“This is how it feels to get smacked.” He coiled his arm back and then struck like a snake. It was the hardest smack he’d ever laid on Charity’s butt. Never before had her butt shook so violently. The impact made Charity scream like she was in labor. The sound of the blow, which resembled the sound of a plank smacking a wall, made Josh flinch. He could feel that all too familiar urge to urinate. The boy was so terrified, he stepped away from the door; walking backwards until his legs touched his bed. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up. The desire to urinate grew stronger and stronger. Frightened and unsure of whether to jump out of his bedroom window or to run to his mother’s rescue, the child allowed himself to be guided by his fear—he grabbed his shoe box full of baseball cards and retreated under the cover.
“Stop Dutch!” Charity begged.
“Nawh, ain’t no stoppin’ now, I know what you need. I been with you for three years, I know what you need when you get feisty like this.” Dutch slid his rock hard penis inside of her. He stroked hard for a few seconds—the less she fought back, the slower he stroked. “Umm hmm, daddy know what’cha need. Yo ass ain’t fightin’ no mo.”
The distasteful truth of the matter was that Charity was no longer fighting back. In fact, after a minute or so, her pleas for him to stop were replaced with salacious moans. She even reached back and clutched his ass while he pounded her repeatedly.
Dutch bit his bottom lip. “Say it.”
“No.”
“Say it.”
“No.”
Dutch removed most of his penis—leaving only the head inside of her. He reared his hand back and smacked her on her butt cheek again. Her pale white ass now had a huge pink hand print on it. “Bitch I said…say it!”
Charity glanced at her son’s bedroom door—she no longer saw his shadow. With her hair sprawled all over her face, she peered through the oily strands and gave Dutch an awkward look. It was a look that seemed to be suspended somewhere between pleasure and pain.
The morning sunlight shined through the curtains and illuminated the sweat that had formed on Dutch’s brow. He struggled to wipe his face with his forearm while trying to maintain his stroke. Dutch smirked when he saw his lover’s familiar gaze. “Say it.” He commanded again through clutched teeth.
Charity took one last glance at Josh’s bedroom door, and then did as Dutch commanded. “Fuck me.”
“Dammit…say it the way I like it!”
“Fuck me Dutch! Fuck me harder!”
Her words were like music to his sick demented soul. It was now his eyes that were rolling backwards. His body became as stiff as a board. His exposed ass cheeks clinched. His toes curled. The hand that had been used to push Charity forward was now gripping a clump of her hair.
Dutch let out a loud moan as he released his load all over Charity’s backside. Despite the fact that Charity would always tell him to lower his voice during sex, he still howled uncontrollably. Part of the holler was endorphin driven; the other part was done with the sole intent of tormenting Josh.
Embarrassed that her anger had once again been dowsed by Dutch’s flesh pole, Charity muffled the sound of her climaxing by biting the pillow. Her teeth remained clinched until she felt the weight of Dutch’s slouched body against her.
Josh squinted so tightly that lines streaked from the corners of his eyes and stretched to his earlobes. He wanted to get away. Any place was better than the place he was forced to call home. Eventually he retreated to that place in the recesses of his mind that he often ventured into to escape his reality. That place that enabled him to block out the sounds and words that haunted him. He started thinking about various things: baseball; the lunch menu at school, and eventually he thought about his friend Stevie.
I wonder what Stevie is doing right now. I can’t wait to see him later. I wonder what kind of candy he’s gonna bring today. I like those Oatmeal cookies—those are my favorite. I wish I could just live at his house. I’ma ask him if I can runaway and stay at his house…maybe in the attic where his mama keeps those knives. Maybe after he kills Bennie and Dutch he will ask his mama if I can stay with them.
I wonder how black people food taste over in Free Side. I wonder if it tastes different from our food here in Iron Town. I heard they make good kool-aid. I can’t wait to taste it. I’ma drink until I can’t drink no more.
