Bobby Turner didn't see much difference between school and home, two places where he was unpopular and friendless. He would rather have a root canal with no Novocain than be stuck in either place for a prolonged period of time, but summer break had arrived.
Monday morning Bobby walked down the stairs and was greeted with the smell of breakfast. His mother smiled when she saw him sit at the table, while his father continued to keep his face hidden behind the morning paper. The silence was uncomfortable and the tension was so palpable that it created a nervous lump in Bobby's throat. He wanted freedom to breathe air untainted by their drama, but that personal liberty was reserved for another boy, in another house. His only option was to endure the constant infringement on his happiness inflicted on him in the name of keeping the family together.
His index finger traced over the freshly dusted oak table and glided down one of the dark lines that led clear to the other end. For a moment the line reminded him of a road leading to a better life because he always imagined the transition would be smooth. Sadness filled his heart when his arm stretched as far as possible and his finger couldn't reach the end of the line, but the temptation to stand and finish tracing the line was nothing more than a fleeting thought. He knew what would happen if he did. Bobby settled for allowing his eyes to slowly roam around the table and he found paths and patterns embedded all over the wood as his imagination blanketed the flat surface with endless stories.
He returned to reality when his mother sat a plate in front of his father and she put a glass of water next to the plate. His father remained on the other side of his paper.
Bobby's hands were folded in his lap as his plate clicked against the table and his glass of orange juice was placed on part of the dark line. His mother pushed his hair away from his face then she walked to the end of the table and sat down. The line would have cut her in half if it was real.
Blueberry pancakes shaped like bells, scrambled eggs, bacon for both Bobby and Mom, and sausage for Dad. Bobby and his mother waited for permission to eat.
About five minutes later his father lowered the newspaper and placed it on the table. He picked up his fork, used it as a knife to cut a piece of his pancake and took a big bite. Seconds later the fork was sailing through the air before crashing in to the wall. Bobby's mother jumped.
"It's cold," the man said. "All I wanted was some blueberry pancakes for breakfast and you couldn't even get that right." Bobby watched the man's eyes cut the woman down with a stare more powerful than his fists.
"I'm sorry," she replied meekly.
Bobby lowered his head, assumed his invisible position, and closed his eyes to make his metamorphosis in to the chair more complete. He listened as his mother rose quickly from her seat and began to mix a fresh batch of pancakes. He knew her movements better than he knew his own so it was easy to picture her standing by the counter with her left hand gingerly holding the bowl in place while her right hand squeezed the spoon as she mixed the batter. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail because the man hated when her hair was down. Her oversized white turtleneck and red jogging pants drowned her small frame, hid her physical bruises and exaggerated her fragility. He opened his eyes and found her standing exactly as he had imagined.
She was a beautiful mess.
The ticking of the black and white clock on the wall beckoned Bobby's attention. He was dazed as he watched the seconds and minutes of his life disappear in a circle that led nowhere.
The new sausage sizzled as she fried it in the skillet. The smell intoxicated Bobby's stomach and teased his nose.
His mother presented his father with a new plate filled with food so hot, it left a trail of steam in the air.
"Took you long enough," the man uttered with a sneer. Bobby held his breath as the man's new fork sliced in to a blueberry pancake. He was able to exhale when the man lowered his fork and cut another piece of the pancake. It was finally time to eat.
Bobby's food was cold.
The only sounds from the kitchen table were those of forks making contact with plates. They were three lonely people who found themselves trapped together. The woman followed the man around like a shadow, overpowered by his presence and content to be ignored. People saw her as an extension of him and she saw herself as his wife. Bobby saw her as his mother.
His father dismissed Bobby from the breakfast table and told him to go to his room. He was not to come downstairs until 5:30, not a minute before or a minute after, because punishment would be immediate and unavoidable.
Bobby's room was comprised of four blue walls, a white ceiling, a wood floor, one twin-sized bed, a dresser, a closet, a night-stand, a brown lamp and during most hours of the day, Bobby. Technically there was a window, except his father boarded it up when he caught Bobby watching a group of kids playing basketball in the street. His father had seen the hint of happiness in Bobby's eyes and as usual, he felt compelled to eradicate the smallest glimmer of hope. As a result of the blocked window and closed door, Bobby was generally guaranteed privacy; however, he was unappreciative of the solitude because he desperately desired communication with someone his own age. He was fifteen and alone.
Bobby turned off the light in his room and found solace in the darkness which created the optimal condition for thinking and daydreaming. He fell asleep in the middle of a fantasy about being saved from his house and placed with a loving family. That fantasy had teased him with what could be since he was a child, but he knew fantasies didn't come true. If they did, then he and his mother would be safe and he would have found some one his own age who didn't think he was strange.
Bobby was jarred awake by the sounds of his mother screaming, things breaking, and a man yelling at her. There was a time when Bobby would have buried his head under his pillow and willed the noises away, but some where over the years the noises became his theme music and his mother's calling card. His memories of getting up, walking downstairs and taking her punishments were vague, and he could barely distinguish between the different times, but he always remembered the significant bruises. Funny, the way his mind worked.
Bobby was sent to his room in pain, with a promise of more to come if he dared to show his face at dinnertime.
In the darkness of his room, he closed his eyes and feasted on a magnificent dinner made just for him. He only permitted himself one trip to the bathroom for fear he might see his father in the hallway.
His stomach growled as the day became night and he tried to convince his body that he had eaten too much, but his hunger pangs were stronger than his imagination.
Tuesday morning Bobby walked down the stairs and was greeted with the smell of breakfast. His mother smiled when she saw him sit at the table, while his father continued to keep his face hidden behind the morning paper.
Bobby's finger traced the dark line.
His mother sat a plate brimming with French toasts, a cheese omelet and sausages in front of his father. She gave Bobby a plate of food then she gave them glasses of orange juice before she sat in her seat and waited. His father lowered the newspaper and folded it on the table. He picked up a slice of toast and took a big bite then threw the toast at Bobby's mother.
"Must we do this every morning?" Bobby's mother moved to stand. "Don't bother," the man told her. He pushed his plate to the side and grabbed Bobby's plate as Bobby hungrily eyed the man's discarded food. "Put that in the garbage and don't eat any of it," the man whispered. Bobby stood silently, walked the plate to the garbage, then emptied the plate and returned to his seat. "Did you just put that in the garbage?"
"Yes," Bobby replied tentatively.
"I told you to put it in the garbage disposal. Why would you put it in the garbage? Do you want the whole house to stink?"
Bobby knew what the man had said, but he also knew that arguing was pointless. The man was having a bad morning and therefore everyone was going to have a bad morning.
Bobby sat in his seat and closed his eyes. He wondered what his classmates would think if they knew what happened inside his house and he wondered about one classmate in particular. Donovan Yearly was the only student who acknowledged Bobby's existence. They hadn't spoken directly to each other since they were in elementary, but Donovan always nodded when he saw Bobby and sometimes Bobby would catch Donovan smiling at him.
Bobby was in the middle of picturing Donovan's face when the table shook violently. "Open your eyes!" his father screamed.
Bobby's eyes shot open, sending his fantasy away and bringing him face to face with his reality.
Copyright Lustyville 2009
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