I’m watching television, remembering, maybe, what Mario said about self-respect or maybe my point-of-no-return gesture of giving him that notebook. That’s the only way to explain the following:
My father is asleep;
A Marlins game blares on television;
My sneakers rest on the hand-carved fruitwood coffee table;
Along with a juicy can of Mountain Dew.
Thus summoned, my father enters. I don’t move. He storms to the television, slaps the off button three times before it works, then kicks my feet off the table. Except he misses and hits the can instead. It flies toward the ceiling, drenching the sofa, the rug, the table, and my father in a tidal wave of piss-colored liquid. He starts yelling.
I don’t move. I feel my brain short-circuiting, trying to carry me to an alternative reality. I can’t go. I concentrate, instead, on Mario’s words. Respect yourself. Mario’s yelling louder than my father, and to shut him up, I look in my father’s eyes. For the first time, I don’t see myself.
“Clean it!” he screams between obscenities. His face is a mask I wouldn’t recognize if it didn’t haunt my dreams. “Clean it, you little shit!”
“No,” I say.
Outside, Biscayne Bay runs dry.
He stops midsentence then says, “What do you mean, no?”
He leans forward, his voice a roar encompassing every insult, slap, and backhand, every emotion I’ve felt. Memories fly, spilling evil and hope like Pandora’s box, and my mind tries to avoid him, tries to run, hide even as my body won’t let it. I can’t go.
I can’t go.
Don’t go.
Don’t.
I stand.
“I didn’t spill it.” My voice is cold.
“What?”
“I’m not cleaning it, because I didn’t spill it.”
The green eyes are wild with disbelief. He starts to say something, stops, then starts again. His head shakes involuntarily, his face purples. He raises his hand. I grab it. Then, the other arm. It takes all my strength to hold him, but somewhere, I find more, and I say—no—I scream:
“You are not going to hit me anymore!”
Silence.
“You are not going to hit me anymore!
“You are not going to hit me anymore, you bastard!”
I don’t know how many times I scream it until, finally, I stop. His mask falls. He makes a small noise, maybe a chuckle, in the back of his throat. Our eyes meet. His are cold again. Mine burn. My face aches as if he hit me. I loosen my hold on him, and feel him pull free, arms, wrists, fingers slipping from my grasp. Not strong, not powerful, just a man. Why did I think he was so strong?
He walks away.
I sink into the Mountain Dew fallout and sit, quiet, until his shoes reach the landing. I lean back. Sun off the water streams through French doors. I hide my eyes.
I remember, now, how to cry.