Discouraging at Best

Whipped on the Face With a Length of Thorn Bush: Yes, Directly on the Face-1

Whipped on the Face With a Length of Thorn Bush: Yes, Directly on the Face

"...AND OTHER PLACES, OTHER extremities of the body if you will,” he added, wanting to make the whole deal sound as brainy as possible. That's what you'll tell ‘em boy, got it?"

"Yes sir.” The response was reluctant, soft. Malcolm was only seven at the time, and not especially athletic. As it stood he was the only son the family could boast, curse him, so what else could they do? White folks weren't in this position, no, having to make the youngins go tromping all about in the interest of making money. If only Hershel were still with them...

"Come on now, whip that thing like I done showed you.” With crossed arms he stood back and watched his son go at it with alacrity, working up his nerve with each stroke to part the air. “Good, good, could be better though."

This was his scheme of schemes; no way could this fail to bring home the bacon. They were caught in a summer break like any other, which is to say all these shiftless little freeloaders needed to be put to work. Yes, hmm, yes ... the boy seemed to be getting the hang of it. After growing resentful, day in and day out, of seeing that four-foot length of thorn branch laying on top of the tool shed—well, what passed for a tool shed anyhow—July had finally put the wretched thing to use. This son of his would go from door to door, yes, with that supple, imposing thorn switch, and he would hawk his wares, oh yeah, unlimited whippings for just five bucks.

Just then the wife burst in on the scene, eyeballing the sugar bag which had been split open after a particularly vicious and poorly aimed fling of the thorns. “July! July, what in the world is all this commotion?” Without waiting for an answer Ernestine spat out, “Don't you have any sense in that head? The girls are asleep and here you are,” she paused, flailing her arms aimlessly trying to imitate them in that god-awful pink muumuu, “thrashing the family belongings with that there stick! Don't got any sense between the two of you, man and boy."

As the man of the household July simply could not let this affront slide. “We are working. You, woman, are just standing around, taking up space, and blabbering like some kind of signifying monkey! Now get yourself gone and let us work."

"How dare you talk to me that way? Malcolm,” Ernestine croaked, snapping her fingers at the confused boy, “go up to your room right this instant. Me and your father are going to have ourselves a conversation."

July wanted to smack those pursed lips right off her face but instead found himself saying, “Malcolm you aren't going anywhere, you're staying right where your father tells you to."

"No, you are not boy; you are marching right on up to that room of yours this instant!"

The befuddled boy looked back and forth between his embattled parents like a tennis spectator, his anxiety mounting, one gloved hand still nervously clutching the thorn branch. At the first indication of movement on Malcom's part July chimed in with, “Uh-uh-uh!"

With hands on hips Ernestine retorted: “Oh uh-huh uh-huh uh-huh! And leave that stick down here boy, what's wrong with your head?"

"He will do no such thing! If I tell to him to hold onto that he will—"

"Oh no he won't!"

"—and if I tell him to whip you with it then by God he will!"

"Oh!” Ernestine exclaimed. “Why don't you go on and slither around on your belly while you're at it! And Malcolm you put that stick down this very instant!” Certainly the girls had been awakened by now, but that was no longer the point.

"First of all, you ignoramus, that is not a stick, it is a fibrous vine, that means it's stiff and hard and bendy—"

"Oh, well, it's ‘bendy’ is it?!"

"Yes, it is! And second of all, Malcolm ... whip your mother!"

"He will do no such thing! July you—"

"Oh yes he will! Oh yes he will! He's my son! Boy, you take that there length of thorn bush to your mother's hind side this instant!"

Repulsed by the scenario they had created for themselves Ernestine turned her wrathful glare to her son. “Malcolm Elijah Baxter, if you raise that stick to me I swear, I swear, on the grave of your grandmama, that I will disown you here and now!"

"Malcolm!” July cried, the ligaments in his neck threatening to spring loose. “What're you waiting for?! I'm gonna count to three and if you don't whip them thorns on your mama's flesh I will, and you know I mean it when I says it, I will whip them thorns on you!” Hershel would've whipped her...

"Don't you listen to him. I gave birth to you, he didn't,” Ernestine stated in a last-ditch attempt at maintaining control.

"One..."

"July, you are turning into a white devil!"

"Two..."

Suddenly the boy let loose a startling scream, stress-induced tears squirting inches from his eyes as he shrieked horribly. Then, quaking almost to the point of convulsions, he fled the confines of the argument, of the house, taking the thorn branch with him as he ran.

Quietly cultivating a terrible rage July turned on his wife, his gloomy eyes wide and unmoving like a zombie. “Damn it woman, you up and turned our boy into a sissy!"

* * * *

Malcolm lived in mortal terror of his father's seemingly random outbursts and, worse still, the threat of his mother's love being taken away from him, as it was the only comfort allowed him in life. He had witnessed his father punching holes in the living room wall in a fit of drunken enlightenment; he had watched, terrified, as his father bellowed epithets at the formless winds, louder by far than the apocalyptic booms of thunder overhead, for several hours, during which Malcolm had been chained to the big old green chair they used to have on the porch. The whole thing had ended with a bolt of lightning striking the only tree occupying their front yard, which in turn collapsed on the enclosed porch—well it was enclosed back then anyway—and fragments of fiberglass had embedded themselves in Malcom's arms and legs. Too frugal to permit a trip to the emergency room Malcom's father had growled “Take it like a man!” at the five-year-old. In the following months the infections failed to kill Malcolm entirely, instead leaving him grotesquely scarred. Most of the time it was okay, but when he ran or played games the remaining slivers of fiberglass would slice at his muscle tissues from the inside, tormenting him to no end.

