Hope Burned

by Brent LaPorte

  Someone normal (if such a being exists) might actually expect my father to have eased my suffering in the absence of his own tormentor. No, my father sought ways to increase the pain, to turn up the pressure, to deepen my degradation.

  I suppose the most humiliation I have ever felt, and there’s been so much, was one time shortly after my grandfather had left on one of his excursions. I was tending to one of the gardens and after the smell of the old truck’s exhaust had cleared, my father approached. He stood there in his dirty overalls, reeking of whiskey, his body swaying in the breeze—partly because of the uneven ground, but mostly because of the booze. I kept working, pretending he wasn’t there, hoping that if I ignored him long enough he would leave. I knew by his stance that this wouldn’t be the case.

  “You like it here?”

  “Yes, sir,” I said, already afraid of where this might lead.

  “Why don’t you get up outta that dirt and get back to the house and fix up some dinner. It’s getting cold and we’re gonna need a fire tonight.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  I stood up and approached gingerly, the same way a wild animal approaches the open hand of a human. The need to taste the food from the hand overrides the fear. He must have sensed this because as we walked back to the house he paused and looked at me with his yellow-green eyes and gave me what appeared to be a genuine smile. His eyes flashed from threatening to something almost trustworthy. In retrospect, I am sure this is the same smile that many have seen while drinking with my father, just before he broke a pool cue over their head. Nonetheless, for some reason, I needed to trust him.

  I was preparing the stove for the fire when he spoke again. “Son, you can tell me. You ever thought about runnin’ away to the city? I mean, yer grandpa ain’t the most kind-hearted person. Shit, he can be a downright nasty ornery sonofabitch.” He was drinking straight from the bottle, eyeing me for any reaction. I believed it was a trap and tried my best to lie. I was just starting to heal from the last beating and was in no rush for another.

  “Grandpa’s fine. He lets me sleep in the crawlspace, gave me his old mattress and blankets. Why would I want to leave?”

  “C’mon boy, you can tell yer ol’ man. Tell you the truth, I been thinking ’bout leavin’ the old prick myself. Been getting a little too ornery with me, an’ I don’t like much how he been treatin’ you.” He leaned the chair back on its hind legs and ran his fingers through his straw-colored hair to give the impression that he was putting some thought into this, some sort of sincerity, like a man trying to solve a math problem.

  I guess I felt I could trust him then—I mean he was right about Grandpa being more ornery. I had never heard him like this before. Truthfully, I had never thought about leaving. And to be honest, I never knew “the city” even existed. I guess I should have known that there were other places, I just never allowed myself to consider it.

  “Is there somewheres else we could go, Pa?”

  Smile, lips closed; eyes narrow, slits now—satisfied he had a nibble on his line.

  “Sure there is.” He was drinking even more heavily, and seemed content to humor me; otherwise, I would have already been in my dungeon.

  “Son, you ever hear of Nashville? Or Las Vegas or New York City?”

  He knew I hadn’t.

  “No, sir.”

  His face took on a new air of superiority. I mean, he always looked down on me, but this was something else. I suppose it’s the same look most dads get when they first show their son how to throw a curve, ride a bike or dive off a cliff—but my dad’s big moment in the sun was telling me that other people actually existed. Quite a revelation.

  “Nashville,” he said, “is the birthplace of country music. All the great stars play there. Dolly Parton, Kenny Rogers, Tanya Tucker, George Jones and my personal favorite, Miss Loretta Lynn.” He paused to light a cigarette, exhaled and continued. “A coal miner’s daughter. Yes, sir, that woman come from nuthin’. Dirt, dust and shit. Goddamned can she sing, though. Like an angel. What a voice. Raised not much different than you—turned her into a damned millionaire.” He wasn’t looking at me then, he was seeing something I could neither imagine nor comprehend. And then he lost that dreamy look we all get when we are reminiscing, his face becoming rigid, jaw taut, angry. It lasted for just a moment and then he was brought back to where he was, what he was doing.

