Nothing of Abuse

The story I wrote for the final in my fiction writing class, back in my english major days.

David used the hallway plug and started at the far end of the room. He worked his way

backwards, to the door. This way the carpet retained all the vacuum lines, and, should Dad

decide to question him, the evidence would be indisputable. Yes. He had vacuumed.

He stopped at the window, though. Kept the vacuum turned on and pushed it forward and

back in place. As far as a distant listener, such as Dad, was concerned, David was still

vacuuming. He looked out. The hot asphalt street. The cars in the driveway. The neighbor's

house. The tree in the yard. The big sky. Nothing in particular. Everything. He looked for as long

as felt safe, then a little longer. He longed to look forever, but Dad would notice if he took too

long vacuuming.

David could hear Paul and his friend Sam playing guitar downstairs. David had known

about the potential plans �"Paul had dared to look forward to them for a couple of weeks now�",

but David was surprised Dad had actually let Sam come over. It was a good day for Paul.

"Get out of my house. Right now." Dad screamed, pointing to the door, as David walked

down the stairs with the vacuum.

"What?!" Sam asked.

"You heard me." Dad was furious. David stopped on the stairs.

Sam turned to Paul. Paul turned to Dad.

"Dad, he told you, he didn't bang your car! That mark has been there for days!" Paul said.

"Bullshit. I saw him do it."

“No you didn’t!”

Dad held eye contact with Paul for a moment. “This doesn’t involve you,” he broke the

eye contact and continued to Sam, “I gave you a chance to tell the truth, but you didn’t, and I

don’t let liars in my household. Get the hell out.”

Sam sat for a moment, apparently bewildered. It was quiet in the room. Finally, he turned

to Paul, “Ok, well I’ll see you Monday, man.” And he moved to put his guitar away.

"Yeah man. Sorry." Paul said.

Dad left the room for the kitchen.

David remembered he was on the stairs, and continued walking down them.

"Paul, I don't want you playing guitar anymore." Dad said a few minutes later as he

poured himself a drink.

"What?!”

"It's going to turn you into a liar like Sam, and I'm not letting that happen." Dad looked at

Paul calmly. Paul was sitting across the table from David.

"Dad! He didn't freaking bang your car!”

"Bullshit.”

"That mark has been there for days!" Paul said.

"This is over.” Dad took the first sip of his new drink. “Go get rid of your guitar and mop

up the kitchen. You’re doing chores for the rest of the day.”

“Dad!”

“Go!”

Paul was quiet.

“Go now or I’ll get rid of your guitar for you.” Dad said, lifting his shirt to show the

holster around his waist. It was empty at the moment, but Paul understood.

"Yes sir."

Paul made eye contact with David across the table. Brothers. Twins. He stood up and

went to grab the mop.

Dad sat where Paul had been.

"Sam banged my car with his car door, and then he lied about it, that's why he had to go."

"Yes sir."

"We don't have liars in this household." Dad sipped his whiskey. David wondered how

long it would be until the bottle was empty. Not long.

"Yes sir."

"If he’d told me the truth, he wouldn’t’ve been in trouble. Like I always tell you: as long

as you tell the truth, you'll never be in trouble."

"Yes sir." David’s thighs were still bruised from the last time he'd told the truth, though.

Dad stayed at the table a few minutes, quietly watching David. The table was on the west

side of the house, and in the bay of a bay window. It was absolutely happy with afternoon sun.

"I'm going to go get that mark on my door fixed." Dad said, "Get your homework done

and you can watch TV."

"Yes sir." David said, "Thank you."

"Don't let Paul watch with you though."

"Yes sir."

The next morning, David opened his eyes sleepily. He looked at his hand, beside his head on

the pillow. He ran his fingers gently over the pillowcase, distinctly aware of the sensation in his

fingertips, and smiled. It was early, and he knew he had at least half an hour before Dad called

him downstairs. David looked past his hand and at the clock. It was 8:07. He looked past Paul’s

bed and out the window. He couldn't see very much, being across the room from it and lying in

bed, but he could see the sky. It was vast. And gray.

It was 9:07 in Georgia. He'd still be sleeping if he were there. Mom would be up though.

She'd be working in her garden, her hair tied back, kneeling on the dirt. That, or writing in her

journal. Something to distract her from herself, but David doubted that the sky was as gray there.

Paul stirred in bed and turned towards the window.

"Paul?"

"Yeah, I'm awake."

"Ok." David said softly.

It was quiet for a little while.

"Do you think Mom is working in her garden?" Paul asked.

"That or writing in her journal."

"Oh yeah." And after a moment, Paul asked, "Do you think the sky there is as gray as it is

here?"

"There's no way." David said, and both of them lay there for a while.

After a while David spoke up again, "You think Dad's home? He should have called us downstairs

by now."

"Let me check." Paul got out of bed to check the driveway for Dad’s car. "Oh dude, he's

not!"

"Nice!” David said.

Paul ran to the closet and pulled his guitar case out from behind some clothes.

