Happy Now?
An exercise in flash fiction
Happy Now?
By the time the old man returned home from work, Mother had pretty much had it. After a long, interminable day of dealing with us kids doing kid stuff, she would have all four of us all standing in separate corners in the kitchen, backs to the center of the room, waiting for the old man to come home. The fear of what awaited us was palpable and hung in the air like a wet blanket over a clothesline. The kitchen clock marked time, clicking with each twitch of the second hand like the drip of water torture. The refrigerator hummed along as if in amusement. Whistling through the graveyard, I thought to myself as I waited for what would take place when my father got home. I barely managed to produce saliva as I swallowed.
Turning my predicament over in my mind I thought of the likely possible outcomes. The warnings from Mother had long since lost credibility. Afterall, what was the worst that could happen, the leather strap? A wooden spoon? Always across the bare bottom. Always with the youngest going first and the oldest last. Always followed by what the old man would call the goofy dance, that two-step conga line of the four of us screaming in pain with our pants around our ankles, reaching for our asses, pin-striped with welts, sometimes bleeding.
Thinking back to these episodes, what usually traumatized me most was not the physical pain of the beating. Rather, it was the shame. For in that moment, with my pants around my ankles, leaning over the old man’s lap with my skinny ass in the air, my face burned red at the old man’s mocking while he struck me again and again and again. And my fear of that shame became the currency for my acting out, which ironically, was the reason I was getting a beat-down in the first place. Vicious cycle.
The goofy dance would last less than a minute, followed by the usual “Are you happy now?” taunt to the group of us. Mother’s response was to look away in mock surprise at the swift and violent justice from the old man. She’d then spend the evening in her sewing room, a can of Lite beer and a pack of L&Ms nearby. So I thought to myself in the moment, if that’s the worst of it, I can deal. My three younger brothers? I’m not so sure.
The ticking of the kitchen clock snapped me back to reality. I wondered what kind of mood would accompany the old man as he drove home from the shop. Did his co-workers piss him off? Did he have time for lunch? Did he get enough sleep last night? Did he take his meds? Did Mother call ahead to alert him of our transgressions? Time would tell.
Alerted by the sound of the old man’s car in the driveway, I guess I’d know soon. I stole a nervous glance with my youngest brother, who was a mere four years-old, and I noticed that he was sobbing. I didn’t bother trying to make eye contact with the other two. I could tell by the sniffles that they too were terrified.
I don’t blame Mother for turning us over to the old man. But I do hold her responsible for the consequences. The shame. Especially the shame. I’ll never get over the shame. So, the event that transpired over the next fifteen minutes, and its aftermath, are permanently etched in my mind, buried deeply enough to protect my sanity, but easily summoned for future reference.
Unlike previous episodes when the old man would deliberately trudge his heavy work boots up the stairs, this time he double-timed it up the stairway to the second floor apartment. He quickly opened the door which led to the kitchen. For dramatic effect, he calmly closed the door, and I listened for the familiar sound of the door latch clicking behind him. He must have made eye contact with Mother as there was a brief moment when I could hear his strained breathing.
“Are you ready for this,” the old man asked Mother.
“I am,” she replied with no emotion at all.
“Okay, line ‘em up,” he ordered the four of us as he undid his black leather belt.
Reluctantly, we shuffled our way to the center of the kitchen as the old man effortlessly swung a chair from the kitchen table as if it were weightless. We assembled in our usual order – youngest to oldest. The first dropped his faded blue jeans which I recognized as hand-me-downs from the years. I closed my eyes as he leaned forward over the old man’s lap.
Whap! Whap! I cringed as my brother screamed in pain. As he ran off howling, I cringed again as each of the next two received their punishments. As the old man worked his way through his brood, an additional bonus blow was added to each for good measure. I somehow managed to block out the sounds of their sobs.
As I stepped up for my turn, I glanced at Mother whose eyes met mine with emptiness. I turned to l look at the old man who was panting from beating on my brothers. As I unbuckled my own jeans, I looked him in the eyes with indifference and said, “I’m going to enjoy this.”
Enraged, the hold man shoved me across his lap and held my neck down for purchase. Lying prone and helpless, I sensed his body twist as he raised the business end of the strap over his head. As I braced, I felt the blows, each one landing on the same spot as the one before. Yet I did not make a sound. This infuriated him.
Before I could get up, the old man pushed me off his lap. I looked up at him and he was barely recognizable in his rage. He reached behind his back in a swiping motion and pivoted towards Mother with his arm extended. BOOM! Seeing Mother fall backwards in a crimson spray, I scampered across the kitchen towards my brothers and looked back to see the second round in a flash and another BOOM!
My brothers and I cowered in a corner of the kitchen, not yet processing what we just witnessed. My ears rang and I could smell the expelled gun powder. The old man calmly placed the gun on the kitchen table, turned and looked at me with the same indifference and asked, “are you happy now?”