  “Did you know, son, Loretta Lynn never cooks for herself? She don’t clean, sweep, light a fire. . . . Hell, I’m surprised she even wipes her own ass. She shits in a gold toilet. You imagine that? A gold toilet—inside the house. She don’t have to put on her boots and go outside to a spider-crawlin’, shit-stinkin’ outhouse like us poor folk. And why? Well, I’ll tell ya. ’Cause she is rich. Filthy fuckin’ rich. More money ’an brains.” He took another long haul from the jug, paused to let the liquid burn his throat all the way down.

  “She don’t waste her time picking potatoes, tomatoes or whatever the fuck the old man thinks we should shove into the ground. Hey boy, wouldn’t it be nice to shower in hot water instead of washin’ the dirt off yer balls in that ol’ wash tub once a month? How would you like a bathroom with a sink to wash yer hands after wiping yer ass? I bet Loretta Lynn don’t got shit on her hands. No, sir, I imagine she washes ’em off on some goddamned gold-plated sink with gold-plated taps. Probably uses gold soap. Can you imagine that, boy? ’Course you can’t. You don’t even know what gold is, do you? Jesus Christ, you are one stupid sonofabitch.”

  He took a long drag off his cigarette and sat for a bit, thinking as the smoke billowed from his now silent mouth up around his head and back down to the draft created by the half-open window. The smoke seemed to dance, like the thoughts running through his mind. Going nowhere and everywhere all at once.

  “Pa, could we become rich and shit inside the house?” I asked.

  “Boy, do you have any idea what it takes to get rich in this world?”

  I did not and replied, “No, sir.”

  “Well, you either got to have very rich parents or grandparents. Do you think you have very rich parents or grandparents?”

  “No, sir, I don’t.” I did not understand what rich meant, only that if it meant having warm running water I did not qualify.

  “Well, son, do you have some sort of talent that you think is going to make you rich? You know, like being the winner at the International Potato Picking Contest? Maybe the Tomato Polisher of the Year?”

  “I suppose I could, sir.”

  He began laughing, almost spitting his shine across the room. His face glowed bright red. I had never seen him laugh so hard, and I believed I had done something good. For the first time my father was actually happy.

  I liked that.

  He stopped laughing and took another hard swig from the jug him and Grandpa kept under the kitchen sink. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, still smiling.

  “Boy, you have no idea, do you?”

  “No idea about what, sir?”

  “Life, you goofy little prick. Life.”

  He took another long draw, contemplating what he had created. How could a boy of my age not understand that people have running water to flush away their shit, wash their clothes and make ice for their afternoon drinks? I will tell you how: no one ever told me.

  Everything my father was saying was new to me. I had no knowledge of the world prior to this.

  “So, listen, boy, you think me and you should get ourselves rich and fuck off outta this place?”

  I was still reticent, not wanting to acknowledge that I did not like working from sunrise to sunset, picking weeds, vegetables and whatever else they thought I should bend over and pick; that I didn’t like sleeping in a damp, cold, rat-infested cellar; that I could do without broken ribs, arms, teeth and whatever else they deemed breakable; that I wanted to eat a hot meal that someone hadn’t already sunk tobacco-stained teeth into.

  “Well, Pa, I like to work, but I do get awful sore some days,” I
finally managed.

  His green eyes lit up, encouraging me to continue.

  “I mean if there was somewhere we could go, you and me, and if Grandpa would be okay . . . we could go . . . couldn’t we?”

  He hauled a final draw off his cigarette, threw the butt on the floor and got out of his chair. Unsteady, he staggered near. One of the straps of his overalls hung from his shoulder and he clumsily pulled it back in place. He turned his back to me and began to speak. “Boy, we could leave. In fact, your old grandpa’s got money we could steal. Shit, the old prick wouldn’t even notice if we took a handful.” He paused. “You wanna see it?”

  I had never seen money before.

  “Yes, sir. I sure would.”

  “Okay, boy, throw some more on that fire. The old man ain’t here to bitch ’bout it bein’ too hot or us wastin’ the fuckin’ wood. Pile ’er on, boy. Hell, maybe you’ll even feel some heat down there tonight.”

  I did as he told me. I picked a couple of the biggest logs that would hopefully burn all night and take some of the dampness out of the crawlspace.

