The Only Answer

The soft whimpering of his brother droned on in the background. He buried his head in his hands, to blot out the sound of his crying; his knees curled up to his chest. Over him stood a tall lean figure. He was 6 ft. tall, the blue suit, handgun in his gun holder, a night stick and a small silver plate on his breast pocket that read NYPD. One hand was on his hip the other holding a small pad. He could not even face the man.
‘What will they do to us?’ He panicked. ‘Will they put us in jail?’
He kept on hearing the men walk around with their walkie-talkies. Bright red and blue lights flashed wildly from stationary police cars outside their home.
Again, the officer standing over him, walked around in a small circle, went to talk briefly to his comrades and came back at his side. He shut his eyes, feeling hot tears emerge but they didn’t actually fall.
“Son,” the officer began again. “I know this is hard, but we need to know. Now, think carefully. What happened? Do you remember at all?”
He sniffled, letting out a loud sigh. Had he remember? He wasn’t even sure himself. ‘This is all dad’s fault.’ He thought angrily. ‘If he had not left mom…’
He knew that didn’t give their mom any right to act as she did, though. He thought all moms were like this. That was until he witnessed other kids’ moms. Most of them were so nice, caring. When the children rushed out from school, while bundling them up in their coats (at winter time) their moms would listen to them tell their stories on how Jan stole Andy's pencil, Mary sang in class and how her classmates teased her; Jeanette got a A+ on her spelling test. These were real moms. His ideal mother, one he knew this is how they should act. Listening, understanding and caring for their children.
He realized some parents shouting at their kids too. Strangely he found himself wishing he was yelled at for the same reasons other kids were scolded for. Little Roy pokes his sister near the eye. “Stop it, Roy!” His mother would yell.
When was their fun? Not at home. At home they were beaten and/or choked for everything. He began to think nothing was right for his mother anymore. It was worse for his brother. As the youngest, he made many mistakes. His mother would chastise him and beat him more. He could not do much but watch or get beaten too.
Coming out the school, he could spot his mom easily. Didn’t matter the weather; she would wait outside the school grounds, tapping her high heel boots impatiently. Snapping gum in her mouth, her hands fixed on her hips, jeans super low and the button open. Her shirts were too low on her chest and too high up to cover her stomach.
As parents gathered up their kids, (which he also noticed most of them had fathers too.) he came out stoned faced, his younger brother tugging on his sleeve, his face showing fear. Often times his younger brother would stop him before they exited out the building, pleading, “Lets run away.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. Deana need us. We need her.”
“You sure?” His brother’s eyes were wide with question.
“Course I’m sure.” He lied through his lips. He tried to stay strong for his brother, although he feared as well or even more than him. He wanted nothing more than to listen to his brother and run away. But what would they do after? Where will they go? They knew no one. He feared what will become of them if they left their mom. He tried not to show the same fear his brother displayed most of the time.
When they exited out, their mom would grab his younger brother by the arm, gripping harshly. The first question as usual that would spurt out her lips, “Dammit! How long does it take you to get out of school? Expect me to wait forever? Next time you take too long, I’ll leave.”
It was not like it was the first time she said this and then actually did. Countless of times he needed to stay behind to talk to his math teacher to help him with his work. Then his brother comes crying, “She left! She left!” There were even times she didn’t bother to pick them up from school at all, simply because she “forgot.” They’d walk home by themselves.
In the car they were to remain silent. She would blame them if they ever got in a near accident while they were talking. The atmosphere would be completely quiet. Constantly he would hear her mumble about how she would ever get to paying rent and finish down payments on the car. She would complain about their dad and they were to always sit and listen, day after day, the same thing. Finally, when nearing home, the usual nag would begin. “When are they gonna put programs in these damn schools about getting jobs and managing money? Y’all need to learn at a young age and not grow up to be like your father.” She would look straight at him in the rare view mirror and he would quickly avoid his mother’s eyes. He knew what was coming up. “Daniel, whatcha learn in school? Anything new?”
It sounded like a nice motherly question but it was not. Not with his mother. Now that they were pulling in the driveway he could speak and answer her question.
“No, Deana.”
“Boy, speak up! I can’t hear you.”
“No.”
