By Alexis Scarbro
We met on the church grounds; she was mousey, her body looked stringy enveloped in baggy, vintage, polyester clothes of rusty orange, beige, and yellow. Her brown hair was dull, her skin had the pallor of a potato, and her hard, dark eyes peeked out of tiny slits; I did not trust her. She sat down as she smiled across the pews at me. Her big teeth crowded her mouth and made her already plump lips look even more swollen and red. She reminded me of the baby my mom was sitting for, for added income; the baby had been left in her diapers far too long when her mother dropped her off and Ma said she looked like she was chemically burned. I did not know what that meant so I looked and, well, that’s what this girl’s lips looked like: owch. She waved at me again, her bangs moving emphatically with the jerking of her arm. I looked away. We had moved houses so many times already, there just was no use in trying to make friends; we’d be moving out of this neighborhood by summer, next year. We always did.
After the pointless sermon, I stood up and stretched. It felt like I was a pressure cooker and the words the preacher belched out were chopped like onions and carrots by his slamming fists on the podium; I was sizzling hot with boredom soup that wouldn’t be contained much longer. I wanted to hurry home and play E.T. the Extra-Terrestrial on our Atari. It was a birthday present, my first game ever, and it was all I could think about.
My shirt was tugged on from behind. I spun around to see a woman introducing herself to Ma, her name was Wilma. Her body appeared misshapen like a pear, upside-down. Her hair was very long because she wrapped it up like Princess Leia’s honeybuns, only she wore just one, like a giant cinnamon roll without frosting, the size of a cake on her round head. She looked like she could be Ma’s age and as I looked up into her giant, open mouth I couldn’t help my judgmental mind from thinking, “She looks just like a donkey.” Her molars were giant, but the front teeth: gravity had yanked them forwards, not down, and they jutted out crookedly. She wore a worn-out, yellow AT&T t-shirt, clearly too large for her. Unlike anyone I’d ever seen, she tucked her breasts and t-shirt down into the waistband of her stretchy black sweatpants, yanking the waist of her roomy sweats up around her armpits. Her flattened penny loafers and socks with red balls that poked out at the Achille’s heels beat everything. I stepped to the side when I saw that her spittle made a sparkling, rainbow mist in the stained-glass sun beams. A hand darted out from behind Wilma’s legs and yanked on my shirt, again. I knew that skinny arm, those familiar brown bangs; it was that girl.
Wilma sucked in a giant lungful of acidic church air and said in a high-pitched voice, “Well who is this?” She was looking at me with a clown smile that crept into my mind. Was she walking around inside my head, could she hear my thoughts, my opinions of her?
Without looking away she reached behind and pulled her child out from hiding and said, “Lilian, say high to Mrs. Scarbro’s daughter. What’s your name?” when she said “your” her neck stretched out like a tortoise, bringing her big, ugly face even closer to mine. I felt invaded, I’d never met an adult like this. She made me think of the weird kids at the myriad of schools I’d attended; the ones who wrote their names in boogers on their desks, who threw shitty toilet paper over the stalls, and licked the school bus windows to get a thrill out of onlookers.
Ma said, “This is my only daughter, Alexis; she’s 9.” She pulled me close into a sideways hug. I could feel the sweet, teeth grinding smile she held in her molars as she said the words. She was acting sticky, too sweet; it was gooey and gross; this was not how she acted at home. I turned to make sure it was my Ma and pulled out of her foreign embrace.
Lilian stepped away from Wilma but held tightly to her hand. She looked too old to be so needy; I was repulsed by her. She opened her toothy mouth and said, “Want some Hubba Bubba? It’s the pink kind. I don’t like the Grape kind, do you?” There was animal hair all over her stiff shirt.
She was opening a brand-new pack of soft, pink, powdered sugar squares of gum and I was mesmerized. Ma never let me get candy; I had to do chores for a whole week to get enough to buy it myself, Ma wouldn’t.
