Monday July 31, 1995

How old were you when your mother died?

I was eleven. Neal and Stephen were eight. It was a Sunday. In August.

What do you remember of your mother?

Not much. She wasn't around. She was sick, very sick and she went to the hospital when I was five. She had been in and out before that but when I was five she went to stay. She had bad kidneys. I never understood what that meant, it's just what everyone told me. I barely remember a time when she was not sick. I barely remember her at all.

Did you see her often?

Every other Sunday. After church. My father would take me. Neal and Stephen would play baseball with their friends and I would got to see my mother. We all went separately. We each had our own day. Mine was Sunday. I never knew when they went. We never talked about it. My father would drop me off and come back an hour later. Those were the worst hours of my life. She would never speak or move or do anything. She would just stare at me blankly like she didn't know who I was. At first, I tried to talk to her. I'd tell her about church and school and Neal and Steve. I'd ask her how she felt and when she was coming home. She never said a thing so after a while I stopped talking. I'd just sit and wait for the hour to be over. My father would come and take me home, and never said a word. A few times He asked me how it went and I always told Him it was fine. Somehow I couldn't bring myself to tell Him that my mother and I never talked, that I spent the hour counting the tiles on the floor or listening to the doctors being paged. I never told Him that but I think He knew. I don't think she talked to Him either.

Did she talk to your brothers?

We never spoke about her. At home or anywhere. Especially not in front of my father. He adored her. Neal and Stephen feared him. He didn't treat them well. He despised them. They had a different father.

It was supposed to be a secret--my mother's affair--but everyone knew. Everyone in the family, everyone in town, everyone in school. The children would make fun. They would call us names:

"Hey, Carolyn! Where's your bastard twins?!"

"You shut up Adam O'Neill!" Carolyn, age seven yells back, "You don't' know nuthin so you just shut up!"

"I do so know something," Adam continues, walking right up to her, "I know your brothers are bastards, I know you all have different daddies, I know your mama slept with someone else and I know you ain't nuthin but TRASH! You hear me? Your brothers ain't got no real daddy and you mama's a whore and you're gonna grow up to be just like her!"

"STOP IT!" Carolyn screams, "YOU JUST TAKE THAT BACK!"

When he doesn't, she finally lunges towards him knocking him to the ground, pelting him with tiny fists filled with seven-year-old fury.

"TAKE IT BACK!" She screams at him, not noticing that he's crying and that she's bloodied his nose, "TAKE IT BACK!"

All the children gather around them, yelling, cheering, laughing, crying. Finally a teacher comes outside and pulls her off. Adam doesn't move, just watches with wide, frightened eyes as the teacher drags Carolyn off. His nose is still bleeding but he scarcely notices. The playground is a silent graveyard.

At the edge of the crown Neal and Stephen watch silently.

My father didn't talk to them much. He hated what they were, some other man's children. He never blamed my mother. He only blamed them. He loved me, spoiled me, doted on me because I was His and because I looked like her. Neal and Stephen only looked like each other.

I imagine I should say He took her death hard but I don't know how He took it. We only talked about it once.

He came home from work early that day--He worked for Norcom, the big pharmaceutical company--and He went straight to their bedroom. No one had been in there since she'd gone to the hospital to stay. He slept in the guest room down the hall. No one went in there. He kept the door locked. That day He went in there and laid down on the bed, lengthwise. The boys were out but I was home and I went to stand in the doorway to watch Him. He cried then. That was the only time I ever saw Him cry. He saw me in the doorway and He told me to come in:

"Carolyn, come here," he says, "Come in here, kitten."

Carolyn, eleven now and just beginning to show the sings of puberty, hesitates in the doorway. The room is so old, so unused, so dusty it makes her want to gag. The sunrays trying to sneak through the curtains show here the layers of dust hanging in the air of this room. She sees the dust covering everything, every lamp, every surface, even the carpet. The smell of dust and dirt and mouse droppings stings her nose and makes her eyes water. She sees cobwebs on the posts of the bed where her father sits up. She goes to sit beside him.

