Broken (3 page)

Once inside his car, Walter wiped the rain from his face and ran his fingers through his wet hair. He had worked all day and so he was hungry. But he had to leave the house and Sarah’s infuriating questions. He turned the ignition key. There was no way to control his anger—no way except to drown it in bourbon.

The windshield wipers smeared grime into black semi-circles and even with the headlights on, he strained to see the road clearly. Months of street ash and mill soot made Warrenvale indecently filthy. A polluted black puddle at the bottom of the hill glittered as it reflected the street light. Walter lit a cigarette and leaned back in his seat until he reached Tavern Row. The sewers were backed up. When he stopped the car, it was up to the hubcaps in sludge. 

A red Ford truck was parked in front of Mickey’s Pub. It looked like his brother Nick’s truck. Walter drummed his stumpy fingers on the steering wheel. Nick lived in Pittsburgh. So, what was he doing in Warrenvale?

Nick was ten years old when Walter was born. As Walter grew older it became obvious that Nick had bought into his father’s twisted reasoning. He really believed that his younger brother’s birth had killed his mother.

Walter was barely walking when he knew instinctively that out of four older siblings, three boys and a girl, Nick was his father’s favorite. When Walter was six, Nick stole money from his father’s wallet. He blamed it on Walter. “I saw him do it. Look in his pocket.”

His father had reached into Walter’s pocket and pulled out three crunched up dollar bills.

“I didn’t take it!”

“You lyin’ little son-of-a-bitch! I’ll teach you to steal!”

Sixteen-year-old Nick gloated in the background.

Walter’s eighteen-year-old sister, Mary, rushed into the room. “Daddy! Stop! He didn’t do it. He was with me all morning. We cleaned out the basement. Honest, Daddy. He didn’t take that money.”

Walter thought his little arm was being pulled from its socket when his father dragged him through the house. “So you cleaned the basement, huh? Well live in it!”

By the time young Walter hit the dirt floor at the bottom of the basement steps, he was unconscious. In what seemed like only a second, he awakened terrified. He crawled into a dark corner near the coal bin. The next day, when his father was at work, Mary dared to bring him upstairs. She tried to comfort him. He wouldn’t talk. For two days he vomited most of his food.

Looking again at the red truck, he thought that maybe he should go to another pub. He put his hand on the ignition key, but didn’t turn it. Instead, he opened the car door, stepped into black muck up to his shoelaces and went into Mickey's Pub. If his brother was looking for trouble, Walter was ready. The last time they had seen each other, at least six years ago, a few punches were thrown. Nick, had backed off so Walter quit swinging and just laughed at him. Walter no longer feared Nick. And after what just went on at home, he was more than ready for a good fight.

Walter entered the pub immediately spotting not one but two of his brothers seated at the far end of the bar, each with a mug of draft beer. Andy was five years older than Nick, with a bald head and huge gray mustache. Walter had no quarrel with Andy. However, Mickey’s Pub was Walter’s territory and he felt invaded.

“What’re you doin’ here?” Walter asked.

“Lookin’ for you,” said Nick who was now permanently bronze from years in a Pittsburgh foundry and had wrinkles so deep it looked like cats had attacked him. Nick’s blue work shirt seemed several sizes too big.

Walter wanted to ask him if he had been sick. Instead, he asked, “So why not call?”

Andy ran a finger over his sweaty beer mug. “We don’t have your number.”

Walter slid onto a barstool next to Nick. The bartender poured a double Jim Beam. Walter drank the shot in one swallow. “Are you gonna tell me why you’re here?” Walter’s brothers exchanged glances. “Come on! Don’t waste my time.”

Andy spoke. “Mary’s dead.”

“What?”

“Mary’s dead.”

Walter raised a second shot to his lips as the room shifted out of focus. No. Not my sister. Not Mary. Mary—the only one in the family to ever show him any kindness. Mary, who smelled so good, like Sweetheart Soap. “Don’t pay attention to Dad,” she would tell him. “He doesn’t really hate you. He just misses Mom.”

