by Fawn Bonning
“Fine, honey. Three broken ribs, broken collar bone and jaw, but he regained the feeling on his left side. He’s just a few rooms down. Doing great. And Justin’s coming by later this afternoon. He had a mild concussion and a broken arm, a few bumps and bruises, but he’s tough, Ray. Comes from good stock.”
“Rene?”
“A little shook up. She’s coming around. Listen, don’t worry about them. You have to think about yourself now. It’s all smooth sailing from here on out, okay, Captain?”
Ray gave her a weak smile and squeezed her hand, and then gazed into hazel eyes set a bit too far apart. “Pam…Carl.”
Her teary eyes dropped to the floor. “When I came to, I was in the sink and…that thing was gone…and so was Carl.” Her eyes lifted, clouded with pain. “It took him,” she whispered, biting her trembling lower lip to keep from sobbing.
Ray closed his eyes. Didn’t want to go home empty-handed. Suddenly, he was extremely tired.
~~~~
“Man, this is the life,” Justin sighed. He was sprawled on a lounge chair in a pair of baggy swim trunks with his hands laced lazily behind his head and a nose smeared with zinc-oxide. He’d filled out a bit over the past year, but he was still as pale as a fish’s underside.
Ray grinned. At least he’d taken his advice and traded in his glasses for some contacts. That was a step in the right direction, at least.
“Jesus, what a dufus,” Nick said as he sauntered out wearing a brightly-flowered Hawaiian shirt and holding a beer in one hand.
“Nick, you know the rules. Not before noon.”
“Come on,” he whined, looking to his wristwatch. “It’s eleven-thirty.”
“Back in the cooler.”
“Man. Ay aye, Captain Hook,” he said with a salute.
“And one more Captain Hook crack, I’m throwing you in the cooler.”
Leaning forward, Justin took a sip of his iced tea before lounging back once again with a contented sigh. “I think it looks pretty cool, Uncle Ray. You look like a bad-ass now, like you could kick some major butt.”
Pam chuckled and glanced up from her magazine to give him a wink over the rim of her sunglasses.
The way she was lounging there in the sun with her wide-brimmed straw hat flapping in the breeze and a tall glass of iced tea dangling from her hand, she looked like a scene straight out of some classic romance film.
He, on the other hand, looked more like a scene straight from a horror movie.
He glanced down at the stainless steel hook resting on the wheel as he steered the ship through the smooth waters. He’d considered the other more expensive prostheses, the ones fashioned to resemble the human hand, but this seemed more appropriate somehow.
His eyes skipped over to where the rod holders had been removed. The fishing gear had all been disposed of and all was well with the world. The alluring temptress tempted him no more. She could keep her treasures. He was content just to lift the chest lid every now and then to have him a little peek.
He breathed deeply, drinking in the salty air like a tonic. It was a gorgeous day. Perfect for snorkeling. “Bout another hour, Justin. Hope you’re ready to see some spectacular underwater scenery. These are the best reefs around.”
“Ready, Capt. Lookin’ forward to it.”
“Ditto,” Nick added as he came back up with a can of root beer. “Hey, look, a Catamaran. Oh man, look at that! They’ve got a babe on board!”
Justin was instantly sitting up straight, craning his neck to see. “Man, a babe in a string bikini! Check it out!”
Nick gave a low whistle through his teeth.
Cutting the engine down, Ray brought Captin’s Glory to within a few yards to give the boys a thrill. He could see three men on board, their lines cast into the sea.
The fishermen waved their hands in salute, and Ray waved back. “Greetings,” he shouted. “Any luck?”
“Not yet,” a man in white shorts and a crisp white Polo shirt yelled back. “Ain’t givin’ up, though. Can’t leave empty-handed.”
Ray’s stomach turned. He looked down at his hook. He could tell them a thing or two about leaving empty-handed.
Instead, he smiled and waved, and then pushed the throttle up a few notches, feeling the floorboards vibrate beneath his feet as the powerful engine revved to life.
