The door slams shut. Wham! And the force of the door sends chills down her spine. Tara closes her eyes. That's all she can do. She has absolutely no control now. As if the slamming of the bathroom door isn't enough, she hears the lock turn. Click. Shutting her out of the room that she is so close to, yet feels so far away from.
"Lord, please!" she prays. "Please don't let him kill my son."
Wh-tsh!
With the first crack of the belt, she gasps for air, ears glued to the wooden door.
"Didn't I!"
Wh-tsh!
"Tell you to..."
Wh-tsh! Wh-tsh! Wh-tsh! Wh-tsh!
Tears stream down her cheeks, her head shaking with disbelief.
Wh-tsh! Wh-tsh! Wh-tsh!
The sporadic cries of pain escaping her son's mouth weaken her body. She clings to the door as if it's holding her up. What have I done? I should do something. I'm his mother.
Wh-tsh! Wh-tsh!
Tara's heart drops. She clenches her fingers into a fist.
Wh-tsh! Wh-tsh! Wh-tsh! Wh-tsh!
"Stop moving!" he yells with a deep growl.
Wh-tsh!
There is a change in the young boy's cry. Before, Tara could count on a yelp after each slash. Now there is only the hiss of the belt whipping through the air, across his skin, the shallow breaths seeping from his tiny lungs, no screams, just air. She waits and prays. She holds on to his last cry. It is her only proof that he is still alive.
Wh-tsh! Wh-tsh!
"Thomas, stop!" Tara screams, banging on the door as if it'll budge.
"Stop!" Panic takes over. She drops, knees crashing to the white tiled floor. She crouches down, clasps her hands together and prays, "Stop him. Please stop him."
Wh-tsh!
Tara presses her fingers into her temples, rubbing off the sharp pain in her head. Just the thought of the kindness and the joys of childhood being stripped from her son and being replaced with hate, anger, and resentment force more tears to trickle down her face. She knows all too well the everlasting affects of being beaten until you give up, beaten until you conform to whatever it is your mother, father or "man" wants you to become.
"Now, I bet you won't do it again!" Thomas warns one last time as he lands the last whip across David's back.
Tara hears a loud thump inside the bathroom, her son's body dropping to the floor. She gasps, her body rigid and stricken with fear.
Suddenly, she too falls into the bathroom as Thomas yanks the door open. She glances up at his broad shoulders and thick build. He is hovering over her trembling body. "What are you looking at?" he says. He stares at her, until her eyes fall to the cold bathroom floor. He steps over her, making sure his foot bumps into her shoulder.
Tara watches him grab a glass of lemonade out of the refrigerator, lie down on the couch in the living room, prop his legs on the ottoman and form a sick smirk. The only thing missing in Thomas's world is the jewel encrusted crown and beautiful half-naked women around him dangling fresh grapes over his lips.
As she stares at him, more chills surge through her body. She doesn't know if it's from the sudden draft sweeping cold air through the house or from the hate she feels toward him. She crawls to her son. David's legs are stretched across the floor, head resting on the blue rug that's nestled in front of the toilet. She lifts his head and examines his body. He is naked with only a damp, brown bath towel covering his thigh. Droplets of soapy water and sweat cover him, his tiny chest jumps, his lungs struggling to return to their natural rhythm.
Tara holds him while her eyes scan his body. They stop at the emerging bruises and blood that has oozed its way to the surface. "I'm so sorry, baby. I'm so sorry," she chants, sniffing and wiping tears from her face. She rocks him back and forth.
David tries to nestle in his mother's arms, but it only brings more agony. His teeth clench down
on his bottom lip, but it's no match to the pain that's throbbing along his lower back, his thighs, arms, and legs. Staring at the wall, he imagines himself bigger, older and able to fight back. He dreams of the day his mother gets a job, packs up her bags and leaves his father. That was her promise to him, her excuse she gave him years ago, the reasons why she can't leave just yet. In his dream, she is smiling because she can finally live on her own. It's these thoughts, these bursts of hope that help him to endure such violent whippings.
Slowly, his mind eases back into reality. He opens his mouth and struggles to force out the words with each hiccuping breath. "Ma-mee, I di-dn't br-eak it."