“Dad’ll find that before too long man, you better find a better hiding place.”

“Yeah, I know… I’m working on it.” Paul said quickly.

David stayed in bed, listening to Paul play guitar for as long as felt safe. He needed to

make sure Dad wouldn’t be mad when he got home.

David made his bed and showered: ten minutes because Dad wasn’t there to keep him to

five. He went downstairs, ate some raisin bran. Washed his bowl, dried it, put it away. Windexed

the counter. Then he got out the vacuum and plugged it in, in the dining room. He moved one of

the dining chairs off the rug, and went upstairs. David would be in the middle of moving chairs

to vacuum when Dad got home, and have just gone upstairs to use his bathroom. That would

make Dad happy.

“Paul!” David heard Dad yell from downstairs about half an hour later, but Paul didn’t

hear over his guitar.

“Paul!” Dad yelled again. And David tried to get Paul’s attention.

“Paul!!” This time Dad yelled from the stairs on his way up. David tried to get out of the

room in time. He didn’t make it.

Dad stood in the doorway. Paul stopped playing abruptly. David forgot how to move. “I

thought I told you to get rid of that guitar,” Dad’s eyes were perfectly cold.

Paul avoided eye contact and muttered something. “Yes sir,” David knew he’d said.

“What did you say? I didn’t hear you.”

“Yes sir.” Paul spoke up, still looking away.

“You say I did tell you to get rid of that guitar? That’s what I thought.” Dad said.

Paul looked into Dad’s eyes.

“Now, I’ll give you one last chance. Get rid of that guitar, now, or I’ll get rid of it

myself.” Dad said, lifting his shirt. The holster wasn’t empty this time.

Paul didn’t move. He made eye contact with David, and he turned back to Dad after a

while. “How should I get rid of it, sir?”

“Drive it to the dumpster and throw it in. When you finish the chores though. You’re

doing all of them today.”

“Yes sir.”

“I’m trying to help you son.” Dad turned to go. “If you keep playing guitar, you’ll turn

into a liar like that Sam kid you invited over. You don’t want that, do you?”

“Yes sir.” Paul said.

Paul did all the chores that day, so David sat at the table in the bay window. He wanted to

watch TV, but the only one was in Dad’s bedroom. So David read. He read until he was tired of

reading, and then got bored of just sitting there, so he read some more. At 2:32, the afternoon

light started to cover the table, tracing the deep grain of the wood and drawing David’s attention

away from his book. It was 3:32 in Georgia. 3:32 on a Saturday. Mom would be out with her

boyfriend, or sleeping away the afternoon. David would be hanging out with friends if he were

there. Or maybe sitting on the back patio, enjoying the sun. If nothing else, he would be reading,

but would be content to do so. It wasn’t 3:32 though, it 2:32. He was in Texas. And he was

reading because he wasn’t allowed to do anything else.

“David!” Dad called from across the house the next day.

“Yes sir?” David called back, walking quickly to Dad.

“Did you vacuum in here today?” Dad was in his bathroom. He sipped down the last of a

whiskey and put the empty glass beside the sink.

“Yes sir, I did.”

“Why is there this crap on my floor then?” Dad pointed to some dirt in the grout between

the tiles.

“I don’t know.” David said.

“You don’t know?”

“Yes sir. It wasn’t there when I finished vacuuming.”

After what felt like a while Dad asked, “Why are you lying to me?”

“I’m not, sir.”

“I’m not stupid.” Dad said, looking into David’s eyes.

“I vacuumed in here today, sir. Ask Paul.” David said, scrambling.

“What? So you can bring him into your lie too, and then both of y’all have to get in

trouble?”

“No sir.” David said quickly, feeling distinctly like a rodent. He felt like he was running

around in the bathroom, over the little bit of dirt in the grout between the tiles, distinct against

the white shining floor he’d vacuumed earlier. He heard the quick little rodent steps in his head,

and was distinctly aware of his rodent impotency.

Dad was quiet for a moment. “I’m going to ask you again, and you tell me the truth. Did

you vacuum in here today?”

“Yes sir, I did.”

“I’m f*****g sick of your lies!! Go get the belt!”

“Sir- ”

“BELT!!”

“Yes sir.” David said, defeated, again. David walked from Dad’s bathroom into his

closet. He got the belt Dad always used from the third drawer down, where it always was.

“Bend over the bed.” Dad said, like he always did.

David bent over the bed and readied for the hits. His wallet would help, he thought, if

Dad didn’t hit his thighs again.

Dad belted David once. “I’m freaking sick…” He belted David again. “… Of your

freaking lies…” He belted David again, hitting an old bruise. “… And I’m freaking sick…” He

belted David again. “… Of your mind games.” He belted David again, and again, and again,

hitting an old bruise with every other swing.

“Just tell me … the goddamn … truth … and you’ll … never … get … in trouble.” Dad

yelled with 6 more hits.

Dad thought of this as a spanking.

