Accident?

Gary and Dave's bedroom was directly across the hall from mine.  How I envied them and their possession of one another.  I loved being in their room for any reason (they had exercise equipment, tons of music cassettes with a stereo, model airplanes, cool artwork, always new, exciting things to explore) and would weasel my way in any occasion I could think of.  To actually be invited or wanted in there was generally only a dream.

It was the summer before I started the 3rd grade.  You can imagine my joy and surprise when Dave actually agreed to play with me one afternoon (Gary must have been busy somewhere else in the house because it was just Dave and I).  We played school.  Innocent enough.

I sat on a barbell anchored by large weights on either end, on a braided rug in front of their dresser--this was their workout area.  Physical fitness was stressed so strongly by Dad that the boys tried to improve their physique every chance they got.  This meant an entire weight set with benches and accessories in their room.  So there we sat, the barbell and I, cushioned by the multicolored rug--Dave standing in front of me as the teacher and I, the student. 

I sat as a good student would--being punished for an imaginary misbehavior.  I continued my obedience as Dave pointed his bb pistol an inch or so from the bridge of my nose (I think I remember it actually touching my nose).  I thought it was his idea of how a teacher would threaten a misbehaving child, so I sat perfectly still, waiting for him to deem my behavior worthy of playing again.  I guess my behavior was still not satisfying to him so he pulled the trigger.

I remember next only my shock and pain.  And Dave's fear.  "Tell Dad you walked into a nail" was plead over and over to me above my dramatic screams (of course there were no parents home at the time).  This was semi-believable in our century old, always under construction house.  But a mixture of fear at being caught lying and a guilty desire for vengeance made me respond to Dad's questioning later that evening when he finally noticed the round, bloody sore at the top of my nose, with Dave's suggestion followed by a question mark--"I walked into a nail?", pretty much knowing that it wouldn't be accepted.

When I told Dad the truth after a couple more tries at the nail story, I ended it with an emphatic, "he didn't think it was loaded" and "we were playing, it was an accident."  As the words escaped my lips I felt the acid build in my stomach at the thought of Dave's punishment.  I immediately regretted my words and my greedy desire for vengeance.  I wished I could suck the words back in and start over from the beginning when I walked by Dad with my head turned away to hide the wound.  I wished I had played klutzy little girl who walks into walls.  I could've pulled it off if I tried.

What was done was done--I think it's the only time I ever saw fear on Dad's face rather than anger.  He sent me upstairs to my room where Dave and I waited at least a thousand years until his booming voice hollared, "DRJYEN--A!"  Whenever he yelled a name in anger we would all look at each other and try to decide whose name had been called, this time we decided it sounded more like 'Jennifer' than 'David', so down I ran.  If ever we were wrong about which name had been called Dad would just send us back for the proper recipient of his wrath.  But this time we were right.

With acid in my stomach enough now to eat through a concrete wall, I faced Dad at attention.  I was ordered to hold out my hands, palms up, and receive 10 belt slaps, of which I would keep count.  Only 10 was very exciting, I could probably even do this without trying too hard not to pull my hands back.  I held them out strongly and counted loud and clear, assuming I was being punished for ratting my brother, and feeling as though I deserved it because I knew his punishment would be much worse.

When he finished I was informed that I was punished for "being stupid enough to sit still while someone pointed a gun in (my) face."  Did I understand--this was standard after anything Dad said--he had to be sure he was understood.  I did, and so said, "yes" and was sent back upstairs to "send David down."  My heart sank as I caught sight of Dad's huge ball-peen hammer (or maybe it was a sledge hammer, I just remember a large scary hammer) on the coffee table.

As I raced upstairs I thought of how we could escape down the back stairway, through the kitchen and out the back door.  Dave, of course, wouldn't hear it--he marched bravely (or stubbornly, I could never tell which--or both) down to face Goliath.  After a short period of questioning that no matter how much I strained my ears I could not hear, he was back upstairs retrieving the guilty pistol.

My mind raced--would Dad shoot him with it?  Beat him with the hammer?  The possibilities were endless with Dad, a pistol, and a hammer.  I shuddered, felt as if I would puke, then began to cry as I heard the hammer followed by shattering.  I hated myself for telling.  I was stupid  and selfish and weak. Why did I tell him?

I crawled into my bed and covered my head with my pillow and blankets and any stuffed animals I could find.

Finally Dave came back upstairs and I ran across the hall to him.  He never showed any emotion--no negative emotion anyway.  He looked okay--no blood or marks that I could see, but that didn't mean anything because Dad was a pro at knowing how to hurt us without leaving marks, that's why he loved stomachs and palms--they are tough to bruise.  I asked him what happened and he simply told me that Dad smashed his gun.  That's it.  I still don't know if he was being tough or protecting me or protecting himself by not telling me more.  Or maybe he was hating me as much as I was hating myself.  Or maybe he was wondering why that bb pellet didn't kill me.  Or maybe there really wasn't any more.  But I doubt it.  Dave was always such a damned tough kid.  Even if he was hurt, he'd never tell.

Being shot was a melodious rock in my brook.   Dave sometimes was a rock that I'd try to understand as I passed its awkward shape, sometimes a current, or even a stream feeding into mine making it doubly strong for a bit.

Jen ;-)