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Marsh |
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Marshall kicked hard at the blackness around him. He tried to move but his body refused to obey. The world snapped back and he felt the spiky softness of the carpet pressed against his face. Someone knelt beside him. �Get away from him, Louise, or I�ll give you the same!� �For God�s sake, John! You�re going to kill him!� �He ain�t gonna die, but I�ll make damn sure he wish he had.� Marshall�s ten-year-old mind struggled to remember what he�d done wrong this time. After an eternity of seconds it came back. The coffee. He�d splashed coffee on Dad�s lap. He was only trying to make him happy but he�d made him mad again. �I�m sorry,� he mumbled into the carpet. The words didn�t sound right. Hands rolled him over and raised him to a seated position. He couldn�t control his head; it bobbed around like the funny dog that sat on the dash of Dad�s pickup. �Marshall? Are you all right Marsh?� He opened his eyes. The blur above him became Mother�s face. Behind her, his face a thundercloud of rage, was Dad. �M� all ragh.� His lips wouldn�t work. He ran his tongue over them and felt torn skin and the coppery taste of blood. �I�m all right,� he said again. Dad stepped forward and icy-hot terror stormed through Marshall�s mind. He found himself in a corner without being aware of moving. His feet scrambled to push him backward but the wall stopped any retreat. He threw his hands in front of himself -- a tiny, pitiful shield.. �I�m Sorry!� he sobbed. �I�ll get more for you! I won�t spill it this time, I promise.� He braced for the blows and kicks that didn�t come. After long seconds he dared to peek over his arm. Dad towered over him, no more than a foot away; hands on hips, his lips twisted in a sneer. �Please?� Marshall sniffled. A foot swung out and caught him in the shoulder, but there was no force behind it. �Go on, you little pansy. Get outta my sight.� Marshall scuttled sideways, staying low, and scurried for the safety of his room. He slammed the door and retreated to the far wall, his eyes nailed on the door, his heart a jackhammer trying to pound through his chest. When the door stayed shut he dared relax and collapse on the bed. Dad never came into the bedroom unless Marshall had really screwed up. Certain he was safe for the moment, his heart steadied and, except for the pain, he felt better. He began to check the damage. He couldn�t remember what happened after he spilled the coffee, only Dad�s yell and a huge fist swinging at him. At least he could remember that much. Once, he lost a whole day. All he remembered was sitting in the emergency room with six stitches in his head and his arm in a cast while Mother explained to a nurse that he had fallen down the steps of the doublewide. Fingers probed at his face. In addition to his smashed lips, the left cheek was raw and scraped and his eye had started to swell shut. He fumbled with the buttons on his shirt. There was a bruise on his left side - almost on top of the one he got last week when he forgot to feed the dogs. The older one was faded to yellow and black and should be gone in a few days. There was a knot between his shoulder blades where a fist or shoe had connected. He dropped his shirt, relieved. There wasn�t any real damage this time. Marshall finished undressing, dropped his clothes in a heap beside the bed and crawled under the sheets. He squirmed into a position that didn�t hurt much then pulled his pillow to his chest and hugged it. He wished he had a big stuffed animal to hold and talk to; one like Cousin Les. He�d ask Dad for one when he was eight and Dad had backhanded him. Stuffed animals were for sissies and babies, he�d said, and no goddamned son of his was going to have one. He buried his face into the softness of the pillow and inhaled the warm, feathery smell. Quietly, so Dad wouldn�t hear, he cried himself to sleep. Marshall wasn�t sure what time it was when the voices coming through the thin walls of the trailer woke him. �Do have to be so hard on him?� asked Mother�s voice. �It was an accident.� �That kid is an accident! That gutless wonder can�t be mine. Did you see the way he ran from me? When I was his age, I would have spit in my old man�s eye and told him to go to hell.� A chuckle. �Did a couple a times, too.�^p �Marshall�s different than you, John. He�s ... well ... sensitive.� �He�s a wimp who�s as clumsy as an ox!� �Please, John.� �Shut up, dammit. This is your fault anyway. Always pampering him � telling him it�s alright when he�s a total screw-up!� �He�s just awkward. He�ll grow out of it.� �Awkward, hell. He�s a damn disaster looking for a place to happen.� �If you weren�t so hard on him. . .� �Hard? I haven�t started to get hard. I�ll make a man out of him if it kills him.� �You might have killed him tonight. Did you see his face? It�ll be black and blue in morning. And his mouth � he�ll be lucky if he can talk. How am I gonna explain this one to the neighbors? Or his teachers?� Tell �em he fell. Damn kid�s always falling. Everybody knows what a klutz he is�. �That�s what I said last time, And the time before that. They�re not going to keep believing me.� �Ah, screw them. And screw you if you don�t like it.