Burned

by Ellen Hopkins

  listening

  to the thump…thump,

  somewhere beneath muscle

  and breastbone. I remember

  his arms, their sublime

  encircling,

  and the shadow of his voice:

  I love you, little girl.

  Put away your bad dreams.

  Daddy’s here.

  I put them away. Until

  Daddy became my nightmare,

  the one that came

  home

  from work every day

  and, instead of picking me

  up, chased me far, far away.

  I Wasn’t Sure Which Dad

  I would find inside the shed,

  although I had a pretty good

  idea he wouldn’t want me

  to witness him crying—not

  the macho man he wanted

  the world to believe him to be.

  Truth was, in his day, Dad

  was about as bad as they came.

  Way back in the late sixties, when

  everyone else ducked the draft,

  Dad ran right down and joined up.

  Wanted to “waste gooks.”

  Left Molly, his wife of only

  a few weeks, at home while

  he toured Vietnam in an A-4

  Skyhawk, a not-so-lean killing

  machine designed to deliver

  maximum firepower.

  And Dad was just the man—

  boy—to deliver it.

  He came home long enough

  to get Molly pregnant, then joined

  up for a second tour of duty.

  Dwight was almost two

  before he met his dad.

  Sad.

  Not Dad’s Fault

  Any more than I’m entirely to blame

  for what I’ve become. It’s all in the molding.

  Dad’s dad, Grandpa Paul, with the scary

  gray eyes (scary because, if you dared

  look into them, somehow you’d see

  the things he’d seen),

  served his country too, “slappin’ Japs”

  in World War II.

  He slapped them good, taking a patriot’s

  revenge for buddies lost at Pearl Harbor.

  Justified. Glorified.

  Deified with a Medal of Honor and a Purple

  Heart for the leg lost to shrapnel.

  Grandpa Paul refused prosthetics,

  said living with a stump was no more

  than the Good Lord’s daily reminder

  of wrongs still in need of righting.

  Mistakes in need of correction.

  But It Only Takes One Leg

  (And what’s located next to it)

  to create a whole brood of kids.

  Dad was number three of five.

  Hard to stand out

  when you’re number three.

  Hard to be the apple of your

  mother’s eye. Harder still

  to gain the affection

  of a father whose love for any

  living thing was lost along

  with his buddies and his leg.

  Even Grandma Jane,

  his wife till death did part them,

  prematurely, would never regain

  the love she lost to battle scars.

  Distance begets distance begets…

  Well, that was yet to be decided.

  One Thing Already Decided

  Was spaghetti for dinner. Mom was waiting for the sauce, Dad had already hit the sauce, and it wasn’t tomato.

  Now Dad had never laid a hand on us girls (not so far, anyway). I wasn’t afraid of that.

  But I didn’t want to disturb his demons any more than he already

  had. Plus, I knew he was sick of spaghetti.

  I Started to Sing

  Loud, so he’d know I was coming.

  To make double-sure, I clomped

  across the wooden walkway,

  sounding pretty much like a cow.

  Dad was too far gone to care.

  He had quit talking to Molly.

  Now he whispered to the

  other spirits who crowded his life.

  You’re dead, you fucking gooks.

  North, South, who could tell? You

  all looked alike from the air. Go on

  back to hell. Your babies need you.

  I creaked the door open. “Dad?

  It’s me, Pattyn.” Didn’t want him

  to think I was a gook in the flesh.

  “Mom needs some spaghetti sauce.”

  The shed fell silent for a second

  or two as Dad tried to collect

  himself. When he finally did,

  my words sank in.

  Spaghetti? Again? You tell your

  mother I won’t be sharing

  the dinner table tonight. I’m

  going lookin’ for Julia Child.

  I didn’t dare mention she

  was dead, although he probably

  would have felt right at home

  in her company.

  Even Without Dad

  The dinner table remained

  eerily quiet, as if each of us,

  even the little ones,

  intuited what was to come.

  Mom rarely expected Dad

  for dinner on Friday night.

  Johnnie, it seemed,

  was always on a diet.

