Frank Zafiro - Beneath a Weeping Sky

“That explains why the check got smaller.”

“Are you starving?” he barked at her.

“No.”

“No, I didn’t think so. You’ve got enough for this shithole apartment and for food and your precious vodka, so I’d say I’m providing pretty goddamn well.”

It was silent again for a little while, then he could hear them talking in lowered voices. After that, there was the rustle and clinking of items being moved. He could hear the chair slide on the kitchen floor. His mother yelped. It was quiet some more. Then came some more noises he didn’t understand, sounds that he was pretty sure his mother and his daddy were making with their voices, but they weren’t words. He thought about going into the kitchen to see if they were all right, but he stayed put. He didn’t know who he wanted to see less at that moment, so he decided he didn’t want to see either one of them.

After what seemed like a long time, the noises stopped, then changed to hushed voices again. He heard his daddy laugh derisively. “It might give him an idea what it means to be a man, that’s what,” he said.

The apartment grew dark as his parents talked and drank in the kitchen. He could hear their voices and sometimes the actual words, as well as the clink of glasses. Sometimes the tones were quiet, almost gentle. Other times, his father’s voice boomed with laughter. Still other exchanges had the sharp edge of anger to them.

Hours later, his door swung open. He hoped it was his mother, there to comfort him, but expected it was more likely his father, there to tell him that lying on his bed like that was queer and that he was a crybaby.

“Jeffie?” his mother’s voice had a softness to it, and for a moment he thought his hopes might be realized. Then she spoke again and he realized that gentleness was simply the way her voice turned when she drank a lot of her special stuff. “Wash your face and come and eat.”

He roused himself from bed. In the bathroom, he splashed his face with water. Then he made his way to the kitchen.

His daddy sat with his elbows on the table, his arms crossed, holding his drink. An edgy smile hovered on his face. Jeffrey looked into his red, watery eyes for some sign of the daddy he’d been waiting for almost forever.

“Well, Jeffie,” he said, his voice softened in the same way his mother’s was. “Done with your little crying fit?”

Jeffrey swallowed and nodded. “Yes, sir.”

His daddy’s eyebrows shot up. “Hey, he’s a quick learner.” He glanced over at the stove where Jeffrey’s mother stirred dinner. “At least there’s that, Cora. I can teach this boy to be a man someday.”

His mother didn’t answer. She served dinner in silence, the hard line of her mouth returning. She slopped some beans in front of his daddy, then Jeffrey and finally herself. The three of them ate quietly. Once they’d finished, she cleared the plates from the table.

Jeffrey’s daddy poured another drink and sipped it. He eyed the boy over the top of his glass. “So you want to learn to be a real man, kid?”

Jeffrey felt a surge of joy in his chest. “Yes, sir!”

His daddy chuckled. “All right. Good. We’ll start with lesson one right now. Stop acting like a goddamn sissy. That means no whining. No crying. And stop looking like you’re afraid of everything and everybody. You have to show the world you’re tough, kid. Sometimes you have to prove it, too. But if you look like a little sissy, then you’re going to get screwed with all the time by everybody.”

Jeffrey swallowed, but nodded that he understood.

“And no more of this ‘Jeffie’ shit. Understand? The next kid that calls you Jeffie, you punch the little bastard right in the nose. Got it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good.” His daddy took a long drink, then sighed afterward. “Things are going to change around here, yessir.”

Jeffrey grinned. Maybe his wish was going to come true after all.

At the sink, his mother washed dishes in silence.

That night, Jeffrey sat up late at the kitchen table while his father drank and told stories. He told Jeffrey and his mother about the ship he was on, which he said was the best damn ship in the Navy, and that was mostly because of him, since the entire ship was filled with idiot officers. He described the ports he’d been to in faraway lands. Jeffrey listened, wide-eyed. His mother joined them, sipping her special stuff without a word, looking down at the kitchen table. She didn’t react to any of the stories, but Jeffrey figured that maybe she’d heard them before. She did shift in her seat slightly when his daddy described some of the women in the different ports he’d visited, but didn’t say a word.

Jeffrey learned about port and starboard that night. He learned that a man stands up for himself. That was how he got respect. Respect meant that no one touched you or called you names.

Jeffrey thought respect sounded like the greatest thing ever invented. He started to tell his daddy about the things some of the kids at school did and said to him, but stopped when he saw the disapproval in his daddy’s eyes.

“You can’t let them get away with that,” his daddy told him. “They’ll turn you into a total wimp.”

So he stopped before he got to the Pee-Pee Pants story or the dodge ball story. Instead, he promised his daddy he’d “take care of business” at school the next day.

His daddy reached out clumsily and clapped him on the shoulder. “Thas’ a good boy,” he said.

His mother rose from the table. “Time for bed, Jeffie.”

“Jeff!” his daddy bellowed. “No more of this Jeffie shit!”

His mother didn’t reply. She gave Jeffrey a withering look and pointed toward the bathroom. He slipped out of his chair, headed for the bathroom and got ready for bed.

“After I tuck him in, I’m laying down, too,” he heard his mother say.

“Fine. I’ll be in for a repeat performance after I finish this drink.”

“I’m a little tired,” she said.

“You better get un-tired,” he told her.

Jeffrey put his toothbrush away and went into his bedroom. He crawled into bed, pulling the covers over him. He wasn’t sure what his mother meant by tucking him in. He couldn’t remember the last time she’d put him to bed. Usually she just let him give her a quick hug while she sat in her chair, watching her programs with a water glass in hand. But he was surprised when she showed up at his bedside, sitting down next to his small form.

She leaned down, her breath strong with her special stuff. Even though she hadn’t tucked him in for what seemed like years, he still expected a kiss on the forehead and a whispered ‘good night.’ Instead, she grabbed a handful of his hair at the base of his neck and pulled it taut.

“Remember,” she whispered in his ear, “he’ll be gone soon. Don’t you go getting any big ideas.”

She gave his hair a painful tug for good measure, then released him. A moment later, she’d stood and left the room, leaving his head spinning with questions.

What did she mean?

How long would he be here? Would he have enough time to teach Jeffrey what he needed to know?

Exhausted and confused, he dropped off to sleep.

The next morning, he woke up on his own. Both his mother and his daddy slept through him making himself breakfast. He buttered his toast next to a nearly empty bottle of brown special stuff (the label said ‘whiskey’, so he figured that was what his mother had retrieved from the store for his daddy last night) and a pair of water glasses. Both still had some special stuff in them. He sniffed his daddy’s glass and jerked his head back in surprise at how strong the smell was. He wondered how his daddy was able to put that stuff in his mouth, much less swallow it. Then he realized that it was because his daddy was tough.