Megan, speaks by lightning light, from her East Baltimore porch, as the black and gray sky rumbles over the distant Chesapeake.
My father was a good man. He was born during the depression and got rickets from malnutrition. His parents didn’t make enough money, so the Red Cross took him for a year until his vitamin deficiency was addressed. He fought in the Korean War, a Marine, and proud. His job was tough; he worked long hours and died of heart failure in 1969, at the age of 39. I had my heart attack when I was 26. My cardiologist—I loved her—she said that by the 1980s, he would have had a good life, that cardiac care had improved that drastically. My older brothers, Bruce and Michael, God rest their souls, they stepped right up as young men. Bruce was pitching in Triple-A [base]ball. But when our father passed, he lost the desire and just went to work. I didn’t know how much that hurt him to lose his father at 18 until Mom brought out the Korean War stuff one Christmas. When Bruce saw our father in uniform he broke down in tears.
My mother told me once that she was there for an argument between him and his brother, my uncle with all the money, who was busting his chops for not having a nice car or a big house. My father told him, “My children are my wealth!” and that ended it.
Paul and I were real young. My first memory of my father was laying across the bed with him with a coloring book while he showed me how to color in the lines. I was probably three, so that’s 1967. My brother was even younger. My mother had plenty of support from her two oldest sons. Bruce was the man of the house at 18. Once, I remember my sisters fighting like two wild cats in the living room. My mother yelled, “Bruce, stop it, break them up.” He said, “No, one of them will get tired. They need to know how to fight—the niցցers are coming! Sure enough, we had all of those battles, blacks driving us from one house to another, from one job, one bus, to another—just attack you on sight everywhere. Mom said, “They’re animals, just animals, look at the trash they throw everywhere!”
Bruce told me, “You will never date a niցցer, ever. He threw one black guy in the dumpster for talking about his daughter like that. Of course the black nurses in the stroke unit where another matter. He was all hands. They didn’t mind.
I married Rick while I was pregnant and Bruce told me to stand up straight, not to be embarrassed. He gave me away, and Rick lived in mortal fear of that man. It’s a miracle I ever got pregnant—he couldn’t fuck worth a damn and was a drunk. I’m pregnant, newly married, and this fucker is getting drunk at the Belair Road Spot. I go in looking for him and they tell me he moved out the road to the Hazzlewood Inn. I walk in, take his beer, pour it on his crotch, and say, “You want to get that noodle wet tonight, you’ll come with me now.”
He throws the glass at me, it sails by my head and shatters on the door frame. I brought my girlfriend so I wouldn’t get beat. I waited for that drunk to come out and jumped on his back, clawing the shit out of his eyes. I punched him until he was down—didn’t put the boots to him. My girl was kind of like my bought and paid for referee. He hid in his room and his mother came to me complaining. I said, “He lays a hand on my again, I’ll beat his ass.”
After we are married and living in the Hamilton Arms Apartments he was always taking cheap shots, punching me, kicking me, and choking me from behind. Once, I was walking by him and he kicked me in the back and sent me to the floor. I brushed myself off, went to the kitchen, and started cooking his meal. I yell for him to come and get something for me off the top shelf. He puts his [right] hand on the counter and I have this decorative cast iron frying pan I use for putting spoons in and I smashed that bitch! That hand puffed up to the size of a cantalope.
He wanted me to get a job, so I did, at Bi-Rite. Then he becomes paranoid about what I’m doing. He tries to get me to quit. I’m pregnant again and giving our daughter a bath. She’s four. And as I’m bending over the tub he kicks me in the back so hard that I pitch over into the tub and end up in the hospital. I lose that baby and he comes into the hospital room drunk. I tell him to get the fuck out or I’m telling my brothers—and he’s dead. So I keep that secret. His mother was always coming to his rescue—never was cut to be a man.
Once, he comes home drunk the night before our daughter’s 6th birthday. It’s a pay day, Friday and he brings Joe, saying, “Joe drove me home, he’s staying the night.”
“The fuck he is—one drunk is more than enough. I have a daughter upstairs.”
Joe says, “I can’t believe you’re this cold—its snowing out.”
“Fuck you, Joe! Get the fuck out or you'll wake up with a claw hammer splitting your eyes—fucking move, Tonto!”
I know he’s going to miss her birthday party. So, when he passes out drunk, I go through his wallet, pick out 300 bucks, and she gets some nice presents—fuck him!
Once he gets me in a headlock from behind. Bruce and Mike had always told me, “A man grabs you, you fight, you find a weapon, if not, you bite!”
My trusty claw hammer, my frying pan, were no where in reach. His knee was right in front of my face. So I took these square Polish bitch teeth and clamped down on that knee and bit, bit, bit some more, bit deeper, and bit harder—raahhhh!
That pussу falls to the floor crying. That knee swelled up so big he couldn’t get his pants off! He started crying, “Bitch, you gave me rabies!”
“Touch me again and I’ll give you a gravestone!”
Once he shows up here, at Bruce’s house, for Christmas, to take me home, and chokes me on the front porch. Bruce came running from the kitchen, and that fucker beat heels—I give it to Rick, a coward should be able to run, and he did!
Once he runs out of gas on the 695 Ramp right up the road, walked with my daughter, here, and knocks on the door for help. Bruce gives him an empty gas can, tells him never to drive with an empty tank when his niece was in the car, and kept her. He took her to Toys R’ Us and bought her presents—even let her drive on his lap. THAT, was a man—never complained, whined, bitched, moaned or blamed his problems on anything. He took care of his problems—I miss him so much!
