by Shandi Boyes
I’m not relishing her fear; I’m stoked she still cares enough she's worried about my well-being. “My father won’t hit me. He only gets pleasure from tormenting women.”
Savannah harrumphs. “That’s because he assumes we won’t fight back. One day he’ll be taught a hard lesson.”
I jerk up my chin, confident he’ll soon get a taste of his own medicine. I don’t know how or why, but I’m certain karma will ultimately kick his ass.
Another stretch of silence passes between us. Even with the tenseness of our conversation, there’s not an ounce of awkwardness. Waking up with Savannah in my arms is as natural as breathing to me. Prior to her grounding for failing to sneak back into her room on the eve of my thirteenth birthday, she woke up in my bed a minimum two to three times a week from the age of ten. She belongs here. Even if our relationship remains platonic, it's right for her to be here. Savannah has been a part of my life for years, even when we weren’t speaking. No amount of guilt will change that. None.
I stop twisting a strand of Savannah’s glossy hair around my finger when a deep roar bellows through my closed bedroom door. “I swear to god, woman, how many times have I said to put liquid starch in the dryer?”
A faint sniffle is heard, closely followed by more shouting. “I don’t care what the manufacturer says. You do as I tell you to do!”
I jackknife to a half-seated position, knowing I’m moments away from the sound of skin slapping skin. When it doesn’t come, I startle, unsure if I am coming or going. I want to protect my mom, but if I do, I’m leaving Savannah defenseless in the house of a madman with no morals. But if I don’t protect my mom, who knows how far my dad will go. He's even more vicious when he is hungover.
“Go, Ryan,” Savannah pleads, her voice as wounded as the pain tearing through my chest. “Stop it before it goes too far.”
My eyes bounce between hers, my mind shut down. “I can’t leave you here.”
“Then don’t. I’ll go.”
She slips out of my bed in a nanosecond, then makes a beeline for my window. Panic thickens my veins, worried my dad’s violent temper will frighten her out of my bed for another five years. Although she's aware of his less stellar attributes, this is the first time she’s witnessed them firsthand.
My worry doesn’t linger for long. Just before Savannah climbs onto the windowsill, she pivots around to face me. Fear is slashed across her features, but she isn’t worried my father is going to hurt her. She's worried he is going to hurt me.
"Please be careful," she begs, her croaky words bolstering the panic in her eyes.
When I nod, she clambers out the windowsill and steadies her footing on the trestle. If I hadn’t witnessed her scaling out of my window more than a hundred times when we were kids, I’d be worried she will fall. But I know she has this. Her back-breaking cheerleading routines leave no doubt to her agility, much less her flexibility.
I watch Savannah race across the dew-covered ground of my backyard while throwing on a shirt and a pair of shoes. When she slips through the paint-peeling side gate, I sprint out of my bedroom. Although shouted voices have stopped, my unease hasn’t weakened in the slightest. There's a voice that doesn’t use words, usually spoken by the devil.
Halfway down the corridor lined with family photos, I spot my younger brother, Damon. He's standing at the entrance of his room. His chest heaves up and down in the same rhythm as mine, his eyes just as wide.
"Where's Molly?" I ask him, mindful that he sneaks his on-again-off-again girlfriend into his room most weekends.
“She left last night. We got in a fight.” He scrubs his hand over his tired blue eyes. “Did I hear what I thought I heard?”
Damon is two years younger than me, and although I sheltered him from our father’s antics as much as possible when we were kids, the escalation of violence in our household soon became impossible to conceal.
Before I can confirm Damon’s assumption, our mother’s sobs creep up the stairwell. They are followed by the noise I anticipated earlier—skin slapping skin.
With Damon on my heel, I gallop down the stairs two at a time. Recalling my Dad's anger about incorrectly done laundry, I take a right at the base of the stairs instead of my usual left. My heart is sitting in my throat, but I continue storming through the house at a record speed, more determined than ever.
