angry as if it was my own mind traveling that route. I knew he felt ashamed about not having a job, and I knew his feelings about Aunt Elaine, and I was trying to find a way to tell him the details of the payment arrangement without lying about it, or seeming to brag about it, and without mentioning my aunt’s name. Something, some spider of bad feeling, scurried up from between my legs and along my spine—it was the feeling I always got when they talked about boying me. My father was watching. I decided to tell the truth. “He is for to paying Aunt Elaine on the every month and Aunt Elaine is for to paying some with you and—”
“Some?” my mother said. She had her eyes on my father, not on me. “That sounds a big mistake, that some word. Either that or some body’s gettin’ boyed.”
It didn’t take much for her to lead my father where she wanted him to go, to aim his disappointment in whatever direction pleased her. He pondered this turn of the conversation for a few seconds, his lips working and the four fingers of his left hand tapping out a tune on some imaginary tabletop drum skin. I could hear the breath going into and out of his nostrils.
“Pastor Schect don’t like on no other church workin’,” he said.
“It’s not as a real church. And there will to be good money for—”
“Lie-makin’,” my mother muttered.
My father chewed his lips for a few seconds, scraped his eyes back and forth across my face, drummed his fingers in the broken rhythm, and said, “Tomorrow you to stay to home and we put a fix on the roof then, boy.”
“But tomorrow is for a work day. I won’t get some money.”
“Boys don’t to give their man a backtalk,” my father said, and he stood up and went stomping out the door. Another few seconds and I heard him working in the darkness, splitting wood, which was, for him, the kind of relaxation that watching sports on TV or having a beerwith friends would be for another man. I heard the maul hit —bang— and then there was a pause, another strike, bang , a pause, and then the sound of the billets (my father called them “bullets”) being tossed into a pile. He was working in just the light from the window, but I knew he could have done the job with his eyes closed. I heard another strike.
My mother smoked in a satisfied way. “I’ll bring home a big money paying for you,” I said to her. “Know how much?”
She went on smoking and didn’t look at me. She was listening to the sounds of the wood-splitting the way another woman might listen to a piano being played in an upstairs room by someone she loved. When I started to speak again, she raised the hand that held the cigarette. Her wedding ring was loose there between the knuckles, and I remember seeing scratches on the back of her hand and wondering if she and my father had fought when they were away. “I’ll put your boy clothes out at the bed tomorrow,” she said. “And don’t tell me you dint have no warning on it neither, you Majie.”
Eight
W henever I was walking the roads, or—before my father smashed up my old bicycle in one of his fits—whenever I was taking my long solitary bike rides along Route 112, I would occasionally find myself carrying on a debate about which was the worse penance, boying or dousing. Dousing had the physical pain to it, but it didn’t last long, and I had learned a way of being strong inside during it. Even in March or April, when the water in the stream had been ice not long before, I had trained myself to turn the cold on my skin into some other feeling and pretend I liked it. I wouldn’t make a sound. Sometimes when my father released me with a tap on the shoulder I would walk, not run, to the house just to show him how strong I was, how unaffected by the punishment.
Boying had no pain to it, but usually it went on for a whole day. And it seemed to bring out a hidden evil in my mother and father that I never saw when they doused or hungered me. When he was
“Some?” my mother said. She had her eyes on my father, not on me. “That sounds a big mistake, that some word. Either that or some body’s gettin’ boyed.”
It didn’t take much for her to lead my father where she wanted him to go, to aim his disappointment in whatever direction pleased her. He pondered this turn of the conversation for a few seconds, his lips working and the four fingers of his left hand tapping out a tune on some imaginary tabletop drum skin. I could hear the breath going into and out of his nostrils.
“Pastor Schect don’t like on no other church workin’,” he said.
“It’s not as a real church. And there will to be good money for—”
“Lie-makin’,” my mother muttered.
My father chewed his lips for a few seconds, scraped his eyes back and forth across my face, drummed his fingers in the broken rhythm, and said, “Tomorrow you to stay to home and we put a fix on the roof then, boy.”
“But tomorrow is for a work day. I won’t get some money.”
“Boys don’t to give their man a backtalk,” my father said, and he stood up and went stomping out the door. Another few seconds and I heard him working in the darkness, splitting wood, which was, for him, the kind of relaxation that watching sports on TV or having a beerwith friends would be for another man. I heard the maul hit —bang— and then there was a pause, another strike, bang , a pause, and then the sound of the billets (my father called them “bullets”) being tossed into a pile. He was working in just the light from the window, but I knew he could have done the job with his eyes closed. I heard another strike.
My mother smoked in a satisfied way. “I’ll bring home a big money paying for you,” I said to her. “Know how much?”
She went on smoking and didn’t look at me. She was listening to the sounds of the wood-splitting the way another woman might listen to a piano being played in an upstairs room by someone she loved. When I started to speak again, she raised the hand that held the cigarette. Her wedding ring was loose there between the knuckles, and I remember seeing scratches on the back of her hand and wondering if she and my father had fought when they were away. “I’ll put your boy clothes out at the bed tomorrow,” she said. “And don’t tell me you dint have no warning on it neither, you Majie.”
Eight
W henever I was walking the roads, or—before my father smashed up my old bicycle in one of his fits—whenever I was taking my long solitary bike rides along Route 112, I would occasionally find myself carrying on a debate about which was the worse penance, boying or dousing. Dousing had the physical pain to it, but it didn’t last long, and I had learned a way of being strong inside during it. Even in March or April, when the water in the stream had been ice not long before, I had trained myself to turn the cold on my skin into some other feeling and pretend I liked it. I wouldn’t make a sound. Sometimes when my father released me with a tap on the shoulder I would walk, not run, to the house just to show him how strong I was, how unaffected by the punishment.
Boying had no pain to it, but usually it went on for a whole day. And it seemed to bring out a hidden evil in my mother and father that I never saw when they doused or hungered me. When he was
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