Читать книгу Lasting Impressions - John Schlarbaum - Страница 6

Dale kept off the main highway, thinking he might wander into a town where he could stay overnight. It was mid-afternoon and the sun's warmth was too hot for comfort. He wasn't a summer person, liking the cooler seasons better.

Dale couldn't get enough of winter and the work that was involved with it. Shovelling snow was the only activity a youngster could do that was both legal and paid well. To suit up after a big snowfall was akin to winning the kid lottery. Once told by a customer that if he worked slower, he could do a better job, Dale replied, "If you don't like my work, you can shovel it yourself!" The man was taken aback by the boy's candor, but could see from his eyes that something possessed him to go quickly, to get the job done.

Those same eyes managed to get Dale most of his work, whether the people he approached needed his services or not. It was as if they were afraid of what he might do if they declined his offer.

Growing up in the small town of Freeling effected Dale's life considerably, as it had as many disadvantages as advantages. The biggest hindrance was the lack of work, with the main source of employment being the local lumber mill.

Dale's father was one of those poor suckers dying little by little, long shift by long shift. Awake at 6:00 a.m. and out the door an hour later was his regular schedule, which meant there was no time for his three good-for-nothing boys.

Stan Hawks' plans hadn't included any children. Unluckily for him, his high school bride was as fertile as a rabbit. It was as if every time he touched her, she gave him another boy to carry on the Hawks' legacy. When she passed away giving birth to Dale, Stan also wanted to die. What did he know about kids? His wife had raised the other two almost single-handedly. With both of them now over 12 and old enough to take care of themselves, what did Stan need with an infant?

He decided to pay a kindly mother of six to raise Dale, figuring he could easily handle the two older boys. Then when Dale reached school age, tragedy struck: his father moved him back home, ripping him away from the devoted arms of Mrs. Davenport and her loving family.

If a psychologist needed an example of how a child's robust outlook on life could stop instantaneously, Dale Hawks would be the perfect test subject.

In his spare time Dale was basically not allowed to play, be it before school, at lunch time and especially after school. With his other sons now out of the house, Stan took advantage of the new healthy, albeit small, body around. While he slaved away at the mill, he expected Dale to keep the house tidy by doing a few menial tasks like emptying the garbage cans. In the evenings, Stan had Dale fetch him a beer or two, making it seem like a fun game they were playing together. Stan figured in a year or two Dale would be old enough and tall enough to do more strenuous chores, such as washing the dishes and vacuuming. Until that day arrived, if Dale got out of line, Stan would simply put him back in place with a powerful smack of the hand. When things got really out of hand . . . .

Thinking of that night always made Dale shiver, from both fright and repulsion. Today was no different. As there were no cars in sight, he took a position under the shade of a roadside tree. It was times like these he dreaded, when he had the opportunity to think, and remember the awful past.

***

After class was dismissed for the day, Dale and a few other boys remained to play in the school yard, which was a block away from Dale's house. As the games grew more intense, the less Dale thought to keep track of the time. When he realized it was almost 6:30, the plans that would forever change his life had already been set in motion.

Stan Hawks awaited his son's return with a gleeful smirk plastered across his face. After a long hard day, he'd become accustomed to having Dale greet him with a beer when he arrived home, maybe even have a sandwich made. That's the way it was when his other two sons were at home and that's what was now expected of Dale. Stan often called Dale his "lost" son because of his nicey-nicey upbringing at the Davenports where they let him have fun and play games. How did they expect the boy to learn respect when they let him get away with murder all the time? If you give him everything his selfish heart desires, what does that teach him about the cold hard facts of the world?

Tonight, however, Dale would learn some cold facts about behaviour and reliability.

Dale's chest was pounding like a locomotive when he reached the front porch of the house. The lights were on and he knew his father was already inside. His mind could not comprehend what might take place within those four walls in the next few minutes. In his dreams he had courageously fended off dragons and evil kings, but they were all imaginary.

This was real.

The notion of his imminent demise rapidly came and went. Maybe Dad worked some overtime and I can still throw some soup in the microwave or make a quick sandwich. With that boyish fantasy tumbling inside his head, Dale burst into the kitchen.

Stan Hawks stood by the sink, his back to Dale. He lifted a meat cleaver and slammed it through a raw piece of meat on the counter top. "Is that you, son?"

Dale's voice was barely audible. "Ah, yes . . . it's me, Dad. I'm really sorry I'm late. I didn't mean to. I was playing at the school and I—"

His father turned quickly. The sight of the bloodied cleaver in his hand made Dale's vocal cords freeze in mid-sentence.

"Oh, don't worry about it, Dale," Stan said, wiping the blood from the large blade with his index finger and thumb. "Boys will be boys, I always say." With a warm smile he put the cleaver on the counter and went to a boiling pot on the stove. "Do you want some stew, Dale? Nice and hot. After playing so hard, you'll need some good nutrition in you."

Dale couldn't believe his luck. Something must have happened at work - a raise or a promotion. Still leery of his father's sunny attitude, Dale walked to the cupboard and grabbed a bowl and spoon. Cautiously, he went to his father, who placed a ladle of steaming stew into the bowl.

"There you go, son. Better eat it quick before it gets cold."

Dale walked briskly to the table, with each step bracing himself for the outpouring of rage he believed must be burning within the old man. As he sat on his chair, his father excused himself from the room.

"You eat up. I have to check on my laundry," Stan said calmly.

