I smiled the whole way back, upstairs to my room.
. . . . .
Well, I’ve been having this dream ever since Nikki spoke up. I’m four or five years old, I think. Everyone is over for Ally’s birthday party. Some of her school friends are there, Jessica brings this big gift, it’s an artist set. I never see Ally open it, but I can see her playing with it. She’s drawing a picture of her and Jessica on the rope swing at Jessica’s house. It’s one of those typical childhood pictures, you know? It’s got that big yellow sun in the upper right-hand corner with the squiggly lines coming out of it. There’s a tall bushy tree in the middle with different colors of green for the leaves, and dark, heavy lines of brown for the trunk. It even has a squirrel hole in the trunk of it. I can see the red, purple, and yellow flowers in the little strokes of grass. There are two fishing poles, I mean, I think they’re fishing poles. They kind of look like sticks with an oversized letter J dangling from a short string. I see the poles are on the ground to the left of the tree. The swing is on the right-hand side, coming down from the one horizontal branch jetting out across the page. There is a stick figure with long blonde hair sitting on the swing, and a stick figure with a dark ponytail pushing her from behind. They are wearing matching jeans and red shirts. I watch her draw a large bubble coming from each stick figure’s head. In the one coming from the blonde, it says, “Ha, Ha,” inside. Then, in the one coming from the dark-haired girl, it reads “Best Friends 4-ever.”
Some of Dad’s cop friends are there. It’s loud. Everyone is talking and laughing. Everyone is happy and getting along. Mom and Dad are side by side with one arm wrapped around each other’s waist. They’re talking to some of Dad’s police buddies. It must be something funny because they’re all cracking up.
Then, I’m in the kitchen, watching Dad pour a full glass from a half-empty Jim Beam bottle. He turns around to see me.
“Hey, sport. Whatcha got there?” He bends down to my level.
I slowly reach out my little hand. All I can see is my blurry arm stretching out in front of me. I’m squeezing something in my tiny fist. It starts to come into focus. I can feel how badly I want Dad to see whatever I have in my hand. I stretch my arm all the way out, as close to his face as I can reach. Then, it comes into focus, and I can see what I’m holding.
Clenched in my fist is my blood-soaked, Batman underwear.
“Well, that’s alright, buddy. No one can see.” He said as if I had just whispered a secret and he was confirming that it was safe with him.
Next thing I know, I’m in the basement closet. It’s dark, but I know that there are two people in the closet with me. I feel their presence. I feel their eyes feasting on me. I feel naked. I feel completely and totally exposed.
I can hear their deep voices, but I can only understand a couple of words.
“Mouth shut.”
“I’ll watch.”
“Never tell.”
“Safe.”
“Quiet.”
“Hurry.”
There is a sharp pain at my rear. I can feel my body jerking back and forth. It’s in slow motion now. My hands are against the cold, dark wall. There are groans and grunts that sound like thunder.
“Almost done.”
“Me too.”
My body jerks faster and faster. More thunder. Lightening. Pain. And an un-Godly ROAR.
Next thing I know. I’m at the kid’s table in the living room eating cake and ice cream. Everyone is laughing around me, but I’m not. Everyone is happy, but me.
I look up from my bowl of Neapolitan ice cream and chocolate cake to see Dad staring at me from the kitchen door.
He winks. And slides his thumb across his throat.
Then, I wake up gasping for air, sweaty, trapped by the sheets at my ankles, sideways on my bed, my hands pressing against the wall. I want to scream, but my mouth won’t open. I can barely force a growl into my throat.
I’ve been having this dream a lot, lately. It’s one of those dreams that feel so real. I mean, I can feel everything… the vibrations of music playing in the corner, the heat of friends and family filling the dampness of our house, eyes watching me… a stabbing pain behind me.
Sometimes, I believe it. Sometimes… I think it is real.
. . . . .
