Frank Zafiro - Beneath a Weeping Sky

He wanted to be tough, too.

He wanted his daddy to be proud of him.

He wanted his daddy to stay forever.

He reached out and picked up the glass. With a shaking hand, he brought it to his lips. Before he could drink any, the strong odor assaulted his nostrils again and he had to put the glass back on the table.

I guess I’m not tough enough yet.

Besides, he figured that his daddy might be mad if he drank any of his special stuff without asking. So that was a good reason to leave it alone, too.

He finished buttering his toast. After he ate, he crept into the living room and turned on the television. He kept the volume as low as it would go and still allow him to hear anything. Quietly, he changed the channel knob from station to station. There were only four channels to choose from. One of them had a preacher. Another one looked like a news guy. The Sesame Street channel had more news guys on it, but the final channel featured a Bugs Bunny cartoon. He smiled and sat just a few inches away from the T.V., laughing at the antics of the ‘wascally wabbit.’ Just to be careful, he covered his laughter with his hand.

Cartoons eventually gave way to football games, so he turned off the T.V. and tried to read his Dr. Seuss book again. It was difficult to concentrate with his ears piqued for any movement from his parent’s room.

He was starting to get hungry for lunch when his mother stumbled out of the bedroom in her robe. She breezed past the living room and straight to the kitchen, where he heard her brewing coffee. Then, magically, he heard sounds of sizzling food. The aroma of bacon wafted out into the living room.

His mother was cooking breakfast. She never cooked breakfast.

He walked to the kitchen and poked his head around the corner of the doorway. He spotted his mother standing at the stove, turning strips of bacon, then cracking several eggs into a frying pan.

From behind him, the heavy thud of feet stomped out of the bedroom and into the bathroom. From behind the closed door, Jeffrey could hear his father making retching sounds. His own stomach clenched at the sound. He covered his ears. After a few moments, the sound ended. The toilet flushed, followed by running water. Then his daddy stumbled from the bathroom and toward the kitchen. He brushed by Jeffrey without a word, sliding up behind his mother. Amazingly, he swatted her on the bottom, causing her to jump. A slice of bacon flew through the air and landed on the counter.

“Goddamnit, Stan!” she snapped. “I’m cooking your break-fast.”

“The kid can have that piece,” he said, motioning to the errant slice of bacon. He stood directly behind her, pressing up against her back. His arms snaked around to the front of her. Jeffrey couldn’t see what he was doing, but his mother twisted and dodged in place while he groped at her. “And I’ll have this one.”

“I’m trying to cook,” she said in an irritated tone. “Jesus, I took care of you last night.”

His daddy’s hand flew up and grabbed his mother’s hair. He pulled hard with a backward jerk. “And what if I want it again right now?” he asked her in a low, mean voice. He jerked on her hair again. “What do you say to that, huh?”

“You’re hurting me,” she said.

“You even haven’t seen the beginning of hurt,” he told her. “You want to see hurt? I will lay the whammo on you, Cora. You won’t walk right for a week. And you definitely won’t be able to smart back to me with that pretty little mouth.”

“The eggs are going to burn,” she whimpered.

He laughed then and let her go with a slight shove. She immediately went back to stirring the scrambled eggs, then retrieved the wayward slice of bacon.

His daddy glanced over and spotted Jeffrey in the doorway. He lowered himself into the chair at the kitchen table. “I see we have a little sneaky spy in the house,” he said.

Jeffrey didn’t know what to say, so he replied, “Yes, sir.”

His daddy laughed again. “Oh, he’s learning.” He reached out and swatted Jeffrey’s mother on the bottom again. “You hear that, Cora? He’s learning. Better than you, he’s learning.”

His mother didn’t reply. She served them wordlessly, just as she had the night before. His daddy didn’t thank her, but he tore into the food, eating quickly. Jeffrey watched him, amazed. Then he picked up his fork and tried to do the same.

Once his daddy finished eating, he lifted the water glass from last night and peered at the brown liquid. “Hair o’ the dog that bit ya,” he said, almost more to himself than anyone else. Then he drained the glass in one swift swallow. He grimaced, let out a small belch and sighed afterward. “Good ol’ Jack,” he said.

Jeffrey tried to eat his breakfast as hurriedly as possible. His daddy didn’t notice. Instead, he stood with the bottle of special stuff and wandered into the living room.

When Jeffrey finished, he found his way into the living room, where his daddy sat watching a football game and sipping his drink. Jeffrey found a place to sit unobtrusively and watched the game with his daddy. Neither of them said a word, but for Jeffrey, that two hours would become quite likely his greatest childhood memory.

When the game ended, his daddy glanced over at him, seeming to just then notice he was there. He took a drink from his glass and sniffed in disgust. “Seems like it was a bad idea for Seattle to get a football team, huh?”

Jeffrey had heard of the Seahawks. Some of the boys at school wore jerseys to school with the stylized blue and green logo of the fictional bird. He himself didn’t care much about football, but if his daddy liked it, maybe he would, too. In fact, maybe football would be his favorite sport from now on.

“You retarded or something, kid?” his daddy said. “I asked you a question.”

“Yes, sir,” Jeffrey blurted automatically.

His daddy scowled. “Yes, you are retarded?”

“I mean, no, sir,” Jeffrey sputtered.

“No? You mean you like the Seahawks? They’re almost as bad as Tampa Bay.” He waved his hand at Jeffrey. “Now go to your room. You’re bothering me.”

Jeffrey spent the rest of the day in his room, listening to every whisper of movement and voice out in the living room and the kitchen. He crept out once to use the bathroom, peeing carefully onto the inside edge of the toilet bowl in order to keep as quiet as possible. He didn’t flush.

There wasn’t much talking between his mother and his daddy during the day, but occasionally he heard an exchange, though he couldn’t make out the words most of the time. Once, the words were sharper and he heard some sort of tussling. This was followed a smacking sound, which made him jump. There was a pause, then more tussling, but it was quieter and more rhythmic.

Around dinnertime, his mother brought him in a peanut butter sandwich. She had changed into her robe. He noticed a deep redness below her left eye.

He thought about asking her what happened, but instinctively, he knew. She must have made a wrong look at his daddy and so he laid the whammo on her.

He stared up at her, torn. He felt a perverse thrill knowing that she wasn’t in charge. Maybe she could still be mean to him, but she wasn’t the boss anymore. At the same time, an overwhelming desire came over him to hug her and make her feel better.

Before he could act on either emotion, she thrust the plate toward him. “Eat your dinner,” she told him numbly, “and put yourself to bed.”

She left without another word.

He chewed the peanut butter slowly, his stomach growling while he ate. He didn’t know what to think or what to feel. He was glad his daddy was home. But it wasn’t working the way he’d hoped.

What could he do?