The Summer That Melted Everything(40)

“During the course of his year from one birthday to the next, the man would shorten the rope. He would swat the knot away, and from there, whenever he was the reason for the bruise, for the wound, for the shivering terror, he would take the ax and chop off a piece of the rope. He swore that if ever his evil lunged so far and for so long, making the rope short enough to make a noose, he would hang himself, knowing he had put the sun under the wheel and run over the light one too many times.

“The wife and child thought well of the man’s purpose with the rope. That he documented his sins by it and bound himself to the crack of his own abyss. They believed he would one day no longer sweat with the blade of the ax but that he would sit calm and peaceful within the circle of unbroken rope. That is the hope of the abused. That the bruises will leap away and the monster of the man will lift above his person like smoke.

“Then came the year the crops strained. The roots shifted and the dry fields began to constrict like throats too weak even to muster a whisper, all the while the man couldn’t stop screaming. Little can be done to mute the roaring monster. Pity too, because up to then, the man had been good. The rope had barely been chopped away. But every day the crops yellowed and the ground cracked, the shorter the rope and the angrier the man.

“The fields were unnerving him at a rate the rope had never known. Perhaps it was the man’s fear that the fields would never grow again. That his American chance would go to the grave in the dirt around him. Whatever it was, it spurred a cycle of fists and blood and screams. The small house felt even smaller. Their bellies felt even emptier. Bang, bang, bang went the man. Chop, chop, chop went the rope.

“Then came the day the man got so angry at the woman. The reason I forget. I always forget the reasons. They were always such small drops. Burnt meat. Overalls not yet patched. Too lax a look when looking out upon the barren fields. Things that wouldn’t be cured by a fist to the cheek but the man tried that day as he beat his wife down to the floor, while the son watched from the doorway but only out of his left eye, as his right was still low and swollen and like peering through milkweed.

“The son knew if he helped his mother, he too would get poured upon by his father’s lava and he was still burnt from yesterday. If the boy had it to do over, he would do something to help his mother, but something is hard to come by when you’re only nine years old and stalked by the shattering blow. You are so exhausted that to not be beaten is to squeeze into the crevice of light, even if it means your mother is beaten in your place.

“It was a terrible day to be hurt in the kitchen. The sun coming in the windows, the spots of light looking like lemons scattered across the floor. The screen door opening the room to the sweet air and the clothesline outside, where the just-washed dish towels flapped in the breeze.

“All the while, the woman lay there on the floor, doing her best shield. That was her way. To be still. To take it and all its killing. It was like seeing a handkerchief try to cling to a window screen during a tornado. You knew she would lose in the end, and when the blow to her face came, there was no more clinging to the screen for a chance.

“She was knocked unconscious. Her face bleeding like old red rivers from broken ground. The man quickly scooped her up in his arms and ran out the door with her. He was always good when it came to the save, and as he sped the woman to the doctor, the boy cleaned up the blood with a mop, afterwards wringing it out in the dying fields as if the drops of his mother’s blood would in some way pay for the crops’ growth.

“When the man returned, having left the woman with the doctor, he took the ax and chopped the rope down until it was short enough. He carried the rope up to the porch, where he hung it from the exposed beams of the ceiling. With the loop around his neck, he stood on the stool, checking it back and forth. Without more, he kicked the stool over, grunting as his body jerked down.

“Having not had his neck broken, the toes of his boots dangled just above the porch boards as he hung there with his still arms by his side. Suddenly he started to thrash, though looking more like he was rummaging through some drawers than losing his life.

“The boy would have thought had this moment ever come to pass, he would pull up a chair and watch patiently as his father strangled to death. Instead the boy ran and stood up the stool so it was there for his father’s feet once more. The father kicked it back over. Let it be said, the father did want to die. It was the son who didn’t want him to.

“Once more, the boy stood the stool up beneath his father’s feet. In kicking for the stool, the father kicked the boy, who fell back onto the two-pronged pitchfork they would use when gathering hay from the fields.

“The father used the last of himself to hoist his legs up onto the porch rail, supporting his body as he loosened the rope from around his neck. He smelled of piss and whiskey as he scooped his crying son up. He’s always been good with the saving, the boy thought as his father carried him inside and laid him on the bed.

“The father very carefully cleaned and dressed the two large gashes going up the boy’s back, along his shoulder blades. As he did so, the father apologized, and the boy reached out to the noose marks.

“‘Promise you won’t do it again, Pa. Promise you won’t let the rope get so short again.’

“The father looked down at his son. ‘You’ll have to help me. I can’t keep it long on my own. You must help me.’