Power Hour #4

Dinner was cold. I moved the peas on my plate into battle formations. Turned the mashed potatoes into bunkers. The meat became the mountain fortress. I could feel my father staring at the back of my head. Family rules said that no one eats until we say grace. The fat began to congeal. I wanted to say something, but my father was already screaming at my brother, Jake.

“When you are in my house, you follow my rules or you can just leave!” dad yelled.
“Do you really want to start a fight now?” Jake jabbed.
“I can say whatever I please. I work all day, I pay the bills, this is my house and it goes by my rules.”

My dad was all about his rules. I grew up with a bedtime like every other kid, except mine was absolute. I rebelled once, said the standard, “I don’t wanna.” My dad whipped his hand across my face. Then he’d stand over me and just wait. Wouldn’t say a word. I could feel a trickle of blood on my cheek. Dad liked his rings. I held my sleeve to my face. I couldn’t stain the carpet.

Dad said, “I expect better from my son.” His eyebrows would tense when he was mad. He’d bring his fist to his forehead and rub up and down. Looked like he was trying to erase something. He waited until I tucked myself under my covers and shut my eyes. I left my sleeve on my face; the cut was still bleeding.

He sighed, backed out of the room and closed the door without a noise. I never questioned bedtime again.

My brother crept into my room later that night. He brought in some wet tissues. Knew I would be crying. When he saw my cut, I could see his hand clench. But he didn’t say anything. He just sat next to my pillow. Jake would rub my back with his long, thick fingers. I would try my hardest to stay awake, to feel the odd sensation of a hand the size of my chest. But he’d sit, and watch me drift off. He knew I was asleep when I started drooling. I still drool.

He’s almost twelve years older. He knew how to break the rules in the house. Jake had a bedtime but Jake could never sleep so early. Thoughts would race in his head. My dad would check in and think my brother was sleeping soundly. But Jake had bought a wig that looked like his hair. He would prop pillows up under his blankets, and put the wig on a football. Dad never caught on. He just peeked in Jake’s room, then went back to his office. Jake never snuck out. Instead, he’d lie on the floor by the window and just stare out to the stars. I loved to listen to his dreams. We’d play connect the dots with the stars. I got yelled at one day at school for going out of order. Jake heard this. That night, I found a box of chocolates under my pillow.

I hated dinner. My mother was an average cook. But my dad was relentless. He’d comment on every flaw he thought Jake had. My dad hated the music Jake listened to. He hated his friends. He hated his hairstyle, which he kept the same throughout high school. Jake didn’t want to have to buy a new wig. Plus, pissing of dad was a bonus. Jake was always sly about it though. Slip a subtle insult in between his sorry’s and ok’s. I’d bite my lip to stifle a laugh. Jake would look at me out of the corner of his eye. After everyone calmed down, he’d give me the quickest smirk, one only I could see.

I hated when dinner was cold. That meant my father had a bad day and that he couldn’t wait until we started eating to dig into my brother. Usually, I’d occupy myself and try and copy Jake’s imagination. I’d look at my distorted reflection in the windows and imagine a fun house universe. I’d fold my napkin up in as many different ways as I could. I was left alone, as long as I didn’t touch my food before grace.

The night I made my food platter battlefield, Jake and Dad were really going at it.

“It’s my way or the highway.” He said that a lot.
“But I’m a grown man,” Jake replied.
“But nothing. You are too young and spoiled to know what it means to work for your meals.

Most nights, I wouldn’t be confused about what they were fighting over. I usually didn’t I care. Tonight, I listened, but I did not dare look.

“How dare you question me.”
“This isn’t about grace anymore is it?”
“No, it’s about principles.”
“Dad, can we not fight tonight. I’m really tired.”
“No, you are going to shut up and listen.”
“Listen to what?”
“That’s it, do you want me to take out my belt?”
“Listen to you? Listen to nothing but garbage? Do you think you can hurt me anymore?”
“Rules are not garbage, you are,” my dad flatly stated.
“Dad, why do you think I come home any more?”
“Because we are your family.”
“No. Because of George and no one else.”
“You are unbelievably ungrateful. I’ve done so much for you, worked so many hours for you.”
“I know. But what you can’t believe is that I don’t love you.”
“What?”
“And I know you don’t love me. But that’s ok. I understand. George was always your favorite.”
“I loved you both equally and how dare you accuse me.”
“I’m leaving, Dad.”
“Don’t you leave this table, I’m talking to you.”
“Goodbye, George.”

I turned my head around, but Jake had ran out of the house. My dad sat down, played with his food for a bit. I heard Jake close his car door and drive off. None of us said a word for the rest of the night.

I went to my room, shut my door as loudly as permissible and flopped onto my bed. I heard a crunch. I lifted up my pillow and I saw a note.

“Meet me outside at midnight. I want you to live with me. I want you to be happy.”

I tore up the note. I looked out of my window. It was a clear sky and the stars were shining. And I breathed out deeply.