I’ll bet Stevie has some good toys. I know he got a lot of stuff because I heard that over in Free Side, dem niggers—I mean black kids; now that I got me a black friend I can’t be sayin’ the “N” word no more—all I know is he be wearin’ some ‘spensive tennis shoes and clothes so I know he got cool toys and stuff. I hope he lets me wear some of his clothes.
There were no sounds in the house for nearly ten minutes, but Josh’s eyes remained slammed shut. His foray deep into his thoughts was interrupted by a light tap on the door and then his mother’s voice. “Josh. Josh honey, it’s time to get up and go to school.” She knew he wasn’t asleep, but she pretended to be surprised when she pulled the covers back and saw him lying curled up in the fetal position clutching a baseball card. “Josh, are you awake?”
Josh nodded. “I’m looking at my card.”
“In the dark?”
He nodded again. “Do I have to go to school today?”
“Yes you do. Now get up and get ready.” Charity looked at the bed sheets. “Awwh Josh, you wet the bed again. I’m getting tired of having to buy you a new mattress every few months. You gon’ have to start getting up and using the bathroom. I told you stop drinking water after eight o’clock at night.”
Josh nodded again; a tear rolling down the side of his face that was pressed against his pillow.
“I will get your clothes ready while you are in the bathroom.”
Josh was an obedient child. Rarely did he talk back or defy his mother’s orders. He slid out of bed and retrieved a fresh set of underclothes and his toothbrush from his top drawer. While Charity had her head in Josh’s closet, he peered out of his bedroom door—hoping to avoid any contact with Dutch.
“Josh…do as I say. Go get cleaned up so I can take you to school.”
“Yes ma’am,” he mumbled. His tone was filled with so much pain that any normal mother would have detected the fear in her child’s voice. But Charity wasn’t normal. She’d been considered the rebel in high school: dressing in all dark “Goth” attire; hanging out with bikers ten years her senior; smoking weed and participating in orgies—with those same over aged bikers. Her rebellious nature caused her to be thrust into some unwanted scenarios—including being raped.
She displayed disrespect for authority and her own well-being that was so blatant her single mother kicked her out of the house at the age of fifteen. By the age of sixteen, Charity was struggling to make it through her eleventh grade year in high school, and carrying in her womb a tiny boy whom she’d eventually named—Josh.
The path from Josh’s bedroom to the bathroom seemed to get further away with each step he took. To make matters worse, the bathroom was next to his mother’s bedroom. The door was closed, but Josh’s fear was that it would suddenly open and Dutch would step out.
Josh made it to the bathroom door safely. He turned the knob and was about to go inside when his mother’s bedroom door opened slightly. He never saw Dutch’s face. All he saw was his long tattoo covered right arm come out from the shadows and latch on to the back of his neck like a pit bull clamping down on a defenseless victim.
“Bring yo’ lil ass here,” Dutch commanded, while keeping his voice relatively low so that Charity wouldn’t hear. Josh once again found the side of his face pressed against a bedroom door, but this time it was his mother’s.
Dutch opened the bedroom door a tad bit wider so that he could pull Josh closer, yet remain unseen.
“Ouch.”
“Shut up boy.” Dutch tightened his grip. “So you went and told yo’ mama I don’t feed you huh?”
Like a sponge when squeezed, large tears formed in Josh’
s eyes and threatened to squirt out when Dutch tightened his grip. “I – I only told her…”
“Shut up!”
Josh managed to get a glimpse at the door. All he could see was darkness. No face; just an arm and a voice. An arm that was so sculpted it looked like it belonged to a professional wrestler, and a voice so sinister it could scare the devil.
“I’m sorry.”
“Sorry, my ass! So you like to snitch huh? When I was in the pen do you know what we did to snitches?”
“Noooo,” Josh whined.
“Well, I’m gon’ show you when you get home from school today.”
With that final threat, Dutch shoved the child towards the bathroom. Josh’s body hit the bathroom door so hard it flung open. The terrified child went inside the bathroom and stood in front of the sink shaking like a leaf on a tree. His neck was throbbing. The pain was so intense he could no longer hold back the tears. He turned on the faucet so that his sobbing would be drowned out by the splashing water.
