The Immaculate by Mark Morris Page B

suffered from constant depression, and when he came out of the hospital he hit the bottle hard, which, mixed with the various pills he was taking, meant that he was only half-there most of the time. For the first few years of my life, I was shunted between my father and Aunty. My father was admitted to the hospital a lot, either with his depression or because he’d got drunk and hurt himself in some way.”
    He paused to scoop a small forkful of food into his mouth. Gail said, “You mean he hurt himself intentionally? He attempted suicide?”
    Jack shrugged. “I don’t know. Sometimes maybe. He fell down a lot, broke bones, sprained things, stuff like that. Once I think he fell asleep with a cigarette in his hand and set fire to whatever he was sitting on. It wasn’t that serious, but enough to put him in the hospital. I think most of the things he did were accidental. I mean, if he’d really wanted to kill himself he’d have taken pills or hung himself or something rather than throwing himself down stairs.”
    â€œIf he was in such a bad way, I’m amazed that you were sent back to live with him so often.”
    Jack tore a piece of naan from the doughy mass, dipped it in his curry and popped it into his mouth. Chewing, he said, “Well, you’ve got to remember this was the mid-seventies. They weren’t as socially aware back then as they are now, certainly not in Beckford. Aunty kept an eye on me, but I think she felt sorry for my father, and she desperately wanted the two of us—my father and I, that is—to make a go of it. Maybe she thought that in the long run I was the only thing that would pull him round. I was like the lifeline that kept the drowning man from going under for good.”
    â€œThat’s terrible,” said Gail, “using you in that way.”
    â€œOh, I don’t think she meant to use me,” Jack said hastily. “I don’t think she saw it that way at all. I think she did everything out of love for me and my father, and maybe that made her a little blind to what was really going on. I think deep down she believed my father loved me, and by being persistent she thought that we would work our way through the bad times and become a real family again. Unfortunately, it never quite worked out that way. My father just kept on rolling further and further downhill. As time went on, the prospect of a reconciliation between us became less and less. As soon as I became aware of his hatred for me, I began to hate him in return—not openly, you understand, but secretly, with a deep, bright child’s hatred that consisted of making myself as scarce as possible and discouraging any attempts at closeness, not that I remember there being any.”
    He stumbled to a halt and stirred his fork around in the brown mush on his plate.
    Gail said, “You spoke about pain earlier. Did you mean physical or mental pain?”
    Jack frowned. “Both. More mental than physical, though, I think. I remember my father threatening me a lot, saying he was going to give me a good hiding. I have an image of him unbuckling his belt and me running away with him roaring for me to come back. I think usually I hid somewhere for a while, often until it was dark. When I went back he was usually pissed out of his brain, dead to the world, and he would forget he’d been going to beat me until the next time.
    â€œI vividly remember that once he grabbed me by the arm—I don’t think I’d done anything wrong—and he leaned right into my face and told me that one night he was going to creep up to my bedroom with a big axe and kill me. I must have been about seven at the time. His eyes looked so small and crazy and he was unshaven and his breath stank, all hot and sour. It was at the dinner table and he was eating something. I can’t remember what it was but I remember his lips being all greasy and I remember seeing bits of chewed-up