“Luck,” he shouted, and headed out toward the wide-open outstretched arms of the sea. Her surface sparkled and glimmered in the sunlight, blanketed in a million shimmering diamonds. Such a trickster, this jewel-studded lady. Mother of all mothers.
▪
▪
The Eleventh Hour
(Thing in the Barn)
The whining. It was incessant.
Like tine, thine whine.
Like vine.
“Excuse me,” Sue threw over her shoulder at the boys in the back seat, “could you two please stop.” He was at it again. Jake. Torturing his younger brother. His favorite pastime. Ten years old and already a well-practiced bully. Lovely. Never mind the fact that poor Teddy was whining pathetically. This didn’t deter Jake in the least. In fact, he seemed to thrive on that whine. That whine that made her want to pick up a bottle of cheap wine and guzzle every last drop. That whine that pierced. Pierced right into her brain. Jabbing like a…a…
Like tine, thine whine.
Sign, thine whine?
Whine benign, fine?
Whine divine shrine ashine?
Nine pine thine whine.
Decline mine wine stein.
Like tine, thine whine.
Like vine.
Brushing the hair from her eyes, she sighed deeply.
She really didn’t want to contend with this problem today. How long could a body beat their head against the wall, anyway? So futile.
The all-too-familiar dull throb at the back of her head was beyond annoying. She was spent. It was exhausting spending the entire day spending money you didn’t have. But they needed things for the new house: Cleaning supplies, brooms, mops, door mats, curtains. And, seeing that the boys would be starting in their new school in a few days, she’d spent several hours picking out new school clothes and shoes, and various school supplies: notebooks, pencils, paper, folders, rulers, pens. And then she’d committed the ultimate cardinal sin by spending money they didn’t have on herself—on plants for her new flower garden. Phlox and crape myrtles, peonies, roses, daisies, all were piled in the back of the wagon along with bags of topsoil, fertilizer, a new rake, a new hose, gloves, and other miscellaneous items. Daryl was going to kill her.
“Jake, you stop it right now, do you hear me?”
Like tine, thine whine.
She glanced in the rearview.
Jake was clutching a fistful of Teddy’s hair, refusing to let go despite Teddy’s pathetic whimpering. It was choking her, that sound. Closing around her throat, squeezing the very life from her.
Like vine.
“Jake!” She barely pushed the strangled word out. But it was enough to get Jake’s attention. He released his brother and sat back with a smug grin. It didn’t sit well on his handsome face. He really was quite striking. He had his father’s dark hair and olive eyes. Teddy, on the other hand, was a mirror image of herself; mousey brown hair, walnut-colored eyes, fair skin. She watched as he rubbed his injured scalp and brushed the tears from freckle-spattered cheeks. His quivering bottom lip was thrust out, pouting pitifully as he tried desperately to stifle his tears.
He was a silent crier. Something else they had in common. Not Jake. Jake was a bellower.
For the life of her, she couldn’t fathom why Jake found such pleasure in tormenting his younger brother. It seemed that it was never ending, the incessant bickering, the hitting, pushing, pinching, name calling, arm twisting, and even biting when things really got heated. The list of tortures went on and on. It was always something. And poor Teddy, only six years old and trying to be so brave. But it seemed Jake wouldn’t quit until he had the satisfaction of seeing tears. So, in essence,
Teddy was actually prolonging his misery with his staunch reticence.
She would have to have another long heart to heart with Jake. Try to figure out why. Somewhere along the line she had failed as a parent. He was angry at someone, something. Who? Was it her? And if so, what had she done? What hadn’t she done? What could she do? What should she not do?
She was overanalyzing again. What he probably needed was a good swat on the rear. But…she had come this far without resorting to violence. She didn’t want to start now.
Mother was a swatter.
Well, more of a walloper, really. And she usually preferred aiming for the back of the head over the backside. And most of the time, you never even saw it coming. You would just be flying across the room.
