It was 1945. The war ended. But Johnny's father, who was 15, didn't
really care. His father had been back already for two years.
Actually, the three years he was away was like a vacation. His mother worked in a factory and he didn't have to come home to all the yelling and fighting he'd always known. It was nice.
But then the old man came home and life continued as it had been. He had to plan things around his father's drinking and his father's moods. His mother left the factory and left the new friends she'd made and came back to living under his father's thumb.
Everyone was rich now. The war was over and everyone had the new appliances and Henry Ford cars. Not them. They had a small house on the poor side of Tulsa.
His mother's eyes were sad. Once, after his dad came home, his mother sat at the kitchen table as the moon rose higher and higher in the sky. Cooling, undrunk tea in front of her. She was waiting for his father. Johnny's dad knew he was at a bar.
"Mum, why don't you get a job in a factory again? We can move," Johnny's dad said this, looking at the finger print bruises on her arm, the cuts on her face.
She shook her head slowly and she looked so old to him.
"The factories are closed," she said, and the words were hollow. He wished his dad had died in the war and knew he'd go to hell for wishing it.
He liked a girl at school. She had long black hair and big dark eyes. She smiled at him and he'd duck his head, turn away.
He wanted to marry her and move out of his house.
His mother walked around the house with zombie eyes, the bruises were all he could see. His father would bellow his name and he'd cringe. At school his teachers screamed at him, "Cade!" and whatever it was they were going to ask he wouldn't know the answer. They'd crack his knuckles with their wooden rulers. The only good thing in his life was that girl, she was so pretty and nice, nice to him. He wanted her to be Mrs.Cade.
He didn't have to do anything for his father to yell and hit and punch. It seemed to him it just came out of nowhere.
He'd started not coming home all the time. He knew his mother waited for him with worry in her eyes. He just couldn't always bear to be at home. He'd stay outside in a field, at friend's houses, pool halls.
Drinking seemed to help. Beer went down smooth and easy and he made sense again, his life didn't hurt him as much. The constant knot in his chest loosened and he could breathe with a drink in his hand.
No wonder his father drank.
He caught him once.
"What in the hell do you think you're doing?" His father's voice, the voice of doom. He felt cold.
"Nuh, nothin'"
"You lying little shit!"
And his father's belt came out of the loops so fast. The belt with the heavy buckle. He could barely sit for a week and learned to hide his drinking better than that.
It helped school, too. Then he didn't feel so stupid, or he just didn't care.
His mother may have noticed but said nothing. She hardly spoke since his father returned from the war. He remembered how much she had talked and laughed when he was away.
At school with a black eye he felt so stupid. He could hardly see out of it. The white part was a dark and uniform red. His iris seemed to float on top. It scared him to see it in the mirror.
"Oh, honey, what happened?" The girl with the black hair said. She reached out with one finger to touch the edge of the black and blue. He tried not to wince.
"My old man,"
They were skipping school. He liked that. The afternoon off. Smoking cigarettes, watching the sun pick up dark red highlights in the girl's black hair. He wanted to skip school, skip home, skip his life.
She leaned towards him and he kissed her, felt her soft tongue in his mouth, his hand on the back of her neck.
"I love you," she said. He was happy then.
He went home hoping his mother was there and his father was not.
"You little piece of shit," his father greeted him and he could smell the gin, juniper berries, sickly sweet. His eyes went round and he thought of running. But he'd ran before and always got caught. Then things were worse.
"You skipped school, you little shit," He couldn't breathe, stood frozen in the kitchen. He felt the pounding of his heart in his ears, pounding of blood. Shit. 'Please,' he prayed to everyone and no one. His father stood up knocking the chair to the floor. The clatter of it echoed around his brain. The belt was in his father's hand in one fluid, swift movement.
He backed up away from his father and that belt, the thick leather clenched in his thick fist.
He felt hatred like an alive thing chewing at his nerve endings and wished again his father had died a hero in Europe under the German's crooked cross.
His palms were flat against the kitchen wall and he wondered wildly where his mother was and saw the flourescent light reflected in the silver buckle.
His father lifted the belt high and it arched down through the air and landed on his shoulder. He bit through his bottom lip trying not to cry out and thought, 'I'll never do this to my kid,'.
