The Truth Lucy Saw (The Truth Turned Upside Down Book 1)

by Penelope J Bristol

  The problems began when John started losing jobs. He was challenging to work with and only comfortable giving out orders and controlling his co-workers. This made it hard for him to keep employment, making it even harder to keep a steady flow of cash in their bank account. Dianna was baffled at first that this well-educated man could not navigate the daily social interactions required by all jobs.

  “These people are idiots,” John stammered, putting his head in his hands after losing his second job in eighteen months.

  She honestly thought for a short time that John had somehow run upon a bad streak of luck that landed him in several back-to-back, ill-fitting jobs. It wasn’t until one day, in a mall parking lot, that she glimpsed a hint of the explosive rage that bubbled just below her husband’s surface, which made it almost impossible for him to sustain work relationships or any relationships.

  On that day, both bored at home, Dianna had suggested an impromptu trip to the shopping mall. It had been close to Christmas because Dianna remembered lazily sipping coffee out of a red Santa mug while watching patiently for a parking spot. There had been no kids to fuss with, and the day seemed to stretch out in front of them, unencumbered by nap times or the need to feed little bellies. The longer they waited, the more agitated John became, and Dianna began to worry that their time inside the mall might be tainted if she couldn’t figure out how to lighten his mood.

  At last, a glorious parking spot opened up. John put the car in park and turned on his blinker. Just as they were ready to pull into the space, a rogue sports car whipped in front of them and took the coveted spot. Dianna sighed, mildly annoyed, taking a sip of her cold coffee and looking backward over her shoulder to glimpse the driver who had outsmarted them.

  John’s eyes instantly widened. He went ballistic on the horn, cursing at the top of his lungs, unbuckling his seatbelt and claiming he was going to punch the driver of the other car, square in the face. Dianna sat quietly in the passenger seat, every muscle in her face tensed, holding back laughter at seeing this illogical side of her husband. She calmly informed him that although she loved him dearly, she did not believe he would ever get out of his car and punch anyone in the face.

  “Don’t be ridiculous, John, “ Dianna teased, “ You, my love, wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

  John looked closely at her with expressionless eyes. He put the car into drive, pulled away from the parked vehicle, and searched for an open parking spot. Dianna raised the coffee mug to hide her flirty smile and then excitedly motioned for John to notice a space ahead. The holiday mug flew out of her hands quickly, smashing loudly into the window beside her as John’s hand came down hard, spanking her left leg and causing her to scream out in pain.

  Inside the vehicle, it looked as if the young couple had just been in an accident. Coffee dripped down the dashboard while shattered pieces of the mug rested on Dianna’s pants, sweater, and the floorboard. John stared straight ahead as if he was in shock. Except, he was not in shock, and there had been no car accident. John was in control, complete control of his wife, where to park, and when and how to punish people who did and said things he did not like. Dianna quickly began to understand that John had not fallen into a streak of bad luck with his lost jobs. He was simply a troubled, sometimes violent man, and she had become his new punching bag.

  It was hard to believe the physical abuse she had allowed herself to endure over the years of being married to him. There were never black eyes or broken bones, but the humiliation of being spanked like a child by her husband had crippled her psychologically. Most days, she just tried to avoid him, and if that didn’t work, there was wine to dull her feelings about what was happening inside their home. She knew both Anne and Lucy had seen him hold her down across his legs and thrash her with his belt. She wondered what it had done to her daughters’ minds to watch her yield this way.

  The girls had also felt the sting of that belt, except when it was Lucy’s turn, she would not resign, she would not go quiet or limp until John stopped hitting her. She did not pretend it was not happening or escape deep in her mind to another place like Dianna and Anne had learned to do. She sometimes hit and punched back and yelled at her father during and after the abuse. She declared loudly that he was wrong, that she might call the police, and that their family was in desperate need of help. Dianna watched with threadbare apathy as her youngest daughter, who aspired to be an agent of change, tried to fight John’s looming insanity.

  “This is NOT ok, dad,” Lucy wailed, passionately, “You can’t treat us like this, it’s illegal, you will go to jail!”

  What did Lucy think was so special about herself that she could do it? The question honestly irritated Dianna, and she felt pity towards her youngest daughter, who was somehow oblivious to how set some of the uglier things were in this world. It was unfortunate that Lucy lacked the insight that it’s impossible to try and change people. All Dianna knew was that when she was ready, and the opportunity presented itself to her like a well-deserved gift, she would leave John and start a new life.

  Glancing up at the clock revealed it was almost ten-thirty, so Dianna happily began her tasks for the day and decided to stop for a good bottle of wine on her way home.

  9

  John

  The teacher began class by announcing that the presentations would be given alphabetically, in order of the last name. John breathed out an inaudible sigh of relief, knowing he would not present first or last but ride safely with the masses, in the forgettable, mundane middle.