The incident? I mean, I wouldn’t call it an incident. You know, just boys horsing around. Boys will be boys, right? Ha. Ha. Look, it’s really not that big of a deal. I don’t know why everyone is so bent out of shape about it. Nooo, I’m playing with my hair because… because I need something to do with my hands. For real, he didn’t even get hurt. He was just scared. Who doesn’t like a good prank every now and then? Right? C’mon. I mean, you should’ve seen his face… it was glorious.
Well, it happened this summer during two-a-days conditioning for football. This year sucked even more than my freshman year. I think it was hotter. Or maybe coach just ran us more. Either way, I wasn’t the only one to throw up. Ha. Ha. There was a line of us, all hunched over on the sideline, I don’t know how many, maybe five or six of us. We were in our new matching white shorts (complete with dirty sweat stains) and orange t-shirts that the booster’s rotisserie chicken sale bought for us this year. Honestly, I thought we looked gay. Sorry, I mean silly. We looked silly, like a bunch of douchebags out there running around in matching dresses, or something. Hell, we were more color-coordinated than the cheerleaders. Ha. Ha. The only way to tell us apart were the names taped to the front of our helmets… so Coach knew who to yell at.
It had to be 100 degrees on the practice field. I can remember pointing out the heat waves to Robbie, our jacked, I mean the dude’s ripped, starting running back, and then, making some stupid joke about the desert and war. We call it, The Oven. August in Ohio is Hell. Even during warmups, our jumping jacks stirred up this cloud of dust that would make your teeth gritty. We’d have brown streaks of sweat rolling down our faces. We called it war paint. Coach called it… Colt Blood. He’s a bit of “pride” freak. For those two weeks, every huddle break, he’d have us all yell “Ahh… 1, 2, 3, colt pride!” It went well with our matching dresses. Ha. Ha.
But anyway, it was hot. We were dirty. We were exhausted. We were chewed up and spit out. And we were doing fourth-quarter drills… which is, running gassers and then trying to run a play. But Chase kept fffuuu… uh, I mean, “messing up.” C’mon, he’s the quarterback, just a sophomore, but still, he should know how to run a simple triple-option. Right? Well, he didn’t. His footwork was all jacked up. He kept tripping over Robbie, our running back. Looking like a fool. Making us all look like fools.
You should’ve seen coach raising Hell. I mean, if we didn’t have to run so many gassers, I would’ve laughed about it all.
Honestly, though… I think he was still a little hungover from Jay’s party. So was I, well before I sweat it all out. I told him… I said, “Chase, dude, seriously… get your shit together. We’re gonna be here all day.”
“Damn it, I know. I got this.”
He always says I got this, even when he clearly doesn’t.
Well, he finally did get it. We even ran the same play five times in a row without messing it up.
Then, Coach said that it’d come down to one final play… if we got it right, we’d be done for the day. But, if we got it wrong, more gassers.
It was a simple play. A pass play. I wish Coach would’ve called my number. But he didn’t. He called on some freshman receiver. I don’t even know his name, yet. Some scrawny, lanky kid. He looked like he could be a high jumper during track season. We just called him Green Bean.
He nearly shit-a-brick when Coach called him out on the field.
“Alrigh
t, gents… Green Bean, here, is going to be our number one on this play. If he catches it, we go home. If not, we run more gassers. Got it? Good.”
Green Bean shook his facemask up and down, slowly, like he wasn’t really sure what Coach had just said.
“Ok, gents… let’s show Green Bean a little support. This could be any one of us, called upon in any game, to pull our weight, to have your back. And when it comes down to having your number called, you can bet your ass that you will look to your left and right, to the guy next to ya… you’ll look right into his shit-brown eyes… and you’ll know… you’ll know that he’s got your six, that he has your back, that he’s right there in the trenches with you. You’ll know that you can count on him, just like he can count on you. That’s a team, gents. That’s what we’re here to learn… how to trust each other.”