According to Mary, if their father hadn’t been such a stupid, cheap bastard, if he had taken his wife to the hospital instead of leaving her to bleed to death on the bed, she might have lived.

Walter had not seen his sister Mary since his first wife died.

He downed the second shot. A stream of heat traveled down his chest as the room went back into focus. “What are you telling me?”

“Mary had cancer,” said Nick. “She died last week.”

Walter felt the pulsating veins in his forehead. “Last week?” He jumped from the barstool. “What d’ ya mean last week?”

“Settle down,” said Andy.

“Settle down? Settle down? You come in here tellin’ me my sister died last week. Where the fuck was you last week? Why didn’t you come down last week? I didn’t even know she was sick!”

Nick took a sip of beer. “Would you have cared?” 

Walter lunged at Nick, knocking him off the stool then pinned his scrawny body to the floor. Someone pulled at Walter’s jacket. Others grabbed his arms. Walter was breathless by the time three mammoth steelworkers pulled him off his brother. Andy told the men to take Nick out to the truck and make sure he stayed there. Walter slid back onto his barstool to catch his breath.

Andy put his arm around Walter’s shoulder. “We wanted to tell you sooner. There was so much confusion and we weren’t even sure where you lived.”

Walter looked across the bar, past the liquor bottles and into the foggy mirror. He should have been there for his sister. He should have called her. Why hadn’t she called him? Memories flooded his mind like film clips. Mary holding him when he cried. Mary taking his side when everyone was against him. Mary—the gentle one in a family of brutes. Why? Why had he cut himself off from the family? From his sister? From Mary?

Andy had been talking but Walter wasn’t listening.

“. . . and all the neighbors were there. So many flowers! Mary would have loved all those flowers...”

“Flowers?”

“At the funeral.”

“Oh. Mary’s funeral,” Walter said casually. He looked at his empty whiskey glass, past the bottles and into the mirror again. His mind was now closed down, as though he had just received a shot of anesthetic. “Oh, yeah. Mary’s funeral,” he mumbled. The bartender poured him another shot. He took his eyes off the mirror just long enough to toss it down his throat. “Thanks for coming all the way from Pittsburgh,” he said. “I appreciate it.”

A few moments later Walter turned to say something to Andy. The barstool beside him was empty.

*     *     *

Sarah waited until Walter’s car was out of sight then she hurried to the back door. Stanley was not on the porch. Ducking her head against the rain, she ran across the yard to Olga’s, quickly letting herself in.

In the tidy yellow kitchen, a big pot of ham and cabbage simmered on the stove, sending its pungent aroma throughout the house. As Sarah wiped the rain from her face, Olga looked up from the counter where she was shaping dark brown dough into bread. Stanley, his wet cutouts spread over the kitchen table to dry, was drinking hot chocolate and eating a cookie.

“Thank you for taking him in,” said Sarah. “I hope he wasn’t a problem.”

Olga covered the dough with a clean white cloth and placed it beside the warm stove. “The boy is not the problem,” she said. “Who puts him out in the rain is the problem.”

With hands dusty with flour, Olga guided Sarah into the living room. Peter Nikovich, a brawny man with a huge, black handlebar mustache and thick half-glasses sat in his easy chair with the Russian newspaper, Izvestia, on his lap.

“Go sit with the boy,” Olga ordered.

Newspaper in hand, Peter marched to the kitchen.

As soon as the women were alone, Sarah explained in a whisper: “There was nothing I could do.”

“You should stop you husband. A mother is supposed to stand up for her children.”

“But Stanley’s not my...”

“No different. You the mama now.”

Sarah sat down on the overstuffed sofa and ran her fingers over the handmade doily covering the arm. “You don’t understand. Walter’s had a hard life.”

“You tell me one person who works in that mill who don’t have a hard life.”

“But Walter’s mother...”

Olga stood over Sarah with her hands on her hips. “I don’t want to hear about no mothers. You make it your business Walter don’t hurt that boy. And little Annie too!”

