“Boy, you back-talk me again and I’ll kill you next time! You hear me?”
I cracked my eyes open to see my dad standing over me. My adrenaline was pumping, but I reminded myself if I lost control, things would be much worse. Dad was a monster, and I’d relived this nightmare enough times to know it wouldn’t last long. But enough was enough.
“No more,” I muttered.
Rage flickered in his eyes as I lifted my head and attempted to get up. “What’d you say, you little bastard?” He kicked me in the stomach again, knocking the wind out of me.
I winced and fell to the floor, coughing and gasping.
“Who are you talkin’ to, boy?” He leaned over, spraying me with his spittle. “You think you’re gonna stand up to me? I’ll fuckin’ kill you! I swear to God! I’ll kill you!”
I squeezed my eyes shut, not wanting to move, unable to speak, barely able to breathe. Several moments passed, and I finally forced my eyes open. I knew he was still close by. I smelled his stench. He was rank. The beer and cigarettes, the sweat, and the dirty clothes he always wore all combined to form an unmistakable odor that turned my stomach. He stepped away from me and steadied himself against the wall, but he was still swaying. I wanted to tackle him and beat him to a pulp. The only thing that stopped me was the fear of jeopardizing my future, so I waited for him to stagger off before I moved.
When I finally heard the leg rest of the recliner extend, I managed to pull myself off the floor. The pain in my ribs was so intense I could barely take a deep breath. Bent at the waist, I hobbled into my room, pushed the door closed behind me, and fell into bed. It was clear my father would never change. The drinking, the yelling, the abuse, it was a reoccurring nightmare I had lived in my entire life. But I didn’t have to put up with it anymore. I decided that was the last time he would ever lay a finger on me. It killed me to think of leaving my mom, but staying wasn’t an option anymore.
I got up, wincing in pain, and staggered over to my dresser to gather for some T-shirts, socks, and underwear. Bracing myself, I opened my closet and grabbed some shirts and jeans, then stuffed everything into my gym bag. The cool night air swept over my face when I opened my window. I tossed my bags onto the ground and carefully crawled out, trying to keep from making a sound. Despite the pain, I tried my best to stay low and crept out to my car.
Once inside, I was engulfed with a wave of emotions––fury and sadness, resentment and regret. I promised myself I’d never return as long as he was around. I turned the key to start the engine, praying it didn’t alert him I was leaving. Maybe he was asleep again with another lit cigarette. Wouldn’t that be a dream come true. My heart never beat so fast as I put the car in reverse and slowly backed out of the driveway. It wasn’t until I was out on the highway that I finally felt safe enough to turn on my headlights. Cursing and shaking, I drove for miles crying angry, bitter tears.
After several minutes, the adrenaline had drained from my system, but the pain in my face and ribs was still there, throbbing like the pain in my heart. Leaving my mom was difficult. But I hoped since I’d finally had the courage to leave, maybe she’d find some inner strength too.
Chapter Six
Mrs. Ruby
Tuesday, February 27, 1990 ~ Sixth Sense
I was awakened in the night by a strange commotion and figured it was that pesky old raccoon digging in the trash again. Come to find out, it was Jackson who knocked the can over. Walked right into it. I guess he couldn’t see that thirty-two-gallon metal trash can by the corner of the house. Bless his heart. I’d been telling him for weeks to replace the bulb in my flood-lights. Maybe that would get him to it. For some reason, he came to the house around midnight and slept over. It was a good thing I realized it was him when I heard him mumbling down the hall, else I might’ve mistaken him for a burglar and accidentally shot him. I’d have a talk with him about that when I reminded him again to replace the bulb. I figured I might as well go ahead and get started on breakfast. No doubt he’d be hungry. That boy was always hungry.
Jackson liked his bacon limp and his eggs sunny side up, or “runny in the middle,” as he called it. I made biscuits from scratch every morning, and he loved to fill ‘em with my strawberry preserves. They were his favorite. My secret was mixing figs in with the strawberries. Makes ‘em thicker and gives the preserves a sweeter taste. I swear, watching him eat reminded me of his grandpa. The way he sopped the egg yolk with his biscuit and got a milk mustache when he drank couldn’t be no more like Jack Owens than if they were clones.
