A Man Named Dave, Page 2

  “Tell me, tell me I’m stupid,” Mother whispers as she leans over. I cringe as I imagine her taking a bite from my ear. It’s part of the Game. She’s testing me to see if I’ll flinch. I dare not look up or back away. My heels hang over the edge of the stair. I pray Mother doesn’t push me . . . today.

  “Go ahead, tell me. Please,” Mother begs. The tone of her voice changes. Mother’s voice seems calm, nonthreatening. My mind spins. I don’t understand. Did Mother just give me permission to speak? I have no idea what she expects of me. Either way, I’m trapped. I focus my energy on the front of my shoes. The more I stare, the more my body begins to sway.

  Without warning Mother thrusts a finger under my chin, lifting my face to hers. Her rancid breath makes my stomach coil. I fight not to pass out from her stench. Even though she does not allow me to wear my glasses at home, I glance at Mother’s puffy, reddened face. Her once gleaming hair is now oily and matted against the sides of her face. “Just how stupid do you think I am? Tell me, exactly: How stupid am I?” I sheepishly look up and reply, “Ma’am?”

  A raging fire stings the side of my face. “Just who in the hell gave you permission to speak, let alone look!” Mother hisses.

  I snap my head back down as I quickly bury the pain inside. My God, I say to myself, I didn’t see it coming. What’s happening to me? I’m always able to see her arm swing back before she strikes me. I cannot figure out why I am so slow. Dammit, David, stay focused! Think!

  “When is It going to begin Its chores?” Mother bellows. “What is it with you? I bet you think I’m stupid! You think you can get away with whatever you damn well please! Don’t you?” Mother shakes her head. “I’m not the one hurting you. You are. You choose your actions. You know who—what—you are and what your purpose is in this household.

  “If It wants to be fed, then it’s simple: It does exactly as It’s told. If It doesn’t want to be punished, then It stays out of trouble. It knows the rules. I don’t treat you any different from anybody else. It simply refuses to obey.” Mother stops to take a deep breath. Her chest begins to wheeze. It’s time for her fix. I know what’s coming next. I wish she’d go ahead and hit me. “And what about me?” Her voice rises. “I should be asleep, but no, I have to be here with It. You pathetic piece of filth! You little bastard! You know your function. You’re not a person, but . . . a thing to do with as I please. Do you understand? Am I making myself clear, or perhaps It needs another lesson?” Mother thunders.

  Mother’s words echo inside my soul. For years I’ve heard the same thing over and over again. For years I’ve been her human robot to do with as she pleases, like some toy that she can turn on and off whenever she wishes.

  I break down inside. My body begins to shake. I can’t take it anymore. Go ahead, I say to myself. Do it! Just kill me! Come on! Suddenly, my vision sharpens. My insides stop shaking. Rage slowly begins to fill me. I no longer feel ice cold. I shift my head from side to side as my eyes creep up Mother’s robed body. The fingers to my right hand tighten around the wooden broomhandle. As I slowly let out a deep breath, my eyes stare directly into Mother’s. “Leave me alone . . . you bitch!” I hiss.

  Mother becomes paralyzed. I focus every fiber of my being on piercing through her silver-framed glasses and reddened eyes. I will myself to somehow transfer every moment I had to carry for the last eight years of pain and loneliness into Mother.

  Mother’s face turns ash white. She knows. Mother knows exactly what I’m feeling. It’s working, I tell myself. Mother tries to break away from my stare. She moves her head slightly to the left. I match Mother’s movement. She can’t escape. Mother looks down and away. I tilt my head up and sharpen my stare. I smile. From the bottom of my soul I feel so warm. Now I’m the one in control.

  From the back of my mind I hear a chuckle. For a moment I think it’s me laughing at Mother. I lower my eyes and see Mother’s crocodile smile. Her putrid breath breaks my concentration. The more Mother smiles, the more my body becomes tense. She tilts her head toward the light. Now, I tell myself, now I can see it coming. Go ahead, give it to me! Come on, do it! Show me what you got! I see the blur a split second before I feel her hand collide against my face. A moment later, warm blood seeps from my nose. I let it drip on the black-matted stairs. I refuse to give Mother the pleasure of watching me cry or reacting in any way whatsoever. I defy her by remaining numb inside and out.

