Apologize in advanced for errors, I have a massive cold. (Yeah, I know, what's my excuse on the other days?! ;) ). This story has been sitting around my computer for a couple of weeks, decided to upload it. The main part takes places when Darrel is six, for some reason, I really love him at this age.
My mother was not what most people would consider good looking. She was a bony, tiny woman with a narrow face, a sharp chin and thin blood colored lips. Her eyebrows, a gift from her Scottish Daddy, were thick, unruly and grew together. Her hair, which she got from her Indian mama, was long and dark and framed her face like one those black curtains they have up at the peep shows.
Not that I've ever seen 'em peep shows. Ha.
But, she was stunning.
Her eyes were what my Grandma Shane would call 'hoodoo' eyes. They could curse and bless you at the same time with their power. They were large and they took over half her face. They were bright green eyes, emerald eyes. If you woulda told me that Mama's eyes could glow in the dark, I would have believed you. She had real long eye lashes.
When we was little boys our Daddy would joke to me and Paddy, "now y'all be good, ya hear? Your Mama has them magic eyes, she sees everythaang."
We believed him.
No matter what she was doing, her eyes never knew a moment of rest. They darted back and forth like a baby calf stuck in its pen. Always searching for something. You couldn't help but stare at her, watching the tiny dark woman with the crystal clear emerald eyes.
But stare as I did, I never got her.
We all had different ways of dealing with Mama's fixations and obsessions; Daddy drank, Paddy, I realize now, hid inside himself; and I, my family's resident jackass, fought her.
Mama and me were champion wrestlers. Mama would lay into me, and you better believe me good, I would give right back to her. I'd never struck her, of course, but my words could do all the jabbing for me. Daddy used to always take Mama's side, adding his shout, his belt, and sometimes a switch from the tree in back, to Mama's words. As we grew older and Mama and Daddy grew apart, Daddy began to take my side.
Patrick refereed from the sidelines, intervening when we started to skirt the line from temporary harm to permanent damage, which in our household was a very thin line indeed.
But in spite of my big temper and even bigger attitude, it was never a fair fight. For one, Mama fought dirty, she knew how to push my buttons. For another, no matter how much I wanted to, I just could never land that knockout punch. She was, after all, still my mama.
But it wasn't them screaming matches that keep me awake. It was the periods of calm. It was the feelings of warm maple syrup running down my chin and Mama holding me in her arms, calling me her 'little lion.' It was the way her face lit up like a thousand suns when I showed her a picture I drew for her in school. It was the smell of her skin, lavender and flour, that I breathed in when she put me in the bath.
It was the feeling of her hands, her soft hands, gently soaping my back.
If Mama was plain crazy, plain evil, plain mean, it would be easier to let her go; but she wasn't. She had these moments of calm- gentleness and moments where her lap was so filled with love I never wanted to get off. Even if I knew that like a bull, she was capable of tossing me off at any moment.
But just as soon as were soaking up her love, the raging tornado would come and sweep us up. In my house you just never knew if you would wake up to the sun or to the storm.
I was six the first time I failed to keep a secret. Mama had recently gone from being a curious visitor to an enthusiastic member of Brother Elijah's church and swallowed the bullshit he fed her whole hog, entrails and all. Among ol' Elijah's rules for 'clean living' was a prohibition on photography. We didn't have many family photos, but what me and Paddy did have were baseball cards.
Mama didn't approve of baseball cards or baseball players. She believed that baseball players, were like most of the world, destined for Hell, "what with all of their swearin', chewin' tabacco, fightin' playin' on Sunday and heaven knows what else." Mama would say this last part real ominous like, and at age six I had no idea what could be worse than swearing and fighting.
So into the trash our baseball cards went. Mama got us both a bookmark with a Bible verse printed on it- as if that was a fair trade off. Mine had a picture of Noah's Arc and Paddy 's had a picture of a lamb. They were the only Bible bookmarks Mama could find that didn't have a picture of Jesus on them. Mama thought any pictures, especially pictures of Jesus, were blasphemous.
I was six, I could barely read but I knew what blasphemous meant.
"Maybe, Jesus was ugly and that's why Mama don't like to keep his picture?" I suggested to Patrick.
"I don't think so, Mama don't keep your picture either, and you're cute."