  Usually we chatted

  and giggled, hoping

  Dad would wander in late,

  settle down on the sofa,

  and watch mindless

  TV until he and Johnnie

  fell deep, deep asleep.

  Relatively harmless.

  Often, it happened

  that way. We’d all tiptoe

  off to bed, leaving

  Dad to his nightmares.

  In the morning, we’d wake

  to irrefutable proof of Mom’s

  undying love—Dad, snoozing

  on the couch, under a blanket.

  But on That Night

  Dad staggered in, eyes eerily lit.

  The corners of his mouth foaming spit.

  His demons planned an overnight stay.

  Mom motioned to take the girls away,

  hide them in their rooms, safe in their beds.

  We closed the doors, covered our heads,

  as if blankets could mute the sounds of his blows

  or we could silence her screams beneath our pillows.

  I hugged the littlest ones close to my chest,

  till the beat of my heart lulled them to rest.

  Only then did I let myself cry.

  Only then did I let myself wonder why

  Mom didn’t fight back, didn’t defend,

  didn’t confess to family or friend.

  Had Dad’s demons claimed her soul?

  Or was this, as well, a woman’s role?

  When the House Fell Quiet

  Jackie and I whispered

  very late into the night.

  We talked about Mom.

  She used to be so pretty,

  Jackie sighed.

  “Too many worries will

  take your pretty away.”

  We talked about Dad.

  Do you think he’s an…

  alcoholic?

  “Do you think he can stop?

  Then he’s an alcoholic.”

  We talked about the two of them.

  Why does he do it?

  Why doesn’t she leave him?

  “Where would she go

  that he couldn’t follow?”

  Why doesn’t she tell?

  “Who would care?”

  After a While, She Asked

  Do you ever wish you were

  someone else?

  “All the time.

  Who’d want to be me?”

  I would. You’re smarter

  than most, Patty.

  “What’s so great about


  being smart?”

  God has something in mind

  for you. Something special.

  “You think God would let

  a girl do something special?”

  Not every girl. Maybe just

  you. You’re different.

  I felt different. Still,

  “How do you know?”

  I can see it in your eyes

  when they stop and stare.

  “What?” What could she

  see, buried inside of me?

  You’re not like the rest

  of us. You’re not afraid.

  That Made Me Think

  I felt angry,

  frustrated.

  I felt I didn’t belong, not in my

  church, not in my home, not

  in my skin.

  Amidst the chaos, I felt

  alone,

  in need of a friend instead of

  a sister, someone detached from

  my world.

  The “woman’s role” theory

  disgusted me.

  I would soon be a woman, and I

  knew I could never perform as

  expected.

  I was tired of my mom’s

  submission

  to her religion, to her husband’s

  sick quest for an heir,

  to his abuse.

  I was sick of my dad, of

  reaching for

  him as he fell farther away

  from us and into the arms of

  Johnnie WB.

  Something bigger drew

  my worry:

  the creeping cold in my own

  famished heart, emptiness

  expanding.

  Some days I was only

  sad,

  others I straddled depression.

  But I was definitely

  not afraid.

  Which Brought Me Up Short

  If I wasn’t afraid, I must be crazy.

  Right? Didn’t dads who hit moms

  usually wind up hitting their kids,

  too? (And sometimes worse?)

  Or maybe that’s what I wanted?

  Did some insane little piece of me

  think even that might be better

  than no relationship with my father at all?

  And why wasn’t I afraid of the path

  already plotted for me—mission work,

  early marriage, brainwashing

  my own passel of Latter-Day kids?

  Did that same mixed-up part of my brain

  somehow believe I could circumvent

  all I’d ever been groomed for?

  Perhaps all I was really good for?

  God has something special in mind for you.

  I knew deep down she was right.

  But how would I ever find out,

  mired there in the Von Stratten bog?

  I Tried Asking Him Once

  “God, what do you have

  in mind for me?”

  I listened really hard,

  opened my ears and heart.

  I looked for signs,

  in places expected—and not.

  Expected: church, seminary,

  the Book of Mormon.

  Unexpected: clouds, constellations,

  wind-sculpted patterns in sand.

  But I never heard His answer,

  never got one little hint of His plans.

  Which was either good or bad,

  depending on your point of view.

