Authors: Bonnie Wheeler
“So you’re drinking again?” she accused, wrinkling her nose.
“Hello Mother.” Brian gestured to the living room, welcoming her in. “Angela’s upstairs taking a shower.”
“Don’t give me that,” she rushed. “Where’s my granddaughter?”
“We’re still waiting to hear –“
“You need to be out looking for her,” she interrupted. “Instead you lay around like you’re God’s gift to mankind.” Sylvia shook her head in disgust. As she turned her back and marched up the stairs, she left him with the same threat she conveyed countless times before. “Why Angela puts up with you is a mystery. One of these days, she’ll see through you, like I do.”
Escaping to the porch while Angela briefed her mother on the last twenty-four hours was all he could do. He knew he smelled of liquor – it wasn’t like he could go door to door asking if anyone had seen his wayward daughter like that. Why were they making such a fuss over it? Rachel would come back and when she did, the drama would be over. They just needed to shut up about it before the whole damn town began to question his leadership.
Why the hell did Angie have to call her?
He knew why, although he didn’t like the answer. Angela thought he was incompetent. Not worth the cleanup effort, not a good enough father, a pathetic husband. As he stared at the sky just beginning to darken, he hoped to have some reason to believe that he was wrong. That his beautiful wife still found him satisfying and worth spending her life with, that after a decade and half – he had given her enough.
But, the simple matter was, Angela Bennett had deserved better. She wanted more children, she wanted to be desired, and the only thing she really asked for was that he cherish her above all others.
He thought he could give her that – insisted really that he could. Even though Sylvia and Ralph made it clear that Brian was marrying above his station, he really did believe he loved Angela. But after the newness of the relationship began
wearing off, he himself began feeling doubts. Angie was intelligent and educated, and her parents had instilled a philosophical awareness of the world that left Brian feeling inadequate. Compared to her, he was just a southern farmer who pretended to know God. The only time he felt like he was her equal was when they made love. The look of wonder in her eyes when he left her breathless and glowing filled him with confidence.
After Rachel’s birth, the pressure to conceive another child took hold, changing Angela. Intercourse stopped being about sex and passion, becoming a demand to reproduce. The longer she went without getting pregnant, the more withdrawn she became, making it harder for him to please her. Unable to impregnate her again or to even seduce her, he felt deficient. He needed to be desired, too, not just her. Sex emboldened him and having a woman reassure him of his proficiency kept his doubts at bay. Needing the release, he looked elsewhere.
At first he hated himself, returning home with flowers for Angela after having a tryst with one woman or another. As time passed, Angela grew more distant and kept busy with Rachel’s care and church committees. She stopped weeping about being barren and before he knew it, he began sleeping alone. By having his needs fulfilled outside the home, he didn’t have to soil her with his sexual demands. Without
facing her rejection, he was able to stand up before the townspeople each Sunday, and have the courage to pretend he knew what the hell he was saying.
Closing his eyes, Brian took a long swig from the bottle. His mother-in-law was right. He never was good enough for Angela. Probably not good enough for Rachel either. If either woman had any idea of where he came from and how black his thoughts could be, the marriage never would have taken place. When he got down on one leg and asked Angela to be his bride, she would have spit in his face. If she knew his life in Georgia, she never would have allowed him to touch her with his sullied hands. The Jones family wasn’t altruistic or refined; they weren’t clean living, Bible belt farmers living a dutiful life. They were Sunday morning hypocrites and just as phony as he was.
Brian’s father was a callous bastard and his two oldest sons were just like him. As far back as he could remember
,
Ethan and Jonah, the twins, made it their mission to make his life hell. Even after repeated black eyes and split lips, Brian’s folks never considered their bullying anything more than sibling rivalry. If his father caught him crying after the twins gave him a beating, the man told him to quit being a coward and to learn to take it like a man. If Brian snitched on his brothers at school or to the neighbors, Jim used his belt to give the boy something real to cry about.
Once Brian was in high school, the pushing and shoving took on a more sadistic theme. Even though they were only two years older, his brothers were large and by the time they were teenagers, the identical twins weighed well over two hundred pounds with packed on corn fed muscle. Built like his mother, Brian was only half their size and never weighed more than one hundred seventy pounds at his heaviest. He was no match for them, and could do nothing but try his
damndest
to avoid being alone with either one of them.
Despite his attempts, Jonah and Ethan took perverse pleasure in luring Brian out to the barn, where together, they would jump him in the darkness. After wrestling him to the ground, they would take turns kicking his legs and buttocks until he stopped fighting back. With their fat hands wrapped around his throat, threatening to strangle him if he made a sound, his brothers would force him on his knees and make him perform oral sex. If he resisted in anyway, they would take turns sodomizing him until he could do nothing but curl into the fetal position. Once finished, while Brian dry heaved in the corner, they would degrade him by calling him a faggot for liking the taste of their cocks. In wasn’t enough that they hurt and demeaned him – they reminded him what
would
happen if he squealed, what their father would do to him for being a queer.
