By DM Anderson
I was twelve years old the first time I uttered the words son of a bitch. Naturally, I had no idea what those words meant. I was merely a child. I only knew the expression came with a sinister adult-sized connotation.
That same year was also when I decided to move my bedroom from the second floor to any place that provided peace. By age twelve, I clearly understood what was going on next door in your bedroom—and I didn’t like it. Even children recognize dysfunction and the need to flee. Unfortunately, the only space available in our three-bedroom home in Jackson was the claustrophobic basement. Regardless, later it would serve me admirably as a safe room.
As an even younger child, I was awakened countless times to animalistic noises, a ritual perfected with precision-like timing at midnight on Saturdays. You and Mother would return from a dance or bridge tournament at the club, inebriated to senselessness, and do whatever parents do behind closed doors. The ritual, over time, evolved from lovemaking to a more insipid custom of hostile grownup bantering—not the type of rhetorical foreplay a child should ever have to endure.
Early on, I learned how ‘sticks and stones may break one’s bones, and words can never hurt,’ but as one matures into adolescence, one realizes words do more lasting damage than physical abuse. Vicious words pierce the soul with all the irreverence of a spear piercing the heart. Moreover, words become the catalyst for the hurt most often preferred by grownups on their hurried procession to matrimonial hell.
With this type of enthusiasm, you and Mother grew to despise each other behind closed doors but learned to practice the facade of blissful happiness in public. I know this all too well because I heard everything. With Mother, the Saturday night vigils were likened to a reading from Who’s Afraid of Virginia Wolfe, her angry tirades as demonic as her sexual desires were rapturous years earlier. Your voice, by comparison, was only mildly offensive but with a delivery equally caustic and damaging. Typically, money, or lack of it, sparked the adversarial flames. Yet, anything else could ignite a flare-up at the drop of a pin.
One night, the argument escalated until you leaped on Mother, and began choking her. I heard her gasping, “I can’t breathe,” and you saying, “Fine by me. Just die.” Panicked, I grabbed my baseball bat and stormed into your room, swinging it inches from your head.
“What are you doing, Rebecca?” you yelled, ducking each swing.
“Stop choking Mother!” I screamed. “You always say a gentleman never lays a hand on a woman. Look at you, you son-of-a-bitch.”
My words crushed you, and you convulsed, bawling uncontrollably. Mother fled to the bathroom and vomited.
After that night, you never again assaulted Mother. The incident may well have been your demoralized undoing as a man because later in life, you not only cowered to her whims, but you also failed to protect sister Ruth and me from the beatings she capriciously doled. In a way, the incident infused Mother with newfound confidence. Her tongue became more scathing; she used it as a tactical weapon to emasculate you for all your infidelities.
The next day, I moved into the basement and was safe for six years until I ventured to Ole Miss. In my new bedroom’s soundproof womb, I was free of the incessant insanity plaguing our family. Yet, I often wonder how different life would have been for Ruth and me had I not listened to you on that one night so long ago. If I had smothered my ears with a pillow and allowed you to finish your dirty business. At the very least, I would never have grasped the true meaning of son-of-a-bitch.
* * *
My fondest memories of you involve baseball, a shared passion that eventually became our undoing. Unlike Ruth, who focused on ballet and cheerleading, I loved the game of baseball. And while we rarely played catch due to your busy schedule, getting you to a Jackson Demons game was far easier. It became our private time to root for the home team and do what fathers and daughters are expected to do—savor each other’s company. You would stand for hours to procure us the best seats available, usually behind the home team’s dugout. You even bought beer for me, insisting it was un-American to watch a ball game without “brewskies” and dogs.
As we drank from the first inning onward, we grew boisterous with alcohol breaking down barriers between us. And while the team provided a common rallying cause, a loss by the Jackson Demons often led to frustration and colorful profanity, like “You’re a goddamned prima donna,” which you taught me at the ballpark.
Oh, fond, fond memories. Those summers at the baseball ballpark not only celebrated the sport but also extolled my budding relationship with you.
But one year, being a slightly older and wiser teenager and more impatient, I opted for a sneak peek at our tickets, knowing full well that you hid them in a briefcase, the briefcase you forgot to take to the office. I remember happily bounding to your closet, hauling the weighty piece back to the kitchen, and searching the inner workings for the tickets under Mother’s watchful tutelage. Reaching my hand inside a secret compartment, I innocently yanked out a handful of Polaroid snapshots of your secretary naked. The woman’s image reflected off a vanity mirror of what I presumed was her bedroom dresser; I could see your reflection holding the camera.
