THE MAKINGS OF A DIVORCE. EXPLORING THE PARALLELS OF ABUSE. Ch. 7
Mommy, Can We Leave Now — Please? We’ll Be Okay Without Him
Would it ever end?
Butch plopped down in the driver’s seat, pulled a cigarette from the red pack, and lit it with his silver lighter. He took a quick drag and banged his fist on the dashboard.
“I’m done — we ain’t never coming back here.” He dug in his pockets for the keys but found them on the floor.
He turned the key, but nothing. He pumped the gas pedal three times and tried cranking it again. The wagon slowly sputtered to life.
Mom sat next to him in the front passenger seat. I scooted up behind her from the backseat, rubbing the soft strap of her tank top between my fingers. She looked pretty in her yellow tank top and faded denim cut-offs.
“Leave your ma alone and sit back,” Butch said.
I sat back.
My real dad wouldn’t say that to me. Except he wasn’t alive, he died before I was born. But I think he’d have loved me. Butch and Mom weren’t even married — why could he tell me what to do?
The smoke from his cigarette crawled to all corners of the old rusty station wagon.
Slowly turning the crank handle, I cracked my window. I didn’t like when they smoked in the car. But at least Mom opened her window a little. Butch always said to quit acting like a baby.
“Roll up the damn window.”
“Leave it open — just a crack? Mom asked.
Butch looked at me through the rearview mirror and glared in my eyes. Words weren’t necessary. He turned to Mom, raising his eyebrows, lips tight, slowly shaking his head up and down.
Neither of us said anything as I rolled the window back up.
The muffler had broken again. He’d used a wire coat hanger to fix it, but it was hanging down. It was loud and smelled bad — I didn’t like riding in the wagon.
Mom had met Butch back when I was three, at a party in our apartment building. The music and laughter had grown louder throughout the night. A man who liked Mom talked to me like Daffy Duck. I wished Mom would’ve chosen him.
But Butch won.
Butch jerked the wagon into reverse and backed out of his father’s — the Old Man’s driveway. He started towards the highway. The Old Man and Butch had fought again. He’d thrown Butch out of his house — telling him never to return.
It used to bother me, but not anymore. They never really meant it. They’d fight and make up just in time for next weekend’s beer-guzzling barbeques and nights of penny poker.
Butch floored it when we got on the highway.
“She’s still got it, ha? She might got some rust and holes on the outside, but this baby’s got power. I’d put her up against that foreign crap any day. We could go to California — she’d make it cross country.”
It was a long drive home and well after midnight. I drifted off to sleep.
But it didn’t last.
“Shut your damn mouth — you’re asking for it,” Butch screamed. One hand held the wheel while he raised the other to Mom’s face. But instead, he jabbed her arm with his pointer finger. “Don’t push me, he sneered.”
Mom flinched and nodded.
She turned away and looked out the window. She took a swig of beer and rested it between her legs. The Steve Miller band’s Fly like an Eagle came on, and Butch blasted the car radio. Tears fell down Mom’s cheeks.
I was directly behind her, edged up to her seat, and gently soothed her slumped shoulder. Mom turned slightly towards me and put her hand on top of mine.
“Go back to sleep,” she said loud enough for Butch to hear.
He looked at her and then at me. “Listen to your Ma,” he slurred, turning his head back to the road.
She turned opposite him and slanted her head so he couldn’t see her face. She mouthed, “Quiet, don’t say anything, okay?”
I gave a slight nod.
“We’re going to jump out of the car when I say go, she mouthed.”
My eyes and mouth opened wide.
“We’ll go when he slows down, okay?”
I looked at Butch, but he was moving his head to the music, tapping the steering wheel to the beat.
I nodded my head up and down at Mom. I sat back in my seat, gripping the door handle.
Waiting with fear — and excitement.
Mom knew what was coming. When he was drunk — and she made him angry, he’d make her pay. Sometimes with black and blue eyes, chipped teeth, near broken arms, or hospital trips.
And when he was like this, anything — and I mean anything, gave him reason.
I couldn’t sit still — we might leave for real this time. He’d left her once and drove out of state. He said he was done. I begged her not to let him come back home and promised her we’d be okay.
He’d left because he thought Mom had cheated on him. I prayed God would make Mom lock the doors and never let him return.
But a few weeks later, she welcomed him with open arms.
Butch lit another cigarette. We drove by my uncle’s friend’s car lot — we were getting closer to the apartment. He pressed the brakes for a yellow light and came to a fast stop.
Mom yelled, “now, go!”
I stole a glance at Butch before opening the door. Scowling, he barked what the…. but I didn’t hear the rest — I jumped out and slammed the door behind me.
Mom clutched my hand, and we ran towards a dark gas station on the side of the road. We kept running until we came to a neighborhood.
My heart pounded — I couldn’t decide whether to laugh or cry. We raced between dark houses and cut through lawns. Dogs barked as we passed.
We were finally leaving him.
Mom said she needed to rest, and we stopped behind someone’s garage. She lit a cigarette, shielding the red ember by cupping one hand in front of it. We crouched down and sat on our feet — the grass was wet.
