Almost Home (5 page)

This made quite an impression on my young, fourth-grade mind, and I gave quite a bit of thought to all the miracles I could perform if only I had that bottle of magick oil. My sister went up to be healed many times, because she had been very hard of hearing since she was a baby and always had to have some sort of tubes inserted into her ears. She never fell on the floor quivering, and never could hear any better.

Jack was pretty bad at this point, but not nearly so bad as he later became. He forced us to go to this church three times a week, giving us no choice in the matter. He was one of the most hateful people I’ve ever encountered, yet he was always in church. Now I know this is nothing unusual, that it’s more the rule than the exception, but back then I couldn’t comprehend it. He stood guard every night as he made my sister and I kneel down next to the bed and pray. We had a small dog, a Chihuahua named Pepper, and I once saw him punch the dog with a closed fist because she dared to hop up on the bed while he was praying.

So after going to this ghoul’s wasteland of a church for several months, Jack announced that we were moving into the church itself. The back rooms of the church had been converted into bedroom, bathroom, kitchen, and living room,
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so that it could be rented out to bring in more money for the church. It wasn’t bad, really. Only the kitchen and bathroom had windows, so the rest of the place was dark and cool like a cave. At least we had more room than in the apartment, and I was in a new school closer to where I considered home to be.

Jack only ever committed two acts of undisguised violence against me, and both were around this point in time. The first happened in the kitchen one Saturday morning. I was sitting at the table looking over my sticker collection, which I had recently become a fanatic about. I coveted stickers more than anything else on earth, and had quite the little album of them. My mother was cooking, and Jack stood blocking the doorway. I got up and tried to squeeze past him, with the intention of going to watch Saturday morning cartoons. I could feel the rage in him as he shoved me across the kitchen and into the refrigerator door, where the handle gouged my back. I lost my balance and fell to the floor. When I started to cry, my mother looked up with no real sense of urgency and asked Jack, “Why did you do that?”

He bellowed in a hateful voice, “He has to learn he can’t bully his way around here!”

I had no idea what he was talking about, which only served to scare me. It’s frightening to be punished when you’ve no idea what you’ve done wrong.

The second act of violence was a “spanking.” I can’t remember what it concerned, but I was arguing and pleading with my mother, attempting to get her to change her mind about something she had forbidden me to do or have. I can no longer remember what it was, but I remember Jack’s reaction like it was yesterday. He grabbed me and slammed me down on the bed with such force that I bounced off and landed on the floor. He slung me back onto the bed and began hitting me with rage. The most frightening part was the way he went into a frenzy, cursing (this was the only time I ever heard him curse), and turning blood red.

What did my mother do? Nothing. As long as he continued to feed her the attention she desperately craved, she didn’t care what atrocities he performed.

Before, I had merely disliked him. Now the seed of hatred bloomed.

I said these were the only undisguised acts of violence, because he did so many other things—pinch me until I turned purple with bruises, bend my fingers backwards, jerk on my arms and twist my ankles—but all of these activities were just him “playing” with me. If he managed to make me cry, which was less and less often as time went by, his excuse was that he was trying to “toughen me up.” The only thing that grew tough was my heart. Perhaps he was reminded of my father when he looked at me, and resented me for it. I never knew what caused his
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behavior, and now I no longer care. Over time I became crafty, and learned to avoid him altogether.

VIII

This is the same age (around ten or eleven) that I received my very first pet. Not a family pet—we had always owned cats and dogs, and even a bird or two—but my very own pet. It was a gerbil, and I had never seen one before. Another of Jack’s quirks is that he couldn’t resist stopping at every single garage sale he passed. One day we happened upon one where the family was trying to get rid of everything quickly because they were moving. They had a cage, food dish, water bottle, and some hamster toys—all for a couple of dollars. The catch was that you had to take the gerbil with it.

