Date: Sun, 19 Jul 2009 07:36:37 -0700 (PDT)
From: Lusty <lustyville@yahoo.com>
Subject: Slices Of Apple Pie

     Bobby Turner didn't see much difference between school and
home, two places where he was unpopular and friendless. He would
rather have a root canal with no Novocain than be stuck in either
place for a prolonged period of time, but summer break had
arrived.

     Monday morning Bobby walked down the stairs and was greeted
with the smell of breakfast. His mother smiled when she saw him
sit at the table, while his father continued to keep his face
hidden behind the morning paper. The silence was uncomfortable
and the tension was so palpable that it created a nervous lump in
Bobby's throat. He wanted freedom to breathe air untainted by
their drama, but that personal liberty was reserved for another
boy, in another house. His only option was to endure the constant
infringement on his happiness inflicted on him in the name of
keeping the family together.

     His index finger traced over the freshly dusted oak table
and glided down one of the dark lines that led clear to the other
end. For a moment the line reminded him of a road leading to a
better life because he always imagined the transition would be
smooth. Sadness filled his heart when his arm stretched as far as
possible and his finger couldn't reach the end of the line, but
the temptation to stand and finish tracing the line was nothing
more than a fleeting thought. He knew what would happen if he
did. Bobby settled for allowing his eyes to slowly roam around
the table and he found paths and patterns embedded all over the
wood as his imagination blanketed the flat surface with endless
stories.

     He returned to reality when his mother sat a plate in front
of his father and she put a glass of water next to the plate. His
father remained on the other side of his paper.

     Bobby's hands were folded in his lap as his plate clicked
against the table and his glass of orange juice was placed on
part of the dark line. His mother pushed his hair away from his
face then she walked to the end of the table and sat down. The
line would have cut her in half if it was real.

     Blueberry pancakes shaped like bells, scrambled eggs, bacon
for both Bobby and Mom, and sausage for Dad. Bobby and his mother
waited for permission to eat.

     About five minutes later his father lowered the newspaper
and placed it on the table. He picked up his fork, used it as a
knife to cut a piece of his pancake and took a big bite. Seconds
later the fork was sailing through the air before crashing in to
the wall. Bobby's mother jumped.

     "It's cold," the man said. "All I wanted was some blueberry
pancakes for breakfast and you couldn't even get that right."
Bobby watched the man's eyes cut the woman down with a stare more
powerful than his fists.

     "I'm sorry," she replied meekly.

     Bobby lowered his head, assumed his invisible position, and
closed his eyes to make his metamorphosis in to the chair more
complete. He listened as his mother rose quickly from her seat
and began to mix a fresh batch of pancakes. He knew her movements
better than he knew his own so it was easy to picture her
standing by the counter with her left hand gingerly holding the
bowl in place while her right hand squeezed the spoon as she
mixed the batter. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail because
the man hated when her hair was down. Her oversized white
turtleneck and red jogging pants drowned her small frame, hid her
physical bruises and exaggerated her fragility. He opened his
eyes and found her standing exactly as he had imagined.

     She was a beautiful mess.

     The ticking of the black and white clock on the wall
beckoned Bobby's attention. He was dazed as he watched the
seconds and minutes of his life disappear in a circle that led
nowhere.

     The new sausage sizzled as she fried it in the skillet. The
smell intoxicated Bobby's stomach and teased his nose.

     His mother presented his father with a new plate filled with
food so hot, it left a trail of steam in the air.

     "Took you long enough," the man uttered with a sneer. Bobby
held his breath as the man's new fork sliced in to a blueberry
pancake. He was able to exhale when the man lowered his fork and
cut another piece of the pancake. It was finally time to eat.

     Bobby's food was cold.

     The only sounds from the kitchen table were those of forks
making contact with plates. They were three lonely people who
found themselves trapped together. The woman followed the man
around like a shadow, overpowered by his presence and content to
be ignored. People saw her as an extension of him and she saw
herself as his wife. Bobby saw her as his mother.

