TRIGGER WARNING: DOMESTIC ABUSE & ALCOHOLISM
I can guarantee that most kids in America love the summer holidays; about a hundred days stretching out ahead of you to do whatever you please, humidity and heat that makes the sunlight feel like an embrace and long days to fill with mischief and adventures. I don't love the summer holidays.
I'm tethered to a family farm, which means backbreaking manual labour, hours spent standing behind a desk in our stuffy butcher's shop and being trapped on the ranch with my family. Being trapped with my family is about the worst possible scenario I can imagine; it's probably one of the seven levels of hell.
Ploughing the fields shirtless with the sun beating down on your back the whole day leaves you with a stiff neck, peeling red skin and dizziness from dehydration. And once I survive that painful ordeal, it's just counting down the seconds until my father staggers home from the pub and reminds us that we're all shifting our weight to support him.
At least in the butcher's shop I was out of direct sunlight and had the company of the locals. If I was lucky, I could cram myself into the corner of the shop by the hanging meats and stand in front of the fan. The glare of sunlight through a shop window feels like being a bug beneath a magnifying glass.
But my father wouldn't even remain sober for running the butcher's shop. There would always be a bottle of whiskey with a popped cork or an uncapped beer that he'd nurse during hours. He said it took the edge off working. It drowned his sorrows.
From the looks customers sometimes gave him - gave me - I was sure that they could smell the alcohol on his breath, or could detect the slurring of his words, or see the haziness in his eyes. Perhaps all of the above. For him, it was a knowing look. For me, it was a sympathetic look. But no one said a word.
Who would say a word? My father was a broad man, wide, towering - anyone crossed him whilst his mind was clouded with alcohol he'd have no hesitation in swinging his fist. I think they knew that. He was unstable after his time in Vietnam. But he refused to accept that.
It was when my father was in the back, hacking up a slab of meat into smaller chunks that people would finally ask me about the beast.
But another monster entered the butchers, in the form of a serpent. I didn't need to hear more than the clack of high class heels on the tile flooring to know that trouble was slinking towards me. I was met by the pointy nose of Eleanor Bishop.
Trying not to seem intimidated by the sharp scent of her Christian Dior perfume and how her clothes were completely unmarked unlike my bloodied apron, I put on a smile and chimed; "Afternoon, ma'am, how may I help you?"
She surveyed the interior; grotty walls, the smell of rancid maturing meat and the rag-tag customers that bought from our cheap shop.
Her nose wrinkled "Possibly..." She replied. "Do you sell pork here?" She observed the glass counter where many meats were displayed on shelves within.
My eyes flicked down to the cabinet and I tried not to give a facetious answer. "Yes, what cut are you after?"
Her eyes scanned the unappetising bulks of meat on display. "Anything with the least fat content, a bulky cut, lots of meat, not so much bone..." She said non-descriptly.
I seethed, that description did nothing to help me recommend a cut. "May I ask what the meat is for, it might help me recommend what kind of cut it is you require..." I scratched the back of my neck with my gloved hands, and watched her grit her teeth in disgust.
"Soup," she said curtly, checking my hands for any traces of hair on my palms. Needless to say I peeled off the gloves and replaced them whilst she stared on.
"For how many?" I gestured to the varying sizes of meat.
She raised her chin proudly. "Sixty... Seventy..." She shrugged.
I gave a small scoff, and her eyes narrowed. "Family banquet?" I suggested conversationally.
Refusing to make conversation with a butcher's son, she pressed her lips together. "The soup kitchens."
I nodded quietly and looked at the selection of meats available. "You're going to need a lot-"
"I know," she cut me off.
At that moment, my father stumbled back in, swaying through the doorway with a cleaver still in his loose hand. I eyed it, but he was quick to chuck it down with a clatter. He staggered up beside me and slapped me hard on the back, making me choke and fall on the counter. "Is Clinton helpin' y'out?" He boomed, his words cut up by an unabashed burp.
Her eyes darted from me to him. It was almost as if she could tell out of which cloth I was cut, my father had 'uncultured' and 'ruffian' written all over him. For the first time in her life, it seemed I was the preferred person in the room.
She seemed to lean back from the desk as he plonked his elbows on the counter top and spewed his alcohol reeking breath in her direction. "He was helping me out perfectly fine, sir..."
"Y'Sure? He has a habit of being a lie-about the second I'm not watchin' 'im..." He gave a gruff laugh that rattled off into spluttering. "Talks too much and don't do nothin'..."
"Anything..." Eleanor muttered under her breath, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.
"What?" My dad asked, face scrunched into a scowl. In his drunken state he'd thankfully misheard.
"Clint here was helping just fine, as you were," Eleanor said with a faked smile. As soon as my dad was given permission to sate his alcohol-famished state, he swanned back off into the back and the clinking of bottles was audible.
I gave a deep sigh and wrung my hands nervously. I looked down at the meats and back up to Eleanor who was staring ponderously at me. "So this cut-"
"Edith!" A gruff call came from the back of the shop followed by a smashing sound. Missus Bishop startled. "Edith!" It came again, audible in the front.
I tried to brush it off. "-Should do just fine..." Her eyes were still wide with shock. "A lot of meat, not too much bone..." I was cut off by another howling of my ma's name from the oaf in the back. "And I'll trim off the fat, if you'd like?"
She nodded with a flurry and played with her clutch bag.
I got to lifting the meat out and starting to carve off useless parts. As I trimmed idly away, I could hear rowdy conversation in the back.
"Where's the rest of the liquor?" He raised his voice to her.
"I-it ran out... I meant to get some, but we've been so busy with harvesting the corn-" She was silenced by an abrupt smashing noise.
