SOUNDS AGAIN
My father, he died ten years ago. I didn’t kill him. At least in my seven-year-old mind, I know I didn’t.
I found him on the bathroom floor with red spilling out like someone had tipped over a bucket of paint. Ribbons of color trickled like slow moving slugs—fanning out like the feathers of a cockatoo bird I had seen at a pet store—except the bird was white. His still body, I didn’t mind. He was like the broken cassette player which mother had trashed because it blared more noise than music. The silence was better. But the red, sticky spill oozing out like little streams had to be cleaned before baby Maggie slipped on it. Mopping was my job. Especially since my teacher at school had taught me how to. Her eyes watched my every move during snack time as juice cups went spinning into space and onto the floor. She knew my fingers couldn’t hold a paper cup. That year, I was the chief mopper in the class.
My mother found me in the bathroom trying to scoop the red with my hands and put it back into his mouth. Color seeped into the tiny square ridges of the tiles making the floor look like a huge mosaic puzzle board—just like the one we had at school. I watched as the blood stretched across the tiles like skinny fingers trying to climb up moldy hems of the blue shower curtain which hung like a scarecrow from a warped rod.
I remember the bathroom door creak open as a beam of light from the living room widened. Her shadow fell over me and across the bathroom tiles.
“Stop! Stop! Stop it!” She said dragging me off the floor. I toppled over on my butt when she yanked me by the back of my neck—the T-shirt choking off any sound from my throat. I grabbed at the folds of the curtain, its border unevenly blotted purple by the blood. Red and blue make purple. The curtain rod popped its sockets and hit my mother on its way down to where my father lay. There was no sound of metal striking the floor, only a dull thud on his back—one end, sinking slowly, trapped by the thick liquid. My mother dragged me with my hands clutching at the curtain. I remember those red streaks the rod made across the room.
When the police and the ambulance took him away, I didn’t cry. I picked up the Barbie doll which Debbie had hidden under the bathmat near the bathroom door. Barbie
lay quietly like a trap, a booby trap from GI Joe movies I used to watch. Barbie was what he had tripped on. That’s how I know Debbie killed him.
With Debbie around, I felt safe at night, safe even around my father when he was alive. Even when he’d stagger up the stairs as I watched from behind the living room curtains. He’d jam his finger into the broken door bell and then bang at the door. We’d wait for him to find his key. Fumbling and stumbling, he’d curse his way into the apartment. Baby Maggie would run to the nearest closet, her eyes squeezed together and her hands rolled into tiny balls. He scared me but Debbie hated him. Debbie was seventeen, ten years older than me. She was brave and bold. Bold because she protected me and brave because she yelled at him.
“What the hell are you looking at?” Father would yell.
“N-nothing!” I’d shake my head at him willing my legs to run. But I’d be rooted, almost nailed to the badly scraped floor boards.
“I wish you were frigging dead! You frigging drunk!” Debbie would explode when his hand smacked her, leaving a red mark on her cheeks. But Debbie wouldn’t budge. Not an inch.
--Debbie
*I hate you father! I’ve watched you beat up Danny and Maggie. Mother won’t call the police because she is terrified of you. It’s messed up! I’ve seen her begging you to get a job, so we can all move into a better place. So, things will be as it was before you lost your other job--before you started drinking. Whatever!
It’s too late, now. Things will never be the same. Danny will never be the same. Poor, poor little Danny.*
“That’s enough Danny!” My mother would drag me away from his swinging fist.
That night when they took him away, my mother cried a soft whimpering sound, a sound that choked her as she put me on her lap while she cleaned my fingernails with a paper clip, making sure all cruddy red stuff came off from under my nails. Sound that was wet. I knew those wet sounds. Sounds that soaked the back of my T-shirt when my mother buried her head between my shoulder blades. Muffled sounds like a puppy that snuggles its mother for warmth. I’d seen puppies do that at the petting zoo where we’d gone for a field trip. And that day, she cried longer and harder, pressing me back into the circle of her arms. I listened to her heartbeat, tucking my short legs into the folds of her long brown skirt and traced the black flowers with my free hand. We stayed that way until Baby Maggie woke up from her fussy nap and tugged at mother’s elbow to be picked up.
After my father died, things changed but not for the better. People at my school told my mother that I was special, different because I was slow, slower than other kids my age. I was seven when the test lady told my mother that I was five years old inside my body. I knew it wasn’t true because I was stronger than my five-year-old baby sister, Maggie. I could even pick her up with one hand. But, Baby Maggie was clever—she taught me how to button my shirt straight up the front of my belly, right to my
chin. She said I had fat, slippery fingers like melting butter, slippery because pencils and crayons dropped out of my fingers and cups made spills.
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“ Mrs. Masand, Danny speaks less every day. In fact, some days, he refuses to speak at all.” Ms Smith took my mother’s hand gently, like a cobweb trapping a butterfly.
“Ms. Noel, the speech lady will test him.”
