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I'm reclined in my shotgun seat, headphones in with the music cranked loud. Passively watching the clouds fall behind us through the open sunroof. My mother is sitting next to me, softly humming along to the timid whistling of the wind seeping in from the cracked window. The summers are hot and dry in Oklahoma city, but I've heard it's nothing compared to the sticky, mosquito infested niche that is Jefferson, Louisiana. I curl my fingers tighter around my phone, clicking the volume button impulsively in hopes to drown out the intrusive thoughts of what's to come.
Two weeks ago today, I was carelessly walking home from a day with friends when my mother met me at the front door of our house. There was a somber tone in her voice when she insisted that she needed to speak with me.
We sat down side by side at the kitchen table when she gently embraced my hand into her own and began caressing my forefinger with her thumb.
" There's something I need to share with you. I need you to be open minded about this and think it through before you react, Ok?"
Immediately I was on edge, "Alright. What is it?"
" You have a great Auntie, Carolyn. She lives down towards the bayou," she takes a moment to pause and reflect her thoughts before continuing, " I haven't spoken to this woman since I was a child so I'm still trying to understand it all, but she passed and left us her house."
" In Louisiana?" I curl my mouth up in confusion.
" Uhm, yeah. Well, you know how it's been very hard for me to keep up with the bills since your dad left and so I think for now the best option is to go live there for a bit until we get back on our feet. Then we'll plan it out from there. What do you think? I'm needing your input on this, CJ."
Several different emotions filled my body, anger, sadness, shock. My entire insides felt like a whistling pressure cooker ready to explode in her face. How could she suggest I uproot my life away from my home and friends? But I knew she had been struggling with work, picking up extra shifts every night, but completely refusing to entertain the thought of me getting an evening job after school to help make ends meet. The last thing she needed was for me to make things harder for her when she's doing the best she can.
I composed myself long enough to pat her hand and reassure her, " I am going to be right beside you all the way. Whatever you think is the best option for us, I will support you on that decision" Giving her a weak smile, I stand up, kiss her cheek and calmly walk to my room. Closing the door behind me, I grab my headphones and crank the music in my ears until the dangers of the outside world no longer exist. I flop on my bed and cry myself to sleep.
--
My mother gently shakes my arm as I slowly regain consciousness. I must have fallen asleep. She isn't one for taking breaks during road trips, always so eager to get to her destination before anything else; especially normal bodily functions. The car is parked so we must be here, I conclude, as I slip my headphones off and pause the muffled music.Opening the car door lets in all the musky, sticky heat that immediately attacks my strawberry blonde curls. Yuck. I climb out from my seat, shaking my shirt out, attempting to keep it from adhering to my skin in the same fashion as plastic wrap.
I am in shock at the scenery, but attempting to remain positive for my mother's sake. Before me was a rustic lakeside cabin stacked on a tall layer of brick, moss taking over parts of the roof as the cypress trees hang above ominously. My mother is walking towards the door with purpose, insisting I come take a look inside.
"Yeah because this place isn't straight out of a horror film," I mumble under my breath so she wouldn't hear, following timidly behind her. We both tread lightly on the wood of the steps so that we wouldn't fall through the decaying boards.
"It needs a little TLC if I'm being honest," she says as she pops the door open.
"A Little?" I retort questionably.
She pats me gently on the shoulder before we check out the rest of this disaster of a project. Once we step inside, the whole aesthetic changes. The walls were filled with abstract interpretations of people and animals using vivid colors. In the far corner, there was an old wooden organizer filled with brushes, paints, palettes, anything you could possibly need to create.
"Carolyn sure loved to paint and she was good at it," I'm walking around the room, further investigating the artwork.
"You're right about that. Hey, come check out your bedroom."
There was a tiny hall separating the living space from the outdated yellow accented kitchen, followed by two bedrooms on either side and a small bathroom at the end. My room was much smaller than I had imagined, just big enough for a bed and dresser, with bright pastel purple walls. I wince at the idea of waking up every morning to that paint job.My mother's room is almost identical except for the fact that her walls are a sickly pastel teal.