"Shh. I know, baby. I know." Wishing that somehow the whole incident could be undone, Tara rocks David, and replays the incident in her head:
It was mid-afternoon. The air conditioning had just kicked in, startling Tara and reminding her to check the time. When she glanced at the ticking hands and read the clock, her heart sped up.
"Dammit. I forgot. It's Tuesday," she said, "Thomas comes home early today." Snatching the broom from the corner of the kitchen, she scrambled to sweep the floor. As she swept, she'd use her free hand to fluff the brown couch pillows, use her knee to align the end tables and examined the room for anything out of place. She quickly brushed the last bits of trash into a pile, making sure not to leave even a crumb behind.
But as Tara bent down to grab the dust pan, the broom slipped out of her hand. A rush of air passed her head, followed by a crash. She jumped back. "Shit!" At first she was relieved that it didn't smack her in the head, but when her eyes caught a glimpse of the shattered trophy, she covered her mouth and whispered, "Oh no!" Seeing Thomas's only trophy clumped up in pieces in the midst of dirt and dust, her body stiffened. "He is going to kill me!"
She sat pieces of it up, trying to measure the damage. The tube of superglue was in one hand and two of the biggest broken pieces in the other. She shook her head at the two fragments of glass. There was no saving it. She placed the pieces back on the mantle and yelled for David to get in the tub. Singing to herself to calm her nerves, Tara wished that Thomas's anger management class – the one mandated by the courts – would help her. She sang the words to a gospel hymn from her childhood. "Glory, glory, hallelujah..." She hummed and silently prayed.
Within minutes, Thomas's footsteps stopped at the front door, the keys clashed against the metal knob, causing her breaths to shorten. She clenched her jaw while twisting the soapy cloth around in the glass cup, praying he wouldn't see the broken trophy, hoping he was in a good mood. She wrestled with her thoughts. Maybe I should have hid it. No, he would have noticed it being gone anyway. I should have been more careful. I know better.
She followed the sound of his heavy footsteps around the living room and when they paused, she took in a deep breath. "What the fuck?" she heard him say.
Squeezing her eyes like a child blocking out the anticipation of a scary monster, a boogeyman popping up from thin air, her thoughts ran wild. The fear in her heart was real; she'd thought the worst and it came true. The boogeyman, the scary monster, had just stepped right in the doorway of the kitchen, breathing deeply and waiting for an explanation.
"What happened to my shit?" Thomas yelled. He stood there holding a piece of the molded glass.
Tara didn't look up. Her eyes stayed fixed on the suds that were popping and the dirty cups that were bobbing up and down in the dish water.
"David, he...uh. He was bouncing the basketball," she stuttered.
Thomas didn't allow her to finish. He turned from the kitchen and stomped through the hallway to find David.
"David!" he yelled, first opening the boy's bedroom door. "Daaavid," he said as if playing a game of Hide and Go Seek.
Still in the kitchen, washing and rinsing the dishes, Tara listened while Thomas opened and closed doors. Her heart sped up as she waited.
"Yes, Dad?" David said, so childlike, so ignorant of the situation.
Tara tiptoed to the hallway with suds still running down her hand. She could see Thomas hold up the broken pieces and give David a piercing stare. She stood there, silent, as David lowered his head to his chest. Not a word came from his mouth. He fiddled around the water for his cloth and waited. I've got to tell him the truth. I can't. Tara put her head down and walked back to the kitchen.
Tara looks down at the marks spread across her son's body. It takes her mind back to the movie Roots. The similarities blow her mind. Images of Kunte Kinte being stripped down to his bare skin and being ruthlessly whipped until his will breaks engulfs her sanity. It brings chills to her body, makes her stomach nauseous and her heart pound. She can only think of one difference. Instead of being whipped by his master, her son was lifted up with one hand, his legs fighting the air, by a man that looks much like him - his father. It's a scene that she is all too familiar with, even as a child herself.
"I'm sorry, baby," Tara whispers, wishing that those words could lighten the load of guilt her heart carries. She wipes the tears from her cheek and licks the salty residue from her lips. "We are going to get out of here. I promise. We are going to get out of here," and with a soft touch, she smoothes her fingers along her son's arm to calm him.
A shallow knock against the glass portion of the screen door echoes through the house.
