Crimes in the Family

The argument downstairs was reaching epic proportions.

Even through my closed door, I could hear my mother alternately crying, wailing, and screeching like a jackal. My daddy's words were muffled, a low hum of calm and patience in a fierce storm but they were lost and useless against my mother's escalating rage. He was beaten before he started and I knew he would eventually climb the stairs to my room to mete out whatever punishment they finally settled on. I hadn't taken the $20 from her secret cookie jar but it wouldn't matter - it was gone, someone had to be held accountable - and in the interests of peace and quiet and a decent night's sleep, my daddy would acquiesce to her demands for retribution. He would hate it but he would do it, and come morning when she smirked and strutted in victory, he would not be able to meet my eyes. Shame is a powerful weapon, self sustaining and long lasting and it leaves a bitter taste on the tongue, a permanent wound on the soul.

My daddy, ever courteous even in the act of selling out his children, knocked on my door before entering. I focused on the weeping willow tree next door, imagining it a giant, flowing cavern with a hidden entrance, imagining that I could dive through and be safe from my family and protected from the world of evil witches, lying old crones and battered kings. My daddy spoke in low tones, hesitantly explaining that he had no choice, trying to reason me into a confession and a lesser punishment. The old weeping willow seemed to sing to me, offering up its branches and leaves as a cloak, beckoning in the wind and promising me shelter and fairness. Even if you didn't take it, my daddy said weakly, Your mother......

Can go to hell, I finished for him defiantly and the willow nearly cheered. My own words shocked me and for a moment I flinched, as if he might actually strike me, but this was my daddy - weary to the bone, trapped, not proud of his actions and too impotent to fight back. He sighed deeply and left, closing the door quietly. Well? I heard my mother demand roughly, but there was no answer. Amid the following shower of threats and curses, the front door opened and closed, and the old station wagon pulled out of the drive and drove off. I remember thinking how unfair it was that he could escape with a quick turn of an ignition key, the image of a criminal fleeing the scene of a crime came to my mind, and I turned back to the weeping willow, wishing it closer, wishing I could disappear into it.