“He is fine Ms. Smith. Really, he is. At home, he plays with Maggie without any problems. He’s shocked by his father’s death. That’s all.” My mother pulled away and rubbed her forehead with the back of her hand. I sat counting the buttons on Ms. Smith’s black sweater. Ms. Mary Mack, Mack, Mack… all dressed in black, black, black… with silver buttons, buttons, buttons,… all down her back, back, back. No! it’s on the front, front, front, front.
“Use words, Danny.” My mother said every time I raised my foot for her to tie my shoe lace. I’d shake my head refusing to speak. “Use words!”
Use words. Use words! Even my classmates sang as I struggled to talk.
I…I…wa…want… …………… to…p…lay…alone.
“Danny doesn’t speak! Why don’t you frigging leave him alone!” Debbie would yell at them shaking her fist, threatening to beat them up if they came anywhere near me.
After my father died, I became crazy about red. Red paint, red nail polish, red cloth, crayons and even lipstick worried me, annoyed me, and irritated me.
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“He’s been eating up all my red lipstick and Maggie’s crayons Ms. Noel.” Mother told the speech lady in frustration. She watched my hand creeping towards Ms Noel’s red permanent marker standing on a pen holder. Stretch, stretch, stretch… like the shadows…a little more…just a little more…almost…there!
“No Danny, this belongs to Ms. Noel.” Mother smacked my hand and moved the marker out of my reach.
“Well, I think he’s oral. He’ll outgrow it.” She assured us, smiling brightly at me at one of our weekly meetings. I smiled back. Red marker…red marker…red marker… I want.
But, Ms. Noel didn’t know me. She thought she did. She didn’t know the power red had over me. She didn’t see me jab my finger with a paper clip until blood oozed out. A slow trickle at first, then a welling of bright, fresh red as it ran over the dent of the jab. I watched the first drop fall in slow motion; it splattered on to the concrete in a perfect circle with jagged edges. Almost like a small setting sun. I learned that moving my bleeding finger would make the drops splash into an oval—almost like a rain drop. Oval was the shape I learned at school—oval rain drops, oval tears, and oval blood drips. Then with a small stick, I’d trace stick drawings of my mother, baby Maggie and me. I could hold a stick that wasn’t slippery as a pencil. Circle…dot…dot…dot… for eyes, nose and mouth. Big circle … leg… leg… hand…hand… This is Baby Maggie… Oops!...and a belly button!
But I didn’t draw my father. I was scared that he’d come back alive. And Debbie, I didn’t draw her because mother didn’t want me to. And whenever my mother found me with a paperclip stuck deep into my finger, she’d place me on her lap and bury her face into the back of my neck-- like the night when father died.
“No more paper clips, baby! No more red, baby! Please Danny, no more!” she whispered through her tears as she yanked the paperclip out of my flesh, spotting my T-shirt with blood.
“Go play with Baby Maggie, Danny. Go.” She’d send me away refusing to look at me.
I loved Baby Maggie because she was gentle—she was a baby—round and full of giggles. She wore bright colors. Pink, Pink, Pink and more Pink! Like cotton candy…almost… sweet and sticky (Danny, don’t eat my dress! Mommy, Mommieeeeeeeeee!) Sorry Baby…please, please, please don’t tell!
And I, I wore jeans given by Mrs. Noel that were too big for me. L…L…XL...L again! She didn’t know I was M. My mother would wash them in the bathtub if she didn’t have money for the laundromat. Then, she’d fold and pin my pants around my waist with a safety pin.
“Baby fat.” Mother would tickle my tummy and kiss me on my forehead and smile. Her smile was like clothes fresh out of the drier, warm, clean and snuggly.
“No paperclips, ok? No blood, ok?” She’d nudge me onto the school bus. Then take Baby Maggie to the kindergarten daycare, where she worked as the cleaning lady.
After my father died, there were no more angry fights at night. No more slurred insults and smell of sour puke. But there were new sounds that shadowed me throughout the night. Sounds from inside my head that crawled into bed with me. Under my covers, they slithered in tight whispers and stuck to my skin like tiny leeches feeding into my sleep. They were angry voices of my dead father.
“Stupid kid! I’ll f&*king wring your little neck if you look at me like that again!” Those words came alive in my mind writhing like baby snakes ready to strike.
“N…N…Nooooooooo! Go away!” I’d wake up screaming into the dead night.
“No! Please No!” My blanket pulled over my head would muffle out my pleas as I’d lie shivering in cold sweat. I’d stick fingers into my ears and press hard to shut out the fear. But the noise would crawl all over me, drilling holes and eating up my mind like the termites that lived in the wooden frames of our windows. I’d tear at my clothes and throw them across the floor, clawing at my skin to rip off any nastiness from my body. It was then Debbie always came to my protection. Brave Debbie.
“Shut up! Shut up! You’re dead! You’re f&cking dead!” Debbie would fling off the covers cursing back at him.
“Hush Danny, it’s ok. It was only a nightmare. Hush, you’ll wake up the neighbors.” Mother would run into my room with a crying Baby Maggie at her hips.