"Can David come out?" Daniel, the neighbor's kid, yells through the screen. Thomas eyes the little boy who is bending the flimsy screen with his head as he leans in to get a closer look inside.
"No, he cannot!" Thomas yells back. "And get off my damn screen."
****
"What's wrong, Daniel?" his mother asks.
"David can't come out. He never gets to come out," Daniel says.
"Well, maybe he's busy."
Sheri glances at her son, who is still dressed in his school clothes – a crisp blue button down, khakis, and a pair of brand new loafers. She forces a weak frown. "Maybe I'll go over there tomorrow and see if he can ride with us to school."
Dressed in a knee length skirt with a flowered baking apron on, Sheri kneels down to her son and stretches out her arms. "Come here. Give your mother a nice big hug." She squeezes him tightly and then kisses him on his round forehead. "Mommy loves you."
"Okay, Mom," Daniel says, pulling away from her. "I'm not a damn baby."
"Well, you are my baby," she responds. "Come. Help me set the table."
Daniel rolls his eyes, but helps anyway. He carries the ceramic bowls filled with whipped garlic mashed potatoes, creamy gravy, and steaming green beans to the table. He then places each dish in its proper position and waits for his mother to bring out the rest.
Sheri pulls out the china and silverware, and as her husband walks through the front door, she is pulling the garlic bread out of the stainless steel oven. The aroma of herbs, butter and garlic fill the room.
"Sorry I'm late," her husband says in a hurry. "I'm starving."
The athletic man unbuttons his police jacket, revealing his bright white t-shirt and thick muscular arms, and slings it along the couch. He rubs his cold hands together and loosens his belt.
From the draping tablecloth to the freshly polished wooden chairs, everything is arranged as if they are expecting company. Even the utensils are set properly - perfectly aligned - allowing them to easily work from the outside in. As a family, they stretch their hands out while Jacob leads prayer. "Lord, thank you for the food. Amen." From the knives slicing through the ham and the forks trying to stay in position, but sliding across the plates, it sounds like a band of violins that are in dire need of a tuning.
"I had to respond to a last minute call," Jacob says, passing the gravy bowl to Daniel. "A man was stoned, running around in and out of traffic, naked." He chuckles in disbelief. "And this was after he assaulted a woman in the thrift store - you know, the one just off of 123rd and Broadway."
Jacob pauses for a second to take a big bite out of his swollen honey dinner roll. "That damn crack," he says in the middle of a chew.
"Crack? What's crack?" Daniel asks. His eyes light up, his voice heightens.
"Nothing," Sheri blurts. "It's nothing for you to worry about."
Daniel sighs. "You never want to tell me anything," he mumbles.
"Crack is a substance that people ingest into their bodies to escape the real world," his father says, smiling at him. "It's a bad drug that will destroy your life. It not only affects the addict's life, but the community suffers, the kids with parents in jail suffer, the mothers who are on the corner selling their-"
Sheri interrupts. "Enough about work." She signals Jacob to hush while eyeing Daniel's fully focused and excited stare.
"So, how has your day been going, honey?" Jacob asks.
"Great! Today I met with Daniel's teacher. I wish you could have been there. His teacher talked so highly of him. He is especially doing well in science and is sure to move on to middle school. Our son is going to be a doctor one day, right Daniel?" She glances at him in admiration.
"Right."
After dinner, Sheri tells Daniel to take a shower, and then, as if he is still a toddler, she reads him a bedtime story. She tucks him in and gives him yet another kiss on his forehead.
"Goodnight, Sweetie."
She flips off the light switch and smiles back at her son whose face is glowing from the baseball lamp positioned next to his bed.
****
"Jacob, I don't know about our neighbors," Sheri says while lying down next to her husband in her flowered silk kimono. "I think something is going on with that poor little boy."
"What neighbors? What boy?"
"The ones that just moved next door. You know, the ones on Section 8."
Jacob nods. "Okay?" he says sarcastically.
"Their son always looks sad. He is never allowed to come out of the house. I don't think they like us very much," Sheri adds.
"Well, they are probably keeping to themselves," Jacob says, adjusting his pillow behind his head.
