by Cathy Lamb
About a year later, Martin moved on to me, asking me out, calling. I refused. Again, my mother had to call the police on him because he would not quit driving by our house, coming to our door, and calling. I do not say this lightly, but the man truly does have a violent personality disorder. There is something insidious, something truly off about him.
Martin Hooks was currently a “businessman” who owned a gun shop in the city, and we all hated him. He had been married to TJ’s mother, Joyce, for five years, but she left him and took custody of TJ, partly because Martin threatened her with a gun.
It turned out that Joyce Hooks, who had been a meek, homely, and intensely shy mouse of a woman when she first married Martin, was having an affair. It is the only time I have heard of someone having an affair and no one blamed the spouse for cheating.
“I would cheat if I was married to him, too,” Caden said. “I want him to hit me one day, then I could put him in a headlock until he begged for breath.”
“I wouldn’t cheat. I’d poison him,” my mother said. “Use the secret family combo of death-killing herbs and set that dog right down.”
The man Joyce was having an affair with was a rather nerdy, but kind, college professor. Joyce had gone back to school. As soon as the class term ended, her English professor and she started meeting for coffee, then lunch, and fell in love over gourmet pizza. He told her one month into it to leave Martin or lose him, Mr. Professor.
Joyce made the right choice. She told me later it took less than one second. She went home after the pizza, packed up, took half their savings, left, rented an apartment, and started a new life.
Martin, however, had a fit. It was ugly. It was public. He rammed his car into the professor’s. He started stalking both the professor and Joyce. He went to Joyce’s classes at the college and sat in back of her, kicking her chair, until she called campus security and they took care of that right quick.
He parked in front of the professor’s house and repeatedly tried to get Joyce to come out and talk to him, yelling, “You cheating scum whore!” until the police came. He attacked the professor once, swinging a huge fist at him, but the rather thin, nerdy professor had a black belt in karate and was also a marathon runner, and Martin ended up beat to crap and left prone and groaning on the sidewalk.
Martin had vowed to get Joyce back, “that cunt.” He had been absolutely stunned when she’d left him, “that whore.” I knew because he’d called here looking for her as Joyce and I are friends. “You tell that bitch to get her ass back home before I—”
“Shut up, Martin,” I said.
“What?”
“Shut up. I’m not going to tell Joyce anything except, ‘Why didn’t you leave him sooner?’ ”
“What?”
“Quit harassing her. She’s in love with someone else and doesn’t want to be with you.”
“In love?” he sputtered. “What do you mean?”
As if “in love” was a foreign concept. “As in, she’s not in love with you.”
“Yes, she is!”
“Why do you think that? What on earth did you do to keep your wife in love with you?”
“I . . . I . . .” he blustered. “I bought the house.”
“You both bought the house. She put down half.”
“I worked!”
“She did, too, and all you did was make her life miserable. Leave Joyce alone. She finally has her brains growing straight in her head and took off. Good-bye, Martin.”
“You bitch, Jaden—”
I hung up.
There was no love lost between Martin and me. He was a tall, overweight white guy who resembled a sausage with shark eyes. He had a bulging stomach.
His son, TJ, was tall and lean, and overwhelmed by his father, who always stood on the sidelines of any game TJ was playing in. Martin would open his foul mouth, a gaping garbage disposal, and didn’t shut up ’til the bell rang. He would be verbally abusive to the coaches and referees, too, and was often banned from games.
Martin Hooks is the type of arrogant, blind parent who believes, erroneously, that his son is bound for college basketball greatness. The truth is, TJ is a solid player, one of the top three scorers for his team, which, on a team of twelve, in a small town, isn’t saying a ton. He is nowhere near strong enough for a college scholarship, but his father is delusional enough to think that he is.
The whistles blew the night of our game against Sunrise, the ref lowered the ball, then tossed it up for the tip-off. I could already hear Martin Hooks screaming, “Get in there, TJ, come on, move it, move your butt!”
The tip-off went straight to Tate.
“For God’s sake, TJ!” Martin’s voice zinged around that gym. “Don’t let the Mongloid get it.”