I made myself a cup of coffee and set the oven to four hundred degrees. I got out my biscuit bowl and mixed the butter and sour cream, sifted in the flour, and added some buttermilk. The best biscuits in the South are made with these four ingredients and nothing else. Momma taught me that. And her biscuits were the best in the county. She’d roll ‘em out with a glass jar, but I found using a jar caused incredible pain in my shoulders and elbows, so I used a long rolling pin. Just before I put my biscuits in the oven, I brushed the tops with melted butter. Momma taught me that too. She always wore a black apron when she made biscuits. I didn’t even own an apron. But if I did, ain’t no way it’d be black. That’s plum crazy.
I set my oven timer for eighteen minutes and started frying up some bacon. Once I took up the meat, I cracked four eggs in the same pan and flipped the bacon grease up on the yolks. That’s the best way to cook a fried egg if you liked ‘em runny in the middle. Flipping the hot grease cooked the top of the egg but kept the yolk runny.
In just a minute, the eggs were done and I put them all on a plate. I took the bacon and eggs over to the table and got out the strawberry preserves. Then I set the table for two before I went to the back bedroom to wake Jackson.
“Jackson?” I called out. “You up, son?” I didn’t hear anything, so I knocked twice and stuck my head in the door. “Baby, you awake?”
He groaned.
“Jackson? You got school, ya hear? Now get on up. I got breakfast done.”
He groaned again, and I saw his backpack and gym bag on the floor by his bed. They were busting at the seams. Made me wonder what he had crammed in ‘em. And why hadn’t he told me he was planning on staying here? I started to get a bad feeling. Lord, Lord, what in the world’s wrong?
“C’mon now. Get up.” I walked over to the bed and shook his shoulder. “Your eggs will be cold.” When he rolled over, I nearly had a stroke. His face looked like he’d been attacked by a mugger. “Great God in heaven!” I hollered.
“Oh, hey, Granny,” he mumbled, still half asleep.
“Hey, yourself!” I slapped him on the rump. “What in the world happened to your face?”
“Oww,” he whined through a concealed grin. Then he cracked his eyes and rubbed his hand over his face before looking at me.
I was standing over him with my hands on my hips, waiting for an answer. I guessed he suspected I wasn’t in the mood for no shenanigans because he opened his eyes real quick.
“It’s all right, Granny.” He grimaced as he sat up in the bed. “Just some bruises from last night’s game.” He smiled, thinking he was fooling me with his little act.
“Humph! You didn’t get that beat up in no basketball game! Now you tell me what happened!”
“Nothing. I’m fine.” He yawned and attempted to stretch but winced, grabbing his ribs.
“Mm-hmm,” I said.
He saw I wasn’t fooled, so he tried to distract me. “Something sure smells good. I’m starving to death.”
“Well, get on up and come eat then, but you’re gonna tell me what happened to your face, or you’ll think starving to death when I get through with ya!” I shook my finger at him, then headed back to the kitchen. Something bad had happened. I felt it in my bones.
Before I removed the biscuits from the oven, Jackson was sitting at the table, pouring himself a glass of milk. His blond hair was combed, but his rebellious cowlick kept the front from cooperating, something else he got fro
m his grandpa. He had on the blue and gray flannel shirt I had gotten him last Christmas and a white T-shirt underneath. Funny how the youngsters wore their shirts hanging wide open without a single button fastened. Except for that, he looked just like Jack when he was that age. So handsome. Aside for them marks all over his face.
I sat my pan of biscuits on the table and brushed my hand over the top of Jackson’s head before I took a seat across from him. “Your momma know you stayed here last night?”
He took a biscuit from the pan and pulled it apart, then quickly dropped it as steam rose from its fluffy inside. “No, ma’am,” he said, scooping a heaping spoonful of preserves from the jar and smearing it on the bottom half of his biscuit before replacing the top. “She wasn’t home when I left.”
“What about your dad?”
Jackson didn’t say anything. He took a bite of biscuit and quickly washed it down with milk. I waited a few seconds for him to respond, but he deliberately stuffed his mouth with bacon and eggs and kept his chin down so he wouldn’t have to look at me. That was a sure sign I was right because Jackson would never be disrespectful like that, especially to me. He knew I’d whack him upside the head.
