Chapter Forty-Six What I Did
It’s Saturday. The day my mother brought the first one home.
His name is Tom.
He doesn’t have a last name, my mother tells me when he’s out of earshot. He is only Tom, and I should think of him that way. The man sits on our couch, adjusting himself, craning his neck to see where my mother went. He’s in his mid-fifties, the indention from an absent wedding band on his left finger. I can almost feel the weight of the ring hidden in his pocket. He has thinning hair and a small belly. A bright green shirt hangs loosely on his otherwise wiry frame, and I can smell the scent of cigarettes on him from here.
“I met him at Roosevelt’s,” my mother explains in hushed tones.
Roosevelt’s. A bar clear across town she showed me last weekend. I remember the cars in the parking lot, the cracked red leather booths and dim lighting hardly visible through the dusty windows. Cartoon writing spelled out the name of the bar, but the middle E was smudged so badly that it looked more like Roos velt’s.
“He told me I was the kind of girl he could really fall for,” she scoffs. “And as we drove here, he said he wanted a family. To marry a nice woman. As if I don’t know he’s already married.” My mom takes my chin in her hand. “They’re all the same, Domino. They will all do to me and you what Dad did to us.”
“Why can’t we just try to find Dad?” It’s a question I’ve asked a dozen times.
“I tried,” Mom hisses. “You helped me look for him. He’s gone. He doesn’t want to be found.” She straightens, smooths her hair. “So we’ll improvise. Save other women from experiencing what we did. Better for men like these to vanish in the night than to walk out on their families.”
I hate what my mother is saying. Her words crawl over my skin, and my heart beats faster when she sets her gaze on the man, Tom. I want to scream for him to leave. I want to call the police. I want to hit my mother and tell her she’s crazy and I won’t do it. I won’t do this horrible thing.
But then she takes me into her arms. She tells me I am her perfect, beautiful daughter. She tells me she will never leave me, and that we have only each other, forever. And finally, she says the thing that causes my resolve to crumble.
“Who would you have if not for me?” Her words are warm against my ear, her embrace comforting. “Where would you go?”
When she tells me to get our tools, I do.
And when she tells me to open the basement door, I do.
And when she shows me the best ways to cut a person so that they suffer longer, I do these things and more. I am her daughter. I am her good girl. But I cannot stay as this man bleeds and begs for his life. I cannot be present as we bury his body in the freshly churned earth; the same place where, one day, concrete will be poured for a brand new Bank of America. I cannot stand by as Mother brings another man to our home. And another. And another.
I cannot do these things.
But Wilson can.
It was a Saturday the first time Mother brought one home.
I was twelve years old.