I was speechless. Slapped him? Why? What would make him slap Carl?
"I ...I ...I'm sorry, Carl," was all I could get out. "I have no idea ...He hit you?"
"Yeah well, I had to run outta the house this morning so my parents didn't see me.
My first period teacher asked me what happened to my eye and I said that I ran into a tree branch last night, not paying attention. She bought it. I'll tell my dad something similar ...God, you're dad's a dick!"
"I can't believe it Carl," words began to come to me. "I'm gonna yell at him.Yeah, I'm gonna tear him a new one. That's just bullshit, he can't do that to you!"
"Whatever man. I'm gonna be late, George, I'll catch ya later."
"Yeah," I mumbled and returned to my locker.
God, what got into him? I don't know what was with him. He was probably just tired. Yeah, tired enough to slap a friend of mine? No. I fumbled with the rest of my books as I headed to my next class. The teacher let me alone as I spaced out through class, stunned to hear the bell ring. I collected my things and lugged them lethargically to the next class. When I arrived, there was a television on a rolling stand by the chalkboard. I knew what that meant and let out a cheer in my head. We were going to watch a movie and not listen to the teacher drone on. I tossed all the paltry notions bouncing around in my head and prepared to watch TV. Taking my usual seat in the back, the rest of class filed in during the next few minutes and Carl plopped down next to me. The teacher came in, turned off the lights and stood next to the TV.
"Since it is almost Martin Luther King Jr. Day, I decided that we'd watch some footage and discuss his accomplishments," the teacher said as she turned on the television and sat at her desk to grade papers.
Everyone usually became more talkative every time we watched something in class, until the footage started and we were reticent. I turned to look around the room and stopped at Carl, who was engrossed.
"Now that's what I'm talking about," Carl quickly whispered to me, "he's the greatest."
"It's more fun watching Jordan though."
"Yeah, but King was a martyr, and that's real greatness."
I couldn't imagine anything worth dying for at that time. But I couldn't argue with Carl, I knew he was right somehow.
I watched Dr. King's persecution. I watched and hoped, almost convincing myself that he wouldn't get shot at the end. No one should ever have to bear that much pain and responsibility. My world shrunk into the solemn light emanating from the television as everything peripheral disappeared into the dark surroundings.
How could people hate so much, for no reason? I knew life had always been easy to throw into the grinder from history class and the news, but it seemed to me that history can only wash its hands so many times before the blood permanently stained. Watching with close precision, squeezing every detail out of Dr. King's speeches, I stored much of what he said in my mind. Fixating on his eyes, I searched for more of his wisdom that could be buried within his soul, but was I preempted by something.
The camera cut away from him to the surrounding crowd. His words hummed from the television speakers as the camera panned. People of all kinds were there and everyone was shouting for a different reason. I hadn't seen a huge crowd together like that before when they didn't all believe in the same thing. The panning continued and met a protruding sign. I blinked, shook my head, and stared at the screen. Scanning the crowd as much as the old footage would let me, I saw a familiar man holding a sign that said "Go Home Niggers."
With weak knees and prying eyes, I watched the scratches of the old film march across the screen, trying not to look at the horrible sign. I pulled back and rubbed my eyes because my dad said starring at the TV could ruin my eyesight.
"Holy shit," I muttered, jumping in my desk like the TV punched me.
Shock scuttled up my spine and into my veins, forcing my hair on end, as I realized why my dad hit Carl. I felt the decency and innocence of my childhood wither in my chest.
"My dad hit Carl because he was black. My dad's a goddamned racist!"
I thought so loudly that I nearly said it.
The tape finished and class continued into a very brief discussion, but all I could see was the sign in my head. Every time I tried to recall the face, the sign came barging forward into my mind's eye instead and my dad was holding it in my doorway waving it at Carl. The white-hot board showcased the hand written words, burning them into my mind, searing a stain on my thoughts that spat 'Go Home Niggers' everywhere. I saw it on the walls, on everyone's clothes, and written on the chalkboard. The chatter of the class discussion ended quickly with the ringing of the bell I quickly abandoned the classroom and headed to my locker. Once I arrived, my knees gave way and I slid down my locker to the floor. I leaned back and gazed forward at the wall, stewing over what my father really was.
"All that hate ...what possessed him? Why?"
Someone passed by with an odd glare as I talked to myself. I ignored my tears and gazed at the mural painted on the wall across from me. The detail, the swirling colors, the effort, the symbolism behind the mural; it was all swimming in my head. I had passed by it so many times and never noticed its complexity before. It forced some beauty to burn inside of me, but that was quickly killed and all I saw in the paint was violence. The mural was giving me things I couldn't deny or identify.