"She's gone, sweetheart," he takes her into his arms, "Your mother's gone."

"Will I have to sleep in here now?" she asks him, quietly, innocently.

He looks at her strangely then, frowning.

"No, Carolyn," he replies finally.

Satisfied with his answer she untangles herself from his arms and stands up. She watches him.

"The funeral's on Tuesday at three o'clock. I'll pick you up here. Wear your navy blue dress," he tells her.

She leaves the room. He stretches back out on the bed, but he doesn't cry anymore.

I remember that Tuesday. I wore the navy blue dress just like He said. I curled my hair. I wore knee socks. When I was finally ready I went to the backyard to wait for my father. Neal and Stephen were back there, building. They were always building something. Actually, no, that's wrong. It was Neal. Stephen just went along with it. Neal had great visions, great expectations. He loved to build. Stephen loved to be with Neal. I went out there and they watched me. Neal asked where I was going:

"Straight to hell down a wishing well!" Stephen chants before Carolyn can reply. Stephen has just learned to curse. He curses everything now, curses for no reason, makes up words and pretends that they're curses. He spends a lot of time in the principal's office because of it.

Neal pauses and waits for her to answer.

"Neal, now you know that's not funny," she finally says, hurt, "You know exactly where I'm going. And the two of you better go get changed too. Daddy's gonna be here any second."

"No, he's not," Neal replies, "It's too early."

"Have you forgotten what day it is?" she asks, "It's Tuesday. It's almost three o'clock. You'd better hurry or he'll be mad."

"He's always mad," Stephen speaks up, "A stinking yelling madman. Always. Today's no different. Dumb madman."

"But it's Tuesday," Carolyn insists, "We have to go--"

The back screen door bangs open. Their father stands there. To Carolyn he looks taller, stronger somehow. He frowns at the twins and takes Carolyn's hand.

"You boys listen up," he addresses them without looking at them, "Your sister and I are going out. We'll be back later."

He pulls her away and steps on what they are building all in one swoop. They barely notice. Neal turns and scampers off to the end of the yard but Stephen stays and watches her go with confused and unhappy eyes.

He never took them to your mother's funeral?

No. I guess He saw no reason to. It took me two years to tell them where I'd gone that day. When I finally did Neal said he already knew she was dead. My father had told him years before that she'd died. He said she'd died screaming, writhing with her eyes bulged out and her tongue lolling out of her mouth. She'd been screaming that Neal and Stephen would roast in hell because they were evil. Evil children bread by the devil. That when they were born they'd had horns in their heads and tails. He said they were joined at the hip like the two-headed monsters in the storybooks. He told them that He would kill them before they grew to be the beasts that they were. He said he'd do it in the night while everyone slept. They believed him. He told them that when they were five and they never stopped believing it.

Did he ever beat them?

No, Carolyn. The tape recorder won't pick up gestures. You're going to have to speak up.

Yes. He beat them. Often. More often than not. Before my mother died He had nothing to do with them. But after she was gone He would beat them all the time. He blamed them for her illness and her death. He accused them of killing her. They never argued with him.

What did he beat them with?

His hands, His fists. His belt, stick from the yard, branches off trees. He kept a horsewhip. It hung on a hook by His bedroom door. He would kick them, stand on them and leave the footprint of His shoe on their backs. He would take them to the basement and hang them from the ceiling beams by their wrists. He'd use the horsewhip on them and then throw cups of gasoline on the wounds. They stopped going to school. My father told everyone they were in reform school. Everyone felt sorry for Him because He had to raise two troublesome children who weren't His own. No one knew. We never told. I would play with them when I came home from school. We were all very close.

But you never talked about what was going on?

No. Never.

Carolyn, why didn't you ever tell anyone what he was doing?

I didn't think there was anything anyone could do.

Carolyn. Do you know why you're here?

Because He's dead. Because I killed Him.

We have an admission of guilt plus a murder weapon with her prints all over it.

They found the weapon?

About an hour ago. Ax. Blade covered in his blood. Handle covered in her prints. She's gonna fry.

