My shoulders drew up as I muttered, “You sure they aren’t in your pocket?”
“No! They aren’t in my goddamn pocket ‘cause I gave them to you! You think I’m stupid or something?” He threw his hands up in frustration. His face was growing redder by the minute, and that vein in his neck was now pulsing. I knew what that meant. He was spiraling into a fit of rage, and there was nothing I could do to stop it. “And now you’ve gone and lost them! Stupid, worthless motherfucker!”
By now, everyone at the cookout was staring at us, but no one said a word. They all just stood there, watching silently as I muttered, “I promise I didn’t lose them, Dad. I gave them back to you. I swear it.”
“I know damn, fucking well you didn’t, and don’t you say that shit again!” His chest was heaving with each breath, and his eyes were wide with rage. My eyes drifted to his nose, and panic started to set as I watched his nostrils flare in and out like an angry bull. I’d seen that expression enough times to know he was on the brink. He was about to lose control, and I could only stand there and watch as it happened. He reached out and grabbed my shirt collar, twisting it into his fist as he leaned down and growled, “Your sorry ass lost my fucking keys, and now, your sorry ass is gonna find them! You got that?”
“Yes, sir.”
As soon as he released me, I ran back to where he’d been sitting and searched high and low for his keys. Michael and Jake, two of my first cousins, felt bad for me and tried to help me. Unfortunately, it didn’t take long for them to chicken out on me. Michael glanced over at my dad as he whispered, “Hey, man. We gotta go. Um...It’s time for the show.”
“Oh, okay.”
“You’ll find them.” He motioned his hand towards the grill. “Check over by the picnic tables. Maybe they’re over there.”
“I’ll check.”
My heart sank as I watched Jake and Michael join their families and load up in their cars. It wasn’t long before they all backed out of the driveway and left me and Madden to fend for ourselves. I got why they’d want to steer clear. My dad was being an asshole, but damn, I was just nine years old. You would’ve thought one of them would’ve said something to him, tried to get him to calm down and get him off my back, but no one said a thing. They simply drove away and never looked back.
There was still no sign of his keys, and I could tell by looking at him Dad was getting madder by the minute. I didn’t know what to do. Madden and I had already checked all the places I could think of, but they were nowhere to be found. I could literally feel the anger radiating off him from twenty feet away.
“You’re a goddamn idiot—just like your fucking mother.” I’d heard my father’s rants plenty of times. I knew he was angry and trying his best to hurt me. That’s what he always did. Not only did he scare us all, but he wanted to break us and make us feel as shitty as he felt. I tried not to listen as he barked, “Don’t know why I even bother trying with you. All you ever do is disappoint time and time again. If I could disown your sorry ass I would!”
His words stung. My father was often mean and callous, but he was still my father. Rational or not, I hated the thought of being a disappointment to him. I lowered my head and tried to hide the tears that were threatening to fall. That was a mistake. I’d shown a sign of weakness, and that was all it took for my father to lose his self-control. He charged over to me and grabbed hold of me. Before I realized what was happening, he had his arm wound around my neck in a choke hold, strangling me as he lifted my feet off the ground. Madden was too little to help. He could only stand there and watch as I clawed at his arm, trying with all my might to break free. It was no use. He was simply too strong. “Next time I give you something of mine, you best keep up with it. You got me?”
I didn’t get the chance to answer. Before I could respond, he reared his free hand back and formed it into a fist, slamming it into the side of my head—each blow harder than the last. I don’t know how many times he hit me before I finally lost all consciousness and fell limp in his arms.
When I awoke, I was in my father’s lap. He was cradling me like I was a fucking infant as he held a cold rag to my head. He was on the verge of tears as he mumbled, “I’m sorry, buddy. You gotta know I didn’t mean it. I just lost my temper.”
“Um-hmm.” My head was pounding. My chest felt like a hundred-pound weight was pressing down on me. I just wanted to lay there and pretend I was somewhere else. I wanted to pretend that my father hadn’t almost killed me, but that wasn’t an option. Dad would keep coddling me until he felt like he’d made amends, just like he did with Mom every time he hit her. I despised him. I wished he was dead, but he wasn’t. He was right there, living and breathing, waiting on me to come to. I forced my eyes open, and as I laid there trying to come to my senses, I spotted them. My father’s keys were sitting right there on top of his cooler. I lay there staring at them with disbelief. I had to know if my mind was just playing tricks on me, so I asked, “Those your keys?”
“Yeah...I found them in the cooler. They must’ve fallen inside when I was getting a beer.”
“Oh,” was all I could muster as a reply. I was too dazed, too angry to say anything more. I sat up and took in a deep breath. That’s when I finally noticed Madden. He was white as ghost as he stood there staring back at me. “You okay?”
“Um-hmm. Are you?”
“Yeah, I’m okay.”
Dad stood up as he asked, “You boys wanna go watch the fireworks?”
“I’d rather just go on home.”
“Alright. Whatever you want, bud.”
He grabbed our things, and as soon as he had everything loaded, we all got in his truck. On the way home, I thought about everything that had taken place. Up until that night, my father had never been like that with me. Sure, he’d yelled and made me feel like shit, and even belt whipped me whenever he thought I got out of line, but he’d never actually punched me or strangled me like he had today. He’d always saved all that kind of brutality for my mother.
That all changed after the cookout. I was no longer just a bystander. I had gotten older, bigger in my father’s eyes—big enough to face the wrath of his quick temper. Leaving a wet towel on the floor could result in a busted lip or a mild concussion, being late to dinner could leave me with a black eye or a broken rib or two, and no matter how trivial, backtalking in any way could leave me incapacitated for days. Hell, even looking at the guy the wrong way could cause him to release his madness. I’d hoped he would leave him be, but Madden got his own fair share of my father’s attention. After each attack, the guilt would get to him, and he’d ease up a bit. But it never lasted long. My father wasn’t a happy man, and he took it out on the people he was supposed to love the most.
This was my life. I walked a fine line. If I fucked up, I paid the price. Even when I didn’t fuck up, I paid the price. It was a vicious cycle that was only compounded by the fact that everyone knew what was going on. We lived in a small town. We all knew each other by name. They saw the bruises, the bandages, and broken limbs, but instead of feeling sorry for me or trying to help, they’d simply ignore it, pretending they hadn’t seen anything, or look at us with utter disgust, thinking we’d gotten what we’d deserved. Over time, people just quit looking altogether. It was like they saw right through us, treating us like some kind of reject or scab on their perfect little town. The bruises hurt, the busted lips stung, and the broken bones were almost crippling, but the pain they caused was nothing compared to the pain of feeling so utterly alone—so fucking helpless. I hated that fucking feeling. I hated it almost as much as I hated my ol’ man.