She’d done a lot of that growing up. Flying. She’d gotten good at it, too. She’d discovered there was a right way and a wrong way, and had worked quite diligently to perfect her technique over the years. If it was done wrong, it could be a truly dismal experience: Painful and humiliating, sloppy landing, bumps and bruises. But if done correctly, it could be quite memorable. She’d found there was a certain way an experienced flyer learned to hold their body to maximize projection yet minimize injury. Not too stiff and not too loose, but a controlled relaxed. That way one could travel further and more smoothly. You didn’t want your arms flapping. An exceptional flyer—a level that took years of experience to achieve—almost appeared to be gliding.
She considered herself at the exceptional level. There were times she’d glided for what seemed like eternity, sailing so smoothly, free from confining restraints, from cumbersome gravity, stretching the interval between impact of palm and landing to unbelievable lengths.
There was one flight in particular that she recalled with striking clarity. She was twelve, and the grandfather clock at the end of the hall had been chiming the eleventh hour and she’d paused in her mopping to listen to the melodic melody, counting down the hours, enjoying the sweet peal of the clarion notes.
Her father had built that clock, had cut out the pieces with his own hands, had nailed them together and sanded them smooth and stained them dark. The wood was walnut and the works were brass and her father had been so proud.
She had counted six chimes—she remembered this clearly—a nice even six, when she encountered sudden impact. She assumed the position—in hindsight probably her best form ever—and was instantly gliding.
And then…she was thinking about the day Ray Captin sat next to her in the school lunchroom. It made her so nervous that she started babbling about her stamp collection, how her uncle had just sent her father a letter all the way from Japan. “They have the most unusual stamps,” she told him. “Maybe if you’d like, I’ll bring it to school tomorrow so you can have a look.”
Chomping with zeal into a bright red apple, Ray had nodded enthusiastically. He was listening to her. And not just polite listening, either. Really listening…with interest. An older boy. An eighth grader! She loved him for that.
And then he was telling her about how he was going to own a boat someday, one big enough to sail around the world, how he was going to live off the ocean like the pirates of old and how cool it was going to be when people called him Captain Captin, talking to her like she was really somebody and smiling across the table at her with those dreamy, flint-gray eyes of his. She loved those eyes. She wanted to dive into those eyes and just roll around for hours. They made her knees feel weak, sent her heart to fluttering like the wings of a butterfly. Fluttering wildly. Flying. Gliding…
She was gliding, and then she was rolling. Not a sloppy roll. Years of experience kicked in and she completed a nice tight roll, tucked just perfectly, her arms around her ears to cushion her head.
And then the clock was chiming. She counted along where she lie on her side on the wet kitchen floor. Five chimes, she remembered clearly. Five chimes, almost as if…as if…
Time did stop.
No ticking of the clock.
Tic toc, tic toc, not, not, not.
I won’t drop, no flop, no plop.
No more feet go clop, clop, clop.
No more tears to sop with mop.
Time did stop.
No ticking of the clock.
Tic toc, tic toc, not, not, not.
There was a strange blur of yellow monopolizing her vision. Slowly the blur merged together, bringing double lines into focus. With a gasp, she yanked the wheel hard right, swerving back into her own lane.
Lucky for you nothing was coming, dimwit. The object isn’t to keep the double yellows between the wheels, Miss Brain.
A mewling sound drew her eyes to the rearview. Jake had launched a new attack. He was holding Teddy in a neck lock, giving him noogies with a nasty grin, his knuckles digging in.
“Jake!”
He immediately turned loose and sat back giggling while Teddy rubbed his injured scalp, fighting bravely to blink back the welling tears. There was humiliation on his tiny, pale face, as much as any six-year-old could muster. That, combined with his hair sticking up in unsightly tufts, made for quite a pathetic picture indeed.
How long are we going to encourage this insubordination, Genius?