She turns around to face me and shrugs, "So? What do you think?"
" We can make it work," I smile at her as I lean in for a warm embrace.
" You are absolutely right, baby."
--
The next few days were spent scrubbing the never ending accumulation of dust and dirt from the home. Finally, we had gotten to a good stopping point where we both agreed it's time to unpack what little belongings we had brought with us. We sold all of our belongings that wouldn't fit inside the Subaru, making a decent amount of money to hold us over until we settled in.
The following morning, we head into town for the first time in hopes of finding some much needed supplies and homegoods. We grab what we could afford and make our way to the register. There was a sign on the countertop advertising a handyman. I jabbed my mother in her side while tapping on the paper.
"We really need the steps fixed before we hurt ourselves."
"You're right," she huffs as she saves the number.
"Y'all must be the new residents to Carolyn's place down by the lake?" The old man behind the counter speaks up as he is packing our items into brown paper bags.
"Yes, sir," my mom answers in her soft spoken voice as she searches in her bag for her card, handing it to the man.
"Good deal. She was a pleasant woman. A little batty, but sweet as can be. Y'all have a good day now," he says with a gentle smile as he pushes the bags over the counter.
--
A little past noon, an old rusty Chevy clanks it's way up the drive, concluding with the low groan of the engine turning off. My mother and I step out on the porch to see a young, muscular man walking in our direction. He couldn't be much older than myself, probably just out of high school.
"Good afternoon, ladies. I'm Nat, I'm here to fix your steps."
My mother slaps her hands together enthusiastically, "Oh, how perfect?! Thank you!"
He begins immediately by letting the tailgate down on his truck. I eagerly walk over and begin pulling at boards.
"Uhh, what are you doing?"
"What does it look like? I'm helping."
He stops what he's doing and turns towards me, overshadowing me by a foot or so.
"I have this taken care of, I don't need help from a little girl. Go help your momma."
"Excuse me! I am seventeen, so I'm not a little girl for starters and I am perfectly capable of helping!" I raise my voice in disagreement.
He walks up close to me and bends down to where he's in my face. "I don't need help from a little city girl. Go help your momma," he snarls.
"Suit your damn self," my face puckers up from the burning in my eyes as I turn away and stomp my way back into the house before he sees that I'm about to cry.
--
" Your stairs are all done, ma'am, but unfortunately it looks like your roof could use some work as well. If you'd like, I could come back tomorrow and take a closer look at it."
" Oh, that's so thoughtful of you However, unfortunately we are running kind of low on cash at the moment with the move and all. So, I'm going to have to get back with you on that."
"Well, I could do the work and you could just pay me back when you have the chance. Consider it a welcoming gift."
"Oh, I appreciate that. Yes, that would be lovely, thank you. "
"Oh, don't mention it. It's what neighbors do." He smiles, tips his hat and then walks away to crank up the old piece of metal in our yard. My mother was smiling and waving as he went.
"He is a lovely boy," she comments, nudging my arm as she walks back inside.
"Yeah. A real gentleman." I scoff, watching him drive down the road.
--
As it turns out, the roof was in a lot worse shape than we had originally thought. Which of course, meant that Nat would have to be here a lot longer than I could stomach. My mother, insisting on being cordial and polite, made us all ham sandwiches for lunch. Leaving me to deliver the offering to Mr. Macho himself. I set the plate and tall glass of lemonade on the porch rails and then proceed to climb the ladder leaned up against the roof.
"Hey, mom made you some lu--,"
"Get down before you hurt yourself!" He interrupts.
"I'm already up here!" I argued.
"I'll be down in a minute! Do as I asked!"
I huff and oblige.
--
Nate walks up on the porch and sits down on the porch swing right next to me, without saying a word, he inhales his sandwich.