I find my dad in the laundry room, standing over my mom. Just like last night, all I see when my mom’s tear-stained face lifts to mine is Savannah. Although her face isn’t any more battered than it was last night, the vicious clutch my dad has on her hair makes my anger surge to an all-time high.
I see Savannah.
I see Axel.
I see red.
Before my brain can formulate a plan of attack, I charge for my father.
“No, Ryan, no!” my mom shouts seconds before Damon drags her from the line of fire.
She continues shouting for me to stop, but I can’t. I won’t stop. Not this time. Not ever.
The air in my dad’s lungs brutally evicts when I crash into his torso. My hit is so brutal, we sail out the back screen door before we smack into the patio with a thud. The bang of our bodies on the frail wood matches the vicious pounds my fists inflict on his ribs.
Shocked by my unusual display of violence, I get an additional three hits into my dad’s unprotected body before he realizes I have no intention of standing down today.
If he wants to fight, I’ll give him a fight.
The minute portion of air left in my lungs from our combined fall expels with a grunt when my dad throws his fist into my spleen. “You ungrateful little bastard,” he sneers, his whiskey breath winding me more than his punch. “I feed you, clothe you, and put a roof over your head, and this is how you thank me.”
“You hit my mother,” I grunt, my words as spiteful as his.
The laugh he releases between wheezy coughs has me seeing red. If I weren’t straddling his hips, I’d strangle him with the rear naked chokehold I used on Axel last week. Except this time, I won’t let go.
“I wouldn’t need to discipline her if she’d just fuckin’ listen.”
I raise my arms to protect my face from his wildly slung fist with only a second to spare. Although my quick thinking protects my skull, it leaves my body exposed to his onslaught.
Ignoring my mother’s repeated pleas for calm, we roll around the wooden deck of our backyard, going punch for punch. Fed up with fighting old school, my father curls his legs around my torso before yanking back—hard. It feels like my spine is about to snap from the awkward curve he places on my back, but I continue ramming my fists down on him, preferring to die like a man instead of a coward.
I soon regain an advantage on my father. Years of tactical training has nothing on years of built-up anger.
“Stop, stop, please, stop,” my mom begs from the sidelines, her voice barely heard over my pulse raging in my ears.
I assume she's pleading for us both to stop.
Unfortunately, that isn’t the case.
She doesn’t care who she is defending him to, her excuses never wane.
"Ryan, stop! This isn't your father's fault. I should have listened to him. I'm sorry, Ted. I'm so sorry."
After fighting out of Damon’s hold, she crawls across the bleach she spilled during his assault. She eyes me like I am an animal, like I am the one responsible for the mark under her eye a heavy coat of makeup can’t hide. She glares at me like she hates me.
Only now do I realize I’m not knocking sense into my dad just for her and the millions of women who don’t know any better. I’m doing it for me as well. I didn’t ask to be born into a family disgraced by domestic violence. I didn’t ask to become my mother’s protector when I was only eight. I’m tired of being forced to choose between my mom’s sanity and my own. I want it to stop. I need it to stop.
Fear unlike anything I’ve ever felt floods me when my mom throws herself on top of my dad’s body, protecting him as he should h
ave protected her the past twenty years. Time stands still as my greatest nightmare plays out before my eyes. My fists approach my mom’s back at a faster speed than I can rein in.
I’m about to become my father.
Pain rockets up my arm when my fists slam into the wooden surface mere millimeters from my mother’s back. Clutching my bloody hands to my chest, I scamper away, frightened beyond belief. Although I’m one hundred percent certain I didn’t strike my mom, my eyes still scan every inch of her body.
Convinced she's unharmed, I raise my hands into the air to ensure none of the blood oozing from my shuddering frame belongs to her. It's an utterly ridiculous notion believing I can decipher one person’s blood from another, but I do it anyway, fearful my eyes didn’t register the whole picture.
I continue staring at my hands for what is only minutes but feels like hours, only stopping when they are pulled behind my back and cuffed by one of my father’s colleagues.
