I don’t remember committing the crime. On the other hand, I don’t deny my guilt. In the end, and maybe you will agree with me on this, in the end, the crime and the guilt are small, petty matters. Empty of significance. Meaningless distinctions. I must’ve been about eight years old. Let me ask you, what evil can an eight year old do? Maybe I forgot to feed the hamster. Maybe I hadn’t done the dishes. Was my guilt so great?
Evenings mom usually got home from work about six. There was no doubt of her displeasure with me that day. Dad normally got home about 7:30. In a few short moments I could see that he shared mom’s opinion. He begin his response after the usual fashion.
He began by preparing and consuming his first martini of the night. Always the recipe was the same: one jigger vermouth, four jiggers gin, over ice, stirred, no olive. At first he just wet his lips with the drink. He tasted it, seduced it. The second time the tumbler reached his mouth he attacked and devoured it. The first drink was gone.
He fixed a second drink and fixed his eyes on me. I understood this look. My stomach ached with it. My flesh was seared by it. I was crushed; smothered.
“Your mother tells me that you didn’t do the dishes. When in the hell are you going to learn to be more responsible?”
My reply was weak and insecure, “I don’t know.”
“Don’t you know that when we ask you to put away the dishes that we mean it? Are you that stupid?”
“I don’t know.”
“You are the stupidest damned kid I’ve ever seen. How the hell do you ever expect to get along with anyone if you don’t grow up?”
“I don’t know.”
“God damn it! I wish you’d never been born. You are more trouble than you are worth.”
“I’m sorry.” Just a whisper now. Almost inaudible.
“If you weren’t such an irresponsible kid then your mother wouldn’t drink so much. Can’t you understand? She drinks because she doesn’t know what to do with you.” I was
crushed; smothered.
“Your mother tells me that you didn’t do the dishes. When in the hell are you going to learn to be more responsible?”
My reply was weak and insecure, “I don’t know.”
“Don’t you know that when we ask you to put away the dishes that we mean it? Are you that stupid?”
“I don’t know.”
“You are the stupidest damned kid I’ve ever seen. How the hell do you ever expect to get along with anyone if you don’t grow up?”
“I don’t know.”
“God damn it! I wish you’d never been born. You are more trouble than you are worth.”
“I’m sorry.” Just a whisper now. Almost inaudible.
“If you weren’t such an irresponsible kid then your mother wouldn’t drink so much. Can’t you understand? She drinks because she doesn’t know what to do with you.” I was being pummeled by his words. I was the cigarette butt and he was the heel grinding me into the pavement. My fire and smoke extinguished as I lay exposed, torn apart and defenseless to his attacks.
“I’m sorry.”
“What in the hell am I going to do with you?. What should I do with you?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t give a damn about your mother and I, do you?”
I tried to reply, “But dad, I do love you”, but before it was out of my mouth he screamed, “The hell you too!”
“Damned, I hate this. Why don’t you just do what’s expected of you? Why are you so damned lazy? Why are you so damned stupid? Why do I have a kid like you?”
On this went through one, two, three more martinis. Each drink stirred his anger. With each question I replied with a feeble “I’m sorry” or “I don’t know” hoping that he might hear and believe; hoping that I might conjure the magic to end this.
I was just a boy; their “little tiger.” I hadn’t sought their undoing. I didn’t want to destroy their lives. I just wanted to make everything okay. I hated myself for not having done the dishes, for not having taken out the trash, for not having done… whatever.
It was me, I was convinced, that was destroying my family. This anger in my father was my fault and it was me at the source of my mother slurred, broken incoherence.
After the threats of being sent to military school, after the howling curses of my mother and after dad’s fifth martini he declared, “There’s only one way to teach you anything.” With this he stood up and removed his belt.
That beating on that night was the worst of my life. Dad didn’t bother with any parental platitudes like “spare the rod, spoil the child” or “this will hurt me more than it will hurt you.” He wasn’t too particular where he hit me. My back, butt, and legs were all fair game as was any other place the belt might happen to land. If I moved and was hit in the head and that was my own fault. If the belt wrapped around me grabbing hold of my stomach, then again, that was my problem. That night he hit me until we were both used up.
Dad beat me until I had welts front and back. He hit me until those welts begin to split open. He hit me with his belt for so long that my crying and screaming turned into a violent gasping. I was desperate for every breath that I could get.
As dad finally wearied, he noticed my gulping for air. At first he accuse me of “crybaby” histrionics. But soon he took closer note. He begin to worry.
Together mom and dad began to watch me. They whispered. Mom wrung her hands. She suggested the emergency room but dad looked at the ground and said, “What will happen when they examine him?”
It was the better part of the night before my breathing returned to normal. Took nearly three weeks before the scabs and bruises disappeared. Today I consider myself lucky. I live through that night. Perhaps there was never a question. No bones were broken and I never suffered a worse fate at his hands. That was the night, however, that I begin to understand something of my world. I knew then that there is no safe place for me. My family would be no haven and could offer no protection.
I can see that I have slowly began to whisper. I’ve been told that if I tell this story standing tall, ramrod straight, then you may not believe it. These things, they say, are simply not spoken of full voice. Even so, let me ask you just one more question. Don’t answer unless you must. Did the crime fit the punishment or was the punishment the crime?