She knew that she had to work on being more assertive when it came to discipline, but she just didn’t have the stomach for it. Just reprimanding them verbally seemed to take such a tremendous effort these days. It was exhausting, so thoroughly and totally exhausting. Sometimes after having to assert her authority over them, she’d be so fatigued that she would have to lie down for an hour’s nap, sometimes even longer. But even this didn’t seem to help much anymore. She was tired. A deep down tired. Deep down to the core.
She rubbed the back of her skull, an attempt to alleviate the annoying ache that seemed to have taken up permanent residence there.
Should she continue to be patient, bide her time in hopes that the abuse would eventually come to an end? And, in the meantime, was the psychological damage being inflicted on Teddy reversible? This was something that she needed to take into serious consideration. He was already such a quiet, withdrawn child, content to just sit and play by himself for hours at a time, quite the opposite of Jake. Jake couldn’t sit still for two minutes, let alone two hours. But she couldn’t blame him. He was, after all, an exact replica of his father. Daryl always had to be doing something with his restless hands at all times. Even if he was lounging on the couch during a ball game with a glass of rum and Coke propped in one hand, the fingers of his free hand always had to be drumming like mad on the armrest. How many times had she sat across from him, unable to tear her eyes away from those drumming fingers? Fingers drumming for hours at a time. Drumming endlessly, drumming…
Fingers drum, ho hum, ho hum.
Hum drum, hum drum, drum till numb.
Yum, mum bum, come drink some rum.
Sum: Rumdum’s fingers drum dumb some,
Drum till numb.
Ho hum, hum drum,
Drum, drum, horn
Horn?
Horn!
Gasping, she swerved back into her lane, waving apologetically at the passing car with the blaring horn. She shook her head to clear it.
You’re driving a car, not going for a leisurely stroll through your mum garden. Let’s try to focus, shall we, Einstein?
Thinking back, she attempted to pick up along her previous train of thought.
Restless hands, right.
Of course, there were times when this could come in handy. Like with this new house. They’d finally gotten their house out in the country, and though she had to admit it had great potential, it was indisputably what one would call a fixer upper, a handyman special. A bottomless money pit was probably more accurate. In any case, it was bound to keep Daryl’s fidgety hands busy for quite some time.
She exhaled slowly, an exceedingly long, drawn-out and ragged breath.
Daryl was a pincher.
Love pinches he called them.
Love hurts. Whoever said that
must have known Daryl Kemps personally. She wore testimonies of his love, black and blue mementos all over her butt and thighs. It was some hysterical game for him. He would always try to sneak his love pinches in when she was least expecting them so that he might reap a good squeal for his efforts. There were still those occasions when he’d really surprise her—like last time when he snuck up on her in the shower—and he’d get the reaction he was looking for. But for the most part, she’d become quite adept at predicting his attacks, and he’d shuffle away sulking, completely downtrodden, and most certainly plotting his next round.
She was forever on guard. Whether she was standing at the stove, sitting at the table, leaning into the washing machine, napping on the couch, asleep in bed, in the middle of sex, washing the dishes, brushing her teeth, leaning in the fridge, vacuuming, tying her shoes…
Pinch a buttock, pinch a thigh.
Love’s a’glistening in my eye.
I will not shy, sigh, cry.
I won’t deny, I’d nigh die.
Thy on high, so wry,
Tell me, tell me, do not lie,
Why love’s a’glistening in my eye.
That mewling sound again.
She peered up at Jake’s reflection. He’d switched tactics. This time he had a hold of Teddy’s arm and was twisting in opposite directions. Indian burns.
“Okay, that’s it!” Swerving off the road onto a side street, she threw the car into park and spun to confront him. “This is it, Jake, do you hear me!” she snapped. “Your last warning, you fucking brat!”
Her hand flew to her mouth, clamping it shut. She could feel her heart thrumming wildly and it seemed her headache was compelled to pulse right along with it.