13
Ryan
“Is that true?” Regina, the pretty African American detective who’s been interviewing me the past hour, adjusts her position, blocking my mom’s pleading eyes from mine. “Were you involved in a domestic incident with your father because you weren’t happy at his request for you to do your laundry?”
I drop my eyes to my knuckle-busted hands, fighting to hide the disbelieving chuckle rolling up my chest. Is that the best he could come up with? A rebellious teen refusing to do his chores? I thought my dad was smart. Clearly, alcohol isn’t just altering his looks.
Not content to accept my noiseless chuckle as an answer to her question, Regina pulls out the dining chair next to me then takes a seat. Since my dad is a "respected member of law enforcement," his request for our interviews to be conducted in-house were granted within thirty seconds of him demanding it.
He has spent the last hour sitting in the den with three of his colleagues, laughing about the length fathers must go to "keep their sons in line these days."
If I weren't being subjected to my mother’s silent pleas for calm, his left eye would have a shiner identical to the one circling his right eye.
I stop glaring at my dad when Regina’s arm brushes mine. With her eyes focused on a witness statement sprawled across the dining room table, no one is aware of the attention she is focusing on me. No one but me.
Her acting skills are so top-shelf, I'd even believe she's merely filling in paperwork if I didn't hear her whisper, "Forget who your father is, Ryan. His position holds no importance in my investigation. Just tell the truth. What happened today?"
Her voice is so low, the scratching of pen on paper nearly drowns it out, but it isn't low enough for my mom not to hear.
"Coffee?" she asks, jingling a half-empty pot of coffee in Regina’s face. She keeps her head tilted to the left to ensure her hair falls far enough in her face that Regina won't see the bruise under her right eye.
"No, thank you," Regina replies without pause, impressing me further with her natural performance. "Although, I would love a glass of lemonade. If you have any?"
My mom startles for a second before following Regina’s gaze to the kitchen. Regina is smarter than I first gave her credit for. The kitchen is only four feet from where we are standing, but far enough away my mom won’t be in earshot of our conversation.
“I’m sorry, I’m all out of lemonade,” my mom says, her voice as sugary as the drink I can see on the kitchen counter as clear as day. “You know what teenage boys are like.”
Regina pouts. “It’s probably for the best. I don’t need any more calories.” She licks her dry lips before quirking her brow. “Perhaps I could have a glass of water? You’re not out of water, are you?”
The color drains from my mom’s face. “Water... Ah... Sure. I can get you some water.” She issues me one last plea before racing into the kitchen, her steps so fast they are almost a jog.
The instant my mom is out of earshot, Regina whispers, “You can trust me, Ryan. I am here to help.”
Pretending I didn’t hear her worthless pledge, my slit gaze strays to my father. Although he appears deep in conversation with his partner of fifteen years, I can feel his eyes on me. One wrong move and punishment will follow. There's just one problem: the wrath of his anger won’t be inflicted on me. It will be on my mother, who is so infatuated with a man she once knew, she can’t see her children’s pain.
If only she could see the damage their volatile relationship is doing to me and my brother. Maybe then she would leave him? Perhaps then she’d be released from his spell, and, in turn, free us from the burden of turning out like him?
My father abuses my mother because his father abused his. I plan to break that cycle, but every time my mother makes excuses for his behavior it becomes harder and harder. Not for me. For my brother. I can see he's as drained as I am; he just hides it with a cocky attitude and a fly in and out existence. He turns up on the good days, then disappears on the bad. Even when he's here, he isn’t truly here. That's the benefit of being the youngest; he knows I’ll be here to pick up the pieces, even when the fragments have shards of my heart scattered amongst them.
My eyes snap back to Regina when she asks, “Is your father abusing your mother?” Her tone is confident, revealing she already knows my answer.
