No Ordinary Bloke (13 page)

“I learned young. That’s the only reason.”

“Younger than elementary school?”

It was a bloody slippery slope I’d created for myself, whether it was conscious or not. In the back of my mind, I knew bringing her to my neighborhood would elicit questions about my growing up. How could it not? Slowly, I opened up to her. “I think I mentioned my dad was a carpenter. I would watch him when I was little. He taught me numbers. You can’t build anything if you don’t know your numbers, fractions, how to add and subtract—that sort of thing.”

“That’s cool and useful in life in a lot of ways. Could you build something today?”

“I could build a house if I really wanted to. That’s kind of boring though. I like to make furniture.”

“Really? Like what?”

“I bought a new TV a few months ago, so I just made a new console for it. I’ve built just about everything though.”

“What a great skill to have. Besides your mom, you don’t have any other family in the neighborhood?”

“Not anymore. My grandparents have all passed.”

“I’m sorry. That’s hard.” She seemed sad, but also like she was trying to piece together a story for me. “Do you know why your parents only had one child?”

“Because they weren’t supposed to have any,” I said, maybe a little too bitterly.

“Oh, shotgun wedding?”

“Yeah.”

She looked off into the distance. “Sometimes I wondered that about my parents, but the dates don’t check out. My oldest brother was born a year after they got married. I think they really did love each other, even though they were young. But they weren’t ready for kids so early in their marriage.”

I tapped my fingers on the table, hoping the conversation might steer elsewhere…anywhere, but my mind was blank. I guess the silence was too awkward for her because she looked about the empty pub and asked question that seemed to be filling the dead air. “So when did you start coming here?”

“When I was sixteen.” A buried memory came back to me, and I wanted to kick myself for bringing her to the pub. What was I thinking? It was like I’d set myself up for painful, awkward conversations. Yet here I was with this woman I was falling for so fast I couldn’t think straight.

If I mentioned my memory, I wasn’t sure where the conversation might go. I looked at Allison’s soft eyes. I loved talking to her. Maybe she
could
hear me out. After taking a sip of beer, I said, “Actually, I came here when I was in primary school.”

“That seems awfully young,” she said, furrowing her brow. “And illegal.”

“Me dad liked to drink. When Mum worried where he was, I’d sneak out and come down here. I’d knock on the back door and ask for him.” I exhaled. Somehow that wasn’t as hard as I thought it would be.

Allison’s concern turned into full-fledged sympathy. “Oh, David. I’m so sorry. How old were you?”

“Dunno. I guess I started doing it when I was eight or nine.”

“Would he come home with you?”

“Sometimes. Sometimes not.”

“Was he okay to get home?”

My voice became cynical. “Do you mean was he drunk?”

“Well, yes.”

“Usually.”

“I’m so sorry. That’s terrible.”

This was the point where you could say, “It wasn’t so bad” or “Despite that, he was a great dad” or “We were never close anyway.” I couldn’t lie to Allison though, not her. I ran my hand through my hair. “Sometimes I wish he never came home.”

She swallowed hard like she wasn’t sure how much to probe, and then her voice was soft. “Why?”

“He was a violent bastard.”

There. I got it out there. Maybe that would be enough, but it wasn’t. She was crestfallen, as if she was mortified for that little boy I spoke offhandedly about. “Did he hurt you?”

Trying to steady myself, I took a deep breath and found some strength—from God knows where—to say it aloud. “He beat me mum.”

“Oh my God, David,” she whispered. “Did you see it? Did you hear it?”

“Both.” I looked away at my friends at the bar. I’d never tell the story to them. They’d heard similar stories their whole lives, maybe lived it themselves. Best to shut the fuck up and not talk about it. I was going to tell Allison, though, and she’d probably be the last person I ever told unless I ever got married. I hoped I could tell my wife. I turned back and found her eyes on me as soulful and caring as they could be. If only my wife—whoever she was out there—could be like her.

Leaning into the table, I gripped my hands together. “When I was very young, I loved him, but I hated what he did to her. As I got older and learned what a normal family was, I grew to hate him. One night when I was twelve, I was in bed and I could hear a fight begin. It started out about money or something. He was drunk, and it sounded particularly brutal. I ran out of bed and stepped in between them. My mum yelled for me to get away, but I screamed at him. I was tall for my age. I told him to pick on someone his own size for once.”

“What happened?” she asked, breathlessly.

“He hit me, hard. I’d been in fights before, but not with a man. I fell over, knocking me mum down with me. Afterward he was in shock, he grabbed his wallet that he kept on the kitchen counter. He left and never came back.”

Placing both of her hands over mine, she shook her head, “I’m so sorry. So, so, so sorry.”

I stared down at her hands on mine. They were cold, but it felt good. I took them in mine, trying to warm them up. “Thank you, but it’s okay. I don’t talk about it. Mum taught me that while the world was essentially beyond our control, we could shape it, best we could. So that’s what we did.”

To my surprise, she began to rub my hands, just as I did hers. “Did the rest of your family know?”

“More or less. Aunt Judith knew the most, but there was nothing to do. Mum wouldn’t leave him. I think she was terrified he would come after us.” I winced. “And she loved him. He could also be very sweet to her. So she loved that bastard.”

“Uch. That’s just horrible.”

“He was a sick, fucked up man.” I squeezed her hand, maybe in hopes she would believe me. “You know, right, that I would never, ever hit a woman, right? I’ve got a temper, but I’d never touch a woman or a child. And if I ever have a kid, they’ll never know what happened.”

