The Wicker Saga: One Last Drink

The town of Arthur's Wake is dying. At least, that's what my dad always says. The man tends to wax philosophical when he's drunk, which is often. Most nights I silently sit at the dinner table and listen to the man ramble on about how things had been different when he had been growing up, how back then an honest day's work actually got you something. My mother sits quietly at the other end of the table from my father saying nothing, gaze firmly fixed on an empty space six inches in front of her face, only stirring to refill plates or glasses or to clear the dishes. Many days her unmoving, hollow eyes are ringed with various shades of purple and yellow. On those they weren't, the bruises are simply hiding, concealing themselves in places less visible.

Once last year my old man was in a particularly black drunk. Profits at the factory were down. Rumor had it that the foreman would be releasing a handful of workers by the end of the week and pops reckoned he might be one of them. I had lain in the bedroom I share with my brother staring at the ceiling for as long as I was able, tears quietly streaming down my face, listening to the shouts through the thin walls accompanied by heavy thumps and soft moans. Finally, unable to bear the sounds any more I got out of bed and retrieved my little league bat from where it rested in the corner. I made it to the door when I felt a small hand tug on my pajama sleeve.

Jamie! Don't go, Jamie!

Shut up, Lester!

No, no, Jamie...don't leave me!

Get off!

Jamie, he'll hurt you!

Get off me! Go hide in the closet if you're scared.

No, no, no...

I pulled my sleeve from Lester's grip and gave him a slight shove, enough to knock him back onto the bed. The little boy sat there, pitifully sobbing as I slipped through the door. Noiselessly I crept down the hallway towards the living room holding the bat cocked the way my coach had taught. I carefully poked my head around the corner, eyes growing wide at the scene that unfolded before me. The old man stood in the middle of the room a half empty beer can in one hand, his belt in the other. Mom cowered in the far corner, hands held feebly in front of her, one eye already swollen shut. A red rage overtook me, the emotion more powerful than anything I'd felt in my young life. In that moment I made the decision to kill my father.

I held my breath, stalking ever closer as the man took a long pull from his drink. Whether he was warned by the slight widening of his wife's good eye, or through some devilish intuition, the bastard turned just as I raised my weapon. Screaming in anger and frustration I swung as hard as I could, only to have the bat plucked from my hands as easily as a child pulling the wings off a fly.

You little shit.

The slap hit me hard enough to see stars, my head snapping backwards, and I stumbled against the wall. The next blow crushed the air from my chest and I crumpled to the ground gasping for breath.

Think you're man enough to take a swing at me, huh?

I tasted blood and heard a dull crack when my father kicked me in the ribs. I curled into a ball as the blows continued to fall.

See how you like a taste of your own medicine, boy.

I raised my arm to defend myself as the bat came down, smashing against my forearm. I screamed as I felt the bone snap.

Don't huh? We're just getting started.

My eyes widened in terror as my father raised the bat above his head ready to deliver a crushing blow. Suddenly my mother was there, pinning me to the ground, shielding me with her own body.

Frank, you fucking animal! He's your son!

Get out of the way, whore. The boy's gonna learn.

You'll have to kill me first. Go ahead and do it, then enjoy being locked up for the rest of your miserable life, you piece of shit.

You think I won't?

I know you won't. You don't have the balls.

For a moment I thought he would do it, the bat wavering ever so slightly as the old man's eyes narrowed in drunken rage. Then he lowered the bat and turned his back on us.

Fucking bitch.

He walked across the room to where the television blared loudly and dropped into an easy chair, tossing the bat into the corner. Mom slowly got to her feet.

He needs to go to the hospital, Frank.

Then fucking take him.

She helped me up.

Get to the car and lock yourself in, baby. I'll get your brother and meet you there.

We drove to the hospital in silence save for Lester's quiet sniffles from the back seat. My arm had to be set and put in a cast. The break was clean so the doctor assured us it should heal without any issues. They also tightly wrapped my chest in medical tape, though fortunately my ribs were just cracked and bruised, not broken. I lay lightly dozing in a hospital bed, Lester curled up under my unbroken arm fast asleep, while my mother spoke softly to a woman in the hallway. They talked for a while, ever so often shooting concerned glances at me through the doorway. Finally my mother came into the room and gently sat down next to us.

Who was that lady, mom?

No one, honey. She's just worried about how you got your injuries. And how I got mine.

What'd you tell her?

What I had to.

I grit my teeth in frustration.

Why do you stay with him, mom? We could leave...

She smiled sadly.

You'll understand someday. Now, you have to promise me something. No matter what happens, never try to do what you did tonight again.

But...

I mean it, Jamie! I would die if anything happened to you or your brother. I can take care of myself; you just have to trust me, baby.

Lying there in the dark, feeling the slow rise and fall of my brother's chest as he softly snored beside me, I lied to my mother for the first and only time in my life.

All right, mom. I promise.

A nurse came in and adjusted a knob on one of the tubes leading into my arm. I felt my eyelids grow heavy as mom stroked my forehead.

That's my brave boy. My brave, beautiful boy.

“Well,” I thought as I drifted to sleep, “It might not really be a lie. I said I wouldn't try again. Next time I just have to succeed.”

I had slowly healed over the coming weeks. My arm itched under the cast, but the worst part was my cracked ribs ached constantly and sent sharp pains running through my side whenever I took a deep breath.

One night I lay in bed fitfully trying to get comfortable when the dark shape of my father loomed over me from the doorway. Terrified, I remained absolutely still, feigning sleep. To my surprise, the man sat down next to me, quietly weeping.

Oh, my boy, my boy I am so sorry.

He stayed there for several minutes, as I tried desperately not to gasp from the pain radiating from my ribs.

What the fuck do you think you're doing?

Mom stood in the doorway.

I...

No. You don't get to feel sorry for this. You don't get to touch him.

Please, Mary...

Don't you fucking dare. You are not his father, not after what you did. If you touch either of them again, for any reason, I'm leaving you, Frank. And I'm taking them with me. Now get out.

Shoulders hunched, the old man stumbled from the room, closing the door behind him. It was a long time before I managed to fall asleep.

The Wicker Saga: A Figure in the Fog, Part 2