My Step-Dad Glen - Part 9
I turned 16 and got my driver's license. Unlike most boys my age, though, I didn't want a car. I had enough money for a motorcycle -- just a small one -- and the insurance payments were much less on a bike than on a car. I thought it would be cool, but when I brought up the idea to my parents at dinner one night they both not only said no, but my dad flipped out.
"Why?" I asked them, exasperated, as I passed my mom the mashed potatoes.
"Ryan," said my dad, "I'm not going to discuss this with you anymore. No is our final answer, and you're never to bring it up again. Is that understood? You are NEVER, NEVER, EVER to so much as get on a motorcycle with someone else, much less ride one on your own; let alone buy one."
"What about Jack Gould?" I said. Jack was Peter's next door neighbor who had a really great bike for sale and had taught both Peter and me how to ride.
"Darn it, Ryan" said my dad, "NO. Do you understand? If I hear you've been on a motorcycle I'll not only whack your backside I'll ground you for the rest of the year. Are we clear on that? NO. You may not, under any circumstances, get on a motorcycle."
I slouched angrily in my chair but didn't say anything. He was never this unreasonable about anything, and I didn't understand his behavior at all.
"You answer me, son" he said.
"Yes, sir" I said, exasperated. "I understand. Never get on a bike. Okay. Fine." He glared at me, and I was so mad I had totally lost my appetite so I said as surly as I knew how, "May I be excused now?"
He paused a moment before answering, and then almost spitefully said, "Yes" and I hopped up and went out to the backyard to cool off.
To make a very long story short, Jack Gould came by a couple of weeks later on his bike offering to sell it to me for $500 instead of the $650 he had originally been asking for it (he was joining the army and wanted the money fast). I had pulled cash out of my savings account two weeks earlier in anticipation of my parents saying yes to buying the bike, and I still counted it and played with it every night up in my room. I ran upstairs and gave him the money, and he handed over the pink slip and the keys and walked home.
When my mom got home from work she called me downstairs from my room, and I could tell from her tone that I was in trouble.
"I didn't ride it" I said before she could say anything. "Jack Gould rode it over and offered to sell it to me for $150 cheaper and that's a really amazing deal, mom, so I bought it."
"You what?!?" she said.
"I bought it" I repeated. "It's mine, and the cash is gone so it's too late, okay? You guys can just let it sit out there and rust or you can give me permission to ride it, but it's sure going to be a waste of $500 bucks if it just sits out there." I was feeling very proud of the way I maneuvered the situation, and I thought for sure that over the next few days I could show them that I could ride and convince them that I'd be careful and safe.
My mom and I talked a bit, and a 15 or 20 minutes later my dad came home. He usually came in the back, but today he walked in the front door.
"Do we have company?" he said, glaring at me.
"No" said my mother quietly.
His face was already getting red, but he said calmly, "You want to tell me what that bike is doing in the driveway, son?"
"I bought it" I said, all the wind suddenly having gone from my sails.
"You bought it" repeated my dad, flatly.
"Yes, sir" I said.
"After I specifically told you not to and NEVER to ride a -- "
"I didn't ride it" I interrupted, trying to calm him down. "Jack Gould brought it over and I won't ride it until you give me permission."
"Where are the keys?" he said, advancing on me in a way that made me suddenly afraid. In a second he was pushing me and yanking my shirt out of my jeans and tugging at my pockets saying, "Come on. Where are the keys? Hand them over. Right now. Let's go."
The way he was pushing me around made me feel like he was bullying me and it made me angry, but I knew I had to stay on his good side if I were going to ever be able to ride my new bike so I quickly reached into my pocket and handed him the keys. "Here, okay?" I said. "Calm down, dad."
"Is that it?" he asked. "Is this the only pair?"
"Yes, sir" I said, and then suddenly reeled backward as his hand came up and cracked across my cheek hard.
"Glen!" said my mom.
I put my hand up to my face where he had smacked me and blinked back tears, shocked.
"What did I tell you about buying that bike?"
"God, dad -- " I started, trying to control my voice, but he interrupted and shouted, "WHAT DID I TELL YOU?"
"Not to" I whispered, backing away from him.
His chest heaved up and down and his face was bright red, and I was suddenly very afraid.
"Glen -- " my mother started, but he quickly grabbed me painfully by the upper arm and in what seemed like half a second pinned my arm behind my back and bent me over the back of the couch. The next instant I heard his belt swish through the loops in his pants, and with my jeans still up he cracked it across my butt.
"You" CRACK! "apparently" CRACK! "need" CRACK! "to learn" CRACK! "this" CRACK! "the hard way" CRACK! went the belt. All I could do was grunt after each crack. Even with my jeans up it burned like hell.
"Please stop!" I yelled at the same time as my mother was saying, "Glen, stop it!"
He then yanked me to my feet and said, "Get your ass in that corner" and he pointed to the corner of the living room closest to the diningroom.
Unable to keep the tears from flowing down my face I said, "Dad -- " but he yelled, "NOW!!!" and I leaped to obey him. I had never seen him this angry, and I was not only hurt and humiliated and angry, but very confused. I thought I had come up with the perfect solution, and I couldn't believe how quickly all my plans had gone so very bad.
