Breaking the Cycle

by Zane

  “But, I promise to make it right for you, Asia. I do. I can’t have you growing up hating me. I just can’t. My mother and I were never close, and even after your grandfather died, I blamed her for not being a better person. A better wife. A better mother. I can’t have you feeling the same way about me.”

  Dawn couldn’t believe how her life had become a near mirror image of her mother’s. The sight of Todd and Asia interacting brought those memories flooding back to her. As a little girl, she idolized her father, and ignored the humiliation and degradation he subjected her mother to. She never gave her mother credit for anything, and though her mother might not have been perfect, she was her mother. And her mother never abandoned her, even if she wasn’t the mother Dawn wished she could have been.

  Dawn sighed again, and stroked the back of her little girl’s head. Her arm was getting sore. She looked over at the nightstand, and noticed her bottle of pain pills. Sliding out of bed, Dawn went in the kitchen to get a glass of water. She stood at the sink and filled her glass from the tap, nearly overrunning it. She absently walked back into Asia’s room, where she quietly sat on the edge of the bed.

  Instead of reaching for the pills, Dawn picked up the cordless phone and dialed it. After several rings, someone finally picked up.

  “Hello?” The woman’s deep, raspy voice was slightly slurred. Dawn looked at the clock. It was only eight-thirty, and her mother was three sheets to the wind already.

  “Hello, Mother,” Dawn said, and immediately wondered why she had called her.

  Her mother coughed, a deep, hacking cough that reminded Dawn of the fact that Peggy was now battling emphysema, too. “Dawn? Is that you?” Her voice was still thick with that Boston accent.

  Dawn wondered how a mother couldn’t recognize her own child’s voice. Dawn realized that it was the alcohol talking.

  “Yes, Mother. I was just calling to see how you were doing.”

  Her mother hacked again. “I’m doing okay, Dear. How are you?” She finished the sentence with a long wheeze.

  Dawn sighed, and just wanted to hang the phone up. “I’m okay, I guess.” She hesitated, and caressed her throbbing arm. “Mother, I really need to talk to you.” She paused, searching to find the right words that screamed from her heart. “Why did you allow Daddy to treat you like he did?”

  Peggy hacked again, and Dawn could hear the phlegm rising in her mother’s throat. Dawn also heard her mother take a long swallow. “Whawhat are you talking about, Dawn? Your father was a good man.”

  The denial echoed in Dawn’s ears. “Good man? To whom?”

  “To you, Dear. You were the apple of his eye, or don’t you recall?” Peggy asked, and Dawn overheard the sound of ice clinking against a glass.

  Dawn sighed again, and grabbed the painkillers. Now was the time for her to take a deep swallow as she tossed in two of the capsules and washed them down with the lukewarm tap water. “I recall. But, I’m not talking about me. I’m talking about you.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Dawn. Are you okay?” her mother asked, the avoidance and denial in her voice rising.

  “You don’t know what I’m talking about? How could you not know? The way he used to talk to you. The way he treated you. How he used to hit you. Beat on you. Is that bringing back any memories?”

  Carl had been dead less than two years. Surely Peggy could not have forgotten the years of abuse she suffered, but she remained adamant about it. In her eyes, Carl was a saint.

  “I’m not sure where you’re going with this, Dawn, but this subject is closed. I don’t feel like traipsing back down memory lane with you; especially if I don’t have the same so-called memories that you do. Now,” Peggy said, her speech even more slurred. “If you have something more pleasant to talk about, we can. Otherwise—”

  “Otherwise what? The conversation is over? Mother, please. For the first time in my life, why don’t you talk to me? Don’t you realize how important this is? But this is always how you’ve been. Out in la-la land. In an eternal state of denial. Sucked down in a bottle of booze. You were never there when I needed you.”

  “What are you saying? I was always there for you, Dawn Lynn. Always.”

  “You never protected me,” Dawn said, as she struggled to keep her voice quiet, but the rage was escalating her tone.

  “Protected you from what? Your father never did anything to you. He never touched you. Never.”