His laundry? Oh no! Dale thought. When he had come home for lunch, he'd forgotten to take his dad's shirts out of the dryer as he was told to do. Looking up from his stew, he checked the wall clock and realized he'd have to go to bed soon. There would be no time to hang the large shirts. Needing to believe his father's mood was truly genuine, Dale gobbled down the hot stew and hoped to get to his bedroom without incident.

He placed the dirty bowl and spoon in the sink and ran for the door. If I make it to the living room before he comes back from the basement, I'll be in the clear. He ran even faster than he had earlier racing home from school. The only obstacle left for him to hurdle were the stairs that loomed in front of him. Dale counted to himself as he took them two at a time.

"Two . . . four . . . six . . . eight . . . ten . . . twelve . . ."

In mid-stride he stumbled, tripping on the top step as a voice boomed from below.

"In a rush to get to bed tonight, Dale?" Stan's voice bellowed from the bottom of the stairs.

Dale faced his father. He couldn't quite make out his features as his body was backlit by the living room lamp. Dale couldn't speak; terror had ripped that ability from him. Petrified, he crouched in the darkness, awaiting his father's vengeance to manifest itself.

"I asked if you were in a rush to get to bed tonight," his father repeated.

Dale's voice quivered, "I am a bit tired."

All Dale could think of was the meat cleaver.

Where is it?

Does he still have it?

Would he really use it?

"If that's the case, son, then why don't you go ahead and get to bed. I wouldn't want a tired boy on my hands tomorrow. Neither would your teachers, I reckon," he added. From Dale's vantage point he could see a hint of a smile on his father's lips. "And don't worry about my shirts. If I have any problems with the iron I'll be sure to ask your advice."

Dale thought it was an odd comment, but with that it was over and his father disappeared from sight. There'd been no beating. No yelling. No hard feelings. Had he finally learned that whacking his opinions into his sons didn't work? Maybe he'd decided to take a gentler approach with his youngest offspring.

Dale's legs were shaky as he stood from his cramped position on the stairs, but once upright he sprinted to his room. Inside this sanctuary, he felt an uneasy calm come over him. Everything had turned out okay. A nice surprise actually.

With pleasant thoughts of his father swirling in his mind, Dale fell asleep . . . until 10:30, when he was awakened by his father's cursing downstairs. The smashing of a glass and overturning of furniture confirmed their parent-child honeymoon was about to end.

Dale pushed himself into the corner of his bed against the wall and pulled the covers to his chin. Playing his bedtime games, these very covers had stopped bad guys' bullets, laser beams, arrows, fire and rocks. Anything and everything that was thrown at him was magically stopped. Sadly, as with the slaying of the dragons and toppling of evil kings, it was all in his wild childish imagination.

This was real.

Too real.

The bedroom door exploded open, with the handle smashing violently through the back wall. Dale let out a shriek as the bright light from the hall momentarily blinded him. His father was holding an item in his hand. Something with a tail. A long skinny tail. What is that thing? Dale screamed within his feverishly pulsating skull.

"No, Daddy, not that!" he howled. "Anything but that! Noooooo!"

Dale squirmed in the bed trying to disappear from view. As his father advanced toward him, he could smell alcohol on his breath. Hear his laboured breathing. See the insane look in his eyes.

The man was possessed with rage.

As the electric iron seared his skin for the first time, Dale could feel himself drifting away; wishing this would be the last time he'd ever see this man. Hoping, praying and believing that some unseen force would help him.

"I told you if I had a problem with the iron I'd ask your opinion," Stan seethed, as he pulled the hot appliance off Dale's lily-white skin. "I couldn't tell if it was hot enough yet. What do you think? IS IT HOT ENOUGH?"

The words echoed in Dale's ears. The pain had begun to register, but he knew a cry for help would be a death sentence. He'd be gone forever, but this demented psychopath would remain behind to live. If there was ever a motive to remain quiet, this was it. Dale wasn't going down for the count. One day, oh yes, one day, he would do to his father as was now being done unto him.

The stare in Dale's eyes became fixed and glassy with each pass of the iron over his small body. His father had gone totally mad, revelling in his bizarre act of revenge and terror. "Is it hot enough yet?" he asked repeatedly, as the failures of his own wretched life transformed themselves into fourth degree burns on his child's innocent body.

After many passes, the iron's heat faded and it was then only effective as a battering ram to Dale's head, although this act didn't satisfy Stan Hawks' need to teach his son a lesson. He didn't need an iron to hit his son - he could use his own hands for that. As the iron cooled, so too did Stan's rage. Throwing the iron to the floor, he stood and walked silently to the door. Turning to the bloodied, burnt and semi-conscious body on the bed, he gave what was left of his son a few words of fatherly advice.

"Boy . . . if you ever again treat me like you did tonight, so help me, I'll teach you a lesson that you'll never forget!"

As Stan exited the room, Dale's eyes began to burn in the same way the marks covering his body did. The pain was so great that Dale had to yell out, yet when he opened his mouth no sounds came out. Terrified he had lost his ability to speak forever, he called upon any unseen forces to find the time to help a battered little boy.

"Dale," a voice gently summoned, "you have suffered enough. It's time to go."

Fifteen years later, Dale still swore the conversation he had was with an understanding angel.

With the terms either to live or die, young Dale chose life, not fully understanding the ramifications his acceptance would have on the life path he was now destined to follow.