Sheri twists her lips like she just bit into a lemon. "I don't know about that, dear," she says, rubbing her fingers along Jacob's chest hair. "I'm telling you, the way they dress him, as if they don't own a washer and a dryer, they should be grateful he has a clean cut friend like our Daniel. He could be a great role model, you know." She stops to imagine her son helping the raggedy looking boy straighten up his image. She smiles at her brilliant idea. "You know what? We have some leftover ham in the refrigerator. I should have Daniel—"
Suddenly, a loud ring echoes throughout the house. It's the phone. Jacob slings the covers from his waist and jumps out of bed. Sheri crawls out of bed, tiptoes to the doorway, and stretches out her neck as far as possible to hear every word that comes tumbling out of Jacob's mouth.
"Hello? Hi, Dad!" Jacob says to his father on the phone. He leans on the refrigerator, taking shallow breaths to slow down his breathing.
"No. I told you his birthday is on the 14th, not the 7th," Jacob explains. "It's next weekend."
Jacob shakes his head.
"Oh! I knew that!" Jacob's father says so loudly through the phone, the neighbors could probably hear him. "I haven't been feeling well lately. I was really calling to let you know that I am unable to make it to see him for his birthday. What are your plans anyway?"
Jacob rests his forehead on the counter and takes in another breath. He controls his tone to hide his irritation. "Oh, nothing big, just a small get-together."
His father quickly chimes in. "Listen, I will deposit some money into Daniel's account sometime tomorrow." Jacob lifts his head from the counter so fast his head starts spinning. "So get whatever you need, all right?"
"Dad, why do you always insist on paying for things?" Jacob tries to stop the big smile from affecting his voice. "The go-kart, the big screen TV, hell, everyone in the neighborhood is going to think we're rich."
His father lets out a laugh, but a series of dry coughs interrupt it. "That never stops you from going to the bank, son, now does it?" He pauses to cough again. "Just get the boy something nice. I feel terrible that I can't make it."
After hanging up the phone with his father, Jacob's breaths settle. His heart immediately thumps with anticipation. He nervously combs his fingers through his black stringy hair, and while nodding his head, he ponders for a second, I wonder if Sheri heard him. He softly snaps his fingers. I should have gone down to the basement.
Jacob eases his way back into the bedroom and walks straight into their bathroom; he can feel Sheri's eyes following him every step of the way. His body tenses up, his heart speeds up, but he is trying to act normal. Not too excited, but not too relaxed. He's anticipating at least three grand. He bites down on the smile that's forming. I'll have enough to throw Jacob a nice party. That will get Sheri off my back. And have a little bit left over for..."
****
Tara smacks the jumping alarm clock on her nightstand, trying to deaden its tired and worn out sound. "Damn, it's too early in the morning for this shit," she complains. She forces the thick comforter back over her head. She lies there on a bed of Thomas's curly chest hair and tightens her squeeze around him. He is going to change. I know it, she thinks.
Her mind takes her back to the wild night they shared just before the sun went down. Images of Thomas's strong hold around her waist as he moaned and groaned, the strength he used to pull her body every which way he wanted to, pulling her hair back and the sweet whispers in her ears are flashing through her mind. Goosebumps are forming, growing on her arms just thinking about it. It puts a smile on her face. "I know he loves me," she whispers as she gets lost in her thoughts. She looks up at Thomas. He's sleeping so peacefully, barely even making a sound. A bigger smile grows on her face.
The beaming sun peeking through the curtains remind her of the time. Tired, exhausted, and even sore in some areas of her body, she drags herself to her feet. She glances at the two tall bottles of Belvedere and the stack of unopened bills beside them. What am I going to do if he can't find another job? I'm not moving back to the Projects. I don't care what I have to do. She takes in a deep breath and shakes her head. Why does my life have to be so damn hard?
"Wake up, D! Wake up!"
Tara slings the covers from David's bruised body and smacks him on his butt. He doesn't move, so she whacks him again. With his eyes still closed, David just lies there. The first hit had woken him up, but he continues to lie there to get a few more minutes of sleep.
"You better not miss that bus," Tara says, clearing the sleep from her voice.
David gradually opens one eye. Whack. She hits him again.
"Okay. I'm up," he says, jumping down from the wooden bunk bed.
"Make sure you wear long sleeves, you hear."
"Yes, ma'am."