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A/N: Another point story. Enjoy.
Spring. Sometimes I got the feeling I was being watched.
Summer. After three years, he was finally going to be gone from my life. Wiped away like a child’s colourful chalk drawing on the public sidewalk in the late spring rain, he would vanish into thin air, it seemed, until he returned home. I didn’t have many memories, but the ones I did have weren’t nearly as colourful as the image of the sun smiling up at me from between my sandaled feet as I stared down at the concrete, hoping desperately this sun wasn’t just trying to look up the skirt of my strapless sun dress. How foolish I was, to buy a dress without straps. It was almost as if I didn’t want anything to support me at all, and I wasn’t just talking about my chest. He always liked this dress. He said to me how beautiful it was, the lively yellow material glittering in the sun. His son liked it, too. He liked how the fabric felt between his fingers when he absentmindedly played with the soft, material of the skirt while we sat and waited for his father to return with ice cream from the vendor at the beach. From the vendor at the park. From the store. From his own freezer.
Winter. Despite how hard I tried, I always got sucked back in. I could be out buying myself a pack of Maxi Pads and he’d call me.
“Baby, Malcolm needs to be picked up from school.”
“Baby,” I replied as sarcastically as I could, trying to make the conversation end with me walking out the door with only one destination in mind: home. “I’m busy right now. And he’s your son.”
“I’m too busy,” he replied abruptly, strain in his voice. The cashier glared at me as I fumbled to open my wallet and cradle the phone by my ear at the same time.
“That’s the problem with you, Robert. You’re always busy.” I hung up as I slammed a ten dollar bill on the counter. While the disgruntled cashier processed my purchase, I scratched the back of my leg with my clunky black boot and put my wallet back in my coat pocket.
“Merry Christmas,” she tried to say in an even tone, though her swift, impatient actions betrayed her voice.
“Whatever,” I mumbled as I held the pack of pads under one arm and left the store. Home wasn’t my destination after all.
Autumn. When I was six years old, my mom died. My dad was unable to care for me and my two older brothers, so we were shipped off to live with my grandpa Bernie. Unlike many of the other grandparents, my grandpa did not have any interesting back story to him. He didn’t emigrate here during some war, he didn’t escape a dieing country, nor did he search for a better life for his family. We didn’t know how he wound up in this country, and he liked it that way. He was a very carefree type of person, spontaneous, and completely unreliable. Before I was able to do my own laundry and didn’t mind my brothers seeing my underwear with the flowers and other girly designs on them, he would dress me in my brother Clyde’s clothing for school when all my clothes were dirty. Many days I was sent off in shorts, which were like pants on me, and t-shirts, which had to be tied in the back in order for it not to trail on the ground. I cried when he dressed me in those boy clothes, with the stains from ketchup, grass, and other unidentifiable substances on the front.
Summer. I glanced up, and Malcolm was rushing towards me, a dandelion clutched in one small sticky fist, a piece of chalk in the other. Robert had left us suddenly to let us explore the front lawn. Malcolm was impatient. Robert had promised us both we’d go out for ice cream later when he got home from wherever he was needed in such a hurry. I didn’t have the heart to tell the little boy who gave me the beautiful weed that I would be making him supper, helping him brush his teeth, and putting him to bed. He cried for his father less and less at night, it seemed to me. He was getting used to being lied to by his father, and so was I. Malcolm ran up the front steps and turned sharply to his right to sit on the grass, staring up at the sun. His cheeks were pink from the heat, and from running around non-stop, his small eyes wide with new discoveries, such as how caterpillars turned into butterflies, or how if I spun around fast enough my skirt flails out and I look like a pretty flower with matching pretty panties.
Winter. There was this one mother at Malcolm’s school who thought I was Malcolm’s new mother. She always found me, no matter how early or how late I arrived for pick up. In this weather, there was no change. She was just as keen to ask when Robert was going to propose to me, or if I was interested in going to her house with Malcolm and Robert for a dinner party. This woman, short, slightly frumpy, and rather ordinary looking was able to blend into a crowd very easily, which made my job of avoiding her even more difficult, but today she wasn’t around, which pleased me greatly.
Dismissal from the school was coordinated in a very orderly fashion. The children marched out of the main doors into a fenced schoolyard. Parents, guardians, babysitters, and many other caregivers lingered behind the fence, their fingers curling around the thin green wires, waiting to catch a glimpse of their child to take them away for the night until they had to return the next day. I saw Malcolm leave the doors not five minutes after I arrived. I was very happy, as my pads were drawing unwanted attention. Why didn’t I take a bag?