� �Don�t talk like that, honey. You know I�ll do what you want, but you got to be careful. One day you�ll go to far and I�ll lose you.� �You worry too much. Come here.� A pause. �If you don�t mind, it�s been a long day and . . .� The loud smack was followed by a pained gasp. �Shut up.� Marshall held his breath and prayed it wouldn�t happen again, that Dad wouldn�t hurt Mother. But seconds later the thumping began and Dad was hurting Mother again Hot, guilty tears leaked down Marshall�s face as he listened to the rhythmic pounding of the headboard against the bedroom wall, accompanied by Dad�s animal grunts and Mother�s soft moans. It happened a lot but usually after he had made Dad mad. Mother never talked about it and he never saw marks, but her beatings lasted far longer than his. It was his fault. He was so clumsy. No matter how hard he tried he screwed up and Dad would hurt him and Mother. He stared at the sketchy pictures the moonlight and tree limbs drew on the ceiling as he tried � unsuccessfully � to block out the sound of Mother�s pain. Spurred by the dancing shadows and idea started to take shape. He wiped away the tears and concentrated on the half-formed thought. Tomorrow was Sunday. There was a way to stop the beatings. But he had to get it right. If he screwed up again, Dad would be really mad and the beatings would be fierce. Dad groaned loudly and the thumping stopped. Marshall strained to hear but there was only silence. As he drifted back into sleep he ran the idea over and over. He had to do it right. The last thing he remembered was a soft, warm feeling. If he had recognized it, he would have called it hope. After he woke, Marshall dressed quickly but stayed in his room until he heard Mother and Dad settle into the kitchen. Moving quietly and carefully, he slipped into their bedroom. He pulled a stool over to the open closet and peer at the top shelf There it was! Dad�s �toy�. He took it down, cradling it as though made of glass. If he broke it, Dad would really light into him. He slipped out of the room, through the side door and around to the driveway. The gravel gouged and tore at his bare feet but he barely noticed. He sat down beside Dad�s pickup and leaned against the front tire. He laid the �toy� on his lap and struggled to remember everything Dad had tried taught him about it. He had screwed up that time too, Marshall remembered. He did what Dad had told him, but at the end he simply couldn�t bring himself to use it. This time he would get it right. He wanted to surprise Dad, but if he got it wrong, well ... Marshall refused to finish the thought. He had to get it right. He heard Mother clattering dishes in the kitchen so Dad would leave soon, just like he did every Sunday morning. It didn�t take long for Dad to start yelling from the bedroom �Louise, get your butt in here!� In less than a minute their voices moved into the hail. �Well, I didn�t take it,� Mother said. �What would I want with the damned thing?� A pause. �You don�t think Marsh got it?� �I�ll break the little bastard in half if he so much as touched it.� Marshall heard his bedroom door slam open. �Is he in there, John?� �Nah. I�ll look outside.� Blood sang in Marshall�s ears and his hands trembled as he did one last check. Just one time, he prayed, let me get it right. The screen door banged open and Dad stomped down the steps. �Marshall! Where the hell are you?� Marshall stood on wobbly knees, his hand trembling. Dad saw him �Get your sorry ass over here now!�^p Marshall�s feet refused to obey. �Did you hear me boy? I said �� Dad stopped mid-sentence as saw what Marshall held. �Who the hell gave you permission to touch that? Give it here!� Dad stepped forward, eyes narrow and a hard fist already bunched and swinging. Marshall threw up his hands and closed his eyes. The world exploded and he was knocked to the ground. He shook his head to clear the ringing, but it refused to go away. His arms felt as though they�d been it with a baseball bat. His hands tingled and stung but they still clung to the heavy, smoking .357 pistol. He struggled to his feet. Dad was on his back in the middle of the driveway. The front of his favorite hunting shirt gleamed darkly red, a red blossom in the center with wet petals spilling outward. His eyes were open and pointed at the sky, but they saw nothing. He�d got it right! �John!� Mother stood in the door, eyes wide, hands clutching the sides of her face. �Oh, my God! John!� Mother stumbled down the steps and over to where Dad lay. She raised his head and held him, just as she had held Marshall last night. �John!� she sobbed. �Say something!� Dad kept staring blankly at the sky. Marshall waked over to Mother as she caressed Dad�s face and crooned softly. He touched her shoulder and her tear-streaked face jerked around to look up at him. He held out the pistol. �I dropped it,� he said. She took the weapon at looked at it blankly. She lifted uncomprehending eyes to Marshall. �I wanted to surprise him,� he said softly. �I wanted to make up for last night so I got it ready and tried to give it to him. But I dropped and it went off.� It would be all right. Dad wouldn�t hurt him or Mother again. And everyone would believe his story. After all, everybody knew he was a klutz. That�s what Dad always said. -END- |