Tag Archives: domestic violence

The violence in apple pie

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We finish our meal and Mother takes all the empty plates off the table and replaces them with the little ones made especially for slices of apple pie.

I take my first bite. The crust is the perfect cover for the apples that melt like butter in my mouth. I eat every single bit of my piece. I even lick my pointer finger and use it like a fork just so I can pick up any stray crumbs.

Ike’s pie is still sitting there, untouched of course. Everybody knows Ike would just as soon be chewing on a piece of mesquite bark than to eat pie. He says he prefers to get his sugar from a whiskey bottle.

I stare at his piece and see that it’s bigger than mine was. The sweet apples ooze out the sides between the top and bottom crust. It’s calling me forward, challenging me to come and get it.

I slowly reach over and pull Ike’s pie in front of me. I stare down at it and wonder if Ike’s piece is gonna taste as good as my first.

Dad says nary a word when he reaches across the table and slowly pulls that slice of pie back over to Ike like we’re playing a game of checkers. I concentrate thinking that the next move is mine. I smile and slowly pull that pie towards me thinking I should be kinged.

The hard slap across my face surprises me and drives me halfway out of my chair.

What the hell just happened?

I stand up knocking my chair over, grab a knife off the table, and swing it under Dad’s chin, wanting to cut his head plumb off.

I’ve made a big mistake. I missed.

Dad runs around to my side of the table holding a craze of fire where his eyes used to be. He grabs me by my shirt collar, and kicks a table leg that snaps off. Dishes crash to the floor. He drags me to the door. I hear it slam shut. We’re outside. He’s not finished.

Although I feel the fast blows to my head and face, they seem to come at me in slow motion. I curl up into a ball on the ground.

“Protect yourself at all times!”

Who’s saying that? Who’s saying that? There’s no one else out here!

“Put your arms around your head! Protect yourself!”

I do as the voice tells me. I wrap my elbows over my ears, my hands on top of my head. Okay, that’s better. It doesn’t hurt as much. My eyes are stinging from the sandstorm. No, it’s a hail storm. I can feel big clumps of ice hammering my body.

My ears ring. Somewhere close to me Pooch is barking his head off. There’s so much noise in my ears, I can’t tell where he is. Then I scream really loud, “The first chance I get, I’m gonna kill you!”, the words that only I can hear.

Excerpt from No Hill for a Stepper by C. Dennis-Willingham, my father’s story

Author’s note: After this event in my father’s life, he later became a boxer in the Army.

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Daily word prompt: Crumb

1963 – No law against domestic violence

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I open the door for Deputy Garvey. But it’s not him. He’s pudgy around the waist and not much taller than me. His eyes squint into a fine line that matches his lips. I motion him inside but don’t ask him to sit.

“Problem?” he says.

“Who the hell are you?” Olvie’s opens another beer.

“Officer Lancaster. And you are?”

“The owner of this house. Where’s Garvey.”

“Off. So, what’s the problem?” I don’t like the way he’s staring at Isaac.

“I’m Nora Roberts and the problem’s mine. I live across the street and the problem is my husband. Deputy Garvey came to my house yesterday. I’m sure he wrote some kind of report. He hit me.”

“Not against the law,” Lancaster says.

“And that makes it right?” Olvie lets out a soft burp.

Lancaster rolls his eyes. “So, Mrs. Roberts. Something else happened?”

The three-year-old has given up trying to wake up Gladys. She leaves the couch and starts running in tiny circles.

“Mrs. Roberts?” Isaac says. “Mind if I take her in the kitchen to find a snack?”

She nods, looking Relieved. “Go with Isaac, Millie.” Mrs. Roberts turns back to the deputy. “Yes, something else happened. Tonight, Lester made another threat. He said, well, he said that if I ever crossed him again, he’d take the children and burn down the house with me in it. Then he peeled off down the street to God knows where.”

“Threats aren’t against the law,” Lancaster says looking bored.

“Doesn’t make it righ,” Olvie slurs.

“I’ll make a note. Anything else?”

Mrs. Roberts shakes her head, her eyes cast downward.

“Okay then. And who’s the colored boy in the kitchen?”

“Thank you for coming, Mr. Lancaster,” I say, opening the door.

“Officer Lancaster, young lady.”

Olvie stands and sways on her feet. “Get your pompous ass off my property and don’t come back.”

Lancaster’s eyes spark fire. “You best be respectful to me. I’ve arrested folks on less charges than speaking to me like that.”

“No doubt,” Olvie says, flipping a hand. “Now get your ass off my property. And while you’re at it, try saving someone. It will be a good change for you. Now, don’t let the door hit you in the ass on your way out.”

He points a stern finger toward Olvie. “I’ll be watching you. And,” he nods toward the kitchen, “the people inside.”

“So you’ll watch over me then, Officer Lancaster?” Mrs. Roberts says.

But he doesn’t respond. He leaves without doing a damn thing to help a woman whose husband threatened to kill her.

Olvie sighs and leans back in her chair. “Well, that was productive.”

I want to tell her that she didn’t make things any better. In fact, she probably made things worse for Isaac.

Excerpt from my WIP, Bare Bones of Justice (working title)

Relieved

A Baby Girl Sock Without the Baby Girl

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Cono (my father) and his sister, Delma

Mother’s holding Delma in her skinny arms, and Dad walks toward them. He’s clenching his jaw, which makes his brown eyes look black. He looks different, like something bad is about to happen.

“What’re ye doin’, Wayne?” asks Mother. Dad doesn’t answer. He just keeps walking up to the porch.

“Wayne?” says Mother again. Dad snatches Delma right outta her arms, turns back around, and starts walking back to the car he had borrowed. Then all hell breaks loose.

“Wayne, what the hell do ye think you’re doin’?” says Aunt Nolie.

“It ain’t  None of yer concern, Nola,” says Dad just as calmly as if he was taking a sack of groceries to his car instead of my whimpering baby sister.

Mother cries and pleads with him to bring Delma back. She follows on his heels, pulling on his sleeve, but he shakes her off like a horsefly. When Dad puts Delma into the car, Sis starts crying too. I know she must be as confused as we are. She never goes anywhere without Mother, and now she’s watching her Mother cry and try to get to her. She’s watching me, too. I’m helpless. I can’t move. I can’t do nothing.

Dad leaves, and I can hear my baby sister crying for me to come rescue her, but I can’t. I just stand there, holding on to Mother’s skirt. Mother’s holding on to Aunt Nolie’s arm.

“That crazy son of a bitch,” says Aunt Nolie.

“I hate his guts,” sobs Mother.

Right then and there, so do I. I hate him. He has taken my little sister and left my mother’s arms raw from the friction of loneliness.

Excerpt from No Hill for a Stepper, my father’s story