No Whispers

My father hated whispering. My brothers and I could talk loudly and run through the house and not disturb him, but a whisper would wake him up immediately. No whispering was a household rule. As a child, I never really understood why. But, an incident when I was almost 19 years old made me realize that he hated whispering because he thought that he was the subject of the hushed conversations. And with every passing year, his paranoia and anger grew in tantamount proportions, fed by his abuse of cocaine and whiskey and, I would like to think, his guilty conscience.

On this particular afternoon, Mom and I were in the kitchen, talking quietly. Dad was sleeping on his couch in the living room, two rooms away. Suddenly, loud stomping erupted from the direction of the living room and Dad's angry bellows resounded through the house. We didn't have a chance. He was in the kitchen faster than I had seen him move in years. He charged toward us, screaming that he would not tolerate us conspiring against him. He slammed his fist into the side of my head. The impact sent me flying backwards into the tiny alcove beside the stove, where I crumpled, crying and dazed on the floor cupping my bruised and throbbing cheek. He grabbed my mom by the hair, yelling that he wanted us out of his house, threatening her with death if she didn't get out immediately. She was crying and begging, "No, David! Please, no! I don't want to leave!"

Then suddenly, he pushed her hard against the stove and stormed out of the kitchen toward the front door. He slammed open the screen door and stomped across the porch. I pulled myself up and begged my mom to hurry--to go to ber bedroom to pack her things. I raced toward the stairs leading up to my bedroom, shaking so badly I could barely stay standing. I had made it to the top of the stairs when I heard the front door slam again. Dad had returned with his pistol--he'd retrieved it from its hiding place in his van. Crouching low at the top of the stairs, I could see into the bathroom where mom kneeled in front of the commode vomiting. My dad had the loaded gun to her head screaming that she had one hour to get out; that if she was still there in an hour, he would kill her. She continued begging him to let her stay, telling him she loved him and didn't want to leave. I ran into my room and began throwing my things into a bag.

Suddenly, there was an ominous silence. Returning to the top of the stairs, I dropped to my stomach and peered down to see that mom was still sitting on the bathroom floor, sobbing quietly. My dad was nowhere in sight. Grabbing my packed bag, I tenatively made my way down the creaky steps and ran to kneel beside my mom. She told me to go. I pleaded with her to grab some things and go with me, but she refused to leave. Just go, she said.

That day, I moved in with a friend. It took years for me to whisper without fear of retribution.