  He grabbed the jug and said, “Come with me.”

  We walked down the dark hall towards the bedrooms. The doors were closed and, as I soon found out, locked. My father stopped halfway down the hall, reached up to the top of the doorframe and took down a key.

  The floor creaked beneath us. It was strange being on this side of the creaking. I was beginning to get uncomfortable, and then we stopped. Pa fumbled with the key to the lock of my grandfather’s door, but finally got it to open.

  The room was dark so my father struck a match. Shadows danced. They were like ghosts trying not to be seen, crawling around corners, up the walls, over and under the furniture, dancing with my father as he lit the oil lamp. Then they suddenly disappeared, as though they were as afraid of the light as we are of the dark. The room grew lighter, but not brighter. I don’t think there is a light in the world that could brighten that place. The four-post pine bed was unmade, sheets and blankets hanging about as though they were trying to strangle it. They were discolored, likely not washed in a year. The smell of my grandfather was everywhere.

  Dirty work clothes were thrown in a corner, the pile as high as my waist. I never knew he had more than one set. I honestly didn’t.

  There were no photos, no indication that the man had personal effects. No jewelry, dress clothes, not even a mirror.

  My father led me to a corner of the room where an old rocker sat. He dragged it forward and knelt. He was so unsteady I had to grab him before he toppled.

  “Git yer fucking hands offa me, I don’ need yer help,” he spat. I wasn’t sure whether his disgust was with me or with himself.

  I couldn’t see precisely which floorboards he removed, but I did see the old green strongbox he raised. It was beaten, and no doubt older than my father.

  I held the oil lamp as he got to his feet. I followed him to the bed. He straightened one of the dirty blankets and emptied the contents of the box.

  Rolls of paper money and coins scattered, but I truthfully had no idea what they were. I had never seen such things before; the coins sparkled with the lamp’s flickering.

  Other things that fell to the bed were equally puzzling and enticing: ribbons, hair clips, bracelets. Were they valuable? I didn’t know.

  My father picked up a handful of the silver pieces and said, “Whatta ya think, boy? Sure is pretty, ain’t it?”

  The light continued to play as he dropped individual coins back onto the bed. I think the silver only became more enticing because of the hideous surroundings.

  “Yes, sir; they are pretty.” I was mesmerized: I wanted to touch one of them—all of them—hold them, take them and bring them into my crawlspace. Maybe they would carry off the light, ward off the rats that seem so intent on devouring me.

  As if he read my thoughts, my father slapped me on the side of the head, grabbed a roll of the paper money and said, “Boy, this is a lesson fer ya. This here rolla paper money ain’t real pretty, but just one is worth a whole bag a them there coins. Don’ be fooled by pretty things. ’Cause something is pretty, don’ make it worth nothing. You understand?”

  Actually I did. I’m not sure what prompted him to offer that piece of advice, but it would prove useful.

  As quickly as he’d emptied the box, he gathered up the money and trinkets and put them back, careful to replace everything as it was—a quick tousle of the sheets, and we left as quietly as we entered.

  We returned to the kitchen without a word, pausing only long enough for my father to return the key to the top of the closet doorframe.

  The firewood I’d selected was proving worth its weight. The heat coming off the stove was oppressive. My father swayed back and forth, the full effect of the alcohol enhanced by the boiler-room temperature. He was trying to focus his gaze, but at that point I’m sure he wasn’t able to focus on any thing in particular.

  “Whatta ya think, boy? Should we rob the old man blind and get the fuck outta this shit hole? Get you some store-bought clothes? Would you like a pair a shoes, boy? How ’bout some nice clean pants?”

  I didn’t know how to answer.

  “Dint you hear, boy? What say we crack the old man over the head with an ax, take the money and his truck and go find Loretta Lynn? Ain’t no one gonna miss the ol’ bastard. Ain’t no one cares ’bout him but us, an’ shit, we hate him.” He began laughing, so I started to laugh with him.

  Finally, I felt comfortable enough to say, “Pa, if you want to, I’ll leave with you. I sure would like shoes. My feet do get sore walkin’ on rocks and such all day.”

