Man Of The House was first published in Cirque Journal, Volume 11, Number 1, in the Fall of 2020.
Things have reached a stalemate, though you are the only one to have reached the realization. Tiring of the yelling you storm off into the cold night, with a jacket that is too light, and the shocked silence left behind by your swift departure. Breath steaming in the chill, you climb into the family car and throw it backwards from the driveway, headlights illuminating the tan paint that was her preference. Retreating down the street before the front step can be darkened by a panicked shadow rushing forward to pull you back in. The car moves on automatic, taking lefts and rights without prior plan. It does not matter where you are going. The refuge of solitary stillness has been reached.
You switch off the radio, pre-set to her favorite station, and watch the endless rows of houses roll by, each containing lives that must be so much simpler and easier than yours. Even in the light jacket you begin to sweat, so you turn the dial down, keeping it at just enough to keep the glass from clouding up. The chill air feels good against your skin. You have always liked the cold. The constant fight of your body to maintain its constant temperature. Your muscles unclench. The cogs stop turning. You let your mind free to roam.
Back to simpler times. Back to childhood days. Back to you and your brothers brushing your father’s hair. The fire in the wood stove crackles, providing warmth, but sucking away the last of the moisture in the winter air. The brush is passed around. The handle plastic, made to look like wood. The bristles greasy, and filled with strands of the lion’s failing mane. The old man sits at the head of dining table, back erect, and eyes proud. The brush is passed into your hands. You pull some of the hair out of the brush, wait for the moment when your mother, scrubbing dishes at the kitchen sink, is not looking, and let them drop to the floor.
Each stroke lifts the salt and pepper hair higher. Lifted by the static in the air. Loud bursts of childish giggling. Your mother looks over and smiles and you even notice an upward curve on the lips of the old man. You pretend not to notice, even now knowing that it is what you are supposed to do. The insistent hands of your brother reach out, and the giggling is reduced to squabbling. The game is ended and your mother hustles her brood to the bathroom to brush their teeth. She helps the youngest at the task, but leaves you and the oldest to do it on your own. Your older brother is careful not to brush too hard, lest he knock out anymore of the loose ones like he did last week.
Teeth cleaned, you are marched back to the dining room, where the old man, his hair still frizzed and wild, reads the paper. You and your younger brother kiss your father on his cheek. You feel the roughness of his whiskers on your lips. Your older brother hangs back, unsure. The old man looks unsure as well. Your older brother leaves with just a whispered good night. Your mother tucks you in. You in the bottom bunk, your older brother in the top, and gives each of you a kiss before turning out the light. From the room of your little brother you can hear your father reading. You strain to hear, only every other word making it through the wall. Your older brother does not need stories any more, and the two of you are kept in lockstep by the sharing of the room. You feel proud that you stopped needing stories at an earlier age than him.
The car finds its way, following the curving road up onto the hill. Through the gates of the cemetery. Down the narrow gravel lane between the rows of monuments to strangers. You are far from home, and it is for none of the resting spirits that you’ve come. At the back fence the car stops, the headlights turn off, and the noise of the engine ceases. The lights of the city stretch outward across the flats. A tightly knit galaxy of stars, stretching towards the far horizon. You sit quiet and look out across your world.
Stand up straight. Tuck your shirt in. Keep quiet. Quit fighting. Sit still. God why couldn’t we of had girls? Everyone says that girls are so much easier. Toughen up. That wasn’t so bad. Quit crying. You don’t want everyone to see you crying do you? Your father never cries, don’t you want to be like your father?
You feel your eyes grow moist, but nothing falls. Even here they do not flow. The pumps stay off. You pound your fist on the dash. The bottom of your fist hurts, the muscles bruised. Fuck. The sharp explosion of the expletive ricochets through the car’s interior. Your body tightens and shakes. You pound the dashboard once again. It hurts like hell. The blasts subside. The debris settles. The dust falls from the air. Your muscles loosen once again. You sit and look out over the city lights, trying to spot your house amongst the herd.
The old man walks into your room to yell at you to hurry up. You're going to miss the bus. He looks down and spots the old pocket knife with the cheap plastic handle sitting on the dresser. He asks if it is the same one that you were given when you were ten? It is. He tells you again to hurry up, and then leaves the room. You finish getting dressed and rush out to the dining room table to hurriedly force down a dry bowl of bag brand frosted flakes. Your father eats oatmeal, eggs, and coffee. The same meal he always eats, every day except Sundays. Your mother leans against the kitchen counter, eating toast. The air is tense. They’ve been fighting. They’re waiting for you and your little brother to leave for the battle to renew. The arrival of the bus offers you an escape.
You spend all day in the classroom. Sitting in the middle of the room. Not up front with the over achievers. Not in the back with the slackers. You sit and stare at boobs out of the corner of your eye. You’re glad you’re sitting down. You get caught looking. She gives you a dirty look. You can read her thoughts through her expression. Pervert. What the fuck are you looking at? They’re just boobs. Just part of the human anatomy. Not wanking material for your dirty fantasies. These are something special. These are my magic secret. I only show them to guys I like. You’re not one of the guys I like. You're weird. Remember that time in sixth grade when you cried on the playground? Everyone remembers. You shift in your seat uncomfortably and try to focus on the blackboard, but all you see is boobs.
That evening is the basketball game. You’re on the JV team. You spend most of the game on the bench. Your little brother spends most of the game on the court. You feel a deep sense of shame. You make sure no one notices that you feel it. You laugh and make jokes with the other benchwarmers. The coach yells at you to pay attention. The final buzzer sounds and you head down to the locker room. Your mother and your father stand in the crowd at the doorway. Your mother tell both you and your brother good job. The old man remains quiet. As you head down to the locker room you can hear your mother comment to another woman how much your little brother looks like his father. The next morning there is a small package on your dresser. It’s a new pocket knife.
The windows are steaming up, so you turn back on the car. You click on the radio, and play with the dial until you find some music that you like. It’s getting late. It’s well past midnight. There’s no reason to stay up here all night. You flip the switch for the headlights and put the car back into gear. It doesn’t drive in automatic. You have to think about it every time you hit the brake or gas. Each turn of the wheel to the left and right. You feel tired. Exhausted. You’re ready for bed.
Tell me how you feel. You are my rock. Why don’t you ever talk about your feelings? I don’t know what I would do without you. Quit trying to fix it. I hate it when you try and fix things. I’m sorry I forgot. Why don’t you ever do anything for me? I just want you to listen. The shower drain is clogged, would you mind fixing it? Why don’t you do what I ask? You're so selfish. Not now, I’m tired. Quit acting so weird. I’m glad that I found you. Jesus, can’t you act like an adult? Act your age. I just want you to ask me about my day. Don’t turn this around on me. Nothing I do is good enough for you. It’s not my fault. I’m doing the best I can. I can’t believe you said that. Is that what you really think?
The car pulls into the driveway. You set the radio back to her station and move the dials for the heat back to where she likes them. You turn off the car and sit for a moment, enjoying the silence. You breathe in and out a couple times, and head inside the house. She’s sitting on the couch. Her eyes are puffy and red. She looks up as you come in. You sit down on the couch next to her. You apologize, then you go to bed.
Photo courtesy of Wikimedia Commons user BenChill.