  “Showing a little guts, are you? Well, you’re a few years too late!” Mother sneers. “You don’t have what it takes. You never have and you never will. You’re such a pathetic little worm. I can kill you anytime I please. Just like that,” Mother says with a snap of her fingers. “You are only alive because it pleases me. You are nothing more than . . .”

  I block out Mother’s words as a cold fear creeps back inside my soul. I bow my head, resuming the position of address. Dark red blood spatters the toes of my shoes. For a fleeting moment I felt so alive.

  She’s in control now.

  The more that Mother babbles, the more I nod my head, acknowledging Mother is indeed almighty and God-like for allowing me to live another day in her household. “You don’t know how lucky you are. When I was your age, you wouldn’t believe what I was put through. . . .”

  I let out a deep sigh and close my eyes in a vain attempt to block out the sound of her voice. How I wish she would pass out and drop dead. In my mind I fantasize Mother sprawled on the hallway floor. I would give anything to be there as she quivered helplessly on her back before taking her last breath.

  Mother’s voice changes in pitch. Suddenly my throat feels as if it is on fire as Mother tightens her grip around my neck. My eyes want to pop out of my head. I did not focus on Mother’s attack before it came. By reflex I wrap my hands around Mother’s fingers. As much as I try, I cannot pry her hands off. The more I struggle, the more Mother tightens her death grip. I try to scream, but only a gurgling sound leaks out. My head slumps forward. As my eyes roll backward, I concentrate on Mother’s face. Do it! I shout to myself. Come on, do it! You’re so bad, you’re so tough, come on! Show me, show me what you got! Kill me, you bitch!

  Mother’s cheeks twitch from her intense hatred. Her nostrils flare from her rapid breathing. I want Mother to kill me. I begin to feel myself drift away. My hearing seems as if I am in the middle of a long tunnel. My arms fall to my side. For the first time in years, my body relaxes. I’m no longer cold inside. I’m no longer frightened. I’m ready to . . .

  A hard slap makes my head shake from side to side. “Oh no, wake up! Wake up, you miserable piece of trash! I’m not through with you yet! I know exactly what you want!” Mother hisses. “So, you think you’re so smart? How about . . . instead of sending you to your Uncle Dan’s this weekend, maybe I should have the boys go instead, so you and I can spend some private time together? Bet you didn’t think of that one, did you?”

  I know by the sound of her voice that I am supposed to respond, but I can’t.

  “Oh, what’s the matter? Does the little insect have a sore throat? Oh well, that’s just too bad!” Mother smiles. I can see her lips moving, but I can barely make out what she’s saying. After another quick squeeze, Mother lets go of her hold. Without permission, I rub my neck, gasping for air. Somehow I know she’s not done with me—not yet. A second later I nearly lose my balance as Mother snatches the broom from beside me. I automatically tighten my upper body. “This,” she says, “this is for cheating on your chores. I’ve told you a hundred times that you are to get that miserable butt of yours up and working before I get up. Do I make myself perfectly clear?”

  I hesitate, not knowing how or if I should respond.

  “I said, is that clear?”

  “Yes . . . ah, yes, ma’am,” I stutter in a hoarse voice.

  “Tell me, what is your name?” Mother asks as she tilts her head upward in a show of supremacy.

  “ ‘It,’ ” I answer in a sheepish tone.

  “And what is ‘Its’ function?”
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  “Ta . . . ta . . . ta do . . . do as you command and stay outta . . . outta trouble.”

  “And when I say, ‘Jump’?”

  “I ask, ‘How high?’ ” I reply without thought.

  “Not bad. Not bad at all!” Mother leers. “But I do think It requires another lesson. Perhaps this will teach you . . . teach It. . . .”

  I can hear a swishing sound. I brace my arms for the impact. My upper body is rock solid, but I have no way of telling which direction the sound is coming from. A jolting thud strikes the side of my neck. My knees buckle as I turn inside the doorway and lean against Mother’s body. Without thinking I reach out to Mother. Her eyes shine with pleasure. She slaps my hands away. As my feet slip, my head jerks backward. I can feel my throat collapse the same way it did when Mother had me swallow teaspoons full of ammonia. I fight to swallow a breath of air, but my brain is too slow to respond. My eyes lock on to Mother’s. “So, do you still think you can fly?”

