Laura wasn’t finished, though. She dropped on top of him, rolling him onto his back. Her knees pinned his arms to the blacktop while she punched him in the face. The first punch landed on his mouth, driving his lip into a tooth, cutting it. The second punch blasted into his eye, sending racing white dots shooting through his head. The third and final blow crunched his nose, sending comets chasing after those white dots. The warm flow of blood gushed from his nostrils, covering his upper lip.
The teacher on playground duty interceded at that point, hauling both of them to the principal’s office, where Jeffrey had to undergo the humiliation of admitting that he threw the first punch in the fight. This shame was coupled with having been beaten up by a girl, even if it was a girl who wore overalls and whose dad was a farmer.
The principal gave Jeffrey a look that was difficult to decipher as the boy sat on the chair in front of his desk with a tissue pressed against one nostril. Jeffrey wanted to believe that he felt bad for Jeffrey’s bloody nose or maybe that he was proud that he’d tried to put a girl in her place, but somehow he didn’t think so. Then he gave both children notes to take home for their parents to sign. “Bring those back tomorrow,” he told them. “And you two leave each other alone the rest of the day.”
Jeffrey endured the snickers and stares for the remainder of the school day. At the final bell, he scrambled to get away from the school as fast as he could. He managed to avoid all but a couple of catcalls from other kids. Once on the street headed home, however, he slowed to a crawl. He wondered if his mother would get angry again and march down to the school. Would she find a way to ‘own the school,’ like she told the principal last time? He remembered how good it felt for that short time while she was sticking up for him. He momentarily quickened his pace, until he remembered her admonition afterward.
And what would his daddy say? He’d been in a fight. Didn’t that make him tough? Deep inside, Jeffrey knew it didn’t. He’d been in a fight with a girl. And he lost. A real man laid the whammo on girls. Laura laid the whammo on him instead.
Jeffrey hung his head and shuffled home.
When he arrived, he found his mother sitting in her chair with her glass of special stuff, watching one of her programs. She turned her gaze toward him as soon as he walked in the door. The black eye, bloody lip and swollen nose registered slowly with her. She pressed her lips together and scowled.
“What happened?”
Wordlessly, he handed her the note from the principal. She snatched it from his hand and read it, her lips moving while her eyes scanned the slip of paper. When she’d finished, she balled up the note and set it on the rickety end table next to her.
“You’re supposed to sign it,” Jeffrey told her quietly.
His mother turned toward him again. Her right hand lashed out, slapping him hard across the face. The force of the blow was magnified by his earlier injuries and he yelped in painful surprise. His hand flew up to his cheek. Tears stung his eyes.
“He’s gone again,” his mother said quietly. A cruel smile curled up at the corners of her mouth. “It’s just you and me against the world again, Jeffie.”
A strange combination of relief, anger and fear washed over him at those words. The tears in his eyes bubbled over and coursed down his cheeks.
His daddy was gone.
An ache appeared in his chest, almost like a jagged blade was tearing through it. He let out a small sob.
His mother reached out to him. Gratefully, he fell into her embrace, resting his face between her breasts. The sobs rose up in his chest and came out in huge, racking moans. His mother ran her fingers through his hair. For a moment, even though he hurt, he also felt safe. He also felt good. Maybe the two of them could stand against the world. Maybe she could make everything-
Her fingers twisted and tightened in his hair. She jerked his head backward to stare up at her. Malice radiated from her red, watery eyes. Her foul breath washed down onto his face. The sour stench cut through his overworked sinuses, despite the earlier bleeding and his crying now.
“He’s gone,” she repeated, “but you’re just like him. You ruin everything, too.”
Jeffrey felt something deep inside him wilt. The intensity of his sobs waned. The color in the room faded.
“You ruin everything,” his mother said, and Jeffrey believed her.
October 1980
All he ever wanted anymore was snow. That was the only real wish he had left that he held out as a possibility. There had been a time when he wished for other things, but now that he was ten, he knew better. He knew better than to wish for the things that his mother or father (not his ‘daddy’ anymore. ‘Daddy’ was a baby word) would have to be responsible for making happen. Instead, he wished for things that came from outside his own house. The weather seemed to be the easiest thing to count on, and in Seattle, snow seemed like something special enough to hope for.
His father made it home once or twice a year. Jeffrey both dreaded the time and looked forward to it. He held out an insane hope that the next time would be better. His father and his mother would decide to make it so they were all a real family. His mother would stop being mean all the time. His father would want to stay. He’d tell Jeffrey how big he’d grown to be and how much he was proud of him.
But these foolish hopes didn’t come true. Every time his father visited, in fact, they seemed to slip farther away. His father usually arrived in a foul mood, sometimes already drunk. Sometimes Jeffrey noticed he had one less stripe on his uniform. Other times, he’d have it back. He noticed the lines on his father’s face and how he always looked tired. He seemed meaner, but not as strong.
At first, that diminishing strength only fed Jeffrey’s hope. He reasoned that if his father wasn’t as strong, then he wouldn’t be so mean to his mother. Then things would get better. His mother, however, seemed to have other plans. In the face of his father’s weakening, she grew more bold. He heard them arguing more frequently, with her voice gaining resolve. His father had to lay the whammo on her more often. Sometimes she ran into the bedroom and locked the door. Then his father would either break down the door or he would sleep on the couch. If he slept on the couch, Jeffrey made sure to leave him alone because he was always in a worse mood than usual. He didn’t hesitate to give Jeffrey the back of his hand for any perceived mistake or irritation.
Once, he spilled his cereal bowl. Milk and corn flakes splashed across the kitchen table and onto the floor. His father was sitting at the table, drinking coffee and reading the newspaper. He leapt up in his chair, wiping milk off his shirt and pants.
That resulted in a spanking with his father’s belt. The folded strap lashed his backside, raising red welts on his buttocks and the backs of his legs. He tried not to cry because crying only resulted in being told he was a ‘sissy’ or even a ‘little queer,’ both of which burned in his chest just like when the kids at school said it.
His mother stood in the kitchen doorway and watched the spanking. He looked up at her and pleaded silently for her to intervene. He knew she could probably make him stop, even if it meant that he decided to lay the whammo on her instead. She could make him stop. He knew it. So he pleaded with his eyes, begging her.
But she only watched the beating, her expression flat and unreadable.
The strappings only came when his father was furious or when he had a little time to think about things. Like the time he brought home his report card on the same Friday his father showed up. The littering of ‘Unsatisfactory’ ratings led to another session with the belt, with his father counting the strokes. He received one for every ‘Unsatisfactory’ on his report card.
More often, though, his father’s hard palm lashed out and cuffed him in the back of the head. Sometimes he got the back of the hand across the mouth, if that were more convenient. He tried to learn what to say and do in order to avoid it, but he was unable to crack the code. He got in trouble for asking questions, but he got in trouble for being too quiet. He got in trouble for staying in his room and for ‘hanging all over’ his father. He was punished for not looking at his father when he was being spoken to, but other times he got the back of the hand for the expression on his face.