The Knowing: Awake in the Dark (6 page)

“Dell!” Someone screamed, “You better get over here!”

“Good god almighty” my father said kneeling at my side. “What in the hell happened? I turn my back for one minute!” he lied.

I was not attended in the water. Neither my father nor Milda sat with the other adults on the lake’s rocky shore while their children played.

The woman who saved me said, “Just leave her with me. I’ll be here all day with Deanna, my daughter. I’ll watch them both.”

“I sure do appreciate that. I turned my back for one minute…”

“Don’t you worry now. We’ve all had accidents. I’ll see to her.”

“Well thank ya now,a? What was your name?”

“Helen. I’m Helen and this is Deanna. She’s mine. Dee is blind but she plays like she isn’t, don’t ya, Dee.”

A young girl with wet curly hair, missing her front tooth grinned. Her left eye, as blue as the sky, wandered in its socket.

“Yes ma’am,” she said.

Deanna and I became fast friends and we played together the rest of the day.

At dusk Deanna and her mom went to their campsite and I headed to ours. I hadn’t seen anyone for hours and there was no one in our camper. My skin burned red from the sun and I shivered as I walked toward the scent of burgers on an open fire. My stomach roared with hunger.

“Oh-oh my god. Ahhh! Ahhhh!” I heard the screaming and crying in the distance. I followed the sounds.

I saw a camper, the door hung open wide, a dim light from within spilled down the metal steps. Milda lay on her back on the banquette inside screaming and thrashing. Her black hair piece flapped on the top of her head as she jerked back and forth. Her feet were snug in canvas tennis shoes without socks and she kicked wildly in the air. Her arms flailed landing punches on the back of the woman who held her down.

“Why! Why does everyone leave me?” She cried. “I hate him. I hate that bastard! He’s always leavin me behind!” She wailed.

“I know it, honey. I know it. Just let it out Milda. Let it out now.”

I stood mesmerized. I’d never seen an adult have a tantrum. I was too young to understand that Milda was drunk and was coming, undone.

She continued to scream, but my attention was drawn to what I can only describe as, a cloud of energy above her. I was accosted with the
knowing
. The cloud was part of Milda. It held all her sadness, rage and desperation. It held the thump and stinging bruises of her body’s memory.

By that, I mean, I couldn’t see physical bruises on Milda but I knew she’d had them, and I knew the imprint they left was more than what a person could see. I had no frame of reference for the word “abuse” but I felt it there. In my mind’s eye I saw a man. He was huge with dark eyes and slicked back hair. He was mean and hateful and somehow, I
knew
he was connected to her.

I felt tightness in my chest and I felt compassion for Milda and her pain. I
knew
she was lost in a fog of suffering and pain. I
knew
she would never find her way out. I also
knew
that was just the way it would be for Milda.

At nine years old, I had no words for the
knowing,
but what I saw that day and what I
knew
would never leave me.

The boy was back at home and in middle school. He no longer feared his father. His fear had turned to hatred. The boy’s father was still a drunk and came home cursing and stinking of booze. He would stagger blindly through the house, knocking over lamps and dislodging knick-knacks from their perch. The boy resented the fact that his mother went to bed with him every night obediently.

When the boy returned home from the farm, he had a little brother, who he loved instantly. He watched out for his baby brother and protected him no matter the cost. Several years had passed now since the boy had been nearly suffocated in the trunk. The first chance he got, the boy emptied the chest, discarding it in an empty lot to prevent his little brother from the same fate.

The boy’s mother worked as an aide at a nursing home and had for as long as the boy could remember. Most days, she came home wrung out, yet she still cooked dinner and waited on her husband hand and foot which angered the boy.

One afternoon in an alcoholic haze, the boy’s father convinced himself that his wife was a sneak and was cheating on him. He was convinced she had a new boyfriend and that was why he sat in the stifling heat, of his truck’s cab, waiting for her to finish work. He stuffed tobacco into his bottom lip and watched through bloodshot eyes for his unfaithful wife’s appearance.

I’ll show her, I’ll follow her and catch her red handed
, he thought as he spit bitter brown juice out the open window.

His wife, Bernadette, rubbed her lower back to relieve the ache that throbbed there. She was grateful her long shift was nearly finished.  She smiled when her friend, Edie sidled up next to her, “Oh gal, aren’t you glad we can call it a day?  Whew, I am beat,” Edie said blowing her short bangs from her forehead.

Bernadette lifted her pencil thin, eyebrows that were carefully drawn over her sky blue eyes and said, “You can say that again, sister. What in tarnation was I thinking when I agreed to a shift that starts at five a.m.?”

The women stood at the nurse’s station and filled out their paper work making small talk.

“Oh, say Edie, do you still need a ride home? Ain’t a problem for me. I can drop you, but I gotta get some gas first. That sound good?”

“You know, that would be just great if you don’t mind, hon. I know you need to get home to your boys.”

“Listen, I’ll run get my purse and meet you at the car. I’m just around back,” Bernadette said as she walked away.

“Okay, hon, thanks,” Edie said focusing on her reports.

Although the air that blew through the car windows was warm, it released the pent up heat as the women drove to the gas station.  Bernadette pulled her old car up to an available pump and put it in park and turned toward her friend.

"I was thinkin,” Bernadette started. The next few seconds seemed like a dream. In slow motion, Edie fell toward Bernadette. In the same instant, Bernadette felt a burning in her chest. In utter shock, Bernadette saw the blood oozing from Edie’s head. Bernadette felt suddenly dizzy as she reached for her friend. She heard a shot ring out and felt her shoulder explode.

