She was expected to have dinner ready at five after five. It only took our father two minutes to walk the block and a half home from where he worked. With the spare three minutes he’d hang his jacket, hug us kids, wash hands, kiss mom routinely on the cheek then sit down. Lord help her if her step into place at the table was in anyway delayed.
There was certain nervousness in our minds, as we’d watch her scurry about scrubbing pots, buttering bread or turning out whatever dish needed a place at the table. Her dance was frenetic. We stayed out from underfoot fearing our childish foolishness would be her undoing. His easily ignited temper had on more than one occasion overflowed putting her on the floor, pummeled, bloodied and weeping. For us children it was a sight we feared. Either, like on most nights, warmth sparked from well-timed submission or at times his rage would make the house shake. How this loving man, our father, could behave in such a manner dumbfounded even the youngest among us.
The table was simply set with a cotton screen print tablecloth bought at the local five and dime. Daisy pattered melmac plates held their unproved promise for a peaceful evening. The linens were washed and pressed daily, perfected and awaiting all the spills us seven kids could manage in an evening; but early on we all learned that our chance to do so depended on her timing.
The door opens, our arms open and with a big hug given, he turns toward the kitchen. At the sink with all cooking utensils cleaned and out of sight he washes his dirt-encrusted hands, reaches for a towel placed just for this purpose and turns. He kisses her cheek and sits to say grace. She, by then in place, brings her hands together and bows. This was a good night; the bad ones were quite different.
The door opens. Though we hear a pan quickly being scraped of its contents, we open our arms and give him a big hug. Maybe, falsely, a bit bigger one than normal, trying to stay for a moment the inevitable. He turns toward the kitchen. We can hear her scurrying. His eyes glaze over resembling those of dead fish. The sink is clear. While he is washing his hands she hurriedly attempts to fill our milk glasses, place beans in a bowl and remove her apron. He turns as she tries to put the pot back on the stove in lieu of the sink. A raised hand comes down over and over. The sound is horrendous and the room is turned upside down with his bestial anger in full swing. She pleads and whimpers to no avail. He strikes her again and again. We’ve all run and taken refuge in our rooms our stomachs gnawing with the knowledge only frightened experience can explain.
They at first owned China, a family heirloom given to them by her great aunt for a wedding gift. Long ago broken she had purchased the melmac so that it at least would withstand these ravings.
Later, after all had settled down and father had retired to their room, we would on occasion give into the growl of our hunger to tiptoe quietly into the kitchen for food. It was always a sad sight to see her sitting propped up against the counter nursing a black eye or find her scrubbing the blood and mashed potatoes from the floors and walls. Looking up between tears, she would silently go to the icebox and take out what she had for us. Often times, with nothing else to offer she would find a few cookies in the cookie jar or simply bread and kissing us would whisper softly “Good night.”
He was our father. He was her master. He was a brute.
She was used to this hardship having endured it for years. Having cleaned her own linens after childbirth she had simply resolved that this was her lot in life and to make the best of things. This went on for years as each of our mouths entered the fray to feed and nourish. The diapers, the garden, the hours of backbreaking scrubbing upon linoleum floors; all this was her job, and he expected her to do it in an orderly and timely fashion.
Then one day it happened. How she later explained it was that the clock in the kitchen read six minutes after and she looked again to see if it was still functioning. Seeing the seconds ticking away she peered into the front room uneasily. Dinner was ready. The towel was ready. Our hugs, hunger and thoughts were ready too. But the door didn’t open. The clock ticked another minute, then another and yet another longer until at precisely nine minutes after five she stepped out to join us in looking at the door.
Reaching for her hat and coat she commanded us to wait and left the house with the most determined look imaginable. We gathered around the screen and looked out to a world quite familiar but now grown mysterious. One by one we let ourselves return to our chairs. Anxiously looking again and again towards the door there was little said but knots welled in our bellies, surprisingly not of hunger.
About a half-hour later we heard our mother’s heels coming down the street stabbing at the sidewalk. She opened the door removing hat and coat and threw them into his easy chair. Walking into the kitchen her words rang out “Come and eat if you’re hungry kids.” Her face was like a blank slate, unreadable as we silently ate. When done and tucked into bed we heard her pace like a caged tiger back and forth in the living room.
We awoke with a start to the sound of Armageddon going off in the kitchen, our father screaming in pain. Running to the room our eyes opened wide with the sight of mom scratching and clawing at his face. She punched and beat upon the ears. He tried to hold her hands but she reached for her iron and popped him across the face. When he fell yelling and crying she continued to kick him in the gut and ass as he rolled into a fetal position. Only when she was exhausted and spent did she let up. Reaching into the icebox she took a plate of food out and threw it on top of him saying, “Here’s your dinner!” Looking at us she sternly said, “Aren’t you suppose to be in bed?” We ran quickly and covered our heads with our sheets wondering if we’d all lived though the same strange dream.
None of us actually ever found out why father was late that night, but in all our memories he never was again; and mother, well, after that she called when dinner was ready.
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