Page 13 of Mercy & Malice

“Keep doing that and it’ll add pounds to your ass. Just ask your mother, she knows all about it.”

The cookies are no longer appetizing, and it has nothing to do with putting on a few pounds. I sense his mood. Sometimes he comes home like he’s the happiest person on the face of the planet. And then there is a mood like tonight where he’s just itching for a fight. So, knowing anything I say will be taken out of context, I just continue working in silence while he moves around the kitchen, slamming the cabinet doors before grabbing a box of cereal from the pantry.

“Work all fucking day and come home to eat a fucking bowl of cereal,” he grumbles.

“I can make you something.” As soon as I offer, I realize the mistake. I should’ve just stayed silent.

“No, I have a wife who sat on her ass all day who can fix my fucking meal.” He stomps out of the kitchen.

Mom wasn’t home all day; she’s been at school since summer classes are still going on. Not that I need to tell him because he’s aware.

I hear him shouting for a minute before Mom rushes into the kitchen, tying her robe. Dad is right on her heels, spouting the same derogatory comments he does whenever he’s angry. I feel the need to run, but I can’t bring myself to leave the room. I can’t stop my father, but I don’t want her to be alone with him either.

Dad props his hip on the counter, his duty belt still on him. All I see is his gun within his reach as he asks her, “What did you have to eat?”

Her attention stays on making his food while she answers, “I had a sandwich since no one else was home for supper.”

“So, you assume the rest of us don’t want a home-cooked meal because we didn’t abide by your supper schedule? Some of us have real jobs without banker’s hours.”

Banker’s hours? My mom might work at a school, but she is at Belgrave all day plus evening and weekend hours for extracurricular functions when banks are certainly closed for business.

Mom doesn’t reply and continues preparing his meal. When Dad realizes he isn’t getting a response, he says, “I’m going to take a fucking shower and hopefully the scraps I had to beg for will be ready before I get out, or you’ll be sorry.”

God, please let it be done. Is it bad that I hope he falls in the shower and gets knocked unconscious? Just for a few hours until maybe he can wake up in a better mood.

As soon as I hear the water turn on, I get up to help. He woke her up out of a dead sleep to cook his meal even though I offered. It’s all to show he has full control. And it’s only gonna get worse despite us never challenging his authority. At least he didn’t get physical this time, which is a rarity.

“Mom,” I say, peeking over my shoulder before I whisper, “I’m sorry. I offered to make him something.”

“It’s okay, sweetie. I wasn’t sleeping,” she lies for my benefit. But I’m not worried about me. Dad tends to be angrier and center his abuse more towards her.

“There’s a house for rent. It’s walking distance from Belgrave.”

“No, we’re not moving out.”

“I can pitch in if it’s the money. Or I can find us someplace cheaper, or we can go to Mawmaw and Pawpaw’s. It’s a good drive, but we can manage.”

“It’s not about the money, and we’re not staying with them.” She speaks lowly after she peeks towards the hallway. “You remember what happened last time we tried to leave.”

I do. He was waiting for us at school the next morning because he didn’t know where to find us the night before when we stayed at a motel after he punched her then slapped me when I tried to get in between them. We stayed at the motel a few more nights, but he never relented. He found us eventually, so we went to my grandparents’ house until he camped out on the porch and refused to leave until Mom took him back. They called the police, but he talked his way out of trouble after he got in a fistfight with Pawpaw.

Ultimately, Mom took him back just so things would calm down. At least, that was her reasoning, because Dad agreed to counseling (which he never followed through with) and since he promised he’d never hit her again (which he broke a few months later). It’s not fair. He’s faced zero consequences for any of his actions. We shouldn’t fear just existing in our home and worrying what is going to set him off next. No matter how hard we try, he’ll find a reason to throw a tantrum. He’s supposed to bring security and safety, not panic and fear.

I want to tell her we can go out of state, get far away where he can’t find us. Before I can, Dad storms into the kitchen and snatches me by my hair, hurling me backwards as I stumble and fall to the floor.

Mom moves to help me up, but Dad is in front of her, gripping her by her throat as he seethes, “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

He was supposed to be in the shower. Did he hear us talking?

Dad shoves Mom against the stove, his chest to her back as he starts bending her forward. All I can think is he’s not going to stop until her face is in the boiling water.

I climb to my feet, looking at the knife on the counter and trying to figure out if I can get to it before he gets to me.

He stops finally as he shouts, “Let your mother play the doting homemaker she presents to the world. She doesn’t need help from anyone.”

If anyone creates a false facade, it’s Brent Guidry—honorable police officer, devoted father, wonderful husband, compassionate guy.

Mom remains silent and unmoving as Dad warns, “Last chance to provide the bare minimum or I’ll take it from your hide.”