  Because if He would have mentioned

  then what He had in mind,

  I would have thanked Him for His

  faith in me, then tucked my tail and run.

  I Slithered Out of Bed

  The next morning, hungry

  for a little target practice—

  a great way to blow off steam.

  I walked a long way out

  into the desert, absorbing

  the faux spring day.

  Every year, two or three weeks

  of fine weather interrupted

  our winter deep freeze,

  teasing soil into thaw

  and stream into melt

  and plants into breaking leaf.

  It was all a game, all for show,

  as if God understood we needed

  to defrost our spirits, too.

  As I walked, I thought

  about Dad, at home, using

  this fabulous day to tune his car.

  When I was little, he used

  to hike this very route,

  lugging his favorite rifle.

  I always begged to go along,

  mostly as a way to spend

  some time alone with him.

  I was ten before he finally

  said yes, and didn’t I feel

  like the favored one?

  Dad and I went out to the shed.

  He unlocked the cabinet

  that housed his guns.

  Hunting rifles. Shotguns.

  Pistols. And one little .22

  “peashooter,” just right for me.

  This was Dwight’s, Dad said.

  I don’t suppose he’d mind,

  long as you take good care of it.

  He Made Me Carry My Own Gun

  I knew he would have made Dwight

  do the same, so I tried my best

  not to complain. But by the time

  we’d walked far enough so an errant shot

  had only sand or sage to hurt,

  that little peashooter felt like a cannon.

  Dad showed me how to load it, flip

  the safety, sight in the tin-can target.

  Squeeze the trigger, little girl. Don’t pull.

  I pulled, of course. The barrel lifted,

  lofting the bullet high and wide right.

  Try again. Take your time.

  I brought the .22 to my shoulder,

  willed my aching arms to quit shaking.

  Level the sight. Breathe in. Ease the trigger.

  The shot wasn’t dead center, but it hit

  the top of the can with a satisfying BLING!

  Better. Do it again. Concentrate. And relax.

  Concentrate. Level the sight. Breathe in.

  Ease the trigger. And relax?

  BLAP! The can somersaulted across the sand.

  Pride swelled till I thought I’d burst.

  But my smile slipped at Dad’s reality check.

  Not bad. Pretty good, in fact. For a girl.

  After That

  I still tagged along with Dad sometimes.

  He taught me a lot on those outings:

  how to account for the wind’s contrary

  nature, its irritating whims;

  how to move silently across the sand,

  a no-brainer compared to the jungle;

  how to aim slightly in front of a moving

  target, assuming a straight-on run.

  I even brought home a rabbit or two

  for Mom’s always-hungry stew pot.

  But I could never be Dwight.

  And Dad never let me forget it.

  Finally, I did my target shooting alone.

  Killing Bunnies

  Was not the point,

  drawing blood,

  watching life ebb,

  pulse by pulse.

  No, that wasn’t

  it at all.

  Neither was feeding

  the family—not

  my job, for sure.

  Dad and Mom

  made us kids,

  only right

  they fed us.

  And the whole

  skinning and

  gutting thing,

  well, that

  was enough

  to make your

  skin crawl.

  Truly, though,

  the attraction

  was more than

  just being good—

  really good—

  at something

>   for a change.

  The lure of my

  little peashooter

  was in its gift

  to me, in the way

  only it could

  make me feel.

  Powerful.

  If You’ve Never Shot a Gun

  You can’t understand

  how it feels in your hands.

  Cool to the touch, all its venom

  coiled inside, deadly,

  like a steel-scaled serpent.

  Awaiting your bidding.

  You select its prey—paper,

  tin, or flesh. You lie in wait,

  learn that patience is the killer’s

  most trustworthy accomplice.

  You choose the moment.

  What. Where. When. Decided.

  But the how is everything.

  You lift your weapon,

  ease it into place, cock it

  to load it, knowing the

  satisfying snitch means

  a bullet is yours to command.

  Now, make or break,

  it’s all up to you. You

  aim, knowing a hair either

  way means bull’s-eye or miss.

  Success or failure.

  Life or death.

  You have to relax,

  convince your muscles