The report card in my shirt pocket burned.
I knew there would be more burning when I got home.
Last six weeks, my report card had three B’s, two C’s and a D, and I didn’t sit for three days.
In the envelope in my pocket this time were two B’s, two C’s and two F’s.
Nothing good was going to happen when I got home.
Bobby going off to the Army had made dad meaner than he already was, which was plenty. He wanted him to stay and work at the steel mill, but as soon as he finished eleventh grade and could sign himself up, he was gone. I was ten when he left – twelve now – and Emma was eight. I never knew if the old man was just mad that Bobby was gone or it just meant he had that much more meanness to take out on the remaining two kids.
I stood outside the house for a good ten minutes before going in the side door.
I hugged mom coming through the kitchen and gave half a wave to him, reading in his chair by the front door. With the other hand, I sheltered my pocket, as if he could see through my jacket and into my shirt. After dinner was soon enough. He didn’t need to know until he needed to know.
“Carl!” I was almost through the door to my room.
I stuffed the envelope with the report card in my jacket pocket, then yanked it off and tossed it toward my bed. I straightened my shirt and went back down the hall to the living room.
“Sir?”
“We’re having rabbit tonight.”
“Yes sir.”
“My foot’s ailin’ me.”
“Sir?”
“So, it’s your turn. Get to it.”
I reckoned it wasn’t so much his foot acting up as that pint of whiskey he had on his side table, but I wasn’t so stupid as to ask that question.
“What should I ~”
“~ kill him, skin him and quarter him, goddamn it. What else would you do?”
“I just mean … nevermind. Which one?”
“I don’t give a damn, just not the breeders. You know which five to pick from.”
There was Old Henry, my favorite, then Boxy, Carter, and the twins, Elmo and Davey. He didn’t like that I named them, but it wasn’t like they were pets, really. We ate them. I understood that. I might have been in sixth grade, but I wasn’t completely stupid.
I went in to wash my hands and face, buying myself a little time. I’d seen him kill the rabbits plenty of times. He’d make us watch sometimes, and lately make us watch and help. All he’d say by way of invitation or explanation was “You wanna eat?”
I heard him rustling around while I washed and dried, and tried to remember exactly what the procedure was. There was all that, and gutting them, and … I half wished I’d paid more attention, but I was glad I hadn’t. I was sure I’d mess it up a little, but probably not enough for anyone to notice. I didn’t need more trouble tonight.
When I came out of the bathroom, I almost collided with him in the hall. I glanced up, then looked away as I veered. I was looking the wrong direction when he straight-armed me right in the shoulder. I landed on my hands and knees and he was kicking me repeatedly on the butt.
“You think I didn’t know you were hiding something from me? You think you can bring a problem into my house and I won’t know, you stupid sob?”
“Daddy!”
That’s all I could think to say, and all I could get out before he had me up by the scruff of my neck. “Two goddamn F’s? What are you, some kind of imbecile? Some kind of moron? I wouldn’t be here today if your grandfather had seen me bring a D into the house, much less a goddamn F!”
I raised my palms up just enough to slow down the slaps. They weren’t stopped, by any means, but their strength was reduced a bit before they drove the backs of my hands into my cheeks.
“If you goddamn kids can’t have the least little bit of discipline on your own, I’ll by God teach you some. Your brother might be gone, but it’s not too late for you and your sister.”
Each phrase brought a flurry of slaps. He stopped, panting, when he got to the end of his monologue, then grabbed my collar and shoved me on my way.
“Now get on out and get to your business. We are not through with this, mister.”
I kept my head down through the kitchen, wiping my nose on a sleeve as I passed mom. Just as I got to the door, he called out one last thing, “Hey, stupid! We’re having Old Henry tonight.”
That stung more than the slaps. The vindictive old bastard wasn’t satisfied with the beating – or with the promised beating that still awaited me. He had to invent special ways to try and hurt me.
I walked up slowly and called each of them by name when I got there. I reached in and gave them all a couple of strokes on the head, all except for Old Henry. I was afraid to touch him yet. I went and got the club from its hook under the overhang and walked back even slower. I hefted it as I went, slap-slap-slap into my palm, feeling each sting intensify. I let the sting die away, then drew back and swung the club extra hard. I flinched instinctively, though, so I still didn’t get the full force. It would be enough, though. I was sure that Henry would only feel pain for a second, if that long. I replayed that swing again and again in my head. My arm knew what to do – I just needed to make sure my brain wouldn’t turn away.
