Willow-Boy, Weep for Me

Once, after a beating, the boy’s mother tells him that he is a sadist. He didn't know the word at the time, but afterwards, he turns it around in his head. Sadist. He goes to his room and lies down, staring at the ceiling, painted brown by the previous owner. He imagines the word spelled out in blue ink over top of it, repeated in his mother’s handwriting, then his father’s, and then his. He always thought he had the prettiest print of the three of them, though he never said it. He knew the truth: handwriting was a weak skill for a white boy.

His mother repeats the word to him. She first says it to him in June, when the Blue Ridge is alight with green throughout the town. The boy memorizes its feeling as he counts molten cicada skins and onion weeds. Sadist. She repeats it under her breath as she cooks in the evenings, glasses fogged from humidity and cooking oil. Her hands are thick and textured, ‘witch’s hands’ as she liked to complain, and she smacks them on the counters when the brisket refuses to boil. The boy had never understood her fury, all his life. He saw her as only a child could: a woman, nothing more, nothing less.

That summer, his father takes him to see the old Confederate flag two miles into the forest. The willows grow thick and hard once you leave the outskirts, and his white knees soon became red and brown. The tips of the branches dip down to catch him, red berries almost bloody as they smash into his skin. He wanted to eat them. His father says they are poisonous. So, the boy simply watches the beige back of his father’s coat bob up and down as he walks, stumbling but silent. He doesn’t see the flag at first, swathed in a black-green color, until his father shoots his hand out, clasping too tightly at the boy’s fist.

“There it is,” his father says, almost smiling, “It’s been there for a century now…a relic.”

His father had always believed that the Confederates were heroes.

He continues, “A man carried that flag once. It made him great.”

The father lets out a laugh, almost disbelieving.

“We used to be so…great.”

In one way or another, it seems that all the stories of all the men in the town return to that place — the Confederate flag, tattered and barely red anymore, hanging limply over two branches. The neighborhood boys would always ride their bikes down to the creek, walking along it until they found the flag. They would throw rocks at the animals to scare them away, preserving the flag like some type of holy site. Their wine was dried meat and fruit, and the boy would watch as their cheeks became round and full, bulging and fleshy and hot. Suddenly, it would all makes sense to him: great men were supposed to conquer. But he never did.

The word follows him into autumn. Sadist. The days shorten and his mother along with it, her own darkness creeping into the household. Power outages are common that time of year, and so his father pulls out old gas lamps, making the house stink of chemicals and metal. In the evenings, the lamps cast everything into a flickery, frightening mess of light. The boy’s mother seems more terrifying.

She calls him it when he forgets to dry the dishes, her thick hands slapping close to his arm on the counter. She calls him it when his homework is marked wrong in red ink. She repeats it over and over, the word slipping into each crack and nook of each room, until the furniture is blooming with bruises and the floor is slippery with bright blue, staining each board. At night, he traces the word over and over, the color coating his room and his body, no longer white and thin, until he falls asleep to it. He makes his decision on one such night, eyes wide and still as the last grasshoppers murmur outside.

So be it.

The morning after, he buttons his shirt and heads to school. The leaves are burnt red and orange, and the entire town smells like smoked meat, warm and spiced. It’s a windy day, and the boy gasps as a sudden gust showers him in leaves, catching in his hair and the bright blue jacket gifted by his grandmother. He stands there, watching the whirl of color around him, and a slow wonder creeps up within him. He is spellbound. He stops, caught up in the swell, imagining birds everywhere.

He is ten minutes late to school. He thinks it is worth it.

The teacher rings his mother later. He cannot bring himself to care until he returns home. It is nearly night, the furniture claustrophobic and dark within the home. Shadows rattle against each board, and he shoos them away. The boy sees her eyes, glittering, behind the gas lamp’s glow. Her voice is low.

“You were late.” She murmurs. The boy says nothing.

She continues, “Well? Do you have a reason?”

The boy says nothing.

“You never say anything,” his mother says, “You’re so quiet.”

Her face starts to turn darker, the light retreating into the far cracks in her weathered face. The boy shifts from foot to foot, watching the transformation.

“Say something.”

The boy stands, bag still held tightly in his hand.