She nodded, but soon withdrew her hands from mine. “Thank you for telling me, for feeling like you could. You didn’t have to do it.”

“I guess I wanted to tell you.” I shrugged. “Maybe then you wouldn’t think I was such a shallow, cheeky bastard.”

“I don’t think you’re shallow at all.” Her voice was warm. “From the first time we talked on the plane, I’ve thought you were a pretty sensitive guy under all that bravado. And you’ve got an intuition about people. I don’t think people have that without being kind of thoughtful about life.”

“Thank you.” I was so chuffed I felt a little warm.

Lines appeared on her forehead as she slowly knitted her brow. “You’ve been so open with me. I’m really touched.”

“I told you once you were exceptional.”

She nodded. After a moment, she looked to the ceiling, and I realized she was starting to cry. Jesus. I’d made the poor girl cry. I wanted to kick myself. “Don’t cry, Allison. I’m not worth crying about. I promise.”

Then she gasped with a little laugh and began to dry her eyes. “Don’t worry. I made myself cry.” Her voice then became serious. “I have a story, too, but since it happened, I never talked about it with anyone, not even my family, which is ironic because hundreds of people know it. Maybe even a thousand.”

My mind jumped to the worst possibility.
Dear God, please don’t let her have been raped.
Anger began to well in me. I wanted to kill the bastard who hurt her. I exhaled and said, “You don’t have to talk about it with me either if you don’t want to, but if you do, I’ll listen. Though if anyone hurt you, I’ll want to kill the bastard.”

“It’s not what you’re thinking. It wasn’t only me. He hurt so many, but not physically.” She smiled, but it wasn’t a happy one. She seemed pissed off. “And you can’t kill him because he’s dead. I lied to you. My dad didn’t have a heart attack. He committed suicide.”

A
fter hearing that, somehow all that crap I’d carried with my white lie seemed less significant. My dad was fucked up, but if her dad committed suicide that was really fucked up. “Good God,” I said, in shock. “And you were what? Thirteen.”

“Yeah. Thirteen.” I expected her to get all sad and choked up like she did before, but she didn’t. Set her mouth in an angry hard, line. “He shot himself in the barn. Right in the head while everybody was away. My brother, Pete, found him first. Lucky for Larry and me, we were still at school that day, but my poor mom was there.”

“I’m so sorry,” I said, realizing those words were not enough.

“Afterward it was awful. We had the smallest of funerals, but everyone in town knew. All the kids at school knew. Our church. It was horrible. Not that many people were brave enough to talk to us about it—not that we wanted to. I had to look people in the eye though. That was as bad as talking to them because you knew what they were thinking.”

“But your family stayed on the farm?”

“Where were we going to go? The farm was our income, our home. It had been in my mom’s family for ages.”

“Your mother’s family? Not your father’s?”

“Nope. My mom’s. That was part of my dad’s problem. When my parents got married, my dad was planning on going to college the coming fall. He’d never wanted to be a farmer. That was what the rest of his family did, not him. Then my mom got pregnant. He needed to make money, so my granddad, my mom’s father, gave him a big chunk of the farm to run as his own. Eventually, my mom inherited it all, and my dad was stuck there.”

“That’s no reason to kill yourself.”

“No, it’s not, but looking back, he wasn’t a happy man. He was moody and a little violent. He never hurt us, but he was demonstrative in a bad way. He’d throw stuff around when he was mad. When you’re a little kid, it’s scary.”

“It is.” I knew that all too well.

“So now you know my story. Normally, it’s so stored away that I don’t even think about it ever, but I’m having to face it right now. It’s really difficult.”

“Why are you facing it now? What’s going on?”

“It’s Trey. I’m terrified to tell him. His family is so perfect. I think they like me because they think I’m perfect for him. I’m this nice Iowa farm girl, and Trey likes that too.”

“But it’s not your fault your father committed suicide. They can’t possibly hold that against you.”

“I don’t know. What if Trey thinks my family is mentally unstable? Or if his family thinks that of me?”

“I seriously doubt that.” Even Trey couldn’t be that big of an insensitive arse.

She shook her head. “And then there’s the whole wedding thing. I can’t bear the thought of it. The fact my father’s death was a suicide is widely known where I come from. Even my best friends may mention it. I don’t want to be walked down the aisle by one of my brothers only to have all these people think it’s so sad that my dad isn’t there. And it’s not just me. My brothers and my mom are involved here. I just don’t want to dredge up a lot of painful stuff that does nobody any good.”

“Well, I know that feeling all too well.”

“That’s why I told you.” She smiled. “Anyway, that’s why I fled the farm. I couldn’t get far enough away.”

“And you’ve made life for yourself. You can’t let what your father did hold you back.”

“So have you been in a lot of therapy because you sound really, really healthy.”

“Me? Therapy? Fuck no.” I took a long drink. “My Aunt Judith is a psychologist. That’s about as close as I’ve been to any kind of therapy. I’ve just made my way on my own. What about you?”

“Yeah, I’ve seen people off and on. They made me see one when I was young. That really sucked.”

“I can imagine.”

“It has helped me though. I guess that’s why I’m angry with him more than anything else. What he did was pathetic, and there’s so much shame around it. Everyone in my family has handled it differently, but not openly.” She rolled her eyes. “It’s so fucked up.”

“But you’re not fucked up.”

“And you’re not fucked up.” She smirked. “Well, a little when it comes to women.”