  I glance down and see Mother’s hand in motion. A moment later I can feel myself floating, my arms flung above my face. Suddenly, a rush of air fills my chest as the back of my head smashes against the staircase. I reach out, but I can’t stop my body from bouncing backward down the stairs. At the bottom of the staircase, my chest heaves; I want to find a bucket and throw up. At the door above me, Mother bends over with laughter. “Look at you! You’re a hoot!”

  Her face becomes taut. In an ice-cold voice Mother says, “You’re not even worth the effort.” With a jerk of her hand she flings the broom at me, then slams the door shut. My only form of protection is to close my eyes. I don’t even bother to turn away or cover my face. I can hear the broom topple down the stairs before missing me completely.

  Alone in the garage I let go and cry like a baby. I don’t care if Mother, or anyone else in the world, can hear me. I have no dignity, no self-worth. Rage slowly builds inside my soul. I clench my hands together and begin taking my frustration out on the floor. Why, why, why? What in the hell did I ever do to you to make you hate me so much?

  With every blow I can feel my strength drain away. The whitish-yellow garage light begins to fade as I lose consciousness. Without thinking of Mother catching me, I lie on my side, pull my shirt over my face, bury my hands between my legs, and close my eyes. Before I pass out, I clasp my hands together and mutter, “Take me.”

  “Wake up! Wake up, I tell you!” My eyes flicker open. I’m trapped in a mental haze as I stand in front of Mother in the kitchen. I have no idea how I got here. And somehow I know it’s almost time for me to run to school. My mind struggles to recall why I keep losing track of time.

  “I said, wake up!” Mother barks. She leans over and slaps my face. I’m fascinated that I can no longer feel the pain. “What in the hell is wrong with you?” she asks with some concern.

  Forgetting who I am, I rub my face and reply, “I dunno.” Immediately I know I’ve just committed a double crime of moving and speaking without Mother’s permission. Before I can stop myself, I commit another offense by looking right at her and shaking my head. “I don’t understand . . . what’s happening to me?”

  “You’re fine,” Mother states. I lean forward to catch what she said. I’m not sure, but I think Mother just spoke to me in a soft tone. “Listen. Listen up. Tell ’em . . . uhm, tell them that you were . . .” I strain to pay attention to Mother’s instructions, but her words seem mumbled and confusing. Mother snaps her fingers, indicating a breakthrough for her latest cover story. “If those nosy teachers ask, you tell them that you were wrestling and you got out of control . . . so your brothers had to put you in your place. Do you understand?”

  I’m trying to digest Mother’s new set of instructions.

  “Do you understand?” Mother probes, fighting to keep her anger under control.

  “Ah, yes,” I chuckle. I cannot believe how easily Mother can come up with her off-the-wall lies every single day of school. I’m also amazed that I no longer care about masking my emotions in front of her. “Tell ’em I was wrong. I was bad.”

  “And . . . ?” Mother whines, trying to draw me out further.

  “Tell them . . . I was . . . I was playing, I mean wrestling! I was wrestling and . . . I got out of control. Yes, I understand,” I stammer.

  Mother tilts her head to one side as she inspects her latest damage. She holds her gaze for a few moments before losing her balance, stumbling toward me. In a jerking motion I flinch backward. “Shh . . . no, it’s okay. Relax,” Mother calmly says with an outstretched hand as she keeps her distance, acting as if I were a stray dog. “No one’s going to hurt you. Shh . . .” Mother circles around me before backing into her kitchen chair. Bending her head down, she stares into space.

  My head begins to slump forward when Mother’s hacking cough makes me snap upright. “It wasn’t always like this, you know,” she whimpers in a scratchy voice. “If you knew . . . if you only understood. I wish I could somehow make you, make them understand. . . .” Mother stops in mid-sentence to collect herself. I can feel her eyes scan my body. “Things just got outta control, that’s all. I never meant to . . . to live like this. No one does. I tried, God knows I did—to be the good wife, the perfect mother. I did everything: den mother this, PTA that, hosting the perfect parties. I really did try.

  “You, you’re the only one who knows, who really knows. You’re the only one I can really talk to,” Mother whispers. “I can’t trust them. But you, you’re the perfect outlet, the perfect audience, anytime it damn well pleases me. You don’t talk, so no one will hear your pain. You don’t have any friends, and you never go outside, so you know what it’s like to be all alone inside. Hell, besides school, no one knows you. It’s as if you were never . . .

