Oliver Rose - Chapter Three

It’s Sunday today.  And while old people and their grand kids sat in church just up my street.  I sit here listening to my parents fight.  My sister was gone.  Who the hell knew where she went, and who cared.  She got picked up last night up by some new guy I’d seen around school a couple times and they went off to a party or something.  He looked like the type  who had the nice car and plays for the high school hockey team and just can’t wait to get my sister drunk.  She sure knows how to pick ‘em.

A loud bang made me flinch.  A bottle being thrown.  The bang was followed by shouting.  I blame my Dad.  It wouldn’t be this way if he didn’t drink and piss everyone in the house off.  He walks down to The Pandy and drinks there all night with his buddies, then comes home completely in the bag and gets belligerent.  

When we got back to the house Saturday morning after driving all night he was passed out.  Mom said he was so pissed off that I left he drove around looking for me and just didn’t come back until late and completely drunk.  The old man has hit me before.  He’s hit me real good.  Usually I figure I’ve done something to deserve it, but it’s like he doesn’t think twice about it.  

He’d never hit my mom though.  He would never hit her.  My Dad would never ever hit my mother.  It’s never happened.  It won’t ever happen.  He would never do it.

“Why don’t you go back to the damn bar then, where you’re actually wanted!”  shouted my mother.

“Yeah?  Maybe I will, Paige!  Why don’t you go drop another paycheque or two at the casino while I’m at it!”  shouted my dad in retaliation.

“At least I’m still coherent when I come home!  I can still cook for our children, you prick!”  My mother’s voice beginning to crack into tears.  “You got two kids for Christsake!  How do you think they feel when you come home a drunk mess every night?!”

There was silence on my Dad’s end.  He didn’t reply.  How does an alcoholic justify their actions?  They don’t.  They come up with every excuse in the goddamn book.  Their answer - have another drink.

“Screw you.  I don’t need this,”  my Dad replied.  I heard him open the closet in the hallway and grab a coat.  As the side door of the house slammed shut, I got up and carefully peered out my bedroom window.  My Dad walked across the backyard and went in our garage.  He drank in there too, when he wanted to be alone.  

I can remember such fond memories of me and my father.  Good memories.  Ones that almost make me smile.  We used to laugh and do father and son things.  Dad and I would rake all the leaves into a big pile and have wrestling matches and he’d throw me in the leaves.  Some evenings we’d drive to a hill near the airport and sit and eat beef jerky while watching the planes come in and takeoff.  One day, I grew older and started to realize why Dad was always coming home so late and why he always went out to the garage for long periods of time.  And why he’d get mad at me for no reason at all then tell me to go to bed early.  It all made sense now.  If he wanted a fucking bottle more than a son so bad why didn’t he take the bottle camping or take the bottle out for ice cream instead?  

My sister didn’t get treated any better.  She was pretty much ignored by Dad.  Ignored, yet given everything she wanted.  How the hell does that work?  My mom looked after us a lot.  I never did much with my mom because she was so busy keeping order in the house and making sure me and the Tara-rist didn’t go to school without lunch or sticking up for us when the neighbourhood bully would pick on us.  She even fought for me when the schools tried to put me on medication for being so hyper.  She told them I was just being a kid, which was true.  I sure ain’t hyper now.  I’m the quiet kid usually.  Us quiet kids are the ones you really gotta watch out for.

I could hear my mom crying.  I never knew how to react or what to say when mom would cry.  All I could do was just show her I cared and loved her.  It seemed I was always doing that.  To be honest, I didn’t give a shit how people treated me, I just wanted to show compassion and caring for other people, especially women.  It always seemed like all the women in my life, whether it was friends or family, they were always hurting.  Usually because some prick would do or say something mean.  It just seemed so baffling and immensely frustrating that I could care so much for so many women I meet but when it comes to my own crying mother, I don’t even know what to say or how to comfort her.  It tears me apart.  My Dad puts her through hell.  

He doesn’t hit her though.  My Dad does not hit my mother.

