The Serpent King(32)
“Well, ithn’t thith prethiouth!” he said, slurring and lisping, gesturing with a limp wrist. “Look at my two little girlth having the betht old time!” He affected a mincing gait.
Travis smiled uneasily, hoping this was his father’s attempt at humor. The only problem was that his father never quite knew when a joke stopped being funny (or started being funny, for that matter) when he was drunk.
Travis’s mom swept a stray bit of flour into her hand and threw it in the garbage. “Did you have fun at your game, sweetie?”
“Oh heaventh yeth! But not ath much fun ath baking a little cake in my little apron.” He staggered over to Travis and jerked hard on his apron strings, untying them. Travis turned away, avoiding eye contact. He removed the apron and quietly folded it.
“Clint,” Travis’s mother said softly. He ignored her and got in Travis’s face.
“Talked with Kenny Parham tonight. He mentioned homecoming. Since I guess you ain’t playing in the game, you at least taking a girl to the dance?” All hint of playfulness was gone from his voice.
Travis stared at the ground. “I don’t know.”
“You don’t know. You don’t know what? That you’re going to the dance or that you like girls? You taking your boyfriend, Dillard Early the Serpent Prince, to the dance?”
“No sir. I like girls fine. Just not dances.”
“You a fag?”
His father’s breath made his eyes water. “No sir.” He had a sudden impulse to show his father the picture of Amelia on his phone. But he knew his father would make him regret that too. Say something about Amelia’s body or face. And Travis knew that would make him do something he’d regret.
“You just get your kicks from powdering your nose and putting on aprons and baking cakes with Mama, and not going to dances?”
“No sir.” Please leave. Please leave.
His father got up even closer and spoke with menace. “If you’re a fag, I’ll teach you not to be, by God. You better man up.” He gave Travis a push. Not an especially hard push, but it caught Travis by surprise and he stumbled backward a couple of steps. He almost looked his father in the eye, but thought better of it. He stared at the ground. Just shrink away and he’ll get bored and leave. Make yourself small. That’s what he wants—for you to be small.
“Clint, honey,” Travis’s mother said gently, as if she were talking to a dangerous animal or a recalcitrant child (or some combination of the two). “Travis is a Christian. Don’t worry. Now can I fix you something to eat?”
Travis’s father belched and sauntered over to the mixing bowl. “Nope, I’m fine.” He dipped three fingers in the cake mix, and while staring Travis’s mother dead in the eye, sucked them clean and then stuck his fingers back in the bowl for a second helping.
“Oh Clint. I wish you hadn’t done that. That cake wasn’t for us.”
Travis’s father walked over to his mother. “I. Don’t. Care,” he said, poking her in the upper chest, punctuating each word. She looked away. He stood over her for a second. Travis’s fear began to turn to rage. He felt what he had felt with Alex Jimenez. Please leave. And don’t touch my mom again.
“Can’t wait to try the cake,” his father said with a smirk. He pointed at Travis. “Better not be a queer.” He stalked into the living room, where he flopped on the couch and clicked on the TV.
Travis breathed again. Thank you, Jesus. Thank you. So did his mother. They made eye contact. Travis started to speak. His mother put a finger to his lips as if to say Don’t. Be careful.
“I’ll go ahead and bake this one and your dad can have it. And I’ll do another for Crystal. I have another yellow cake mix in the pantry. In fact, it’s better than the mix Dillard gave you.”
“You want help?”
She gave him a sad half-smile. “No, sweetie pie. I’ll take it from here,” she whispered.
“Dad didn’t always used to be this bad,” Travis whispered.
“I know.” She picked up a damp cloth and gently wiped the flour from Travis’s face. From the living room, they heard Travis’s father cackle at something.
Travis’s mom dumped the batter from the mixing bowl into a cake pan, bent down, and got another cake pan from under the stove. She put the mixing bowl in the sink and started to wash it with quaking hands.
Travis walked up to her and put his arms around her neck, hugging her from behind. She put her hand on his arms. “I love you, Mama,” he whispered.
He managed greater stealth than usual and sneaked past his father, who was absorbed in some sitcom rerun. Safely in his room, he turned on his decrepit laptop. It whined to life. While he waited for it to boot up, he ran hypothetical scenarios in his head—ones where he stood up to his father. Where he didn’t slink around and shrink from him. Where he didn’t let his father make him feel small and worthless. His loathing of his father kept circling back to self-loathing. Why aren’t you braver? At least for your mom’s sake? You’re nothing like Raynar Northbrook. He would stand up to a bully. Of course, even if you stood up to him, you’d probably just screw it up and feel even worse, like what happened with Alex.
He wanted to text Amelia. But also he didn’t. He didn’t want to look weak in front of her. But he also didn’t feel like being alone right at that moment. He didn’t think Lydia would understand because her family was so awesome. And he didn’t think Dill would understand because his family was so awful.