One of his earliest
memories was his Mom lying half through the doorway her brunette hair splayed
over the hardwood floor. The bedroom light was on but her torso and head lay in
the shadow of the hall.
She looked like she
was sleeping in this irrational place. He knew different. His father had come
home after a road trip. He had been happy to see his handsome, grinning Dad in
his white shirt with the starched collar. The clip-on tie lay loose to the tie
clip halfway down the front. Dad smelled like cologne and something else
Charlie couldn’t quite place.
Dad would say hello to Charlie, buss his
thick red hair, then go back to the
bedroom. Mom would follow from the kitchen. It never took long for the whispers to start to rise. Before long they’d be yelling.
Usually his father would stomp out, the taps on his spit shined shoes clipping
along the slick waxed floor.
This time Charlie
had heard a slap then his Mom had fell half into the hall. Dad stepped over her
mumbling as he left.
The door slammed
and he was gone, so Charlie went to her. He knelt at her side … the carefully ironed pleats of
her dark patterned skirt just at his feet. At first her eyes were closed but
after a moment they pursed and then peered slitted up at him.
“It’s ok, Honey. Momma is just resting. Give me a minute and
I’ll fix you something to eat.”
