The Birth of Bane (13 page)

“
Ok,” he replied
dutifully as we brought the ladder down, setting it against the
one-time nefarious receptacles.

It didn’t take
him long. “I found it!” He had traversed to the far wall of the
cellar.

We rushed over.
Sure enough there was metal in the ground. To be precise, what my
little brother had found had to be the only place the ladder would
fit. It was the only place on the ground where there was concrete.
Within it, spaced about the same width as the ladder, were two
identical depressions. Within each of them was the “female”, or
receiver, bracket.

I gazed up and
saw two loop-like, metal hoops secured into a similar concrete
blocks near where the edge of the chamber met the
ceiling.

I felt my eyes
widen a bit. “Mom, there’s a trap door in the ceiling.”

“
Are you
serious?” she queried, awestruck.

“
Yup.” I pointed
as she came near.

Eli was kind
enough to light the area with the light-stick.

We could all see
it. A
bout two feet higher than
the ceiling itself, snug within heavy-duty framing, forming a
duct-like tube large enough for a man to pass through, was a trap
door. It was a simple thing, using gravity and a thick metal ring
for opening and closing.

“
I wonder where
it leads.” Now my interest was piqued.

I quickly went
back and grabbed the ladder, which was much easier to hold in an
upright position. I set in the slots on the ground and was
satisfied to see it snap into the loops higher up on the wall.
Without waiting, I climbed up a few rungs necessary to access the
hatch above. I reached up and gave it a push, but it didn’t budge.
I ascended higher, so I could use my shoulder as my point of
contact and have the full use of my legs. This way my leverage
increased at least fourfold.

I heaved hugely,
my eyes at the same level as the edge of the portal. It came up
about two inches, then stopped. I could see there was some sort of
heavy fabric covering the top of the trap door. I knew it wouldn’t
open more than that. There was something on top of the fabric as
well, something heavy.

I turned to look
down at my mother and Eli. “It won’t open from this end. Wherever
it does open, there’s some kind of thick material covering
it.”

Surprisingly, my
Mom laughed. “Like a rug or a carpet?”

It hit me
quick.
She knew!
“Yes!”

She clapped her
hands together. “It opens into the toolshed.”

The loose
carpeting had given it away. The only sort like it was in the
toolshed. Sure, there was carpeting in Bruce’s apartment, but it
was tacked down tightly. There was no way I would’ve been able to
open the portal as high as I had. That left the
toolshed.

“
Stay here!” she
commanded, though she was giddy, almost girlish.

How could I not
smile from ear to ear? I
loved
seeing this side of
my mom. I didn’t get to see it all that much, and I was reveling in
it.

I heard her
holler for Valerie.

Eli and I
waited.

A few minutes
later we heard footsteps overhead. I came off the ladder,
indicating for my brother to shine the light upward. We heard
something large being moved, then more footsteps, a whooshing sound
and finally the trap door sprang open.

Bruce’s thin,
tanned visage peered down. “So, it is true!” he exclaimed, nearly
as excited as I felt. “This Old Lady has a history indeed!” He
stood, laughing.

My mother came
and gave him a giant hug, pinning his arms at his sides. It was the
kiss on the cheek that made our eyebrows rise. Bruce’s
included.

“
I
love
this house!” she howled like a
wolf.

He patted her
arm, shrugging his shoulders. He was being a gentleman and trying
not to smile too big.

And who
wouldn’t? My mother was a very pretty woman.

“
Wow, a trap
door leading into the toolshed! Cool!” said my little
brother.

I smiled at him,
but failed to make the connection. Yes, as I peer back through the
annuls of time with indefatigable twenty-twenty hindsight, I had
definitely missed it.

