wanted to take night classes down at the college. Business courses. She brought home a pamphlet with everything she could expect to encounter and take away from the classes. She told him over the rarest of bottles of red wine. Also, over the not-so-rare bottle of his Wild Turkey. He held that pamphlet out tweezed between two fingers like someone had used it for toilet paper, then laughed and tore it in half. He ragged on her for at least an hour before he finally petered out and went to bed. She sat up in her recliner, fighting back the occasional sob, choking back the tears that tried and tried to betray her. She never took it out on us. She never stopped trying to better herself or us.

  Mom, in addition to classes and social groups—the ladies’ book club for one, a group of the same ladies trading recipes for another—also loved her self-help books. She was completely hooked. They seemed to give her a little boost as she finished one after the other, so what was the harm? Every now and then, I remember seeing the old man throwing one in the garbage, properly torn up, or even grabbing one clean out of her hands as she read it. I know we don’t get to choose our families. We were just like any other kids growing up in an abusive household—we thought it was how everyone lived. We thought it was normal. She’d fish those torn up old books out of the garbage and go to mending them back together as best as she could. She’d get them as close to readable as she could make them and then give that disheartening sigh that she could’ve trademarked living with the old man. I remember a few times that it happened and she couldn’t salvage the book. One time, he not only tore the book to shreds, but he grabbed the coffee maker and dumped the used grounds on top of the discarded book fragments. She watched him leave the room, then slowly walked over to the trash can. She pulled out the poor, mangled, befouled thing and gave that same disheartened sigh and dropped it back in. That time, she sat on her bench near the dining room window and the sun hit her lovely just right and I’d swear those tears tracking their way down her cheeks were on fire. They just glittered and glowed in that afternoon sunlight. Molly and I came to her and each put an arm around her, comforting her as best as youngsters know how. Which probably wasn’t very good. She cried a little harder, then grabbed a couple of Kleenexes and dabbed gently at her swollen, puffy eyes. She shooed us on at that point and went back to the bedroom and closed the door. We went up to my room. Our grandfather had an old collection of records—actual vinyl records—from his dad and we went up there to that record player he gave us and grabbed the first thing we came to in the stack of disks. It happened to be an old Simon & Garfunkel lp. And just like that fabled Bridge Over Troubled Waters, that soothing melody eased our minds.

  So, time ever marched on, as it has a way of doing. Molly was gone one night to a friend’s house. She must’ve been in, oh, I’d say eighth grade or so at this point. She spent the night and returned the next morning in the greatest mood. She came into the kitchen where Mom was cleaning up the breakfast dishes and gave Mom a big fat kiss on the cheek. Smiling ear to ear, she exclaimed that she had the coolest surprise for mom. I had walked in right at that moment and something witty like oh, did you finally find a job and apartment? You know, kid brother crap.

  “Ha ha, ya little turd!” she retorted, but her mood could not be dampened. Mom was nearly brimming with the glee she saw emanating off of her daughter’s face.

  “Well, don’t keep us all in suspense, Mol. What ya got?” Mom’s smile was radiant going on resplendent. Molly held a plastic bag in her hands and told Mom she had to sit down and close her eyes. Mom wiped her hands on a dish towel—John Deere everything in the kitchen in those days—and acquiesced. “This better not be a goof, kid, or you’ll be outside sweeping off the driveway.” Mom said in her kidding, but don’t tempt me voice. This was a common joke in our house then since the driveway was, is and always shall be gravel. Mom closed her beautiful blues and sat there patiently listening to the faint sounds of Molly putting something quietly on the table in front of her.

  “Where’s Dad off to today?” I asked, not seeing the old Ford pickup in the drive.

  “Off to get some parts for the mower. Probably a pint or two also.” She included. The faint sounds of whatever Molly was doing stopped. It was really a great thing to know what Mom had yet to discover and that the old man was not here to ruin the surprise. Even a sixth grader could intuit that little nugget of wisdom.

  “OK, mom,” Molly said clapping. “Open ’em.” Mom did the usual opening of her eyes and looking all around to let her eyes readjust to the light in a mocking sort of way, looking everywhere except right in front of her, saying, “What is it? Where is it? I don’t see anything!” She said this in a playfully haughty manner.

  Frustrated, but not really, Molly said, “Look down, silly mom.” Mom looked down at the table in front of her. A portable cd player and a stack of five self-help audiobooks lay on display a foot away. Mom took a moment or two before realizing she was holding her breath and let it out in a rushing gasp. She sat in amazement looking down at the offered gift. “You are such a great Mom and we both know how much you love these types of books, so…now you can listen anytime, even while working or exercising or even napping if you want.” Mom looked up at her and the smile returned with a flourish.

  “Where did you get all of this from, Mol?” Mom asked breathlessly.

  She just smiled and said, “Lynn’s mom had them for a couple years now. She never uses them anymore. No one does. Downloads everything now. She practically forced me to take them when I told her you’d love something like that. I even had some of my babysitting money left from last month and I offered it to her and she said ‘No, honey, I can’t take that and tell your momma not to offer any either.’ So, it’s a freebie.” Molly smiled wearily in a hopeful way. The smile on mom’s face waivered slightly, then returned with full fervor.