  It was not that he was unprepared to speak; he had spent hours carefully choosing the best way to present the information he researched. He had considered precisely how to hold his paper, lifting it just high enough to be able to read, but not high enough to block his face. If nerves got the best of him, he would slowly place the paper down on the podium that was always available at the front of the room and use it as an anchor. As he saw it, the truth was that his presentation would likely not happen today anyway, given the volume of students in the class, so he allowed his fingers to uncurl, and hot, anxious blood began to flow through them again.

  His social anxiety was like an invisible cloak he had worn all his life, choking him frustratingly at all the most critical times. The need to hide it had become like a thick, suffocating glue, slowing down and warping all information coming in and going out. This often created a pause in his ability to react appropriately, which created an air of aloofness about him. No one knew the weight of this translucent skin, but it did not matter, he would succeed in life at all cost. John was right, the other students’ presentations droned on and on, and then the bell rang, signaling it was time to go home, so he did.

  John sat on the yellow school bus looking out the window. He watched the familiar roads pass by and felt the bus lurch as it came to a stop and then wound itself up again, forging ahead to the next destination. He had lots of friends on this bus, people he had known since he was a young boy, but yet-he felt alone.

  They had always lived here in that house among these people. His parents were well-liked, and everyone in town knew them. John did not find comfort in these facts, or the large family he shared with his siblings. He was the youngest of nine and an accident for sure. His mother had not even given him a middle name, which was proof to John that he had come along when there was not much left for him, the least of it, a second name.

  John’s family did not have a lot of money, but they did have their last name, which was something because there were as many cousins, aunts, and uncles with this same last name as weeds cropping up along the winding bus route through his small town. One day John would leave and go to college and be different than how he started. The idea of this never left him, and he wished the days to go by quickly, so his departure time would come. When the bus finally stopped at his house, John grabbed his worn bag, stood firmly, and exited, shoulders hunched methodically, as he moved down the short set of stairs transitioning from high school back into family life.


  Their house was small and disappointing on the outside, and John always hated it when new people came to visit for the first time, but most people who came had been there many times before. As John walked through the front door, he noticed right away their cramped living room was full of people crying and talking in hushed voices, hugging each other and leaning in close in a way that made him immediately uncomfortable.

  John stood for a moment, unsure of how to proceed. He scanned the room for clues and the familiar faces of his family. John stopped scanning when he spotted his mom. Her hands held the face of an older woman who always sat beside their neighbor, Gladys Johnson, in church.

  This must have something to do with Miss Gladys, he immediately thought, and he looked expectedly for her face but did not see her in either the living room or kitchen. The milling people were dressed in regular clothes like himself as if they had mysteriously left work and drove their cars here to assemble in his living room as if on a whim. He saw his older brothers and sisters offering soft words to the guests in their home, but nothing made much sense, and John felt a sudden urge to walk down the hall away from this strange event and shut himself safely behind his bedroom door.

  “Did you hear what it’s all about, John?” said a squeaky voice, rising from behind him.

  Slowly, John turned around and faced his small-framed, mousy cousin Will. He briefly stared at Will and tried to look past him to spot his mom again, hoping she would see him this time.

  “Miss Gladys’s son got drunk and tried to drive into town to pick up his daughter from school before her mama could get her and leave him again. He got all turned around on them back roads and ran off at just the wrong spot. His car hit the side of the guard rail and spun him back out into traffic. They don’t reckon he felt it when the other car hit him, too drunk to have felt it is what they said,” Will stammered, finishing his long story and waiting politely and reverently for John to speak.

  John said nothing, looking slowly away from Will thinking of Gladys’s son, Nick, and how he had taught him how to fish down in the creek when he was younger, and a sick feeling started growing inside. Pressing his lips together into a straight smile, he turned away from Will wordlessly and quickly made his way over to his mom. She was hard to reach with many people surrounding her, waiting their turn too, it seemed. This was typical with his mom, good radiating from her, attracting others who wanted the calm she possessed inside. She saw him and smiled, winking, but continued to hold the hands of a man and woman on either side. John would have to wait for what was left of his mother after all the others took what they needed.

  He instantly felt anger towards these people and outrage that his mother did not oblige him the way he wanted. She could have given him something to do so he could be a part of this thing in their house. If Nick were still alive, surely his mother would have dropped everything and cut across the room in a situation like this to offer some direction. Unlike an imagined Gladys whose son was still alive, John’s mother stayed rooted in place, offering support and love to those who waited long enough to receive it. John tried to have some compassion and settled in for the wait, almost letting himself relax until he saw his dad.

  Walker, stoically pressed against the wall in the kitchen, stood closest to the phone. This made sense because when the house was empty of visitors, no one was allowed to answer the telephone but him. He seemed to be standing guard over the group swarming their small house but was above interacting with any of them personally. He periodically licked his dry lips and shook his head soberly, pretending to listen when someone dared to speak at him.

  John was afraid of his dad, mostly because he was unpredictable. The old man hid behind a regime of religion and order, but underneath that, John thought there was a more significant secret. John’s dad rarely touched any of them, including his mom, unless it was out of anger, and he was capable of great cruelty both physically and emotionally.