Lieutenant, we are not in Texas. She's not going to fry.

Well, she's gonna rot in jail all the same.

The girl needs help, she doesn't deserve to be locked up. She should go to a psychiatric hospital.

There's that maternal instinct again! What is it with you district attorneys? As soon as it's a woman involved all the rules change. This case is not going to go to trial, and you and I both know that if that were a man in there we would not even be having this conversation. He'd be on his way to jail.

Gender has absolutely nothing to do with this case at all!

It has everything to do with it! Miss Andrews, the fact if that she killed a man. Candy-coat it all you like but he still lies dead in a drawer downstairs.

The fact is, Lieutenant, that she had no choice but to kill him. You heard what he'd done to her brothers. You heard what she grew up around. You've seen Neal, strapped to the bed in a padded room in that clinic! So heavily drugged he can barely move! If you send that girl to prison, Lieutenant, you'll kill her.

Miss Andrews...Miss Andrews, don't you get it? You were in there, you saw her and listened to her story. Prison won't kill her. She's already dead.

What will happen to me?

Well, Carolyn, we'll hold you here for a few days until we decide. We want to make sure we make the right decision and send you to the right place.

Will I go to jail?

After we listen to the rest of your story we'll look into certain correctional facilities and psychiatric hospitals.

But will I go to jail?

It's, well, it's a possibility.

Carolyn, you killed your father. Do you realize what that means?

He deserved it.

Regardless of whether or not--

I went to my first school dance when I was fourteen. It was the first time I'd worn a real bra and not a training one. I wore a mini skirt and perfume and lipstick. I got my fist kiss that night too. His name was Charles. He kissed me under the tree in the front yard. I watched him walk away afterwards. I waited until he was just a speck on the street before I went inside. When I went in, there He was. And there was Stephen...

Carolyn bangs open the door, almost bursting to tell her brothers what had happened to her, knowing they wouldn't understand but wanting to tell them anyway. The kitchen door flies against the wall and stays there. Carolyn focuses on her father's startled, confused, but most of all scared eyes. Her father's eyes and Stephen's.

Stephen is naked. Her father holds him in his arms. Neal hides beneath the kitchen table. All the burners on the stove are turned to the highest setting, all glow a malevolent orange-red. She sees the air above the burners shimmer and ripple like water. She sees Stephen clinging to the man that despises him, his bare bottom just inches away from the first burner.

An entire minute slowly ticks by and no one moves. All of them are caught in a grotesque tableau with all eyes on her while her eyes are one all of them. She wants to scream, she wants to run, can visualize herself doing all these things but remains paralyzed.

She can feel the heat from the burners on her face and arms. She can feel it burn the soles of her feet, she can feel her eyes begin to dry out. She can see the flames dancing in her hair, she can feel her soul sink out of her toes and melt into the linoleum floor.

Finally, he puts Stephen on the ground without harming him. Stephen automatically bolts for the door followed closely by Neal. Carolyn barely notices. She's watching her father.

He opens his mouth, as if to say something but only ends up clamping it shut without saying a word. He flips off the burners and pads down the hall to his bedroom. He closes the door behind him.

Neal is nowhere to be found, but Stephen is curled in a corner beneath the porch. She crawls in beside him and puts her arms around his bare shoulders. He crawls into her lap like a child and quickly soaks the front of her blouse with his tears. She holds him.

"Kaaywoll," he whispers to her.

She pulls him closer.

Kaywoll? What's that?

That's what her used to call me when he was a baby and couldn't pronounce my name.

Did he say anything else to you that night?

No. That was the last thing he said.

Did he say anything to you the next day?

No, that was the last thing he said. He never spoke again after that. At least not around Neal and me. He died three years later.

How did he die?

He killed himself. Neal took it hard.

Did he go to the funeral?

There wasn't one.

Where is Stephen buried?

I don't know. I don't know what my father did with the body. Neal tried to kill himself a year later. He did it in the bathroom of a donut shop. Someone found him and took him to the hospital. Then he went to the clinic. He's been there since. I don't see him much.

