Evidence of Things Not Seen (20 page)

Dwight glanced over at his mother. Her face had no fight in it. Whatever was going to happen, she was going to sit there and take it. How could she do it? Again? Dwight felt anger flare behind his eyes. He could almost hear it pulse in his ears.

“Huh? Stupid? Huh?”

The fly took off.

Dwight stood up. He was almost as tall as his father. “Don’t hit her.”

His father’s head pivoted to Dwight. He forced himself to stand there and straighten up a little taller to meet his father’s eyes. At the same time, he felt like he might fall down. He kept staring into his father’s black eyes. They were so deep set and heavy lidded that the pupils covered any eye color. It made him look meaner.

“What’s that, boy? You got something to say to me? You’re going take up for your mama?”

“Go to your room, Dwight.” The sound of his mother’s voice sounded like a march. Usually he obeyed her. Usually, he was glad to leave. But tonight, something was different. Tonight, he wanted to fight back.

“Come on, boy, take your best shot.”

Dwight saw the fly light on his father’s shoulder. Flies are easy to kill. All he has to do is whack them once. How hard would he have to hit his father to make him stop? He curled his fist into a ball.

Come on, wuzzy boy. Let me have it.”

Dwight’s fist rocketed up, but as soon as it left his side, his father grabbed it and twisted his whole arm around his back. It felt like his arm was going to be torn off. Then his father threw him against the wall.

Even though his head bashed against the wall, he was glad to be sliding down it away from his father. For a moment, he liked how the wall felt solid, how it held him. But in the very next minute, he was pinned against it as his father’s foot slammed into his back. Once. Twice.

Before the third kick, Dwight felt warm beans splatter everywhere around him. His mother was screaming. “Stop it!” Then he heard her yell, “It’s Christmas, Wes. I thought a few presents were more important than your goddamn meat.”

Dwight looked up to see the cast-iron skillet in her hand. She must have hit his father once because he was holding the side of his head. She was reeling back to land a second blow but his father was quicker. His fists went into her stomach, her face. She fell back onto the table. The skillet clanked onto the floor.

Dwight tried to get up but pain shot across his back. He tried to slide himself toward his mother but it hurt. He looked up at her on the table. Her head was rolled so she faced him. Her nose was bleeding. Her eye had a cut above it and was swelling already. Still, Dwight could see that she was looking at him, willing him not to move. He knew she was right. He stayed put. If they stopped, he would stop. Eventually.

Only not before he flipped the table so she fell on the floor. Not before he kicked her again and again. Not before he yelled and cussed and kicked Dwight in the stomach one more time for good measure on his way out the back door, into the night, into a bar, into a haze where Dwight knew he would forget his wife and his son lying on the kitchen floor broken, with beans everywhere.

Dwight tried to sit up. The last kick to the stomach had knocked the wind out of him. “Mom?” She wasn’t moving. “Mom!” Dwight scooted through the beans and dishes and glasses, toward her. He pulled himself up on an overturned chair. His back and stomach hurt like shit but he pushed himself to get over to her. He rolled her over. Her lip was bleeding. A lot. There were cuts on her face. Maybe she’d been knocked out when she fell on the floor.

She opened her eyes. “Izzhe gone?”

The way she mumbled the question, Dwight wondered if any of her teeth were broken. He nodded. “Yes.”

“Are you okay?”

Dwight sat on the floor and leaned against the counter. “Yeah.”

He felt his ribs. Even if they were broken, all he could do is tape them. His mother sat up and turned away from Dwight. He could tell she was touching her face, probably checking to see how bad the cuts were.

“Go take a shower, Dwight. I’ll clean up in here.” She still didn’t look at him.

“It’s okay. I’ll help.”

“I don’t want your help, Dwight. Please. Go take a shower.”

Dwight knew she didn’t want him to see her face. He stood up slowly, still leaning on the counter. “Okay,” he said, and started to walk away. When he reached the doorway, he stopped. “Mom, I’ll be ready next time. I can fight him now.” Then he walked to the bathroom and turned on the shower.

