LITMIR.BIZ

      CONTENTS

FEAR THY FATHER

FEAR THY FATHER

      My ‘Perfect’ Dad Made Life A Living Hell

      Yesterday I returned to my hometown. It was a warm summer day and I drove my rental car into the little town and stopped at the first building. Carl’s Service Station.

      “Yes, ma’am,” said the young man, pushing his cap farther back on his head and smiling at me. “What can I do for you?”

      “Fill the tank, please,” I told him, hoping he couldn’t hear the fear in my voice.

      No, it isn’t fear, I told myself, just uncertainty. You learned long ago to conquer your fear.

      I stepped out of the car and ignored the leer on the young man’s face as his eyes took in my tan legs below my snow-white shorts. “Do you have a restroom?”

      “Sure,” he said, nodding toward the door, his eyes taking in the rest of my body. I knew how I looked and I was used to the way men looked at me. “You’ll have to get a key from beside the door. We have to keep it locked.”

      I smiled to myself and headed toward the door. Things hadn’t changed here. You always had to have a key to use the less than spotless bathroom at Carl’s.

      Who’s Carl, anyway? I asked myself as I carefully used the facilities and washed my hands. When I lived in Clarksville, the place had been run by an old, gray-haired man. Maybe that was Carl.

      “Carl still around?” I asked the kid.

      “Carl?” he said, a frown on his face. “Aw, the sign. No, there ain’t been no Carl here since I been here.”

      I paid him and pulled away, the old knot of fear tightening my stomach muscles. I beat my fist on the steering wheel and told myself that I was a grown woman now.

      I had nothing to be afraid of.

      I passed the dry goods store, the jail, and the police station. A lone policeman lounged by the door, his eyes following me as I drove down the street. I knew he made a mental note of the out-of-town license plates.

      Mary’s was still the only restaurant in town, its windows still flyspecked, with what looked like the same dirty, red-checkered curtains. The post office looked like the only new building in town and it wasn’t much bigger than a good-sized bathroom. The school, with its pockmarked yard, was empty, three yellow school buses parked inside the fence. A few houses sat back from the street on each side and in one yard, a teenage girl was washing a car. She glanced my way as I passed and then went back to her job.

      I slowly counted the houses I passed. At the eighth one, I saw my first sign of any activity. Five or six cars sat in the driveway, and people lounged on the wide front porch. Heads turned and eyes stared as I parked my car and got out. My knees were weak and I longed to jump back in my car and bolt madly from this place.

      I didn’t want to go in.

      I took a deep breath and went around to the trunk. I pulled out my suitcase and lugged it up the walk. Not a man on the porch offered to help. A sob caught in my throat. It’d always been like that for me in this town, at this house.

      Nobody had ever tried to help me.

      The years rolled away and I was six again, coming home from school, walking slowly, reluctantly up the walk, my book bag bumping against my legs. Fearfully, I stared at the house, wishing desperately that my mama were home. Sometimes when she was home, my daddy didn’t hit me so hard or make me clean and re-clean the bathroom because of some imagined sin.

      “Cathy,” my daddy said, holding open the screen door, “get in here! What the hell you doing standing out there on the sidewalk?”

      “Yes, Daddy,” I mumbled, hurrying past him into the house.

      “I checked your room this morning and it could use a good cleaning. I suggest you get it done before your mama comes home.”

      “Yes, sir,” I mumbled, hurrying down the hallway. I knew my room was spotless, but I also knew that if he said clean it, then I had to do it.

      Changing into some old clothes, I got a bucket and some water. He handed me an old rag as I lugged the bucket down the hallway, trying not to spill a drop. I could feel him behind me and I cringed, trying not to hold my breath. As I went through the door, he stuck his foot in front of me and I went down, spilling the water all the way across the hardwood floor. The small rug in front of my bed was instantly soaked

      “What’s the matter with you?” he snarled, setting his big foot in my back and pushing my body into the floor. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen a child so clumsy.”

      I knew what was coming and I knew there was nothing I could do about it. I lay waiting for his big hand to slam into my buttocks. I gasped, trying not to cry out. Crying out only made the punishment worse. Three more times his hand hit my bottom, jarring my whole body. Tears sprang to my eyes, but I bit my lip to keep from weeping.

      Jerking me roughly to my feet, he stood me up, his face only inches from mine. His eyes were wild as he shook me a few times. “Get this mess cleaned up. You hear me?”

      Even at six, resentment was a bitter taste in my mouth as I thought about how unfair it all was. He’d deliberately tripped me so that I’d spill the water so he could spank me. Later, he’d humiliate me in front of my mother by telling her how clumsy and stupid I was. Deep in my heart, I believed she knew that he was the cause of my “accidents,” but I tried not to think about it. After all, she was my mother and she loved me, but she also knew that my father didn’t

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