I exchanged a searing glance with my mother. Her eyelids lowered in disdain.
Martin shot me a dirty, victorious look across the gym as in, I’ll call your son whatever I want and you can’t stop me.
“I believe I’m going to beat the shit out of Martin,” Caden told me, matter-of-factly. “It’ll be after the game. You’ll have to keep Damini and the triplets with you. Don’t lose Harvey. He’s dressed as an explorer tonight and he might wander off and you know Hazel always follows him. I’m going to lead a cheer now.”
“Ohh! Can I watch the pummeling?” My mother clapped her hands. “I love a fist-punching fight. Will there be squirting blood? Mangled bones?”
“It will depend on my mood, Mom, and what Martin says to me, but you can watch if Jaden agrees to watch the kids.”
“I’m going with you, Daddy!” Damini said. “I’m not gonna miss this.”
“Ha ha! Jaden, you babysit! I’m going to the match!” My mother tapped my knee. “I will relish the moment and tell you all about it later so you can live it vicariously.”
“But I want to see the pummeling—”
“Too bad! I’m older, I’m first. And”—she poked a finger in the air—“I’ll have to protect Caden if he gets hurt.”
It was so ludicrous to think of Martin hurting Caden it set off a giggle stint.
I will, again, not do a play-by-play of the game, but suffice it to say that Tate had four three-pointers right off the top. TJ Hooks was guarding Tate, and I could see his increasing frustration.
In a quieter moment I heard Martin shout, “It’s called defense, TJ. You know what that is, right? Block the retard.... The space alien kid gets another basket? Hell, TJ, you can’t do better? Are you even alive out there?”
“I think I will go after Martin myself,” I said. “Then Caden can finish the job.”
My mother cackled, then said, “Ohhh! I’ll watch that, too. Caden babysits first while I watch you, then you babysit while I watch Caden!”
Martin peered with his beady eyes at my mother and me at that moment and tipped his mouth up at the corners in a creepy smirk. I did not hide the disgust on my face. My mother didn’t, either. She flipped him off with both hands. She does not worry about someone taking photos of her and posting them on YouTube. She is too cool for that and too entrenched in Hollywood. Plus, many people in Tillamina grew up with her, they knew her parents and grandparents, they do not ever gush over her, and they proudly protect her privacy.
“First, though,” my mother drawled, bringing her hands down, “I will finish my spell against Martin, the man who chased Brooke, who resembles boar’s slobber.” She wiggled her fingers. I put my hand over her hands. I don’t believe in spells, but still.
She moved her hands from under mine, I grabbed them again, she moved, I grabbed. Honestly, we probably looked ridiculous. I’m trying to hold my mother’s hands and she’s pulling them away. I stopped when Caden yelled, “Stand up for the stomp cheer, folks!”
This one involved all of us parents standing up. We chanted, “Bobcats, bobcats, snarl and bite, don’t give in, we’ll fight fight fight!”
When we said “snarl,” we were supposed to make scary faces. When we said “bite,” we snapped our ha
nds together. We fisted our hands in the air and stomped when we said, “Fight fight fight.” At the end we yelled, “Bobcats!”
The triplets love that cheer. Damini added an extra hiss at the end.
My mother ripped her hands away from mine for about ten seconds. Ten. That was all it took. She touched the cross, heart, and star charms on her necklace as I made an “I can’t believe this” sound in my throat.
I glanced over at Martin Hooks as my mother whispered a chant about stomach death. Within seconds, his mouth was shut and he was gripping that bulging stomach like he was holding a baby.
She wriggled those long fingers again. Martin bent over, then tried to straighten.
She giggled and said, “Hello, diarrhea!”
“He is diarrhea,” Damini said. “Yuck.”
I knew my mother did not cause his pain with her spell. The man was huge. He probably had a thousand farts wrapped up in that stomach, all dying to get out.
Martin tried to stand again. No go.
She giggled again. “Such power! I wish you were a spell believer, honey.”
I rolled my eyes.
“I’m a spell believer, Nana!” Damini said. “We’re witches.”