Then there was the sound of an upturned tray of tools. Tools used to hack up meat. "Dammit, Edith! I told you last week we were running short!"
My ma' gave a whimper. "You told me two days ago!" She retorted.
All the while I remained straight faced, pretending I couldn't hear the embarrassing catastrophe going on in the back. I sometimes wished I couldn't hear, just to make the fear stop. I sawed through the skin and picked up the bone saw to cut away the useless mass.
"Clint..." Eleanor finally piped up, clearing her throat to draw my attention from what I was desperately trying to focus on - anything but the awful sounds of my father's roaring.
I raised my head, trying not to let her see the tears creeping into my eyes. There was one thought circulating my mind like refuse in a drain; 'I'm next. I'm next. I'm next.' "Yes, ma'am?" I said politely, not a trace of being fazed on my face.
Her tone was solemn and she looked overcome by sadness. "The bruises on your arms..." She inquired, her tone for the first time respectful.
My hand slipped on the cutting and I managed to slice my thumb through the glove. "Shit..." I hissed, quickly moving it away from the chopping board and ferrying it to the sink. I ripped off the latex gloves, ran the tap and watched the red drip from my hand into the metal sink. "I'll be with you in a moment, sorry..." I used that chance to brush away the tears welling up.
Still the yelling hadn't silenced next door.
"Do you want me to help you?" Eleanor inquired, her motherly tone switched on for the first time.
"I'm fine. It's fine. I'll be back in a second. Sorry..." My hands were trembling under the assault of the ice water.
I rushed to the first aid kit and was quick to pluck a plaster from the box and stick it over the self-afflicted incision. It didn't stick properly with still partially wet hands and I struggled to wriggle my fingers into a new pair of gloves.
"Sorry, I-"
"Clint, do you need me to call the cops?" Eleanor looked me dead in the eyes, hearing the commotion next door and seeing the state of me.
I cut through the last of the meat and shook my head. "Here you are, ma'am. Since it's for charity, have it on me..." I hoped she'd get the message, understand the bribe, not to tell - she had no idea of the trouble that awaited me if she told.
I managed to wrap it up in greaseproof paper and stuck it in a plastic bag. I thrust my bruised arm out across the counter and dangled the bag before her.
"Clint, I don't need your charity, I can afford it perfectly fine..." She started shelling cash out of her wallet.
I waved the bag in front of her, urging her to grab it and go. "Missus Bishop, please, take it. Let me do my part." I pleaded her with my eyes.
"Look-"
"Please?" I sobbed in a tearful voice.
Her resolve failed and she took the bag, and with a quiet smile nodded "I won't forget this," she promised. She about turned and left me listening to the din of my parents in the back.
Of course she couldn't let the debt go. Whether that was out of pride or out of the good of her heart I really wasn't sure. I didn't think Eleanor had any good in her heart until she showed some concern in the butcher's shop. Because she knew I would never speak of that encounter to her face, she sent around a messenger to repay me. Kate.
It was later that week on a cool evening that she turned up at my door.
"What are you doing here?" I had gasped, she'd arrived unannounced and sneaking a glance at the clock over my shoulder, I knew it wasn't a good time for her to be here.
Her hands stuffed in her pockets, rocking back and forth on her heels on my porch she said "My mom sent me..." She shrugged. "Who am I to object? I mean, it's hard enough to get her to let me out - and I was surprised that she wanted me here..."
"You can't be here..." I said under my breath, stepping out of my house and snagging her by the wrist.
She reluctantly dragged her feet. "Why not? We're friends, right? Plus my mom wanted me to give you this money clip." And she produced a wealthy slab of money from her pocket, a bunch of fifty dollar bills that far superseded the value of the meat I had sold her ma'. There appeared to be a small note attached inside, peeking out from among the clump of bills.
Then there was a revving of a car, a screaming of brakes and a scraping as my dad swerved onto the drive.
"That's why," I said bluntly, pointing to my father.
"What do you mean..?" Kate bugged me, shoving the wedge of cash against my chest. I was quick to squirrel it away and rushed back to the door.
"You need to leave!" I called, dashing back in and shutting the door.
She started rapping furiously at the door, but I could hear the crunch of my father's boots on the dusty track.
"Clint! What the hell is this about?!" She yelled through the wood, still insistently knocking.
Fear making me shake on the spot, I yelled back. "Go! Kate, please! For your own good! Just go!" I dashed away from the door and eyed up the room, looking for a place to hide.
She had the sense to run from the door when she heard the grunting of my dad, but didn't run away from the house. No, she ran and peered through the kitchen window, hiding beneath the kitchen table, I caught her face pressed up against the glass. I peered from underneath the table cloth, dangling as my first line of defense and waved at her.
She cocked her head at me.
"Go!" I mouthed. "Leave!"
And that's when I heard the door slam open and my ma' snapped out of her daze of scrubbing the dishes.
"Why?!" She mouthed back furiously.
I couldn't do anything to reverse the horrors she was about to witness. I almost felt like extending my apologies. She didn't need to see, hear or experience what happened next. I wouldn't have wished that on anyone. And she could do nothing but look on whilst it occurred.
Kate saw me at my weakest that evening. From that second on, she never looked at me the same way again. She knew. No more secrets.
A/N - I think I want to change my update schedule to both Wednesdays and Sundays; it'll keep me occupied and sane during the summer. I hope that's not too often for you all; opinions?
Kate finally knows about what goes on at home, and Eleanor Bishop seems to have clocked too - but what does this mean for little Clint?
Dedication goes to Syaz705! x