And Yesterday Is Gone (12 page)

Ma hung tough on the church school.

He drank a lot of beer and never seemed to hold down a job very long. His every conversation was laced with obscenities.

He shoved Ma around. And without a moment's notice, one of his big paws would catch me beside the head and knock me sprawling.

Ma was a Sunday school teacher for years and never missed church; it was her only escape from the hell that was our home. She asked the pastor to speak to him. His response was, “You know your husband is the head of the house and you are to obey him. Are you sure you're doing as you should? Divorce? You're a Sunday school teacher. I'll pray for you, sister.”

Nothing ever came of that conversation. I recall the verse that says, “Faith without works is dead,” so I didn't think the pastor put in any overtime.

Sis and I quit church, but we prayed fervently every night for the head of the house—prayed he'd get leprosy and die, slowly.

Well, enough of these tender memories, I thought. It's a beautiful day, I own my own wheels, and I'm going home. I looked to see a McDonald's signboard flash by and realized I was ferociously hungry. I pulled off the freeway, found the golden arches and ordered a meal. I stuffed myself with food I hadn't tasted since I'd left home, and topped it off with a double-malt milkshake.

Back on the road, my gaze wandered to the low hills as I listened to the hum of the tires on the asphalt. I wondered what the date was. July, I think—have I missed my eighteenth birthday?

I smiled as I thought about the cakes Ma had baked for me. Always the same—two-layer chocolate with thick fudge frosting and the appropriate number of candles. Sis gloated—she always got to lick the spoon.

Then, as the wheels brought me closer, I could feel my stomach tighten, that breakfast threatening to make a quick exit. I wondered if I dared to chance a toke. No, I'd smell funny. Bad enough I'd again hidden what was left in the lining of my jacket.

I slowed to a crawl, but as I neared the turn-off, my foot pressed down on the accelerator as though it had a mind of its own. As I drove up the driveway and turned, the house came into view.

Everything looked the same. Well, almost. I laughed to myself as I saw the pickup that stood almost sideways in the door of the garage. Sis never could park that truck right. Tied to the front wheel was her old dog.

Sis' love of that animal had always been a mystery to me. All he'd ever done was whine and scratch at the door, eat, then retreat under her bed to sleep, snore and fart.

At last I was home.

The curtains were drawn, the dog barely looked at me—it was too quiet.

I gave the horn a tentative honk with no response. Worried, I gave a couple of real sharp toots. I saw the curtains move and a face peer out.

I stepped out of the car.

Then the front door flung open hard enough to crack the hinges, followed by a wild shriek, “Ma, Ma. It's Stevie.”

Then it was a race to see who could get to whom first, a tangle of arms, sobs and laughter.

Ma's crumpled face pressed into my chest. I could feel the wet through my tee shirt.

“Son, son. What happened to you?”

Brushing away the tears from her face with fingers that shook almost as badly as my knees, I said, “It's a long story, Ma.”

Then they were pulling me in. Sis kicked the door shut and, with hands on her hips, demanded, “Where in hell have you been?”

“Not now, Sis,” Ma said. “Put the coffee on and I'll bring out the birthday cake.”

Tears streaming, Sis crowded me into a chair, waving the coffee pot and shooting questions with the speed of a machine gun—despite Ma's admonition.

Ma came out of the pantry to place the cake with eighteen blue candles on the worn chrome table.

I glanced around quickly to see if there was any sign of this man I both feared and hated. “Where's what's-his-name?” I ventured.

There was a silence as Ma sliced into the cake. The sweet aroma almost made me drool. Sis handed me a fork as Ma pushed a plate toward me heavy with a huge piece of cake and said, “Son, this cake is three days old. You're late.” She added, almost as an afterthought, “Oh, he isn't here anymore.”

“I shot the son of a bitch,” Sis said.

Ma added, “I buried the gun in the garden. We've been digging potatoes so the ground's all tore up anyway—just in case anybody ever asked about it.”

My fork clattered to the floor. Nobody moved to pick it up.

I nearly choked. “Oh my God, Ma.”

I leaned back; my eyes rolled upward and fastened on three flattened cardboard box tops taped to the ceiling. I stared mesmerized at the fine dust as it sifted down through the cracks and jagged edges of the exposed lath and plaster. One box top read “Rio-Visa Peaches.”