  “No. You’ll never tell anyone . . . never!” Mother brags as she nods her head up and down to reinforce her warning.

  Without stealing a glance, I can hear Mother sniffle as she struggles not to let down her guard. I realize she’s only using me to talk to herself. She always has. When I was younger, Mother would drag me out of bed in the middle of the night, have me stand in front of her as she poured herself glass after glass and raved on for hours. But now as I stand in front of her, I’m too numb to understand her ramblings. What in the hell does she want? Can she be totally smashed so early in the morning, or is she still under the effects from last night’s stupor? Maybe she’s testing my reaction? I hate not knowing what Mother expects of me.

  “You,” she continues, “oh, you were so cute! At parties everyone loved you! Everyone wanted to take you home. Always polite, always with manners. Wouldn’t speak unless spoken to. Oh, I remember whenever you couldn’t sleep, you’d crawl up into my lap and sing me Christmas songs, even in the middle of July. Whenever I felt bad I could always count on you to ‘croon a tune.’ ” Mother smiles as she remembers the past. She can no longer control the tears that stream down her cheeks. I’ve never seen her like this before. “You had the sweetest voice, David. Why is it you don’t sing for me anymore? How come?” Mother stares at me as if I were a ghost.

  “I don’t . . . I dunno.” My grogginess vanishes. I realize this is not one of Mother’s sinister Games. I know, deep inside Mother, that something is different. She’s reaching out. Mother’s never been this emotional about her past. I wish I had a clear head to analyze what she’s trying to tell me. I know it’s not the booze talking, but my real mother, the one who’s been trapped inside herself for so many years. “Mommy?”

  Mother’s head jerks up as she covers her mouth. “Mommy? Oh Lord, David, do you know how long it’s been since I’ve been someone’s Mommy? My God!” She closes her eyes to hide her pain. “You were so fragile, so timid. You don’t remember, but you were always the slow one. It took you forever to tie your shoes. I thought I’d go crazy trying to teach you that damn square knot for your Cub Scouts badge. But you never gave up. I’d find you in a corner of the room trying to tie knots. No, that’s one thing about you, you never gave up. Hey,”
Mother asks with a wide smile, “do you remember that summer when you were seven or eight years old, and you and I spent forever trying to catch that fish at Memorial Park?”

  With perfect clarity I recall how Mommy and I sat at the far edge of a giant fallen log that hung over a small stream. I couldn’t believe she had chosen me—over my younger brother Stan, who constantly fought for Mother’s attention. As Stan threw a temper tantrum on the beach below us, I thought Mother would realize her mistake. But Mommy had paid no attention to Stan’s commotion; she simply tightened her grip on my belt, in case I slipped, and whispered encouragement into my ear. After a few minutes of fishing, I deliberately kept the pink salmon egg bait just above the water. I never wanted my adventure with my mommy to end. Now, as I shake my head clear of the memory, my voice becomes choked up. “I, ah, I prayed we’d never catch that fish,” I confessed to her.

  “Why’s that?”

  “So . . . we could spend more time together . . . as mother and son.”

  “Oh, your brother Stan was red with jealousy, stomping up and down beside the creek, throwing rocks into the water, trying to scare off that fish of yours. My God.” Mother tosses her hair back, revealing a rare smile.

  I’m not sure if she failed to hear or understand the true meaning of what I said.

  “David?” Mother pleads. “You do remember, don’t you?”

  “Yes,” I cry, shaking my head, “I do. I remember everything. Like the first day of school when the teacher had us color a picture of what we did that summer. I drew you and me sitting on that old tree with a happy-face sun shining above us. Remember, I gave it to you that day after school?”

  Mother turns away from me. She clutches her coffee mug, then puts a finger to her lips. The excitement from her face drains away. “No!” Mother states in a strict tone, as if our fishing adventure were a hoax.

  “Oh, sure you do—”

  “I said no, goddammit!” Mother interrupts. She clamps her eyes shut and covers her ears. “No, no, no! I don’t remember. You can’t make me! No one can force me to remember the past if I don’t want to. Not you or anybody else. No one tells me what to do! You got that, mister?”