The
Rural Idaho soil burned his knees through the flimsy iron-on patches of his
K-Mart specials as he knelt, stunned… still clutching the rock he had just used
to smash the rifle cartridge that blew up in his face. He mentally inventoried every part of his
body from the top of his head to the tips of his toes and from what he could
ascertain (aside from being deafened), he felt unscathed. He could still hear
the “kee-ew… kee-ew!” of an obnoxious killdeer off in the distance over the
persistent ringing in his right ear, so he knew he wasn’t completely deaf. It was a close call.
One of Dad’s repetitious
admonishments came fresh to his mind; in fact it was just yesterday that he
regurgitated the hollow warning over some relatively benign activity (well,
compared to pounding a bullet with a rock, anyway), “Timmy, if you don’t be
careful, you’ll never make it ‘til your ninth birthday!” But he couldn’t help the way he was. Curiosity was in his blood, but maybe this
was the turning point. Perhaps this was the lesson he needed to cure
him. This time, he felt the desire for
the thrill of satisfying his curiosity flowing out of him.
He no longer had the desire to sneak
into Dad’s sock drawer, seeking forbidden treasures, which seemed more bizarre,
the deeper he excavated. Behind a mysterious cardboard box labeled: Lubricated Condoms was a smaller box,
heavy for its size. On the top was
labeled 50 Rimfire Cartridges, but
what attracted his attention most was the warning: “Keep out of the reach of
children.” There are few things that
pique the curiosity of a little boy with an overactive mind more than a
suggestion of danger. “He’ll never
notice one missing,” Timmy rationalized.
After pocketing one, he shook the box a little to fill in the empty spot
and carefully replaced it before stealthily sliding the stubborn drawer shut.
The shiny brass shell lost more of
its luster with each blow. It was
satisfying, yet frustrating as the lethal instrument approached
paper-thin. It was getting to the point
where it there wouldn’t be anything left to pour out the contents, if it ever
came apart. “Nothing is happening!” was
his final thought before it instantly vanished, accompanied by a rude shock
wave.
Once
he realized all his body parts were intact, a raucous giggle escaped his lips –
partially from an adrenaline release, but also from fear. Mom once declared to him in a philosophical
manner, yet in a way a little boy could comprehend, that we ultimately
gravitate towards that which we fear the most. Timmy contemplated the deep
meaning of this concept and with a shrug, chuckled a little to himself,
thinking that he could get used to loud noises that he once feared like rock
music, motorcycles, jet planes and even explosions… provided they could give
him the dose of adrenaline that he had just experienced. It was a new sensation, but there was also
another sensation that he didn’t find
comfortable. He couldn’t wrap his
juvenile mind around it.
Something wasn’t right. The world spun around and the rock slipped
from his weakening hand, landing on the ground with a dull thud. This was the first time in his life that
Timmy could not taste anything. His
inquisitive mind found it intriguing, yet disconcerting. He could feel the gritty sand between his
tongue and teeth but he couldn’t taste it, nor could he smell anything. He longed to have his sense of smell
back. He longed to imbibe in the aroma
of the perfumed cakes that Grandma sends Mom for Christmas every year; that she
squirrels away in her dresser drawers. Nothing
in Mom’s territory was nearly as appealing as Dad’s sock drawer, though even
hint of those cakes’ aroma would remind him of his kind and generous
grandmother, which was the only compelling reason to keep coming back. Odors had a most profound effect of triggering
vivid memories in Timmy’s short life, so those perfumed cakes were most
precious to him – those… and mothballs.
Those aromas provided an instant link to Grandma’s metal-clad singlewide.
Dad
also had something in his sock drawer with a pleasant aroma, but the odor was
not linked to any memory other than those associated with the item itself. It was a vintage cedar cigar box with a
cracked lid where Dad kept a stack of photographs. Those photos were not the
kinds in the family album where Timmy recognized all the faces. They were young women… probably Dad’s former
girlfriends. Timmy had been there many
times before, delicately shuffling through the black and white photos; each
time making sure to put them back exactly as he found them.
