The War on Christianity

Taking the Fight to the Christian Right

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The Man of the House

I sit here in my mother's Oldsmobile, cradling the .357 Magnum that we've always kept under the front seat when traveling. The metal of the gun feels cool in my hands, somehow comforting, powerful. Fear permeates my entire body. My palms are wet with sweat. I keep a vigilant watch on the kitchen door, not fifty feet to my left. "Please, God," I cry. "Don't let me have to kill this man tonight."

I remember my father, as we were getting into the car to begin our trek down to my Uncle Ed's earlier this morning. He looked at me with a smile on his face, and said, "Remember now, Son, you're the man of the house when I'm not there. Take care of your mother, okay?"

"Sure, Dad," I said, unconcerned. I was thirteen, and more than up to the task. Then he gave her a kiss and a hug goodbye.

Mother drove with my sister riding in the front seat. My younger brother and I were in the back, fighting most of the way. It had been a fun, if noisy drive, singing old songs and trying to get the truckers to honk their horn for us.

Ed lived in a ranch house on seventeen acres outside San Diego. He was not technically my Uncle, but I thought of him that way, as he and my parents had been close friends all my life.

It turned out to be a bit crowded when we showed up this afternoon. Jimmy, Ed's ex-wife, had come by to see Mother. Besides the four of us, there was Ed and Jimmy, and their five girls. There were also two other women that I didn't know, one of whom was staying along with her two children. It was crowded, but overall a fun get-together. Until he, showed up.

"Stop it!" shouts fear from somewhere inside me, shaking me out of my reverie.

"This isn't getting me anywhere. What am I going to do?" Grief says, threatening to overwhelm me. Inside of me are a mass of very intense, conflicting feelings. I don't know what to do, or which part of myself to listen to. I cradle the pistol closer to my breast, feeling the hardness of the metal, seeming to draw a similar hardness into my body, freezing Fear and silencing him, for I know I must be strong.

"I don't know," I muttered in hopelessness. "I don't know what to do."

"If he hurts my mother, I will surely kill the son-of-a-bitch," blasts Anger, now that Fear had been silenced.

Terror gives me a picture of myself walking into the living room, through the kitchen. Blood, bullet holes, and dead bodies are everywhere, and my mother is laying there in the living room, in a pool of her own blood.

I shake this vision from my mind. I don't even want to contemplate such things. Confusion reigns, as I try to still my thoughts. Then Fear, freed by this vision, gives me the felling that I can't move. I sit here frozen in fear.

"God, I wish she would just get us out of here!"

It had been great to see Ed again. He was really like an Uncle to me, an older man that I could genuinely relate to. The other children were a lot of fun too. It had been a long time since we had seen each other, and there was a lot of catching up to do. Then there were the daily chores, and we all pitched in to help, feeding the chickens, the cats and dogs, and cleaning out the chicken pen. Later, we played tag and hide-and-go-seek around the property with the other kids. And then we went exploring around the place to see what all was there. It was amazing to see how much land is actually in seventeen acres.

Dinner was like an event. The adults and older kids sat around the kitchen table, while the younger kids ate at the coffee table in the living room, Japanese style. It was a simple wholesome dinner. Mother and Jimmy made a chicken dish, where they boiled the chickens I had cut up. The broth was used to cook the rice. Then the chicken was added to the rice with peas and carrots to make a tasty casserole. This was served with a salad made with cheese and ham chunks. Mother even let me have a little wine with dinner.

Another blast of raw, unfettered emotion explodes from inside the house. I can't quite understand the words. A woman is crying. A man is yelling in anger. And another woman whom I recognize as my mother, is screaming in rage.

You've gotta do something now! Fear says. People are going to die! I go with this feeling, cocking the hammer on the pistol. I reach for the handle to open the door.

The Terror forms a vision in my mind. I'm crouching in the kitchen door trying to take aim at this berserk man with the Beretta. But mother is in the way, and I can't get a safe shot. Suddenly, he sees me aiming at him and in slow motion raises the gun until I'm looking straight down the barrel. I sit there frozen in my fear, knowing I will soon be dead.

The commotion in the house dies down, and sanity seems to prevail again. I heave a sigh of relief and sit back, my whole body shaking.

When will this ever end? I wonder. I gently release the hammer and open the cylinder of the revolver. Five rounds. I count them again for the umpteenth time. Then I close it up, making sure the empty chamber is under the hammer.

Well, I'm not going to try to shoot him while he's still in the house, I think, as I collapse into the seat behind me.

Some 'Man of The House,' you are, Guilt snickers, giving me the feeling that I'm a coward for hiding out here in the car.