During those blackest moments, he thought of nothing but killing them, imagining the sight of the family farmhouse erupting in flames while they slept ignorantly inside. He even knew how – he would saturate a bundle of hay with the extra gasoline they kept for tractors, and toss it right through the kitchen door. But, Brian knew he could never get his mother out of the house long enough for that. For years, he half wished she would run off with Pastor Carpenter so she wouldn’t be in the way. Another idea was to cut the brake lines on the old Chevy they used to pick up feed in town. Bunker Hill had a steep incline and Brian fantasized about his brothers losing control of the truck, causing it to roll down the steep banks into the ravine.
Despite hating them with every ounce of his being, he never had the courage to go through with it. Brian didn’t know why. Perhaps Pastor Carpenter instilled a fear of God in him, or maybe it was because his mother was a praying woman and always asked the good Lord to forgive her family. As much as he wanted to see them dead, all Brian could do was move far from Georgia. It didn’t matter what he did with his life now, he already experienced Hell and there was nothing left that could be worse than living with the shame they instilled in him.
Brian never slept at the family home when he returned on vacations, instead he insisted on staying at the Sheraton Hotel
or the Hilton. Just seeing the old place was revolting. The only part of visiting he enjoyed was lavishing his mother with gifts – luxuries his brothers and old man would never be able to afford with their meager income. Betty was proud of Brian and
lorded
his accomplishments over everyone else. It was no secret that her youngest child had always been her favorite, a fact that antagonized the twins who competed for her attention. Each time his mother sang his praises, Brian hoped his brothers and their trashy wives stewed with jealousy. He had it better than them and he made sure they wouldn’t forget it.
The last time Brian went down, it was for Ethan’s daughter, Ginny’s graduation. Although the oldest brother usually knew Brian avoided all attempts at conversation, Ethan was in the mood to celebrate and had a few too many
Budweisers
. During the course of telling lewd jokes and gossiping about people from town, the brother tried making light of their history and the “fun” they had as kids out in the barn. With his double chin and missing teeth, Brian knew the farmer’s life hadn’t amounted to anything and never would, but he refused to let the pig act like all was forgiven.
Instead, Brian leaned over so none of the other guests could hear and told Ethan he had a very special message for him. When his brother leaned in to listen, Brian kept his brother’s religious upbringing in mind as he explained that as
a preacher, he had a direct phone line to God and could ask for anything he wanted. His sole request was that both Ethan and Jonah burn in hell for all eternity without any chance of salvation. With eyes wide and his cheeks burnt red, the look of terror that crossed Ethan’s face was hugely satisfying. Before leaving that night, he suggested the news get passed on to Jonah.
Brian may not have destroyed them in the physical sense, but he hoped like hell they felt a spiritual noose around their thick necks. They had sure left a mark on him – he shared the secret of his abuse with no one. He couldn’t possibly say out loud what was done to him. Each time he slept with a woman, Brian had to prove to himself all over again that he was powerful and masculine while fighting back the gnawing memories of his brothers forcing themselves on him while insisting he was the one that was queer. After years of feeling like only half a man because of what they did to him, Brian hoped his brothers would live with dread knowing nothing but eternal damnation waited for them once their pathetic lives were over.
Brian wasn’t usually the kind of guy to seek retribution, but after a tormenting childhood at their hands, it was the least he could give them.
3
9
MARGE
Friday 4:45 PM
Leaning against Katie’s door, Marge sat on the floor. With a bottle of MD 20/20 cradled in her lap, she poured another mugful while listening to her daughter’s light movements from within her bedroom. The wine wasn’t the best tasting she ever had, but it was inexpensive and she preferred it over the boxed crap her folks used to guzzle. After the long day she had, the liquor was her escape. It offered her a way to relax and gain a semblance of self-control.
I need to get lit.
Katie wasn’t speaking to her. How long the teen would sulk until she snapped out of her mood, Marge didn’t know. Not wanting her daughter to leave, Marge used her own girth to barricade the door. She knew that the girl’s need to pee or
eat would drive her out eventually, but wanted to make sure Katie wasn’t going to take off or call Williston. She couldn’t run away and leave Marge now. Not after all they have been through. They were too close to landing Brian Jones.
Excuse me for having a bad day.
With ankles crossed, her bare legs stretched out in front of her. Having kicked off the stilettos earlier, she stared at her narrow feet and the red polish that coated her nails. Her slender toes were perfectly proportioned, smooth and feminine – much prettier than her hands. Once she hit forty, her hands had taken on an aged quality. Light spots began to speckle her skin while the elasticity of her collagen
faded,
all signs of the wrinkles that would one day coat her face.
Studying her long fingers, she still couldn’t believe she hit Katie. The experience was surreal, like standing outside of her body, witnessing it happen. The sudden viciousness she felt reminded her of Darryl and the twisted satisfaction that would emanate off him while he delivered a beating. There was nothing worse than having her father’s course hands wail against her skin, leaving bruises as a reminder of his wrath, except maybe the sight of her mother climbing into a bath of Epsom salts to soak after Darryl had a real bad day at work. Coated with marks on her back and her breasts, his filthy fingers and nails left evidence on her skin.