I have a story to tell that I will try to tell fairly. I’ve had several false starts with it, trying to ascribe the measure of true compassion that I do feel toward the antagonist in this tale, who will not be given the opportunity here to defend himself. I want to write about this because I’m a little bit ashamed that I can still get drunk on red wine and cry about this 26 years later. I want to wring out this sodden sponge. Whatever.
When I was about 8 years old, my mom met and moved in with a man with a lot of problems, the least of which were emotional and the most of which were substance abuse. He did not concern himself much with the idea of being a surrogate father to myself or my little sister. He was a violent, abusive drunk who often beat my mother and terrorized my sister and me.
One night when I was 10 years old, in the little yellow house on Whitney Avenue, he beat my mother pretty severely and then passed out from either chemical or physical exhaustion. Mom rounded up my sister and me and quietly called Aunt B. to come get us. We sneaked out the back door and ran down the alley to wait at the end of the block for rescue.
Aunt B. didn’t know we were waiting at the end of the block, so she drove right past us down to the house. Mom was too traumatized at that point to want to go near him again, so she sent me to run back and get Aunt B. I could hear Aunt B. and him screaming at each other, and as I rounded the corner, he grabbed me around the neck and shoulders and started pulling me into the house. I screamed out to Aunt B. where she could find my mom and my sister as he yanked me inside.
Once inside, he ordered me to put my pajamas on and get in bed. I stood there shaking and whispered, “But I’m not tired…I don’t want to go to bed.” He roared at me and raised his fists and I was so scared, I did what he said. I was shaking so hard I could hardly pull the nightgown over my head; it was a Holly Hobby polyester deal that itched at collar and cuffs. I got in my top bunk and sat there in the dark and shook some more.
Soon enough, my Aunt and mom had gone to get the police, and they all came back to pound on the door. As soon as the police car pulled up, he came into my room and dragged me out of my bed, pulling me out the back door, moving quietly. He took me around to the side of the house, where we had a big triangular antenna thing that you could climb to get on the roof of the house. He made me climb up onto the roof, my bare feet cold on each rung. He followed right behind me and then once we were on the roof, motioned for me to sit. My cheap nightgown pulled at the shingles on the roof. He sat beside me. I heard the policeman’s radio squawking, my mom pounding on the door, yelling, “Honey, open the door, it’s ok, we’re here to get you,” over and over.
I sat there on the roof, nearly feverish with terror, and just as I was on the verge of yelling out, “MOM!” he gripped my wrist and said very quietly, “You know better than to say anything.”
**To be continued**