He came to rest in one of the drainage ditches running through the neighborhood, struggling not to cry like a little girl, not to carry on like a pansy little sissy-boy. No, Malcolm hadn't a clue as to what a pansy was, but his father always managed to say it with such malice that he knew he could never allow himself to be seen as a pansy by others, not even when the internal bleeding in his arms and legs would cause dark pools to form under his skin.

After laying in the mud for close to an hour and a half he was able to get himself under control once more. Just as he was considering making a go of returning home a jet of yellow flew overhead, spattering against the opposing incline of the ditch. Lowdown—nasty old Lowdown—was standing above him, urinating what smelled like ammonia and rotting fish, blind drunk. This enraged Malcolm, he didn't know why, and what's more he didn't care. The gloves? They were still on his hands. His teeth? Gritted, gnashing, abusing themselves because of this damn drunk that everybody hated. The length of thorn bush? Yes, it was still in his grip.

With a maddened cry that scared even himself Malcolm swung the thorn branch, gripping it in both gloved hands, giving his entire body and last reserve of energy to the effort. Dutifully those hook-like points dug into the underside of the homeless man's p***s, tearing along its underside, and just as quickly they exited. Having the course of its flow interrupted by a new opening the bloody urine sloppily found its way directly to Malcolm now in one thick gush. Above him Lowdown hollered for all he was worth, actually much more than he was worth, and awkwardly shambled away through the streets gripping the base of his savaged p***s. “Go-damn, Go-damn, Go-damn th’ boy done broke th’ bone, Go-damn!” He continued on like this until he was either dead or simply out of Malcom's hearing.

With the drunkard's crimson stew soaking into his sweatshirt Malcolm collapsed in the mud, unconscious.

* * * *

Quadira was afraid, yes, but not because of how her brother had been found in that filthy ditch. There had been those familiar pains in her stomach, just like the month before, and that evening after dinner she had noticed ... blood.

"Oh God! Oh God!” her mother wailed, still frenzied in her sorrow, her remorse, her rage. “How could you do this! How could you do this to him! Our only son! Oh God!” she sobbed.

Quadira's parents had no clue about the sinister secret gnawing away at her, deep inside her ... no, no! They could never be told. It was simply too horrible.

Her father sat in his favorite chair, implacable, reading the newspaper as he did every night on which no sports events were broadcast. “Well?!” Quadira's mother screamed at him. “Aren't you going to say anything for yourself?!"

After finishing the sentence he was reading Quadira's father replied, “Who? Oh, me? I thought you were talking to God.” When he was this cold Quadira could plainly see his handsomeness shining through.

"Damn you, you worthless man, I am talking to you! Who else?! Who else but you drove our little boy out of the house with that insane bunch of yah-yah?! You tell me! You tell me!"

"If I remember correctly you're the one who came in hollerin’ and carryin’ on and all and upset the boy so."

It was the squirrel. Oh Lord help her, it was the squirrel again!

Standing over Malcom's drenched, stinking body like some kind of poor-man's tombstone Quadira's mother shook her fists at the man trying so hard to ignore her. “Me?! Me! Quadira! Did you hear that?! Josephine! Did you hear that?! Me! Me! Oh God hold me back, somebody hold me back!"

Since nobody was stepping in to hold his wife back Quadira's father added, “Plus on top of it all you're the one that made the boy a sissy to begin with. Running outta here screaming like a rat with its tail chopped off! He always was an embarrassment to the family."

Quadira wrapped her arms around herself, almost as if trying to keep the horror trapped inside her; oh God, her father had to mention a rat! Those things skitter around with their wet little raw noses sniffing around, their tiny little horrible toenails etching a reminder into the floors; oh Lord Jesus, that was what was happening inside her! Only it was a squirrel, just like any other probably—

"The only embarrassment this family ever did suffer was a slacker of a man like yourself! If you wasn't such a shiftless, no account—"

"Oh, it's me now, is it?"

"You're damn straight! You're damn straight!"

"Oh it's me now is it?!"

"You're damn straight it is, you no account bum! Making the children go out and work to pick up your slack? Uh-uh, it ain't right!"

"I'll be the one to decide what's right around here Ernestine."

...oh God, the squirrels, they have those sharp teeth that carve nuts open—her insides were being carved open! No wonder she was in so much pain! Ever since that one morning last month, that was when the pain had begun. The night before she had left the window open, just like she normally did when the house got too stuffy. There were times when she liked to watch the squirrels creeping around on the window sill, but none had ever come into the house before.

Quadira's mother was so beside herself with disgust that she picked up a plate and threw it to the floor with great violence, only with the carpeting it wasn't quite enough force, so in her frenzy she snatched it up again. Her second tantrum proved more successful and the plate shattered, with one of the slivers even darting across to where Quadira sat, embedding itself in her leg, but in her state of mind she failed to noticed it. Josephine, seven years Quadira's junior at the age of five, began to cry over in the corner where she huddled.