Origins of a Life Story

Content warning: This story contains depictions of substance abuse and domestic violence.

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Max’s eyes shoot open. His room is dark, except for a light from outside that is flashing against the Star Wars wallpaper of his bedroom wall. On, off. On, off. On, off. The Millennium Falcon appears, then disappears with every flash. A horn sounds at a rhythmic pace. Beep, beep, beep, beep.

He rolls over and peeks out the top pane of his first-story bedroom window. Outside, illuminated by the lights of a rusty, crew-cab Ford pickup, is Max’s dad, Dale. He’s fumbling with something in his hand. The scrawny man is wearing oil-stained jeans, a mesh ball cap, steel-toed boots, and a green flannel that’s frayed at the edges. His beard is overgrown and his brown pony tail is as frizzy as burlap rope. A bi-fold leather wallet bulges in his back pocket. He gets his grip, points toward the truck, and a final beep, beep sounds before the commotion ends.

The truck is parked cockeyed in the driveway. There are skid marks cut out of the gravel trailing each knobby tire. It came to rest a few feet from Max’s Huffy bike that’s laid on its side. At the end of the driveway is a garage with a door that doesn’t open. A broken fridge, several tool boxes, an old push mower, and a variety of other junk that’s collected over the years blocks access into the detached shanty.

Dale lifts a beer to his lips as he begins walking across the yard toward the front door of the single-story ranch-style home. He hobbles a bit to each side and drags his feet as though they’re stuck in cinder blocks. The yard is half dirt, half overgrown grass and weeds. Max’s Tonka trucks are arranged in the dirt patches, ready for a long day of digging and hauling p-gravel between neglected flower beds that would begin in the morning.

Max sits up and hurries to the foot of the bunk bed. He descends the cold, metal steps, one at a time, hopping to the floor to skip the last one. Thud.

“Where ya goin?” A voice asks from the bottom bunk.

“Shhhh!” Hushes Max. “Dad’s home.”

“He is?” The voice says with an elevated pitch.

“Damn it, Danny. Be quiet.”

Danny persists. “I wanna see him.” And he begins to pull the covers off.

Max gently pins his younger brother to the bed. “You stay put. Mom won’t like it if we’re out of bed.”

“But you’re getting up.”

Max searches for an excuse to give his brother. “Because I can sneak better than you. You’ll wake her up.”

“I’m gonna tell on you.” Danny says through a pouty lip.

“You do and I’ll break your lightsaber.” Snaps Max.

Max cracks the bedroom door. He peeks out into the hallway, then slides through the opening. He keeps close to the wall as he tiptoes down the hallway toward the living room, careful not to bump any picture frames hanging from the wood-colored laminate panels.

Just before Max reaches his parent’s bedroom door, it swings open and his mother, Martha, emerges from the room with long, mean strides. She’s wearing a floral nightgown and hair curlers. She has a cigarette in her left hand and a kitchen knife in her right. Her toes are spread apart with cotton balls and a few of her toenails are painted a flashy red. Her gown adorns flowers that seem as though they were color coordinated with the orange and yellow shag carpet that joins the bedroom hallway and living room.

Max ducks behind the bedroom door that opens out into the hallway; A design flaw his mother’s complained about as long as he can remember. Martha harassing Dale to fix the door may be his first memory.

Martha’s footsteps fade as she approaches the front door. Max hears the thunk of the blind deadbolt and more footsteps as Martha walks over to the end of the family’s scratchy, picture-patterned couch that’s colored in shades of brown. The picture is of a lonely barn tucked into a tree line.

Max hears keys jingle and the rattling of the doorknob. The doorknob rattles again, followed by mumbled cursing.

The rattling stops and Max hears the crunch of gravel and the crackling of dead shrubs as Dale walks toward the large, rectangular living room window. He presses the sides of his palms against the glass and peers in.

“Martha, I see you in there.” Shouts Dale.

Martha doesn’t reply.

“I can see your cigarette. Open up.”

He knocks on the glass.

Still no reply. Martha is sitting cross legged. She ashes on the carpet, reaches over, pulls the lamp chord, picks up the phone, and punches numbers into the receiver.

A stock chime rings from outside. Ring-a-ding-ding. It’s cut off mid repetition as Dale flips the phone open.

“Come on, Martha. It’s cold out.”

“Oh, so your phone does work?” Martha says.

“You’re mad I didn’t call.” Nods Dale. “I'm sorry, honey. I got caught up trying to finish a combine job for a farmer who’s on a crunch.” 

No response. Dale is pacing back and forth across the front yard. 

“Where you been, Dale?” Martha asks.

“I just told you… Workin’.”

“This whole time?”

“Well, I stopped by the Legion afterward.”

Martha takes a long drag and blows the smoke out her nostrils.

“I thought you’d say that.” She chuckles. “I called ‘em.”

“So you know I ain't lyin’.” Urges Dale.

“I know you left two hours ago.” Martha coughs, wheezes, then coughs some more.

“Did Mike tell you that? That fat bastard is out to get me. On uh… account of my tab.”

“That’s your story?” Martha snorts. “You’re pathetic.”

“It’s the truth, hon. Don’t know what ya want me to say.” Dale rubs the back of his neck.

Martha puts the cigarette out in an ashtray on the end table and carefully stacks the butt on the teetering pile of old Marlboros that she smoked down to the filter.

“Bullshit.” She says, getting up from the couch. She walks over to the fridge, opens the door and pulls out a bottle of Cupcake Chardonnay.