  “All right,” she said finally, “a freebie it is. But you make sure and tell her that I’m gonna bake her one of those apple pies of mine that she loves so much. And please tell her I said thank you very much.” She now was holding the cd player and turning it this way and that. That was such a great day…despite everything that followed. And everything that followed…every day I wonder how differently things might have gone if she hadn’t given her that wonderful, spontaneous, horrific gift. I wonder…

  From that day on, Mom always had that headset on. Well, whenever the old man wasn’t there. She wasn’t taking any chances that he’d damage or destroy her new gift. She told me once that sometimes the thought of disks with huge scratch marks across them glinting merrily from the kitchen trash can would give her the heebie jeebies at night and she’d have to sneak out of bed and go check on her gadget and the disks where she had them hidden. Up in the cabinet above the refrigerator. The old man never went into the kitchen unless he had to or to leave the house, let alone up in the cabinets. It was always safe. To my sorrow, it was always safe. Mom dusting the furniture and the wind
ow sills—listening to audiobooks. Mom washing the dishes or vacuuming the carpets—listening to audiobooks. Mom doing a puzzle or the scrapbookin’—listening to audiobooks. I don’t think I ever remember seeing her that happy. She practically glowed. When the old man was gone here or there and the Ford was nowhere in evidence, a friend or two of hers began to pop back in for the briefest of visits. Everyone noticed the change in her. Well, no, not a change really, a re-awakening of her amazing spirit. One thing—besides us kids—that the old man couldn’t take away from her or belittle her over because he knew nothing about it. Then, the fifth of April came. I remember it had rained the previous night and the gravel driveway was all lakes and ponds with all the filled-up potholes in it. We had a large front porch on our old two-story farm house and the rocking chairs out there never saw a drop of moisture for how large the overhanging roof was. I mean that rain would have to be coming in sideways at fifty miles per hour to throw a drop on one of them. Molly and I had just gotten off the school bus and were walking up the quarter mile long drive. We walked, talking about the usual carefree things that kids talk about when certain ominous Fords aren’t in certain driveways and the afternoon has the promise of being a good one, and the muddy driveway didn’t bother us one bit. Mom had been in the best mood of moods since the cd player happened and we didn’t see how things could ever go wrong so long as you-know-who didn’t find out about you-know-what. We strolled casually up to the porch and began up the steps when my eyes fell upon a small rectangular package leaned against the door. I leaned down and scooped it up. It was addressed to Betty Hammond. There was, however, no address or return name or address or anything else written on it. Just mom’s name. We walked into the house perplexed and found Mom immediately—yup, you guessed it—listening to an audiobook and humming lightly and lively and she sewed up a pair of dad’s work pants. My first thought oddly enough was that she was so happy sitting there that she couldn’t possibly get happier, so why bother her with whatever was in this package? Then, almost robotically, I handed the package to her and put a small kiss on her cheek.

  “Hi, mom.” Molly said whisking by us and straight into the bathroom. Mom looked at the small package and asked:

  “What’s this?” I shrugged.

  “I dunno. It was out on the porch.” I sat down at a kitchen chair and took of my muddy sneakers. Molly had apparently done some sort of stealthy ninja move and kicked hers off walking in the door without even stopping to do so. They lay in a lifeless, muddy lump by the door. Mom stopped her current disk and removed the headphones. She turned the package over and over…and over again.

  “No address? No return to sender?” I shrugged again. She shook her head once and put down the sewing. She carefully ripped along the edge of the envelope and place the scrap on her lap. She pulled the envelope open and looked cautiously inside. She glanced briefly up at me and for a record-breaking third time, I shrugged again. She reached her fingers inside, slow, like something in there might bite, then withdrew a brand new, still vacuum-sealed audiobook. The audiobook. The one that is now and ever shall be the curse of my family. She dropped the envelope and turned the cd case this way and that. She looked up at me and I finally found words that I could use.

  “What is it, mom?” She gave a nervous little chuckle and whispered:

  “A brand-new audiobook.” She looked at the title and read: “Be the Best You That You Can Be.” She was having some sort of trouble with the fact that someone left her a new audiobook to moon over. I was completely confused.

  “Well, cool, right? I mean, now you have a whole new book to listen to that you’ve never even heard before.” At this point, she had had time to listen to all five of her audiobooks about a half dozen times each…maybe more! I would’ve guessed—in my sixth graders’ mind—that a new book would have been the cat’s meow! The bee’s knees! The coolest thing since cool ever was! She kinda frowned, not sad but more like a puzzled sort of look. I remember that very clearly because I had been thinking of using some of my grass cutting money to get her a new book soon and if this was how poorly it affected her to receive a new book, maybe I had to rethink that idea.

  “It’s definitely cool,” she said finally, “only…who else knows that I like audiobooks and have this whole set up beside you two kids? I mean, I didn’t order one and anyway, there’s no address on it. How did it even get here?” I looked at the hole in the big toe of my left sock thinking for a second and came up with:

  “Well, doesn’t Lynn’s mom know? She did give you the player and the other books, right?” Mom looked back up at me and the look of dawning understanding lit on her smooth face. She smiled, nodding.