“Come on. Say something. You never say anything! I’m tired of it!” She says. She fists her hands in her faded pants. The boy conjures up the images from the morning — red leaves blowing in through the windows and coming to settle all around him, drifting lightly and singing, like voices.

“I’m tired of it! I’m tired of this house and of your father and of this little town and of these sadists around me and of you, and you know you’re one of them, don’t you? You know you’re one of them, Jesus Christ, you are one of them, and I know it, good Lord, I know it, and—”

His mother pauses, her eyes bulging. Her cheeks have gone bright red, and she rages silently, staring at the boy, fists clenched too tightly. The boy is silent, waiting.

“...Yes.” The boy cuts in, suddenly exhausted, his voice too gentle against his mother’s rage. It is so different that she cannot help but stop and stare.

She stills at the boy’s voice, so soft and feeble, against her own.

“....what?” His mother asks.

The boy shifts again.

“...You’ve called me that every day for the last months…and…I think you’re right. I am a sadist. I know.”

His mother stares at him, her lower lip twitching. Dread spreads throughout the boy, dripping from his fingers and spilling onto the floor, before, all at once, she deflates. His mother’s face seems to morph back into itself, crystallized in the boy’s memory. Suddenly, she is small and saddened, and when she looks up, her shoulders droop. She is quiet, and the boy closes his eyes, realizing that it is so dreadfully silent in the house.

“Joseph.” She whispers, and the name flattens on her tongue, uncharacteristically gentle.

“Joseph.” She repeats until suddenly she is saying the boy’s name over and over. The boy watches, removed. He is numb.

“...Oh, darling,” his mother says.

The boy remains still.

“Come here. Come here.” She says, motioning towards him. She sits on the sofa, rickety and old, groaning under her weight.

“Come sit,” she repeats, patting her lap.

When he was younger, his mother had used to hug him and hold him on her lap, rocking until he’d fallen asleep. She’d tell stories, sometimes, of the creatures in the Blue Ridge. He had loved it. But now, he doesn’t move.

“I wanted to watch the birds.” He says, deathly quiet.

“What?” His mother starts.

“I was late because I wanted to watch the birds,” he says. “I love this season.”

His mother is still and then clicks her tongue.

She says, haltingly, “I’m…glad you like it.”

He continues, “It’s pretty. The house is dark. But outside, everything is…bright.”

His mother seems at a loss of words, watching her son. She stares at him before motioning for him to sit again. He seems stuck in the spot, bag still clenched in his hand, but he moves awkwardly. He sits.

She says, “...we haven’t done this….stories…in awhile, have we?”

He shakes his head.

“You’re a little older now,” she murmurs, running a hand through his hair, “and so maybe I’ll tell you a different story.”

She hums, closing her eyes.

“My mother used to tell me this. She was kind for a while. Then she wasn’t.” His mother says, almost guilty.

“But she was always a good storyteller.”

His mother coughs and clears her throat, rocking and thinking.

“...A long time ago, this land belonged to the Confederates…you know. Slave owners. Killers….Or great men, if you’d like to remember like that. But. There was a battle. The Confederates lost, terribly. Some men ran. Most were killed. But a few made it across the border into Tennessee.”

His mother pauses for a beat.

“They made it here,” she continues.

All at once, the boy understands.

“The flag,” he says. His mother nods.

She says, “They left it here. The soldiers followed the creek, looking for a place to sleep. A warm bed. Warm house. But no one offered. They died there, with their flags and weaponry, furious.”

His mother continues, humming to herself.

“...My mother always said there were ghosts around that flag…vengeful. She said that bad things happen if you leave someone there…no one wants to be left to ghosts.”

She falls quiet, gently running a hand through the boy’s hair.

“No one wants to live with ghosts,” she murmurs, staring at the boy, “do they?”

The boy is still and then stands up abruptly at her words. He cannot say anything, throat closed tight with grief and many things unnameable. His body shakes, seemingly unconsciously, and he whips his head around to stare outside the house, the red-orange outlines fading into nighttime. What is he thinking? His mind whirls, but he knows the truth: that throughout it all, one emotion rings, anger. He is so, so angry. He is angry at his mother. He is angry at her story. He is angry at this house. He is angry at the flag and at the ghosts and at the fact that he is selfish and feeble. He thinks back to last night and his decision. So be it. He would fulfill what his mother’s words.