Together the women heard a loud sizzle and hiss. Olga exclaimed, “Da cabbage!”

Sarah followed Olga back to the kitchen. While Olga adjusted the flame under the cabbage pot, Sarah took Stanley by the hand, led him out the door, and went home.

Walter did not come home for supper. Sarah washed the dishes, wiped them, and put them away. She then went into the living room to watch television. Anna Mae was on the floor near the couch cuddling her doll. Stanley was upstairs with his cutouts. Sarah heard a car out front. She hurried to the door.

It was dark when Walter struggled out of the driver’s seat, unaware of the substantial space between his car and the curb. Once out, he slammed the door. He stumbled on the curb but didn’t fall. After a few more steps, his feet seemed to tangle. He landed hard in the middle of the wet sidewalk. His left knee stung and he pulled aside the ripped pant-leg, revealing blood mixed with cinders. Again on his feet, he reached for the handrail and climbed up onto the porch. He took out his house key. His body swayed. He could not put the key into the lock.

He pounded on the door. It opened. He lurched forward into the hall. Sarah tried to catch him but he landed in a heap at her feet. His eyes adjusted to the dim light as he waited for the hallway to stop spinning.

Sarah knelt beside him. “What happened, Walter? You’re a mess.”

“My sh-sh-shister died.”

“Mary? Mary died?”

Bracing himself on the banister, Walter struggled to his feet. “My brothers—Nick—Andy. They were at the bar. Mary had...” The word ‘cancer’ stuck in his throat.

“Oh, Walter. I’m so sorry.”

“Sorry shit!” He lunged at her. “You knew, didn’t you?!”

The blow to her face was off-center but he had swung hard enough to knock her off balance. If she hadn’t backed into the banister, she would have fallen.

*     *     *

Stanley gathered his boxing pictures then sat near his bedroom door listening. His father was yelling. His words were slurred.

“Sorry shit! You knew, didn’t you?”

He should never have cut his dad’s magazines. It was all his fault. He wanted to go down and tell his dad he was sorry. But he was afraid.

“How come that bastard’s up?” his father bellowed.

Stanley looked across the room. Anna Mae was not in her bed.

“It’s early, Walter,” Sarah explained.

Alarmed, Stanley realized that his three-year-old cousin was still downstairs. His heart pounded. There was nothing he could do to help her. The voices grew muffled. Were they in the living room? He heard a scuffle. Someone ran through the house. The back door slammed shut. His father yelled, “Go ahead! Run away bitch!”

Stanley picked up a handful of scraps. Good! Sarah probably took little Anna Mae next door to Mrs. Nikovich’s. She would be safe there. His fear turned into anger and he found a target in the things he believed had caused all the trouble. “Take that!” He ripped Rocky Marciano in half. “And that! And that! And that!” When he threw the last piece down, he was sitting in a pile of shredded paper.

Walter was yelling again. “We ain’t never gonna’ be rid of you!” Who was he talking to? Anna Mae? Did Sarah forget Anna Mae? Stanley could never understand why his father hated her so much. What did she ever do to him? He didn’t want to believe his father would hurt little Anna Mae.

He went to the top of the stairs then crept down a few steps so he could see into the living room. His father was standing over Anna Mae. She was sitting, motionless, holding her doll.

“Get the hell out of here!”

Anna Mae looked terrified. Why didn’t she run away? She looked up at her uncle. Her eyes were so big. There was something strange about her expression. His father grabbed her doll and threw it into the dining doom. Anna Mae cried out. “Susie!”

“I said, get out!”

Stanley watched in horror as his father reached down for the little girl. When Anna Mae screamed, Stanley ran back up the steps, scurried across the room then dived under his bed.

*     *     *

When Sarah had fled from Walter, she had gone next door to Olga’s house. She came home an hour later. Her husband lay passed out on the couch. The angry lines in his face had softened. For the first time she noticed his torn pant leg, the scraped knee. She also saw traces of the innocent boy beneath the harsh exterior he had acquired over the years.

