I hate him.

I love him.

How does she do it, after all these years of trying times? How? She must have hated him, too, during those insensitive, brutal incidents, both mental and physical. Yet, she still supports him, babies him, kneels down to him. Loves him? Many times I have doubted that she could.

The day had been good, a cool summer eve followed, the sun slowly disappearing over the horizon. But was I good? I had found pieces to a player piano which had been de-gutted, I guess, to make it easier to move. They had destroyed the player part. I found myself sitting in his red wooden, self-made trailer—the sides high enough to conceal me. Intrigued with the clattering parts, I proceeded to dismantle them further, curious to see how they worked.

Then it was time. There was no more bright light. The day was ending and the sky was beginning to turn gray. That meant that he would be coming around the bend any second. My first instinct was to run and hide. I did—behind a small bush in the front yard. I wanted to keep running. But where? There was no escape.

The remainder of that evening is still a blank and so are the rest of the days until I was old enough to be sent to the neighbors with messages and to borrow things. They were nice people. They made it look like being a kid could be fun. They made time to laugh and play. The kids were always trying new things, looking for the fun that seemed to surround them.

I came back home a few minutes later than was expected, I guess, one day, riding the tricycle that I was sent after. He was standing stiff in the path-way, cutting it off so there was no way around him. And there it was again. With stick in hand, he began to swing wildly, in front of my friends and other neighbors for all to see. I was embarrassed more than hurt and becoming more afraid, afraid to be me.

School began which meant that it would begin to get cool out doors. But that didn’t matter. It brought me back to a place where things seemed more normal, with others to try to be like while it lasted throughout the day. But, then, the day was done and gone so quickly. The others went home to play. I went home to weed the garden.

I remember playing the piano, my mother encouraging me and loving the sound no matter how sour the music that shrieked out of the top of the big black box and no matter how many times I stopped after the first frame and started over again. Then, my heart caved in and dropped to the lower pit of my stomach to the awful sound of a car coming up the mile-long crushed-rock road and into the driveway. The slam of the door was my cue to stop immediately. I sensed danger arriving. Why? I did not understand. Regardless, I stopped playing the piano before he could hear the music flowing out from the walls of the house. I moved quickly to find something to do, to make it look like I was busy working.

If there were no chores to be done while he came in the door from work, I’d quickly unfold some clothes that had already been folded after a wash and were ready to go upstairs to be put away. I couldn’t go upstairs to put them away. That wasn’t enough. He had to see us working. If he couldn’t see us, he didn’t think we were working. And if your homework wasn’t completed before supper, you’d better be sure your eyes were no other place than in those books. Sometimes, I wasn’t sure if I’d get bopped across the head as he passed by, never to know why or what I had done wrong. It was as though he needed someone to pounce on every now and then in order to show his strength. Most days he’d come home grumpy. But, to me, it seemed more than that.

Finally, I realized all (the whole little bit) of my penny savings were gone. He was always asking to borrow money from us kids when he needed to go get another case of beer. The drawer in the refrigerator had to be completely stocked at all times. He couldn’t stand the thought of it going dry.

Many nights after school, homework was done first on the dining room table. Mom tried so hard to help us with our schoolwork but her education did not allow her to get as far as algebra. Then supper was to be made by my older sister and me while my two brothers, Steve and Jim, did the chores and Mom finished up her work in the garden or other chores such as the wash or getting the chickens fed. I’d rather be out doors helping with chores to chop wood, feed the pigs, push down the hay or anything. But the indoor chores came first for us girls. And after supper, it was time for TV, which my brothers were able to enjoy, while my sister and I did the dishes. There wasn’t much time after the dishes to do anything, because it was already late when we ate supper.

Then, one long black night, we heard the car door. Mom came running into the house and straight into their bedroom. She’s crying. My older sister  brave and concerned, went to see what’s wrong. He came stomping in after her. I could hear my sister question him. He’s mad with rage. He asked, “What’s wrong with her, anyway?” He was angry because she was crying. Angry at who? I wasn’t sure. My sister bravely said, “YOU were the one with her. YOU should know what’s wrong.” “Well she would only drink one,” he said. “That couldn’t have done much.”

My mother was feeling like I do if I have too much to drink. In the wrong mood, I cry. But wait. She didn’t drink—didn’t like beer or booze of any kind. There was more. There was embarrassment, pride and hurt. He was tired of drinking alone. At his favorite bar, in front of people who became both their friends, he forced her to drink. He had embarrassed her to the point that all she could do was take it and swallow it.

Then, the most horrible sound we’d ever heard in that house came from their bedroom where the discussion of her depression was taking place. I can’t describe the sound. The feelings received from what we heard were worse than when you hear a car crash or the thunk of a person’s body on the hood of a car after being hit and vaulted from a bike. And again. And again. And then Mom wailing out—“STOP”—“Oh, stop”. It was getting harder for her to even speak as she sobbed, sobbing because of the hurt. Physical pain? Maybe, but mostly because the one she thought loved her...How could he be doing this? My sister couldn’t stop him. Pushing her aside, he continued. She was crying and all of us kids were crying, sitting and listening to those awful sounds late in the dark, black night.

I paced back and forth, going for the phone. Should I? No. What would he do if I did? What will happen to us? What does Mom want? Do I call the police? I wanted to run down the hill and catch a ride to anywhere. But my younger sister, was so little, too little to understand what was going on. How could I leave her in the middle of all this? What should I do?

I wanted a gun. Now I knew that I hated him.

For months and, it seemed like, years after that horrible night, she was always yards away from him and moving to keep the distance, especially when she had the nerve, finally, to say what she was thinking—disagreeing with him. I wanted her to leave him. I thought she was stupid. If she thought she had to stay for us, well, I didn’t care. I would leave too.

At 18, I was out into the working world, away from him, at least, during the day. A few months later, I was married and with child, forever to be away from him. As I look back now, I wonder what and where I would have been if I hadn’t married at that early age. I might have been working in an insurance company rather than a factory or maybe even have gone to college like my friends.

He still yells at my sisters, brothers and I when he gets a chance, trying to tell us what to do in our lives. He doesn’t understand why we don’t like to go visit. He blames my moving so far away on my husband. He never accepted him, never accepted any of our spouses. He seems to be afraid of people other than his own flesh and blood. He gets paranoid when people visit with my mother and throws tantrums if he doesn’t like something, no matter who has come to visit, embarrassing my mother. She’s always hurt and cut down by him as though she is too stupid to know how to do anything or to make decisions on her own. How does she take it? I wonder.

But, then, little things happen which tell me she’ll make it. She’s very busy with reading, sewing, crafts and gardening. I ask her if she wants my little piano as I’m getting a different one. She doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t put down the phone to ask him what he thinks. I asked if it’ll be OK, if I can send it any time and if there’s a place for it. No hesitation. No checking. No measuring. “I’ll take it!” she said. She wasn’t even going to ask him. She made a decision on her own. She wants it and, I felt like, she was saying to herself and to me, “The heck with him if he doesn’t like it.” Once it arrives, what can you do? Throw it out?

Does she still love him? Or is she keeping a promise she made years ago? She’s apparently found a way to deal with it, giving up a lot of individuality, but still finding ways to get the little things in life she wants until the time when—she is rid of her burden.

Written in 1990, originally for a college English class - "Women in Literature", and later published in True Story magazine.