I stared, transfixed. It was amazing; this creature that looked like a large mouse but sat up and moved like a tiny kangaroo. I began to beg both my mother and Jack for it. My mother eyed the thing with a mixture of curiosity and disgust and finally gave in and bought it for me. They also began giving me an allowance of two dollars a week so that I could buy it food and whatever else it needed.

Before leaving the garage sale, the owner gave me a fish aquarium free of charge, just to get rid of as much stuff as she could before closing down for the day. I put the aquarium in my room next to the gerbil cage, and during the weeks when the gerbil didn’t need anything I spent the money on fish. Soon enough the tank was full and I was obsessed with them. I did nothing but sit and watch them swim back and forth for hours at a time, and never grew bored with it. I was absolutely enchanted by them, and the gurgling sound of the air filter helped me sleep better at night.

My next acquisitions were lizards. I found a pet store that had them for ninety-nine cents, so I bought several and kept them in the sort of giant pickle jar you would find sitting on a bar. This was the beginning of a lifelong love of pets.

From then on I was never without a pet of some sort, whether it be cat, dog, rat, bird, or fish.

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IX

The gerbil, which I never even named, gained me a new name. In fifth grade we had a science class in which we learned about different groups of animals—mammals, birds, reptiles, amphibians, insects, etc. People brought things to class everyday to put on display if it had a connection to something we were learning.

I decided to take the gerbil in as a fine example of the world of mammals. Everyone was amazed and impressed as they crowded around to get a good look. From that day on I was known as “The rat boy,” not in a derogatory fashion, but simply as in “the-boy-who-has-a-rat-for-a-pet.” The teacher’s explanation that it wasn’t actually a rat did nothing to change this.

My best friends were Brad and Clayton, and this is when I really started to get in trouble at school. It was as if Brad and Clayton brought me out of my shell.

We all sat together at school and became an unholy trio of disruptive force. Our activities carried over into after school hours since Brad lived across the street and Clayton only lived a block away. Clayton was the only fifth grader in town who rode a motorcycle to school. We all three believed that the pinnacle of comedy was each other’s misfortune. If you found yourself in an unpleasant situation you could expect nothing but laughter. A fine example of this was the time I found myself in a back brace and with several cracked ribs.

It started in a simple enough fashion, with the three of us hanging out in a park behind the public library. A rather overweight young woman happened to be enjoying herself on a swing, when her weight caused the dry-rotted canvas to give way and spill her onto the ground. She hit the hard-packed dirt and a puff of dust arose all around her.

We howled with gleeful laughter that only the very young or very evil are capable of. She jumped to her feet wailing like a banshee and disappeared down the street. We would have discussed the finer points of this comedic episode for days if not for what happened to me next.

I strolled over to have a closer look at the destroyed swing and realized the destruction was not complete. I could just manage to reattach the broken piece to the chain so that it looked stable. I turned and asked Brad, “Do you think it will hold me?” to which he shrugged his shoulders in a deceptively nonchalant fash-21

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ion. Hopping into the swing, I began to kick back and forth, gradually getting higher and higher. My companions began to lose interest, let down because no pain and suffering were forthcoming. Suddenly at the apex of my ascent, the swing once again gave way and launched me high into the air. It happened so quickly that there was no chance of getting my feet under me. I landed flat on my back and all the air exploded from my body in one foul-tasting “whoosh.”

Almost instantly the agony set in. I couldn’t even scream, because I couldn’t inhale. I couldn’t draw the slightest bit of air and my lungs were on fire. I knew beyond a doubt that the specter of death had arrived for me.

I struggled desperately to roll over, trying with all my might to force out the words “get help,” but no sound would come from my mouth. Amidst my terror and agony, what sight did I behold? Brad and Clayton laughing so hard they were about to cause themselves internal injury. Brad was doubled over, clutching his stomach and laughing so hard he had strings of drool hanging from his mouth while his face turned blood red. Clayton’s head was thrown back as he roared his approval to the sky in the form of a giant guffaw. I could do nothing but cast them both the evil eye while thinking,
you sons of bitches
.

