In 1986, my mother is a Dental Assistant and my father is an Independent Traveling Outdoor Furniture Rep. They are still in their 20's. She always has on dental scrubs. And he is always tense, and intense, unless he is eating ice-cream in his robe in front of the TV at night. And some of these times, looking back now, I’m sure he’s stoned, which makes him laugh more and eat more ice-cream. But mostly my father is gone, "on the road" he calls it, and when he is gone I spin around in his leather chair, at his heavy-duty desk in our garage and look at his desk things. I put my nose up to his ashtray, because it smells like him. I play with his paperclip holder. This desk universe is where I can feel my father the most, because he spends most of his time there, trying to become someone, but it doesn't seem like that includes being a great father or husband.
When he is home the energy in the house shifts. Then it’s not a dancing girls' house. It’s not a house where my mom fries homemade cinnamon donuts and we get to use the underbelly of the dining room table to create a Barbie city. No, it’s a strict, walking on eggshells house. Your shoes and toys are to be put away and you can get in trouble for almost anything. The dinner table mood is serious, and you can't lose yourself in the giggles. My Mother says very little while my father gets waited on by her, leaning back in his chair with his feet relaxing on the table. And they might fight and I might hear him say, “You have a roof over your head, what else do you want?” Or we might hear him ridicule her about her weight; he might call her a cow or insult her in front of her daughters about how she let herself go. We think she’s beautiful.
We know little of all the things they actually fight about, but mostly we know that our father’s words come down harsh and finite, that his anger is unpredictable, loud, mean and you never know what will trigger it or where it will lead or how it might land on you. But there are good nights when my sister and I get tucked in by our father at bedtime and we might laugh a lot then. He might tickle us until we pee ourselves in hysterics and fall asleep happy, but relaxation and stress-free experiences with him are short lived.
My father does spank us, with a belt. When my mother goes to spank us, I run around the house screaming and laugh-crying until she can catch me, but when my father does it, there is nothing to laugh about. I cry immediately, as soon as I bend over his bed; but my sister, she does not utter a sound, and waits until she is upstairs in the privacy of her room to let it all out into her pillow.
One time, as a punishment, my father has my sister and I pick up all of his cigarette butts out of the yard. We have a big yard, and this task is even more daunting due to the fact that he smokes two packs of Salem Lights every day. My mother is infuriated, but I think she loses that battle, because we do pick up lots of cigarette butts. Another time it’s 1,000s of gumballs that have fallen from the pine trees.
I get in trouble one night for jumping on the ottoman of my father's new leather recliner, which he warned me not to jump on. He has me go pick the switch he will hit me with. It may be the worst trouble I've ever gotten in, but not the worst thing I've ever done. That title belongs to the moment I write my name into the side of his new, black Mercury Cougar automobile, with a rock. My mother is genuinely afraid for me that day as she watches him from our front glass door take me out to the scene of my crime and direct my attention to my perfectly spelled name in his previously perfect paint job.
“Before I beat your ass, I need to know one thing: Why did you write your name on my car?" And this is what I say out of my brilliant, terrified, and heartbroken 6-year-old mouth, "Because, I only wanted me and you to ride in the car." My father does not beat me that day...
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