Short Fiction by Mark Tulin
My worst memory of my parents happened when I was five. It was like a war broke out, and I was in the middle. They had an endless list of things to fight about, and they never seemed to get tired.
“Why don’t you wring out the sponge after you do the dishes,” said my father, who thought he knew the right way of doing everything.
When my mother wouldn’t follow Dad’s rules, he got infuriated—like a bomb had exploded in his head. He’d scream for an hour, no matter who was in earshot. Then he found other things to pick on, like how she cleaned the house or the high heel marks she left on the linoleum floor.
However, my mother was not innocent. Her pet peeve was my father’s bald head. She hated looking at it. The sight of that bare pate was so intolerable she felt compelled to cover it up with a hat or the ragged hairpiece she bought from a local barber. The wig was two sizes too big for Dad’s head and looked like a dead squirrel.
“You put that thing on my head again, Lil, and I’m going to throw it out the window.”
My mother ignored his threat.
My father let the wig sit on his bare pate for a few minutes, then threw it in the closet. But my mother retrieved it and stuck it on his head again. My father threw it, and she retrieved it again and again like a dog fetching a stick.
“It’s too hot, Lil,” he complained.
“No, it isn’t, Milt. It makes you look younger.”
“Then you wear the damn thing!”
“I’m not bald—I have hair.”
And they argued until they got hoarse, or my father left to go bowling with his pals. Of course, my mother stayed home, turned on the record player, and listened to old Sinatra records. She played that corny music so loud I couldn’t escape it.
When all the fighting was going on, I was in my hot bedroom having an asthma attack, taking puff after puff of my inhaler, trying to catch that elusive breath. But the more I used the inhaler, the harder it was to breathe.
And then, one night, my father came home after a frustrating day and saw my mother stretched on the sofa smoking a Tareyton. “The floor isn’t mopped,” he complained belligerently. “There’s a goddamn pillow on the floor, and Jeffrey’s toys are everywhere. So what the hell have you been doing all day, Lil?”
That’s all Mom needed to hear. One more criticism of the way she kept the house.
“Don’t talk to me like that—you fat bastard!”
She took off her high heels and, one by one, threw them across the living room. He ducked, and they sailed over his head, shattering the bay window.
“You crazy bitch!” yelled Dad.
I stood frozen in the hallway. It was a small house, and I was frustrated that I couldn’t escape. I prayed my parents would stop, hoping Dad would leave and move into Grandpop’s trailer in Mahanoy City. And I prayed Mom would recover from her insanity and behave like a normal mother, like the ones my friends have who bake cookies and smile when I come over.
My chest tightened as if a belt was pulled across my chest.
“Mom, I can’t breathe again,” I said, hoping she’d respond.
Instead of comforting me, she turned to my father. “See what you did, Milt! You’re making my son sick.”
“No, you’re the one who’s giving Jeffrey asthma.”
My parents could not tolerate being together. Dad was a big guy, and I thought he would send Mom to the hospital on several occasions. Then I’d have to live with Grandma Ida, which wouldn’t be so bad if she didn’t watch the Lawrence Welk Show all the time. If that wasn’t bad enough, Grandma had a bad habit of soaking her gnarly feet when the show was on.
And so, the worst scenario came true. The fight between Milt and Lil escalated, and my father lost control. All I remember was his right hand forming a fist. He held it in the air for the longest time, as if he wanted the world to see.
“I’m warning you, Lil. One more word.” And he waved his meaty fist in her face, thinking it would make her stop.
“Fuck you, Milt. I’m not afraid of you. I’m going to get a gun and shoot you when you’re asleep—so you better be afraid of me.”
I had a finger in each ear, but I should have covered my eyes because my father walloped my mother in the mouth like a prizefighter. She fell backward on the steps. Although only five feet, she was strong and could take a hit.
After seeing what he did, my father became a crybaby—asking my mother for forgiveness, apologizing profusely.
“I’m sorry,” he said, “but you pushed me over the edge, Lil.”
As my mother rubbed her jaw, I still had my fingers in my ears, squatting on the floor in the hallway. I was overjoyed my mother was still alive but sad my parents remained in the same room. That was never a good sign.
“I’m sorry, Lil. Do you need to go to the hospital?”
My mother said nothing. She didn’t talk when she was furious. So I worried that the fight would continue, which it did.
My mom looked at me for a few seconds—and that’s never good. She then got off the step, still rubbing her swollen jaw, which had developed a purple bruise. Finally, she grabbed my arm and said to Dad, “I’m taking Jeffrey, and we’re leaving!” And she dragged me toward the front door.
“Over my dead body!” my father shouted, blocking the door and preventing my mother’s escape.
As I attempted to break free of my mother’s grip, her fingers held me in place like a steel trap. I could feel her anger travel up my body and into my lungs, making it more difficult for me to breathe. Then my mother changed direction. She dragged me down the steps to the basement, with my father trailing us and imploring my mother to stop.
“Stop, Lil!” he shouted. “You’re not taking Jeffrey anywhere. He’s only a kid. Let him go.”
My mother dragged me like a dog to the basement door. But before she was outside, Dad grabbed my arm. I was being torn in half; my parents stretched my limbs as if I were Gumby. Dad and Mom called each other names loud enough for the neighbors to hear.
When I slipped from Mom’s grip, the glass from the glass screen door shattered in my face. Blood spurted from my forehead and eye socket. While I was in the worst pain of my life, my parents were still at each other’s throats. The only thing they did right was to take me to the hospital.
The next thing I knew, I was in the backseat of my father’s Dodge Dart with my mother holding a towel over my face.
“Hurry!” my mother said.
“I don’t want to get a ticket,” said my father.
Once we arrived at Einstein Hospital, I was soon on an operating table with a mask over my mouth, and someone told me to take a deep breath. After that, I only remember a bright light and people whispering. And when I woke, they gave me the bad news that my right eye was damaged beyond repair, and I would have to wear a patch for the rest of my life.
I was depressed, but my parents were in serious trouble. They had gone too far with their fighting. The authorities removed me from the house and placed with Grandma. Dad had to serve a prison sentence for spousal abuse, and they admitted my mother to a psychiatric hospital for a few months. Eventually, I would get a glass eye. People couldn’t tell the difference—but I knew. Sometimes I woke up from a nightmare, thinking I had turned into Cyclops. Grandma was always there to comfort me, something I was grateful for.
Mark Tulin is a retired therapist living with his wife in Long Beach, CA. He has authored Magical Yogis, Awkward Grace, The Asthmatic Kid and Other Stories, Junkyard Souls, and Rain on Cabrillo. His stories and poetry have appeared in countless publications. Find Mark at crowonthewire.com.
