Free Call Me Tuesday by Leigh Byrne Page A

behind him, pounding at his back with both her fists. “Don’t you walk away from me, you son of a bitch!”
    “Damn it, Rose, get off me! Leave me alone!”
    “How dare you? How dare you cheat on me? Any man would kill to have me—any man!”

16
     
    The months passed with every sunrise bringing the possibility that Mama wouldn’t be mad at me anymore, but every evening the sun set on her rage and hateful words. Until she got better, all I had was Daddy. He had become the center of my existence, my only hope.
    In the morning, before he left for work, and I for school, he always came to my bed and held me close. He told me how pretty he thought I was, how special. It was for these snippets of his affection that I now lived.
    On the weekends, after he had given me my morning kiss, he sometimes prepared a big Southern-style breakfast for the family: fried or scrambled eggs, sausage patties, biscuits and gravy, and either grits or hash browns, sometimes both.
    He loved big breakfasts and being in the kitchen early in the morning when the sunlight sifted through the oak tree by the window, casting lacy shadows on the walls that danced around the room when the wind blew. Even under dour circumstances, he managed to find some small reason to be joyful when he got up, to inspire him to whistle merrily as he rolled out the biscuit dough and scrambled up the eggs, the coffee percolating in the background. Like when I was six, and an unexpected early spring snow spread a glistening white blanket over the backyard. He was so excited he woke everyone in the family to see it.
    He wanted to share his breakfasts with Mama and the boys, but they were late risers, and grumpy upon awakening, and without appetite. Even though he tried, he sometimes couldn’t get them out of bed at all to eat what he had prepared. On these mornings he would sit at the kitchen table in silence and eat his breakfast all alone. My heart sank for him then, and I often wondered what he was thinking. His life couldn’t have been the one he had imagined for himself, growing up as he did in a loving, nurturing family that began each day with hugs, gleeful chatter, and a hearty breakfast together.
    In bed, alone and hungry, there were many mornings when I listened to his movements in the kitchen, his whistling, and wished he would come get me and ask me to eat with him, but he never did.
    On a chilly February morning, I squirmed around in my bed, listening to him as he got ready for work. I could hardly wait for him to finish and come to see me. I had monitored his morning routine so many times I had his every movement memorized. First I listened to him step out onto the front porch to get the paper, and then retreat into the bathroom to read it while he sat on the toilet. Then he took his shower. Afterward, he opened the door to let the steam out, and a warm, soapy smell drifted down the hall and into my room.
    When I heard him filling the sink, I knew it meant he was getting ready to shave. I could hear the splashing of water as he dipped the razor in, and then the tap, tap, tap of it on the side of the sink. When he finished, he slapped his face with aftershave, and then headed for the bedroom to get dressed. As soon as I heard him pick up his keys and loose change from the nightstand, I became eager, because I knew what was next.
    Finally he came to my bed, sat on the edge, and said in his hushed, morning voice, “Hold on a little longer, honey.” Then he bent over me, touched his lips to my cheek, and told me he loved me. “I’ll make her stop, I promise,” he said. “Give me some more time.”
    Even at my young age, I had already learned how to read him through the many expressions of his face. When he was happy, his eyes twinkled. When he was angry or worried, he furrowed his brow. That morning, as the sun cast a hazy light across his face, his eyes drooped with sadness, and there were dark circles of worry around them.
    “Okay, Daddy,” I said,