The You I've Never Known(2)

But not often, those words came punctuated by a jab to my arm or the shake of my shoulders or a whack against the back of my head.

I learned not to cry.

Soldier up, he’d say. Soldiers don’t cry. They swallow pain.

Keep blubbering, I’ll give you something to bawl about.

He would, too. Afterward always came his idea

of an apology—a piece of gum or a handful of peanuts or, if he felt really bad, he might spring for a Popsicle.

Never a spoken, “I’m sorry.”

Closest he ever came was, I’m raising you the way I was raised. I didn’t turn out so bad, and neither will you.

Then he’d open the dog-eared atlas and we’d choose our next point of interest to explore.

Together. Just the two of us.

That’s all either of us needed.

He always made that crystal clear. Of course, he managed to find plenty of female companionship whenever the desire struck.

It took me years

to understand the reasons for those relationships and how selfish

his motives were.

I’ve read about men

who use their cute dogs to bait women

into hooking up.

Dad used me.

The result was temporary housing, a shot at education, though I changed schools more often than most military kids do. All that moving, though Dad was out of the army.

At least we slept

in actual beds

and used bathrooms

that didn’t have stalls.

But still, I always knew those houses would never be home.





I Might Say


We’ve actually found a real home in a simple rented house only Dad and I share, but I’d have to knock damn hard on wood to eliminate

the jinx factor. We first came here fifteen months ago on one sizzling July day. I don’t know why Dad

picked a California Gold Rush town, but I like Sonora, and actually spent my entire sophomore year, start to finish, at Sonora High School.

Two whole summers, one complete grade, well, that’s a record, and I’m praying I can finish my junior year here, too. It’s only just started, and I’d say I’m probably doomed to finish it elsewhere except for a couple of things. One, Dad has a decent auto mechanic job he likes. And, two, he has an indecent woman he likes even better.





Indecency


Is subjective, I suppose,

and it’s not like I’m listening at Dad’s bedroom door,

trying to figure out exactly what the two of them might

be doing on the far side.

Truthfully, I don’t care

that they have sex, or what variety it might be. Vanilla or kinky, doesn’t matter

at all to me. I’m just glad they’re a couple, and that

they’ve stayed together

this long—six months

and counting. It gives me

hope that we won’t pull up

stakes and hit the road anytime soon. Plus, the regular

rutting seems to help Dad

blow off steam. His violent outbursts are fewer and

further in between. The last was a few weeks ago when

I made the mistake of asking if I could bring a kitten home.

Kitten? he actually bellowed. No!

Kittens turn into cats. Disgusting animals. Shitting in boxes, leaving shitty litter all over the floor.

And the smell! I don’t work my ass off to keep us from living in a nasty, dirty car to come home to cat stink.

I didn’t mention his personal body odor could rival any feline stench. I wouldn’t dare tell him his cigarettes make me gag, even though I finally convinced him to smoke exclusively

outside, so it’s only his nicotine haze that I have to endure.

Instead, I shut my mouth,

resigned myself to the fact I’d not share my bedroom

(complete with cat box)

with a furry companion.

Dad’s never allowed me

to have pets. I assumed

it was due to our transient lifestyle. Now I realize

it’s at least in part because of his impatience with dirt and disorder. Or maybe

he’s afraid to share

my affection. With anything.





It’s Saturday Night


And Dad and Zelda are out

getting trashed. Some local country band Zelda likes

is playing at Dad’s favorite “watering hole,” as he calls it.

Sonora has brought out Dad’s inner Oklahoma hick, and that’s okay except when he’s knocked back a few too many and starts yelling about “them goddamn Muslims”

or, worse, “fucking wetbacks.”

I’ve made a few friends here, and the one I’d call “best” happens to be Latina. Dad probably thinks I’m a traitor, but I don’t care about Monica’s heritage, or if the Torres family is one hundred percent legal.

Starting a new school, knowing exactly no one, rates automatic Freak Club membership. Monica had already been inducted, for reasons I didn’t learn until later. Not that I cared about why. She was the first person at Sonora High to even say hello.

Freak-freak connection’s a powerful thing.





Discovering the Reasons


For Monica’s Freak

Club induction