first to be chosen when kids select and break into teams.
Their sidewalk-lined street is on a hill. A patchwork quilt of two-foot squares forms the pathways. The trees flanking the walkways are huge with many of their roots having lifted up sections of the concrete pads. The neighborhood kids love these uneven portions, for they create a rollercoaster track perfect for biking, skating or driving wagons over.
The latter is Sally and Eric’s favorite. They drag their red Radio Flyer wagon to the top of the hill. Turning it around, Sally gets in the rear, straddling it so her feet can hang over the sides like brakes. Eric climbs in front and sits cross-legged. His job is to steer with the handle. Once he is settled, Sally raises her feet and off they go, gaining speed, as they hurtle down the hill at a blinding pace. They race over the root-raised sections of concrete, squealing with delight, as their tummies drop, and Eric swerves from one edge of the sidewalk to the other. Sometimes they crash—tumbling out of their wagon, belly-laughing uncontrollably.
The best part of their neighborhood has to be the ice-cream truck.
Every afternoon it heralds its approach with its twangy music broadcast over a blown speaker. Hearing it from the next block over, the children scramble to gather their pocket change. Sally and Eric always get the same items: she a Big Stick and he a root beer Popsicle.
Those who purchase treats share with the ones who have no money.
There are never any hurt feelings or selfishness. No one is ever left wanting. The neighborhood kids all look after and take care of each other like an extended family.
Sally ventures out of her room and down the hallway, where she peeks around the corner to spy on her parents. She notices the crimson coloring entering her father’s face. It begins at his neckline and creeps its way up his face, blending almost seamlessly with his hair color.
The veins in his neck begin to stand out. Next, the pulsing vein on his forehead will appear.
Oh, God! Time to get away. Don’t want to be near him. Danger!
Sally’s churning stomach begins to reject what she ate earlier for dinner. She swallows back vomit as she notices her father’s arms swinging violently in the empty air called space. His gesticulating intensifies along with his Irish temper. She knows his arms have much power behind them. Each family member has taken his or her turn being her father’s punching bag. He does not care whom he turns his wrath upon when he gets in one of his moods—whoever is within striking distance suffices.
Grimacing, Sally knows that his mighty hands long to come in contact with something that they can slug until there is nothing left to pound.
Get away! Leave! Save yourself!
The beatings are bad enough, but the thrashings…they are terrifying! Consumed by one of these furies, Sally’s father has no self-control and beats his victim until they escape or are too physically broken to respond. Sally senses this level of fury and her father’s need to batter someone.
How long will it take before he kills one of us with his rage?
Guiltily, she is thankful that she will be spared this time.
Thank God, I’m outside his reach.
It will be her mother’s turn. Based on her father’s ire, the attack promises to be far worse than any Sally has endured—of this she is certain. She feels inadequate, knowing that she cannot help.
Why isn’t there someone to save me and make this nightmare end?
This person doesn’t exist, though.
How can I make this monster go away before he destroys us? How?
Feeling helpless, she turns and walks silently down the hallway towards her room. Catching sight of her image in a mirror on the wall, she stops, transfixed by the gruesomeness reflected back at her. The entire left side of her face is distorted. Her left eye is nearly swollen shut, encircled by a blended palette of black, purple, red and yellow splotches where the worst of the bruising is. Absentmindedly, her hand raises to caress the area. The minute it makes contact, her image transforms back to normal.
Another memory.
Sally grimaces.
That’s what he did to me last time.
Turning from her reflection, she continues down the hallway, passing her brother Eric’s room. He is preoccupied, playing with G. I. Joes.
Look how he’s gone to great lengths to arrange his soldiers just so. He’s trying to block out what’s happening around him.
She pauses for a moment in his doorway, marveling at his innocence, envying his naiveté. Eric, her junior by two years, is still too young to fully comprehend what is wrong with their family.
I know he’s aware that something is wrong, but am grateful that he doesn’t know just how dangerous the situation is. I’m sure he’s affected more than he lets on. Wish I knew how to explain things to him without hurting him.
She does not though, so she remains silent.
Every day I feel like a soldier just trying to survive on the battlefield.
Sally feels like a soldier. Eric plays with toy soldiers. Their situation is always on their minds, and yet their father’s anger is the elephant never discussed. It sits plainly in the middle of the room, taunting and mocking them, yet they cannot acknowledge it, for if they do, they will have to face just how dire their situation is.
Better to ignore it and stay out of the line of fire as much as possible.
Sally cringes, remembering the family members’ endless array of broken bones, bruises and casts. Apparently they all sucked at staying out of her father’s way.
Her father’s anger has taught Sally well. She has learned to keep a low profile and keep her head down on the battlefield, lest she get it shot off. It has educated her to walk the line and do exactly what is expected and demanded of her—always—without question or having to be told twice.
In school this serves her well. She is an overachieving student who goes above and beyond what is asked of her. Her teachers often openly praise her efforts and use her work as an example to the other students. She loves getting their approval and seeing her work posted on the bulletin boards with A+’s written across the top. Sally lives to please. Her exuberance also serves to keep up the appearance that all is well on her home front. People think she has a normal family— straight out of a Norman Rockwell painting.
Sally shakes her head.
Normal is just a state of mind.
She leaves her brother’s doorway and continues down the hallway. Entering her room, she closes the door behind her. Seeking refuge, she climbs in bed and pulls the covers over her head in an attempt to block the sounds coming from the other room. The disagreements always follow the same pattern: the raising of voices, amplified shouting and accusations followed by the unmistakable sound of the first blow.
Sally