I felt myself getting upset. Frank Strickland put them marks on my boy’s face just as sure as I was looking at ‘em. I took a sip of coffee and picked up a biscuit and a piece of bacon, hoping if I ate something, my stomach might settle.
“Was he up when you got home?”
Jackson shrugged and took another drink of milk, still avoiding eye contact with me.
“Jackson!” I slapped the table with my hand. “Look at me when I’m talking to you!”
Jackson lifted his eyes but didn’t say a word.
“Did he do that to your face, son?” I knew the answer before I even asked.
His gaze fell, and his shoulders dropped. So did my heart.
Jackson stared at his plate. There was a short period of silence between us before he spoke. “I’m never going back there, Granny.” His voice was low and shaky. “Not as long as he’s there. I hate him.”
My jaw clenched. No doubt, Frank was a wife-beater. Jack and I had known that for years. But now I knew my suspicions were right. There was proof he was hitting them both.
“I know ya do, baby. So do I. I don’t know why your momma still lets him come around like she does, but you ain’t never gotta go back to that house.” I reached across the table and took his hand. “You know I love you more than anything in this world, and you can stay with me as long as you want. Now, finish your breakfast, and don’t worry about none of this.” I squeezed his hand before getting up from the table, then hummed Amazing Grace while I busily cleaned my kitchen.
“But what about Momma?” Jackson asked, his face painted with worry.
I stopped humming and forced a smile. “In a couple of hours, I’ll give her a call. It’ll all work out.”
He sat quietly for a minute, then shoved the last piece of bacon in his mouth, and finished off his milk. “Thanks for breakfast, Granny,” he said, pushing himself up from the table.
I gave him the tightest hug I could muster. He had grown so much, I could barely reach my arms around him.
“And by the way,” he added, “I’m not worried. Don’t you worry, either.”
“Oh, I ain’t worried, shug.” I patted him on the back and gave him the warmest smile, relieved he sounded a little more cheerful. “But you better get a move on if you’re picking up Rebecca.”
He grinned. “Yeah, I should get going.”
“Should wipe off that milk mustache too, or she ain’t gonna kiss ya.” I chuckled.
He laughed and scrubbed his sleeve across his mouth. “You know Rebecca’s not my girlfriend,” he said, picking up his bags and throwing them over his shoulder.
“Think whatcha want, bubba. She’s smitten.” I gave him a confirming wink. “And so are you.”
He shot me the I-don’t-know-what-you’re-talking-about look and turned three shades of red. “I’m not smitten, Granny. Whatever that means.”
“Humph! You can’t fool me, Jackson. This ol’ girl’s been around a long time, and I know a thing or two about romance. It’s a sixth sense, I reckon. Just like I can pick out good people and bad people, I can recognize things like L-O-V-E. If your grandpa were here, he’d tell ya.”
“I’m sure he would.” Jackson smiled and planted a kiss on my cheek. “Maybe you can tell me some stories this evening.”
“You bet. Now get on outta here,” I said, shooing him toward the door.
“Love you, Granny,” he yelled as the door slammed.
“Love you, shug,” I hollered, then went back to humming and cleaning the kitchen.
My heart was heavy, and my mind was scattered with thoughts of Frank hurting Jackson. How in this world would I confront Regina with such awful news? I needed to keep myself busy until she was awake, which would likely be somewhere around nine o’clock, so I decided to work in the yard some. I was mad as a hornet and needed to do something with my hands. Preferably, strangle Frank.
It was a nice, cool morning with just a few small puffy clouds in the sky—perfect condition for pulling weeds. But I needed to get with it, if that was my plan, because the sun was steadily rising. It wouldn’t be too long before the gnats would come, and it would be too warm to be stooping over, digging in the dirt.
For years I’d avoided my flower beds, mostly because Jack and I always did the yard work together and it hurt too much to be working outside without him. He used to love keeping things clean and manicured. It was his own kind of therapy. He’d mow grass and trim bushes while I pulled weeds and clipped my flowers. We’d spend hours outside together in the early mornings and the cool evenings. Since Jack had died, Jackson helped me tend to the yard, but it wasn’t the same.
