I was absolutely between a rock and a hard place. My father understood my predicament, but he didn’t back off. I suppose he was doing his best to try and teach me something. Then, out of pure sympathy, frustration, or embarrassment, he gave me some advice. He said, “Son, you can either let that goat push you around, or you can walk into that pen with your chest out and head high, and let that goat know that you’re in charge.” What a bold concept for a five-year-old to understand– that the power either belonged to the goat… or to me.
I did just that. I walked out to that pen with my chest out and head high, and I told that goat in my best Hulk Hogan voice that he better leave me alone or I would whip him with the stick in my hand. We met head to head when I entered the pen. Without hesitating, he headbutted me right in the forehead before I could even close the gate – before I could even swing my stick. Well, I fell backward into the mud, laid there, and cried. After a few minutes, I got up rubbing my head, slammed the gate shut and threw the bucket of food over the fence. It was a painful walk back to the house, bruised, bloodied, and defeated.
That didn’t go over so well with Dad. He wasn’t impressed with the guts it took to face my fears. I think he was more embarrassed than angry about my defeat. But, either way, he wasn’t happy that I conceded my power to some damn goat. He let me feel his disappointment with five belt whips across my rear-end. With blood and tears rolling down my face, he beat it into me, that he wasn’t about to raise some chicken-shit kid.
That’s when he taught me a lesson that I’ll never forget: power isn’t given, it’s something that you take.
He dragged me outside by the shirt collar to the pen. With dried blood and tears on my puffy red face, he swung open that fence and demanded that I take back the power that I gave up to that goat. I was five years old… trying to understand what the hell my dad was talking about. He stood there and watched as I balled my eyes out trying to muster the gall to fight this bully of a goat.
It was no use, I couldn’t hack it. Eventually, he had to step in. There was no winning for me. That goat had kicked me, rammed me, trampled me, and ripped me open. I was a complete failure, and my father let me know it. He took out his pocketknife and placed it in my shaky little hand. He told me that it was time to man up, that it was time to take back my power, my manhood, or I would face a hundred lashes from the belt. Then, my father grabbed ahold of the goat’s horns and twisted it down to the ground. There, he lifted it head up to the sky, exposing its trembling neck, and demanded that I cut it open.
I battled that decision for longer than I should have. The entire time, my father was yelling with that poor goat pinned in the mud, crying out gurgled calls for help, shaking, and anticipating its neck to be ripped open by my tiny hand.
“Do it!” He yelled, covered in mud.
“I can’t! I can’t do it!” I cried.
“There is no can’t, boy, now do what I tell ya!” He pulled its head higher toward the fading sky as if that would make it easier for me to go through with it.
I took a couple of steps toward them, my knees nearly giving out with each slurp of muck grabbing at my boots. I shifted the knife in my hand, felt its cold steel, its weight, its power. I squeezed it tightly, ready to commit. I was inches away from its neck. I could see its veins pumping blood up rapidly to wide eyes and muffled terrified cries. I extended the sharp, shiny steel towards its thumping vein and I touched it. The goat kicked and fluttered, making me jump and fall backward into the mud, again.
I lost. I was too afraid. I couldn’t do it.
I dropped the knife and ran into the house and hid under my bed. From there, breathing waves into the hanging sheet, I listened as the blood choking screams of that damned goat screeched through my bedroom window, until it went silent.
It wasn’t long before I could hear my father’s heavy footsteps thrashing through the house.
“Where’s that little bitch?” He shouted. “I’m not going to raise some sissy little girl! He’s going to learn how to be a man, and, damn it, if it’s the last thing I do, I swear to God, I’m going to be the one to teach him!”
I could hear him over my poor mother’s weak pleas as he stormed through the house to my bedroom door….
That night, we had goat for dinner. And that night my father asked me if I wanted to be his prissy little daughter or his chin-high, tough, and powerful son.
Goddammit, Doc… He called me daddy’s little girl... as he raped me out in the woodshed.
. . . . .
No, I don’t want to talk about it. I don’t need to talk about it.
Well, I don’t care if that’s what we’re here to do. It’s over with. It’s done. I’ve moved on.
You know what? Let’s talk about you. Why are you here, Doc? What happened in your life that was so traumatizing that you decided to become a therapist? Did your daddy touch you? Did your parents beat you ‘til you bled? Did you watch someone die? Maybe a family member… your poor little old grandmother, perhaps? An uncle? A sibling? Which is it, Doc? Apparently, something had to happen to make you give a damn about us, about me.
Here’s the thing about you people. You come in here in your fancy clothes, sit in your fancy chair at your fancy desk, nodding your disgusting head up and down like you know exactly what I’m thinking – like you know exactly what I’ve been through. Well, screw you, Doc! You don’t know me! You don’t have the right to judge me! Who the hell do you think you are? You’re not God. You’re just some piece of shit sissy who wants to talk and hug it out. Well, guess what… life doesn’t work like that. It’s not all unicorns and rainbows… It’s blood and mud, it’s death and struggle… it’s pain! Doc, it’s God damned pain!
