Author: zpotter

Ma reached out and took my hand. She squeezed it and continued.

“I squirmed under his lips. His stink and the heat from his body were nauseating. I tried hard not to vomit. And then I was released from the wall and on my hands and knees vomiting.

“He’d punched me. His fist was a solid rock slamming into my stomach. He stood over me breathing hard, ‘I like hard to get up to a point, but it is my birthday and I should get what I want.’ His words tumbled over themselves with each breath.

“I would have run then, god knows I wanted to, but I couldn’t get any air into my lungs. Fear had curled me into a ball on the ground and he still stood between me and any type of escape.

“As silent sobs went through me, I kept wary eyes on him. He stood over me, panting and moved his hands to the waist of his jeans. With the sound of the zipper, everything stopped. I was paralyzed against what was to come next. I began to shake and my crying was more audible.

“Looking back, I can’t help but feel self-loathing, this dirty feeling that somehow I deserved what happened, and guilt. I know I shouldn’t. I know it sounds ridiculous; I was the victim, but when I went to work at the Tavern, I’d promised myself to never let something like that happen to me. I am furious with myself for ever being in that situation. I hate how weak and impotent I let him make me feel.”

I squeezed Ma’s hand. I wanted to speak, to tell her it was in no way her fault, to lash out at the memory of Billy Braithwaite and the well-to-do of Berwick, but I’d promised to let her tell the story. 

She squeezed my hand, acknowledging the thoughts that she watched race across my face, then with a sad smile, she continued.

“It didn’t happen. I was curled up on the ground, a sniveling mess of snot and scared tears. Billy stood over me fumbling with himself, trying to get his partner excited about what was to come next. It must have been the alcohol. Or maybe a certain part of him knew what he was planning to do was wrong. I don’t know.

“He started cursing at himself and his partner. Then he started telling me it was my fault for not giving him what he wanted. He alternated between that and blaming me for giving him too many drinks. He said he’d seen the way I was looking at him all night as I brought beers to the table, and the least I could do was give him a kiss now that he’d taken the initiative to come talk to me. Tears formed at the corner of his eyes.

“Then he kicked me in the stomach. I’d just started to get regular breath again when his foot landed. Whatever was left in my stomach ended up on his shoe, enraging him further.

“Through my tears I saw the moonlight cross his face revealing a mixture of humiliation and confused anger. It was almost as though he knew what he was doing and was mad about it, but couldn’t stop himself.

“I tried to beg him to stop, but the words wouldn’t come. ‘This is your fault,’ he repeated over and over as he kicked me again and again. The kicks and curses rained down in a waterfall of pain. At a certain point, I stopped feeling anything and just begged god to make him stop.

“I was curled in on myself, arms and knees tucked so after the first two kicks all the others landed on them or were deflected. Each blow landed hard though the impact lessened with each kick. The pain was still real, throbbing throughout my body. Then all of a sudden they stopped.

“I couldn’t stand it. The air crackled with the silent electricity of the room’s tension. I knew whatever was going to happen next wasn’t going to be good, so I told Kenny Briggs – who was working the bar with me – I was heading out back to take a break.

“When I left, all eyes were still on Santiago. Everyone was still waiting. I pushed out through the back door and sat on a couple of empty kegs and stared at the moon. It was beautiful, hanging there large as life in the cloudless sky. If it hadn’t been so hot, or there’d been any sort of breeze, it would have been a perfect night.

“I’d just lit a cigarette when I heard the back door creak open. I assumed it was one of the servers coming out to escape the tension inside, so I kept looking at the moon.

“I was surprised when a voice slurred my name from the dark. I looked toward the door and saw an unfamiliar shape backlit in the doorway. It stumbled out towards me and I saw it was Billy Braithwaite.

“’Hey Linda,’ he drooled at me, ‘it’s my birthday.’

“Happy birthday Billy,’ I said. At the time, I wasn’t worried. I’d dealt with plenty of drunks over the years and figured that was all this was, just another drunk. And it was just Billy Braithwaite, a punk, but not a bad kid on the whole. 

“They’d been packing it away at Billy’s table, so I figured he’d missed the men’s room and gone through the backdoor instead. They were right next to each other, so it was a common enough mistake.

“He came a little closer, so that now he stood in front of me and said, ‘did you get me a present?’ I’d turned away when I realized who it was and was looking back at the moon, but there was something in his voice when he asked this question that caused me to look back at him.

