Bobby D. Eaton - The Boy in the Window: A Mennonite Memoir

Gravel crunches underfoot as I stride toward the front door of the mobile home I share with my parents and eight siblings still living at home. I pause in the driveway to admire the colors spilling across the sky from the setting summer sun. Its been a good Sunday, and I savor the unaccustomed feelings of contentment and peace. But before I can enjoy the pleasant sensations for more than a second, a chilly foreboding grips my heart, and my body tenses.

Its Sunday. That means Daddy has spent the day drinking, and its anybodys guess what mood hell be in. A sober, hardworking man during the week, he can transform into a monster after a weekend of drinking. I quickly review my activities from the previous week. If my conscience is clear, Daddy presumably wont have a reason to mete out one of his savage punishments. When I dont uncover any of the offenses that might set him off, I square my shoulders and walk through the front door.

Daddy is sitting at the kitchen table, and my heart sinks as I take in his bloodshot eyes and the blacksnake whip lying coiled on the table beside him. That brutal instrument was originally meant for the mules and horses on his Appalachian tobacco farm, but he often uses it to put the fear of God into his children. The whip is folded in half, with Daddys large, work-roughened hand holding the handle and the tip of the eight-foot monster. Sick horror floods through me as he lurches to his feet, grabs my arm without saying a word, and begins savagely beating me with the blacksnake whip.

I am no stranger to the torture inflicted by that whip. It has tasted my blood before, when Ive committed some childish offense. But this is different. The stark injustice of the attack freezes me, and I dont dash around the table or struggle to escape as I have in the past. I simply stand there in shock as Daddy lashes at me with all his strength. My fury at the unfairness of this unprovoked attack grows into a white-hot rage, and I grit my teeth, determined not to give my father the satisfaction of a response. He is enraged by my stubborn indifference and flails madly at me until he collapses into his chair, exhausted and panting.

Still seething with impotent rage, I feel warm trickles of blood running down the back of my legs. Ive been beaten before. Ive often seen Daddy beat Mama and my siblings, but this time, something in me snaps.

Shoving my face close to his, I hiss between clenched teeth, If you ever lay a hand on me again, I swear I will kill you with my bare hands! Even though he is a big man and I am only a slim fifteen-year-old, I fully intend to carry out that threat. Struggling to contain the fury and hatred that overwhelm me, I stalk to the bedroom I share with three younger brothers and slam the door. Despite our poverty, Mama takes pride in keeping our crowded single-wide mobile home spotlessly clean, so I dont dare sit down anywhere lest my blood stain the furniture. My threadbare shirt has been cut to ribbons by the thrashing, but I am too furious to realize that I should change my clothes. I just collapse face down on the bed and wallow in bitterness and pain. My back and legs feel as if they are on fire, and my heart is crushed by despair.