Emotional Writing

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Billy's Legacy


When my brother Bill died last year he left me, among other things, a bunch of his books and some of his writing. He bequeathed his Witenauer watch to me, too. I couldn't help smiling when I remembered how many times I told him I was going to rob his watch when he died. We joked back and forth as to who would outlive who onf our birthdays.

Everything was bundled up and stored in the attic of Bill's house over on Dowling street, like the lawyer said. A month or so went by and I finally decided to pick up the box. As soon I opened it, I felt closer to Bill, somehow.

I took the Timex off my wrist and slipped Bill’s Witnauer on. I’m still wearing it, Bill.

As I perused the books, I discovered what varied tastes my brother had. Everything, from Hamlet and Midsummer Night’s Dream to Michael Connelly and John Sanford detective novels were there.

I knew my brother was a prolific writer, but I never saw any of his writing, except for a couple of poems he gave my sister. A thick stack of paper lay underneath the books and I discovered it was a manuscript.

The top sheet said “What You Make Of It” A memoir by Bill Wheeler.
(This memoir narrated by a young boy)

I felt compelled to go further and soon I was learning more about what a bad time all of us had iin one of the foster homes we were in during World War II:

************************

“One day, Brian’s coloring and he draws four squiggly blue lines on the wall in our room. He still has the stubby piece of blue crayon in his hand when Mrs. Bushnell comes in to put clean socks in our drawers.

"What do you call this?" She points to the marks. "Well?" She has her hands on her hips, and she’s staring at him.

We don't move, but Brian starts to cry.

"It was you, wasn't it? Answer me!”

Smaaaaack!

She hits him in the head with her hand, and grabs him by the ear and pinches. I rub the side of my head. It's like I felt the slap, too. She grabs the piece of crayon out of his hand. He’s screaming, and I’m afraid to move.

"Here!" She waves the crayon in front of his mouth. "You can eat it!" I hear her say the words, but it sounds so crazy. She rubs the crayon on his lips. But he has them closed real tight.

"I said eat it!" Smaaaaack! She slaps him in the head again so fast that Brian can’t have a chance to put his hand up to stop her.

I wish Sis was here. She must be outside or something. She would help stick up for him. I have to help him myself. Somehow. I want Mrs. Bushnell to stop hitting him. Where is Sis? I'm scared. Can't she hear Brian yelling?

"I will! I will!" Brian screams. His hand is shaking like mad while he slowly puts the crayon in his mouth.

“Now, chew!” Mrs. Bushnell screams.

Brian begins to chew the crayon, real slow, but he makes an ugly face and spits pieces out on the floor. Some gets on her.

"All of it!" He puts some more of the crayon in his mouth. I see the crazy look on Mrs. Bushnell's face. Brian cries and begins to choke. I think it might be poison or something. I don't know. I'm awful scared. Just scared.

I have to do something and I kick Mrs. Bushnell in the leg as hard as I can.

"What the. . . " She grabs my hair. "Who in the hell do you think you are, boy?" She slaps me hard. Again, again, and again. Smaaaaaack! Smaaaaack! Smaaaaack!

I feel snot running down my face. I rub it with my hand, and I see it's not snot. It's blood. My nose is bleeding. I fall backwards onto Brian's bed. The top of my head stings; it feels like she pulled all of my hair out.

"That's it, boy! That's the last straw! I'll let the Mister deal with your smart, little self." She stomps out and leaves us both standing there, crying. I can't stop shaking.

Brian is still choking on the crayon when Sis comes running into the room.

"Billy! What happened?"

"Sis! She was making Brian eat a crayon!"

"What? No! Spit it out, Brian." Bertie pats him on the back a bunch of times. "Come on! Spit it out!" When she puts her hand under his chin he throws up all over her brown dress.

"It will be all right now." She grabs a shirt out of my drawer and wipes the vomit off; then she hugs him.

"What happened, Billy? I just bumped into her, and she shoved me out of the way. She was going out the back door. What happened to your eye? It’s swelling up! Why is she so mad?"

"I kicked her."

"What? Billy? Oh, no! You kicked her? Why? Why did you kick her?"

I start crying. “Because, she was making Brian eat that crayon. He was choking, and she still kept making him do it. I was scared she was going to poison him. She was making him eat it, I told you! And, she was hitting him in the face, too."

"Oh! Billy, no! I'm afraid. I'm really afraid."