I looked back to the house. I don’t know what I was hoping for – my mom or him coming racing out hollering “Stop! It’s all been a mistake!” would’ve been nice, but I knew the impossibility of that. He was too set and she was too afraid. He was at the back picture window, though, with Emma beside him. His fingers were running through her hair in that way that made her uneasy, and her struggle not to squirm was causing her to grimace. He was talking to her, though I couldn’t tell what he was saying. He just kept his eyes on me.
I unlatched the hutch and scratched at the chicken wire with my closed hand like it held a treat – like so many times before. They shuffled in close. Henry took his time and still lagged back a little, so I waved the hand his direction to coax him forward. “Come on, old friend” I said, then immediately felt guilty for it. He loped another eight inches, and as his nose reached my knuckles, I snatched the scruff of his neck and dragged him from the hutch.
Clear of the cage, I swung him until his back legs were stretched out and scooped them into my other hand, my fist holding them secure. It was quick and almost over.
I raised him up as he squirmed. The club came into my hand and I drew it back.
I looked into his eye and we both froze. He seemed to accept his fate, having seen this very thing time and again with other rabbits from our hutch. I accepted my job, though still my arm held. At least I would make sure Henry didn’t suffer any more than he had to. Sometimes, especially when he’d been drinking, his aim was wild, and he’d have to club them a couple of times, but that wouldn’t happen, especially with Henry. My swing would be true. Any moment.
I would do it and it wouldn’t be as bad as I feared; I would do it and I’d become an animal; I would do it and simply feel nothing. I played all those possibilities through my head and more. The one common element was that I would do it, and that was that. As soon as my arm chose to move, it would all be over.
But my arm waited on something, and while I waited on it, I raised the other arm for a closer look at Henry. His body didn’t move, but his head twitched now and then, probably in anticipation.
I hoisted Henry up a little more until he and I were eye-to-eye. His body swung a little my direction as I shifted. “Goodbye, Henry, I’m going to do it now, buddy. I’m sorry.”
I tightened my face and glanced back at my dad. I wanted him to see my resolve. This wasn’t going to make me cry.
The instant my eyes left Henry, he swung and twisted, and his jaws clamped around my bicep, ripping through my sleeve and then into my muscles. As he bit down, the searing pain in my nerves racing both directions on my arm, and filled the cavities of my chest with fire.
I wanted to fling him away, but I couldn’t unclench my fist and he wouldn’t unclench his jaws, so we were at an impasse. Finally, my right arm unlocked and swung once and again and again. Henry went limp. His jaws opened and he dropped from my bicep.
I needed to run into the house, I knew. What I needed was to race in and get the spewing wound on my arm tended to, but my right arm kept swinging. Henry’s head was pulp, pieces spattering everywhere with each swing. My good school shirt, which I had stupidly left on, was soaked in my own blood and sprayed in Henry’s.
I threw the club aside and pivoted. It was ten feet to a tree, and once there, I flayed Henry against the trunk until he was a shred of flesh and fur and bark. It wasn’t until I finally dropped him that I realized I was crying. I couldn’t see for the tears and couldn’t breathe for the mucus.
I kicked at our dogs that had run up for a chance at a bit of fresh rabbit, but with each kick and almost toppled myself right on top of Henry. I gave up trying to hold them back, and trotted toward the house, clasping my bicep.
He and Emma were still framed in the window. Her face was buried in her hands. His hand still upon her head. He tracked me as I trotted. I couldn't see him clearly, but I never blinked, all the way back to the door.
Mother was ready, already propping the screen open, holding it wide to keep the blood and violence from getting all over her. I got bandaged up tight. She'd been a nurse during the war and did it up right. I should’ve gotten stitches, but he didn’t mention them and she wasn’t going to raise the matter of a doctor’s bill with him. It healed up okay without, I suppose. To this day, the scar makes a conversation point, though I spare some of the details.
We had no rabbit for dinner that night. Alongside the carrots, green beans and rolls, the four of us split a can of spam. Nobody spoke, not even to get anything passed. It was all self-service for that meal.
Emma just stared at me without speaking, that evening and for the next week, before she began to relax around me again. In maybe a month, things were back to as normal as they tended to be.
Mom said to shower and go on to bed early, and nothing else. No, she also said to be careful and not get the bandages wet. The next day, she acted as though nothing had ever happened, aside from checking the bandages. Easy for her; she had a lot of practice.
The old man told me to be sure and clean up the carcass before bed. When I stopped to look at him, he said “Some lessons last forever, boy.” That was it. Plus, no further punishment for the grades; none for destroying dinner. Two weeks later, he decided it was time for rabbit again, and that’s about all he told me. “Rabbit tonight – get to it.”
From that first time, I've always made sure that it only takes one swing.
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