Michael Collins looked down at the floor, where the shattered remnants of a measuring cup lay, and then back up at his obviously irate uncle. "Sorry about that," he murmered as he bent over and reached out tentative fingers toward the glassy, oily mess on the floor.
A sharp swat to his backside made him stop and stand back up. Reaching around to rub at the tingling area, he stared at Angus Collins with the beginning of anger in his green eyes. Untying the apron, which Uncle had given him to wear so he could teach him to cook, he flung it on the kitchen counter. "It was an accident Uncle Angus, I didn't MEAN to drop it," he spat out before turning to leave the room.
"Michael! Come back here, laddie!" The authority in his uncle's clipped Scottish brogue stopped him in his tracks, and he turned back reluctantly. "I said it was an accident, Uncle, you didn't have to hit me," he asserted in an indignant tone.
The snort of laughter made his eyes widen, and then a slow flush crept across his cheeks as he realized Angus was laughing at him.
"I gave you what you should've had a long time ago, by your reaction," his uncle stated when he had stopped laughing. "Now get a cloth to pick up the pieces of glass so you don't cut your fingers."
Michael made a tsk of impatience, but had the sense to obey when Angus took a step toward him. His uncle was a lot bigger than him, and looked much stronger too, and though he would never admit it, he was a little scared of another smack from the older man.
He made sure his backside was not facing his uncle as he bent over once again, this time with a hand-towel, and picked the pieces of glass up. He seethed as Uncle began scolding him like a child, but kept his mouth shut.
"If you had kept your mind on things you woud'na dropped the glass to begin with. I'm tryin to teach you something. You can at least have the courtesy to pay attention."
Michael rolled his eyes, but kept his lips firmly pushed together as he stood and walked over to the trash can. Shaking the cloth, he heard the glass tinkle as it fell into the plastic garbage can.
"Michael! Don't you know better that to shake the tea cloth like that??"
The younger man, furious now at the chiding tone, dropped the cloth on the floor and stalked out of the kitchen. Sorry that he had ever agreed to let his uncle teach him how to bake a cake, he stomped heavily on the first step of the staircase.'What a dick!' he thought angrily, 'Can't believe my dad has such a creep for a brother!'
His progress up the stairway and his thoughts were interrupted when his arm was grabbed, and he was uncerimoniously smacked once again. Trembling with barely concealed fury, he tried to jerk his bicep out of the massive hand that held it. When he realized that wasn't possible because of the burly mans superior strength, he spat out a few childish, and sullen words. "You aren't my dad and I'm too old for you to hit me. So leave me alone, or I'll tell him when he gets home! Bully!"
His words were answered with another snort of laughter. "You continue to throw a paddy and I'll show you what a real tanning feels like, laddie. Have you never had a real beating before?
"No, have you?!" Michael shot back at him. "I think you're the one that needs one!" He mimicked the strong rolling brogue as he continued to try to squirm out of Angus' grasp. Noticing the effect of his words, the bulging veins in his uncle's neck and the blotchy redness on the older man's face, he began to regret his words.
When his uncle replied, it was in was in a low growl. "Yes, as a matter of fact, I have. The Lochgelly tawse was applied liberally by my teachers, laddie. I happen to posess one myself, let me fetch it, and you can begin learning some manners."
Michael gaped at the words. "A what? A jelly what?" He demanded. His whole body was tembling now, as his mind feverishly tried to grasp what his uncle was threatening him with. The anger from a minute before evaporated--as he tried once more to release himself from the man's grasp--and was replaced with a feeling of real dread.
At that point, Angus began inexorably but slowly pulling Michael up the staircase. When they reached the guest bedroom, the older man dragged him inside, and pushed him into a nearby chair. Opening the closet he brought out a black leather bag.
"What's that?" Michael asked warily.
Unzipping the bag, his uncle smiled. "The Lochgelly tawse I was explaining about. It's quite a collector's item and I brought it with me just in case I had a wayward nephew on my hands. Feeling it should have a tremendous effect of your behavior, or my name's not Angus Collins!" He practically crowed.
Michael shuddered at the gleeful note in his uncle's voice and then stood up. "My dad's going to be home any minute," he said with a little uncertainty. "I don't think he'd like it if he knew you hit me, especially with some kind of jelly thing."
The shove seemed effortless, and once again he found himself sprawled in the chair. He gasped at the sudden action but remained seated.
He watched, eyes wide, as Angus pulled a long, thick strap out of the bag. His heart racing, he tried to to think of a way out of a situation that he couldn't believe he was in. "I'm sorry," he finally said, his voice quivering unmanfully.
Angus ran the wicked piece of leather through one beefy palm, as his eyes sparkled with what appeared to Micheal to be delight. "Yes, many a time I learnt an important lesson from a tawse just like this one I have in my hand. It made a man of me. Now stand up, laddie!"
Michael jumped at the peremptory tone, and got quickly to his feet. He stared at the tawse, nearly mesmerized by the foreign-looking object, and then noticed the split at the end of the heavy strap. "I don't know what that is," he said, and was ashamed by the note of pleading he heard in his deep, husky voice. "You don't need to teach me a lesson, Uncle. I just got pissed because you were treating me like a kid. Why don't we just forget this and go back and finish the cake?"
Angus stared at Michael, his eyes still sparkling. "Thinking better of things now? it's too late, Laddie. Now put your hands out."
The words sent a jolt through the younger man and he looked down dumbly at one palm then raised wary eyes to his uncle. "My hands?"
"Put your hands in front of you!"
Michael jumped and then put his shaking hands out, then frantically twisted his head and peered out the guest bedroom window, hoping to see his father's car in the drive. He couldn't believe this was happening, and as a trickle of sweat trailed it's way from his temple to his chin, he thought about that belt thing hitting his hands, and a small whimper escaped him. Even though his father had never hit him, he instictivelly knew what the crack of leather across his hands would feel like. He winced at the idea of it.
