Features December 4, 2002

http://otherpress.douglas.bc.ca

The Stand

Beverly Greene OP Contributor

Cotton-mouthed, I awoke. My little feet pitter-pattered across the cold hardwood floor as I walked out of the only bedroom in the house, currently shared by my sister and I. As I turned the corner and entered the living room on my way to the kitchen for a glass of water I heard Momma whispering words I was- nt allowed to say but knew were used to hurt people. Her harsh, unnaturally deepened voice hissed through her tightly clenched teeth.

I looked over at Mommy on the old, shit-green vinyl couch with the back that dropped to create the double-sized bed my parents now shared. I noticed how tight her mid-thigh nightshirt was pulled across her legs as she straddled my father’s chest, the tip of the handgun clutched in her hands pressing against his forehead.

Cutting herself off mid-curse, she turned and looked at me. Her hair was matted and she had wicked- ly dark circles under her eyes. She looked crazy and scary and she looked at me as if she'd never seen me before, as if she didn’t recognize me at all. I froze, looking at her, trying to make sense of what my six- year-old eyes saw. “Momma?”

“Go back to bed, baby. Everything's all right!” she said in a voice meant to be soothing, but I knew everything wasn't all right. This wasn't like all of the times before and I was scared. Unable to move, I stood there, bracing myself to hear the boom of the gun I knew would be loud—they always were on TV Westerns.

She looked at me, pleading in her eyes for something I couldn't understand. So I just stood there, look- ing back at her in horror as my father shifted his body weight and Momma went tumbling face-first onto the living room floor.

I stood there watching as she managed to roll over onto her back before he pounced on her like a tri- umphant cat on a too-slow mouse. I looked at her beautiful, long, raven hair spread around her like a dark halo. | watched for his giant hand to grab it and entwine it around stout fingers, long a favourite attack of choice. But, his hand didn’t move towards her hair. Instead, he positioned himself on her chest, pinning her arms under the weight of his knees. The gun lay a few feet away, tossed loose in the struggle. “This is it!” I thought as I stood there, sure that he was about to make good on his constant threats to kill her.

I stood there watching, unable to look away as he grabbed the gun, stretching his long arm as far as he could to retrieve it without easing his weight off Momma's chest. He looked at me with rage in his eyes and I felt a small sense of pleasure in the realization that for the first time in my life, I also saw fear. “Go back to bed” he screamed, his voice rippling through the house, tearing through my soul. Terrified, still unable to move, I stood there.

Again I braced myself for the TV-sound, this time sure to leave me motherless. I begged my eyelids to close, to shut it all out because I didn’t want to see. I didn’t want to know. Instead, I just stood there—a child-statue with a forgotten cotton-mouth gapping in a silent scream, bearing witness to the type of abuse not yet named by society.

Momma looked up at me, again her eyes begging for something I didn’t understand and couldn’ give her. I wanted to save her then like I had wanted to save her all the times before. But I couldn't save her, just like I had never been able to save her head, pounded into a wall, her arms, twisted impossibly behind her back, her body, dragged across the floor by hair-rope. I couldn't save her, so I stood there.

Gun now firmly in his control, I saw the change no child should ever see in Momma’ eyes. I saw her resign herself. I saw her give up. I wanted to run to her, push him off and throw away that bad metal noisemaker that was going to take my Mommy away. I wanted to cry in her arms, but all I did was stand there.

“Dexter, please! NOT in front of her!” Her voice was very different, now pleading instead of angry, des- perate instead of murderous.

He looked at me again with the contempt I was long ago used to. “I said go back to bed.” With a mix- ture of fear and hatred, I just stood there.

He jumped up onto his feet and my heart leaped with him, as if it was tethered to his towering figure. I expected it. I saw it coming. I even warned my nerves but instead of a slap or punch, he walked across the living room in front of me, not coming for me. When he reached the desk in the corner of the living room he put the gun in a top drawer and wheeled around, glaring down at me.

“Go back to bed —NOW,” he again screamed, swinging his arm out to motion the way. It wasn't the sprinkling-fairy-dust-the-whole-way motion | always imagined other fathers used to playfully urge their naughty children into bed after they had stayed up past their bedtime. Instead, it came out more like a practice slap to the face. Sure that the next swat would land squarely on my cheek, I finally convinced my legs to work again. I turned around and ran back into the bedroom.

I dove into bed and under the blanket like a soldier taking cover on a battlefield. Arms over my head, knees tucked under my chest, I stayed there long after the homemade patchwork quilt my Grandmother had made from old housedresses and worn out work pants became suffocating. When my newly awak- ened sister asked what was wrong, I couldn’ find the words to explain what I had just seen, so I said noth- ing. “It’s ok, they’re just fighting again. It'll be over soon!” she said in response to my silence.

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