my kids too.’ He was in the kitchen. ‘What you reading?’ Jerome heard a chair scuff against the nonslip linoleum. He sat down on the bottom step.
‘Nothin’ much.’
‘So why you reading it?’
‘I like reading. Come on, Sonny. You know what the judge said.’
‘Don’t fancy yourself getting so smart from all those books of yours. Stupid bitch. I know you think you’re better than me, but you’re nothin’. Whore.’
The door was open a crack, just enough for Jerome to see inside. His mother took off her glasses, as though to prepare herself for what was to come. She looked calm. Her eyes were deep-set, and her blue-black curls shone in the light of the ceiling lamp. She looked straight at her husband, but Jerome knew she wasn’t seeing him, was seeing something else, only he couldn’t tell what. She never let on. Like she wasn’t real whenever Daddy came home. Like she’d drifted quietly out of her body.
Daddy leaned forward and gave Mama a smack on the jaw. She swayed back but didn’t fall over. ‘Don’t you even feel it?’ He got up and walked around the table. With the flat of his hand he slapped her other cheek. He started laughing. ‘You like that, don’t you? I know what you like.’ Jerome’s mother sat frozen on the chair, her copy of Time magazine still open on the table in front of her. He grabbed her by the arm and dragged her to the floor. He started pounding on her back. Jerome could see his mother shudder to the rhythm of his father’s dull blows. She flopped back and forth like a rag doll. She did not cry, made no sound at all. She did exactly what he himself did when Daddy beat him: turn away. Watch his own compact body reflected in the dark glass of the kitchen door. Feel his cheeks burn, swallow back the tears. Just stand there and take the punches. Smile. Breathe calmly. Daddy can’t ever see his tears. Can’t ever be allowed to see the pain he causes. Jerome held onto the pain with all his might. A dull, burning blackness that pushed against the inside of his skull.
But this stubborn indifference only made Daddy even madder. And Jerome could understand that. He understood why his father beat his mother more and more furiously, desperately. Say something! Feel something! I want to hear you scream. Where are you, goddamn it? Anything’s better than nothing.
Suddenly the pounding and ranting stopped. Jerome peered through the crack and saw his father stagger to his feet. His cheeks were wet, but Jerome couldn’t tell if it was sweat or tears. The man looked smaller than he had a few minutes ago. He muttered something unintelligible, rubbed his hands on his faded pants. From where he stood, Jerome could smell the pungent eau de cologne-like booze stench that clung to his father. He gagged. He saw his mother move on the yellow linoleum floor. She placed her hands flat on the floor and tried to lift up her body. Jerome didn’t know what he should do after Daddy left: he wanted to help his mother, but was ashamed at having witnessed the scene, and he was pretty sure she wouldn’t want him to see her in this state.
‘I’m leavin’,’ he heard his father say.
Jerome tiptoed back upstairs. Once he was back in his room he heard the front door slam. One last piece of glass from the windowpane shattered into splinters on the floor.
A small, stout man with a white hat and a face full of burst veins shuffled through the cluttered store. Boxes were stacked everywhere. There was hardly any light in the stuffy place.
‘A Coke, please.’
‘No Coke,’ the man said. He went behind the glass counter and stood with his back to Jerome.
‘I’d like something to drink.’
‘Faucet’s back here, next to the men’s room.’
‘I’m looking for a jackknife.’
The man didn’t respond.
‘A jackknife. Do you sell jackknives?’ Jerome did his best to sound casual.
The man turned to him. ‘You ain’t old enough to drive. Whatcha doin’ here?’
‘I’m in the Boy Scouts and need a pocketknife.’
‘Boy Scouts? You?’ He laughed.
‘Everybody’s got one.’
‘And you don’t.’
Jerome shook his head. His mouth was so dry it was as though he was breathing dust instead of air.
‘C’mere.’
Jerome went over to the counter.
‘I don’t sell no weapons. You get my drift?’
Jerome looked at the scissors and knives and chisels and screwdrivers displayed under the glass countertop. In the middle of all that glistening steel he saw a dull hatchet with a carved wooden handle shaped like an eagle’s head. It made him think of Indians.
‘I like that one.’
‘Three dollars.’
Jerome dug the money out of his pants pocket and laid it on the counter.
‘Thought you wanted a jackknife.’ The man took the money and slid the hatchet over to him. He turned and fumbled around in the cash register behind the counter. He’d already forgotten Jerome was there.
Jerome felt the weight of the hatchet in his hand. It was heavy for such a small thing. He ran his fingers over the fine woodcarving, over the solid polished steel. It wasn’t as sharp as a knife but it had two perfectly honed corners. He pushed his thumb into one of them. It didn’t hurt. He pushed harder, kept pushing until he felt his calloused skin break. He put his thumb in his mouth. His blood tasted like iron.
He hid the hatchet under his mattress. He slept deeply, dreamlessly. Every once in a while he took the thing out to admire its fine, light-brown woodcarving. He imagined a proud old Indian with long, lank hair who, wielding a small knife, cut thin lines in the wood, keeping at it until an eagle appeared.
It was as though the hatchet defused his murderous thoughts. The hatchet had nothing to do with death. Death was a big limp rabbit at the side of the road. The smell of rain and rotten leaves. He remembered once poking the animal in its belly with a stick to see if it was still alive. He had lifted up the hind legs, turned the head toward him. The eyes were just like dull marbles. Unseeing. He had held his hand an inch above the wooly gray fur. He didn’t dare pet it, but felt its warmth on his skin. As though not all the life had drained from the animal yet. Did rabbits have a soul? Was that what he felt?
One night, a week or two after he had bought the hatchet, Jerome woke up to the rattling of the front door. The broken pane had been boarded up. He heard pounding and shouting. His father’s deep, measured voice. ‘Let me in. You can’t forbid me to see my children.’ Even when he was crazy, his voice was still songful and fluid, almost like he was play-acting, like he didn’t really mean what he said. But his words were so ugly. ‘Filthy whore! You fucking somebody else? I wanna come in. Come on, open the door! Jerome, you there? Jerome!’
Jerome stiffened at the sound of his name. He lay on his back. Chris slept through it all. You could fire off a cannon and Chris wouldn’t wake up. Jerome thought back on that time his father came looking for him. It was summertime, late at night. The humid warmth still hung over the streets. He had hidden under the Spring Street bridge and quickly counted his earnings. He heard his father’s agitated footsteps. He always walked fast when he was crazy.
‘Goddam it, Jerome, where are you? It’s 3 a.m.. Have you lost your mind?’
The footsteps got closer. There was no escape now.
His father crouched at the bridge. ‘Come on home, Jerome. Your mother’s worried.’
Jerome stuffed the dollar bills and coins in his pockets. Looked up at his father. Daddy looked almost timid, as though he were ashamed of something. His glance glided off to one side. ‘Come on.’ It sounded like pleading. Jerome would rather have Daddy get mad than act like this, so pitiful.
‘In a minute. You go ahead.’