Draw my anger? What the hell are you talking about?
Here, give me that. Yeah, sure, I’ll draw my anger… Here, it’s for you, a big middle finger… I call it, Doc.
Wow! You’re right, that is therapeutic. I feel so much better, now. Shit, I think I’m healed. Thanks, Doc.
I’m going to go have a cigarette.
. . . . .
Alright, look. I apologize.
You’re just trying to do your job. You’re just trying to help. I get that. You’re a good man, Doc.
Honestly, I know that I have some anger issues. I know that I tend to take it out on those around me. Yes, sometimes that means my family. But it doesn’t mean that I don’t love them. I love them very much. I do. I just want what’s best for them. You know?
I want to give them the things that I didn’t have growing up: A big TV in their room, a new computer, fancy clothes, food, and a roof over their heads.
I just want them to be strong. They need to learn and understand that the driving force of the universe is power. It’s everything. And if they don’t understand how to use that power, or how to grab power by the throat and own it, then, I’m afraid… well, I’m afraid that my kids will grow up to be victims. I’m afraid that they will be taken advantage of, lose, and become unsuccessful.
Look, I’m just trying to teach them the best way that I know how.
You get that, don’t you? It’s logical. It’s rational. It’s not insane to crave that for your kids. And they are my kids. I have every right to raise them in the way that I see fit. No one is going to tell me differently!
Call me hardheaded, old-school, a stubborn ass… I don’t care. I know what works. I know what will make my kids tough. I know how to make them strong, and they will need to be strong if they want to get anywhere in this life.
The best thing that my father ever did for me was to teach me at a young age just how dangerous this world can be. He taught me that this environment is hostile and not to get too comfortable.
C
omplacency kills. That’s what he said. Get comfortable, and you become a victim. I’ve learned that where you find happiness, you find weakness. That’s just the truth. That’s just the horrible, ugly, spit-in-your-face truth….
I think he was a good man, a decent man, my father. Yeah, sure… his unorthodox ways were controversial. But, I’ll be damned if they didn’t work. Look at me. I’m married with three beautiful kids, tough kids. I’m doing well in the department, earning medals and merits, building a hefty pension, as well as a reputation for putting bad guys behind bars.
Yes, I have a temper. But a man needs a temper. A man needs to be feared.
I definitely feared my father, and rightfully so. He had a heavy fist and a swift foot. He was full of hammer and nails. He was a man of action. He taught by doing. That was just his way. But, he got things done. Now, I’m not saying that he was an angel, or that he was perfect, no. But, to his credit, he accomplished what he set out to do….
I mean, just look at what he created. I’m a product of him, of his grit and whip. I am my father’s son.
Look, I love my kids, Doc. I’m their father. I created them. I built them. They have my DNA, little bits of me attached all over them. They will carry on my legacy, my good name. Yes, I love them very much, and no school teacher, judge, therapist, or anyone else is going to say otherwise. The bond between a father and his children is sacred, it’s pure, natural… Godly. No system, no man-made system can break that bond.
You know, ever since this whole misunderstanding started, ever since the first accusations were thrown at my good name, I can’t help but think about when they were little. Just, these little, tiny bundles of joy… I can remember the first time that I held Ally. She was wrapped so tight in her swaddle, she looked like a small screaming burrito. I remember the sound of her laughter when I called her my little burrito. “I’m going to eat you,” I’d joke with her, putting her tiny, soft hands into my mouth. She’d just smile the biggest smile, so sweet, so beautiful, so… stimulating.
Lately, I’ve had a lot of lonely hours to reflect on some of my favorite memories of their youth. It’s the little things that you remember the most, Doc. I don’t care how big of a deal something is, or how much planning goes into it, it’s the little things that stick with you.
I remember the birthday parties… not individually, I mean, they were all mostly the same, anyway… family, friends, food, cake, and a house full of laughter and smiles. It was happiness. I remember their smiles, each one of their ornery, missing teeth, ear to ear, wide, grinning smiles. That’s the meat on the bones, that’s the sustenance, that’s the charge, that’s the spark that keeps an old man’s heart beating.
Specifically, I remember one birthday party at our house. Another one, full of friends and family – my brother, some guys from the department, some of Ashley’s old college friends – I don’t recall whose party it was, but Tyler couldn’t have been more than four or five years old.
We were all packed into our newly remodeled house, we were putting in a finished basement, and you could still smell the sawdust when you opened the basement door. Personally, I never cared for the smell of sawdust, it’s… it’s heavy and reminds me of small spaces… almost as if it were suffocating me. Actually, I remember having a strict rule that we were to keep the basement door shut at all times during the renovation. But, it was mostly finished, and despite my pleas for people to not go down there, someone must have, because I found the door cracked open while walking down the hall, to my office, and smelling that heavy, wet, choking, sawdust pouring up from the basement.