I walked outside, took one look around, and wanted to give up before I even got started. I didn’t even know where to begin. There wasn’t a single flower bed that wasn’t overrun by weeds. Great God in heaven! How’d it get this bad? Dandelion, clover, and chickweed had spread like wildfire. For a split second, I considered letting Jackson mow over the whole mess, but quickly dismissed the thought. Every single flower was bought and planted for me by my sweetheart. Ain’t no way I’d destroy something we created together, even if it had turned into an ugly weed garden. The beauty was simply masked. In time, I’d restore it. Determined, I headed to the shop to get my gardening tools.
“Well, Jack,” I said out loud, “after almost ten years, I reckon I’m finally gonna work in the yard. Just couldn’t bring myself to do it without you.”
It was already getting warmer out, a sure sign we’d have an early spring. I stopped to brush my brow with the back of my hand, and the wind softly stirred. I smiled and looked at the sky, then sighed deeply, thinking about Jackson and wishing I had Jack here to hold me.
“I miss you so bad, honey. I know you’re in a better place, but I need you terribly right now. If you could see Jackson’s face, what that monster did to him. I’m so worried about him, Jack, I don’t know what to do. Frank Strickland should be put away, but there ain’t no way Regina’s gonna go to the police. I guess there’s only one thing for me to do. I ain’t got no other choice.”
I opened the door of the shop, which served more as a shed since Jack had passed, and my senses were awakened by the familiar smell of saw dust and oily rags. The scent, though much fainter than it used to be, was still intoxicating. It was Jack. I closed my eyes and pictured him there with me. “My sweetheart,” I whispered.
Everywhere I looked, I saw him. Appliances, hand tools, and machines I’d never guess how to use. There wasn’t a spot left on any of the walls that didn’t have a peg-board filled with tools of some sort. Jack had the equipment and material to do just about anything. As my eyes traveled around the room, I was reminded of how he loved to tinker. He was always busy with at least two or three projects, most involving a car or a truck, or something he was building out of wood
. Everything was almost exactly as it was the day he had his heart attack. Aside from Jackson getting out the mower, nothing else had even been touched.
Neatly situated in the back corners of the shop were the mower, weed eater, and other lawn equipment. Suspecting that’s where I’d find my gardening tools, I headed that way. On my right was a tall bookcase of shelves that held old coffee cans filled to the brim with screws and nails, multiple gallons of paint, bags of fertilizer and garden soil, jugs of weed and insect killer, and a few containers of small engine oil. I assumed all the liquids were outdated and possibly even hazardous by now. The thought crossed my mind to have Jackson help me go through it one afternoon and dispose of it all. But the idea of throwing away anything belonging to Jack made me sick to my stomach. Maybe I’d just keep the shed as it was for a little while longer.
As I approached the mower, I passed Jack’s worktable. Tears burned my eyes. This was his favorite table, the one he built from wood he’d gotten out of an old abandoned church the property owners wanted torn down, the same table he’d struck his head on during his heart attack.
“Jack,” I whispered as a tear rolled down my cheek. I reached out and touched the splintery corner where it happened and squeezed my eyes shut, remembering that day. They say time heals a broken heart. Humph! Whatta they know? My heart was still shattered in a million pieces. “My precious darling, I miss you so much. No matter how much time passes, I’ll never get over losing you.” I sniffed back the tears and took a deep breath. “Oh, how I wish you were here.”
Just as I opened my eyes, a bird flew into the shop, scaring me half to death. The beautiful bright-red cardinal glided past me and landed on the rim of a large barrel in the corner by Jack’s mower. I smiled at how perfect and majestic it was. The little bird seemed happy, fluttering its wings and chirping up a storm. Its tiny red head bobbed and jerked as it tweeted, like it was trying to communicate with me.
“Well, good gracious alive,” I said cheerfully. “What’s gotten into you, little fella?” Then I remembered the old saying, Cardinals appear when angels are near. The hair on my arms stood up, and a chill ran down my back. This bird was a sign Jack was here with me. As it continued to chirp, my heart started to race. “Jack?” I said out loud. My voice cracked as I looked around and called out to him again. “Honey? Are you here?” Something inside me told me he was.
Worth the Risk Page 6