I want to say yes—I want to scream yes—but the last time I did that, my mom spent a week in the hospital. Regina has trusting eyes, but there's an extremely limited number of people I trust. The men and women who work with my father are not on my list.
My dad's partner has hidden his love of the bottle for nearly as many years as he has pretended he can't see the bruises on my mom's face. That makes him just as responsible as my dad in my eyes. He is supposed to protect and serve, not turn a blind eye.
“We’re not all like them, Ryan,” Regina says in a hurry since she has spotted my mom heading our way. “I’m trying to remove men like your father from my department, not encourage more in.”
My mom sets down Regina’s glass so fast, water splashes over the rim, splotching the paperwork Regina was in the process of filling in. My mom inhales a quick breath as her eyes missile to my dad, panicked about his reaction to her ruining “official police documentation.”
She's saved from his madness when Regina pushes back from the table with force, sending the wooden legs of her chair scraping against the ground. "Goddammit! I'm so clumsy." She turns her eyes to my mom, who is staring at her in shock. "I'm so sorry I ruined your beautiful table. This is why my daddy stopped taking me out. I’m always knocking stuff over."
She cleans up the water with a wad of napkins resting on the table, taking the blame for the spill. For the first time in years, I begin to wonder if all my father’s colleagues are as corrupt as him. Maybe some can be trusted.
Snubbing the bile burning my throat, I shout, “Yes!”
When every pair of eyes in the room lock on me, my brain scrambles for an excuse for my shouted response.
“I can get you a new glass of water,” I mumble in a hurry.
Regina nods, pleased by my quick thinking. “Thank you, Ryan. That will be very helpful.”
I store her business card in my wallet thirty minutes later, hoping I didn’t make a fatal mistake.
14
Ryan
“Don’t you dare...” The remainder of Savannah’s scold is given without words.
When I wink at her, her lips twist before her hands spread across her tiny waist. "I swear to god, Ryan, I won't talk to you for a week."
“I’ve had worst,” I jest, whizzing the garden hose across her practically bare thighs.
She squeals while bolting to the other side of a soapy car, her flip-flops squeaking with every step. "The car, Ryan! You're supposed to be washing the car!"
“I’d rather wash you. You’re looking a little dirty.”
Chris's catcall two cars over encourages my pursuit of hosing Savannah down. She needs to cool off. She's been on fire all afternoon, her atti
tude as red-hot as the tiny scrap of material she calls a bikini top.
Chris, Brax, and I are spending our Saturday afternoon helping Savannah’s cheerleading squad with their annual charity carwash. Usually, we watch the spectacle from afar, but when Savannah pleaded into my eyes this morning after spending the night in my bed, who was I to say no?
Even though her late-night visit wasn’t spawned by an incident like we had two weeks ago, I would have said yes even if it were. We’ve grown close the past two weeks, close enough to determine I’m incapable of saying no to her.
I'm also not an idiot. The view is ten times more enticing up-close and personal. I don't know how many times I've adjusted myself the past three hours. It's often enough Savannah stopped grinning over an hour ago, but not enough to look like I have crabs.
“Don’t,” Savannah warns again, holding a bubble-loaded sponge in front of her body.
The closer I get to her, the higher she raises the sponge. I approach her without fear, the fire in her eyes too playful to ignore.
“Ohhh...now you’re going down,” I warn when she pegs the sponge at my head, her aim perfect.
She isn’t even halfway around the man’s car we are washing when I catch her in my arms, my hold so firm her feet lift from the ground. She kicks her legs out wildly when a torrent of water floods her hair and cheeks before gliding down her chest that's heaving with laughter.
Savannah's girly giggles are infectious, spreading through her friends looking on with amusement. They even get in on the action of soaking her, and in the process, me.
My heart skids to a stop when Savannah buries her head in my chest so she can use my body as a shield from the massive spray of water blasting us from all angles. By the time her friends surrender to Savannah’s pleas to stop, we are drenched, and the electricity bouncing between us in abundance the past two weeks has tripled.