“...Have you ever seen it?” He asks, softly.

His mother tilts her head.

“The flag?” She asks.

“Yes,” he responds.

“Not in a long, long time,” his mother says. “I was always scared of it.”

“We should go see it,” he whispers, “the flag.”

The boy’s mother watches him, tracing her thick fingers over the brim of his crooked nose, the wide blue eyes, the face plain and terrifyingly placid. He is almost glowing in the gas lamp light, white and fragile under her hands. She had always called him weak. Fragile. She had said so much.

Softly, she says, “Let me warm the chili. Then, we can go.”

His mother forgets her jacket when they leave. As they walk, she tries to take the boy’s hand, but he avoids her. It is fully dark now, the trees bent over the town road and only broken by an occasional house light. It’s cold, wind pulling the leaves away from the two figures, as if making a path for their ruined sneakers and numb hands. They make a sight — two figures, barely visible along the ridge of the town and almost skeletal, lumbering towards the drooped willows. They’re wraith-like. When they enter the forest, the creek to their left, his mother starts, her eyes white in the darkness.

“I’ve never liked this place.” She mutters, voice small. The boy keeps walking, never turning.

“It’s around four miles,” he says, “you’ll do it.”

His mother says nothing, but the boy’s voice is firm. Maybe it is the setting, but she is suddenly afraid.

The two continue to walk, the boy scampering light and quick under the branches. His mother struggles to follow, her hands suddenly wet with nicks and blood and humidity. She cannot see anything but faint outlines of objects, alternating between plants and figures intermittently. Something smells rotten, and she coughs. The ground is squished and uneven, mud sliding over the tops of her shoes, thick and soppy. The air tastes like red salt, dark meat, and venison, so disgustingly raw that she can feel the bile. It is so dark, and she stumbles once, twice, three times.

All at once, everything seems monstrous. She cannot believe it. Her son’s back is fading. She cannot keep up. She is panicking, maybe. It is so dark. She is dark. She is this, she is that, she is perhaps, truly, truly, truly afraid, she thinks, maybe, she is a f r a i d and this is a run-on, she is a run-on, she needs to get away from this place, from this smell, from this taste, she just needs to run from—

“Mama.”

The boy is suddenly standing in front of her. His face is completely obscured, only his small, feminine hands visible and utterly still. He makes no noise, only watches as she pants, falling down to retch.

“It’s there.”

The boy points behind him, into the darkness.

“Papa took me to the flag. It’s there. I know it.” He says.

His mother cannot speak, her face turned downwards towards the earth. It is quiet. It is dark. Slowly, ever so slowly, she straightens. She looks forward, shifting through the darkness to find any bit of the flag. She thinks she hears someone whisper. An animal rustles, and she rapidly picks up her hand, grimacing. Still, she looks, squinting, waiting for her eyes to adjust. And then, it’s there: a flash of red cloth.

She says, “...I’m coming.”

“...Just don’t leave me, darling.” She finishes.

The boy nods and then extends a hand. His eyes are glittering and blown black at the pupils. He helps her up, a small hand gripping too tightly at her palm, leaving half-moon marks in the skin. She clings to him as they step into the darkness, following the bit of red flag hanging, haunted, in the distance. Slowly, the red becomes brighter and brighter, morphing from a beacon into a bloody, terrible thing. She is transfixed by it. She imagines it still smells like gunpowder. She imagines the hands that had touched it. She imagines the illness it had known. She imagines it, once vibrant, shouldered over bodies. Her fingers have gone numb in the cold, and she sways, exhausted and deep within her own mind. Memories unfurl from her, lining the path with a blue glow, pictures of her son as a baby. There is something about this place that lends itself to memory. There is something about this place that lends itself to darkness. And all the while, the red grows brighter. She thinks of her mother’s stories — that this place had ghosts in it, furious and cold, and that this flag was at the center of all of it.

When she turns around to find herself alone, the mother is not surprised.

She understands, then. He has finally proved her right.

He is a sadist, through and through.