  “Oh, so you remember that. That’s not the point. He never did anything to me, but you let me see him do everything to you. You don’t think that damaged me? Huh?”

  “Oh, please. How could it? You were perfect. You were Daddy’s little girl. How could that be such a bad thing?”

  “It was, Mother. It was. It made me feel like you were worthless. That you were incompetent. And it made me despise you.”

  Peggy’s line grew quiet, and Dawn heard the sound of ice cracking. She realized that Peggy was pouring more liquor into her glass.

  “So, you’ve been carrying that around all of these years? So, you despise me, huh?” Peggy asked.

  “Yes, I did. I hated you for not protecting me. And for ultimately turning me into you.”

  Dawn clicked the off button, and slammed the receiver down. Tears flowed down her cheeks as she stormed into the living room, where she ransacked the cabinets in the wall unit until she found a bottle of Stolichnaya Vodka. She tucked it under her injured arm, then picked up an old-fashioned glass. Through a tear-filled haze, she stumbled back into Asia’s room.

  “Thank you, Mother. I guess I have completely become you,” Dawn said as she poured the clear liquor into the glass until it kissed the rim. She wiped the tears and snot from her face, and carefully sat down on Asia’s bed. She patted her daughter on her back, and noticed that Asia’s breaths were slow and shallow. “Don’t worry, Baby. Mommy’s not going to fail you. You’ll never grow up hating me, nor will you turn out like me. I’ll take care of that, Baby. I promise.” Dawn sniffled, reached over and kissed the back of her baby’s head.

  Then she picked up the bottle of Dalmane. It was half-empty because, earlier, she had taken out ten tablets, crushed them, and mixed them into Asia’s chocolate sauce. Dawn poured the remaining pills into her mouth, and held them until they slightly dissolved. She placed the glass of Stoli’s to her lips, and forced the bitter concoction down her throat.

  She nestled back into bed with Asia, and placed a loving arm around her only daughter. “Mommy loves you, Asia. I never want you to be like me. Never. Never.” And slowly, Dawn’s words turned into her second favorite lullaby.

  “Hush little baby, don’t you cry…”

  VICTIM OR VICTOR… SOMETIMES NEITHER PREVAILS.

  Collen Dixon is the author of Simon Says, Behind Closed Doors… In My Father’s House, and Every Shut Eye. She has just finished her fourth novel, Relative Secrets, which completes the Simon Says “quadrilogy.” An avid reader, Collen enjoys Feng Shui and tending to her bonsai trees, collecting art and automobiles. She also enjoys “viewing the world from two wheels,” skiing, traveling and entertaining. A huge movie buff, she recently successfully underwent treatment for an addiction to online auctions. She and Chadwick, her fur-faced little boy, currently reside in Mitchellville, MD. Her motto is “Always be grateful, never be satisfied.”

  THE GRINDSTONE

  NANE QUARTAY

  I knew there was something desperate in the night, when I saw the brightness of the sparks that shot off the blade of the machete. And so… that night, I ran.

  I ran down Upwards Alley, over to Front Street, and up the hill to my house. I only lived two long blocks up on the top of Front Street, but the street was so deep that I was catching my breath in heaving gasps by the time I made it to our front door. All out of breath and shit!

  My youngest sister, Tammy, was sitting out front on a bench that sat alongside the house, watching my two-year-old brother toddling around on the ground. She barely gave me a glance as I stoo
d there, breathing hard but trying not to show it. My oldest sister, Toby, came riding up on her bicycle, hopped off, and went inside the front door. I waited until I heard her footsteps fade away up the stairs and then I began to plot on her bike, laying there where she had let it fall. Toby’s bicycle was one of those girl’s bikes; no metal bar for me to fall on and hurt my undeveloped manhood. I was so small that I couldn’t reach the pedals while I was sitting on the seat, so the absence of that metal bar was crucial. The missing tube created a gap that allowed me to pedal the bike while I was standing up and I triumphantly rode around and around in circles on the sidewalk. Boy! I can’t wait till I’m big enough to ride a boy’s bike! This delicious thought pedaled around in my head as I rode and turned on the bicycle.