“Why? When they gonna teach you damn kids something, eh? When you getting a job Daniel? We need money you know. You complain about not having enough some times and not getting whatcha want and you can’t ‘cause we need the freakin’ money.”
He lost count on how many times she said that. Every birthday he had, he got maybe a pen from his math teacher and some small things from few of his friends, but not much. He didn’t get anything at home. Not even a cake. His mom didn’t even know how to cook or bake and she couldn’t afford gifts. “Ain’t got no money,” She’d reply every time. “And you got to show me you deserve a gift.”
Deserve? He felt all he ever did was work for her. Clean the house, cook dinner, look after his younger brother and help him with his homework since mom worked late nights at a night club, raising money by dancing and was never home. He’d also watch over her every night she stumbled in drunk. Was this the reward he was supposed to receive?
“Imma be late tonight.” She replied. “’Yall need to look out for the house. Daniel, look after your brother and get something to eat.”
He nodded. His brother sat quiet and still.
“I’m gonna look for a job for you too.” She got out the car and dragged them out. “Ya need to work.”
At 7pm his mother left. He helped his brother with his homework, fed him and put him to bed. At 10pm he laid in his own bed. After a whole hour of tossing and turning, he fell asleep. A slam from the door at 3:30 in the morning stirred him up. Silence followed after. 20 minutes later, heavy and slow footsteps prodded up the stairs. And then he already knew; his mom was drunk again.
His brother tossed in his bed and sat up. He rubbed his tired little eyes with a soft baby-like moan. “Daniel, she home?”
“Yea,” He answered nonchalantly, not even sitting up or turning towards him. “She is. Go back to sleep.”
“But I wanna see her.”
He shrugged. One thing he admired about his brother, no matter how bad their mother seemed, no matter how much he thought they should run away, no matter how much she was never home or beat them, he somehow deep down loved her. He could not find the love for his mother anymore. It was buried deep with in him maybe, but it never surfaced up. He couldn’t even call her “mom”. He hated her; he hated their dad. The low life that never loved any of them and left when he was 4. He hated the way they acted; treated each other. Sometimes he felt like killing them. Hurting them for hurting him. But he was also scared. Scared to leave and scared to do anything else about it. He had to deal with it, especially for the sake of his brother. He didn’t want to show his brother hatred. He knew he still loved their mother and would not do a thing to hurt her.
His brother crawled out of bed. “I’m going down and see her.”
“Jason, she’ll come up. Get back in bed.”
His brother did not wait and he watched him rush downstairs. ‘She’s probably in the kitchen.’ He thought. ‘Sleeping on the floor or table, too drunk to move.’ Reluctantly, he got out of bed and walked downstairs. He went into the bathroom first, hearing his brother’s voice from the kitchen. He shut the door, opening the water faucets, and suddenly heard a loud scream from his mother.
“How dare you’s?” She cried, her speech sloppy. “You’s wansh a beatin’, boy?”
“No, Jason.” He spoke out loud to himself in frustration. “When will you learn? I told you not to do that. Our mother is crazy.”
He knew what his brother probably went and did. He went downstairs to their drunken mother, who also couldn’t think straight, to tell her how much he hated her coming home late and ask if she can stop coming in wasted. Anytime his mother felt like they were telling her what to do, she got highly angry. It was worse at this time.
“Mommy,” His brother began.
“Dun’ talksh backto mes, boy! I wilish kill yous!”
A glass broke and then came a cry from his brother. He rushed outside.
‘Not again.’ He pleaded. ‘Please, not again.’
He thought carefully of the night. Nothing was going to save them. His brother did it, but he had not stopped him. He had stood there and looked on. He was scared. He didn’t know what to do. But how can he explain that to him? How can he save himself now?
The tall, lean officer knelt down to him. He finally uncovered his face from his hands and stared at him with half closed, red puffy eyes.
His mother’s prone body lay beside his brother a dark puddle of rich blood formulating more and more under her. Her chest wound was faced down, her eyes closed and mouth slightly open, blood trickling down the corner. His brother sat clutching a glass shard, tears still streaming down his face, his hair a mess.
He looked up then, at his older brother, the officer then back at his brother. And for the first time, Daniel saw something in his brother’s eyes that he never saw before.
“She was going to kill me…” His brother whimpered. “I hate her…she was ready to kill me…”