Mom
was prettier than most of the girls, but Timmy imagined what it would be like
to have one of these women as his mom.
He was most infatuated by the Japanese girl. At times, Timmy had wished he had the
Japanese mom. “If she were my mom,”
Timmy thought, “at least I would know karate and I could defend myself against
the bullies at school… and from Dad.”
Timmy’s unbridled thoughts took him on a wild journey. “Would life be different if we had a
different mom?” Timmy mused. “Would she
be as intelligent?” “Would Dad still be as strict and angry all the time?” “Would I have to speak Japanese?” “If I were never born, Mom and Dad would
probably be happier and not fight so much.”
Timmy
ached to feel the love of his father. Deep
inside, he had tender feelings for Dad, like the time a chunky pair of pliers
fell on his toes. And he also felt
compassion for him when he came in the door with a broken countenance. He overheard Mom in hushed tones as they
embraced, “I’m sorry you had to sell the MG,” to which Dad perked up a bit as
he replied, “well, we were able to
finish paying to have the baby.” Dad
reciprocated tender feelings… rarely, but Mom had enough love for everyone.
Mom
was Timmy’s confidante. She overlooked
most of Timmy’s mishaps and indiscretions but Dad seemed to always find out
where Timmy had been and what he had done and would yell at Mom and whip Timmy
with a switch from the colossal weeping willow tree in the front yard. Dad’s tactics were calculated for the most
memorably excruciating punishments allowed by the laws of the State of
Idaho. He would send Timmy out to cut
the switch. That was one of the only
times that Dad would let him use a pocket knife. Timmy could never find the right one
though. It seemed he could never do
anything right, not even pick out his own instrument of torture. Timmy’s choice was invariably either too
thick or too skimpy. This infuriated Dad
even further, so he would tromp out and carefully select the willow switch that
inflicted the most pain.
Pain…
that is what Timmy was feeling. The hot
summer sun seared his scalp through his wispy platinum hair and his left wrist
was throbbing, waking him up from his fallen stupor. He grappled to get on his feet but he
stumbled and fell back down. Though it
was a scorching summer day, he shivered from the cold. The tepid liquid that spewed forth from the
tender skin on his left wrist contrasted against his frigid, clammy hand. Much of it had crusted over, caked with
earthen elements but there was still a trickle seeping down and tickling his
fingertips.
Timmy
felt queasy but luckily he had developed an aversion to vomiting ever since he
was little, after waking up in a pile of puke.
The smell of dried barf was bad enough, but having to peel the pillow
off his face in the morning was enough to dread ever going through with it
again. This is also the reason Timmy
can’t eat goulash anymore.
He
swallowed hard to keep nausea in check. In a weird way this peculiar sensation was
also comforting. He was wrapped in the
blanket of minimal awareness – in his own tunnel - insulated from the
buffetings of the cruel world that surrounded him. Even Dad’s willow switch couldn’t penetrate this
bubble of security. The shrill chirps from
the killdeer that was once his annoying nemesis were disconnected and distant…
almost pleasant, like a songbird.
The
distance between the bloodied patch in the back yard where he awoke was miles
from the back door where he needed to be; yet he had traveled many miles
already. His feet dangled like a dancing
marionette as though they were controlled by an unseen puppeteer, guiding him
in the path that he had half-consciously ventured thousands of times before –
between the sheltered haven indoors, and the unpredictable world of adventure
outdoors, but always safely back inside again.
As
Timmy staggered up the steps and used every ounce of strength he could muster
to turn the knob, he fell into the arms of his loving mother who had sensed
something wrong.
With
an ashen look on her face, she trembled as she shrieked, “What happened?” while
she whisked her little man off to the bathroom to rinse the sand and mud off
and to assess his injury.
“I
dunno,” Timmy muttered.
“I
can’t let Dad see this,” was all he could think, “He’ll kill me!”
He
closed his eyes, knowing that Mom would take care of him. She always did. “I’ll be all right, Mom. I
just need a Band-Aid,” Timmy whispered before drifting off to sleep with his
head cradled in his mother’s lap.