Lilian pushed the paper wrapped cube into my hand and unwrapped a piece to add to her already full mouth. She smiled as she chewed, open mouthed and loudly, and said with a garbled voice, “It’s good isn’t it? It’s my favorite. Wanna play?”
I savored the sweet flavor of pink and nodded, following her outside to the church lot. The building was sided in what I would describe as pebbles. It was wide and tall, but it didn’t have a domed roof or bell tower. It was nestled in a wooded area, the lawn was mowed only 6’ around the perimeter, and the parking lot was gravel; there wasn’t anything to do out there. I looked at her for instruction, was there a playground in the back yard or something? She kicked rocks and told me the names of the kids nearby. She told me she’d be in 4th grade, right below me and that we’d go to the same school. Both of our older brothers would be at another. I told her I was born in Canada hoping it would distract her from wanting to make me her friend (it worked so many times before when I hadn’t meant it to). Her answer was a surprise.
She started singing the song Panama from Van Halen, but with “Canada.” I laughed; maybe I was being a stubborn, skeptical jerk.
Two boys were growing furious, nearby; perhaps they didn’t know how to release the built-up pressure from sitting so long, listening to bullshit. One boy said something under his breath and suddenly, two boys became one fury of fists, flying. The dark-haired one quickly won the top position, letting the red-headed boy below him have it; it was chaos, I hated how it made me feel inside; I wanted to see but also wanted to look away at the same time.
The front doors to the church flapped open and slammed against the outside of the church with a bang. A dark brown-haired man rushed out and made a beeline towards the ball of boys; his brow was contorted into a bug-eyed snarl. He grabbed both boys by the backs of their shirts and stood them upright as they clawed at each other, intent on making contact. He kept saying, “Alright, alright, alright,” but stopped when a stray open hand thwacked him on the arm. Now, he grew visibly angry; his face swapped tan with the same colour of the lava I saw on a PBS special, the night before. He took the boy whose hair was a carbon copy of his own by the arm, twisted it and began marching him to a station wagon paneled in false wood. As he stomped, he twisted the boy’s arm further, causing the boy to lean forward and let out a sharp cry. The man reached into the nearby fauna, ripped at and twisted a tree branch until his hand came way full. He stripped off a few branches from it, then held a stick as long as my leg over the boy. He began whipping him; I couldn’t believe my eyes.
We stood, gaping at the scene. It was like an episode of Roots; the man was slashing his son with shaking, deliberate blows, all the while telling the boy what a terrible child he was. The boy was begging for mercy, sobs bubbling out in between each stroke. The father never even asked his son why the fight began in the first place.
It reminded me of home. I saw how hideous the beatings I endured in privacy would appear to a world looking in. It was unleashed and brutal, and only one person was in control. I wished there were a screen to show the world what my stepdad did to me at home. I looked at Lilian, she was smiling, laughing even. I didn’t understand. I looked around at all the faces of the people in the church lot. They watched, some with empathetic brows like mine, some with indignant stares, there were nods of approval, and some, like Lilian laughed. No one, not even me, made a move to stop it. The boy with red hair, named Kevin, was brushing off his knees, still on the sidewalk. His father, a taller version of him with matching clothes was asking questions, trying to find out what happened, and checking for injuries .
Lilian bumped my arm with her elbow, redirected me to the beating, “That’s Jonathon. He gets into fights all the time. He’s always getting angry and trying to whip my brother. I’m glad his dad’s beating his butt. He probably started it.” Her gum was making more noise than our Chevette when the muffler fell off. I was overwhelmed. The need to run came over me; I wanted to grab the man and force him to eat his stick. I wanted to save the boy and run away from here; I knew this boy’s plight. I knew it first hand.
Lilian’s acceptance of Mr. Pootz’s “discipline” filled me with resistance; I ached to get home to my game and get away from these insane people. Ma had forced me to come along and I’d hated it. I’d tell her on the way home so she wouldn’t make me come any more; Ma had said this church was a trial run, there were 3 others left to try.