There was a cautious panic in Ashley’s eyes when she came rushing into the office, interrupting my brother and I sharing stories of our childhood shenanigans to ask me if I had seen Tyler anywhere.
I calmly took a sip from my fresh glass of Jim Beam. “No. I don’t think so. I thought he was with you?”
Her shoulders dropped, and she wiped her bangs from her eyes. “No. I’ve been passing out cake and ice cream for the last fifteen minutes. You haven’t seen him at all?”
I distinctly remember the concerned look on my brother’s face as I glanced his way, but he shook his head. “Nope. We’ve been in here for a little while now. Did you look out back?”
“Not yet. I thought he was with you. Okay. I’ll go look outside. Could you just… look around inside for me?”
With drink in hand, I quickly followed her out the door.
It’s that feeling that I remember so vividly. You know, all the things that are running through your head: Is he hurt? Did he run off? Did he fall down the steps? Is he in the pond?
Even now it still makes me shake to think about his tiny, lifeless body, floating face down in the pond out back. A place where we would kill those summer evenings, trying to catch more than just trees and grass.
I must have been sipping my drink rather quickly because, by the time I made my rounds on the second level, I was empty. So, I made my way to the kitchen to pour myself another drink. Look, I’ll admit it… I had a small drinking problem back then. But it was just the stress of my job, you know.
I was in the kitchen, tipping up the bottle of Jim Beam and splashing the last of it onto shrinking ice. I had my back to the hallway when I heard the basement door creak open. I turned around just in time to suck in that awful sawdust smell.
My God, I don’t know how long he was down there, but when Tyler carefully stepped into the kitchen in nothing but his t-shirt, I knew something was wrong.
He reached out with his little hand, trying to show me something that he was holding… and just as vivid and as awful as if it had happened this morning, I can still see his tight, shaking fist reaching out for me and squeezing his blood-soaked, batman underwear.
Seven.
The System
2017, October - 2018, April
Nikki, the last student to exit the classroom, paused at the door, looked back at Mrs. V. and grinned.
“See you later, Mrs. V.”
Mrs. V. looked up from organizing the scattered papers on her desk and offered a heartfelt smile in return.
“You have a wonderful evening, Nikki. See you tomorrow.”
“Yeah, if you’re lucky.” Nikki’s face lit up with a big toothy smile.
Nikki’s smile faded while the breeze from her exit fluttered the “Student of the Week” pictures on her sixth-grade classroom door. In place of her smile was disappointment. She shifted her book bag on her right shoulder and started down the hall towards the rumble of excited pre-teens rushing out towards freedom, towards adventure, towards home.
Nikki paused under the dim, red, exit sign and turned to look back at Mrs. V.’s door, still open, still available, still possible for her to walk back into and confess everything wrong in her life to the one person who has given her the most hope.
She filled her lungs with doubt and blew it out through the heavy doors into the cool fall air. She deflated at the sight of the big, bright busses waiting in a single file line to bump her back to the shade of Lost Road and the shadows of her white, country ranch home.
Mrs. V. sat at her large wooden desk with her light blue sweater draped over her elegant shoulders. Her thin dark hair played at the corners of her red-rimmed glasses. In front of her, a stack of sixth-grade handwritten papers waited to be graded. Her desk was organized and tidy. She had a stack of lesson books in the far right corner, and an assignment tray in the far left. Between them sat a box of tissues, hand sanitizer, and a bowl of chocolate kisses. All of which she allowed her students to help themselves to as they came into class, just as long as the trash made it into the trashcan and not onto the floor, or in their neighbor’s hair.
The students had all left for the day in
a hurried wave of middle school gossip and laughter. Mrs. V. was left alone in the silence of an occasional door closing and the whistle of the old custodian pushing his cart of cleaning supplies down the hallway. She loved these first few moments after a stressful day, where she could clear her head and reflect on the faces that sat in front of her all day long, like empty coin jars collecting loose change throughout the year; she loved to fill them to the brim. But, this was her quiet opportunity to read through their work, grade their assignments, and prepare for the next day. She absolutely loved it. She loved to see the progress that her students were making, and she loved to read what their wild imaginations had created.
In her right hand, between her crimson and chipped fingernail polish, she held a red ink pen. With her head bent, and rubbing her neck with her left hand, she squinted to make out Jake’s sloppy handwriting. He was raving about soldiers making sacrifices to protect the rights and freedoms of the American people. She drew a straight red line though Jake’s attempted spelling of the word courageous and wrote the proper spelling just above it.
She paused, leaned back in her big, creaking chair, and smiled at the thought of her own husband’s military service. He was a marine who had endured two tours in Afghanistan with only one year in between. She remembered how she felt reading his sloppy and sweat-stained letters at the dining room table, the evening news reporting local crime and the War on Terror progress in the background, hoping that she would catch a glimpse of him or his unit. She hated that he had to be away so much, but her whole body warmed with pride whenever she would talk about him to the other teachers in the breakroom, whenever they would ask.
At Daddy’s Hands Page 8
