Page 40

Wedding Vows and Daddy Issues

C yrus stood in his bedroom, dressed in a brick red and black silk damask vest, and black pants.

Skip James’, ‘Devil Got My Woman’ played through the speakers.

He leaned forward, snatched his cigarette from the gold ashtray that sat on his dresser, took a hard inhale, and placed it back down.

Swirls of smoke twirled from the left side of his mouth.

He looked himself over, and figured it was a decent day for a wedding.

That of an associate of his son. Marty and Janine.

Two lovebirds who more than likely had no true idea of what they were embarking upon, or signing up for.

The fella was marrying some sexy redhead siren that was on the ten o’clock news. She wasn’t the only one up late.

He’d had a horrible night. Nothing but nightmares.

The past came to him dressed in crushed bone and torn limbs.

It gnawed on the frayed fringes of his heart, or at least, what was left of it.

He stood there putting on his tie, his hands slightly trembling as he replayed the dark back-to-back dreams in his mind.

He’d stopped breathing at one point—woke up in a cold sweat, and drowning in sheer terror.

He began even speaking quietly to himself.

Talking aloud. A calming technique he’d used since he was little.

He always talked to himself during times of stress.

When the red hot demons were nipping at his heels.

He looked at himself in the full length mirror as he spoke a bit louder, treating himself as a second person in the room.

Someone to talk to, to lay his dark burdens down on.

He could trust no one completely, except for himself, anyway.

So, he spoke to his twin. The man in the mirror.

Sometimes, he didn’t recognize his own face. Other times, he just wished he didn’t.

“I couldn’t understand it,” he mumbled as he worked the tie into shape, ensuring it was on just right.

“My mama said that she loved my daddy after he’d beaten her into a bloody pulp.

She said it with her whole heart. Her eyes shined like new pennies when she said it—like she needed the whole world to believe it, too.

My dream showed that one time I had the most…

I hate that dream, ’cause it’s true. It was the time that Mama was in her bed, holding onto her cross.

The crucifix covered in the blood of Jesus.

Blood on her jewelry. Blood on her shaking hands.

On the run down, old bed that sagged in the middle.

Her white dress that she wore several times a week was now a polka dot print, spotted and speckled with her own essence.

Her long dark hair hung in blood-soaked ropes all down the front of her body.

Like dreadlocks dipped in thick wine. Daddy had beat her head into the wall.

Blood dripped out of her ear. Then he smeared her face and hair in it.

It hadn’t been the first time he’d attacked her, but it was one of the worst times, for certain. ”

He sighed, then sat on the edge of the bed, still looking into the mirror.

His back hunched down, making him look and feel smaller than he actually was.

The Dead South’s, ‘In Hell I’ll Be In Good Company’ played now.

He glanced at the jet black articles of clothing on the bed, and the Perry Belgian men’s Loafers set neatly on the wooden floor, partially covered by a large dark bearskin rug.

He clasped his hands together as the memories and his dreams merged, creating a new reality.

He felt himself spinning, then falling on something soft but strong enough to hold him—like a woman’s warm embrace, shielding him from evil.

Mama couldn’t protect me… Is that you, God?

He struggled while lying on his side. His limbs seized up and his mind seemed to go into warp speed as he slid slowly down memory lane.

Everything was bruised and beaten. The grays of reminiscences became scorched and charred with the blazing kiss from hell.

He gnashed his teeth and tears filled his eyes.

He clawed at imaginary demons and tried to get away and find his way back!

I’m havin’ a gotdamn panic attack… haven’t had one in years!

In the mirror, he saw himself standing there, as if he were still putting on his tie, like some sort of out of body experience. He was talking, too, while listening in, and trying to hear his words over his thumping heartbeat.

“…See, Daddy accused her of talking back that particular day, if my memory serves me correctly. I watched my father tear my mama to shreds. Tore her soul clean from her body. He jumped on her and flung her around as if she were some toy, a thing to play with, something small and weak to punish. Mama was about five foot eight or so, but such a skinny thing. She was naturally small through no fault of her own. Bones, really. She couldn’t fight off that six foot, big, bulky Irish man.