Confident that nothing could wake him now, she picked up the receiving blanket at the foot of the couch. Walter grunted. She watched as he struggled to turn over and face the back of the couch. His breathing was slow and even once more.

She righted a lamp and looked around for its shade. There it was, in the shadows of the dining room. She shoved Walter’s favorite chair back into place then went to get the shade. Her anguish, her shame was now pushed to the back of her mind. You just do what you have to do to survive.

She stepped on something soft. “Oh my God!” Trembling, she picked up the doll. Its little nightie was pulled off at one shoulder. Its face was cracked.

“Anna Mae,” she whispered.

In her panic to get away from Walter, she had forgotten that Anna Mae was in the living room. Fear and guilt turned like a brick in the pit of her stomach as she ran up the steps to the second floor. The light in the hallway shone dimly into the children’s bedroom. Stepping over the pile of scraps, she went to Anna Mae’s bedside. Under the covers and curled in a fetal position, Anna Mae faced the wall, her short blond hair a mass of tangles. Sarah placed the doll beside the sleeping child.

Anna Mae stirred. She reached out, touched the doll, gathered it into her arms, and sat up. “Auntie Sarah, you found Susie!”

Sarah sat on the bed. “Are you okay?”

“Susie has a boo-boo.” Anna Mae ran her finger down the crack in the doll’s cheek.

“I know,” said Sarah. “But are you okay, Sweetie?”

Her lower lip quivered. She pulled the nightie over the doll’s shoulder. “My Susie is crying. Poor little Susie.”

Sarah drew back the covers. Anna Mae was still in her play clothes. Her shirt was torn and she wore only one shoe. There were big, ugly red marks on Anna Mae’s arms. A small cut on her scalp had bled into the little girl’s hair.

Anna Mae pointed across the room. “Lookie, Auntie Sarah! Stanley’s sleeping under the bed.”

Sarah saw one foot sticking out. She got down on her knees. He seemed to be sleeping so she shook him. Unable to get a response, she took hold of both feet and tried to pull him out. In reflex he kicked her away. Deciding to leave Stanley where he was, Sarah got up and resumed her seat on Anna Mae’s bed.

With her tiny finger, Anna Mae touched Sarah’s face and Sarah flinched.

“My Auntie has boo-boos!”

“I’m okay.” She stroked Anna Mae’s tangled hair. “What about you? Oh God. Look what he did to you!”

Anna Mae appeared puzzled.

Sarah touched the bruises on the little arms. “I’m so sorry he hurt you.”

“Uncle Walter didn’t hurt me! Only Susie.”

Sarah pushed back the intense guilt of leaving this baby alone with her drunk and enraged husband.

“Why Auntie sad?”

Sarah was confused. Didn’t the child remember?

“Auntie Sarah?”

“What, Baby?”

“Uncle made a booboo on your face.”

Sarah had all but forgotten Walter’s blow that had sent her hurtling into the banister. She touched the side of her face. It was sore. But why was her little niece so concerned? Wasn’t she upset about her own injuries? “Don’t worry, Sweetie,” Sarah said. “It was an accident.” 

Anna Mae, clutching Susie to her chest, lay back down. Sad as it was, the child would be okay. Sarah pulled the blankets up and around her little niece. She leaned over and kissed her. “Go back to sleep.”

Later, in the kitchen, Sarah’s hand trembled as she measured coffee into the percolator basket. Why? For what reason? Why would Anna Mae deny anything had happened? It was obvious that Walter had hit her. Yet Anna Mae insisted he hadn’t. How could that little girl be so unaware of her injuries?

Sarah sat up all night nursing one cup of coffee after another. The red mark around her left eye gradually became black and blue as the window above the sink grew lighter. At five-thirty she called the mill and told the foreman that Walter wouldn’t be at work because his sister had died. She replaced the receiver and dropped her head in her hands. “God help us