Dwight tossed his bean-smeared clothes into the hamper and stepped into the shower. He flinched as the hot water hit the sore places on his back. Then he turned and let the water run over what was already a large red circle on his stomach. At first, the heat felt tender on his skin. Slowly, it helped him relax so that he could breathe into the pain, stretch his diaphragm. He felt his ribs. No, he didn’t think anything was broken. Just bruised. Really badly bruised.

Dwight stood with his head directly under the showerhead and didn’t move. All the images from the kitchen rushed through his mind, froze him in the hot shower. First the loud tension building to the first punch, then the silence except for the hitting. For his entire life, Dwight had been trapped inside the silence. It didn’t matter how hard Dwight tried to be good, it always turned out he was pestering his father and got whacked on the head. If Dwight lied or didn’t put something back in the garage that he borrowed, his father took the belt to him. If his mother tried to stop the punishment, then it was worse for both of them. Tonight, though, something besides fear coursed through him. He could feel anger vibrating in his blood. A guttural roar erupted inside him. He tightened his fists so hard they shook. He couldn’t stop imagining pummeling his father until he crumpled, until he felt the same fear that Dwight had felt all his life.

Dwight stood in the shower until the water ran cold. When he stepped out, he knew he hated his father. He didn’t know what he was going to do about it, but his fear had turned to white-hot rage.

Dwight stood in the doorway of the kitchen. It looked pristine. As if no fight had ever taken place. All the dishes were washed. The floor was mopped. His mother stood at the sink. Her profile was to him and her hair hung down.

“The shower’s yours, Mom. You’ll need to wait a little for hot water. I kinda stood in there awhile.”

She nodded. “Sure.”

Dwight noticed that she was holding a dish towel to her mouth. “You okay?”

She nodded, still not looking at him. “Yeah.”

“You sure?” He started to walk toward her.

“No, Dwight. Stop!” She turned her back to him. “I’m fine. I’ll be fine.”

She didn’t sound fine. She sounded like her lips were swollen or her teeth were broken. Still, Dwight stopped. He turned to go to his room. “Mom, if we don’t kill him, he’s going to kill us.”

When Dwight walked into the living room in the morning, his father wasn’t snoring on the couch. Dwight checked to see if his truck was outside. It wasn’t. He crept down the hall to his mother’s room. The door was open. No one was there. The bathroom was empty. Dwight crept around the house wondering when his father would get home. Every step reminded him of the fight last night. His back and stomach ached. It was hard to breathe. Still, the anxiety of not knowing where his father was or when he would come home made it harder to breathe. He wished he knew where his mother was. Maybe grocery shopping. Usually she made a really good dinner for Christmas Eve.

Five times over the course of the day, Dwight did that same circuit. Even after his mother came home and started cooking, he kept checking the living room to see if his father was asleep on the couch. He couldn’t believe he wanted his father there, snoring or moving slowly and quietly because his head hurt. Usually, Dwight wanted him gone. But now, not knowing when his father would come through the door, Dwight wanted life to go back to what passed as normal. Dwight’s stomach churned. His ribs and back ached.

At eight o’clock, he finally sat down in the living room and opened up an ancient issue of
Boy’s Life
magazine. He flipped back and forth through it. He’d read it dozens of times. He checked the clock every other second. He watched his mother fill a pot with water and set it on the stove. He felt crazy fidgety.

Where was he? He always came back after the fights. No matter how bad they were. The next day, the house was quieter. All three of them were quieter so as not to wake the argument that still lurked in the corners. Still, he always came home. Until today.

Bang!

Dwight jumped. Was that his father’s truck? He looked out the window. No truck lights.

He looked past the undecorated, unlighted Christmas tree, toward the kitchen. His mother’s back was to him but he could tell by the way her elbows were crooked that she’d slammed the pot down on purpose. She was gripping it tight in both hands. The harder she held it, the easier she could hold back tears. He’d seen her do it a zillion times. First her eyes would brim up. Then she’d grab on to something. Then her lips would purse together tight till they turned white. She’d exhale and the tears would be gone. All that would be left was blotchy red marks on her cheeks where the hot tears had pooled up under her skin.

