I was sixteen and lived out in the unincorporated part of Loma Linda. My dad worked at a local dairy and he’d be dead tired at the end of the day. When he walked in the door, he’s start drinking his Rock and Rye whisky. He bought the stuff by the cardboard box. There’d be twelve bottles when he got a new case and then you’d start seeing the empty cardboard rectangles appear one by one. He was old school and by that I meant he’d use a belt on us kids if he thought we deserved it.
I wish I could say that meant we were careful not to draw his attention. But I had two older brothers and two younger brothers and all four of them were absolute hell-raisers. I wasn’t exactly sweet either. Still, my dad rarely spanked me. Partly, I was more cautious than my brothers. But really it was my brothers would step in and distract the old man if I caught his eye. They took pride in withstanding whatever he dished out.
My brothers were tough and famous for the fights they got in around our neighborhood. They were famous for the crazy things they’d do. But I’m not really telling a story about my dad or my brothers. They just help explain about my mom. She’s really my step-mother. My youngest brother is her baby.
My mom had been a school teacher before she married my dad. And while he never raised his voice to her or would dream of raising a hand to her, she was quiet and meek naturally. You could tell she hated it when my dad was disturbed and would get in one of his moods. She was always trying to find ways to gently quiet us. She always tried to avoid strife if she could. In creative ways, for example, she got this big green army tent for the military surplus store and had my four brothers essentially living outside in that tent, so they wouldn’t disturb my dad.
And the boys loved her for it. I didn’t realize how truly serious she was though about making sure no one disturbed my dad (except for us kids and she’d do her best there too, but not like she would with other people) until much later. The police started driving by our place regularly. We lived on a quarter acre of land situated on the bank of an industrial drainage way.
Tramps would camp out down in that area under a bridge and come up from time to time to beg for handouts. I’m being nice when I say beg; demand might be a better choice of word. But then three of those homeless men were found dead in the field on the other side of the drainage ditch (and when I say ditch, I mean more like a spill way the size of a decent river with ten foot banks on either side) across from our two-bedroom rented home with their throats slit buried in shallow graves over a three-month period.
My dad had a reputation as being a guy you didn’t mess with. I think the police suspected he’d had something to do with hit. But my dad would never slit a man’s throat from behind, which is how I understood these men died. He’d beat you to death with his hands while looking down on your bleeding corpse.
I’m making him sound worse than is really the case. He never actually beat anyone to death. It’s just, people kind of thought he would if you pushed him. People didn’t push my dad. The police even brought my dad in for questioning one time. Not a good time when he got home.
Anyway, the summer after I turned sixteen, I got a job housesitting for my dad’s boss’s son and his wife. They lived in the house next door; much nicer than the place we lived in. I was dating a guy called Mark. He was on the wrestling team and kind of wild. He came over while I was housesitting and soon the entire wrestling team and friends and girlfriends were throwing a party at the place I was housesitting. I should mention, my dad really didn’t like Mark, because he’d drag me away most nights and only drop me off close to midnight. I got away with stuff I really shouldn’t.
So, Mark and I were having this noisy, outrageous party at the house next door. There was alcohol involved of course. Someone had started a fire in the fire place. And Mark got this idea of shooting lighter fluid into the fire. Not his brightest idea. Flame shot out and there was this orange shag rug, ugly as hell. The flame shot out and melted the tips of each little shag strand so that once it cooled down, you could run your hand over the rug and feel the melted parts hard and rough against your palm.
We all filed out after. I didn’t tell my parents of course. But when I went back the next night to try and clean up, it had already been done. The placed was spotless, the refrigerator restocked. The bathroom where some of Mark’s buds had gotten sick was clean. Oh, and that orange shag rug? It had been replaced with a brand-new orange shag rug.
It had me shaking my head, because I knew my mom had done this somehow. I have no idea how she would have replaced the rug though? It would have been a man and a half’s job to do that in one night even if you did have a replacement rug to lay down.
I was walking back home from the neighbors amazed at the way my mom would silently cover up any mistake I or my brothers made and I noticed that our garage door had been left partly open. We had a detached garage and stored hay bales and all sorts of crap from the dairy, including broken furniture. I walked over and as I was about to close the garage door, I saw that big-assed orange rug rolled up thick and round with the rug part outside. I slipped in and ran my hand over the rug and sure enough, it was the one with the melted tips. I kind of pushed the roll and it was ridiculously heavy. There was no way I’d be able to move it myself and I was kind of shocked at how my mother must have strained to get it over here.
There was a nasty smell in the garage, so I left. The next day the rug was gone. I never saw Mark again either. He was a fostered kid who had been in and out of Juvenile Hall, so a lot of people assumed he’d just taken off. School had never been his thing. I can’t say I was totally broken hearted. Mark was basically a douchebag and I’d tried to break up with him several times before unsuccessfully.
Still, I did cry. Once, I saw mom standing by the door, looking nervous in case my crying would disturb dad. I looked up and she shook her head gently and I quickly calmed myself down. Then she told me, “he wasn’t good for you. He disturbed your pa.”
I never did bring another boyfriend around the place. I’m not saying what crossed my mind I mean she’s a small woman. It’s not like she could have done anything too bad. But I just felt uneasy. I left home right after high school and I pretty much avoid going back. My brothers are all still close with her. My dad had died some years back and they made it a point of honor to make sure she was fine. Me? I still remember that rug and shiver.
Submitted February 17, 2017 at 11:39AM by Nina-Agafada http://ift.tt/2kYTrzr nosleep
No comments:
Post a Comment