Mama laid her hands on my belly and told me to count my breath. A breath to the count of four. Held to the count of four. Released to the count of four. Held again to the count of four. I could feel my heart beating through my belly into her hands. Some days there would be laughter, some days tears, but on this day there was nothing but silence. It was one of Daddy’s bad days, and on Daddy’s bad days, everyone suffered. There were no locked doors that could keep him out, no kind words that could soothe his blind, drunken rage, and there was no respite until he had passed out in the busted-up recliner that sat tired in one corner of the trailer.
“Just breathe June-bug.” She kissed the top of my head as I leaned back against her chest.
“When Daddy’s angry, the whole house shakes,” I said.
To my five-year old self, there was no difference between a house and a trailer. A home was a home, no matter if you could drag one away on a whim.
“I know baby,” Mama said.
There was no sound coming from the living room where he was reclining, but his energy hummed like electricity seeping into my veins.
“Sarah!” I could hear him call from the other room. Immediately I grabbed Mama’s hands and bid them stay upon my belly.
“Gotta go, baby girl, but I’ll be back.”
I could hear the tremor in her voice, feel it in her hands as she pried my fingertips from her wrists and deposited me on the bed. The springs creaked and groaned. I remember thinking to myself, how fancy I was to have a bed on a frame when others were forced to suffer their mattresses on the floor. Funny how perception as a child bred certain views.
But we were not fancy. Most days we were lucky if the power came on and there was food in the cabinet. Some days we weren’t so lucky.
I could hear the exchange of voices, though I did not strain to understand them. I remember not wanting to know, not wanting to be a part of their discussion, which would soon turn into a fight. I remember thinking that if I didn’t hear it, it didn’t exist, so I smothered it out with a pillow over my ears, and pressed myself into my bed. I thought to myself, I wish I had a dozen pillows to drown out the noise like other girls, not realizing other girls didn’t have parents who fought – didn’t have Daddies who drank and beat their Mamas.
That summer there were a lot of bad days for Daddy, but on my bad day, he was nowhere in sight.
I could smell burnt feathers first. There were no fire alarms in our trailer, as Daddy had busted them out so he could smoke freely with his buddies. Mama came and grabbed me up out of my bed, and we ran for the back door.
“Don’t breathe baby, don’t breathe,” she said.
The smoke was so thick it burned my eyes, and as soon as we were clear of it I watched my house go up in flames. Nothing was left but my nightgown and the stuffed Lamb Chop I held in my hand.
Grandma picked us up that night since Daddy had the car. She took us home to her farmhouse where she packed us away in my aunt’s room and made us hot chocolate. I was put into bed, but couldn’t stay there long. All I could think of were the faces of my stuffed animals melting in the flames, wishing I could have said goodbye. I climbed down the stairs to sit at the top and listen.
“—Payment will come in soon enough and you’ll make it up,” said Grandma.
“I just worry they’re gonna catch on’s all.” That was Mama’s voice.
“No shit.” Grandma owed me a nickel for the swear jar. “We took care of it, Sarah, don’t worry… We’ve done this before. You know that.”
My young brain didn’t register the words, but my stomach felt flipped. Had they done something bad? I lowered myself down the stairs, edging closer to the kitchen when a floorboard creaked. I yelped as my aunt caught me by the arm.
“Git on upstairs, June! This ain’t no conversation for kids.” She swatted my bottom and sent me climbing the stairs as quickly as I was able.
I didn’t sleep until Mama crawled into bed behind me.
Daddy appeared two days later looking thinner than I remembered. He smiled and kissed Mama as if nothing had burned, nothing had been lost. I wanted to ask him about my stuffed animals, but I knew better.
He’d shown up in time for Sunday and insisted we all go to church. Church to Daddy was only good for one thing, and we all knew what that was.
On his good days Daddy liked to teach, and that day it was my turn for a lesson. He had Mama stand lookout, which was usually my job. Sundays were ordinarily for lively sermons and snake handling, but there were no plastic bins full of venomous snakes today. There was a different task at hand.
He offered me the hose, standing beside the car. “Suck on it, Juney.” He always called me Juney. “And when it start’s comin’, put it in the can.”
He didn’t warn me but the taste burned from the inside out. I coughed so hard as the gasoline hit my mouth that I missed the gas can for a good fifteen seconds before getting it in the hole. I sputtered and gagged, attempting to wipe my mouth on my hands. Daddy just laughed.
All I had wanted was to see the snakes.
The last of Daddy’s bad days begins and ends the same way they all did: with one too many drinks and a bit of bad luck. We were in the new trailer where I was sitting on the counter while Mama cooked supper. It was nothing fancy, but the aroma of beans and ham still makes me think of this night.
Daddy was playing poker with his buddies in the living room, set up on the small fold-out table that had burn marks on its face.
“Damn it, Daryl, I know you’re cheatin’ you lying son of a bitch.” He threw down his cards and roughed his hands along the poker chips as he stood up. Daddy did the same.
I felt Mama’s hand on my belly as if bidding me to just breathe, though she said nothing.
When the fight broke out, I remember thinking that he was going to knock all the pictures off the walls, and he did. That someone was going to get hurt, and they did. I watched as the man drew his pocket knife and got Daddy around the shoulders. The two other men laughed as if nothing bad was going to happen, but it did.
When Daddy lay with his throat slit open, I watched as he bled out. I heard the men swear, watched the scene unfold as they pulled out of the house and left Mama and me alone with him, and I watched as Mama let it happen. Her face was stone. It wasn’t broken, wasn’t sad. Just empty.
Something made me wonder whether the end of Daddy’s bad days was the beginning of Mama’s good.
*
Learn more about Chelsea on our Contributors’ Page.
Look for more great reads? Check out our List of Best Rural Novels.
(Photo: Sean Hagen/flickr.com/ CC BY 2.0)
- Good Days and Bad by Chelsea Renée Roper - November 7, 2024