“’I’ll buy you a drink,’ I said, hoping to placate him, ‘let’s go back inside and I’ll get you a shot and a Bud.’

“’I’ve already got plenty of those,’ he slurred, ‘I want something else.’

“At this, my heart started pounding in my chest and I couldn’t get air in my lungs. I knew without him saying another word what he wanted, so I began trying to think of a way to distract him so I could get away, or slow down whatever was to come next in hopes someone would come out for a break or make the same mistake with the doors that Billy had, so I asked, ‘what do you want?’

“’A kiss.’

“’I don’t think so Billy.’ I can still hear the quiver in my voice as I replied. God, the fear I felt…

“I had nowhere to go. Nowhere to run. He was standing over me, a massive shadow blocking out the sky. I tried to stand up, but he pushed me back down.

“’Now, give me my present,’ he said as he leaned in toward my face. He stank of onions, beer and sweat. His breath came in heavy gasps. I turned my head away at the last instant and his nose ended up crunching into the side of my head. Not hard enough to do damage, but hard enough to get his attention.

“’Playing hard to get,’ he smiled, a drunken shine in his eye, ‘I like that.’ He moved his hands to my arms, shoving me from where I sat to a position pinned against the wall.

“’Not a sound,’ he breathed at me, ‘not a single word,’ and he moved in to kiss me again. I was so afraid. I didn’t turn my head this time.”

At this, she stopped and stared off toward the Melanski. I didn’t push, though I was desperate for her to continue. I could see the telling of this story was a catharsis despite the pain the memories were causing.

“That night it was hot and a full moon. When the moon was full, Santiago would go out ‘howlin’,’ as he called it. He’d take the same path up from the Tortoise, through town, past the Tavern and up the hill.

“He’d be shouting about how his father loved Berwick and how it was wrong for all of us to blame him – his father – for the mills’ failing. He’d shout about his father having given his last dime for the town and died trying to find more.

“There wasn’t a head in the front of the Tavern that wouldn’t sink to its chest or find something else to look at when he came by. I didn’t know then, but they did. They all felt the guilt. They knew what they hadn’t done.

“And then it was over. His voice would become a distant echo that was easier to ignore as he moved further up the hill. By the time he reached the top, everyone in the bar had ordered another round of drinks and forgotten they’d felt any discomfort at all. A toast would be called for when the flashing blue lights went by outside on their way to retrieve him.

“Pap had cut a deal with Judge Duval, so when the cops went up to get him, they’d take him straight back to the cemetery. They’d call Pap first so he could be there to make sure Santiago didn’t get out and cause any further trouble. 

“I don’t know why Pap looked out for him. I miss Pap. He was always himself.”

Ma paused, going away to some distant place in her mind. I watched as a bird of prey swooped down from one of the pines in the distance, cutting through the shimmering light on the Melanski, then rose with something wriggling in its talons.

“Santiago had been living and working at the cemetery for about three years by the time that night rolled around. He was pleasant enough; never said anything too crass around me or your Gram. Pap had him over every Sunday for dinner and he was the picture of politeness, if a bit dirty – the mess from the week’s work never seemed to wash off him. 

“We knew his reputation around town. It didn’t hold up with who we saw each Sunday, but at the same time, it wasn’t surprising either. I think what I’m trying to say is we were used to his comings and goings. We were used to him. The full moon ‘howlin’’ became just another part of this odd character who worked for Pap.

“What was different on that August night was that as his voice became clearer it stopped. It didn’t carry on past the Tavern, it went quiet outside. Everyone in the room had begun to look down at the sound of the voice. When it stopped they kept their heads down, looking up only when the door slammed open and Santiago burst in with a bottle of Coop’s homemade in his hand.

“I had a sip once. It was like white fire the way it jolted through your system. God. It was like a hammer in the veins. And that was just a sip. Santiago had finished close to three-quarters of the bottle in his hand when he stumbled into the bar.

“The breath in the room went out with the closing of the door as everyone looked up from the beverages and realized who it was. Even the young Braithwaite party in the back went quiet. No one looked down, all eyes stayed locked on him as he took a swig from his bottle and surveyed the room, bleary distain masked his face as he swayed left to right. I don’t think he new where he was, but he knew he loathed every person in that room.