I wanted to scream but somehow remained calm. On the other hand, Mother flew into a rage, dumping the contents of the briefcase on the kitchen floor and scouring the proceeds for additional evidence. When she found a handful more photos, she seized me by the arm and flashed them in my face, forcing me to take a closer look.
“See this and this and this?” she wailed. “Now you know the truth. Your Daddy is a no-good two-timing rotten bastard. So, what do you think of him now, Rebecca?”
Speechless, I didn’t think too highly of you at that moment. I remember crying and wanting to hide in the basement and Mother holding me back, refusing to let go of my arm.
“Well, answer me, damn it,” she persisted. “What do you think of the perverse animal?”
I recoiled and said nothing. For that, Mother slapped me across the face and pushed me to the floor, glaring at me as though I was the woman in the photographs. For an instant, I feared for my life. Fortunately, she didn’t pursue after me, and I was greatly relieved to escape her wrath.
When you came home later that day and discovered what had transpired, you vigorously defended yourself for hours against Mother’s verbal barrage, vowing that you would fire your secretary and never make the same mistake again (I’m presuming you meant the fidelity mistake, not the blatant leaving-pornographic-material-in-an-unlocked-briefcase carnal mistake).
You appeared that night at my doorway and spoke through the closed door. “I’m sorry,” you whispered, before trudging back upstairs.
Of course, I knew you felt humiliated and embarrassed. Yet, we never talked about it, even years later when we had a rare moment to do so.
After that incident, you and I never again attended the ballpark or watched our favorite team. My Demons, however, are alive and kicking to this day. I have since repeatedly wished I had never ventured a quick look-see for the tickets and, in the process, discovered the truth about you.
* * *
The memories I recall most vividly involving Mother occurred during the summer before my freshman year at Ole Miss. Perhaps the recollections are clearest because, at the time, I savored the college countdown, knowing I would be free once and for all from the hurtful things happening inside our family. Perhaps I was growing out of my teenage insecurities and beginning to look at life from a more objective adult perspective. Or maybe it was the fact my last summer at home turned out to be Mother’s swan song, making those days loom larger than life. Whichever, that brief span of time became indelibly etched in my memories.
With my departure for college looming, little else in Mother’s life motivated her to live. Once Ruth married the year before, Mother seemed less vibrant. I was certainly the least of her worries. The truth is during my just-completed senior year in high school, we had relatively few confrontations. And for a brief serene period, I reasoned she had changed for the better and mellowed. Given this new laissez-faire approach to child-rearing, I repeatedly let my guard down, communicating openly with her as one might converse with a friend. Later, I ascertained Mother’s lack of vigilance sprung from overindulgence in wine at afternoon bridge parties.
One night, as you flew home from a business convention in Las Vegas, tornadoes were moving toward Jackson, and your flight got caught in the storm. Mother started ranting about your impending death and how she’d become a pauper without life insurance. I made the mistake of saying she sounded crazy. With that, she tried to slap me, but I dodged her blows and seized her wrists, infuriating her further. Defeating her physically and psychologically shattered her ego.
“When Daddy gets home, Rebecca, I’m going to have him beat you within an inch of your life,” she screamed, still wrestling to free her wrists.
“I doubt it. Daddy leaves the beatings to you, and your days are long finished,” I proclaimed.
Within an hour and with Mother still fuming, you floated through the front door like a ghost, unaware your favorite daughter had turned loose a raging tiger. I’m sure the last thing you wanted to hear was Mother’s tongue wagging furiously, but with her rage peaking, she told you that I assaulted her and how she feared for her life. Of course, she also demanded to know what you were going to do to fix the untenable situation. Immediately, you descended into my bedroom, pissed as a wagonload of hornets.
“I heard everything she said, Daddy, and it is not how it happened. Not at all.”
“Oh?” you responded calmly, slowly unbuckling your belt and doubling it in half to wreak twice the damage.
“And you’re not going to hit me with a belt, neither. I do not deserve this. Not this time. Not from you. I’m an eighteen-year-old woman, for God’s sake.”
“Is that so?” you stated again, purposely dropping the belt to the ground in what I hoped was a showy display of unanimity.
During that brief interlude, a second or two, when I took my eyes off yours and watched the belt hit the floor, I rejoiced. I should not have. I should have maintained eye contact to avoid the backhand slap, which blackened my eye and dropped me to the ground. I remember staring horizontally at your polished black wingtips. I remember you bending over to grasp the belt and glaring into my eyes, presumably to check for signs of consciousness.
“Just remember this, Rebecca—you may be the one who once reminded this son-of-a-bitch that a gentleman never lays a hand to a woman, but mouthy eighteen-year-old daughters don’t count. Not for shit. They’re an exception to the rule,” you stated, a remark six years in the making.