"I know. So am I. But I couldn't help it. She was hurting him, and I didn’t know what else to do. I just did it. I’m sorry.” Brian is still crying, and Sis keeps hugging him.

"Shuush. Shuush. It’ll be all right now, Brian. Shuush. Bobby, stop crying, now.”

The back door slams.

They both stand in the doorway. Mrs. Bushnell is looking like she did something real great. Her arms are folded. Mr. Bushnell looks around the room, real slow. Then, he puts his hands on his hips and stares at me. I feel hot all over, and the floor feels like it is spinning around under my feet.

"Well, looks like we have a lesson to learn, eh, boy?"

Sis begs. "Please, Sir. He didn't mean it. He really didn't. He won't do it again; I promise he won't."

"You're right, little girl. He won't." I feel warm pee running down my leg.

"Come on, boy." He grabs my arm and digs his fingers in so hard that I scream.

“Owwww!" He yanks me like a rope and drags me behind him. I pull back, so he yanks and drags me, and I fall over on my side. He jerks me back to my feet. I see Mrs. Bushnell grinning as we fly past her. I hate her so much. He drags me all the way out to the barn, throws me onto a pile of straw, and yanks the barn door shut.

"You got the devil in you, boy! You need to read the Bible more; I see that. Just who in the hell do you think you are?" He unbuckles his black belt and slides it through the loops, real slow, just like he did the first day we got here. It goes swooooosh!

"No! No! Please, Sir. I didn't mean to. I won't do it again. I'm sorry. Please!"

"I warned you, didn't I, boy? God's rules, my rules, remember?”

"Yes, Sir! I’ll be good! I promise I will. Please don’t hurt me!"

"Get them pants down, lad. Now!" His eyes are great big. I’m shaking all over, and my hands can't open the buttons on my pants fast enough. My fingers don't work right; I'm crying so much, I can't see what I'm doing. I can taste my tears on my lips.

"Hurry up, boy!"

I get my wet pants almost all the way down, and I pee again. It squirts onto the straw. I fall down on my butt, right there in the pee, and keep pushing until my pants are almost all the way past my boots.

"That's good enough. Stand up."
"Please, Sir. I can't. Please don't. Please."

"I won't say it again, boy! Stand up and turn around."

I push myself up, but I almost fall over again, turning around in the straw. I hear him breathing loud and fast behind me. Then ,he’s awful close. I turn to see what he’s doing with the belt.

"Now bend over and grab them ankles."

"I'm sorry Sir. Please don't hit me. Please, don't." He pushes on my shoulders and I bend over. It's coming now. I know. I try to look over my shoulder again.

Smaaaaack!

I scream
.
Smaaaaaack!

I scream again.

Smaaaaaack!

I fall over into the straw and try to put my hands over my butt.

Smaaaaaack! He still hits my hands. My legs. My back. I put my arms over my head, so he can't hit me in the face. It hurts more than when he hit me on my butt.

Smaaaaaack! I scream again. I can hear my screams, and I want them to stop. I roll over onto my back. My hands wave at him, but I can’t see him good, because I’m crying so hard.

He stops and stares down at me. His eyes look like they’re falling out of his head.

"Now, get up!"

I’m crying, but I get up and jump up and down, rubbing my butt. I almost fall over in the straw; it’s slippery. I'm so glad, because I think he's done. He’s breathing like he just ran a long ways while he slides his belt back into the loops on his pants. He stares at me, trying to catch his breath.

Blood is coming from a cut on my arm, but I don't care.

He's done. It's over.

"You're a sinner, boy. You needed for me to beat some of the devil's doing out of you. Understand?"

"Yes, Sir."

"I don't want to have you out here again, Boy. Next time, I fear I won't go so easy on you. Now get them pants up, and get back the house. Tell the Missus you're sorry, and get cleaned up."

When I get inside, Mrs. Bushnell is waiting by the door. Her hands are on her hips, and she is smiling.

"You got something to say to me, Sonny Boy?"

"Yes, Ma'am. I'm sorry."

"Well, you should be. Don't you ever touch me again. You hear? Now, you'd best get over to the sink. Wash that face of yours. Then, you and your brother are going to scrub that wall, from top to bottom. Understand?" She hands me the blue and yellow can of Old Dutch Cleanser and some wet rags.

"Yes, Ma'am.”

"The little snot is waiting for you in there . . .been up to me, he'd a got a taste of that belt , too."