So you lived alone with your father for the last six months?

Yes.

How was it? Describe it.

At first it was fine. Very normal. Run of the mill. He worked, I went to school. I would cook dinner for the both of us. He liked my meatloaf. On Tuesday nights we'd watch the movie on channel seven together, no matter what it was. He made popcorn. It was fun.

And then?

Then things changed. He made me do things. Things that weren't right.

What things?

Oh, no, not what you're thinking. He was never indecent; he didn't ask me to do obscene things.

Then what?

He would constantly tell me how much I look like my mother. This is true, I've seen the pictures. I have the same face, same hair, same figure. He would tell me that. He asked me to cut my hair like hers; she had bangs. And so I did it. Once in a while He would ask me to wear one of her dresses to dinner and sit in her spot at the table. He gave me her perfume to wear and her jewelry. Pretty soon 'once in a while' became all the time. It was nice at first, it gave me a way to be close to her, kind of. I mean, I never really knew her. But soon it got out of hand. He would call me by her name and wouldn't listen when I corrected Him. He would get angry when I didn't do as He said. I didn't want to make Him angry, I didn't want Him to do to me what He had done to Stephen and Neal.

So what happened the night he died, Carolyn?

He came home. Same as usual. But things were different. I made them different...

Carolyn sits at the kitchen table drinking tea, nineteen now, tall, graceful, pretty. She finishes off the last of the tea and rises. She studies the coffee mug in her hands for a moment. It is cream-coloured with 'Sonya' written on the side in red. Finally, Carolyn throws the mug to the floor. It smashes but she barely notices the shards of porcelain. She strides down the hall to her father's room, the room he uses now, ever since her mother died. She throws open the wardrobe doors and quickly rips down all the dresses, blouses and skirts that hang there. She takes all that she can manage and walks back to the ground. She makes several trips emptying first the closet, then the dresser drawers. Every garment that once belonged to her mother is now all over the ground in the backyard. Carolyn sprays the mound of clothes with hair spray and lights a match.

Her father comes home soon after and finds her in the bathroom hovering over the sink that is filled with bits and pieces of her mother's photographs. She's cutting her hair.

"Sonya!" he exclaims, "What the hell are you doing? Why are you cutting your hair?"

"I am not Sonya!" she screams at him, "I'm Carolyn! Carolyn! Stop calling me Sonya!"

He slapped me then. That was the first time He ever hit me. He immediately apologized but He still called me Sonya. I told Him to stop! I'm not her, I'm not! He wouldn't listen. So I ran to the shed and got the ax.

I know what I did was wrong, I know it. I was never a child, I was never a teenager. He stole my life away from me, just as He stole it from Neal and Stephen. I just wanted my life back. That's all. Was that really so wrong?

The way you went about it was, Carolyn.

Well, it's done. I can't bring Him back. He's gone.

Are you at all remorseful about this, Carolyn? Do you even care what you did?

Lieutenant, I really don't think that line of questioning is at all appropriate--

Do you even care that you put that ax through his skull ten or fifteen times? Does it even bother you?

Lieutenant!

No. No, not at all. The only thing I regret about the whole thing is not doing it sooner. Maybe I could have saved Neal and Stephen, y'know? That's my one regret, Lieutenant. And you can bet your life that, given the chance, I would do it all again in a second.

Carolyn, you do realize that the penalty for murder in this state is life imprisonment, don't you?

Yeah, I know it. And I'll do it if I have to.
Lieutenant, can I ask you a question?

Go ahead.

You sit there, questioning me, accusing me, trying to prove that I'm some cold calculating murderer. And maybe I am. But honestly, Lieutenant, what would you have done in my place?

Yeah, shake your head and shrug your shoulders. That's what I thought you'd do.

Copyright 2000 Halima Thompson

Contact me Sign My Guestbook View My Guestbook

Learn to make your own web page Popular (free) Web Hosts Writing HTML
H. A. Thompson Home Autobiography Story Directory Links News and Updates

Hosted by www.Geocities.ws