The rest of the school day was spent in the same details and subtleties. My last class let out and I decided to walk home. The air was crisp, as spring usually made it, and the smell of blooming in the air tickled my nose. I felt so alive that I almost considered skipping down the sidewalk, but I didn't want to look weird. Trying to pay close attention to the colors and smells, I realized how brown and drab spring really looks. The green grass and trees were apparent, along with other lush images, but the mud and ochre that nature wipes away on her sleeve after winter, seemed overabundant. I never noticed spring was so sloppy, how it mashed about the other three seasons without a shred of dignity, almost thumbing its nose at the three other times of year and their beauty. I took it all in with a new appreciation.
Chapter 26
Home was a long walk yet worth every step. I had enough time to see all the mundane things in a separate glow that encompassed my attention. I had a new view of the world and needed to see more of it. Walking through a muddy field of matted grass I eventually emerged along the byway to tides of headlights. I turned away from the bustle and smoke. The traffic sped far and wide in an ocean of steel and cement, squealing down towards
Boston. I listened to the bustle fade as I turned and walked to the giant water tower, standing like a dormant sentinel. The nearby railroad tracks shone like streaks of ice in the twilight as I crossed over and came to the town square.
"It's not a square, it's more like a circle," came out of my mouth and I shook my head at the stupidity of it.
The townies called the town's center a square when it's shaped in a circle. I laughed my way up a one-way, cobblestone street into the square, wading through more traffic and shops until I found myself beneath the gazebos shelter sitting on its bench. I sat and watched everything and nothing, lost in my tumbling thoughts, until time had no feel.
Night stumbled in like a drunk. The theater in the square had already spouted a line of people, and it traveled down the sidewalk. The scent of popcorn floated through the air.
Lightning threatened overhead and thunder followed. The strangest feelings emanated from the theater. The smell of popcorn filled my mind while the humidity pushed the cool breeze of threatening rain across my face. But there was another scent, something putrid, almost like sulfur. It sent shivers across my shoulders, down my arms, and hit my hands with a trembling jolt. The shivers shot out my fingers, bouncing and reverberating about the shelter of the gazebo, ricocheting like a pest around the shallow ceiling over my head. People wandering about picked up the pace as rain began to fall. I was cold and agitated so I headed for home.
The rain wasn't torrential, b
ut I got soaked anyway. My demeanor worsened with every step down the streets of my youth. All my innocence felt so ancient as all my compassion washed away with the rain, tumbling down the sewers as I thought of my treacherous father. Thinking about him fouled my head and bent my love. My blood began to boil and it burned away my patience.
"Good, if it boils, that'll kill all the bigotry he gave me in his rotten genes," I said to myself.
Sick of hearing myself, I was actually glad to see my house even though I saw his car in the open garage. My driveway shined in the rain, as it kicked up corpulent drops from the tarred surface. God, I was pissed off. I was angry at his anger. My emotions swirled in my head, wanting to lash out against my father. Gliding over the grass and the cement sidewalk leading to the porch, I brushed the huge door open and strolled into the hallway. I grew angrier with each step I took. I scanned the area for immediate clues to my father's whereabouts and walked into the living room. He was sitting on the sofa watching TV with his back facing me. Rage filled me and I could feel my face turn red.
My feet paused for a second as something popped into my head. Taking a few steps sideways, I reached out my left hand and pulled back my father's sword. Its weight felt extra heavy in my hands as I stroked its sheath and fingered the raised decorations. I noticed black and blue bruises had appeared atop my knuckles. My hand tightened around the sheath, and I slid the sword free with a soft hiss. The volume of the television masked the noise. Staring at the silver blade, I yearned to turn it bright red. My fury began.
Chapter 27
Panic raced in the front of my mind as I stared at the back of his neck. I was running on fumes, not fully in control of my actions, but I knew what I was doing. Didn't I? My pause allowed my father to notice me in the reflection in the TV and he turned to see me.
"Hello, George, I ..." he stopped when he noticed the blade in my hand.
He was confused at first, but he saw the anger in my face. His face returned with a sloppy form of irritation.
"What the hell do you think you're ...?" he said before I grabbed his tie with my free hand and pulled him over the top of the couch with a surge of adrenaline, finally using my size to some advantage. He landed squarely on his back. The fall rattled him. I placed the sharp edge of the naked blade against his neck.
"Boy, are you insane?" my father asked in a dreadful voice, attempting, with not much success, to mask his fear.
"You lied to me, you sonvabitch!" I spat in his face, breathing hard and heavy.
My muscles pulsed with strength and hatred, as they turned into steel cables while I pinned him down. He struggled to break free but I seemed incredibly strong. No more would I comply with his pontifical demands. I was the one in charge and I felt no pity for him. Times had changed. No more crawling. No more bullshit. No more.
"Whatever it is, you're deep in it, boy."
"All these years you told me to treat others like you want to be treated! You said that is the way life should be and you lied," I said starting to cry, pushing the sword down on his throat. Blood gently oozed out along the blade's edge. I wondered if this was how he felt when he used to hit me and mother.