Behind me I heard Kevin shout, “Stop, please!” He was running toward Jonathon and his furious, windmill armed father. He said with mustered authority, “Stop! I started it Mr. Pootz. I started it; he wasn’t doin’ nothin’!”
Mr. Pootz didn’t stop right away, though. It was like he had something left inside himself he wanted his son to feel, needed him to feel. He thrashed his son’s back and legs three more times, harder than before, and then dropped the stick. Sweat was clinging to his hair like an athlete’s after a win. His contorted face relaxed; he composed himself by fixing his hair with both hands, smoothing it, then smoothing his shirt and pants. Mr. Pootz turned slowly and acknowledged Kevin with a nod.
Kevin stood on his toes and raised his shaking voice, “I said it was my fault, Mr. Pootz. I told Jonathon his shoes weren’t real Nikes. I was only kidding, you know. I didn’t know he’d get so angry. I won’t tease him, please don’t whip him anymore, Mr. Pootz. Please!” Tears were falling from his chin like the kitchen faucet leak in our new, rented house. I was moved with great compassion.
How could Jonathon’s father lose control like that? Wasn’t the sermon about controlling the self? I wasn’t even listening, and I’d heard that. And didn’t he care we were all watching? Didn’t he care about his own flesh and blood laying on the grass, panting and sobbing in chokes and pleading for mercy? What if he was injured, badly? How could a father do such a thing? He was clearly in the wrong! He’d have to apologize to Jonathon, right?
Mr. Pootz turned back to look at his son, he put his hands on his hips. He was wearing tan slacks, a white, tucked in, ironed shirt and a fat, black tie. His body looked athletic, I realized. His shoes were shiny and so was his leather belt. He stared at his son for a few seconds and turned back to address Kevin. “Oh, don’t worry Kevin, Jon will be alright. He needs to be kept in line, otherwise he’ll fight every boy in church. Won’t you, son?” Jonathon jerked his head, below on the grass. Mr. Pootz pulled out his keys and unlocked the driver’s door of the fake wooden station wagon. He reached into the back seat and yanked up the lock, then opened the back seat door and said to Jonathon, “Get in,” without so much as a hug.
Kevin stepped forward and apologized to Jonathon. Jonathon kept his head down, hiding his tear-stained cheeks; shame dripped from him like he’d been dunked in it. He shuffled his second-hand Nikes towards the car door, shoulders slumped. I saw his chest fill up and heard a soft, “thanks Kev.” He sat in the car and slid down on the slippery upholstery. His dad slammed the door and all I could see was his brown hair, but then he slid down further, and he was gone.
Ma and Lilian’s mom walked out into the Sunday afternoon, oblivious to the scuffle, only moments ago. Wilma was chatting animatedly to Ma as families exited the preacher’s stadium; Ma looked in my eyes and aimed her head toward our Chevette with meaning. She wanted to go, and now. I saw her stringy husband, my stepfather, gaining on her, swaggering his exaggerated walk; he appeared to have an issue, as usual; great. My brother, followed right behind, clutching his new, leather bible like it was one of his precious encyclopedias. What a nerd.
Lilian and I said goodbye and I got in the back seat, pretending to buckle up. As my mother’s choice steered our car backwards and then up the exit lane, Ma looked at me with a giant, wincing smile. Her voice wasn’t serious, and she said, “So Alexis, what do you think of Lilian?” Her eyes grew big as she said her name with a whine. She liked to pick my friends for me; apparently, she didn’t approve.
I shrugged and said, “She’s kind of a whiner. I don’t know.”
“Wilma wants you and Lilian to be friends. Wilma wants to be friends with me, too. I don’t really think I like that woman.” She turned to her mate in the driver’s seat and said to him, “you should have–”
I interrupted, informing everyone what they missed. I told about Jonathan and Kevin, rolling on the church sidewalk, socking each other in the face. I tried to tell what happened afterwards, but Ma overrode about what a brat Jonathon was for making his father look like a fool. His father was one of the Elders, she said; it was his job to keep a tight ship. I tried to tell her how Mr. Pootz lost his control, but she said he should keep his son in-check for role-modeling to the congregation. I mumbled that it was Kevin’s teasing Jonathon that started things, but it fell on deaf ears. Like usual, it was the troubled kid who was at fault. The black sheep was stripped of dignity and whipped unashamedly. Because we have a hard day, we’re punished, more. When was mercy given? How could this display of rage be good for anyone? I was upset. I tried to interject again, but her husband started, taking center stage.