  “OK, kid, I get what you’re saying. So, we assume that Lynn’s mom Rose came over her while you kids were still at school, maybe even knocked—which I never heard because of the current book I’m listening to—and, failing to get anyone at the door, she left it outside in hopes that Jim wouldn’t find it.” She was more talking it out to herself now, otherwise she would have certainly called him ‘your father’. “That would certainly explain the no-mailing address or postage or anything else.” She nodded again smiling, convinced that had to be it. Without further ado, she used her nail on her pinky to slit open the plastic and tore in. I grabbed the trash from her like a good boy and she said—to my horror—“While you’re at it, why don’t you take the trash out, please? It’s your night.” Blah! I hated taking out the garbage. The stinky, smelly, sometimes-leaks-out-of-a-hole-in-the-cheap-bags garbage! But I nodded.

  “OK, mom. No homework tonight. Can I watch some cartoons afterward?” She absently nodded as she was already loading in the first of ten disks into her player. I watched her as I bagged up the garbage. It was a monumental occasion for her. She even remembered to put in fresh batteries before pressing play. She was lost to the soothing sounds of sound old guy talking and droning on in her ears. I was very glad she had found something that made her so noticeably happy, but I happened to put on the earphones and hit play once when she wasn’t around, just for curiosity. Wow! That particular book could’ve put a cocaine addict to sleep. What a load of dribble. Then, I heard the old man, in his loud and deep—and deeply drunken—tones, saying much the same sentiments to her teary face about her regular books—and I decided from then on out to keep my opinions to myself.

  Mom got through the first disk and halfway through the second disk before the old man got home that night. He walked in the door fifteen minutes after she had reluctantly powered the player off and took it and the new book and stowed them securely away up in the cupboard. That night at supper, we saw the first changes in mom. Our mom, who we knew better than anyone else on the planet—or so we believed—was going to take a little break tonight and someone new was going to sit in for a hand or two. We were all getting ready for supper. I was upstairs washing my hands—water, no soap, ever!—and Molly was helping her set the table. Dad was downstairs in the living room taking off his muddy boots on the floor Mom had scrubbed that morning, seeming not to notice or even care. Mom was clinking the stirring spoon around in a big pot of spaghetti and meatballs. The aroma of spaghetti and the garlic bread filled the house and I wiped still-dirty hands on the light orange hand towel, leaving a trace of dirt, and followed my stomach and nose. I slid up to the table at a smooth 85 miles per hour and almost knocked over my glass of milk. Mom gave me a disapproving look and I told her I was sorry. She smiled and began that pleasant humming again. She was off in her own little world, thinking probably about getting back to her book, when Armageddon hit. The old man walked into the kitchen and sat down at the end of the table. He looked down at his empty plate and said:

  “Well, come on, let’s get on with it, girl. I got a bottle with my name on it out to the shed and I want to get to it.” She lost her happy thought momentarily and said:

  “That what you’re gonna do with your whole evening? Drink it away like always? Getting quite the reputation ’round town here.” His face turned
bitter and hateful.

  “What the hell did you just say to me, woman? I’ll bust you upside the head for talking to me like that!” He began to stand and, in a flash, the entire pot of spaghetti came down—upside down—on his balding, sweaty head. I saw with hellish clarity the spaghetti noodles crawling down his beard stubble and plopping down to the table and floor around him. It was only for a brief second, though. Fresh off the stove, that was one hot kettle of pasta! He screamed. A string of cusses came out of his mouth and he jumped up flailing blindly to get the thing that was burning him off. He finally got two hands on the pot and launched it across the room. It struck the far wall and a huge octopus of noodles and sauce sticky-crawled its way down to the floor. He was using the table cloth to wipe at his face, now bubbled in places with burns and red as blood. The pot had actually cut his scalp and a thin trickle of blood ran down his right temple. He was burned and caught off guard and in a world of pain, but more than anything else, he was furious. Vision partially restored, he swung around to Mom and started for her. She was ready. Rolling pin in hand, she swung it without hesitation and knocked him sprawling backwards. He lay on the floor groaning and rubbing his head. Two of his rotten teeth lay on the floor a foot or so from him. She walked over to him, big as life, and leaned over his beaten form. She narrowed her eyes and hissed:

  “You will never threaten me nor belittle me nor make me feel small ever again Jim Hammond. You will keep a civil tongue towards me and the children or so help me I will bash your brains in while you snore. Am I being…perfectly…clear?” I don’t know what he saw in her eyes that night, but I believe it might have been death. He was never exactly respectful toward her, not then nor ever, but he never went out of his way to make her feel small and stupid again. I think just then, he was the one who felt small…and stupid. She got up and walked back into the kitchen and started a fresh pot of spaghetti. The two of us sat like frozen statues, mouths gaping wide. Mom was a savage warrior and no one knew at all. Maybe it was a good idea to not complain about chores anymore. We both knew though—knew!—that that savagery would never be turned on us. We were the three musketeers. Us against him! Always was that way, always would be. We could never have been more wrong.