At that age, all of Mama's dos and don'ts did nothing be confuse me. I didn't get why sometimes singing was good, while at other times it was 'dirty.' Likewise, I didn't get why reading the Bible was always to be encouraged, but reading books about cowboys was not. Personally, I'd rather read about cowboys than about burning bushes any day.
Now, you need to understand that Patrick was an even bigger baseball fan than I was. I didn't understand how he managed to stay so calm after Mama threw away his collection. Patrick, eight years old and wise to the ways of world, explained to me that we could still collect baseball cards. "but, we gotta keep it a secret. We can't tell Mama about it, or nobody. Okay?"
He leaned in towards me and put his arm around me, it was the first time Patrick ever trusted me with a secret. It made me feel real good inside.
I nodded. Let's just say that my britches were about 10 times too small that day. I felt real high and mighty keeping a secret from Mama.
After a few months of clandestine trades and scouring through Cracker Jack boxes I found the real McCoy, a Babe Ruth baseball card.
Even Paddy, a Lou Gehrig fan to this day, was impressed by my find. He was so impressed he offered me his entire collection and a "genuine whistle" in exchange for my Babe Ruth card.
When I shook my head no, he got uncharacteristically mad. Stomping his foot on the ground and crossing his arms, he whined, "oh, come on Darrel! Don't be such an egg! It's practically a steal, I'm giving you all of my cards and you only have to give me one of yours."
"I ain't no egg Patrick Curtis! And if you keep on callin' me that, I'll get you one!" I made a fist, I wasn't going to sock my brother one, but Daddy always told me that you should always be looking like you're itching for a fight. You got to make 'em scared of you, else, they'll just walk right over you.
I may have only been six years old, but I figured if Patrick wanted my card that badly, it must be worth a lot. And as much as I loved my brother, I sure did love Babe Ruth.
After an entire day of not speaking to me and slamming the door in my face, Paddy forgave me for "being an egg." That night I slept with that baseball card under my pillow.
To me, that baseball card was a lucky charm. That week I rode my first bull calf, Paddy, who normally had trouble even making friends, joined a local baseball team; Daddy was sober and full of good humor and even Mama was real nice and easy with us.
I fall asleep in her lap. She didn't even complain when I accidently knocked my big ol' head against her boobs-even though I'm sure it hurt her plenty.
She fixed me my favorite breakfast, toast with jam and butter, and told me that I was the "sweetest boy in the world."
I smiled nervously, wondering what she would say if she knew Paddy and I were collecting baseball cards behind her back.
But, as my Daddy would say, we Curtises ain't got the luck of a jackrabbit; and by the end of the week my magic charm had lost its spell. It happened during dinner. Every Friday, Mama would make us stand up before we ate, and talk about all of the things we were grateful for. Now, usually, Mama would get real mad at the things on my 'grateful list': "Dear Yahweh, Thank you for letting me punch stupid Charles Baker real good!"
But this Friday, I had real things to be grateful for.
"Thank YOU YAHWEH for the week we had! We had a great week! So keep up the good work Yahweh!" At this point, I might add that that my daddy was nearly in the floor in hysterics, and even Mama, who never found any humor in God, was trying to hide a smile. I continued, "THANK YOU for helping Paddy join them baseball team. Now, Yahweh if only You could make him starting pitcher, that would make him real, real happy! Oh, and THANK YOU for letting me ride first bull."
I then went on to describe in minute detail all about my first bull ride. Mama was making noises with her throat to try to get me to shut up. "Darrel, you hush up now, we all like to get a chance to speak our piece."
"Yeah, Darrel, He saw you ride the bull, he don't need no play by play," Paddy retorted. I was just close to sticking my tongue out at my brother, but at the mention of 'play by play' I remembered the one thing I was most grateful for; the magic charm which set off this great week.
"And most of all Yahweh, THANK YOU for the Babe Ruth baseball card! It was real nifty of You to give it to me! You're A-OKAY, Yahweh. Now maybe…"
I was about to ask Yahweh to give Paddy a Babe Ruth card of his own, when Mama cut me off.
"What baseball card?" Her voice was small and almost childlike.
Rats.
Paddy was eyes went bright wide with fear, and I started to stammer. "Um, I don't mean, nothin' Mama…"
She didn't believe me.
Her entire demenour changed to that of a caged animal. She got down in our faces and glared, "have you two been collectin' baseball cards after I forbid ya?" Her voice was so filled with rage that she spit out the words, spraying up with her righteous fury.