Dumbfounded, almost speechless, I could only point.

Ma said, “Oh, that's just when the wind gets under a corner. I didn't get it taped very well. Probably a few dents in the roof, too, plus I found a couple of shingles in the yard.

“Sure had a hard time with the blood on the floor. Sis poured a couple of gallons of bleach on it and ruined the linoleum.”

I looked down to see about half the floor splotched white.

“Yes, Sis shot that son of a bitch,” Ma said, “but her aim was off.”

That information wasn't half as shocking as the sound of my Ma using that kind of language. My Ma, a Sunday school teacher and a stickler for proper English, had never even uttered a “gee whiz” or a “gosh darn.” Sis and I had our mouths washed out with soap more than a few times.

“He went down and lay there—bled like a stuck hog. And I kicked the shit out of him.” Ma laughed, leaned over, and started to pull the candles out of the cake.

I finally found my voice and croaked, “Sis, did you really, truly shoot him?”

“She sure did,” Ma said with pride in her voice. “Only I was going to say I did it. Sis, you never did make the coffee—I'll do it. Tell Stevie.”

“Okay, Ma,” Sis said. “Last Sunday we were dressed for church and just walking out the door when he got up, bleary-eyed, hair hanging in his face, and put his pants on. Like always,” Sis began.

“He blustered to Ma, ‘Where's my breakfast? You're not goin' any place till I've had my breakfast.' ”

“Ma said, kinda easy, trying not to make him mad, ‘That will make me late. I can't keep my class waiting. There's cereal, eggs…' Then he slapped her, knocked her back on a chair. Then he said to me, ‘You damn well better get to cookin' my breakfast before I lose my temper.'

“I said, ‘Sure, I'll do it. Let me get my apron.' I stepped back into the bedroom. Ma just sat there real quiet, holding her Bible, her hat all crooked.”

Ma interrupted. “Yeah, I knew in my heart she was going for the gun.”

Sis continued, “He was walking toward Ma, talking ugly, when I stood in the doorway holding Dad's shotgun. Ma told me, looking right past him, ‘Go ahead, Sis, shoot the son of a bitch.'

“He turned his head and when he saw the gun he started to beg. ‘Please, honey, Sis, put that gun down. Put it down—it's loaded.'

“I said, ‘Of course it's loaded. I'm going to kill you for slapping Ma around, always making her late for church, running Stevie off. You've broken her heart; you've made our life hell. No matter what happens, life will be better.'

“Now the tears are flowing and he's pleading, ‘Honey, please, I'll never do it again.'

“ ‘I know you won't, you bastard—not where you're going.'

“I put the heavy gun to my shoulder and brought it up. He's shaking till I thought he was going to fall. I spread my feet like you've showed me, Stevie, my finger on the trigger. Then that damn old dog staggered out from under my bed to chase the cat and knocked me off balance. My finger just tightened on the trigger and there was a terrible boom—I was almost deaf for three days—and he fell on his face. Blood flew everywhere. I thought I was going to faint. I never saw a dead man before.

“The air was thick with the smell of gunpowder and blood splattered way up to the ceiling, where I saw a big hole with lath sticking out. Plaster was falling everywhere.

“Ma said, ‘That was real good shooting, Sis,' took off her hat, and laid it with her Bible on the table. She stepped over the blood and plaster and gave him a good hard kick in the ass. She said, ‘What are we gonna do with him, do you s'pose?'

“I said, kinda dazed, ‘Ma, you're gonna be late for class,' and leaned the gun up against the wall.

“Ma looked kinda funny and said, ‘I guess I'm not a Christian anymore—no need to hurry now.' Then she walked back and gave him another kick.

“That's when he sat up. I screamed, ‘Ma, he's been resurrected,' and fell back against the wall.

“ ‘Oh, shit,' Ma said. ‘He isn't dead after all. You were standing too far away, I guess.'

“ ‘You damn near blowed my arm off and my head, too. I'm blind—can't see a thing,' he blubbered. It was the truth—his face was covered with blood and there was a big hole in his upper arm. Blood was running down his naked belly.

