driveway, then follow her slowly to the front porch, my chin tucked tightly to my chest, cowering behind her as she rings the doorbell.
The next few moments play out in slow motion. My mother comes to the door, looking slightly dazed, and Sheri begins explaining the situation. I can hear their voices, but they sound distant and far away, like the “wa wa wawa wa” of the adults in the Peanuts cartoons, like I have water in my ears. When I hear Sheri use the word dismissed, though, everything comes back into focus, the truth of the thing rushing at me all at once. My mother snaps her neck and glares at me.
“You got fired ?”
We stare at each other for a few awkward moments.
“Go inside and wait for me,” she says. She closes the door behind her, and they talk for a while on the porch. When I hear Sheri’s engine rumble to life in the driveway, I freeze. It’s going to be bad. I know it.
“ Corey! ” My mother slams the door behind her. It rattles in the frame. “Get your ass in that room. Right now.”
It’s my brother’s room. His crib is in the corner. I don’t know where Devin is. I think my mother and I are the only two people in the house. “Take off your clothes,” she hisses. I do as I’m told while she bolts to the other end of the room and starts pulling at the window. It dawns on me what she’s reaching for—the long wooden dowel resting in the sash, acting as a window stop. It’s at least an inch in diameter, solid oak, heavy. For a fleeting moment, I feel like laughing. Surely this must be another of her games. Surely, she must be joking.
The first blow stings, but it’s more of a shock than anything else. It’s when she raises the dowel high over her head, again, that the pain starts to register, searing the top of my back and my shoulders, and I start running in circles around the room.
“How could you fucking do this to me?” she screams. She is out of control, wild-eyed, like an animal. Her face is bright red and blotchy, her cheeks are streaked with mascara. “You know I need this fucking money. I will kill you. I will fucking kill you, you worthless piece of shit.”
I drop down on all fours and scurry underneath Devin’s crib, wedging myself as far back as I can, my spine stretched out flush against the wall. I can see her feet, the chipped toenail polish, and then the sawed-off end of the stick as it comes charging toward me. She’s bent at the waist, ramming the pole under the cotton eyelet dust ruffle, jabbing at my ribs, my arms, my face. My skin is raw and bleeding. I think that, maybe, she is serious. She really does want to kill me. Then everything goes black. No matter how hard I try, I can’t remember what happened after that.
* * *
The next morning I fed and changed Eden and Devin, crept out into the living room, and turned on the television. I was scrolling through the channels, looking for something to watch, when—all of a sudden—I couldn’t breathe. The wind had been knocked out of me with a swift swat to my back, the remote ripped from my fingers, flung across the room to the couch.
“You think you’re going to watch TV? You’re not watching TV, pal. You’re fucking grounded.”
It was Tom, my mom’s new boyfriend.
Ironically, things with Tom had started out pretty well. I liked him better than Max, the first in a steady stream of men who filed in and out of our house in the months following the divorce, the guy who drove a Harley and wore a leather motorcycle jacket and more or less left me alone. Tom, unlike those other men, had actually taken an interest in me. He would rattle up to the house in his rusted out pickup and take me for long hikes in Chatsworth Park. I loved climbing the switchbacks, scrambling to the top of a boulder outcrop and looking south over the sprawling suburbs of L.A. But then Tom started inviting some of his buddies along on our regular hikes, and someone would inevitably show up with a six-pack. Tom, it
The next few moments play out in slow motion. My mother comes to the door, looking slightly dazed, and Sheri begins explaining the situation. I can hear their voices, but they sound distant and far away, like the “wa wa wawa wa” of the adults in the Peanuts cartoons, like I have water in my ears. When I hear Sheri use the word dismissed, though, everything comes back into focus, the truth of the thing rushing at me all at once. My mother snaps her neck and glares at me.
“You got fired ?”
We stare at each other for a few awkward moments.
“Go inside and wait for me,” she says. She closes the door behind her, and they talk for a while on the porch. When I hear Sheri’s engine rumble to life in the driveway, I freeze. It’s going to be bad. I know it.
“ Corey! ” My mother slams the door behind her. It rattles in the frame. “Get your ass in that room. Right now.”
It’s my brother’s room. His crib is in the corner. I don’t know where Devin is. I think my mother and I are the only two people in the house. “Take off your clothes,” she hisses. I do as I’m told while she bolts to the other end of the room and starts pulling at the window. It dawns on me what she’s reaching for—the long wooden dowel resting in the sash, acting as a window stop. It’s at least an inch in diameter, solid oak, heavy. For a fleeting moment, I feel like laughing. Surely this must be another of her games. Surely, she must be joking.
The first blow stings, but it’s more of a shock than anything else. It’s when she raises the dowel high over her head, again, that the pain starts to register, searing the top of my back and my shoulders, and I start running in circles around the room.
“How could you fucking do this to me?” she screams. She is out of control, wild-eyed, like an animal. Her face is bright red and blotchy, her cheeks are streaked with mascara. “You know I need this fucking money. I will kill you. I will fucking kill you, you worthless piece of shit.”
I drop down on all fours and scurry underneath Devin’s crib, wedging myself as far back as I can, my spine stretched out flush against the wall. I can see her feet, the chipped toenail polish, and then the sawed-off end of the stick as it comes charging toward me. She’s bent at the waist, ramming the pole under the cotton eyelet dust ruffle, jabbing at my ribs, my arms, my face. My skin is raw and bleeding. I think that, maybe, she is serious. She really does want to kill me. Then everything goes black. No matter how hard I try, I can’t remember what happened after that.
* * *
The next morning I fed and changed Eden and Devin, crept out into the living room, and turned on the television. I was scrolling through the channels, looking for something to watch, when—all of a sudden—I couldn’t breathe. The wind had been knocked out of me with a swift swat to my back, the remote ripped from my fingers, flung across the room to the couch.
“You think you’re going to watch TV? You’re not watching TV, pal. You’re fucking grounded.”
It was Tom, my mom’s new boyfriend.
Ironically, things with Tom had started out pretty well. I liked him better than Max, the first in a steady stream of men who filed in and out of our house in the months following the divorce, the guy who drove a Harley and wore a leather motorcycle jacket and more or less left me alone. Tom, unlike those other men, had actually taken an interest in me. He would rattle up to the house in his rusted out pickup and take me for long hikes in Chatsworth Park. I loved climbing the switchbacks, scrambling to the top of a boulder outcrop and looking south over the sprawling suburbs of L.A. But then Tom started inviting some of his buddies along on our regular hikes, and someone would inevitably show up with a six-pack. Tom, it
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