"What am I supposed to do?" I screamed back, shoving guilt out of me. "I tried to get her out of there, she wouldn't go!"

After dinner we were all sitting around in the living room. The younger children had gone to bed, and I being the oldest was the only one still up. The adults were exchanging polite conversation and drinking wine, except for Ed who seldom drank.

I was looking through his library of science fiction novels. He must have had five hundred books in his library, most of which I had never seen. And he said I was welcome to read anything during the week we were to be there. I felt like I had stumbled upon a pot of gold.

I didn't notice him at first, so engrossed was I in fantasy land, trying to decide which two or three novels I was actually going to read. When I did look up I saw angry, partially drunk stranger there in our midst. He was a tall, burly man, maybe six-foot-one and a hundred-ninety-five pounds. He wore a brown jacket, levis, and work boots. His name was Jack.

Apparently, he was the husband of Cindy, the woman with the two children. And the other woman was her best friend. His wife had decided to leave him, because he had beat her up pretty badly, end Ed had given her sanctuary during the process. I didn't know any of this earlier, but as I looked at her a little more critically, it was easy to see that she had been beaten recently. She cringed there on the couch, whimpering like some abused dog, in the presence of this man.

He had come to take his woman home, whether or not she wanted to go. And he was completely unprepared to take no for an answer. Needless to say, Ed was not going to allow him to force her to go with him against her will. And Mother was right there with him. No way was she to let this poor defenseless woman be abused again by this ogre of a man. So, the stage was set, the lines were drawn, and the battle of wills soon commenced.

"Come on, woman. Get you things. You're coming home. NOW!" Jack yelled at Cindy, as she sat there on the couch.

"She doesn't have to go if she doesn't want to," Ed said, in an even tone, always the diplomat.

"No way is she going home with you," Mother chimed in sarcastically, daring him to disagree. "Look at her! She's a basket case. I'm not going to sit still and let you beat her up again." Mother had had a bit to drink, and she stood before him like the Rock of Gibraltar, unmovable. Jack glared at Mother for a bit, then he turned his back and ignored her.

"You're fucking her, aren't you?" Jack screamed at Ed, as he reached under his coat, behind his back and pulled out a Beretta. He pointed the gun straight into Ed's face, and a hush fell over the room.

"So, help me God, If I find out you fucked her, I'll blow your God Damn head off! Get your clothes, woman!"

Ed sat impassive on the couch. "I'm not screwing your wife. She asked for a place to stay, and she can have it for as long as she wants."

"Put that God damn gun away. You aren't gonna shoot nobody," Mother said, unimpressed. I thought she was either unbelievably brave, of incredibly foolish.

Then everybody was talking, screaming, and yelling at the same time. Cindy had fallen into a fetal position in the corner of the other couch and was sobbing hysterically.

I had backed away when he pulled out the gun. And I now came forward to try to get my mother's attention. After a few attempts, she came over to me. And I said, "Let's get the hell out of here. This guy's going to kill somebody." I had seldom seen anybody, so angry as this man. And I thought it was very unwise for Mother to provoke him.

"Don't worry, Son. Everything will be oaky. You go into the bedroom now." Then another loud burst of emotion erupted from the center of the room, and she was gone, back into the fray.

I waited until Jack was looking the other way. Then I slipped into the Kitchen, out the screen door, and into the car.

Hopelessness, helplessness, and powerlessness. Utter confusion prevails within my being to the depths of my soul. I caress the pistol, cherishing the metal that has warmed in my hands, as the minutes have grown into hours. I hold the gun to my breast, drawing a kind of strength from the heat of its touch.

My hands are no longer sweaty, as I crouch down in the seat of the car, sneaking looks out through the window. I am resolved to kill him as he leaves the house if there are any shots fired within.

God, let my aim be true, I think. Better yet, let there be no shots.

My mind is very confused. And yet it has been about three hours that Jack has been in there, and it seems likely that there will be no shots.

I sit here in the car emotionally exhausted, wallowing in an ocean of mixed emotions all asking different things of me. The kitchen door opens, and the screen door slams back into the frame. I cock my weapon and peak over the edge of the window. Jack is coming out alone. Still angry, he stomps over to his truck, climbs aboard and drives away, screeching the tires and throwing up gravel in his wake.

I sit here very still, listening to the sound of the engine until I can no longer hear anything. The night is deathly silent. And yet, no one has died. "Thank you, God," I mutter to myself, under my breath, as I gently release the hammer.

I make the weapon safe and slide it under the driver's seat. Then I stumble out of the car, noticing my cramped legs and stiff body. I stretch a little, before going back inside, and to bed.

I never in my life imagined that it could be this hard, to be: "The Man of The House."

 

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