Peck - All-American Boy: A Memoir

S omewhere in this night, it is all still happening.

We sit together on the grass, we three. My mother, her dancers legs drawn up tighly against her chest, her face looking old in the glow of our blocks lonely street lamp.

Quiet. She is quietly afraid, quietly listening for sounds from the porch where he sitsher husband, my stepfather. I can see the red tip of his cigarette, flaring on cue every two minutes as he inhales, flaring and sending illuminated little butterflies twitching to the floor. He sits in darkness, still and silent in his rocking chair, like some Mayan king, while his wife and children huddle closely together on the grass of the front lawn. Floridian night breezes, soaked in the smell of gardenias, lap around our heads and necks, chilling.

He will dictate this night to us; we wait for his decree.

When he stands, we scatter like frightened sparrows, Mother grabbing each of us by a wrist and moving out toward the sidewalk.

Get ready, she hisses.

Without a word, he walks to the screen door, takes one final, spitefully deep drag, flicks the dying cigarette out in our direction and, turning, stumbles into the house. He is a giants silhouette, the broad, bare back of my enemyand the smoke from his lungs follows him, I think, like a serpents tail.

For a while we sit, swatting at the tiny winged insects barefoot Southern boys call no-see-ums. The children on our block call them no-sees; and I feel like a no-see, safe and invisible in the shadows with my mother and my younger stepsister, Lisa.

Our whispered conversation is slow and meaningless, drawn out over the night, the danger, the obvious, stretching words that spread like a jasmine thicket to distance us from fear.

But when our mother speaks at last, the jasmine sours, the night is yanked away like a warm blanket on a freezing morning, and the blood and adrenaline pumping into our veins, pounding in our ears, quickly restrings the muscles in my ten-year-old stomach with an old familiar dread.

I think hes asleep.

Not yet, I said. Give him more time.

No, hes asleep. As drunk as he was, hes asleep by now.

Can we go inside? Lisa asked, and I hated her for it. Lisa, Rodneys real daughter, Lisa-who-was-real. She was his family, his blood, whether he was sober or drunk, and she knew she was safe. Usually.

Of course. And Mothers voice was mercy. Reassurance and mercy and just enough caution. Ill just go in first, to make sure everything is alright.

Dont, I said. Dont. Dont go. Hes awake.

Ill be fine, she said as if speaking to convince a child instead of to convince herself. Ill just poke my head inside the door.

She eases up the steps to the porch, walking over ashes and invisible eggshells to the front door. I hear its whine and help Lisa up in case we need to run. Mothers back disappears into the shadows inside the door frame, and I whisper a quick prayer, a childs prayer. O God, remember, O God, remember me...

Rodney?

0 God, in your mercy, remember, remember me ...

Rodney?

In the name of your Son, Jesus, I pray, sweet Father, remember ...

An explosion. Jesus is coming soon.

She is screaming, and I think for one split-fractured second that a bomb has gone off in the living room. Breaking wood and shattering glass and my mother flying out onto the lawn like a shrieking ghost in her white nightgown.

He is close behind.

Lisa? Lisa. Someones lit a match, Lisa, someones lit a match. And the world is made of straw.

My sister and I sprint toward the family car and hide behind it, crouching low, eyes white and wide peering out over the hood to see what is happening.

She is face down on the lawn, and he is straddling her, stripped to the waist, his arm working, arcing through the air, his black leather belt cutting stripes on her back as she howls, as she begs him to stop.

She fights to her feet, arms stretched out behind her in desperate defense, vain defense, earning her new stripes. More screams, his blows relentless leather blurs, the sharp crack! of his belt and his drunken roars mixed in together, twisting and fighting and tearing out into this night and tearing into me.

She runs, and still he is on her. Nerves run between us, unseen wires cutting through the air, connecting our skin and our fear. My ass and legs throb in a familiar empathy every time his whip connects. It is me he is beating tonight; it may as well be me. She makes it to the concrete sidewalk, bolts down the street, and I think I can hear, as if from some safe distance, my own screams meeting hers as they fade past the streets yellow spotlight.

A universe unfolds and collapses in the time it takes him to stumble back to our house, talking and cursing to nothing and no one in weird counter-rhythm to the clicking of the heels of his boots.

Don't move, Lisa. Don't. Move. Don't breathe. 0 Jesus, sweet Jesus, don't let him see ...

He is inside. And we hear him lock the door.

Somewhere in this night I am still screaming.

She meets us halfway up the street, clutching the remnant of a shoulder strap he has ripped off. Lisa supports her on her left side, and I try to make her lean on me with her right.

Mom, are you ... ? But she waves the words away as if they were no-sees.

Just take me home, she says, and I wonder if I should tell her that the door is locked.

Our neighbors house is safe, air conditioner eternally humming and rattling in a soothing way that only a Floridian can truly appreciate. We undress and get ready for bed, using toothbrushes set aside for us, familiar rituals. Sleeper sofas unfold, and Evelyn, our friend, rummages through closets for comforters and bedsheets. Evelyn is kind to us, even though she is a Catholic and will go to hell for that. We thank her politely, fascinated by the devils language that pours so freely from her lips.

Goddammit, Michelle, youve got to see a doctor.

Im fine.

I cant believe what you take from that motherf

Evelyn, please. The children. Be careful what you say. The children are always listening. Im fine. Do you have any aloe? Let me take you to the hospital.

And explain this? Theyd arrest him. Again. Besides, the children have school in the morning.

Shit, Lisa mumbles, and I try very hard not to laugh.

We lay awake listening to the conversation that goes on until early morning, back and forth across our neighbors kitchen table. No, I didnt think he was this drunk. No, divorce is not an option. No, I already tried. I already tried that. When she comes to bed at last, Lisa has already fallen asleep, because she is only nine, while I am ten. I fake sleep, pretending to stir only slightly when she begins to pray. She kneels on the floor, palms lifted timidly up to God in our churchs tradition.

Somewhere in this night she is still praying.

And her voice is a living thinga soft murmur rising then fading, as welcomed and as fragrant as the gardenias she planted by our porch. I can hear her gentle supplications, hear her Our Fathers, crystalline echoes of prayers she taught me long ago, prayers of forgiveness. Blessings to the enemy.

And I know that her faith is right. I know it fits the world like a missing fragment torn from some holy parchment; it fills the gaps between the lines, it makes the message clear.

... and forgive us our trespasses. The voice of a silent, suffering Nazarene. Take this cup from me.

... as we forgive those who trespass against us.

We forgive and are forgiven.

We forgive to be forgiven.

So I try and I try to forgive him.

But, O Christ in heavenI have never hated with such perfection.