Gradually my ability to breathe returned, but the pain did not diminish. I managed to limp home, where I was taken to see a doctor. There wasn’t much he could do other than put me in a back brace and tell me to refrain from shenani-gans and antics for the time being. Jack Echols, in his infinite wisdom, accused me of faking it, although he could never come up with a logical reason why. It wasn’t like I got to miss school because of it.

Perhaps you’re wondering how I came to have Jack Echols last name. I allowed him to legally adopt me so that my father wouldn’t be punished for being unable to pay child support. If my sister and I were adopted, then he would be free of this monetary obligation. My mother was gung ho about it because she wanted us to be seen as one big happy family, and to erase any and all traces of my father. She even made us call Jack “Dad.” When I protested that I did not wish to give him such a title, my mother went into a veritable rage. She ranted, saying she would not have one of us calling him “Dad” (my sister) and one of us calling him “Jack” (me). I finally gave in and did as she demanded because the stress and the pressure wore me down. It’s a form of torture to have to sit at the dinner table while no one speaks while an aura of anger hangs over everything like cloud. They wouldn’t even look at me. It’s impossible to even eat in such circumstances, and a child can’t bear such psychological pressures. I relented, though I felt a sense of betrayal towards my mother that I’ve never gotten over, and every time I had to say “Dad” it was ashes in my mouth.

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My mother now denies that such an episode ever happened. She has a very convenient way of forgetting and rearranging the past to fit whatever view she presently wishes to promote, much like the history changers in George Orwell’s 1984. She now knows very little about me, but makes up stories so she can seem closer to me than she truly is. It gains her more attention.

X

Ah, all good things must come to an end as did my time in the church and going to the school I liked. The end came about when Jack decided there was some slight, subtle, and no doubt archaic bit of doctrine of the church that he didn’t agree with. Perhaps it was the lack of snake handling. One never knows. At any rate, he showed his disapproval by dragging us all to another church as a means of protest.

The second church was even smaller and shabbier than “The Church of God.”

In reality it was nothing more than an old Chinese restaurant with a wooden cross nailed to the front. Just set up some metal folding chairs and you’re in business. It was horrendous. We went there against our will for two or three months while still living in the other church. Inevitably, the obese wheezy preacher knocked on the door one day and told Jack we were going to have to move. The reason he gave was that they were no longer going to allow anyone to live there, but were going to convert the rooms back into part of the church. This was a blatant lie, as another family moved in as soon as we were out.

Our next house was a doozy. It was beyond a shadow of a doubt the worst place I ever lived, and ushered me into the most miserable period of my life. Even being here on death row is better than that little slice of hell.

Jack obtained this prime piece of real estate for the price of thirty dollars a month, and even that was too much. This was a real honest-to-god tin roof shack. The entire house consisted of four rooms covered with an aluminum roof.

There was no running water or electricity to speak of, no heat or air conditioner, and half of the front porch had caved in on itself. By looking at it you would believe that such structures were inhabited only in third world countries.

During the summer you felt that you were being cooked in your skin. The sun beating down on that metal roof made the place so hot that you would literally think you were going to lose your mind and go stark raving mad if you didn’t find some kind of relief. At night you would lie in bed sweating and being eaten alive by the mosquitoes. You had to wash yourself in a pan of water, so you never got truly clean. You would sweat even as you tried to wash. It’s a good thing no 24

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one else was around, or they would have had to suffer through the stench of filthy, sweating bodies.

The winter wasn’t much better, as the only source of heat was a small wood-burning stove, which filled the house with more smoke than heat. Your eyes always burned and your clothes always smelled of soot. As a youngster, my feet got so cold on many occasions that I wanted to cry. No one could stay awake all night to constantly feed wood into the stove, so it was guaranteed to go out right when the temperature reached its coldest point. When you got up in the morning, the temperature in the house was only slightly higher than the freezing air outside.