Actually, the three years he was away was like a vacation. His mother worked in a factory and he didn't have to come home to all the yelling and fighting he'd always known. It was nice.
But then the old man came home and life continued as it had been. He had to plan things around his father's drinking and his father's moods. His mother left the factory and left the new friends she'd made and came back to living under his father's thumb.
Everyone was rich now. The war was over and everyone had the new appliances and Henry Ford cars. Not them. They had a small house on the poor side of Tulsa.
His mother's eyes were sad. Once, after his dad came home, his mother sat at the kitchen table as the moon rose higher and higher in the sky. Cooling, undrunk tea in front of her. She was waiting for his father. Johnny's dad knew he was at a bar.
"Mum, why don't you get a job in a factory again? We can move," Johnny's dad said this, looking at the finger print bruises on her arm, the cuts on her face.
She shook her head slowly and she looked so old to him.
"The factories are closed," she said, and the words were hollow. He wished his dad had died in the war and knew he'd go to hell for wishing it.
He liked a girl at school. She had long black hair and big dark eyes. She smiled at him and he'd duck his head, turn away.
He wanted to marry her and move out of his house.
His mother walked around the house with zombie eyes, the bruises were all he could see. His father would bellow his name and he'd cringe. At school his teachers screamed at him, "Cade!" and whatever it was they were going to ask he wouldn't know the answer. They'd crack his knuckles with their wooden rulers. The only good thing in his life was that girl, she was so pretty and nice, nice to him. He wanted her to be Mrs.Cade.
He didn't have to do anything for his father to yell and hit and punch. It seemed to him it just came out of nowhere.
He'd started not coming home all the time. He knew his mother waited for him with worry in her eyes. He just couldn't always bear to be at home. He'd stay outside in a field, at friend's houses, pool halls.
Drinking seemed to help. Beer went down smooth and easy and he made sense again, his life didn't hurt him as much. The constant knot in his chest loosened and he could breathe with a drink in his hand.
No wonder his father drank.
He caught him once.
"What in the hell do you think you're doing?" His father's voice, the voice of doom. He felt cold.
"Nuh, nothin'"
"You lying little shit!"
And his father's belt came out of the loops so fast. The belt with the heavy buckle. He could barely sit for a week and learned to hide his drinking better than that.
It helped school, too. Then he didn't feel so stupid, or he just didn't care.
His mother may have noticed but said nothing. She hardly spoke since his father returned from the war. He remembered how much she had talked and laughed when he was away.
At school with a black eye he felt so stupid. He could hardly see out of it. The white part was a dark and uniform red. His iris seemed to float on top. It scared him to see it in the mirror.
"Oh, honey, what happened?" The girl with the black hair said. She reached out with one finger to touch the edge of the black and blue. He tried not to wince.
"My old man,"
They were skipping school. He liked that. The afternoon off. Smoking cigarettes, watching the sun pick up dark red highlights in the girl's black hair. He wanted to skip school, skip home, skip his life.
She leaned towards him and he kissed her, felt her soft tongue in his mouth, his hand on the back of her neck.
"I love you," she said. He was happy then.
He went home hoping his mother was there and his father was not.
"You little piece of shit," his father greeted him and he could smell the gin, juniper berries, sickly sweet. His eyes went round and he thought of running. But he'd ran before and always got caught. Then things were worse.
"You skipped school, you little shit," He couldn't breathe, stood frozen in the kitchen. He felt the pounding of his heart in his ears, pounding of blood. Shit. 'Please,' he prayed to everyone and no one. His father stood up knocking the chair to the floor. The clatter of it echoed around his brain. The belt was in his father's hand in one fluid, swift movement.
He backed up away from his father and that belt, the thick leather clenched in his thick fist.
He felt hatred like an alive thing chewing at his nerve endings and wished again his father had died a hero in Europe under the German's crooked cross.
His palms were flat against the kitchen wall and he wondered wildly where his mother was and saw the flourescent light reflected in the silver buckle.
His father lifted the belt high and it arched down through the air and landed on his shoulder. He bit through his bottom lip trying not to cry out and thought, 'I'll never do this to my kid,'.