"No!" My first instinct was to lie.
"Yes, Mama," Paddy's first instinct was to tell the truth and beg for mercy.
Just like that our sunshine turned into a thunder storm.
"Okay, you two, in the closet." She shook so much I thought she was having a fit.
My daddy, a man who never ran out of words, except when it came to our mama, put his hands over her arms, hugging her as if he was trying to take hold of her anger, "come on, Laur, Rachel, darlin' they just little boys…"
"I ain't no little boy, Daddy!"
"Shut up Darrel!" Both Daddy AND Paddy said in unison. Daddy bopped me on the head one, not real hard, just enough to get the point across.
Daddy turned from me and continued to sweet talk Mama, "I know they shouldn't be collectin' them cards after you told them not too, but maybe just let it go, darlin' come on, it's okay, just be real easy and let them go…"
My daddy might have been a giant bull of a man with a temper to match, but he could be almost soothing when he wanted to.
Even at that age, I could tell that Daddy's honey sweet words and deep solid baritone were having an effect on Mama. Heck, even I felt calm listening to him. Her face grew calm; but Mama always believed that a wolf always hid in sheep's clothing, and even Daddy's nice words couldn't fully relax her. If anything, they drew her deeper into the well of anger.
Not only were her sons disobeying her, her husband was taking our side! It was too much. Any hope we had that Mama might calm down on her own ended the moment our daddy whispered sweet words into her ears.
She broke away from Daddy's grip and grabbed Paddy and me by the arms and practically carried us upstairs.
Our father; big, strong, larger than life watched without expression.
"Mama, it ain't Darrel's fault, don't punish him. I was the one who told him to keep the baseball cards. You should punish me."
I shot Patrick a grateful smile, he always took up for me, even after I go him in trouble.
Mama just dug her fingernails deeper into our forearms and practically tossed us into the closet.
"Sorry, Pony Boy," Paddy whispered to me, he looked like he was gonna start bawling.
She returned with two Bibles. She told us we couldn't leave until she told us we could. She kept the light on the room on, and kept the closet door ajar with a wooden chair, so we could still have enough light coming into our prison.
I could still hear her hot and heavy breathing as she marched out of our room.
"You two read The Book and beg Yahweh for forgiveness!" I didn't tell her that I could barely read at all.
It seemed like we were in there for hours, but it was probably just an hour.
At one point, I thought about knocking the chair over and making an escape, "come on, Paddy, we'll be just like Pretty Boy Floyd!"
"What do you know 'bout Pretty Boy Floyd?" Patrick asked me in an incredulous tone.
"I saw him before they showed that Gene Autry picture, remember the one Daddy took me too?" I began to sing my favorite "Singing Cowboy" songs.
Patrick put his hand on my mouth, "hey, Paddy what's the big deal?!" I tried to ask, but it was hard with his hand covering my mouth.
Patrick explained that we didn't want Mama to hear us, and besides if we escape, we'd just get a whuppin, and not just a Mama whipping, which was nothing, but a Daddy whipping which hurt like the dickens.
I gave my brother a disappointed nod; Patrick was logical and smart, but he wasn't always a lot of fun.
"I'm sorry Paddy, for getting' you in trouble and all. Guess I can't keep no secret."
Patrick just put his arms around me, "it's okay, I shouldn't make a little kid keep a secret from Mama."
Then Patrick continued, "why is she like this Darrel? I don't get it. Like one moment she's real sweet to us and gives us extra hugs and bakes up real good pies, but the next moment she goes all in a tizzy and throws us in a closet."
"Cause she a witch!" I knew all about witches. Daddy told me that his mama's side of the family had real witches, warlocks and wizards floating around the family tree, causing a heap of trouble for people.
But Paddy just shook his head, "I don't think so, Pony Boy, I mean, there gotta be somethin' going on in Mama's head that she gets so shook up."
But at age six, stuck in a closet with my big brother, I didn't care about why Mama acted so messed up, I just knew she did. "It's cause she's the biggest witch in the whole wide world…"
It was Patrick who never had a bad word to say against anybody who continued my thought for me, "she's a she-devil."
We laughed, but it's one of 'em bellyache laughs, it ain't good thinking about your Mama being a she-devil.