A gentle knock tapped at my door.

“Yeah?”

“Oliver, can I come in?” asked my Mom.  I got up and opened the door for her.  I could tell she had waited until her eyes weren’t as red and she had wiped the tears away before coming to my room.  I didn’t say anything though.

“I guess you heard me and Dad fighting, eh?”  she stood in my doorway looking exhausted.  Her long blonde hair was strewn about, rather than brushed nice like it normally was.

“Yeah,”  I said again.

“Did you want to go for a coffee somewhere?” she said.  I really wasn’t up for going out.  I just wanted to lock myself in my room and lay there staring up at my ceiling, but I thought about her, and how she probably wants nothing more than to get out of this house and be with one of her kids.  I told her it sounded like a good idea.

We drove up to the Salisbury House on Plessis Road.  This restaurant has been here forever, at least ever since I’ve been around.  I always order the same thing; Beef Patty Melt sandwich with fries and poutine with a coffee.  My mom ordered carrot cake and a coffee.  We went and grabbed our table and sat down.  Sal’s was your typical coffee shop.  Not too fancy, stained tile floors -- that I’m sure at one time were white -- a small divider between rows of tables and the waitresses would spit in your hash browns if you even so much as looked at them cross eyed.  The restaurant was surprisingly busy for a Sunday afternoon.  I suppose all the churchies were getting out and needed a place to discuss their God business.  All they did was gossip about everyone else in town.  One old woman walked in to meet a couple of her fellow friends of worship sitting in a booth by the window, she had trouble finding them at first.

“Oh my, all of Transcona must be in here!” she announced with enthusiasm upon sitting down.  She was still riding high off all that Hallelujah junk they just sat through all morning.

“Are you okay?”  I asked my mom.

“I’m fine.  Why do you ask?”

Did she think I was stupid?  They used to hide their fighting from me and the Tara-rist when we were kids.  But come on, I’m old enough I know what’s going on now.  I was blunt in my answer.

“Because you and Dad were yelling at each other all morning,”  I said as I began building a pyramid out of the little packs of coffee cream.

She let out a nervous sigh.  “You know we fight often.  We just argue that’s all,”  still trying to cover it up.

“Yeah,”  I said.  “I know,”  I still didn’t know how to console her.  I love her so much, but didn’t know what to say.  I changed the subject.  “Where’s Tara?”  Not like I gave a shit, but it got us off topic.

Mom took a sip of her coffee and looked around the restaurant before answering.  “She’s out with a friend.  She didn’t come home last night, but she called.  I was starting to worry.  I wish the two of you would get a long more often,”

“Tell her that,”  I scoffed.  “She’s the one that attacks me with the argument.  She’s annoying, like a damn air-raid siren.  That’s how she sounds when she opens her mouth to say anything; loud and irritating.  Like, she’s always mad about something,”

“I know, just try and get along a little more.  It’s all I ask is we have some order in our home,”  Mom pleaded.  “And where did you go when you snuck away Friday night?”

I slouched in the booth we sat at and looked down at my crotch.  “I dunno.  I just went out with Madge,”  it suddenly felt like an interrogation.

“You came home so late.  I was worried about you,” she said.

“Yeah, met a few people and just hung out,”.  I didn’t know if I should tell her about Saphyre.  I thought maybe I should, that maybe it would make her happy.  “I met this girl,”

“You met a girl?”

“Yeah,” I replied.  “She’s cool,”

“What’s her name,”

“Her name is Saphyre.  She’s from Hunts,” I tried not to call it “Cunts” too much around my parents.

It worked.  My mom smiled.

“I’m glad you met someone.  I’ll have to meet her at some point,”

Our food finally showed up after what seemed like an eternity.  I was starving.  We ate and talked a bit more.  I made her smile a bit by mentioning Saphyre, so that was my attempt at making her feel better.  The Tara-rist could do the rest, if she ever came home.