     His father dismissed Bobby from the breakfast table and told
him to go to his room. He was not to come downstairs until 5:30,
not a minute before or a minute after, because punishment would
be immediate and unavoidable.

     Bobby's room was comprised of four blue walls, a white
ceiling, a wood floor, one twin-sized bed, a dresser, a closet, a
night-stand, a brown lamp and during most hours of the day,
Bobby. Technically there was a window, except his father boarded
it up when he caught Bobby watching a group of kids playing
basketball in the street. His father had seen the hint of
happiness in Bobby's eyes and as usual, he felt compelled to
eradicate the smallest glimmer of hope. As a result of the
blocked window and closed door, Bobby was generally guaranteed
privacy; however, he was unappreciative of the solitude because
he desperately desired communication with someone his own age. He
was fifteen and alone.

     Bobby turned off the light in his room and found solace in
the darkness which created the optimal condition for thinking and
daydreaming. He fell asleep in the middle of a fantasy about
being saved from his house and placed with a loving family. That
fantasy had teased him with what could be since he was a child,
but he knew fantasies didn't come true. If they did, then he and
his mother would be safe and he would have found some one his own
age who didn't think he was strange.

     Bobby was jarred awake by the sounds of his mother
screaming, things breaking, and a man yelling at her. There was a
time when Bobby would have buried his head under his pillow and
willed the noises away, but some where over the years the noises
became his theme music and his mother's calling card. His
memories of getting up, walking downstairs and taking her
punishments were vague, and he could barely distinguish between
the different times, but he always remembered the significant
bruises. Funny, the way his mind worked.

     Bobby was sent to his room in pain, with a promise of more
to come if he dared to show his face at dinnertime.

     In the darkness of his room, he closed his eyes and feasted
on a magnificent dinner made just for him. He only permitted
himself one trip to the bathroom for fear he might see his father
in the hallway.

     His stomach growled as the day became night and he tried to
convince his body that he had eaten too much, but his hunger
pangs were stronger than his imagination.

     Tuesday morning Bobby walked down the stairs and was greeted
with the smell of breakfast. His mother smiled when she saw him
sit at the table, while his father continued to keep his face
hidden behind the morning paper.

     Bobby's finger traced the dark line.

     His mother sat a plate brimming with French toasts, a cheese
omelet and sausages in front of his father. She gave Bobby a
plate of food then she gave them glasses of orange juice before
she sat in her seat and waited. His father lowered the newspaper
and folded it on the table. He picked up a slice of toast and
took a big bite then threw the toast at Bobby's mother.

     "Must we do this every morning?" Bobby's mother moved to
stand. "Don't bother," the man told her. He pushed his plate to
the side and grabbed Bobby's plate as Bobby hungrily eyed the
man's discarded food. "Put that in the garbage and don't eat any
of it," the man whispered. Bobby stood silently, walked the plate
to the garbage, then emptied the plate and returned to his seat.
"Did you just put that in the garbage?"

     "Yes," Bobby replied tentatively.

     "I told you to put it in the garbage disposal. Why would you
put it in the garbage? Do you want the whole house to stink?"

     Bobby knew what the man had said, but he also knew that
arguing was pointless. The man was having a bad morning and
therefore everyone was going to have a bad morning.

     Bobby sat in his seat and closed his eyes. He wondered what
his classmates would think if they knew what happened inside his
house and he wondered about one classmate in particular. Donovan
Yearly was the only student who acknowledged Bobby's existence.
They hadn't spoken directly to each other since they were in
elementary, but Donovan always nodded when he saw Bobby and
sometimes Bobby would catch Donovan smiling at him.

     Bobby was in the middle of picturing Donovan's face when the
table shook violently. "Open your eyes!" his father screamed.

     Bobby's eyes shot open, sending his fantasy away and
bringing him face to face with his reality.


Copyright Lustyville 2009

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