"Laddie," his uncle rumbled, "hands crossed and palms upward."
He could barely hear the clear command over the hammering of his heart, but he obeyed the order when it finally reached his terror stricken brain. He realized in that moment that he had never been so afraid before. Not even when he had to have stitches one time at the doctor's office. His stomach lurched as he looked at that strap, and for a moment he felt like he was going to throw up.
He knew deep down that he had been disrespectful, and that his dad would be disappointed in him if he knew. Michael hated to let his father down more that anything in the world, but in a moment of desperation, he squeaked out. "Why don't you just tell Dad, and let him deal with me. You don't have to."
Angus chuckled then swished the tawse through the air. "No doubt you'd prefer that, since he doesn't have the sense to beat you when you need it. No laddie, it's time you learnt about consequences. Three strokes on each hand. Now hold still."
Michael unconsciously whimpered at the words, as he tried to hold his shkaing palm still with the hand that supported it. Looking down at his slender fingered hand he noticed all the little lines that criss-crossed it. Noticed that some parts were fleshier than others. For the first time in his life, he really noticed his palm, and an image went through his mind of clutching it, as streams of blood gushed from it.
His heart continued to race as he held his palm outstretched and waited.
Angus stood in front of him and raised the tawse high, and as the thick strap descended, Michael, without thinking, pulled his palm out of the line of fire. "Oh please, no," he gasped out.
"Michael! you're making it worse on yourself. Now put your hands back in position, lad! you're getting an extra one for moving them."
A voice of reason inside his head told him to do it, to just get it over with. To be a man about it, but another part of him wanted to reach out and try to wrestle that wicked leather strap away from his uncle. His uncle had superior strength on his side, though, and deep down Michael knew he was not going to get out of this.
And maybe on some level, he knew he deserved to be punished. How many times had his dad sat him down and talked to him about his mouth and his impulsive temper? How many times had he cried hot tears of frustration while promising to do better? The guilt he felt that his father's gentle lectures had not helped anything, made him give into the inevibility of his punishment. When he once again put his hands out, they were steady, without the tremble of before. "OK, I'm ready," he said as bravely as he could manage.
He watched Angus raise the tawse high and as it descended, time seemed to stand still...until the moment of impact.
CRACK!!!
Michael felt tears of pain well up in his eyes as the sound of leather hitting soft flesh echoed through the guest room. He moaned as he squeezed the reddening palm with the supporting hand. "Please, that's enough," he hissed as the pain seared him.
His uncle didn't respond immediately but through his tear blurred eyes he could see the look of resolve there. "Stop squeezing your hand, and let's get on with it," he finally growled.
Michael obeyed and bit at the inside of his lower lip to keep from begging Angus to stop.
The next stroke was more painful that the first and landed on nearly the same spot. A white flash of light went off behind his eyes. "Oooh," he whimpered as he squeezed as hard as he could at his burning palm.
Another stroke and tears were streaming down his face and it took all the strength he posessed not to crumple to the floor in pain. A wave of anger flooded him as he switched hands. He was nearly blinded by his tears now and all he could see was a huge blurry outline of the man who stood before him. Judging him, he thought bitterly. "You're hurting me!" he gasped out and then hiccupped loudly.
"It's supposed to hurt, Michael. Now be still while I belt your other hand." There was a note of gentleness in the huge man's voice that hadn't been there before, and Michael sobbed because of it. "OK," he managed to get out between sobs.
CRACKK!!!
The pain was all there was. There was nothing else in the world, as the last crack of the tawse landed on Michael's tender palm, and the tails curved around his hand. He groaned and frantically rubbed at the flaming pain.
"It's all over now," his uncle rumbled as he tossed the tawse onto the bed and then grabbed Michael into a huge bearhug. "Stop crying now."
As the pain in his hands resided into a dull throb, Michael tried to pull himself together. He felt himself enveloped in his uncle's arms and after an initial struggle he relaxed a little into the hold. "I'm sorry," he said between sniffles. "I shouldn't have talked to you that way."
A sense of calm went through him as he realized that although he hadn't been as brave as he should've, that he'd gotten through the beating--his first ever--and that his hands weren't bleeding at all. Clenching his swollen palms and feeling the tightness the action caused, he wondered how long it would be before this was just a bad memory.
Later, they were in the kitchen once again. Michael was filling a measuring cup quietly, still feeling subdued and mindful of his sore hands, when his dad came into the kitchen.
"You guys have a good time while I was out?" he asked while rubbing a smudge of flour off of Michael's face.
Still stirring the cake batter, Angus smiled. "Yes, we had a grand time. Your son is a very quick learner. Aren't you, laddie?"
Michael caught the wink his uncle gave him and he flushed slightly. "Yes," he responded quietly and then gave his dad a quick hug.
His dad seemed mildly surprised at the gesture as he gave his son a returning squeeze. "That's great. I figured you guys would get on good together. You're so much alike.
Michael frowned at the words but said nothing. If Angus wasn't going to tell his dad what happened, he wouldn't either, but he still wan't overly fond of the man who had come from Scotland and beaten his hands like he had the right.
That wasn't going to change, Michael was sure, but he was very careful to be respectful while they finished the cake, and for a long time after, he tried really hard to control his impulsive outbursts. His dad commented it on it more than once, saying how mature he was beginning to behave, and how proud he was of him.
It was hard for Michael to admit to himself, but although he had wanted to make his dad proud of him, and had tried to control his mouth for his father's, the only thing that had worked was the thud of that jelly strap thing across his palms! He'd die before he's admit it to anyone, though!