"Thank you," he muffles, mouth still full of potato chips.
"You don't have to be so damn rude all the time."
"I'm not being rude, you were going to fall and get hurt."
"I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself. You're not my dad, my dad is dead. I don't need you looking out for me like I'm a child," without realizing it, I'm in his face, sticking my fingers assertively into his chest.
He chuckles as he swats my hand away, picking up the plate and empty glass.
"You sure do act like it," he walks into the house, leaving me to swing by myself from the momentum of him getting up. His boots are clanking on the flooring, I can hear him politely thanking my mother for lunch. He stops briefly at the door to wink at me mockingly before getting back to work.
--
"Are you almost done with the roof so I don't have to see you anymore?" I'm leaned up against his truck, awaiting a response as he walked closer to the vehicle.
"Well, now who's being rude?" He grins and flicks my nose, causing my blood to boil and I react by slapping him in the stomach.
"You know you're not all that, Mr Tough guy! Thinking you can bully me just because I'm a girl, well guess what? That's just not going to fly!" I'm shoving him back with all of my might at this point.
He is laughing uncontrollably, "You really think you're doing something?"
I scream in frustration, unable to process my rage any longer. I walk away, sitting down facing the pond. Suddenly my emotions are defiant against my best efforts to contain myself and I find myself sobbing quietly.
Nat comes and sits down quietly beside me. I hurry to wipe my tear stained face before he notices and bullies me for being weak. Instead, he puts his arm around my shoulder, tapping gently with his calloused fingers. I immediately shrug him off, scowling at him in silence.
"You don't have to be strong all of the time. People are allowed to take care of you. You're so stubborn and hard headed that you don't see it."
"My mother and I are doing just fine without you swooping down with your little small town messiah complex."
" And I'm saying you don't have to be Miss. Big-City-Boss-Babe all of the time either. I understand you feel like you're protecting your mother, which is completely respectable, but in this town we help each other. Y'all aren't alone here. I knew Carolyn well. She gave y'all a home here purposely because y'all were drowning on your own, just face it and come to terms with it."
We sat in silence for a few moments, I'm unsure of what I need to say next.
"You're not so bad, I guess. I'm sorry for calling you rude," I say shyly as I elbow him in the side.
He grins at me in satisfaction, "You're not so bad yourself. Hey, maybe I could take you out one night, show you around. Have some fun, maybe. You do know what fun is, don't you?"
I regurgitate his words in a purposefully whiny voice, " Yes, I know what fun is."
I'm blushing, focusing on the lake. I turn to face him. "Sure. Yeah, we could do that."
Note: Contains violence toward children.
Cry Babies.
?You kids! Bloody wood box is empty. Whose turn is it to fill up the bloody kindling?' As usual father's shouts reverberate through a house sleep-warmed, closed off from soon-to-be new day As a result, any remnant slumber is now shattered. Any time of the day or night might be a time for our father to shout, diminish our skills, or admonish for a job not done.
There are no turns in this house, no roster charts with lovely gold star rewards, nor an unwritten accord with child age-appropriate specific tasks; everyone does, every job. Any tasks can be considered a lot of children. More so with mum recovering from a stroke, plus recent departure of my two older brothers.
?Call it a working holiday driving right across Australia. Being bums, more like it.' Our father's response to Robin and Greg's loading their possessions into a racing striped, orange Torana and heading east through wheat belts, then out across treeless spaces of Australia's Nullabor Plain. Nothing like that for our father, he remained, ever present as a threat. More so now with mum in a hospital bed.
Even before our three bedroom house, built by my father began to empty turns, jobs, selection of a scapegoat, were only mentioned in search of a victim. Part of Dad's quest for an object to blame, rather than ply his strap on everyone. No-one ever admitted to anything being their turn.
?Get outta bed. Ya bloody, lazy, useless articles. Get some bloody wood for a man to get breakfast.'
