Never met my paternal grandfather. He died before I was born. All I know about Big Joe Armstrong is that he worked his whole life in a factory that made radios for military jets. And, apparently, that he was as much of a sonofabitch as my own father.
“Please tell me it’s not as simple or clichéd as that,” I say.
Rick’s brow wrinkles. “What the fuck are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about you beating me and Mom because your own father beat you. I’m talking about a textbook case of perpetuating the cycle of abuse.”
He snorts. “Don’t try to psychoanalyze me, you little shit. I don’t have any deep, dark emotional wounds that need healing. I wasn’t a stranger to the sting of my father’s knuckles, that’s true. But he only gave it to me when I deserved it. And unlike you and your mother, I learned pretty quickly not to deserve it.”
I stare at him, but it’s my mother’s face I’m seeing. All the black eyes. All the fat lips. “You think Momdeservedwhat you did to her?”
“She was a dirty slut who got me drunk and screwed me without a condom. Then she had the bad sense to turn up pregnant and whine to my old man about it. The bastard made me marry her, and then he up and died not two months later. If I’d known he had a time bomb for a ticker, I could’ve waited him out. You and your mom wouldn’t have been my problem. I could’ve lived the life I wanted.”
I know it’s useless to argue with him. But I can’t help myself. “I seriously doubt Mom got you drunk. You never seemed to need any help with that. And what life were you so anxious to live anyway?”
“Doesn’t matter.” He waves a hand. “What matters is she should’ve been grateful for the roof I put over her head and the food I put in her belly. But she never could come around to it. All she ever did was cry her eyes out and let her looks go to shit.”
“Because youbeather!” I yell.
He sniffs, unfazed by my reasoning. “You’re just like her.” There’s disdain in his voice.
“Which explains why you started kicking the shit out of me, I guess.” There’s sarcasm inmyvoice.
“Bah! This is a ridiculous conversation. I didn’t come here to talk about our dysfunctional family.”
“Oh, so you admit it’s dysfunctional?”
He ignores my interruption. “I came here to talk about your friends and who they got to squeal on me. You better think twice before telling me to go fuck myself again. You may’ve gotten in one good shot.” Again, he touches his jaw. “But I think we both know that when it comes to this”—he shakes a fat fist—“I’m still the better man.”
“You want to know who sicced the DA on you?” My rage has been replaced by a feeling of detachment. I want this to end. I want itallto end. I want to be free of him, finally. “You really want to know?” He narrows his eyes. “It was me.I’mthe one who gave the DA the goods on you.”
It should feel good to admit that aloud. To prove, once and for all, thatIwill be the one to come out on top. But all it does is drain me further.
Rick’s eyebrows lower. I see the intent in his eyes. So when he comes for me, I’m ready.
Even though fighting is his MO and even though I’m feeding into his illness by engaging, I have to defend myself. Once you’re in the barrel of a rifle, there’s only one way out.
When he takes a swing at my head, I duck and drill him in the gut with all my strength—which, unfortunately, isn’t what it used to be. Still, my fist sinks into the overabundance of his flesh. When he doubles over, making a strangledoomph, his hot, tobacco-rank breath puffs against my cheek. I immediately add an uppercut to the mix. A flawless one-two combo.
Sailing backward, he lands on his back with enough force to shake the house. The new windows rattle in their frames, and the silver picture frame—the one Maggie gave me for Christmas—jostles on the mantel.
Instinct propels me to go after him while he’s down, to punch and kick and mutilate in every way possible. But that’s whathe’ddo.
So instead, I cross my arms and watch dispassionately as he rolls side to side like a turtle stuck on its back. Eventually, he gets his knees under him. Sweat drips from his brow to stain the newly sanded floor as he hoists himself upright with a mighty grunt.
His eyes are ablaze with a lifetime of hatred when he looks at me. Blood seeps from the corner of his lip.
A few minutes ago, the sight of him bleeding would’ve filled me with joy. Now all I feel is a strange, all-encompassing apathy that I attribute to a few things, not the least of which is the combination of booze and pills.
“I should’ve forced your fucking cunt of a mother to get an abortion.” He gnashes his ridiculous veneers, using the back of his hand to wipe away the blood. Thanks to the sweat pouring off him, it leaves a pink streak across his cheek.
This isn’t the first time he’s said that to me. Those awful words used to cut deep. Now, the damage has long since scabbed over and the scab has long since fallen off. What’s left in its place is a layer of thick, protective skin.
“Nothing you say can hurt me,” I tell him. “And I think I’ve proved I can kick your ass if I want to. But see, here’s the thing. I don’t want to. You’re not worth it. So we’re done here. Get the fuck out of my house.”
I point to the open door as a group of revelers stumble by outside. The light inside draws their attention. They salute me with their go-cups, blowing party horns and drunkenly calling, “Happy New Year!”
Right. Itisa new year. Time to let go of past grievances and make a fresh start. Except, here I am right where I’ve always been, squaring off against the bastard who supplied my Y chromosome.
