One by One. Nicholas Bush
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My mother isn’t far behind on the alcohol abuse spectrum and is often described by my girlfriends as a “wineaholic.” When my parents drink together, they leave me alone for the most part, but if things take a turn for the worse for any reason whatsoever, all eyes are on me, the family scapegoat. I’ll never understand why I was given this role, but that’s how things always play out. In the end, they take any grievance or frustration out on me.
Knowing this family dynamic all too well, during my brief one week hiatus from school, which is the time it takes to transfer from one school to another, I disappear to the Russo house. Each time I return, my father tries to whip me with his belt, but no longer afraid of the invariable and inevitable abuse, I shove him off over and over again until he is too tired to continue.
One night toward the end of the week between schools, I’m in the kitchen at my parents’ house when my father comes in and starts taunting me for no reason, and then pushing me around, like a first grade bully. I’m used to this behavior, but when I go upstairs to try to escape him, he begins chasing me around the house. This continues until he injures his leg and then he begins cursing at me. My blood boils as he does this, and I run away from him.
I head to the Russo home and let myself in. Greta can immediately tell something is wrong, and this goddess of a woman hugs and caresses me as I hyperventilate into her breast. “I need your help,” I plead. I can’t understand how a grown man, a father of four, can treat me the way my father does, and I’m starting to crack. I don’t know if I can handle him anymore. Greta tells me Francesco will be home shortly and will be able to help.
Downstairs I find Giovanni practicing Blink-182 guitar tabs he found on YouTube. When he sees me, he offers a hit from his pipe and I gladly accept, proceeding with what has become an all-too-familiar cycle as I tell him my problems. This continues until we are interrupted by a knock on the bedroom door.
“Who is it?”
“It’s Papa, come in?” replies Francesco. I immediately enter panic mode because if that had been my dad, there would be hell to pay given how smoky it is. My friend would be escorted out of the house and I would be dealt with physically. My room would be turned upside down and my stuff thrown into the hallway. Maybe the police would be called, or maybe I would be put on the street and locked out of the house with absolutely nothing. But Francesco walks calmly up to his son, who is sitting in a desk chair, and gestures politely for him to take a seat next to me on the bed, adding, “Okay . . .” as he sits down with us and then addresses me directly. “I am here to help you and you should know before you ask me, that once you ask me to help you, it is already done, so think before you speak.”
This is the first time I solicit the help of Francesco Russo, a man whose intimidating presence inexplicably seems to charge me with hope and energy as he listens to my plea through his cigarette smoke, nodding his head and staring directly into my eyes.
I’m not one to show emotion, but everything has gotten very heavy and I am desperate. The words come pouring out. “I have to get away from my dad for a while. I just can’t take it anymore, I think he might kill me, or I might do something I’ll regret. The other night they made me cook for them and I did it as nicely as I could, but my dad made me eat it first because he thought I had poisoned it or something. I just need a place to live . . . you know, like permanently.”
He thanks me for coming to him for help and tells me how much his family has missed me these last few months. He also says he always knew the day would come when I would reach out to him with the problem I now have. He tells me that his father was also incredibly physically abusive, and that he hated his father with a fire that still burns inside him.
Francesco immediately knows what to do, and I am amazed because it seems as though he has planned it all out from day one. To start with, he tells me he will call my father and vouch for me having been away without my father’s express permission because I was locked out, which sometimes happens. He says that he and Greta will soon be heading to Italy for a week and will send Giovanni to live with me during that time. Giovanni would otherwise have stayed home with Adriana.
I tell him that my father will never accept this, but Francesco tells me firmly that he will. Francesco never seems to question anything. He speaks firmly, and is unwavering about how things are, have been, and will be. Francesco then proceeds to dial my house number and before I have a chance to react, he is speaking with my dad. They’ve only met once, the previous summer when the whole Russo family came to see me while I was on lockdown, and even stayed for dinner. Everyone was polite, but the parents certainly never hit it off as friends.
I listen quietly to Francesco as he tells my dad he needs a favor from him. “I need to ask you to look after my son for a week while we’re away and see to it that he behaves. Your son has turned into a good boy and I want Giovanni to become more like him . . . Will you please teach my son some good manners? . . . Okay, ciao . . .” Then he yells out, “Adriana!” She appears in the doorway within seconds. “I need you to stay with a friend next week, okay? Pick whomever you like best.”
Adriana happily thanks him and when she closes the door, it’s us men again, having a good old-fashioned sit-down. Francesco says, “Giovanni, I want you to find out how bad it is. Act like you are not even there. I want you to protect him. If anything happens, call me.”
“Yes, Papa. I will.”
After speaking with Francesco, I am in better spirits and head upstairs to chat with Greta as Giovanni has a final word with Francesco, who soon appears and informs me that Giovanni will be escorting me home to stay the few extra days before he and Greta leave for Italy. Giovanni and I giddily pack his things into a large backpack and a small suitcase.
For a few days nothing happens, and I am totally ignored by everyone in my family. Then Francesco calls to say he and Greta are leaving and asks if everything is okay. It was okay for those few days, but then the abuse resumes. My father drinks that weekend, and early Saturday he proceeds to demand that Giovanni and I scrub the rims of his car tires until they shine, using only a bucket of soap and water. Without the proper polish, though, we don’t achieve the effect that my father desires and so he ridicules our progress. Giovanni asks how much longer we have to do this and I sigh because I don’t know. It’s exasperating, but the truth is I’m relieved to have my situation seen by someone who might have the power to help me. Everything seemed so hopeless before. Giovanni is not happy with the answer; he throws down the rag, kicks over the bucket, and loudly refuses to comply with my father’s demand.
My father walks out onto the deck and the two of them begin to fight. He’s amused at first, but the situation escalates quickly, “You’re going to do exactly what I tell you to—”
“No, we’re not! We haven’t done anything wrong, and you can’t treat us like this! We’re not gonna do it! Are we?” Giovanni glances at me.
I stand up and sheepishly and add, “I’ve had enough, Dad.”
At these words my father spikes his glass onto the concrete stoop, shattering it, and like a defensive lineman rounding a corner toward the quarterback, charges at me at in full sprint. I’ve never seen him so enraged. I stand frozen as Giovanni hurls himself between me and my father, bouncing off him like a pinball and landing