Downstairs Daddy was yelling at Mama. We hardly ever heard Daddy yell at Mama, but he was going off on her.
I almost felt sorry for her, at age six I hated hearing my mother get yelled at; but before the sympathy entered my heart, Mama gave it right back to him ten-times.
"I'd rather have them boys HATE me than risk their souls in Hell! You know how hard I got to work for this family? You think I don't notice you all ramblin' and carryin' on, you drunkard. I ain't blind to your sinning ways Dale Curtis! I'm doin' my best with help from Yahweh to make sure my babies don't end up like you!"
Until that point I've never heard my mother speak with such venom to anyone. It wasn't just the words she said, but how she said them. I couldn't see my mother, but I could feel her. My skin felt cold and my heart dropped into my stomach. All of her hatred, her anger, her hurt, was getting thrown at my daddy. I imagined Daddy, his face falling and his heart hurt; and for the first time in my life, I hated my mother.
Maybe it was cause our house was real old and decrepit, but I swear the entire foundation shook with her words.
We heard the door slam. Our father, who never hesitated to beat up a man for an insult real or imagined; and who would beat us boys with his belt for minor infractions, never once raised his hand to our mother. That, from what I could see, made him a rare bird in our neighborhood.
After twenty minutes or so Mama-warden came into our prison, she stood in front of the ajar closet door, blocking the light with her tiny body.
Her face was soft again, and when she saw us looking at her with such a look of betrayal and bewilderment, she looked like she was going to fall apart again.
This time not from anger but from sadness.
She started to shake and her voice kept getting stuck in her throat.
"I'm so sorry boys, I'm sorry. But you two need to behave! When I tell you not to do something you need obey you Mama, just like the Bible say!" Her voice was broken and she looked real sorry.
She was close to tears, and I felt my heart melt for her, "I ain't tryin' to be mean boys, I just don't wanna you to end up like…" Her voice cut off and her eyes turned dark and pressed.
I remembered her words earlier and knew she was thinking of my Daddy; but I didn't get what Daddy did that made Mama so mad. Her eyes were completely empty, it was almost as if her soul floated away from her body.
Mama shook, like the way a pony does when he's gets too cold.
She pulled us into a hug, "promise me boys you always gonna obey Yahweh. Promise me…Even above obeyin' me or Daddy, you got to obey Yahweh always."
I gave her a look of surprise, I'd never heard an adult tell a kid they didn't have to obey them 100%.
"Mama," Paddy looked real concerned, "are we going to Hell?"
She pulled us in closer, "I'm gonna do all my mighty I can to protect you two."
I looked at my Mama, the light in our room floated around her head like a halo. She looked, for the first time that I could remember, like she was at peace. She smiled at me. It wasn't the goofy, half crazed smile of my daddy; but it was a smile that was soft and gentle.
It was the smile of the woman that I wished was my mother. It was only there for a few seconds, but it was there.
She loved me, my Mama really did love me. Years later when my relationship with my mother broke down completely I still grasped on to that memory, grasped on to the fact that at one point at least, Mama loved me with such an intense love, that even though we were in a semi-dark closet, I was nearly blinded by her light.
"Do you still love Daddy?" I asked with concern. I didn't think it was right for me and Paddy to have Mama's love and make Daddy go without. I learned all about sharing and fairness at school.
Mama looked at me with surprise, "I love your daddy more than the stars and moon and sun," and in her voice I could only hear love for my father and love for us.
I felt guilty for thinking of my beautiful mother as the 'she-devil;' and if I felt guilty, I knew Paddy was beside himself.
Patrick always felt things on a deeper level than I did.
"Come on you two, let's go outside, Yahweh has given us a beautiful sunshine, we best enjoy it." And with that Mama took our hands and we walked out of the room together.
Once more our storm had lifted revealing a brilliant sun.
But I never forgot that behind the sun laid some very dark clouds.
A/N: S.E. Hinton owns
Gene Autry AKA "The Singing Cowboy" was a movie star in the 1920s/1930s; I have spared my readers the 'joy' of having to listen to little Darrel Curtis try to sing. You're welcome. ;)
Pretty Boy Floyd was notorious bank robber, bandit, murderer, folk-hero from Eastern Oklahoma.
Charles Baker is a homage to Charles Baker (Dill) Harris from To Kill A Mockingbird by Harper Lee
Thanks you for reading!