"_d_a_m_n_ IT!" yelled my dad and threw his belt across the room. The buckle banged loudly on the far wall, and now I really cringed and started to shake he was scaring me so badly. The next thing I heard was the front door slamming, and I meekly turned around to see my mother looking bewilderedly at the front door.
"Mom?" I whispered, tears still streaming down my face.
She wiped at her eyes and turned to face me. "Come here, Ryan" she said.
"He said -- "
"I'm telling you different" she said, and I dutifully walked over to her. Neither of them had ever contradicted the other, and I felt like my whole world was suddenly very wrong. "I don't know what's wrong with your father" she said, kissing my forehead. "You shouldn't have bought the bike, but this is more than that. I don't know what's going on, but I want you to stay in your room until I call you, okay?" and she reached back and briskly rubbed my bottom.
"Yes, ma'am" was all I could say. My butt burned badly and I wanted to get my jeans off, so I ran up the stairs to my room. A couple of hours later my mother called me down to dinner, and I was afraid to go down and face my father again.
We all sat around the table in silence, filling our plates as we passed dishes around. We each took a bite or two of our food, and then my father's fork clanged loudly on his plate and he cleared his throat.
"I need to tell you something" he whispered, and the way he stared at the opposite wall disturbed me deeply.
"Honey?" my mom sad, reaching out and grabbing his hand. He closed is large hand around hers and she wiped at her eyes. "What is it?"
"Come out to the garage with me" he said, standing and pulling her up with him. "Both of you."
He was scaring me more, and I hated it, and without even thinking about it I took my mother's other hand and then pulled her back away from him so that we were both walking behind him practically clinging to each other. When we got to the garage he flipped on all the lights (the main one and all those around his work table) and he got on a step stool and pulled down an old cigar box from the very highest shelf.
He got down and leaned on his worktable and flipped open the box. There were all kinds of loose items clanging around, and a small stack of photographs. He pulled these out and set the box aside. My mother and I came to stand on either side of him, leaning in to look at the pictures.
They were of a very young version of my dad and some other even younger dark haired guy. He flipped through them silently as though he suddenly forgot we were there.
One was of them standing with their arms over each other's shoulders at the beach, another at what looked like a Thanksgiving dinner table, another of two little boys that I assumed were my dad and this other guy playing in the sprinklers in someone's yard. As he continued to flip through them my curiosity got the better of me and I said, "Well, who is that?"
"This is Tim" he whispered. "This is my little brother, Tim" he said at normal volume.
"Your brother?" said my mom. Dad had never mentioned a brother, and she was clearly as surprised as I.
Like he didn't even hear her he continued, "When I graduated from college my roommate sold Tim his motorcycle. Mom and dad were against it, but I backed him up. I had taught him how to ride, and I knew he was careful even when there was no one to check up on him 'cause Tim always kept his word."
His throat seemed to work painfully and his left hand reached out absently and rested lightly on my shoulder. He pulled me over to him so that I was kind of leaning on him and said, "One day -- one -- " he had to stop and sniffed loudly, but when I looked up at him he wasn't crying, though his eyes were very red. "One day he was riding down Canton behind some drunken idiot in a station wagon. The guy swerved into the oncoming lane -- and -- an 18 wheeler in it -- had to swerve to avoid hitting him -- and -- and -- he slammed into Tim and crushed -- his bike and his body were smashed into the side of a bank building." He absently added, "I think it's a candle shop now."
I wiped at my eyes and looked up at him as my mother came to stand in front of him. She took his face in her hands and he looked at her in complete misery and tears started to flow down his face. It brought a flood of tears to my own eyes to see him like that, though I didn't make any sound.
He started to shake badly then, and he reached up and weakly put his hand on my mom's shoulder and whispered, "They -- sprayed him -- off the sidewalk with a fire hose" and then his head was buried in her chest and his whole body was shaking violently, but he didn't make any noise.
I couldn't take it anymore and I draped my whole body over his back and hugged him tightly, and I heard my mother sob quietly and then hiccough. Suddenly my dad spun around, hugging me tightly, painfully, to him. "I'm sorry, Timmy" he said. "I'm so sorry" and his body shook with more tears.
I swallowed hard and said, "Dad. It's me."
He laughed bitterly and then said, "I know, son. I know. I'm just talking out loud." He kissed me then. He kissed my forehead and my cheek, the side of my head, my nose, my lips. Then he pressed my head into his chest and said, "You can't have the bike, son. I'd die of old age within a week if I knew you were on it."
"It's gone, dad" I said, pulling away from him. "I'll sell it tomorrow. I didn't even ride it over here; Jack Gould did. You don't have to worry about me."
He swallowed hard and wiped at his nose and said, "I never worried about Tim. I'll always worry about you" and again he kissed my face and pulled me to him.
I sold the bike that same week for $700, and with a little bit of the money my mom and I took one of the pictures of my dad and his brother and had it blown up and framed. It still sits on a table in the corner of their livingroom today.