An Excerpt from Picture This - A Matter of Time My father chain smokes in his pale yellow Chevy Malibu as he sits parked in front of Church Street Elementary School on a cold winter afternoon. He is not supposed to know where I go to school, but has obviously figured it out from the clues I have given him. Perhaps I secretly wanted him to know, I think to myself, as I attempt to hide behind a group of kids heading down the front steps. But his eagle eyes have spotted me, and he waves me over to the car. My new friends scatter like dry leaves in the wind when they see my dad. So much for moral support. There is no way can avoid dad now that he has seen me, so I reluctantly head over to his car to say hello. I want to run away as fast as my little fourth grade legs will take me, but I know I have to talk to him. “You shouldn’t be here Dad,” I say with more courage than I feel. “Get in Tissie,” he commands. “I’ll drive you home.” “No Dad. I can’t,” I whisper, feeling sick to my stomach. My father smiles, but it is a mean smile. I have seen him make that face too many times to count, and nothing good ever happens when he does. Desperate to get home to mom, I try to figure out how I am going to ditch him so that he doesn’t follow me to our apartment. Alone and frightened, I start walking in a different direction from where we live, but the Malibu follows steadily behind me. Dad never stops smiling. As long as I am on the street, I realize that I can’t get away from him. He leans out the window, trying unsuccessfully to convince me to get in the car. I beg him to stop following me – to leave me alone and let me go home. Suddenly, I decide to veer to the left, and run through an apartment complex that connects to the next block. But dad is too smart for me, because when I arrive on the other side and prepare to head down North Broadway, he is there waiting for me. He knows I am scared. And he knows I will lead him to my mother. Even though I try to lose him when I get to our garden apartment complex, I know he will somehow find out which apartment we live in. As I bang on the front door breathless and crying, mom opens the door and quickly pulls me in. Without saying a word, she knows why I am upset. She and my stepfather have been preparing for this, waiting for the day when my father would find out where we lived. It was only a matter of time, she tells me softly. We sit in the dimly lit living room with the blinds drawn tight, silently waiting for dad to arrive. The smell of pine incense mingled with stale cigarette smoke fills the air. My stomach does flip flops and I try hard not to talk, but I want to confess, to tell mom that this is all my fault. But I stay quiet, afraid that Dad will hear my voice and break down the door. He is angry that mom left him and married Uncle Bob, I think. At that moment, I have never been happier that she did. Soon enough dad bellows outside the door, yelling for Uncle Bob to come out and fight. Thank goodness my stepfather has no intention of doing this, and instead calls the police, telling them that his wife’s ex- husband is outside our apartment threatening him. How can he be so calm? I wonder, as dad continues to yell like a madman on our doorstep. I notice that the door is bolted, praying that it is a good strong lock. Covering my ears with my hands, I try hard not to cry. This the first time I have seen dad anywhere near Mom since the night before we ran away more than a year earlier. Even though they talk on the phone, the few times I have gone to visit him, she has dropped me off and picked me up at the end of his driveway. I never once thought dad would do something like this. I guess I didn’t know how mean he could really be. I edge over to the window so that I can peek between the blinds to see what is going on outside. A few neighbors are standing around wondering what all the noise is about. We have only lived in the two bedroom apartment for a couple of months and don’t know anyone very well yet. Dad has moved out of the doorway to stand in front of the window, smoking a cigarette as he stares at the closed blinds. His face looks twisted and mad and I quickly jump back from the window. The doorbell rings, and my stepfather looks through the peephole to see a policeman at the door. When the door opens and the policeman comes inside, I see another officer outside talking to dad. In spite of the fact that I am scared and nervous about what is going on, I can’t help but feel a little excited too. What will happen to Dad now? I ask Mom. She shakes her head and shushes me, as she listens to Uncle Bob and the officer talking about dad. When the policeman is finished talking to my stepfather, he looks over at me and smiles. I am sitting cross-legged on the couch, fiddling with the loose threads on a throw pillow. He sits down next to me and tells me that he has to ask me some questions. Realizing instinctively that the answers to whatever those questions might be are going to be important, I sit up straight and prepare to answer him. He seems like a nice guy and I am not afraid of what he might ask. But when he asks me if my stepfather has ever hurt me, I am shocked. Uncle Bob would never hurt me, I say defiantly to the officer, who nods his head and writes something down on a notepad. “According to your father, you told him that your stepfather hit you,” the policeman says quietly. “I never told my father that,” I nearly shout back at him. “It’s not true.” Now I am really starting to get upset. Why in the world would dad tell such a lie? Mom looks at me and smiles, grateful that at least I had told the truth. Apparently there is nothing more to ask me, because the police officer gets up and speaks to mom and Uncle Bob for a few minutes and then leaves. They close and bolt the door behind him. “What’s going on?” I demand. “They are arresting your father,” mom tells me. “He is going to jail.” Dad is going to jail? No way. Well, he deserves it, I tell myself, and feel a little bit better when I look out the window and see the policemen leading dad away to the squad car. I see more neighbors watching, as dad is helped into the backseat and the door is slammed shut behind him. Before the car pulls away from the curb, I turn away, not wanting him to see me looking at him through the window. He is no longer smiling. |
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