Dwight glanced over at the clock. The minute number flopped from three to four. It was 8:04. It felt like an hour had gone by. Dwight looked from the tree to his mom. He wanted to do something. Tonight was the night they decorated the Christmas tree. Always.

“Mom…”

She turned. Her split lip was swollen. She had it slathered with cream so it wouldn’t break open and bleed. The red mark on her cheek had lessened but her eye was starting to purple. Her hands hung at her side. She looked at Dwight straight on.

Dwight wanted to turn away, not because of the cuts and bruises. It was the way she stared at him. Like she had nothing on. Like she was completely naked and couldn’t cover up. Dwight folded and unfolded the
Boy’s Life
magazine in his lap.

“Maybe we could put the lights on the tree.” He started to reach for them so he wouldn’t have to look at her.

“Don’t touch those lights, Dwight.”

He stopped and looked at her. Her tone was even. Almost strong. It surprised him.

“Dwight, I want you to go to your room and pack an overnight bag. Don’t forget your toothbrush.”

The way she said the words pushed Dwight out of the living room. He grabbed a shirt, two pairs of underwear, and a pair of pants. He stuffed them into his school backpack, which was empty of books for the holiday. Then he went to the bathroom and grabbed his toothbrush and the tube of toothpaste. When he came back to the living room, his mother stood by the front door. A small square white suitcase was next to her feet. She looked around the room.

“Is there anything here you can’t live without?”

Dwight wasn’t sure if she was asking him the question or herself. Dwight looked at the room. His eyes fell on the old
Boy’s Life
magazine that he’d read over and over. His mother said she bought it for him but Dwight knew it was the same one he’d read at the hospital that time she had to get stitches in her hand. He knew that she took it for him when she went back to have the stitches out. He almost grabbed it but he reached for the box of twelve Christmas ornaments tucked under the tree instead.

“Why do you want those—?” his mom started to ask, but she stopped.

Then they ran.

A minute before, they were waiting for his father to get home. Now they were running, so fast it was like all their cuts and bruises had healed. The urgency of leaving before he drove up was upon them. They ran toward the old blue Impala parked by the woodshed. They didn’t bother opening the trunk. His mom tossed her suitcase in the backseat. Dwight stuffed the backpack by his feet and kept the ornaments on his lap. She fumbled with the keys. Dwight wondered if it had gas. One of the arguments was how there was never enough money for gas or meat or extras. There was never any money.

“I gassed it up earlier today,” she said, as if she heard his thought. She turned the key and the engine chugged to life. Dwight looked out to the road. He couldn’t see any headlights coming.

She shifted the car into gear and stepped on the gas, pulling out of their driveway and onto the road. Dwight felt the acceleration pin his spine against the seat. It felt good on his ribs. For the first time all day, he could breathe. She kept pressing the gas pedal and Dwight shifted in his seat, leaning forward as if he were riding a horse, urging it onward. He looked behind. Still no lights. Up ahead, the road had one set of headlights coming at them. It could be him. Dwight glanced at his mom. She gripped the steering wheel and looked straight ahead. It reminded Dwight of how he would look straight ahead at the dining room table, trying to be invisible when their arguments started. Dwight ducked his head under the dashboard. As the headlights drew closer, Dwight whispered, “Pass, pass, pass.”

It passed.

Dwight turned and looked out the back window, praying that he wouldn’t see the brake lights flare and stop in the night. They didn’t. He watched them get smaller and smaller. While he was turned around, another car passed them and Dwight watched its two red lights join the smaller red dots farther away. They reminded Dwight of the connect-the-dot game on the backs of cereal boxes where an animal would appear out of seemingly random numbered dots. With each car that passed them, Dwight prayed that none of them would become the animal that would chase after them.

They drove like that for three hours, maybe more. Dwight looking backward. His Mom looking forward. Finally, she pulled into a gas station.

“I have to get more gas and this might be the last one that’s open on Christmas Eve. Do you want anything?”

“What do you mean?”

“Do you want a Dr Pepper or some chips?”

Dwight stared at his mother. She had never offered to buy him a Dr Pepper. Ever. He’d asked plenty. But there was never enough money. “Sure.”

“Great. Would you pump the gas? I’ll go pay and use the restroom.”