  The sound of breaking glass messed up my flow. I looked up in time to see my lucky horseshoe, the one I had won at school, come flying out of the window. It landed right in the middle of the street. The next thing I heard was my father’s voice. He was drunk. Know how I know? He was always drunk!

  “How you bring a bastard up in my house!”

  It was a statement. My statement. My stepfather’s description of me. When he was drunk, it was his only description of me. I wouldn’t say that I hate him. There has got to be a better word for my feelings than “hate.” Yet, he found his hatred of me became intensified when it was mixed with vodka. He was a big man… compared to me. He was a smart man… compared to me. He was a man… compared to me. To me, he was the evil that turned off every emotion I ever had, every feeling, the devil who endangered my very sanity and killed the childhood part of my life. He rampaged on my teenage years, that time of life when relationships develop, some in the most intimate of ways, where bits and pieces of yourself are defined by the company you keep, the friends that you make. The years when life is sweet and carefree… not just painful day-to-day hell. My father did that. My daddy.

  He wasn’t my real daddy, though. He was only my stepfather but what’s the difference… especially if you don’t know who your real daddy is anyway.

  I fucking hate him. Yeah. That fits better.

  I remember the first time he hit me. He tried to punch me with a manpunch, a hard man-punch, straight to my face. I was way too small to take that blow and I could see that shit comin’. I ducked away enough, but not all the way enough, and his knuckle caught me right in the eye. Shit! That shit hurt! My eye was all swollen and shit.

  Maaannnn! I can’t wait till I get big!

  I had gone back to turning circles on the sidewalk, losing myself in the endless ‘O’s when I heard his voice again. “Woman! I will fuck you up!”

  “WHY?!” my mother screamed.

  “Stupid shit! You better—”

  “So, why then?! Why you hit me?!”

  “’Cause, Woman…”

  For a long second, there was silence, and then the unmistakable sound of a hard, solid fist hitting soft, pliable flesh. Plappp! I paused to look up for an instant—knowing my black-ass stepfather was beatin’ on my mother again. But I messed up when I took my eyes off the sidewalk. The bike swerved and I veered off the curb. To this day, I still don’t know how it all happened. Next thing I know, I’m rolling down Front Street, down the steepest hill I had ever seen in my life. I didn’t panic; not in my recollection. I really don’t remember panicking. I remember looking down toward the bottom of that hill and seeing the houses come rushing by me. I remember seeing there weren’t any cars in my lane, but I do recall a few cars coming toward me in the opposite lane. The bike began to gather speed and I felt soon I would be flying… and I didn’t have wings! There was no way I was going to be able to stop that bike without fucking myself up. A random thought occurred to me. There ain’t no way this is gonna end right!

  In a desperate flash, Upwards Alley appeared on my right-hand side and my mind pictured the steepness of that sloping hill. If I could make that turn into the alley, I would be able to let gravity stop my momentum so I could fall off safely to the side and bring the bike back on home.

  Yeah! I could do that shit! Shit?

  I remember turning the handlebars to make the turn, but it was the first time I ever tried to make a real-time turn on a bicycle and I didn’t quite make it. My front wheel hit the curb right in front of Donnell Shunt’s house and I flipped. Well, actually the bike and I flipped through the air and I landed upside-down and totally! fucked! Up! My shoe had somehow come off in mid-air and my toe was smashed on the concrete. It was a pulpy, bloody mess. I felt the pain shooting up my leg so intensely, I was able to ignore the throbbing flare of the giant, knot swelling over my left ear. My head felt like someone had shoved a steel cue ball inside my head and left it there for me to grow on. I could feel it… expanding. I felt blood leaking through the cuts and scrapes on my body; my forearm had a deep gash that left a wicked-looking scar I carry to this day. My vision was colored by pain… but I was alive!

  Donnell Shunt’s grandfather was sitting on the front porch, smiling. He seemed kinda far away from me, his bony body a mish-mash of angles and sticks. Now that I look back on it, he seemed like, somehow like… distant. The porch was only three steps high but his voice always seems to come out of a tunnel in my memory.