Coach looked around and peered into each and every one of our souls, kneeling in that semi-circle of sweat, stink, and smeared blood.
“Alright, Green Bean. You’re up. I-right, 22 option, crisscross deep. Run it.”
All Green Bean had to do was catch a long crossing pattern in the middle of the field. Cake. A freakin’ piece of cake.
Green Bean lined up on the left. I could see his leg muscles twitching. He nearly tripped over his own awkward feet at the snap of the ball. He took off, the dust following. All he had to do was go up the field fifteen yards, then cross behind the shallow crosser coming in from the right. Like I said, simple. But no. Green Bean ran straight down the field twenty yards and stopped. He had no idea what to do.
Coach blew his whistle in a series of shrieks.
“What the flippin’ hell was that, Green Bean!?” Coach yelled from behind the offense.
Green Bean came running back with his hands out.
“I thought I had the seam route?”
“Greeeen Beaaan… nooo.” Coach said. “You’re the number one on this play! You’re the cross. You do the crossing route!”
Green Bean let out a long heavy breath from low shoulders. He kicked at the dirt and hit his helmet.
“Don’t give up. Run it again!” Coach blew his whistle.
We cheered him on, tried to give him a little pick-me-up, you know?
So, he ran it, again, and this time, he ran the right route. Haha. The ball was nearly perfect. A high arcing spiral, just a hair in front of him. Green Bean reached out for it. It hit his hands in stride. He juggled it once, and then it hit the ground, bounced, and spun out of bounds. He freakin’ dropped it. I mean, a perfect pass. And he dropped it.
Man, I wish Coach would’ve called my number.
Well, we ran until we puked. I think Coach wanted to teach us something. But I didn’t care what it was at that point. I just knew that Green Bean was going to get his. He had it coming.
When we got back up to the locker-room, the coaches had a meeting in the Coach’s Office while we hit the showers.
The incident all started with one of the linemen, a big guy we call Chunk. He’s a junior, not too bright, but he could push through a defensive lineman like he was a swinging door. He was unwrapping the tape from his wrists, soaked, and still breathing heavy.
“I think I might have green beans for dinner tonight. What do you think about that, Green Bean?”
Green Bean was sitting on the bench across from him with his head down, staring at his hands.
“Ok.” He said.
But that wasn’t the answer that Chunk was looking for.
“Well, maybe I should just take a bite out of you first.” Chunk was on his feet. Sort of awkward, funny even, in just his gray, sweat-soaked, boxer-briefs.
Green Bean looked up to read Chunks face. He looked dead serious, and the locker-room died down to a low murmur.
“Look, man, I’m sorry. I’m really sorry. I don’t know what happened. I don’t know how I dropped it.” He shook his head and bit his lower lip. “But, it won’t happen again.”
“You’re damn right it won’t. Not if you want to be on this team.”
“I do, man. I love football. I promise. I promise I won’t suck anymore.”
Chunk grabbed the front of his boxers.
“Maybe you should suck on this.”
He started walking from his side of the locker room toward Green Bean. Green Bean stood up, not knowing what to do.
“Grab him.” Chunk said to his linemen buddies laughing beside him.
Three of the linemen grabbed hold of Green Bean, picked him up off of his feet, and forced him down on the nasty locker-room floor.
Chunk hovered over his face.
“How bad do you want to be on this team?”
Green Bean, not knowing whether to laugh or cry, gave up and stopped squirming.
“Real bad. I swear.”
“Bad enough to suck on deez nuts”? Chunk squatted above his face so that his sweaty underwear were just inches above Green Beans nose.
“Go on, open up, you freshman turd.”
The locker room was circled around them, smiling, laughing, egging the whole thing on.
“Do it.” Someone shouted.
“Come on, Green Bean. Show him how much you love football,” another one screamed.
Chunk lingered above his nose for a few seconds and then stood up laughing.
“Damn, Green Bean, I think you were really gonna do it.”
Everyone started laughing.