Dale lets out a long sigh. “Why don’t you just tell me what you think I been doin’.”

Martha pours a generous serving into a plastic cup, stares at the cup, then grabs the bottle by the neck and takes a swig. She pours the cup of wine back into the bottle, spilling on the counter as she does so, swags back to the living room, and flops down on the couch.

“I know exactly where you been and who you been doin.”

“I… I got no idea where you’re goin’ with this.” Groans Dale.

Martha takes another swig and wipes her chin with the back of her hand.

“I got a picture message from my sister about an hour ago.” She chuckles. “And guess who’s bare ass was in it!”

Max can hear his father’s voice through the phone and faintly from outside. But he can’t make out any of his words. He hugs his knees. He resists the urge to sprint out the front door and into his father’s arms. He wants to see his dad. He wants to hug his waste and breath in the familiar mix of aftershave and diesel.

Questions race through his head. Where has dad been? What has he been doing? Why won’t mom let him inside? Where did dad leave two hours ago, and why didn’t he come home? Did aunt Christy really send his mother a naked picture?

Dale stops pacing, lifts his cap, and scratches his head. “I.. I haven’t seen Christy. So I don’t know what you’re talkin’ bout.” He says frantically. 

Martha scoffs. “My sister has wanted to ruin my life ever since mom left us the house.” She takes a pull from the bottle. “And… gulp. Seems you got used, dumbass.”

Dale, one hand on his hip, sways in place and hangs his head..

“Martha… look.” He looks up at the sky and sighs. “It was a one time thing. I promise you. I swear on my mother’s grave, it won’t ever happen again.”

Martha takes two more gulps of the sweet Chardonnay. “Save your breath. This is a long time coming. We both know it.”

”I’m honestly relieved you see it that way.” Says Dale. “Last thing I want is a fight.”

Martha props her feet up on the edge of the couch and removes the cotton balls from between her toes. She tosses the used cotton to the floor.

”Oh…” Martha laughs. “I’m certain there’ll be a fight.”

Dale perks up. “What makes you say that?”

Martha reclines in the couch. “Because I’m going to make sure you never see them kids again.”

“Don’t say that.” Dale says. “You can’t keep me from the boys.”

“Yes I can.” Martha says flatly. “Good luck convincing a judge to take two boys aways from their loving mother. Especially when their father is a cheating bastard who can’t hold down a job.”

Max’s ears are burning and tears are streaming down his face. What’s a judge? Dad cheated on mom? Don’t they love each other? Dad doesn’t have a job? Will he really never see him again?

“Then everyone’s gonna know you’re a lousy drunk and abusive mother. The cops get those boys alone and they’ll crow like roosters about your ‘discipline.’” Growls Dale.

“I’ll coach ‘em.” Martha says confidently, looking at her fingernails wrapped around the bottle. “When I’m through they won’t dare say one sour word about their mother.”

Dale’s tone intensifies. He pounds his fist on the glass. “Open the door right now... Or I’ll kick it in.”

“Please, let yourself in Dale.” Martha says in a low tone that makes Max uneasy. He’s heard that tone before. She points the kitchen knife at the window in view of Dale. 

“And I’ll tell the police you assaulted little ole me and I just had no choice but to defend myself.” She continues.

Max covers his mouth to silence the sobbing. His pajama collar is soaked from the tears. Why is mom threatening dad? What’s assault? He wants to be with his father. Is he going to come inside now?

Dale stares into the house, meeting Martha’s glazed eyes. He backs away from the window.

Without thinking, max sniffles. Martha’s eyes widen and her gaze snaps to the hallway.

“Who’s outa bed?” She shouts. “I told you to stay in bed!” 

Martha stands up from the couch, wine bottle and kitchen knife still in hand, and heads for the hallway.

Dale makes a dash for the front door.

Max hops to his feet as quickly as he can and runs to his room. He closes the door behind him and locks it. He hears his mother’s rushed footsteps and a crash at the front door.

Max climbs into the bottom bunk with Danny.

“Wha… what’re you doin?” Danny asks with groggy words.

“Get under the covers.” Max says. “Mom is really mad.”

He pulls the covers over the two of them, hugs his brother tight, and covers his ears.

“Don’t touch them boys!” Max hears his dad shout.

Dale runs down the hallway as Martha is reaching for the doorknob to the boys’ room. A struggle ensues outside the door. Max can hear his father grunt and his mother squeal. What must be his parents' bodies slam into the door and then into the wall. Something falls and Max hears the sound of glass breaking. Crash.

“Get off me you pig!” His mother screams.

“Ahh!” Shrieks Dale. “You bitch! You cut me.”

There’s another thud against the wall, this one louder than the others. It’s followed by repeated thuds, and the sound of metal clattering to the floor.

”Get off me! Get off…”

One of Max’s parents begins coughing and gurgling. More coughing. More gurgling. A body slides down the wall. Scraaatch.

“You made me do this.” Says Dale. “You made me!”

Max hears kicking against the floor. The sound of a body thrashing makes him sick to his stomach. It lasts for nearly a minute, but feels like a lifetime. Max hears the sound of loud, fast breathing coming through clenched teeth. Hiss. Hiss. Hiss.

Then, the thrashing stops.

“I’m scared.” Sobs Danny.

“Shhh.” Says Max. “You’ll be ok.”

“What happened?” Asks Danny.

“I don’t know, Danny... I don’t know.”