Spring. I knew he watched me as I got the newspaper from the curb, or while I tried to maintain my humble spice garden on the back patio. It was feeling I could never shake, ever since I confronted him about the affair he had with that Spanish chick, and how he was never there for Malcolm, who needed him more than I did. I was capable of caring for myself, but little Malcolm wasn’t. He was much younger than I was when I lost my mother. I was just waiting for my brother Clyde to clear out his spare bedroom, and then I would be moving in for awhile. I couldn’t stand the house right now, where both Malcolm and myself cried at either the sight, or the departure of Robert. I just wished Malcolm hadn’t been the cause of this fight, or what brought up the Spanish whore who had larger breasts and curvier hips than I did, and who could roll her R’s. Bitch.
Autumn. Clyde was a very devoted brother, unlike Ray who got involved in some nasty affairs as a teenager, and barely slept at home. Clyde was the only source of reliability and constancy I had. As I grew up, Clyde always made time for me in his busy schedule, finger painting with me, or helping me with my chores, or homework. I was never very bright, or especially talented at anything, which made me feel slow, and dumb. When he went off to university, Ray returned home only to get drunk in grandpa’s bath tub every weekend, and sing horrid songs about sex and violent acts. Clyde always called, and would return home every moment he got to care for me, and try to talk sense into Ray, who began spiralling out of control. I fell victim to witnessing many arguments between my two brothers as they argued, the fights sometimes turning physical as they rammed into each other with their fists, their white-socked feet slipping on the dark hard wood floors. Clyde always won the scuffles, leaving Ray in a bad state. Grandpa either didn’t hear, his hearing failing him as he grew older, or didn’t care. He stopped caring as he grew older, reminding me more and more of the father I never had.
Summer. I didn’t want Malcolm to cry, so I had told him we would be having a sleepover in the living room. I promised him we could stay up all night, eat cookies and popcorn, and watch his favourite movies. I even offered to make a tent out of some chairs and blankets, and to start a fire in the fireplace where we could roast marshmallows. The promise of doing all the things daddy forbade appealed to him. He didn’t care daddy wouldn’t tuck him in at night or read him “The Little Engine That Could” for the tenth time that week. I smiled at him as I observed his messy clothing while I sat myself down next to him. Boys were always much messier than girls, myself not being the exception whatsoever. I cringed in art class when we played with clay or paint. Ironically, on those days grandpa always remembered to have my own clothes washed and ready for me to wear.
“We should go get ready for our party,” I suggested, tugging at his sleeve lightly.
“Mallory?” he asked me.
“What can I do for you, captain?”
“Can we order pizza, too?”
I couldn’t help but laugh. Knowing all this would come out of Robert’s wallet, I couldn’t help but agree. And maybe I would tip the pizza guy more than usual.
Winter. Malcolm wasn’t glad to see me.
“But daddy promised!” he wailed as we walked away from the school, my hand tightly holding his gloved one.
“I know, sweetie. But—“
“He promised me!”
He refused to walk further, planting himself firmly in the snow.
“Malcolm,” I found myself saying, crouching down to look at him right in his tearing eyes, letting the pads slip to the ground. “Daddy promises lots of things he can’t do.”
“Why?” he almost shrieked, his crying getting harder. It was breaking my heart, watching his soft face become red, his eyes so full of hurt. All he wanted was his father to pick him up from school and play Power Rangers with him after Malcolm took his bath. For three years I watched those eyes progress deeper and deeper into a world where daddy wasn’t there, and didn’t care. I had had enough.
“Because daddy isn’t reliable, but I know someone who is.”
Still crouched down, I had taken out my cell phone and called Clyde to have him pick us up.
Autumn. When I was sixteen, my dad decided he wanted to be a dad again, and came to take me and Ray back with him to our real home; an instant family. I was furious with him, and refused to leave the room I was forced to share with Ray, the one that reeked of vomit, stale food, and had the death metal posters all over the walls, even on my side. I wanted to tell him exactly how I felt, but he was unpredictable, like his own father. I couldn’t trust anything he did or said. He abandoned us, left us in the care of a man who was barely able to raise his own children properly when he was a healthy, considerably younger man. Ray didn’t care either way, and was prepared to pack up and go. None of the men in the house could possibly understand why I wouldn’t want to move out of my grandfather’s house where the stench of death hung limp in the air of Vick’s Vapo-rub. What else was I able to do but call Clyde, where he was currently on a date with his girlfriend at the time to come save me?
Spring. I couldn’t leave Malcolm alone in this house. I knew Robert would hire a nanny and babysitters to keep the house and the child cared for. Not well cared for, but enough to not rouse suspicion of neglect of either. The Spanish chick could stay as long as she wanted. I didn’t care for Robert. I cared for Malcolm, the one thing in this world, which should be first on Robert’s list, not his whores, his car, or his career. I checked my watch, and realized Robert should have been woken up half an hour ago. He was going to miss his big conference with the CEOs of various companies interested in his small business. Pity.