Five generations in Texas. My father was wide and muscular.

Built like a lumberjack. When he’d get mad, it was like a tornado from hell tearin’ through the house.

Small things could set him off, depending on his mood.

It could be an unwashed dish in the sink.

A baby cryin’ too loud. A poor mark on a report card.

The new puppy pissin’ in a room. Or just the sight of one of our dirty little faces.

“Me and my brothers and sisters was too ’fraid to do anything about Daddy’s temper.

We was too young to lift a finger, offer a helping hand.

I was only ’bout six or seven at the time.

I knew it was wrong what he done to her, regardless.

I never saw him show love to Mama, only contempt and occasionally, indifference.

The only signs of affection were fuckin’.

The bed would squeak at night, and then out pop another baby. A baby he probably didn’t want.”

Grandpa slowly rose from his resting position.

He watched what looked like him standing in front of that mirror for the longest. He wondered if he should pour himself a drink, or take some of those pills the doctor had given him years ago, that he never took.

Instead, he wiped the sweat from his brow and listened to himself vomit his past. The pain of it all.

“I vowed to myself that one day, I’d get big and strong, and never let Daddy put his hands on Mama again.

I’m ashamed to admit this next part, though.

” He blinked several times, rubbing his eyes.

When he looked back over at the mirror, the mirage of himself was finally gone.

He huffed in relief. The panic attack was subsiding.

But his heart was heavy. He snatched a sock off the side of the bed and slid it onto his foot.

“Well, no need to stop now. Seein’ things or not,” he chuckled dismally, “I still wanted my daddy to love me. After all the times he beat me, degraded me, destroyed my mama, and harmed my sisters ’nd brothers, I still wanted him to tell me that he loved me.

That I was worth somethin’. I saw that man murder babies…

and I still wanted his love. I still loved him.

Showed him respect. Saw him make my brother a cripple when they’d gotten into a fight…

and I wanted his love…” He took a deep breath.

“I think he knew that, too. He used it. Dangled it like a carrot. He was the leader of our family, and he showed his love by workin’.

Sometimes love hurts. That’s what he said, alright.

That’s what Mama said, too. He made sure us eight children knew where we stood.

Angry deep inside my soul ’bout what he done my mama.

When I got a bit older, I asked my mama, ‘Why didn’t you leave him?

’ She looked at me and said, ‘Cyrus, ’cause sometimes, love hurts. ’ There were those damn words again.”

He reached for his other sock, and slipped it on. “I say, ‘Mama, love sounds like hate then.’ She’d look at me and say, ‘ Sometimes love and hate feel the same. Some days, I was confused. Some days, your daddy was confused, too. Sometimes, our love was a painful thing.’

“Daddy went to church every Sunday. He worked like a dog Monday through Saturday, and turned into the perfect gentleman come Sunday mornin’.

We was poor, so he always wore the same suit.

It was nice, nonetheless. Then one day, Mama got into the wine, and started crying and tellin’ the business.

They had an argument. I found out, according to her drunken rant, that my daddy had plenty of other women strewn around town.

She said a little lady, of maybe sixteen—bein’ a young mistress was fairly common back then—come to the door barefoot, with her big belly all poked out, sayin’ my daddy was the papa.

Daddy wasn’t home when the girl made her debut.

When Daddy come home from work, Mama was drunk by then.

“Mama called that man a son of a bitch, and wished him dead. She’d never said that when he was beatin’ on her.

Only when that there girl showed up. Daddy didn’t hit Mama for talkin’ slick that day.

He just looked at her, then walked away.

He left the house. We never saw that girl again.

We ain’t hear no more about no baby, either.

Things returned to normal a few days later.

I ’magine I have plenty of siblings that I’ve never laid eyes on.

Wilde blood pouring all over Houston. So, you see, I never saw love to even know what it was.

In fact,” he reached for his dress shoe, “I didn’t believe I’d ever find love, because so much hate lived inside of me.

“I hated my daddy after ’while. I just didn’t know it until it was too late…”