  He said, “You gonna get up from there, Boy?”

  Famous last words.

  There was a sharp, piercing scream, a war-chant, as his wife, Jessie Mae, came sprinting up behind the old man with the machete held high. It was held back, like Thor’s hammer, and I can still see lightning in the reflection of the sharpened edge… and I can still remember when she swung it. I saw it mechanically… I saw the finer points of a perfect home run swing, the way a baseball coach would teach it. The swing started at shoulder height and went forward. Her hips opened up, building on the momentum generated… as the blade went forward. She pushed off with the speed gathered from her running start and stopped on a perfect dime, pivot and swing. It was power. Perfect execution. Pure power when the long blade of the machete sliced through the old man’s neck… flesh, blood and bone… and cut his head clean off. It just lopped off from the initial “pop” of his blood, his life force, before it bounced off the ground, like, maybe twice, and rolled a little down the street. His body… his body fell out of the chair. Plop. Dead. The old lady stood there for what seemed like a silent forever, entranced by the scene splayed out before her eyes, hypnotized as reality started to materialize to her conscious mind. She saw his spurting blood.

  And she screamed. And screamed. And screamed some more. “Willie Bobo, head off, mothafucka! Willie Bobo, head off!”

  I remember struggling to my feet. The pain from my injuries became a mere background hum of an ache. I remember standing there. Watching. I don’t remember any thought patterns. No fear. No disgust. No abject terror. I just stood there. My vision would register sensory images and send them to my brain, but there was no verbalization of ideas. I saw what was going on but, no, I can’t say a single thought entered my mind. I guess life can be so random sometimes, huh?

  But the old lady. Jessie Mae! The old lady lost it. She screamed like a banshee until the police arrived. When they got there, she dove, threw her body, face first into her husband’s pouring blood. There was plenty of it, flowing down the sidewalk. His life’s essence paying the cost of inflicting pain on another life—with man-punches to the face. Counting the cost that life is sweet, every life, and that a soul cries out to be free… no matter the cost.

  It was the ending of the cycle. There would be no more pain.

  The old man’s body lay there, of course, but it looked like all of his blood and guts were rushing toward the opening where his head used to be. It looked like wormy guts and thick blood were pulsing, desperately straining to get loose, but only rivulets of brackish liquid oozed out. I stayed there, transfixed, until the firemen washed all the red fluid down the street. I looked down at my smashed and bloody toe. It didn’t hurt anymore.

  The front wheel of the bike was bent so I limped, walking
the bike back up the hill, dumped it out front, and went inside our house. My mother looked at me.

  “What happened to you?” she asked, mildly interested.

  “I flipped my bike.” I exhaled as I flopped on the couch.

  “And tore your head up?”

  I nodded my head in reply.

  “That’s what you get! Good for your ass, then,” she intoned. “Didn’t I tell you about that shit? You always doin’ shit. You need to learn to sit ya ass down somewhere.”

  My insides were hollow as I told my mother what Donnell Shunt’s grandmother had done to her husband’s head. I had an image stuck in my mind. A picture of his guts straining to escape from his headless neck.

  “She did that with a knife?” My mother looked me in the eyes.

  “A machete, you know, those long knives,” I answered.

  “Musta been sharp, then.”

  “Ma, she swung that knife like she was a home run king! It was like… like… flop and crunchy when his head came off. It went… like thump and crunch all at the same time. Nasty.”

  I told her how I had seen Jessie Mae sharpening the blade on the grindstone earlier that day, shortly before she took her husband’s head off.

  I knew there was something desperate in the night, when I saw the brightness of the sparks that shot off the blade of the machete. Once again, I felt utterly alone. The flashes of light drew me like a magnet, so I crept over and watched the woman through the slats of the wooden fence. Her face was set in a mad glare as she worked the grindstone, turned the wheel, and aimed for the razor’s edge, moving the blade back and forth, watching intently as a sharp point began to materialize. An old lady. New in town. She was Donnell Shunt’s grandma. Her husband had recently moved with her to our small town of Hudson from somewhere down South—Louisiana, I think.