“They told me to cut my hair,” he said hoarsely. Was he crying? “They said I have to cut my hair and you guys have to dress like it’s Easter, or a wedding, or something, or we’re not welcome back. We don’t have dress-up clothes, I can’t even find work — and I’m not cutting my damn hair for them. Jesus had long hair, I bet.”
Ma looked concerned and I saw the fixing gears in her mind began to whirl. She said, “My parents can buy the kids’ dress clothes.” Then, she added, “My friend Nancy can do your hair, she’s a stylist. She won’t cut it too short.” My mother’s husband’s head swiveled from side to side. Wait, he actually wanted to return to this church? It was stuffy, our Sundays would be ruined. I guess it was settled then; we were sticking with this religion thing. I objected.
I leaned all the way into the front of the cabin and said, “I thought this was a trial run! I hate that place. I don’t want to go back,” but it was like I was invisible, not to my brother. He saw I hadn’t buckled in and knocked me hard with his knee first, then his fist. I looked at him, rubbing the spaces he’d hit and he mouthed, “Shut up and buckle, you idiot.”
Replacement-father exhaled his putrid breath, flooding the tiny Chevette’s cabin with decay. I gagged and scrambled to pop open my window, elongating my lips to sip in the air outside, like a camel to water. My brother boxed me on the shoulder, again and I winced while saying, “What?” He mouthed, “BUCK-LE,” then he just looked ahead, like a grown-up.
He spoke lowly with an obvious sneer, “I won’t cut my hair off for a bunch of straits. That lead Elder’s wife is well over 200 pounds, she’s a glutton. He should make her lose weight; then I’ll cut my hair.”
Mom pressed Play on the tape deck on the dash and the Resurrection Band praised God. No one spoke the rest of the drive.
After lunch I sat before the television set, thinking hard. I kept replaying the scene of Jonathon protecting his face, curling up in a ball, reaching for his father’s help, trying to stop it, never striking back, never being heard, and accepting his severe punishment as if he deserved it. It was so wrong! I felt nauseated. I put the game cartridge into the slot. I looked up at my reflection on the static television screen. My hair was sticking to my head like a wet towel. I wore my brother’s old Cubs jersey and my eyes were drawn wide; I looked scared. I couldn’t help wishing someone was watching, like God. Someone could be watching and could stop dads and moms from beating their kids, but no one did anything for Jonathon, today. Why? I’d heard Ma read that Jesus said, “Suffer not one of these,” when he held a child on his lap. Jesus wasn’t whipping children. Why did he let this keep going? Who would stand up for the kids? Wasn’t he supposed to save us? What was he waiting for?
I thought about Wilma. She was dressed like homeless people I saw in line at a soup kitchen in Toronto. Had the church told her to change into something more decent? And who let her have kids, shouldn’t there be clearance, first? Then, I wondered how adults could tell other adults what to wear and how to wear their hair … and why in the world would they? Like, could someone control what clothes I would wear until the day I die? Oh no, not me, then I remembered how Ma wouldn’t let me wear my pink sweats with red shorts over.
I turned on the console; it hummed softly. I heard the familiar song play in mono through speaker of our 11-inch Zenith tv as it warmed up. The 8-bit graphics burst in colour on the screen, displaying the origin story of E.T. I thought about what police officers show up to when Domestics are called in. Is it about the children? Is it only when it’s husbands and wives? I didn’t know anymore, nothing made sense. I guessed I’d have to settle with saving E.T. like I’d have saved Jonathon if I were Jesus.
If Jesus actually saved little boys or girls.