“I have something I want to give you, Oliver.  I returned all those empties in the garage from your father and I want to give you some money.  Here’s $200, don’t blow it all at once,”  she handed me a white envelope with “Oliver - Love Mom” written on the back of it.  I took it and stuffed it in my jeans pocket.

“Thanks, Mom,”  I said.  “I appreciate it,”

She looked at me and smiled again.  I didn’t return the smile.  I just sort of smirked and looked away.  I was appreciative, I really was.  But it’s so hard for me to smile.

“I love you too,” I said, still looking away.

“You’re welcome.  I figure you need it more than Tara does.  She’s the one with a job,”

“Yeah...she’s the one with a job all right,”  I added.

It wasn’t until later that day after me and Mom had come back home that I thought about going to see Saphyre in Huntswood.  I didn’t want to go too soon after seeing her, though.  I didn’t want to come off as too desperate or something.  She was a smart gal, she catches on pretty quick.  I laid in my bed staring at the ceiling and tossing an orange hockey ball up and down.  It’s hard throwing something straight up into the air when you’re laying down.  It always goes all crooked and ends up falling out of reach.  I tossed the ball up one more time and that’s exactly what happened, it flew off beside the bed and landed on the floor.  Charlie came bursting in through the door, full speed and tail spinning like the blades of an Apache helicopter.

“No, no!  Charlie, give the ball here!”  I shouted.  It was no use, he ran out of the room with it in his mouth.  “Damn dog,” I groaned.  Wrapping myself up in my blanket, I let out a sigh.

Sunday’s were always lame.

“Pink Floyd.  Dark Side Of The Moon,” I commanded.  My stereo began playing the opening track to the album. 

 “Lights off,”  I was too lazy to get up and use the switch. The lights shut off and it was just me and my music.  I closed my eyes and just relaxed.  

Everything was so peaceful.  This house was like a battlefield, one second people are shouting and the next it’s tranquil.  But before anything can grow and flourish, it’s all blown to hell again.  How the hell am I supposed to make something of myself in this environment?  

I’m gonna end up working as one of those guys who packs the wads of paper into new shoes for the rest of my life.  I wonder what they call those guys?  If they have some sort of professional title or anything.  I can see it now; ‘Oliver Rose - Shoe Stuffer extraordinaire!’.  I could hold seminars on that shit, I could sell out the whole Winnipeg Convention Centre.  Educating people on proper stuffing technique.  If you grab too much paper you won’t be able to stuff it all the way to the toe of the shoe and it just bunches up in the middle.  The trick is to grab small bundles at a time and stuff them in one by one until most of the shoe is full and well supported.  That way, the jackoff who’s buying ‘em is getting a well designed and cared for product.  It just occurred to me though, what about women's shoes?  Do they have the stuffing paper, too?  Next time I’m in a shoe store I’ll just take a browse.  I’ll get real high before I go.  I'll walk in like I’m hot shit, like I stuffed every goddamn shoe on the shelf.

I let those thoughts linger for awhile until half the album had played through and I figured I may as well get up and do something.  I stared at my shoes for awhile before putting them on.  They were black with bright blue laces. 

It was odd, no one else seemed to be home, not even my mom.  I just figured everyone else had something important to do except me.  It was Sunday, so I didn’t care, it was back to school tomorrow.  Or maybe not. I walked to the 7-Eleven on the corner of Day St and Regent Ave to buy a slurpee.   Bursting Blueberry with a half of Watermelon Felon and a dash of Malicious Mango, was my slurpee concoction.  I stopped here every morning to buy a coffee on the walk to school.  Man, did I ever love coffee.  There was always the same woman, standing at the pay-phone in the morning, too.  Every single morning at 8:30AM she’d be there chattin’ away.  I’ve never even used a pay-phone and I don’t think I even know anyone who has, except maybe an old person.  It must of been weird back when my parents were kids and there was no mobile phones or chips to make calls from.  If you called someone's house and they weren’t home, then man, you were screwed.  That would of sucked. I finished paying for my slurpee and started on my way home when I heard my name.  I turned around and it was my English teacher, Mr. Fleming.