  He typically never spoke to them about anything, including his childhood. Both his parents had been dead long before John had been born. There were plenty of relatives who could be counted upon to tell funny stories about John’s grandparents, but it was hard not to wonder about these ghosts and what kind of childhood they had given his father.

  John watched his dad become aware of his presence and saw a look of curiosity pass over his face. That look meant his dad had thought of something he needed to address with him, and in the past, the somethings usually turned out to be bad for John.

  This unpleasant interaction was interrupted by Miss Johnson’s voice as she opened the front door, entered the house, and announced to the room that she was back from the church and that Nick was safe with God now.

  As soon as the final words left her mouth, she swooned hard, and luckily, Will was available to help her to the couch where a ready crowd enveloped her. John was at a total loss for what to do next. Without his mom’s guidance, he felt unprepared to help, so he quickly exited through the same door Miss Johnson had just used to enter and decided to go down to the creek where he could be alone.

  One of the best things about John’s life was a creek close to his house. It offered him a cool place to swim in the summer, a loud place to go if he wanted to make noise, and an excellent spot to hide. The hiding had been especially helpful at times with his dad. At night, John could run silently along this creek, staying one step ahead of his dad and his black leather belt.

  Once his dad gave up the chase, John could sit on the creek bank for hours, crying if he needed to get it all out and then distracting himself by looking into the dark water, watching to see if anything moved underneath. In the waiting for a frog to jump or a loose tree limb to surface, he would do all his thinking.

  At the foot of this creek, he frequently dreamed of leaving and going to college. John was undeniably bright, and he knew that he could become someone different if he could get the right set of experiences. He thought of his mom and how she would carry on if he were not here. She was the same smart as he was, but she did not seem to want to leave. How could his mom stand it here in this place that never changed?

  What might she become if she braved leaving her loveless marriage? Who might she have been if she had taken a chance on life outside this town? John turned these ideas over carefully in his mind many nights down by the creek and ultimately decided that he and his mom were not exactly the same, and that he would simply take the good pieces of her wherever he went and live a life that - eluded his mother.

  Content in his plan to wait out the visitors invading his home, the next few hours passed. John fell asleep on the creek bank under warm sunlight that stuck its thick fingers generously through the dense canopy of trees, warming his skin like a blanket over soft, welcoming grass.

  Hours later, a splash of ambitious water stirred John’s senses, and he sat up abruptly into the cool night air. Looking back over his shoulder, he could see lights on inside his house and hoped he had not slept through dinner. Groggily, he stood up and began the short walk back home. As he got closer, John could clearly see his mom through the living room window, his youngest sister squeezed happily under her arm, apparently listening to a conversation between her and two other women.

  “People are still here, and it’s dinner time?” John whined to himself, annoyed and resentful.

  He continued straight past the unwanted house guests and headed angrily up to the barn, silhouetted perfectly against the night sky. John reasoned he might find an older sibling ready to join forces with him in convincing his mom to vacate the neighbors in lieu of dinner, but instead, he found Walker.

  His dad was sitting in the corner on a stool, not that much higher than the dirty barn floor. His shirt was open, and a bottle of whiskey rested, unmoving in his hand. Walker rarely drank, and it looked strange to see him intoxicated and hidden in the corner. He looked at John and then looked away. John turned around to leave, but his dad suddenly cried out to him.

  “This is why he’s dead, John, this b
ottle right here.”

  John looked back down at the house and saw his mom again through the window, safe inside, and he knew he had to keep his dad in the barn tonight. He closed his eyes and braced himself for battle with the dark unknown, the abyss of chaos that was his father.

  “Some people say that when it’s your time, it’s just your time,” John answered softly, turning back around to face his father who was holding the whiskey bottle up in the air like a trophy.

  “Oh, is it my time too, son? Can’t a hardworking man like me tie one on, when life gets hard? That boy was like a son to me, best fisherman I ever knew,” the old man reminisced.

  John saw Nick alive in his mind standing by the creek showing him how to bait a hook, something a dad would usually teach his son, but not always.

  “I don’t know when anyone’s time is up, Dad, that’s not for us to know,” John said a little bit louder, irritated, wanting this pointless conversation to end.

  “You don’t know much, do you boy, for someone your age? You always were a helpless one, needing somebody to watch over you and make sure you make it through stuff alright-keep you out of trouble. What is it that you always use as an excuse, your nerves, John? Can’t get your nerves down enough to grow up and act like a man? That’s what you tell your mom, right son? You’re helpless because of your nerves being bad,” his dad jeered, shaking his head and smiling.

  Looking up at John with great expectation, Walker waited for a reaction like a child waits for their parents to get up on Christmas morning. John felt his hands instantly ball into fists, and his face involuntarily curl up in a tight knot of hate. His father, a bozo tyrant, who did not deserve his wife or her children had triggered him to step into that dangerous place from which he could not recover quickly. But in these next rash seconds, the future did not matter.