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Later That Same Evening, September 2, 1964
Blythe stood by the stove, listening to the silence. It had been quiet for a long time now. Scarcely more than a minute after John had disappeared down the stairs, there had been two sharp, wailing screams that had torn at her heart. Poor little Greg, having his first taste of corporal punishment. She knew that her proud, strong-willed little boy wouldn't take well to his father's disciplining hand. The humiliated sobs that had followed seemed to bear this out. Then John's voice, stern and reprimanding, delivered the lecture on the importance of truthfulness that Blythe couldn't deny the child needed. Finally, there had been a cacophonous crash: Greg had probably found her roaster and hurled it across the room in an indignant tantrum. Since then, there had been silence.
She wasn't sure what to think. The penalty seemed so harsh. After all, it was such a little fib, and Greg had never lied to them before. He didn't keep secrets: he was a sweet, clever and candid child, never afraid to say what he was thinking. He had probably been scared that he would receive a scolding for putting his marbles down the register. It wasn't as if he had told a lie out of malice.
Blythe didn't really believe in spanking. She felt that children were more likely to obey you if they saw the reasons for doing so. She always took care to explain to Greg why he should behave in a certain way. Life was much easier for everybody if he could understand things logically.
Take this afternoon, for instance. Instead of insisting that he put on his sweater, she really should have warned him that he was going to get sick if he didn't. She should have taken the time to explain why the house was cold, and why he ought to—
There was a thunder of footsteps on the stairs, and a sound of small hands fumbling almost desperately with the cellar doorknob. Blythe hurried to open the door.
No sooner had she done so than Greg shot past her. He ran towards the hallway. He was moving too quickly, and his feet flew out from under him. He pitched forward, landing on hands and knees with such force that his shoulders jarred, and his neck snapped painfully backwards. He didn't pause to cry out, but scrambled up again and vanished around the corner.
Blythe was staring after him, shocked and confused, when John appeared on the back landing.
"Where'd he go?" he asked conversationally.
"To his room…" Blythe breathed. "John, do you really think it was necessary to spank him? It was only one little fib, and he's just a baby."
"He's not a baby!" John snapped. Then his expression softened. He came one step higher and kissed her cheek. "He's a little man, and he has to learn that he can't tell lies. If we don't stop it now, he'll be lying about school in no time. Then girls. Then crimes—"
"He's not going to turn into Al Capone because we didn't spank him for fibbing about his marbles," Blythe said.
"I didn't do anything to him that my daddy didn't do to me," John promised. "Look how well I turned out."
Blythe couldn't help smiling a little. "I know," she said. "You're a good father. And I agree that he does need to learn to tell the truth. I only—"
"I know, I know," John chuckled. "You don't think I should spank him. And I won't, as long as he behaves. As long as there's no more lies. Now!" He smiled and squeezed her waist. "How 'bout some of that grub? Smells like a piece of heaven."
Blythe felt herself warming to the compliment, but maternal instinct nagged her. "You go ahead and start," she said. "I'll just go check on Greg."
"Don't coddle him," John said. "He needs to think about what he said to me."
"And he needs to hear from me that lying is unacceptable, too," Blythe said. "Go ahead and start your dinner."
The door to Greg's room was open. Blythe turned on the light, but he was nowhere to be seen. His piggy bank was on the floor, and his toy cars lay abandoned in a corner.
"Greg?" Blythe called gently. "Greg, where are you?"
A tiny, whimpering sound came from under the bed. Blythe got down onto her hands and knees and raised the green dust ruffle.
Two wide, glassy sapphire eyes stared back at her, bloodshot and rimmed with red. The round little cheeks were wet with tears, and smeared with black trails of dust. Blythe looked at her son solemnly.
"Greg, come out from there," she coaxed.
He shook his head vehemently.
"Greg, come and give Mommy a hug."
"No." It was scarcely more than a whisper. He hid his eyes in his hands. He was lying on his belly with his feet straight out behind him. Between the grime and the rumpled clothes, he looked like an urchin from a Charles Dickens novel: a little throwaway hiding from the parish beadle.
"We need to talk," Blythe said. "Do you know why Daddy spanked you?"
His whole body shuddered as if he was trying to hide a sob. "Uh-huh," he said miserably.
"You can't tell lies, Greg. When we tell lies, we trick people. That can be dangerous. It can hurt people. When we tell lies, nobody believes us, even when we tell the truth."
"He hitted me," Greg whimpered. "He hitted my bum."
Blythe swallowed hard. The image of her husband's hand coming down on her son's little backside was a troubling one. "I know, sweetheart," she said. "Daddy was trying to help you remember not to tell lies."
Greg looked up at her again from beneath the bed. His expression was heartbreaking. In an older person, Blythe would have seen the look for what it was: a betrayal of frantic desperation. On her son's innocent little face, however, such an emotion was out of context. She wasn't sure what to think, and the next words were taken at face value only. "He hurts me," Greg whispered. "Dad hurts me."
"Oh, honey, your daddy loves you. He only spanked you because you told a fib." Blythe wanted to gather her boy into her arms and rock him until the indignity was forgotten, but she knew it was better to leave him alone to settle his ruffled feathers in peace. "Are you hungry, baby?"
She didn't see the despair that flooded the crystalline eyes, because Greg buried his face in the carpet. "No," he whimpered.
"Well, then, why don't you put on your pyjamas and get some sleep?" she asked.
The single syllable was strained, as if it scarcely escaped his lips intact. " 'Kay."
"Good boy," Blythe said. Then she got to her feet and left the room. Dear little thing, she thought. It was best to leave him in peace to lick his wounds and nurse his bruised pride.
MWMWMWMWMWMWMWMWMGreg listened to his mommy walk away, leaving him alone under the bed, and his young heart faltered. It wasn't just his pride that was bruised. Mommy hadn't been able to see the red, raised welts running up and down his thighs and his buttocks and the small of his narrow little back. By tomorrow, they would be all but faded, only a couple of purple splotches left to tell the tale of the licking that the child had received. In a couple of days, every trace would be gone, but right now, the agony was worse than anything the boy had ever known, and his mother didn't know about it. She didn't see that the pain wasn't just shame and indignation. She didn't know what had happened in the cellar. And because of her words, Greg didn't really understand that she was ignorant of the treatment he had received.
Daddy only spanked you because you told a fib. Her words rang in his mind. The keen young brain that could absorb facts with amazing rapidity could also relive conversations and tirades almost word-for-word. Greg whimpered and hugged himself, rolling as far onto his side as he dared. Daddy had hit him with the belt because he had told a fib. It was all Greg's fault.
A fat tear rolled down one grubby cheek. Greg deserved to be punished: even Mommy thought so. That hurt worse than the beating. Mommy thought he was a bad boy for telling a fib. Maybe she didn't love him anymore. If she didn't love him, then nobody loved him. Nobody in the whole, wide world.
That thought was more terrifying than the thought of what Dad would do to him next time he was bad. Maybe Mommy didn't love him anymore. Maybe that was why she hadn't listened when he had told her that Dad hurt him. Maybe…
Greg began to weep again, great, silent sobs shaking his tiny body. Daddy only spanked you because you told a fib. It was his own fault. Dad had said so, too. You brought this on yourself, son. Take it like a man.
It was all his fault. He was a bad, wicked boy.
It was all his fault.
Huddled under his bed, shaking with physical anguish and psychological torment, the battered little boy cried himself to sleep.