  “Boy, with the money in there I could buy you a hundred pair.” With that, he gestured for me to come closer and began to whisper. Maybe it was the shine, maybe he was getting all choked up, but it seemed like an incredible breakthrough in our relationship. His voice became quieter and I had to get near to make out what he was trying to tell me. He had one hand up on the warming rack over the stove and beckoned me with the other. When I was next to him he pulled me even closer and whispered something unintelligible in my ear.

  “What was that, sir?”

  He grabbed me by my left ear then, and shoved the right side of my face onto the top of the almost glowing stove. I screamed and tried to pull away while he yelled, “I said if you ever even think of leaving here I will burn the other side of your face, your hands, your feet and your nuts!”

  The smell of burning flesh almost made me vomit. The pain from my burnt face and ear did.

  I fell to my hands and knees and he kicked me in the ribs. I dry-heaved until I was exhausted.

  The old man stood over me. “You’ll see that fuckin’ mark on yer fuckin’ face every time you look in a mirror, boy, and you’ll remember. You’ll remember who fuckin’ owns you—I fuckin’ own yer ass. You will never, ever, leave here, understand?”

  I couldn’t speak. He kicked me again and yelled even more loudly. “Who owns you? Who owns you, boy? Where you goin’, boy? Where you goin’?”

  Somehow I managed, “You own me, Pa. I ain’t goin’ nowhere.”

  He glared, maybe expecting more of a fight, maybe surprised that I could manage words at all.

  I lay there on the floor for God knows how long. Jesus, I had never felt such pain. But what I didn’t feel was humiliation. Or defeat. No, despite the agony, I felt hope. Once I knew there was a place to escape to, I also knew that I would get there. I knew I did not have to live like this.

  WE’RE SITTING IN THE HOUSE now, you and me. There’s still no electricity and I am writing this by the light of an oil lamp. It’s summer, so there is no fire for heat, and there’s no one to cook for.

  They’re both dead, yes. My masters are no longer.

  It’s strange sitting here at the head of this old pine table, writing to you. I suppose, for now, I am the head of this family.

  The lamp flickers as though it knows its masters are gone. It fights to die. It whimpers, jumps a
nd tries to hide, to make my task as difficult as possible. But the oil is a greater force and the lamp stays lit. It’s the true master. A man can turn a knob and light as many matches as he wants, but without oil, there is no light. The lamp begrudgingly allows me to go on. It’s almost as though it does not want me to write to you. But I would write this in the dark if I had to. Because I must.

  I look at you lying on the old man’s chair. You are asleep—and you are beautiful. I know it might seem wrong to call a boy beautiful, but you are not old enough to be handsome. The orange light plays with the features of your young face to reveal an inner peacefulness. As I watch you sleep your expression changes—from happy to sad to ferocious—with every flicker of the lamp. Shadows over a lip, light caressing a cheek, eyes darkened with contempt, chin aflame with pride.

  I wonder how many wars began because of what fire betrayed. When it does this to a sleeping child, what did it do to Tecumseh or Sitting Bull? How many have been doomed by an ill-timed spark from a poorly placed log?

  A man has only as many expressions as fire will allow. It is a strange thing, fire. I know, for example, that sometimes it has an effect that’s opposite of what’s intended. When it’s meant to be warming, it’s cold. When it’s meant to offer friendship it can convey hate. When it should have been feared it was thought to be warm and inviting. In me, when my father intended the flame to crush me, it spawned strength and hope.

  I watch you, my son, sleeping. You are exhausted from the trip here and the day’s events. Your lips pursed, mouth slightly open, I press my hand on your chest, as I have done a thousand times since you were born, just to be sure your heart is beating.

  I’m not sure what I would do if I could not feel the rise and fall of your tiny chest. As I write this I choke back tears. God, how I love you, little man.

  Sometimes I wonder how such a great gift can be such a joy and burden all at the same time. It’s surely God’s cruelest gift. You love something more than life itself knowing it may be taken from you at any time. You will do anything to protect it from the type of pain and suffering you have experienced in your life. There is nothing real parents wouldn’t do to protect their children.