“But you don’t understand, Daddy. She’s a sick woman. She needs help— professional help. I believe she’s suicidal.”
“She is perfectly fine. Besides, we take care of our own. Don’t we?” you smirked.
“Yes, sir,” I lied.
Five months after that night, Mother purposely slammed her Cadillac into a massive oak tree at Jackson City Park, the personification of unresolved anger and mental abuse.
* * *
Years later, I discovered you had been suffering from a heart ailment. It was the summer when you stayed with my husband Paul and me in the house we were restoring. Moreover, having just turned seventy-five, you were taking a rare sabbatical between wives, which gave us a few weeks of your life. Frankly, at the rate of your downhill slide into dementia, Paul and I anticipated placing you in a nursing home before your departure. Against this sad backdrop, I put myself into a caregiver’s role, in a reversal where the child becomes the paternal figure, and the father becomes the child.
Over the ensuing weeks, I learned more about your past, including those days as a B-52 pilot, than in the eighteen years I spent at home. You recalled such a plethora of trivialities that I thought my head might explode. You delighted in cooking for Paul and me, and I can unequivocally state that your company elevated to tolerable. It was as though you had finally succumbed to all of those Baptist sermons we listened to as a family.
Feeling liberated over this newfound relationship, one night, while consuming our second bottle of Cabernet, I courageously asked you about deep-seated family scars etched in my psyche. “Daddy, there are a few things I need to ask you. Things bothering me for years. Do you care if I get them off my chest?”
“No, by all means. Ask away, Rebecca,” you replied, blowing concentric rings of cigar smoke skyward, oblivious to the cresting tsunami.
“Well, do you remember the time you struck me? When you backhanded me after Mother alleged that I manhandled her. Did you honestly believe her?” I asked.
You laid your cigar down on an ashtray and looked at me with a copious stare. “What? Are you saying I struck you? Me?” you pursued, astonished by the question.
“Yes, you did strike me. Punched me in the face, you did. Don’t you remember? It happened in the summer. I was getting ready to go to Ole Miss for the first time. Your flight was late from Atlanta. There was a horrible storm, and Mother was irrationally upset.”
Your eyebrows raised in disbelief. “I do remember the storm. There were tornadoes everywhere. I remember getting home much later than planned, around 9:00—no, it was 9:30—and how your mother was concerned for my safety, but I don’t recall any of the other. Did someone accuse you of harming your mother? Is that what you’re saying?”
“Yes. Mother accused me. She accused me of —of.” I paused. “You don’t remember the incident, do you?”
You shook your head, so I decided to change my tactic or at least the historical perspective to jog your memory.
“How about this: Do you remember the night I ran into your bedroom, and you were choking Mother? I was twelve at the time. You two were arguing about something—money, girlfriends—one of the two. Do you remember how I nearly decked you with a baseball bat?”
You shook your head again. Tears trickled down your cheeks.
“You tried to hit me with a baseball bat, Rebecca? You? But why?”
“And the beatings?” I continued, unaffected by your performance. “Why did you do nothing about the beatings? Why did you stand there as a bystander and do nothing to stop it?”
“Rebecca, why are you saying such hateful things? Fabricating such horrible stories?” you countered. “Your mother and I would never hurt you. Never lay a hand on you. We were a family—a loving family.”
A loving family? I asked myself. Maybe you and I had opposite definitions of the phrase, but it made no difference. Either you managed to somehow squelch the memories, or dementia, so prevalent in our family tree, had finally seized hold of you. Either way, it became pretty evident that you would never have to confront your conscience or answer my interrogation.
Two months after you returned to Lake Tahoe, you married for the sixth and final time. I never met the woman. I later discovered she was the only person bequeathed in your will. And while shovels of dirt fell on your coffin at Arlington Cemetery, your wife shopped in Paris, spending the family inheritance. Meanwhile, Ruth remained interned in a Nashville psych ward, but as for me? I was there for you, standing by your grave, praying and forgiving you.
Now, years later, the bitterness of those years still lingers, but I’ve learned to taste the ripeness of life’s sweeter moments—the laughter, the love, and even the fleeting peace of forgiveness.
DM Anderson is a native Mississippian but after attending the University of Iowa’s Creative Writing Workshop, relocated to Texas to pursue a writing career. When he’s not busy writing, he enjoys winning his fantasy football league, creating new Margarita recipes, and painting works of art for local charity events. His short stories have been published in several places (fourteen over the past year), including the Gettysburg Review, Camus Magazine, New Plains Review, Sierra Nevada Review, the Write Launch, and elsewhere. He is currently working on a first novel.