Gurgling and struggling more as the blade cut, my father finally realized my rancor. His eyes trembled as they followed mine, both sets were effulgent with tears, but fear pulsed within his bloodshot eyes. His mind must have been a tangled web, but mine had a purpose. I finally stood up like a man. But once I looked at his face, I saw he was smiling at me. Right at me. It was sadistic and it told me that he had a plan.
He had probably planned this to ready me for something. Looking up at me, the sinister glint in his eyes proved that I would never be bound for any other plans than his own. My blood boiled over and I had enough. I caught a glimpse of his tie draped over his neck and grabbed it, tightening it around my hand and choked him. He cackled and I returned my focus to the sword. Leaning down over the blade, pressing down harder, I eased out even more blood while I finally told him my reason. Not the only reason but the one I focused on.
"You hit Carl because he was black, you racist sonvabitch!'"
He paused and watched my tears.
"Is that what all this is for?" He stared at me with a chuckle. "They have no right."
The filth he spoke burned up my decency. All I could see in him was a bully. I half hoped he'd come up with some miraculous explanation, clearing him from his actions, reviving the man I once loved and respected.
"But ...why? Why do you hate a whole race?" I said, letting pity barge onto my lips and the emotions that had taken control of me run further.
Too many things were in my mind; clarity wasn't one of them.
"Boy, you don't need to know - I didn't tell you for a reason."
I pressed the steel down harder. He coughed and rolled his eyes, surrendering under his own sword to talk.
"One of them killed your grandfather in a bar fight over a couple of dollars when I was a few years younger than you are now. Over a couple of goddamn bucks! A man lost his life," my father said, riled by the memory.
"Just plain ignorance, I say. And my father never had a chance, that boy was on him so quick that the only time we knew what had happened was when the bar emptied."
"We?"
"I saw it ...I ditched class."
"Grandpa? Killed? How? He's alive you liar!"
He paused to gather himself, "Your grandfather now, is my stepfather."
"Why didn't you ever tell me?" I asked, not sure I believed him. A tension built in my head. His story seemed so unreal.
"You didn't need to know about the violence that made me. I wanted you to have a better life than I did, but prepare you for the one I had lived. For you to live the life I was robbed of and to teach you what I could so you could survive without my help."
"No. No way Dad. You just wanna keep me from the truth so you could shape me into the boy you wanted to be. To keep me under your thumb as a model of yourself to see what you missed."
"Relax the blade son, you don't know what you're doing. You're letting your emotions get the better of you and you can't control them well enough. I haven't taught you that yet."
"Don't tell me what to do! I can figure this out on my own," I screamed, feeling the strain snap in my head.
"That's enough," he barked.
"No more orders. Not now, not ever again." I slid the blade along the top of his throat, not digging into the skin much and watched him wince.
I placed my hand around his neck to pin him down. I situated my weight on his chest, removed my hand from his neck, and put it with the other one onto the handle of the sword.
"You don't have the instinct, boy," he said, "No killer instinct. You're bound to be a spineless coward the rest of your life. You won't get anywhere without me!"
"Watch this, Dad," I said, shutting my eyes so tightly it hurt.
Whether time passed slowly or fast, I hadn't a clue. The only grip I had was on the ribbed hilt. I raised the sword high over my head and slammed it down. The blade plummeted and stopped abruptly. Dots of color swarmed about the inside of my eyelids, dancing about in a sordid writhing that made my stomach churn. I felt ready to vomit. The dots quickly exploded into fireworks. Light streaked my vision and quickly scurried away. My eyes peeked open and to a world hued dark blue.
Slowly, I removed my sweaty hands from the sword. I saw him lying in the bloody retribution he deserved. The swirling and swelling emotions that once ate at me subsided as I looked to see what I had done. The blade pierced through his necktie, stuck in the floorboards, only slicing him a little bit on his neck. His eyes were turned up into his lids and he was unconscious from fright.
All I was left with was the question of what to do next.
Standing over him for a moment, I let my brain catch up with my actions. Seeing my father sprawled out on the floor with a sword through his necktie, I felt an insatiable urge to get away. Instinct begged me to run.
"I should have killed you, you
rotten bastard. But I won't. I won't be like you," was all I could say to him, as he lay prostrate on the floor.
I turned and ran out the door, knowing nothing other than if I stayed, I would be a dead man. I ran and left it all behind in a blur.
Chapter 28
It took me years to return home. Far too much smoldering rage nested inside of me. And I only went back because of the pleas from my mother so see my father's final waning days. Over the next few years, I had called her from friends' houses and shelters, remaining in contact only when I knew my father wasn't around. She begged me to come home, but she never gave me a good enough reason. I continually refused her, even she revealed, in a tear filled confession over the phone, that I had a sister, Amber. She was so young. It was a half-year after her birth and several days before my father's death when I appeared.
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