Small Slights

In my family, there were no small slights. Molehills were routinely made into mountains and fiercely – if not always fairly – defended.

On Saturday mornings, my pale and shaky mother sat at the kitchen table to smoke, drink, and make her shopping list.

I want Cheerios, my brother announced loudly and pinched my arm.

I want cornflakes, I said louder and gave him a rough shove.

Snap, crackle, pop! my youngest brother shouted, drowning us both out and running off before either of us could turn on him.

My mother sighed audibly, reminded us that we were a great trial to her. When it came to her children, “Not what I bargained for” was one of her favorite phrases. More than once, one of us would suggest that she trade one for another. “Don't tempt me” was her standard response. It was never said with a smile.

That afternoon when I got home from the library, her car was not in the driveway and the house was, though I didn't realize it at first, suspiciously quiet. Hoping that she might've made egg tarts – or even better, brownies – I crept through the dining room and into the kitchen.

When I turned the corner, it took several seconds for what I was seeing to register. The water in the sink was running full force and had overflowed onto the floor. The refrigerator door was hanging crookedly open, off its hinges, its contents in shambles. Drawers has been pulled out and ransacked, both the upper and lower cabinet doors smashed and brutally dented. The windows on the back door were smeared in what I was sure was blood but turned out to be nail polish. The wall mounted telephone had been ripped from it's moorings and lay forlornly in a heap of cords and wires on the kitchen table. I took a dazed step and heard crunching sounds under my feet – two boxes of Raisin Bran had been slashed open and emptied over everything – the knife was still sticking out of one empty box impaled on the table. Discovering I suddenly couldn't breathe and positive I was about to throw up, I turned and ran.

There were three things I knew.

The first was that there was no doubt who was responsible. The only person in the household capable of this level of wanton violence and destruction was my brother.

The second was that the farther away I was when it was discovered, the safer I'd be.

The third was that there would be dire consequences, not just for my unhinged sibling, but for the entire family.

I mounted my old bike and rode the two miles to the refuge of my grandmother's house, looking over my shoulder at every light and intersection. I stayed two days, missed school that Monday and earned an afternoon of detention but I'd have gladly spent the rest of the school year there than risk going home. On Monday evening, my daddy pulled up in the wheezing old station wagon and brought me back. The kitchen had been cleaned up and there was no sign of the damage I'd seen. My mother had taken to her bed and my brother, so my daddy told me with a deep sigh, was staying with friends.

For how long? I wanted to know, unable to keep the hope out of my voice.

Indefinitely, he finally said wearily, Best not to mention it again.

And in the best traditions of denial and secrecy, I never did.