Martin remained leaning half over, his garbage disposal mouth finally shut and not insulting TJ.
Meanwhile TJ was sticking to Tate like glue, and Tate the same to TJ, but Tate’s defense was better. TJ could hardly shoot and he made few baskets. TJ was called for a technical for language and unsportsmanlike conduct against Tate. Tate shot the ball on the fouls and made the points.
Martin straightened up for a second and lambasted his son. “Get that creature! What the hell’s wrong with you! Wake up!” A second later he hobbled off the bleachers and into the hallway.
“I love that spell.” My mother sighed. “I am sooo good. I had a petticoats-on-fire problem, and I solved it.”
“You did the freeing-of-the-bowel spell, didn’t you?”
“Yes, I did. Freeing of the bowels is a specialty of mine, you know that.”
“You know I don’t believe in your spells of any sort.”
“I know, darling. But he won’t be back for a while, and that’s what’s important.”
Martin Hooks wasn’t back to see his son foul Tate a second and third time, but he was back to see the fourth foul.
“Are you a loser, TJ?” Martin roared at his own son. “You can’t even win against this stupid team?”
Tate caught a pass with one hand, dribbled outside of the three-point line, turned, and shot. TJ rushed him, and Tate was knocked to the ground. The ball zipped through the net, three-pointer. I inhaled, sharp and tight, but Tate scrambled right back up.
“Nice going, TJ!” his dad hollered, but this time Martin meant it as a compliment, as in, excellent work bashing that kid. He grinned, maniacally, up at us. Caden spread his arms out wide and yelled, “You’re still a dick, Martin.”
Martin’s face fell. There was no way he would challenge Caden. Caden would have him squirming on the ground like a pig.
Tate was called to the foul line, where he made three shots in a row.
We won by nineteen. Nineteen points. We had never beat Sunrise as far back as I could remember.
The win sent our crowd into delirium, and when the final whistle blew, kids jumped off the bleachers onto the floor. The triplets and Damini followed them down. Tate’s glorious smile told me all I needed to know.
He was safe. He was happy.
I was grateful.
My mother tapped me on the back. “Now do you believe in my spells?”
“Oh, Mom.”
“Once a witch, always a witch.” She kissed my cheek. “Let’s you, Caden, Tate, Damini, the triplets, and I go and have some wine after the pummeling.”
“The kids can’t drink wine, Mom.”
“Darn it. You’re right. I’ll make them White Russians. There’s cream in there, right?”
Later that night, in the parking lot, TJ Hooks leaned out the window of his team bus and yelled at Tate, “Hey, deformed, two-headed fuck, next time I will cream you into the ground and you will be a bowl of oatmeal with crooked eyes, which is what your face looks like.”
To which Tate smiled, amidst all his victorious teammates, and said, “I love oatmeal! Apple cinnamon is my favorite, followed by brown sugar, third favorite is plain. You know, nothing special. Hey—you would relate to nothing special, TJ.”
And Milt, such a true friend, said, “He’s got a big head, that’s true, but it’s not a fuck. You’re confused, TJ. Do you know what a fuck is? You probably don’t. Never will. But you’re not a bright light in the chandelier, are you? You’re probably not a bright light in a flashlight, either.”
“Brighter than you and brighter than the retard, blackie,” TJ said.
I started to charge, but my mother and my brother held me back. “Don’t humiliate him, Jaden. Let him be a man,” Caden said.
“He can’t say that to Milt or to Tate!”
“Let your son defend himself,” Caden said, although I could tell he was barely controlling himself. “Same with Milt.”
“We can always send them herbs in a coffee cake that will crush their rectums, now watch,” my mother singsonged.
Damini said, “I want that coffee cake recipe, Nana.”
Hazel, Heloise, and Harvey danced about until Hazel said, “Rectum.” Heloise said, “I love Tate and Slinky.” Harvey said, “I eat I eat I eat. I not eat Slinky.”
I turned back to the scene at the bus. Tate’s teammates squared off against TJ.
“You’re gonna get fucked next time, Tate,” TJ said.