“There is nobody here except you, Maggie and me. It’s just the three of us. You’re father is dead! Gone! D’you hear…GONE! He’s not coming back! Stop making up stories! ” She beat me with a switch the first time I heard him.
One day, my mother woke me up for school but rushed me to the hospital when she saw blood streaking out the side of my head. I barely remembered shoving crayons into my ears to keep those sounds from crawling in, the night before.
“Oh just allergies, I think. It must be the detergent you are using on his clothes. Also, watch what he eats, it could be food allergy.” Dr. Allen gave me Benadryl to cure the scratches on my body.
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--Debbie
**You’re not helping Danny, mother. You are confusing him. Why won’t you believe him for a change? He hears those noises; I know he does. I was there the first time he heard those sounds around him—even as a baby. The leaves of the cherry tree outside our window whispered to him as the branches scraped the window pane with every slight breeze. When he cried to be picked up at night, he only heard angry sounds, sounds of you and father fighting, sounds of -the flower vase crashing onto the wall and into his crib. Then I‘d hear his scream penetrate the night, watch him startle himself into silence, and again, break into another piercing scream. You never picked him up. And all those times, I was by his side watching him lie exhausted and spent. Yes, I’ve listened to sounds of his heartbeat, of his mind--sounds that raced through the pitch blackness of the room terrifying him. Why don’t you believe him for once? Like I do, like I have been doing. Watching. Waiting. **
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Ms. Smith, my teacher, was kind. She told my classmates to be gentle with me especially, since I stopped talking and started wearing hearing aids to school. And, the kids left me alone. Even they had given up on use words Danny!
“Danny is peaceful, if you leave him alone!” was what everyone discovered about me. I was happy when I collected pebbles, leaves, sticks and sometimes even bugs. And on those days even Debbie was quiet.
Maggie liked sharing her Barbie with Debbie. Debbie especially liked the one with a shiny red dress which flowed down to her tiny toes. She liked to look at Barbie’s body because it was long and rounded in places. Barbie had breasts like mother’s—only no nipples. I used to wonder why. She also had long fingers and her shoes were sharp. Not safe. Only rounded things are safe.
“Danny, stop playing with Maggie’s things. Boys don’t play with dolls!” Mother would yell.
But, Baby Maggie didn’t listen to mother. One day, she let Debbie play with Barbie before school. Debbie hid her in my school bag as I went into my classroom. That day, I learned about more safe shapes. Sphere… sphere…sphere… ellipse… ellipse… ellipse! My favorite new colors were maroon and ruby. Maroon… maroon… maroon…ruby…ruby…ruby—all which looked like red to me. Bloody.
During recess, I took out the Barbie from my bag and put her on a pile of pebbles I had collected.
“Danny is a girl! He plays with Barbies! Danny is a girl! He plays with Barbies!” a boy started chanting. He was pointing at me, the freckles on his face dancing with every word he sang. No! No! It’s not mine! I shook my head.
Two other boys joined their friend.
“Danny is a girl! He plays with Barbies! Danny is a girl!He plays with Barbies!” Danny is a girl! He plays with Barbies! Danny is a girl! He plays with Barbies! Danny is a goddamn wimp! Playing with a doll again! I’ll f&*king kill you!
“Noooooooo! Noooooooooo…!” I pleaded with my father as I lurched over and crashed my head into the pile of stones to block out his voice.
But the voices would not go away; they only echoed in my broken ear drums.
“Shut up you creeps! Leave him alone!” Debbie yelled as she picked a smooth, round rock from the pile. Smooth and round is not sharp, it is safe! She hurled it at the freckled boy. The sound I heard was a sharp crack—like an egg shell breaking. The boy fell to the ground-- maroon and ruby red bubbled out of his forehead on to the tiny coffee-colored spots on his face, covering them with a layer of fresh red. He made no noise. He lay broken and silent just like the record player. Just like my father had.
Children came running from everywhere like angry bees. I waved my hands to swat them but they crowded closer. How I wished I was brave like Debbie! Oh how I wished I was Debbie! And in that instant, just for a brief moment, I knew-- from somewhere deep in my muddled mind, from my father’s pool of blood seeping into the Barbie, from my mother’s despair as she sheltered me from the police, I knew who I was. I knew something Debbie did not know--I was Debbie.
“Ms. Smith! Ms. Smith! Danny hit Thomas with a big stone!” “Ms. Smith! Ms. Smith! Danny hit Thomas with a big stone!”
“Now, it’s not that funny is it? Danny doesn’t play with Barbies you frigging idiots, I do!” Debbie started laughing, quietly at first, and then like an irritated goose. Loud.
They found me scooping muddy maroon back into his broken head. Maroon dripped from my forehead into my eyes, into his. Debbie picked up Barbie and clutched it to her chest. I heard the loud sirens of the ambulance and shut my eyes. There were no more sounds after that.
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To Be Continued
