Free The Birth of Bane by Richard Heredia Page B

for the
various renovations she had brewing in her mind. It was as though a
whole other side of her blossomed into existence. She had something
more important to deal with, something that wouldn’t berate her or
try and bulldoze her. She could put in her time, her sweat and her
enthusiasm and not be judged. There was no hovering despot when it
came to the house. There was no consequence if she made a mistake.
It was hers to own and she dealt with it the way she saw fit. Plus,
every time she did something, the end result was always better than
when she’d begun. There was no circling back, there was no
rehashing the same old, worn out topics. The house improved.
Everything looked better. And, whether Leonard realized it or not,
the world he came home to every night, after a few hours of boning
Roxanna, was more and more a reflection of my mother. The center of
the universe no longer revolved around him. Slowly, methodically,
my mom was building something special for the rest of
us.
    It was something
that didn’t include him .
    As time passed,
even the house itself seemed to form an opinion in congruence with
this notion.
    Less than
twenty-four hours after the microwave “beeped” at him angrily, my
father came home from work to find the front door unwilling to
open, though he’d used his keys to disengage both the knob-lock and
the dead-bolt.
    I’d been sitting
on the upper portion of the deck in my pajamas, but bundled within
my mother’s crocheted afghan against the cold of the night. I’d
been devouring the latest Stephen King novel my mother espoused was
a must read. Of course, it was late, which was probably why his
raving at the front door came to my attention despite the
distance.
    My
m om had taken Eli upstairs to
his room to tuck him in. It was their custom for her to tell him
old stories. Whether about Native American Indians or tales of our
family generations ago, Elijah loved them all. It wouldn’t be an
exaggeration to say sometimes she spent a whole hour with him,
speaking in low tones as he stared off at the wall, his mind as far
from reality as the story unfolded within his impressionable
mind.
    Valerie had gone
to bed twenty minutes prior, dead to the world once her head hit
the pillow.
    So, the house
had been quiet when all of a sudden, My dad’s slurred yells reached
my ears.
    I got up,
annoyed. Didn’t the jerk have
his keys with him? I remember
thinking as I made my way through the sliding glass doors and the
sunroom beyond. As I came into the living room, the entire front
portion of the house shook suddenly as my father yanked upon the
door ferociously.
    “ Motherfucken, ass-grabbin’, two-balled bitch!” I heard his muffled holler through the
thick wood of the portal.
    I increased my
pace, striding through the dining room as Valerie poked her head
out from her bedroom. Her hair was skewed to one side as though
held fast in a strong wind, her face was bunched, eyes squinting
against the lamplight. I glanced her way with a weary shake of my
head.
    Her upper lip
furled with an unbecoming snarl as she sank back into the depths of
her room, muttering under her breath.
    “ What the fuck is wrong with you!” my father was saying, gnashing through the rabid-like
saliva of a man too far in his cups.
    I opened the
door, the knob turning easily in my grasp, the hinges sliding
smoothly. It was, after all, unlocked.
    My
d ad’s eyes gaped for a second,
seeing I had unbarred the way without issue, then the accusatory
gleam in his eye I was more than familiar with settled behind his
gaze. “What the fuck is wrong with you?” he rasped.
    I was
immediately affronted. What the
-. I didn’t do anything.
    He didn’t
hesitate. “Why would you hold the door shut against me?” His finger
was pointing at my chest.
    “ What are you
talking about? I was on the deck reading,” I tried.
    His face was a
mask of fury now. “No, you weren’t!”
    “ Yes, I was,” I
beseeched, my hands at either side, palms