“One day I will, I hope!” Tate said, smiling. “I hope she’s gorgeous, too. Hot. Oh yeah, I’m totally into it, TJ, but I won’t use the F word because I’m classier than that. I don’t think it’ll happen to you, but for me, yes. With a body like mine it’s hard for women to think straight when they see me. It’s the arousal that gets in the way, the rush of seduction.”
Tate’s teammates chortled like drunk hyenas.
“You got lucky, Tate—” TJ said, thumping the bus.
“Hey, temper-tantrum man, loser, you lost. You lost because we’re better,” Anthony said. “Be cool about it.”
“I am not gonna be cool about it because I’m gonna kick your asses next time. This is personal, Tate. Personal. It’s you and me, Tate.” He jabbed a finger at Tate, his face squished up and pissed off.
“I can’t get personal with you, TJ.” Tate put his palms up in the air. “I’m sorry but I’m not gay.”
Tate’s team hyena-laughed again, as did the boys on the bus.
“I love the ladies, so I can’t get together with you, dude,” Tate said. “But you can find someone else. Or at least someone in your imagination. You probably want a tall, dark, handsome man who kisses you gently, hugs you close, whispers sweet things, takes control. . . .”
“Fuck you, Tate!”
“Again, dude, I can’t do that.” Tate raised his hands higher in the air in mock frustration. “I already told you! I’m not gay! I do not want to see you naked! I don’t want to do the F word with you.”
TJ’s teammates even laughed. Obviously TJ wasn’t popular.
“I didn’t say I wanted to see you naked, either!”
“You did, you said it, TJ. You’re thinkin’ about it, thinkin’ about me, and hey. Uh. Not gonna work.”
“What are you talking about, you idiot!”
“Now don’t start calling me, TJ, or texting or friending me, okay? I don’t want you to be a scorned lover or anything—”
“Shut up, Tate! I’m gunnin’ for you, you hear that, you gooky blob? I’m comin’ to get you, I am comin’ to get you!”
The bus pulled away.
Harvey inhaled sharply. “Damn. He bad boy.”
“Ya,” Heloise said. “Mean. I kick him.”
“I no like that bad boy,” Hazel said.
“Martin’s created an inferno of anger
in his own kid,” I said.
“Martin’s a dangerous man. Dangerous kid, too,” Caden said, eyes serious as we watched Martin Hooks lower himself and his hard gut into his car, the dark of the night not hiding how menacing he was.
“Together those two are a lethal mess,” my mother said, tapping her manicured fingers together, her diamond earrings swinging. “I can feel it. Way down deep. They’re bad news. Very bad news for all of us. I hate bad news.”
Caden ambled over and talked to Martin.
Martin lumbered out of his car and took a lurching swing at Caden.
Caden knocked him right onto the hood of his car, where he lay like a dead pig.
“Caden is smooth as silk, isn’t he?” my mother said. “How about some wine now, dears?”
“I have some swine!” Hazel said.
“Swine in Cinderella sippy cup!” Heloise insisted.
“I drink some swine, too!” Harvey said.
“Nice hit, Dad,” Damini said, touching her heart. “That was rewarding to watch. Nana’s going to give me a recipe that will crush rectums.”
Tate had been able to defend himself, with humor, from TJ Hooks.
He had made friends.
He was excellent at basketball.
I was almost overcome by guilt. I should have let him play before this, how much easier his life would have been with these friendships, with being on a team.
I let my tears drip off my chin.
Parenting is often head-bangingly hard.
The next day I apologized to Tate, the apology simple, my emotions making a mess of me.
“It’s okay, Boss Mom. If you make me chicken pancakes, we’ll call it good.”
I made him chicken pancakes.
We called it good.
He is a forgiving young man. I am grateful for that, too.
“Thank you for the silver watering can with the roses.”
“You’re welcome.” Ethan’s voice was deep and low over the phone. I envisioned his face, his mouth, I remembered how he did not get mad when I whizzed open his shirt and he lost a couple of buttons up in my bedroom one afternoon. It was exactly like the movies. I didn’t think that buttons could fly off with such speed but, alas, they could! They did! I did it!