My
father drove furiously, stirring up huge drifts of dust on the abandoned
gravel road. Mother was crying. Father had slapped her because he was
in a bad mood. Then he slapped her again and again because she would cry
even harder after each slap. It was hot because the sun burned down on
my face through the busted back window of the car. I felt fear, nothing
more, but I couldn't put an image to it.
I
didn't understand or perhaps had not even heard the word death, but I
could feel death in the car as it rattled and riveted down the pock marked
road. He just couldn't or wouldn't stop hitting her; her face was cut
and torn from the constant impact of his blows. I looked across the marsh
as the car shook at top speed; there was a lone crane soaring just above
the water and I wished I was the bird, wishing I could be the water or
the marsh grass, anything but whatever or whoever I was now. He slammed
on the brakes at a high speed and the car went into a horrible tail spin
that nearly drove us into the ditch.
The car had expensive white leather seats that gave off this scent that
gave me an instant appetite. If I could have, I would have eaten the seats.
Get out, my father said to my mother. Get out now before I kill you and
him. We got out, even though we didn't want to believe he would kill us.
Yet, we also felt he wouldn't be able to control himself and, for his
own good as well as ours, we got out. We were more concerned for him than
for ourselves. Somehow this was wrong, but we couldn't help ourselves
anymore than he could help doing what he did. That's important to understand,
that no matter what the shrinks might say, he couldn't help himself and
we couldn't help ourselves and, in fact, there was no remedy for the situation
other than ending it. In reality, all of this had to occur and there was
nothing that anything or anyone could do about it.
My mother and I stood on the side of the road trying not to slide into
the deep and fetid ditch and watched the car speeding away through the
heavy drifting dust. The car was a cobalt blue and, even at the age of
four, I remember how the color played on my senses. It made me want to
fall onto the ground and go into a fit. The color made me want to eat
the very earth and dust under my feet and leap for joy for no better reason
than the color existed on this particular car on this particular day at
this particular time in my young life.
Four hours later, we made it home all the way on foot. Father was eating
a sandwich and watching Dragnet on the new color television set.
In our dark house, we knew all would be well and mother and I, at least
for a little while, no longer wished we were dead.
1974