If only I had
been paying attention…

~~~~~~~<<<
ᴥ
>>>~~~~~~~

Chapter Eight:
History Lesson

Three days prior
to Christmas, my father unceremoniously announced to my mother, he
wouldn’t be spending the holiday with us. It was the tradition in
our family to get up early and open gifts from Santa (for those of
us who were still young enough to receive them, which meant Eli
alone). Then, we’d open gifts from the immediate family. We
followed this with our yearly Christmas breakfast, typically a
feast. It wouldn’t be until well after the noon hour, after
lounging about or a much deserved nap, that we’d pack up and head
down to my grandmother’s – my mom’s mother – house and spend the
remainder of the day with the extended family.

Apparently, this
year, my d
ad had other
plans.

I remember
hearing my parents talking in the living room, while I finished
cleaning up after myself. I had made a small mess making a
“before-bed” PB&J and was wiping down the counter with paper
towel dampened with a few sprays of disinfecting
Fabuloso
when my mother’s disapproving tones made me come up
short.

She had used the
same tone she’d used on us kids countless times, deep, resonating
from the back of her throat. It was a warning, an indication of
discontentment, when employed it usually garnered immediate
results. But, that was with my siblings and me. I had yet to hear
her use it on my father, and that was what made my hand stop in
mid-motion. I had “waxed-on”, but entirely forgot to
“wax-off”.

“
So, that’s it,
huh?” she had said to him.

A brief silence
ensued. Then, “What’re you griping about, Pillar?”

There it was -
the use of her first name through a clenched jaw. This wasn’t a
good sign.

“
She’s finally
pulled you completely away from this family.” It was a statement of
fact. The tone remained intact.

There was little
hesitation this time. “You better watch yourself, Pillar. I’m not
in the mood to deal with your shit.”

“
Why is that,
Leonard? You already taking enough of her shit, huh? Are you tired?
Are you overwhelmed?” The sarcasm was thick enough to cut with a
knife.

I could sense
this conversation was about to take a turn for the worst. I had
seen them traverse down this path before, though my mom had never
been this defiant. I let the paper towel fall from my grasp and
stepped toward the threshold of the kitchen.

I saw my father
stand, the back of his knees pushing the couch with enough force to
make it thud against the wall. The window panes above vibrated in
their frames.

My mother was
seated in the overstuffed recliner. She was sitting upright, her
feet tucked under her rear end. She wasn’t looking at my dad,
though. She was watching the television, an elbow upon the armrest,
hand cupping her chin.

I leaned into
the doorframe leading to the dining room, soundless,
waiting.

My father turned
toward her, his fists balled, his face turning from a drunk-man’s
pink to red. “When are you gonna learn to keep your fucking mouth
shut?”

My
m
om didn’t waste any time.
“Probably around the same time you stop opening the legs of other
women.” She never so much as glanced his way.

My
d
ad went bright crimson, the
cords on his neck standing out, his fingers made white from the
pressure he exuded upon them. “Fucking bitch!” he snarled, taking a
step toward her.

I had seen
enough. I could see something diabolical floating behind his eyes.
I could tell by the way he bunched his shoulders slightly, the way
the muscles in his back were no doubt tensing. He was going to hurt
her. I came from the doorframe, striding into the dining room, past
the hutch, beside the table.

My mother
must’ve sensed something as well. Her head came up from her palm.
She grabbed the armrests with each hand. “Don’t you come near me,
Leonard.” She’d seen it too.

“
Since when do
you tell me what the fuck to do?” he asked huskily, gaining
momentum, his fists still clenched.

My
m
om scooted further into the
large chair. “Get away from me, you bastard!”

I was about to
run, feeling that sickening sensation I felt every time I knew for
certain my father was going to strike my mother. I came around the
table, intent on stepping bodily between them, but never got the
chance.

Instead, I heard
a resounding
slap!

I was expecting
to hear my Mom cry out in pain like she had so many times before.
But, I was astonished when a very male grunt followed. It was my
father who stumbled backward.

My eyes trained
upon my m
om. I was confused.
What had just happened?

She hadn’t
moved. Her fingernails were still embedded within the thick fabric
of the chair. Her feet were still underneath her. She was still
cringing.

My
d
ad regained his balance, a hand
holding the left side of his face. From between his fingers I could
see the angry welts the blow to his face had produced. They
appeared on the verge of bleeding. Whatever hit him had done so
with incredible power.

“
How dare you
raise your hand to me, you little cunt!” my father screamed. He
looked insane with fury. His hair had been jarred from its’ usual
coif and flounced with meandering locks atop his head, about the
edges of his face. His eyes were as wide as golf balls, and shot
through with throbbing veins.

From behind, I
heard Valerie flee her bedroom, her footfalls receding as she made
her way to the stairs, to the second floor and Elijah. She was
going to make sure he was as far from the fray as possible. She had
done this so many times, it was routine. It didn’t break my
concentration in the least.

He flew toward
my mother, murder in his gaze, his hand balled, raised above his
head.

“
STAY AWAY FROM ME!!!
”
wailed my mom. She was on her knees now, covering her face with her
arms.

I was there. I
put myself in front of my mother, blocking her from his view, more
than ready to take whatever sort of punch her was about to throw.
After he hit me, the floodgates would be overtopped, the reason to
hold back would become irrelevant. I could strike back. I could hit
him back. It would be self-defense. There would be nothing he could
do about it. I would finally have the excuse to beat the living
shit out of him. I would -.

I saw it, though
I couldn’t explain it. I can’t sit here and say I can adequately
explain it now, even after all these years. All I can say, with a
modicum of certainty, was something hit him a second time, upon the
other side of the face. It didn’t sound slap-like. The sound was
too deep. It was bone-deep, solid enough to affect things below
surface tissue. I saw his lip burst, his teeth flood with blood,
his cheek turn fiery red. His neck twisted away from the impact,
making his shoulders follow in turn. His forward motion altered by
the sheer kinetic ferocity of the…
punch?

Had someone
punched him? Someone I couldn’t see?

He staggered to
one side, his feet unsteady, his knees buckling. He could barely
manage to stay upright.

“
W-w-what
was
that?” asked my mom, her voice
trembling with terror.

“
I don’t know,”
was all I could think to say, but I didn’t want to stick around to
find out either. I swiftly bent down and pulled my Mom from the
chair, and ushered her upstairs before my father could
recover.

We stayed up in
my room – my sister, my little brother, my mother and I – talking
quietly about anything other than what had happened downstairs,
waiting.

About twenty
minutes later we heard the front door slam. My father had
left.

He didn’t return
for nearly a week.

Needless to say,
it was one of the best Christmases of my young life. All it took
was something unnatural clocking my father across the
face.

Hmm, who
knew?

*****

Some weeks
later, in the dawn of the new year - a Sunday - my mom came
bursting into my room, her voice high-pitched and thrilled. “Jerry,
you are
not
going to believe what I f -.”

It was as far as
she got.

Unfortunately,
Myra and I had been enjoying a pretty hot and heavy make-out
session, and… well, she’d walked in on us devouring each other’s
faces, our hands on butt-cheeks and breasts and what
not.