A couple of days have passed since my salubrious week in Mr.
Broderick’s office, sorting baseball cards, feeling important, and healing my
body and mind. As it happens, Mrs. Gregaydis has been a friend of our family
since she was Dory’s teacher six years before she was mine. She has asked Dory
to go to her house to babysit for her. I’m guessing she chose Dory so she could
go somewhere without her children, but more importantly so she can talk to Dad
about the condition of my legs, since she is now aware of the fate to which she
sentenced me with her call home. Dory, Gary, Davey and I are smart enough to
know that this is something that could get Dad in trouble. In our juvenile
minds, if he gets in trouble, it will stop, or even better, he will be taken
away and we will be free and happy again with just Mom.
Gary, Davey, and I wait anxiously for our savior to return
home with Dory and fix all of our woes. The little car pulls up in front of our
house and Dory gets out, but the car doesn’t pull away. Dory comes in and tells
Dad that Mrs. Gregaydis wants to talk to him. Dad shoots me a death glare that
freezes my breath and heart. I’m anxious and hopeful, yet frozen in fear. I
pace throughout the house while he’s outside with her. I stay close enough to
the window to see them, yet far enough away to not be seen watching. She
remains in the driver’s seat and he stands outside of her car on the passenger
side, talking through the open window.
They talk for no more than five minutes. I see him laugh. It
looks like a genuine laugh to anyone outside of our home, but I see the anger behind
it that will be unleashed as soon as he sees me. I’ve been told by him countless
times that I’m a “big mouth” and I tell things that I shouldn’t. I’ve been told
that what happens in our house stays in our house. I knew it was wrong to tell,
but I told anyway. I know that what he
did was more wrong than me telling. My stomach knots and my hands begin to
tremble as I watch her pull away. He walks back up the walkway to the front
door and I become a fearful dog whose owners have returned after I tore apart
the couch cushions. I look around quickly for a place to retreat. Where do I go? Do I run up the back
staircase before he gets close enough to hear my footsteps running up them? Do
I go in the bathroom? I am consumed with panic as he quickly approaches.
The panic immobilizes me and I stand there in the living room like a statue.
“Big-mouth”, he snarls at me as he walks by. He actually
keeps walking toward the kitchen after he says it. Is that
it? No beating, no cursing, no
yelling??? I hear the heavy footsteps heading back toward me. Of course not, I concede. He puts his face
an inch from mine, and through a very clenched jaw growls, “What happens in
this house is nobody’s business. Keep your mouth shut. Do. You. Understand?” My
heart is pounding through my chest, and every cell in my body tightens as I
wait for the accompanying slap or punch. “Yes”, I try to sound strong yet
submissive—it’s a very delicate balance that if not accomplished successfully
could prove extremely painful.
He walks away. He. Walks. Away. The tension eases a little.
My heart slows just a bit. Still I stand as though I’ve just seen the head of
Medusa, not knowing if he will return. There’s no way this is it.
As it happens, it is. This is the last I hear of it from
him. Though we kids talk about it quite a bit. Dory tells me that when asked,
Dad told Mrs. Gregaydis that he didn’t mean to hurt me, he was just trying to
discipline me like she wanted him to do so that I would be a better student. It
makes sense, and I would probably buy it if I was the teacher due to guilt at
having caused it and fear of the crazy father. No I wouldn’t, and I’m angry
that she dismissed it just that simply. I’m angry that she didn’t fight for me.
I’m angry that I mean that little to her. I’m angry that all four of us
children mean that little to her. I’m relieved
that I don’t have to endure any more rage yet the whole situation also fills me
with disappointment, hopelessness, sadness, and anger at the injustice that
exists for Dory, Gary, Davy, and me. I think of my neighborhood friends, Karen,
Tricia, and Patty, and their kind, loving fathers, and I wonder why I must
endure such anger. I begin to question all of the why’s in life. Why is Dad so mean
sometimes? Why won’t Mom fight for us? Why do mean people get good things and
kind people get bad things? Why am I here? Why are we all here?
This beginning of my soul-searching, understanding, and
acceptance provides some of the most beautifully shaped rocks in my brook. I’m
beginning to love the music it creates which fills my soul.
