it happened one evening, as it always did in those years, that an exchange had to occur. children had to change hands. And I was one of those children, the oldest. A mother had to give them over to a father. The father came to her rented house. She was there with her younger boyfriend of a short time. He came with his younger girlfriend of a short time. Half his age, she was, and blond and beautiful with bright green eyes. And she loved his children with a tenderness he could neither emulate nor understand.
To him they were an estate, a part of him that was being robbed, by the wife who had betrayed him and the world he had never understood.
And the children were understandably reluctant. They recognized the aggression in his brow, the impending conflict in his stance. But they loaded themselves into the van with the proper obedience, the required gravity. They tried their best to make themselves small. They loaded themselves with the weight of the conflict, let their small stomachs tighten, let their shoulders become hard. Hardened themselves for what would come.
He turned the key and flicked the switch for the headlights. The lights shown on the cars of the mother, the ex-wife, and the new boyfriend, whom she had met during her second shot at college, in nursing school.
And for a moment, everything seemed as though it would pass. The father with his young girlfriend and four frightened children would put the van into reverse and glide on down the road, angry but predictable, safe. The children's shoulders softened.
But then the father, with the image of the two cars side-by-side before him, gunned the engine. He hit the gas--and--the van lunged forward, before breaking suddenly as the young girlfriend lunged at the driver, pounding on him, yelling and telling him that he was crazy, hitting him over and over--not hard, not to injure, but to make a point.
The children hardened again, shuttering from the impact of the brake. And I, the oldest, decided to evacuate. I fumbled and tumbled, and got us all out of the car and into the house.
My mother called the police. My father left.
That was how one kid exchange went.
They got better over time.
But not by much.
To him they were an estate, a part of him that was being robbed, by the wife who had betrayed him and the world he had never understood.
And the children were understandably reluctant. They recognized the aggression in his brow, the impending conflict in his stance. But they loaded themselves into the van with the proper obedience, the required gravity. They tried their best to make themselves small. They loaded themselves with the weight of the conflict, let their small stomachs tighten, let their shoulders become hard. Hardened themselves for what would come.
He turned the key and flicked the switch for the headlights. The lights shown on the cars of the mother, the ex-wife, and the new boyfriend, whom she had met during her second shot at college, in nursing school.
And for a moment, everything seemed as though it would pass. The father with his young girlfriend and four frightened children would put the van into reverse and glide on down the road, angry but predictable, safe. The children's shoulders softened.
But then the father, with the image of the two cars side-by-side before him, gunned the engine. He hit the gas--and--the van lunged forward, before breaking suddenly as the young girlfriend lunged at the driver, pounding on him, yelling and telling him that he was crazy, hitting him over and over--not hard, not to injure, but to make a point.
The children hardened again, shuttering from the impact of the brake. And I, the oldest, decided to evacuate. I fumbled and tumbled, and got us all out of the car and into the house.
My mother called the police. My father left.
That was how one kid exchange went.
They got better over time.
But not by much.
posted by chavala at 1:52 AM
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