The first bullet, that Bernadette hadn’t heard, had burrowed through Edie’s brain and lodged itself in her chest. Later, Bernadette would lose the lung in surgery. Edie died instantly. The second bullet hit Bernadette’s shoulder. Just before she lost consciousness, she saw her husband stumble toward her, with a gun in his hand.

The man staggered, though he did his best to stand straight.
I done showed them, cheatin has consequences.
Bleary eyed and drunk, the man bent over to peer inside the car. He could hear people screaming and running, like cockroaches in the light, but he didn’t care. He was pretty sure he killed his cheating wife. Bernadette was slumped forward behind the steering wheel. Satisfied, the man shuffled to the open passenger window and witnessed his handiwork. For a second time, satisfaction rushed through him as he thought
hotdam! I got the cheatin bastard too.
A smile began to curl his slick, wet, lips just as police cars roared in from four directions.

Suddenly, he had a realization that cut through his drunken, stupor. He stumbled backwards trying to reconcile his thought.
Why does this turkey have tits?
he pondered, as the cop nearest him screamed, “Drop your weapon!”

The clashing of cymbals exploded in my ears. My neck snapped back and forth like a rubber hose. My head bounced with each blow as bloody snot oozed over my traumatized lips. I remember more how it felt inside than how it hurt, the sting of shame burned deep within long after the marks had faded away.

Milda delivered the blows. Her beatings had become regular. They occurred countless times a month now. I was beaten for not cleaning the floor around the bottom of the toilet or for the wrong expression. Sometimes a simple shrug of shoulders followed by an, “I don’t know” garnered a solid slap across the face or a punch in the ribs. Somewhere during this period of abuse I began leaving my body and observing the traumatic events from above the fray like a brazen voyeur.

My most vivid out-of- body experience happened a few weeks after the camping and gravy incident. I spontaneously left my body and observed the painful experience with an odd sense of understanding that was the
knowing.

The sky was pale and cloudless, warning of a hot and humid day. This would be my day, my formal introduction into Milda’s family and a picnic was planned to celebrate my arrival. I was euphoric and the feeling coursed through me like a drug. I craved recognition and praise in the same way others needed air to breathe.

I watched, giddy, as the first guests made their way down the long gravel drive.  Dust billowed up from under the car’s tires and hung in the hot Midwestern air. Picnic tables decorated with red and white checkered cloths whose edges ruffled in the hot air were set up just beyond the covered patio.

My father’s good looks and southern charm shined as he welcomed each new arrival with a handshake or a hug and I was bursting with pride as I met each family member. Milda worked all morning preparing food and cleaning the house until everything was undeniably perfect. Dickey and I did our best to greet family members and guests. About an hour after the last car was parked and everyone was there, Dickey and I stood outside adjacent to the horse corral.

“Hey Dickey, can we take the pony out so the little kids can ride?” I asked.

The pony belonged to our landlords who lived in the house next door. Dickey looked toward the barn, his cowboy hat pulled low to shade his eyes.

“Okay,” he replied. “I guess I could do that. I’ll ask dad.”

Dickey came back with the pony and tied her to the fence while he saddled her. He hefted the saddle onto her back and pulled the cinch that ran under her belly to secure it. He then quickly lifted his knee and struck the pony hard in the stomach. The pony let out a whoosh of air like a burp.

“Ohh, Dickey!” I gasped at his blatant meanness.

“She holds her breath,” Dickey muttered. “So she can make the saddle loose and cause the rider to fall.  Don’t you, you stinking mule,” he said to her.

Sweat glistened thin and slick on his upper lip as he tightened the cinch again. Dickey had the same thickly lashed brown eyes as Milda. He played football and kept quiet most of the time. Milda had beaten him his whole life. “The best thing to do is just drop your head and let her go till she tires out” Dickey advised me weeks later. “Don’t fight back. It just makes it last longer.”

Dickey and I took turns that day leading the pony so the kids could ride. When we were finished, Dickey took charge.

“Give her to me and I’ll tie her up,” he huffed.

I watched as he tied her bridle strap to a post.

“I’m just gonna leave her saddled in case someone wants to ride her later,” he said.

Soon after, Milda marched toward me while I played on the swing set. Her face was tight with agitation. Her anger looked like sparklers on the fourth of July pulsing around her body. The pony had gotten loose and somehow it was my fault.

“How could you be so selfish, so stupid!?” Milda shrieked. “Somebody could hit that horse and sue us. Your daddy and me could lose everything! What in the hell was you thinkin?!”

I froze.

Milda continued her tirade and moved closer.

“You had better pray, your Daddy finds that horse, little girl,” she threatened.

Then she slapped me so hard across the face, my ears rang. I lost my balance and fell to the ground.  She yanked me across the pasture by my hair.

In those first few seconds, inside my ears, my hair sounded like grass being yanked from the ground by its roots, making a popping sound as each follicle let go. I stumbled and lurched like a rodeo clown and tears filled my eyes.

Milda dragged me into the barn where it was dim and all you could smell was horse sweat, hay, and dirt.  She spun me in a circle, and my head banged against the stall with a sharp sting.  She came at me, her fists pounding my face and back. Handfuls of blonde hair flew out in all directions.  Even though I knew she was hitting me, it was like she was hitting someone else.

Surprise and shame were the only things I felt, and then somehow, I was hovering outside of myself watching the spit fly from Milda’s mouth while she gritted her teeth and beat me. It was eerie.