Sis is looks at my arm. There's blood on it. We let the water run over it, and she says it's just a scratch.

I run to my room with the can of cleanser and rags. Brian is lying on his bed; his face is all red from crying. He sits up, and I hug him. He squeezes me hard. “She hurts me. She hurts me.”

"I know, Brian. It's okay. We'll be all right now. I got to scrub the marks off. You just sit still, okay? I'll do it." He slides down onto the floor and cries. Blue pieces of crayon are still on his face, around his lips and teeth. His tongue is blue.

Mrs. Bushnell's clomp, clomp, clomping steps are coming this way, and I start scrubbing the wall. I try to pull Brian to his feet, but it's too late.

She grabs his hair and jerks him up on his feet. "You need a good licking with the belt, too. Is that it?" He screams.

"No! It's my fault, Ma'am. I told him I'd do it. Brian, please! Help me clean the wall, okay? He will help, Ma'am. I promise."

"Well, he'd better, or else I’ll see to it that he gets some of the same medicine you got."

The front of Brian's pants are wet. He's peeing, and she sees it.

"You little pig. Just like your brother. You can't control that thing, can you? Get out to the kitchen where I can keep an eye on you. Now! Move!” She turns to leave and runs into Sis.

"Yes. That's right, sister; he's bawling again. Just look at his pants. Filthy little pig. Get that look off your face! Don't you worry about it. You're on thin ice with me already. You just get back upstairs with your brothers, and take care of them like you're supposed to. I don't recall asking you to come down here, anyway. Did I?"

"No, Ma'am. I’m going right back up there.”

At suppertime, Brian stands in the corner of the kitchen with his wet pants on. I know how he feels, and I wish I could help him. He’s not allowed to cry. Mr. Bushnell says grace, and it's real long. I think he’s only doing this because of what he did. Maybe he’s afraid God saw him whipping me. When he's finished, he says, "Oh, Lord, give us the strength to prevail over our sins. Amen."

I ache all over. My legs and arms hurt, and the skin around my eye stings where the tip of his belt hit me. My butt is burning, and I wonder if they’re done punishing me.

I'm hungry, though, and Sis told me one time that bread fills you up, so I eat three pieces, just in case I don't get to eat again soon. Except for the bread, it's hard to eat, because Brian is crying. I wish they would pick a different corner for him in another room. He’s lucky, though, because Mr. Bushnell didn't smack him with his belt, too. We’re having liver and onions, one of Mr. Bushnell's favorites. I think she made it special for him because he stuck up for her and whipped me . . . she knows the rest of us hate liver.

Mrs. Bushnell gets tired of Brian’s sniffling.

"Mister. You just go on to bed. Get going! No supper for you tonight.” Brian cries and runs to bed. Me and Sis look at each other. “And leave those clothes on, too. You’ll sleep in them; see how you like that.” One of the twins is crying, and Mrs. Bushnell looks at Sis.

"Best get up there and change them-- feed them--do something. They’re your brothers, you know" Sis isn't finished eating, but she leaves the table. "And go easy on that Karo syrup when you mix. Sugar is too expensive to waste."

"Yes, Ma'am."

"Boy, I want you to put some ice on that face before bedtime, is that clear?” she says.
“Yes, Ma’am.”

Mr. Bushnell is stuffing mashed potatoes into his mouth. He acts like he doesn't even remember what he did to me. Like it doesn’t matter. I start the dishes by myself. Sis helps after the twins are fed.

Mrs. Bushnell uses a pick to chop some ice from the icebox. She gives me a towel with ice chunks wrapped inside and tells me to sit down and hold it on my cheek.

I have to let Sis finish the dishes by herself. We can’t talk because Mr. Bushnell is writing something at the table. I’m so glad to go to bed tonight. Brian is still awake, and he’s shivering, even with the blanket over him. "I'm so cold, Billy. Can I come over there and sleep with you?”

"Better not, Brian; if you get caught, it will be worse for both of us."

I want to tell him it’s okay . . . or maybe to get up and change clothes, but I can't. Mrs. Bushnell is still in the living room. She can hear everything, and she’ll probably check on us before she goes to bed. Maybe after she goes to bed, I can help him get warm, somehow. I lay in here, listening to him sniffling and waiting for them to turn off the light; then, I fall asleep by accident.


I felt tears welling up in my eyes. I knew that no matter how painful, I had to read the rest of the manuscript. It seems I owed Bill a lot more than I ever thought.


(2727 words)