“Mom, can we leave him now? Please? I don’t ever want to go back.”
“You need to keep quiet. I don’t want him finding us — he’s seeing red right now; he’ll be madder than a hornet. That’s the last thing we need. I have to think.”
It was dark, but the moon gave light. We slipped quietly through backyards. Mom whispered, “People with houses are lucky.” She pointed to a swing set and said, “Look — for the poor little rich kids.”
We hid behind a tree when we heard a car drive by. Mom grabbed my hand when all was clear, and we jaywalked across the street.
“Mom, we can’t cross here.” I liked following the rules, even at seven years old.
“It’s okay this time, shhh, quiet.”
My legs were getting tired; I wanted to go somewhere. I didn’t know where though.
Mom froze in her steps. We heard the wagon’s muffler dragging on the road. It was Butch — he was getting closer.
Mom grabbed my hand, and we scrambled towards a dark house. We dropped to our knees, crawling on the wet grass. We found shelter and edged closer to the house, slouching behind a purple lilac bush.
He slowed down as he got closer. The muffler stopped scraping against the pavement.
Mom looked in my eyes and put her finger to her mouth, “shhh.”
I held my breath and squeezed my eyes shut. I promised God I’d always be a good girl if he wouldn’t let Butch find us.
The wagon was loud, but it wasn’t moving.
I tried not to breathe, but I couldn’t hold it — I took a deep breath. Mom silenced me with her eyes.
Just then, Butch revved the engine, and the muffler started dragging down the road — away from us. Mom and I hugged each other.
“Let’s go; we can’t stay here.”
“Mom, I don’t want to go back. Please?”
“Not right now, okay?”
We walked through more backyards, sometimes stopping to rest and listen. Mom almost fell a few times. She was still drunk, but her words weren’t as slurred.
We finally made it to Country Kitchen, an all-night diner. We never ate there, but Mom needed somewhere to think.
I was secretly bursting with happiness inside. We couldn’t go back now — he’d kill us after doing this.
Mom scanned the parking lot for the wagon — just in case. She opened the heavy door, and I smelled coffee, pancakes, and bacon all at once.
I’d been here before with my uncle.
We’d sit at the counter for hours at a time. He ordered unlimited coffee while reading the papers. We’d come here after shooting hoops — and if I won pig or horse, he’d let me order a soda pop.
We never ordered food though, he said it was wasting money. But I’d never been to the all-night diner this late. Or with Mom. Eating out was too expensive.
The waitress sat us in a tall red vinyl booth. I couldn’t see over the edges, and nobody could see us. Mom sat at the edge of the seat so that she could keep one eye on the door.
“The food smells so good, doesn’t it? Boy, I could sure go for a California burger,” Mom said.
The waitress set down our water and said she’d be back in a bit.
Mom lifted her big heavy purse on the table and started digging on the bottom. She laid out pennies, nickels, dimes, and quarters, stacking them in a row. She counted everything twice.
Mom held up the plastic menu, holding it close to her face.
“Would you like some onion rings?”
My eyes grew wide, and I smiled, nodding yes. When the waitress returned, Mom ordered onion rings but said she wasn’t hungry — just coffee for her. Her words weren’t as slurred.
I smothered the crunchy rings in ketchup and pulled out the sweet onion, savoring each bite. Mom stole a few and sipped her coffee.
I wondered where we’d go.
Maybe with my aunt. She always made me buttery popcorn when we had our special Friday night sleepovers. And she let me watch my favorite show, The Dukes of Hazzard. Butch wasn’t mean to us when she was around.
“Mommy, can we go live with Auntie?”
“Don’t worry about that right now. Finish your food.”
It was hard not to think about it.
The waitress came back and refilled Mom’s coffee and my water. Mom never took her eyes from the big heavy doors. After a while, I dozed off.
I woke to Mom shaking my arm. I looked around, puzzled.
“It’s time to go,” Mom said.
“What — where?”
“It should be safe to go back home— Butch is probably sleeping by now.”
“But we can’t. No — I don’t want to. Mommy, please?” I begged.
“It’s okay; he’s not drunk anymore. We’ll be okay.”
Mom nudged me from the booth. We started the long walk back to our apartment, on the road this time. Each step felt heavier as I braced myself to face him again.
“Mommy, can we leave now — please? We’ll be okay without him,” is the seventh piece from the series: The makings of a divorce. Exploring the parallels of abuse.
Chapter two: I Thought Everyone’s Mom Got Beat Up
Chapter three: An Old Friend Once Said, “You’ll Never Have to Worry About Divorce — You Have Too Many Kids”
Chapter four: Mom Was My Protector — But Not That Night. The Old Man, Dolly Parton Songs, And a Few Cases of Beer
Chapter five: After 30 Hours on The Road With Our 9 kids, We Were Ready to Pitch Our Tent in The Florida Keys
Chapter Six: When That One Moment Opens Our Eyes — Can We Ever Unsee It?
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