Autumn’s First Story

As a child, I wanted only two things–to please, and to be held and cuddled. Which was hard, coming from an abusive home. My father would beat my mother and me for any infraction, real or imagined, at the drop of a hat. And any time he started in on me, my mother would do nothing, because if she did, he’d beat her bad, and then go back and finish on me. So, maybe because of her feelings of guilt, she was very distant from me, for as far back as I can remember.

My father had one real friend–Paul. Dad kept getting into fights—usually verbal–with most other men, but Paul worked with Dad, lived right around the block from us, and Paul was bigger, so those three reasons combined more often than not kept Dad in line when Paul was around. That didn’t mean that I didn’t still get slapped, hit, kicked, and yelled at, but it didn’t go on for hours if Paul was there. “Autumn!” Dad would yell when he and Paul would get home from work, “get your ass down here and bring us a beer!” I was the afternoon waitress in our living room since the age of five. Mom would be at work, or making dinner in the kitchen, and I would rush to the refrigerator to grab two cans of beer for them. The time I tripped while hurrying over to them, dropping and shaking up the beers, was the first time I remember Paul seeing me get hit. “Get your stupid ass up, and get over here!” Dad yelled. I scrambled to pick up the rolling cans and came over to him on the couch where he was sitting. He slapped me across the face, and I dropped the cans again and tried not to cry. “Do you think we can drink that now? Do you?” I shook my head no. Dad raised his hand as if to hit me again, “I can’t hear your empty head rattle! Speak!” “No sir,” I managed to squeak out, my eyes locked on the cans on the carpet. I was too embarrassed to even look at Paul; I figured he must be very angry with me for ruining his after-work time like Dad was, was all I could think, and I wanted Paul to be happy with me. Dad made me apologize and go get two more cans, and I was much more careful after that.

Most of the time, after he and Paul had had a few beers, they would get into a good mood. They would be laughing and joking, and sometimes even singing. Times like that were good, because most every time when I came out, Dad wouldn’t yell at me and, if I stood by Paul’s chair, Paul would stroke my hair or my back, absentmindedly. As young as I was, I wished I had a way to tell him how much that meant to me. Many evenings, Paul would have dinner with us, others he would I guess go home.

When Mom went back to work full time, I would sometimes have a sitter of sorts when I got home from school. I say “of sorts”, because it was Mrs. DeCarlo from next door, who would make sure I got home ok, turn the TV on, and then go back next door. Mom and Dad weren’t paying her—we couldn’t afford to hire a real sitter—and so she just did it as kind of a charity. She was nice enough, but she said I was too serious, and kept saying she wished her kids would have come straight home from school and started washing dishes, vacuuming, and cleaning the bathrooms. I know she thought I was strange, but if the house wasn’t in order, Mom would be mad, and Dad would be even madder. Mrs. DeCarlo would just go back to her house, shaking her head all the way. Some days, when I didn’t go to school, I didn’t even see her at all. Usually when I didn’t go to school, it was because I had bruises, or was being punished. I would be in the house alone all day until sometimes as late as nine at night if both Mom and Dad worked late, which Mom said worried her. I think Dad didn’t care, because when she said something, he’d tell her to shut up.