Minutes would pass before fear finally released the hold it had on his emotions. Eventually he regained his composure and went about the task of getting cleaned up. His teeth had only been privy to a few scrubs of the toothbrush when his mother opened the bathroom door.
“Josh, what are you doing in here? It shouldn’t take this long to wash off your body and brush your teeth.” She grabbed a paper cup from the dispenser mounted on the wall next to the medicine cabinet and filled it with water. “Wash your mouth out. We have to go. I’m tired, and I wanna hurry up and get back home so I can rest. I have to work a double shift tonight.”
Josh finished washing himself off and went into his bedroom. He put on the clothes his mother laid out, and sat on the edge of his bed. He could hear his mother and Dutch talking.
“Dutch, I ain’t playin’—I want Josh to have one of these cans of ravioli this evening.”
“I ain’t stoppin’ him from eatin’. He can get what he wants. I ain’t gon’ be here anyway when he gets home this evenin’.”
“Why not?”
“Old man Kelly asked me to come over and help him to rebuild an engine.”
“I hope he’s paying you.”
“Yep. He’s givin’ me $150.”
“Umm hmm, that means he’s really givin’ you $250. I ain’t stupid. All I know is you’d better have some money for the light bill.” Charity lit a cigarette, looked over at Dutch and rolled her eyes. “How long you gon’ be there?”
“I don’t know. I guess I’ll be back here around nine or ten.”
“What time you headin’ over there?”
“I don’t know. ‘Bout three or four.”
“Umm hmm,” she replied, her voice filled with suspicion. “Let me find out you don’ made your way over by that tramp Ann Marie’s house. I’m gon crash the party and kick her fat ass!”
“Awwh woman, ain’t nobody gon’ go over to Ann Marie’s.”
“Whatever. That’s what you said the last time, and then I caught you tryin’ to sneak out of her back door.”
Josh couldn’t stand to listen to the two of them any longer. He walked out his bedroom. “Mama, I’m ready to go.”
Charity took one last drag off her cigarette, and then placed it in the ash tray. She unlocked and opened the front door, and shoved the screen door. The condition of the screen door mirrored that of the house. It had a tear in it that was large enough for a grown man to crawl through. The rundown screen door shut behind her. “C’mon baby, let’s go! You gon’ be late if we don’t hurry.”
Dutch walked over and grabbed the cigarette Charity had been smoking, and took a long exaggerated puff on it. He and Josh made eye contact one last time before the boy left the house. That image of Dutch was one of the most horrifying things the child had ever seen.
Dutch winked at Josh, and unleashed a cloud of smoke from his mouth and nose. With his head engulfed in the toxic white cloud, and his beady eyes peering through like a wolf hiding in the shadows sizing up his prey, the brute flashed a menacing grin. He slid his index finger across his throat as if he was cutting it, and then turned and walked towards the bedroom—laughing. Message sent.
Josh’s heart was pounding so hard it was a miracle his mother didn’t hear it. He could see his mother sitting in the car waiting, but he was so overcome with fear that he couldn’t move. When he did manage to move his legs he stumbled and dropped his book bag before he could get one foot out of the front door. Meanwhile, his mother started the car and honked the horn. The annoying sound of the horn was virtually inaudible to Josh; he was too busy looking at Dutch as he walked away. Images of his abuser tossing Charity’s head into the river consumed the child. Message received.
Chapter 3
Iron Side, which was once a thriving community with a population of more than 40,000, was still reeling from the closing of its last steel mill, ten years earlier. As a result of the lost jobs, double-digit unemployment caused the once flourishing area to lose more than 6,000 residents in one decade. The mass exodus had a domino effect. The city’s infrastructure was adversely impacted. Road projects were cancelled, leaving potholes large enough to swallow a compact car—although it seemed like half the town rode around in pickup trucks. Motorist feared for their lives whenever they crossed a few of the cities rickety bridges that crossed dried up creeks. City Council members risked being accused of splurging if they considered paving any of the roads.
