delilah_banks

I was walking up the stoop when my father opened the door. The muscles in his face were clenched, warning me to stop where I was. Where have you been, David? I looked at his hands: one hand gripped the frame, while the other suffocated my childrens version of Romeo and Juliet. I was at Samanthas. My mother had ordered me the complete set of Shakespeares plays to teach me the power of language; she told me it would be best to keep them from my father. Is this Samanthas book? he demanded. When I asked why I had to hide them, she told me that my father thought books were for wimps, that Shakespeare reminded him of his dead brother. No, its mine. His brother was an actor and died from cancer at the age of thirty-three. I dont want to ever see this again. Do you understand? But Dad, its just a book. Samantha and I Dont talk back to me. I never want to see this again. He walked back into the house, and threw my book in the trash. When he closed the door to his bedroom, I rescued it and hid it under my toys in the toy-box.
The next afternoon, my parents had the Cummings over for lunch. I waited for Samantha to show up with her parents, but only her father and mother were on the other side of the door. Wheres Samantha? I asked. Samantha is with her grandparents, her father said, smiling at his wife; Mrs. Cummings glared at the floor. Mr. Cummings looked at me and winked. You can play with her tomorrow. I nodded and retreated to the backyard.
Samantha and I were supposed to recreate Romeo and Juliet while our parents were busy with neighborhood gossip. Instead, I sat by the creek, under the willow Samantha would climb every afternoon. I read the lines Romeo shouts to Juliet on the balcony, pretending Samantha was part of the tree. I looked up, imagining Samanthas hand separating the leaves, her knees the first to escape the blanket of branches curtaining her from me. I continued to call, and heard in my head, the response from my Juliet. As Samantha bent from her balcony of twigs, the strands of the willows hair, transformed into Samanthas and brushed my palm. I asked for her hand.
We began dancing with the music my parents were listening to; the masticated conversation muffled my sister, Emilys, music playing from upstairs. I only heard my father and Mr. Cummings laughing. I looked up and saw them staring at me from behind the sliding-glass door. His smile faded when he noticed my hands gripping the leafed branches, wrapping them around my chest. What is your son doing? Mr. Cummings pointed and laughed. Is he making out with that tree? Mr. Cummings shook his head, patted my father on the back, and sat back down. Seconds later I was being drug into the house.
David, I want you to tell Mr. Cummings what you were doing out there. My father had my shirt raised above my head. I only saw the mud he tracked in on the carpet. Go on, tell him. I didnt know what to say. Was it all right to tell Samanthas father I was in love with his eight-year-old daughter, and I was pretending to dance with her?
I was acting out a play. I watched Mr. Cummings face conform to a smile. He began laughing. I was pretending Samantha and I were Romeo and Juliet. Mr. Cummings stopped laughing. I heard my father in the backgroundWhat did I tell you about those books, David?I watched Mr. Cummings check his watch. My mother and Mrs. Cummings remained silent. My father grabbed my book out of my hand and whacked me over the head with it, then he led me to my room. The Cummings left.
I sat on my bed, staring at my father. His eyes were bloodshot and squinted. My mother stood next to me. I knew what she was going to say. She asked me why I would embarrass her. You knew we had company. All I have ever asked is that you leave your silly little games to yourself. Now everyone is going to talk. I said nothing; my mothers words were muted by my fathers fist clenched behind his back, gripping and releasing until it became white to the wrist. He wouldnt say anything until after he surveyed my fear. If I cried, he would scream and threaten to get the belt. If I remained silent, he would get the belt, attempting to make me fight back, to push him to do even more. He knew I would never fight back; this was his advantage.
My father walked to the door and slammed it shut. Even with the door shut, I could hear Emilys music. When he brought me into the house, she had changed from Mozart to The Beatles. Strawberry Fields vibrated through the cracks in our walls; I imagined the orphanage in Liverpool, the red gates, the drifting leaves in fall.
My mother continued. She mumbled on about how she has seen me do similar things before, and how she and my father are worried. She wasnt worried, my father was worried I wouldnt be an engineer; he was worried Id be like his brother. I heard her; I listened to my father breathe. I knew what he was wishing: Come on David, dont say anything. Let me hit you. Let me hit you until you cry. I knew if I cried I would be left alone. I remained silent; I couldnt show my father my weakness. As my mothers tears flowed from her mouth, my father turned, hitting me in the cheek. I felt his knuckles hit the bone; I tasted the sweat between the creases of his fingers. When he told me I disgraced him, I closed my eyes and faded into the background.
I pictured them standing above me: my father pointing his finger right above my nose, threatening to hit me again, my mother clutching her palms in her apron pockets. I know you want to cry, David. I held the tears back. Why arent you crying, pansy?
Emily turned her music up. I swallowed the melody, the beats. I held my eyes closed; I felt the tears forming, but sealed them in. I pictured Samantha sitting in her grandparents house, doing her spelling homework. My father grabbed my shoulders shaking me. I watched Samantha smile; his screams subsided. Samantha held my hand, stroking my fingers as we laughed. My mother cried; I saw Samanthas hair falling between her fingers. The tears waited; I held them in. I heard my fathers belt zip through the loops of his jeans. The suede ripped my cheek. My eyes remained closed; tears never fell through the wounds on my face. I tasted the blood seeping between my lips: sticky, salty, unhindered. I tasted the memory of Samantha kissing me for the first time on her patio: This is how you French kiss, she said. Our tongues met. The brass of the belt-buckle chilled my lips. The tears managed to escape, pooling in the slits between my eyelashes. Cry, faggot! My fathers hand knocked the tears down my cheeks; I remembered him saying that to my uncle, even sealed with the slap. Samantha kissed me beyond the talent of a seven-year-old. Have you done this before? I asked Samantha, looking at her hair brushing her neck. Emilys music swarmed my room. The tears mixed with the blood, staining my sheets. I learned it from my parents, Samantha replied. My door closed; I was alone.