“Ma got some towels, wrapped one around his arm real tight and with another, wiped his face, none too gently, and discovered he wasn't blind. A four-inch flap of hair and scalp hung over his ear. She sent me for an old bedsheet with yellow flowers on it, and we tore it into strips and wound it around his head and arm till he looked like a mummy. She stepped back and I snickered when she said, ‘I think he looks kinda cute in yellow—don't you?'

“He crawled to a chair and I helped him up.

“ ‘Just a little head bump,' Ma said.

“ ‘Yeah, one inch to the right and that little bump would have been in my brain.' The tears made streaks down his face.

“Ma said, ‘Head wounds always bleed a lot—not life-threatening. And that's only a flesh wound in your arm. You'll live. Too damn bad.' Her tone of voice chilled me.

“She started to clean up the mess—all the plaster and blood, but I sank down in a chair, too weak to stand anymore.

“ ‘You two crazy women.' He pointed his good arm at Ma. ‘You took a butcher knife to me and now Sis has tried to blow my head off.'

“He dabbed at himself with a towel. Ma planted herself in front of him, looking him dead in the eye. ‘Too bad Sis missed. I won't—if there is a next time. Now I'm going to clean you up, pack a few things, call a cab and you can go to the hospital and get stitched up. Cause any trouble with the police and one of us will find you. You were cleaning your gun. Accidents happen—understand me?

“ ‘You are two crazy women,' he repeated. ‘I want out of here. Don't forget my shaving gear.'

“ ‘Before you go,' Ma said, ‘I want you to repeat after me in your own refined language that we've been subjected to all these years.

“ ‘I am a foul-mouthed bully and a piss-poor lay.'

“He hesitated and fussed with his bandages. Ma picked up the gun.

“ ‘I am a foul-mouthed bully and a piss-poor lay,' he sniveled.

“ ‘I didn't hear a word, Ma.'

“She nudged him with the gun.

“ ‘I am a foul-mouthed bully and a piss-poor lay.'

“ ‘I must be going deaf, Ma. I didn't hear a thing.'

“My hearing improved after he confessed two more times.

“Ma picked up the phone and called a cab.

“We sat there—he was still blubbering snot and tears. Ma was quiet, her face crinkled up like she was deep in thought. Then she looked over at me and said with a devilish smile, ‘What did he say, Sis? I can't remember.'

“He spoke right up. ‘I'm a foul-mouthed bully…'

“But the rest was lost as he crawled into the cab.”

W
e talked far into the night. My mind was flooded with questions, as were theirs. I told them only that I had worked on a sheep ranch with some rough characters and that the work was hard. It hadn't been easy for me to dig a hole deep enough in my psyche to bury those horrible experiences and, even if I had wanted to confide, I wasn't too sure about Ma's state of mind.

I concentrated on the hippie scene in the Haight-Ashbury. Sis was fascinated, asked about a hundred questions. So the ranch episode was put to rest.

But thoughts of Juan and Lupe were never far away—both had saved my life and Lupe had served in her way a need I'd never known before. My feelings for Juan were rooted deep, far deeper than gratitude; although we were not of the same blood, I felt he was my brother and I loved him as such. Instinctively, I knew he would always be part of my life, somehow, some way.

I knew I had returned to my world when I pulled the covers over myself in the bed I had slept in for so many years. My diploma hung on the wall beside my class picture, and the valedictorian speech I was not allowed to give was framed on the dresser. My clothes were still there and the third drawer still stuck.

I pulled the chain on the bedside lamp, the dark became my own, and a great peace warmed over me.

I slept late the next morning, woke slowly to the smell of something that drifted through the open window.

I'd always hated the harsh odor of Clorox, which I now identified as my eyes watered. I groped my way to the window and, as I closed it, my bleary eyes caught sight of the jacket on the clothesline. “Please, Ma,” I screamed, “not my jacket.” My jacket was pinned upside down, swinging gently with the breeze.

My knees made their own choice. Horrified, I sank back on the bed.

I staggered out and followed the sound of the thud, thud, thud that the old machine was coughing up.

“Ma,” I yelled. “What in hell have you done to my jacket?”

The lid was up and Ma was peering inside, fishing out bits of plastic and green stuff.

“What the hell have you done to your good jacket? I've run it through three cycles, soaked it in Clorox and I can still smell it. Now the damn washer won't drain—all that green stuff has got it plugged up.”