Summer. Robert got home well after midnight, just as I finished cleaning up the living room from the little party Malcolm and I had. I could smell the booze on his breath when he came up from behind me, wrapped his arms around my waist, and nearly collapsed. I put down the plate I just finished rinsing to fend him off.
“Where have you been?” I demanded, removing his clasped hands and moving out of his arms, turning to look at him. His tie was undone and wrapped around his neck messily, his clothing dishevelled, and he still clung to a half full bottle of vodka.
“Paul’s bachelor party,” he babbled, smiling stupidly.
“And I bet you picked up another woman to fuck, too.”
“You know I’d never do something like that,” he slurred, walking over to the kitchen table where he set down his bottle a bit too rough before settling down in a chair.
“Maria, Rob? Anna? Hell, even my best friend Marlene!”
He didn’t want to listen to me. He tried to wave me off, but I kept reciting the names of women I knew he had slept with at one point or the other, whether he was with me at the time or not. He was too drunk to remember this in the morning.
“Your secretary, Sheila, her assistant, Gracie… Should I continue?”
“You’ll wake Malcolm with your bitching.”
“Since when do you care? He doesn’t want me to tuck him in, or read him stories. He wants you, as absurd as it sounds. You’re his father, and not once this week have you acted like it.”
“Just stop, Mal. I don’t want to hear this now.”
“When do you want to hear this? When your son runs away from home when he’s a teenager? At nine years old, he’s almost there.”
“I think I’ll sleep on the couch tonight.”
“Yea, you bet you are! I don’t want your fat drunk ass messing up the sheets I just put on it.”
He staggered out of the room a second later, and I heard a door close, and water running. I didn’t realize it, but I was trembling. Spotting his discarded bottle, I lifted it to my lips and took a sip. Ever since the trip down the aisle, Robert’s been hiding at work more often.
Autumn. Clyde arrived as dad was throwing my clothing into garbage bags. I had locked myself in the bathroom refusing to yield for anyone, even if their bladder was going to explode. Through my rapidly beating heart, I heard Clyde speaking with father in a very calm manner; man-to-man. I almost felt like shouting how father wasn’t a man for abandoning us, for the terrible childhood I had, for how miserable I was. I wasn’t leaving now.
“Mallory, you can’t stay here.”
Winter. “Mallory, he can’t stay here with you.”
“But Clyde, you don’t—“
“Mallory.”
Clyde was standing firm, sitting across from me at his kitchen table while Malcolm watched TV in the other room. His apartment always smelled of freshly baked bread and sweets.
“What do you want me to do, leave him there to be destroyed by his father?”
“I hate it as much as you do, but he’s not your child. The best you can do is call Youth—“
“They don’t act fast enough, and you know that,” I interrupted quickly, thinking bitterly of the times grandpa neglected us kids, and how I prayed someone might notice our poor shape and make that call.
“Your only other choice is to stay with Robert, or bring this up to him.”
“He won’t—“
“You can’t force him to be a good father, Mal, as much as you try. Our father isn’t the only one of his type. You’ll need to accept that. By taking Malcolm, you won’t be teaching Robert a lesson, he’ll just forbid you from taking his son anywhere. As long as you’re with him, you can look after Malcolm, but it won’t last forever.”
Clyde was right. The relationship wouldn’t last forever at this rate, where I argued with Robert all the time, refused to let him even look at me in the bedroom at night, let alone touch me. If I was going to help Malcolm, I had to act fast before Robert shoved me out on my ass.
Spring. I glanced at the small diamond ring on my left hand, and then curled my hand into a fist, removing it from my sight. Only three days until the wedding.
Autumn. Clyde failed in coaxing me from the bathroom. I remained locked there the rest of the day. They were waiting for me to break and give in, but I was stubborn, patient, and heartbroken. This might be a miserable life, but my father was a stranger to me. He gave me up, ignored me, forgot I was in existence until he felt like he wanted to play house and be the daddy. They’d have to take the door off at the hinges; I was not giving in. Leaving would not change the past, and would definitely not make the future any better.
Summer. I told Robert the next morning I wanted a divorce, and custody of Malcolm.
Autumn. He agreed. He agreed to let me stay at grandpa’s house. I had three more days to come to the fact that I had to move out and start a new life with my father.
Winter. I couldn’t just leave, not so suddenly. I couldn’t leave Malcolm, and I knew Clyde understood that. I knew Malcolm would be devastated if I abandoned him suddenly, just to be replaced by another woman who would last a few weeks. I was the only support and constant thing in Malcolm’s life right now, and at such a young age, unreliability would have negative consequences on him. I was living proof.
Spring. Three days. Only three days.
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