The lack of revenue and property taxes also impacted the town’s elementary, middle, and high school. With a median household income of less than $20,000 annually, it was nearly impossible to improve the deteriorating schools. Describing the deplorable condition of the schools would be a challenge for even the most skillful wordsmith. But, should someone with the oratory skills of a top tier public speaker attempt to explain the condition of Iron Side Elementary school, he would only need to use one phrase to get his point across—eye sore.
The dilapidated building barely met the needs of the 450 students that scurried throughout the hallways. Water fountains didn’t work. One out of every three books had several missing pages—many had no back covers. If the walls were the school’s skin, the flaking paint would have guaranteed a diagnosis of the worse case of psoriasis ever documented.
In addition to the substandard conditions of the facility, many of the people charged with educating the impressionable youngsters had emotionally, mentally, and in some cases, physically checked out. Teachers spent half their time doing crossword puzzles and the other half on the internet searching for positions in more affluent school districts.
Charity drove her old Ford Taurus in front of the school and parked directly in front of the main entrance. She let out a deep sigh and looked over at her son.
“Are you alright? You haven’t said one word since we left the house.”
Josh sat quietly in the passenger seat, twirling his pencil in between his fingers. “Yes ma’am,” he mumbled.
“Are you sure? You know you can tell me if something is bothering you.”
Josh nodded, signaling he understood his options.
“Alright.” Charity stuck the tip of her thumb in her mouth and soaked it in saliva. She then ran her thumb across Josh’s eyebrows. “You need a haircut. I’ll try to get you in to see the barber this weekend. Now, you go in there and study hard. I want you to pay attention to your teacher. Mrs…Mrs…”
“…Tharp.” Josh said, helping his mother remember the name of the woman who’d been his teacher for the past three months. He opened the door and leaped out of the car.
“Bye baby,” Charity shouted and then sped away.
If they ranked elementary students, Josh would have surely been in the bottom percentile. Although his struggles to keep up scholastically with his peers were well documented, Josh found solace within the school’s narrow cracked walls. Mrs. Elizabeth Tharp, the stout black woman with the wire framed eye-glasses; nasally voice, and short afro, took a liking to him. Maybe it was the
way he said “yes ma’am” and “no ma’am” when she asked him a question. Maybe it was the way he always slid his chair under his desk—without being told—before he walked away. A simple act yes, but one that made him stand out amongst the other rowdy students. Or maybe it was the sad way he looked down and his shoulders slumped whenever he struggled to ask for help. The exact reason why Elizabeth always felt compelled to take the child into her arms and hug his pain away was unclear, but she often did it. And she didn’t bother hiding her displays of affection.
When Josh walked into her classroom she could see that he was disturbed. He usually waived at her, but on this particular day he made a beeline straight to his desk. The rest of his classmates came rushing through the door after him.
“Alright, calm down and stand next to your desks,” Mrs. Tharp ordered.
After the students pledged allegiance to the American Flag and sat down, Elizabeth got right down to business. “You all know that today we are having a spelling test. I hope you all studied those words I gave you.” Some of the kids moaned while others sat there wide eyed, like a bunch of deer staring at oncoming headlights. “Clear your desk of everything except a #2 pencil.”
Josh had the misfortune of sitting next to Milton Hudson, the most disruptive child in the school. Elizabeth often referred to Milton as the devil’s son. Milton was a twelve year old boy who was so scholastically challenged, he’d been forced to repeat the third and fourth grades; a distinction he wore like a badge of honor. As a result of his ineptitude, he was the oldest fifth grader in the school’s history, and stood a full six inches taller than most of the fifth graders and a few of the female teachers.
Milton was that boy every parent insisted their child not be seated next to; a request that Charity could have made had she attended the Parent/Teacher meeting the first week of school. But, to Josh’s chagrin, his mother didn’t attend the meeting and all of the other kids parents made their feelings crystal clear. Normally, Elizabeth would have Milton sit at the “special” desk. The one she kept right next to hers so that she could reach over and lay hands on an unruly child without leaving her seat. But, during test taking time, it was school policy that all “special” desks remain vacant.
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