So out into what felt like sub-arctic temperatures we stumble. Deathly afraid of our father's wrath; A leather belt!
Without slippers, we trundle up dew-wet paths toward a woodshed. It's still dark, and we haven't brought torches. While we trip and tremble, chilled fingers attempt to find a few dry twigs None seem to be available. Only moments pass before an ominous human cloud darkens an unlit shed even further.
?Yers can't see a bloody thing, ya stupid idiots.'
My sister and I cower further under this new attack.
?Jeez! Ya thought yers had enough brains to bring torches.'
A beam of light bites behind our retinas.
?Where's the wood bucket? Back at the bloody house, of course. Empty as always. How was yers gunna carry kindling down?'
These questions are statements rather than requests for information. We remain silent, motionless, except for unstoppable shakes. I glance across at my sister and know we are both stunned into a stupor. My father's presence can do such things. I remember once being shouted at, ?ya think, being a carpenter's daughter, you'd know what a 4 x 2 was.'
Warm sparks of shared experiences arc across gaps in our consciousness. If only mum was present, she'd probably have made sure we filled the wood box yesterday, before todays rain and early morning dew.
?Here!' he passes me the tomahawk. ?Chop some.'
Flat side of this little axe hits my chest, with enough force to knock warm breath into a cloud, but I dare not cringe away from his commands. Even a second's delay, could cause a huge hand to follow tomahawk's impact. Unless he removes his belt, and slices that through the air. He loads my younger sister's arms with small, dry pieces of wood and sends her back through darkness, towards dull light of coming dawn. My arms will be loaded too, but not before Dad grabs the axe, mumbling ??bloody useless article?' A title I will live with for all my years on earth. He shows me correct methods to chop kindling. Mine are too large and thick. His efforts produce paper thin, as tiny as match sticks specimens, something I cannot achieve, out of fear of having a finger amputated. As he keeps this tomahawk, plus his one-time competitive wood-chopper axes, and an enormous cross saw's teeth all razor sharp.
Rain falls again while I return to our house.
?Hurry up. Bloody wood will get wet!' He yells as long adult legs strode past me. Again an ominous shadow, meant to intimidate.
I fall on wet cement, dropping my load in a vomit of sticks about our back door while he stands waiting straddling back steps, consuming light, and space. Blood fills my mouth, from a bitten lip. I won't cry; I mustn't cry. The strength of this conviction quickly vanishes, and I can feel tears dribbling down my face.
?Jeez, bloody Christ! Ya can't do a bloody thing right.'
Tears spill out as his huge hand contacts my cheek.
I pick up a few pieces of wood from enlarging puddles. But he has already gathered up most and gone inside, slamming the door, and only just missing my head.
In silence he builds a fire. When smoke hangs about, misting our giant stove, he begins to mumble. Complaining about wet wood?useless articles?stupid kids?can't do anything right?who brought them into the world, who brought them up?
Did his miss something, or my sister, and an older sister already left home, are his responsibility as we live under his guidance, and bear the wrath of his parenting style.
My sister has pieces of bark, dust and charcoal, debris from her load of wood, stuck to her nightie. She stands staring and shaking before embryonic flames. I felt my leg tremble from impacting path concrete, damp, and cold seeping, I sniff.
?Ya better not have snot on the wood, how's it gunna burn if you do.'
Little flames leap, promising warmth, and hot food. Sustenance if not nurture.
Our father turns to look at his two wretched offspring. ?Get yer bloody selves cleaned up and stop ya stupid blubbering or I'll give you something to really cry about.'
One day I will grow into a woman, and his aftermath will be present. Particularly when I learn the joys of endurance sport, a means to keep hurting myself like he did. All of us girls have failed marriages to look back on. Each has an obsession. Plus, our second brother winds up dead, after Dad won't lend him any money and he decide to move north up into well paid areas and suffers an epileptic fit while working as a mechanic on a farm. Seems the parenting style blew our family apart.
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