“Alright. Alright. Let him go. Let him up. I’m just playing around.” Chunk reached out to help him up.
“Wait!” I shouted. “Wait a second! That’s it? That’s all? He made us run ‘til we puked!”
All eyes were on me now. I could feel their stares. I didn’t like it. But, I was just getting started.
Green Bean started to get up.
“No. No, buddy. You don’t get off that easily. Hold him down.” I said, quickly undressing.
A few guys started laughing. Others looked concerned. But two linemen grabbed him again and held him still.
“Hold him! Hold him still,” I said as I stood over him in my white boxer-briefs.
The linemen pinning him there were laughing. Green Bean had an uncomfortable smirk on his face. He had no idea if I was kidding or being totally serious.
I was being totally serious.
I squatted over his face, just like Chunk had done. My dirty, raunchy boxers were right in his eyes. The boys were all laughing. They thought it was hilarious. You know, just some freshman hazing, some prank that’s pretty common between boys. It wasn’t that big of a deal.
But then, his juggling of the football flashed into my head. I could feel the rage rising. I saw the ball spinning on the ground, rolling out of bounds. My teeth started to shake from clenching my jaw. I could taste the dust, the sweat, and the puke, from running so many gassers. I felt the drop in my stomach, like just before I threw up along the sidelines.
I don’t know what made me do it. Maybe the anger. Maybe the rage. Or maybe that it just didn’t feel wrong.
I pulled down my boxers and slapped my dick on his forehead.
“Dude! C’mon! Get off of him!” Chase pushed me away from him. “What the hell is wrong with you?!”
I pulled up my boxers and looked around at the frozen faces staring back at me. A few kids were smiling, maybe even laughing. Some looked disgusted, some in shock.
Green Bean was frantically rubbing at his forehead. He got to his feet quickly, still rubbing. “You’re an asshole!” He fired.
Then, he sat down in front of his locker, defeated, and started to cry.
“Hey. Guys. C’mon. It’s not that big of a deal.”
Five.
Ashley
2018, January
Yeah, no, I’m fine… I’m just… exhausted.
You know, things weren’t always like this. I wasn’t always this dejected. Life wasn’t always this catastrophic. My husband… Jim… hasn’t always been this… this… plague. I didn’t willingly marry Lucifer. He transformed. He changed. His light faded. He was sucked into the darkness of his past. Do you know what I mean?
No, I’m not trying to defend him, or his actions. What he’s done to this family is damning, to say the least. I just need you to know that there used to be a real person in there. Jim used to… he used to love. He used to love me. He used to laugh and care and feel. He used to want to save the world. He had a hunger to cleanse this town of all of its filth; to put evil behind bars, or under the ground. That’s what attracted me to him. That’s why I married him. Because he promised to be my hero! He saved me from my adolescent martyrdom, he pulled me out of that hole. He took me away from the hell that I lived in, from the stepfather that took whatever he wanted from me whenever he wanted it. He… he saved me. And now… well…
Look, we all have demons. You can’t deny me that. But sometimes, the things that we bury vibrate their way back to the top, like rocks in a bucket of sand. The more we shake up our existence, the more these stones break the surface.
Having Tyler shook Jim’s world. All of a sudden, all of these repressed memories came dancing to the surface. Just like that, Jim saw his own childhood abuse when he looked at our child. He saw his own father doing the same things to him that Jim would later do to his own children. How strange, how sickening, how… linear the cycle of abuse.
It’s a damn web. A trap. It’s this ill plot in a psychological thriller. I was mentally and physically assaulted by my stepfather. Jim saved me. He took me away from there, and gave me hope, life, and love… only to become exactly what I needed to be rescued from in the first place. Jim, who came from the Devil’s den himself, confessed it all to me one drunken evening. He confessed to me how he was sexually tortured by his father and his father’s greedy friends, only to turn around and put his own children through that same gauntlet.
At Daddy’s Hands Page 6
