Journey To Redemption

Chapter 3

Chapter Three

I loved and hated my stepdad. I saw other dads in my neighborhood. They were everywhere, with mustaches and wearing Hawaiian shirts, carrying wallets and drinking beers. They were at family gatherings, throwing the ball to their sons, teaching them about life and love, showing them the right way to do things. On TV, Dad’s gave stumbling advice or blathered into obnoxious temper tantrums, flaunting their cosmic ineptitude while watching the flames of the charcoal grill. Sitcom dads were teased by wives and taunted by children until the moment of crisis when violins would swell and fatherly advice was dished out like alcohol for a skinned knee. It hurt but it was good.

The dads I met in real life showed up for football games and school plays. My stepdad was not one of them. I wondered if all dads acted the way mine did behind closed doors. I wondered if my friends’ mothers cried at night. After a while, I did what my mom did and acted as if the beatings didn’t happen. I’d pretend that we were just like everyone else, a happy family with five great kids. But it was hard to pretend after witnessing the most brutal of my stepdad’s beatings which was Mom’s final straw.

It was a cool Sunday morning. I remember that day clearly. The house felt different. Momma was up early as usual, but my stepdad was up too. We only had one full bathroom in that apartment which made daily hygiene a struggle. We filed in one by one on rotation, each waiting eagerly for the next to finish, each thinking the person before him was taking way too long. This day was different. My stepdad disrupted the rotation. He was up shaving. I went in after he was done and could still smell his Old Spice aftershave. I wondered why he was up so early, but I didn’t dare ask. We all rushed through our routines and got dressed. I was the last downstairs to breakfast and the last to notice my stepdad fully dressed. He had on a shirt and tie.

“OH, MY GOD, is he going to church?” Momma had a joyful expression in her eyes that could not be contained. It was all over her face. Her smile made all of us smile. Her joy gave us all joy. We sat down to grits, eggs and bacon for breakfast. Momma rushed upstairs to put on her dress.

After breakfast, we sat quietly in the living room waiting for her to come downstairs. This was the first time my stepdad ever wanted to come to church with us, and she wanted to look good. She wore an off-white top with a navy-blue skirt and matching jacket. Her shoes were nude. Momma loved her hats. She came downstairs proudly wearing a lightweight textured horsehair fabric, off white 2 1/2 inch turned down brim hat with silk flowers. Momma loved her hats. It was beautiful, and she wore it well.

We piled into his T-Top Cutlass and drove to church with a smile on our faces. The sultry summer day was hot and the air conditioner didn’t work so my stepdad took the glass out of the roof. We entered the church and my stepdad walked in last, almost reluctantly. Momma sat in the middle row. Not her usual spot, but I figured she didn’t want to make the old man too uncomfortable. We filed in beside them. The seven of us filled the entire pew. Church started like normal with devotional services, high spirited praise, dance and then the offering.

The Pastor always came out of his study right before the offering. He stood in the pulpit and said in his booming voice,

“Will a man rob God? Yet ye have robbed me. But ye say, wherein have we robbed thee? In tithes and offerings. Ye are cursed with a curse: for ye have robbed me.” It was Malachi 3:8. It put the fear of God into all stingy givers. Then it was time for the sermon. Prangles stood in the pulpit and spoke to the church, lecturing the church on responsibilities and manhood.

“For also when we were with you, we enjoined you this, that if any man does not like to work, neither let him eat 2 Thessalonians.

For if a man has not the art of ruling his house, how will he take care of the church of God? I Timothy 3:5.”

And that’s the way the entire service went. Minutes turned into hours of finger pointing and innuendos wrapped around, “God’s Word” and “sound doctrine.” I could feel my dad growing angrier by the minute. We all sat silently. Why would he antagonize my dad? Why was he poking the beast? When the service was over, Pastor Prangles stood there in his pretentious glory, thinking that he had delivered us from evil. We left the service in silence. My dad was quiet the entire way home. Almost immediately upon entering the house did the screams and the banging began. We knew the drill and quickly ran to our bedrooms. My younger brothers held their ears, waiting for the sounds to stop. But this time was different. Waiting for the silence, I heard the bedroom door slam and the sounds of footsteps rumbling down the hallway. Momma was trying to get away. The footsteps grew louder and closer. He was chasing her down the hall. I looked out to see him dragging her by the hair back into the bedroom. Momma was crying. I saw my stepdad lunge forward to grab her by the neck again, but she pulled back and screamed.

“Harry! Stop! Harry! Please!” I had never heard her sound so afraid. The bedroom door flew open and they spilled out into the hallways.

“Daddy’s going to kill her,” I said to my brothers.

“We have to do something.”

I ran into the hallway and jumped on his back. Momma was half dressed, her blue and white top torn. Her legs were splayed wide open and my stepdad was straddling her, pummeling her with clenched fists. Each lick seemed to echo as he screamed, “WHAT DID YOU TELL THEM PEOPLE? WHY WAS YOU TALKING ABOUT ME!”

Every word out of his mouth was followed by a fist. Blood spurted from Momma’s face. She started thrashing around, kicking her legs, holding up her arms to ward off the punches, trying to break free, trying to save herself. I was frozen in place, but then something inside of me took over, and I knew I had to do something. I felt no fear, only rage. I gouged at his eyes as my other brothers came running and screaming,

“Leave her alone! Stop punching my momma!”

He didn’t turn around. He just kept punching, swatting us away like flies. The next thing I knew I was on my back absorbing wild blows. My two younger brothers jumped on his back, trying to pull him off. Sweat was dripping down his face and his eyes were glazed and wild. He paused, breathing heavy, looking down at me, bloody and crying. For a moment, I expected an apology. But it was as if I was looking into the eyes of a stranger. A stillness came over the room. The smell of blood and sweat was thick in the air.

That’s when we heard a faint voice yell,

“I’m calling the cops.” It was our neighbor next door.

My father looked stunned. It was as if he’d awakened from a bad dream. His head dropped, and his shoulders slumped. I looked over at Momma. Her eyes were purple, and her face was bloody. She didn’t look back at me. My stepdad left after that day. Momma pressed charges. She never talked about the beatings.

The next Sunday was her last Sunday at church. She testified about the grueling ordeal that she had faced. She stood and talked about the worst experience of her life. All Prangles could muster was another tired ass cliché. “He may not come when you want him, but he’s always on time.”

All Momma’s giving, shouting, crying, praying and fasting had amounted to ten years of the same situation. The beatings had taken their toll on her and she soon lost her vision because of them. The only answer that she ever got was her change hadn’t come because her faith wasn’t strong enough. The only change in her life was her slowly diminishing vision. Momma was done with this fake pastor and his bullshit ministry. She left because she knew he was fake, and her eyes were finally open. Pastor Prangles was quick to remind me that Momma walking away from the church equated to her walking away from God. It was a confusing time for all of us. I knew Momma was strong in her faith, but we were conditioned to believe that Pastor Prangles spoke for God himself. I didn’t know God for myself. I only knew what Pastor Prangles told me.

That is the con of the small country church. The pastor presents himself as Lord over God’s flock. He hovers over them, demanding attention like a spoiled child. And when that attention is not given, he throws a long-winded tantrum in the form of a sermon. That was the way of Pastor Rudders Prangles.