style="font-size:15px;"> He had thought long and hard about his decision. Even brought it up with Mama.
‘You’ll do no such thing,’ she said. She just laughed when he announced he was going to kill Daddy.
‘He’s gotta stop coming around here! What’s he good for? He should just beat it!’
‘Watch your mouth.’
‘How come you put up with it?’
‘One day you’ll understand.’
‘I’m bringing in the money now, aren’t I?’
‘I know, son. That’s already bad enough. But your father can’t do any different. Try to remember that. He loves you kids. He’s your father.’
‘Father,’ Jerome repeated. But the word didn’t jibe with reality.
He was close. He could read the letters on the enormous sign. Red neon lights with the words ‘Western Auto’. But being daytime, the lights were out. The green wood paneling looked more faded from close up; here and there the paint was peeling off. There was a gas pump out in front. A beanpole of a white kid leaned lethargically against the railing of the veranda.
‘You lost?’
Jerome shook his head. ‘I thought it was closer. I walked.’
The boy laughed, showing his teeth. He was about eighteen, had greased-back black hair, and wore a red bandana around his neck. He looked like a faggot. Jerome wasn’t sure if he worked here or was just hanging around.
‘I gotta get something to drink.’
‘Got any money?’
‘Why wouldn’t I?’
‘Dunno.’ The boy shrugged and sauntered over to the store entrance.
‘Do you sell jackknives?’
‘What?’
‘Pocketknives. I need one.’
‘You come walking all this way for that?’ The boy stopped and turned toward him. ‘What do you need a knife for?’
‘Boy Scouts. I’m a Boy Scout.’
‘I don’t think my father’s gonna sell you a knife.’ The boy stood his ground, legs spread.
‘Not just any old knife. A pocketknife.’
‘Go in and have a look.’
Jerome took off his cap and wiped the sweat from his forehead. He took the money from his pocket and counted it. Three dollars and fifty-six cents. ‘First something to drink,’ he mumbled to himself.
‘What’s that?’ the boy asked.
‘A drink,’ Jerome said, as he stepped onto the veranda and went into the store.
A couple of nights earlier his father had forced his way into the house, yet again. Broke a pane in the front door. The key still happened to be in the lock.
Mama was in the kitchen, reading. The younger children were already in bed. Jerome was undressing in the bathroom when he heard the breaking glass. He knew right away what was up. He put his pants back on and went out onto the landing. His father stood in the middle of the living room, unaware that his son was watching him. His arms dangled aimlessly along his tall torso, his skittish eyes scanning the room.
‘Where are you?’ This was how it always started. No answer.
‘You can’t forbid me coming into my own house. I’m a black man. This is my house.’ He went off toward the kitchen. Jerome snuck down the stairs.
‘Go away, Sonny,’ he heard Mama say. Her voice sounded far too gentle, too weak. ‘Think of the children.’
‘They’re my kids too.’ He was in the kitchen. ‘What you reading?’ Jerome heard a chair scuff against the nonslip linoleum. He sat down on the bottom step.
‘Nothin’ much.’
‘So why you reading it?’
‘I like reading. Come on, Sonny. You know what the judge said.’
‘Don’t fancy yourself getting so smart from all those books of yours. Stupid bitch. I know you think you’re better than me, but you’re nothin’. Whore.’
The door was open a crack, just enough for Jerome to see inside. His mother took off her glasses, as though to prepare herself for what was to come. She looked calm. Her eyes were deep-set, and her blue-black curls shone in the light of the ceiling lamp. She looked straight at her husband, but Jerome knew she wasn’t seeing him, was seeing something else, only he couldn’t tell what. She never let on. Like she wasn’t real whenever Daddy came home. Like she’d drifted quietly out of her body.
Daddy leaned forward and gave Mama a smack on the jaw. She swayed back but didn’t fall over. ‘Don’t you even feel it?’ He got up and walked around the table. With the flat of his hand he slapped her other cheek. He started laughing. ‘You like that, don’t you? I know what you like.’ Jerome’s mother sat frozen on the chair, her copy of Time magazine still open on the table in front of her. He grabbed her by the arm and dragged her to the floor. He started pounding on her back. Jerome could see his mother shudder to the rhythm of his father’s dull blows. She flopped back and forth like a rag doll. She did not cry, made no sound at all. She did exactly what he himself did when Daddy beat him: turn away. Watch his own compact body reflected in the dark glass of the kitchen door. Feel his cheeks burn, swallow back the tears. Just stand there and take the punches. Smile. Breathe calmly. Daddy can’t ever see his tears. Can’t ever be allowed to see the pain he causes. Jerome held onto the pain with all his might. A dull, burning blackness that pushed against the inside of his skull.
But this stubborn indifference only made Daddy even madder. And Jerome could understand that. He understood why his father beat his mother more and more furiously, desperately. Say something! Feel something! I want to hear you scream. Where are you, goddamn it? Anything’s better than nothing.
Suddenly the pounding and ranting stopped. Jerome peered through the crack and saw his father stagger to his feet. His cheeks were wet, but Jerome couldn’t tell if it was sweat or tears. The man looked smaller than he had a few minutes ago. He muttered something unintelligible, rubbed his hands on his faded pants. From where he stood, Jerome could smell the pungent eau de cologne-like booze stench that clung to his father. He gagged. He saw his mother move on the yellow linoleum floor. She placed her hands flat on the floor and tried to lift up her body. Jerome didn’t know what he should do after Daddy left: he wanted to help his mother, but was ashamed at having witnessed the scene, and he was pretty sure she wouldn’t want him to see her in this state.
‘I’m leavin’,’ he heard his father say.
Jerome tiptoed back upstairs. Once he was back in his room he heard the front door slam. One last piece of glass from the windowpane shattered into splinters on the floor.
A small, stout man with a white hat and a face full of burst veins shuffled through the cluttered store. Boxes were stacked everywhere.
