Ash Wednesday by Chet Williamson, Neil Jackson Page B

The first few incidents she dismissed as random flares of temper, things that she could have prevented. One morning just after six o'clock, she was fixing breakfast when Brad walked into the kitchen in his underwear. "Where are my socks?"
    "Urn . . . in the dryer, honey. I'm sorry, I forgot to take them out," she babbled, moving to the basement steps. "I'll get them right away, I just hope they're not damp." She ran down the steps and opened the dryer. The socks and the other clothes were not merely damp, they were soaked. "Oh, God, Brad, I'm sorry," she called up the stairs. "Honey, they're still wet. But there's one pair left in your drawer, I think. . . ."
    "They have holes in them." She looked up the stairs. He was standing at the top, looking vaguely threatening even in his near-nudity.
    "Well, hon , couldn't you just wear them today, and I'll—”
    “Fuck!" He spat out the word so gutturally that it was almost unintelligible, and slammed the cellar door on her.
    Her first thought was gratitude that the children were still sleeping; her second was a flash of concern that Brad might have awakened them. Not until these primarily maternal reactions were gone did she think of Brad's response at having to wear socks with holes in them as irrational overkill, and then only for an instant. He had a right to get angry, she told herself. He did so much for all three of them and expected so little in return. It was the least she could do to make sure his clothes were clean and dry, the house was picked up, the kids were quiet when he wanted to sleep late on weekend mornings.
    Brief outbursts of rage followed, randomly at first, then in a continuous pattern, and it seemed as if the most insignificant affronts received the most intense reactions. The inability to find a bottle opener in the kitchen, when all he had to do was ask Bonnie, drove him into a barely suppressed fury. A missing section of newspaper resulted in the paper being torn into shreds and scattered around the room. When Bonnie reused the coffee grounds because they'd run out, Brad took one sip and hurled the pot into the sink, where the glass shattered, nearly spraying Frankie and the baby with the steaming liquid. He seemed to come to his senses then, and while Bonnie held the baby to stop its crying, Brad put an arm around Frankie, who started to shy away from him in fright. A look of great sadness came over Brad, and he straightened up, watching the boy go to his mother's arms.
    "Take the kids in the living room," he said softly. "I'll clean this up." He did, and didn't speak of it again, never saying that he was sorry.
    Before long the invisible gate that had kept his temper from touching the children had opened, and though he did not strike them, Bonnie giving the spankings when they'd been earned, his words cut and tore them more than a heavy ring-fingered hand could ever have done.
    The Christmas of 1976 Frankie received from Brad's parents a battery-operated police car. The top of the car was rounded, and underneath was a plastic flap that was forced out during the motor's cycle, making the car flip over completely as it rolled along. On the day after Christmas the flap got stuck halfway, unable to flip the car or to let the wheels keep moving it. "Daddy," Frankie whined, "my car don't work."
    "Doesn't," Bonnie corrected.
    " Doesn't work."
    "Let me see." Brad took the car and opened the battery case underneath. The batteries were alkaline, put in the day before, and the contact points were all right.
    "It's stuck there, Daddy. That thing's stuck."
    "I see that, just shut up a minute."
    Bonnie could see the anger rising. "Honey," she said to Brad, "maybe your dad could take it back where they—"
    "Just let me look at it for a minute, for Christ's sake!"
    Frankie turned and looked at his mother, uncertain of what to do. When he looked back, Brad had his fingers in the small hole between flap and underbody, his teeth gritted with the effort to grasp a small