David’s wallet hadn’t helped very much.

Dad closed the door behind David and locked it. “I don’t let liars in my household.” He

had said, “So you’re sleeping outside tonight.”

David looked down at the blanket Dad had given him. It was thin. No pillow.

He’d sleep in the yard. The neighbors might see him there, and they might tell someone.

He walked to the center of the grass, and sat down. He felt the grass with his hands. It

was itchy. He felt around for the softest place, but everywhere was just as hard. Finally, he lay

back on the ground, and was actually glad to be outside, away from Dad. It had been a long

evening.

“You’re a monster!” David remembered him saying at one point, “Not even worth the

dirt that you lied about vacuuming.”

Never get in trouble when we tell the truth, David thought, I wish. He laid on his back

and looked at the sky. There wasn’t a star to be seen. It must be cloudy.

I wonder what time it is. Ten? Eleven in Georgia. He rolled onto his side. Mom’s

definitely asleep, or maybe she’s lying awake. She said she never sleeps anymore that last time

we talked. She said to hang in there, too, that she would bring us home soon.

David heard a window opening upstairs, so he looked up. It was Paul opening their

bedroom window. David got up and walked to the house.

“Hey man.” Paul called down, “I waited until Dad was in the shower and stole our car

keys from the drawer where he keeps them. It’ll be warmer in the car.” Paul threw down the keys.

“Oh thanks man.” David caught the keys and made eye contact with Paul. Brothers.

Twins.

“Do you have a pillow?”

“Nah dude.”

“Here you go.” Paul threw down a pillow.

“Thanks.”

“Do you want a heavier blanket?”

“Yeah, that’d be awesome.”

“Yeah, I figured you would.” The blanket spread open as it fell, and covered a hedge

when it landed. “Are you going to be ok?” Paul asked.

“Yeah, I’ll be ok man. Thanks.” David replied.

“Ok, well goodnight then.”

“Goodnight.”

David walked over to his and Paul’s car. It was an old SUV, with a big backseat. It was

more comfortable than the yard. He turned on his side and curled up.

How are we going to get out of here? He asked himself before he fell asleep.

Dad walked out front to wake David up the next morning. David had moved to the yard when the

sun rose.

“Are you going to tell the truth today?” Dad asked.

“Yes sir.”

“Good. Now go get ready for school.”

Dad wasn’t home for most of afternoon when he and Paul got home from school. David

sat on the front porch, hoping a neighbor would approach him and ask why he’d slept outside. It

was a long afternoon.

When the sun went down, David went inside. Paul was playing guitar. David sat on his

bed, listening. He wondered how it felt to play guitar. Paul knew; he’d named his Annabelle.

Dad had been gone for a long time, and David hoped that he wasn’t coming back. He

played out the scenarios in his mind.

It was 9:30. 10:30 in Georgia. David would be in bed, probably on his laptop. Mom

would be in bed already. She would call across the house, like she did every night, “Happiness is

going to sleep. Goodnight.”

Goodnight Mom, David thought. And he played out the scenarios in his mind again, of

Dad not coming home.

Then, “Paul!!!!” Dad called from downstairs.

“Oh s**t dude!” David said.

“Here man.” Paul stood up, putting his guitar on his bed, “Help me block the door!”

“What?”

Paul rushed to their bedroom door. David stood up and joined him. They would have

locked the door, but Dad had removed the lock, so they stood there and physically held it against

Dad when he got upstairs.

“Open this goddamn door!” Dad yelled, his words slurred.

“No!” David surprising himself.

“What the f**k did you just say?!”

“We said No!” Paul made eye contact with David. Brothers. Twins. “We’re not opening

the door!”

Dad kicked the door. It was enough to knock Paul and David back, and Dad opened it

before they could regain their hold.

“What the f**k do you think you’re doing?” Dad reeked of whiskey.

“Saying no.”

“You really think that’s going to stop me?” Dad laughed. “That’s cute.”

Paul was quiet. David too. They stood together.

“Now what the f**k did I say about that guitar?!”

Paul was quiet, he stood his ground.

“I said to get rid of it or I’d get rid of it myself!” Dad pulled his pistol from its holster

and pushed Paul to the side.

David ran past Dad to Paul’s guitar and held it against his chest. “Shoot it and you shoot

me.”

Paul was bewildered. David had no idea what he was doing. He felt his chest beating

against the back of the guitar.

“Son.” Dad said. “You better know what you’re doing.” And he pointed the pistol at

David’s chest. “Because I’m going to shoot that guitar, one way or another. Now move.”

David stood there quietly, without anything to say. He blinked. His eyes were determined

and scared.

Dad couldn’t hold the pistol straight. He was too drunk. “Son. Drop the guitar.”

“No.” David looked at Paul.

These kids know nothing of abuse, Dad thought drunkenly, and he shot.

Reviews

[Marie]

This is a pretty good story but not enough payoff for the length.

[J.L. McGrael]

Yeah, I'm really more of a poet. Thanks though.