“Jennifer!” thunders
through the house and lands like a bomb in the pit of my stomach. Filled with
panic I race to the source, and I see Dory, Gary, and Davy standing in line-up
formation by age. With a gesture of anger and disgust Dad points to the empty
place next to Davy, my older brother. We are 6, 10, 11, and 12 years old, and
we know these interrogations well. Dad wants one of us to confess to an
atrocity that none of us has committed. We wait in silence and fear for the
crime to be revealed.
A blow torch
is retrieved from the table next to Dad. He holds in front of us, one by one,
and seethes, “who was playing with my blow torch?”
Stomach
tightens. He sets it down and begins with Dory, my sister and the oldest of us.
“Did you touch the blow torch?” “No” she blurts back at him almost defiantly.
Dory is not afraid of Dad. Same question, same response from us though we say it with much more
trepidation than our sister because we fear the beatings.
The second
round of questioning begins again with Dory, who again with disdain rather than fear in her voice, says "no". A slap across her face and what I imagine is a look of hatred from her into his soul. Next is Gary. He, again, denies being the culprit of
Dad’s imaginary crime. I jump at the sound of Dad’s hand slapping him across
the face. Next Davy. I am pleading with him in my head to please admit to it so
this will end. “No” followed by the whack. Dad looms over me next and demands
my admission of guilt. I know that if I say 'no', the questioning and slaps will
continue for all of us, but if I say 'yes' I will be punished for “lying” the
first time I was asked. “No” I hesitantly answer, and the side of my face
immediately burns from the slap of my father’s huge hand.
Two more
rounds of this, and he announces, “I’m going to leave this room and when I get
back you better have decided who did this”. Dad exits and I immediately begin
begging Davy to say it was him. In my young mind Davy doesn’t feel the pain
like the rest of us because Dad always beats him. My brothers try to explain to
me that if I take the blame the punishment will be less because I am little. My
heart knows this is right but my head is filled with fear and selfishness. I
continue to beg. Dory remains silent in her rage.
Dad returns
and begins with me this time. For a moment I consider saying yes, but I am
again consumed with fear, so I squeak out, “No” and wait for impact. My face
burns. I pray.
Davey is next,
and my chest caves as I hear his denial. Dad is now becoming very angry, and the slaps are increasing in severity, if that's possible. Gary is next and he does it. Dory, Davey, and I are ordered out
of the room I hear the beating and I am sick. I hear Dad tell him before each blow,
“You let me hit your little sister?” I am overcome by guilt and shame and
sadness and frustration. My head and heart both know I should have taken the
blame. Sometimes it was Gary, sometimes Davey, but I never accepted the blame or beating. Damn that fear.
I will
always carry the guilt of my selfishness during those interrogations.
I will, for
the rest of my days, try to right the wrongs I imposed on my brothers. I, now,
not only take the blame immediately when I’ve done something wrong, but more
importantly, I assume blame even when I haven’t.
Shouldering
the blame now helps my body grow strong so that I may swim gracefully past each
slap-across-the-face rock thrown into my already melodious brook, giving it a
funky little background beat 😊
