The Door to Dawn

I arrive home at the time when the school bus would usually drop me off, or close enough. Dad’s car is in the driveway. Mom is waiting for me when I enter the kitchen door. Her left eye is bruised purple and blue.

“Why, Eric? Why would you do this?” She reaches out and cups her hands around my face. “I can’t help you. Your father is waiting,” she continues.

My book bag drops to the floor. I don’t know what they know.

Dad relaxes in his Lay-Z-Boy. His throne. Over the years the cheap vinyl has shaped to his body. There is the ever-present glass of scotch. Rarely moving from this spot after work, there is a side table covered with the necessitates of daily living: nose drops, Kleenex, prescription pills, mixed nuts, an overflowing ashtray of cigarette butts, and an uneven skyline of stacked paperback books.

If dad’s not watching TV, his face is usually hidden in the pages of one of those books. Mom calls it his escape time. I’m not supposed to speak to him while he’s reading. I’m painfully aware of this, but mom constantly feels the need to remind me. I’m too young, I’m told, to understand the amount of stress he’s under at work.

I choke out a single word: “Dad?”

He holds up a finger to wait. He sighs and reaches for a book marker. Slides it between the pages of the paperback. Sits it on the table with the others. Dad has two rules about his paperbacks. Never break the spine and never fold the page as a marker. I will never forget the book he was reading that day. The Other Side of Midnight, by Sidney Sheldon.

“I don’t care why you skipped school.” Even though I know what’s going to happen next, I can’t help but covet a small moment of joy at his ignorance. “I don’t need to hear your bullshit excuses. You’re selfish, an embarrassment…” Dad’s voice drifts away.

I don’t wait for him to finish. I am ready for my humiliation. I drop my pants and underwear and bend over. I grip my ankles. This way you can’t tense up to escape the pain. Across the room, I see our reflection in the dusty black eye of the turned-off television screen. Dad unbuckles his belt. It snakes from his pant loops. He crosses it over and snaps it in the air. On the television screen—in its all-seeing eye—I wait for the torture to begin. The belt rises into the air and comes down with a slap. Slap is such a weak word for something that draws blood, something that burns with the flame of fire and leaves skin blackened. There is no count. No thirty-three lashes. This will end with my father gasping for air. At a certain point, punishment becomes pleasure.

“What, no tears tonight?”

I squeeze my eyes shut. I will not reward him.

“Good, you’re finally becoming a man.”

In the television screen I see my dad’s tongue stick out. He resembles a five-year-old trying to tie his shoelaces. I laugh.

“What’s so funny?”

“Nothing. Just finish.”