“Oliver, hope to see you tomorrow.  Would be nice if you made an appearance for once,” he calmly waved out his car window as he drove by me.  I didn’t have time to reply I just smirked and waved back.  Fleming was a good guy.  One of the few teachers I really liked.  He always had something encouraging to say, as opposed to making me feel like shit.  Even though I still don’t do what he tells me to do, it’s comforting to have that one person who never gives up on you.  Sort of like my Mom.  She is always supportive, in her own way.  She’s so good to me and the Tara-rist.  When I think about it, it bothers me that I have no clue of how to pay her back.  I find it hard to even look her in the eyes sometimes.  That’s why I’m so screwed up.  But, I love my mom more than anything in the world.

Back on my street, I recognized the car coming up the road.  It was my sister and her new boyfriend.  I heard the car rev harder and splash through the small puddles of water as it came up to the stop sign.  You know the guy’s an idiot when he guns-it ten feet from a stop sign.  I gave them the finger as they drove by and promptly got it back. I noticed my mom coming up the sidewalk and she waved.

“Hi, Oliver,”

“Hi, where are you coming from?” I curiously asked before taking a sip from my slurpee.

She didn’t even stop to talk she just walked right up our front sidewalk to the door.  “To find your father,” she said in passing.

“Oh.  Where is he?” I followed her to the front door and watched her struggle to unlock the door with the key.  Hers always seemed to stick and not work properly.  “Here, use mine,” I handed her my set of keys with my Felix the Cat keychain.

“Where do you think he is?”  she answered, turning to look at me as if I was born yesterday.  I said nothing.

We got in the house and I went back to my room and finished my slurpee.  It had all melted into a gross discoloured looking slush by then anyway.  Once again, I laid in my bed and closed my eyes for about twenty minutes before the day ended the same way it began.  I heard my Dad storm in the door very loudly and the screen door slam shut.  A few plates in the kitchen made a crashing sound and the yelling began. 

“The next time you come into the bar like that and embarrass me in front of the entire place, you’ll be signing divorce papers, you understand me?!”  he shouted.

“How dare you!  What’s more embarrassing?  Having a wife who gives a shit or sitting passed out on a barstool every second night of your life in the same bar?”

I heard my father’s footsteps stomp into the kitchen closer to my mother.

“Who’s business is it of yours what I do in my spare time?!  I’ll hit the road and won’t give you a dime!”  he shouted back.

“I don’t give a shit what you do to yourself, but I’ll be damned if I’m going to let it affect our children!  Don’t give me that bullshit and be a part of the family you helped create!”  my mom was screaming.

My dad became furious.  He picked up the toaster, ripped the cord out of the wall and tossed it so hard that it put a big hole in the drywall and ruined the toaster.

“Don’t you tell me what to do!”  he screamed and avoided any acknowledgement to the reference of his children.  “Where the hell is Oliver?”

Now I was shitting bricks.

“Where the hell is he?  He just thinks he can skip out whenever he wants and not listen to rules?!” he shouted and I heard him coming toward my room.

“You lay a hand on him, Keith, and I swear I will call the police!”  

Where the hell was Tara?  I was so scared.  I wanted somebody.  Anybody.  Even my sister to be with me right now.

“Get out of my way, Paige,”  I heard the two of them struggle for a moment in the hallway.  The voices became a bit distant and they both went into the living room.

“DONT TOUCH HIM!!!”  I heard my mom cry at the top of her lungs.

My father began shouting at my mother some more.  It went quiet for a few seconds then I heard him shout again.  This time followed by a smacking sound and my mother crying after each hit.  

I covered my ears and turned on my side in my bed to face the wall like I always did when this happened.  Tears dripped down the side of my cheeks one at a time.  Fear turned my stomach and sank my heart like a ship slowly submerging beneath dark frigid waters.  A wreckage hopeless of ever being recovered.

I was covering my ears as hard as I could and just kept repeating.  

“He doesn’t hit my mother.  He doesn’t hit my mother.  He doesn’t hit my mother,”