#cokeverse

The first memories he has of her are all fine enough. Warm fuzzy stuff. Hallmark shit. Band aids on his cuts, grilled cheese in front of the TV, turning up the radio and dancing around the kitchen. She always managed to wash his hair without getting a single drop of soap in his eyes. That’s something, right? His father, he would scrub at his hair with one hand, like he was washing a dog, and have a beer and a smoke jammed in the other hand. He’d be yelling, yelling instructions at one of his older brothers while they stood, perplexed, with the phone pressed to their face. The cord pulled taut, a bendy beige corkscrew.

 He’d bet a lot, his father. On the horses, the doggies, the baseball. Whatever he could. When he lost, it was God’s fault. Hey, God doesn’t want you kids to have anything nice so he takes away all Daddy’s money. That’s why you don’t have a Nintendo, so stop fucking askin’. Jimmy’s oldest brother, Joey would be yelling instructions about which horse in which race to whichever degenerate Jimmy’s father was least in debt with. Meanwhile, soap would be running into his eyes, burning them, along with the sting of cigarette smoke. This was all normal. The real question was, where was his Mom? Why in the hell would his Dad ever be doing something as domestic as washing his hair?

 There were sections of his childhood when his mother wasn’t there at all. Sometimes she would take Jimmy with her, she’d be wearing big sunglasses and yelling at his father while pushing clothes into a case and shuffling Jimmy out the door. A few days at his grandparents, where they would all sit and discuss how stressed Russ had been, how hard his job was. His Mom would say she was finally going to call the police. She’d get him locked up once and for all. His grandmother would say ‘I always told you those drafter boys are nothing but trouble, not you Jimmy, darling,’ and she’d click her tongue and pat his head.

 Eventually, they’d end up back home, his dad would be clean shaven, he’d smile at them both. His mother and father would look at each other, his dad would say he was sorry, he’d poured it all down the sink. He’d tilt his head and smile, and tell her he loved her. His mother would embrace him, tears in her eyes. They’d kiss like they were in a movie. For a few weeks after, everything would be perfect. His dad wouldn’t clip him or swear if he got in the way. Sometimes he’d even ruffle his hair, pat him on the back. Jimmy never knew whether to flinch or not.

 as he got older, he’d be left with his father. His mother saw them all as a single entity. By the time he was six or seven the cuteness had worn off. He was already one of those ‘drafter boys’ his grandmother had mentioned so many times with so much scorn. She’d run off and his brothers would run amok, smoking in their rooms, inviting girls over. He knew better than to go near his dad those times. Everyone knew better. He’d be missing till late a night, come home drunk, pass out on the couch in a pool of his own vomit, or sometimes Jimmy would hear yelling in his parents’ room, a one person fight. Jimmy usually hid in his room, listening to tapes and trying to ignore how hungry he was.

 It still didn’t explain why his dad was washing his hair. There was something more to it. He was bathing himself by that age. He would have been eight. He knew this because Joey was 16. He was driving age.

 His mom was at work. Shift work. Some kind of manufacturing on the cusp of when anyone made anything near here at all. He’d been riding his bike. Following his brothers, but he was so much smaller and couldn’t keep up. He hadn’t been looking. The truck driver had stopped, carried him off the road, and dumped him on the sidewalk. He’d then sped off. Jimmy was too young to know he should look at the licence plate, the words on the side of the truck. He’d just laid in the gutter, yowling like a wounded animal until his brothers came back to find him. Anthony had scooped him up and perched him on his handlebars, racing home. When they got inside the apartment, their dad was half asleep in front of the TV, still in his overalls, stinking of grease and booze. He looked up.

 "What the fuck is wrong with him?"

 Anthony was bold enough to reply. “He fell of his bike, I think his arms are broke.”

 His father stood up and slapped Anthony hard across the face. “How many times have I told you fuckin morons to look after your baby brother? Shut up for a second, Jimmy! Jesus Christ, you sound like a fucking cat in heat.”

 Jimmy let out a small whimper, then fell silent, tears streaming down his face. His dad scrubbed at his stubble a moment, nose crinkled.

 "What the fuck am I meant to do with you kids, I swear. Joey!"

 His older brother took a step into the apartment.

 "You’re going to drive us all to the hospital and we’re going to sort this shit out." His father flung the keys at Joey’s head and he caught them, eyes wide. their Dad never let anyone else drive his car.

 "Are you—"

 "I can’t drive like this." His father pointed to the beer bottle in his hand. No one dared say anything more. They all piled into the car and headed for the nearest hospital.

 The next bits are hazy. But Jimmy came home with a broken arm and wrist, big plaster casts on each arm. His brothers had joked about him wiping his butt, and sitting down to pee for the next six weeks. When it had come time for his shower, he had taken a look inside and stood naked, wonder how he’d turn on the water. After standing there for several minutes, he’d reluctantly called for his father, who had walked in scowling.

 "What’s wrong now?"

 "I can’t turn the faucets."

 His dad reached past him and turned the water on, then stormed out. Jimmy stared at the water, then at his casts, and called to his dad again.

 "Dad. I can’t get them wet. The doctor said."

 His dad rolled his eyes. “For fuck’s sake Jimmy. Can’t you just keep your hands out of the water?”

 Jimmy didn’t want to cry. His father hated it. But he felt his mouth begun to wobble.

 "H-how will I wash my hair?"

 His father roared and left the bathroom. Jimmy stood sniffling, watching the water bubble slightly in the drain. His father returned, gripping his harm a little too tight and strapping a plastic grocery bag around it. He then wound duct tape around it, till it felt to Jimmy, like a blood pressure cuff. He repeated this process on the other arm, then made a hand gesture that meant Jimmy should get under the water. Jimmy stepped under and turned around to face his father. He was lighting a cigarette, still on his knees. He worked his jaw. Almost seemed like he was smiling for a second.

 "Let’s get this over with,huh kid?"

 So that explained his dad washing his hair. But there was something else about that night.

 Jimmy was in his pjs watching Nick at Nite on stolen cable. It was barely audible over the buzzsaw-like sound his father was making on the couch. He heard the locks rattle and looked up to see his mother arrive, weary eyed. She took a moment to notice him, but when she did she dropped her bag on the ground and rushed to him, holding his arms his her hand gingerly and staring at him.

 "Oh Jimmy, what happened to you, Sweetheart?" She squeezed him against her. "Oh God."

 "I’m ok, Mommy." He mumbled against her chest. She looked to his father on the couch, then to the bottles covering the coffee table.

 "What did you do to him, Russ?"

 His father sat up and rubbed his eyes, letting out a low groan.

 "What are you on about? I took him to the fucking hospital. I make sure he was ok. I bathed and clothed him. That’s what I did, you stupid bitch.” He stood and leered over them. “This wouldn’t happen if you were around to pick him up from school!”

 "I only work," his mother stood,"because you flit away everything you earn on liquor and gambling!" She jabbed her finger into his chest. "My mother was right about you."

 Jimmy’s father grabbed her wrist in one hand, and brought his other hand up to her throat, slamming her against the wall.

 "You wanna see just how right she was about me?” Jimmy watched them both, agast. He charged at his father, hammering at his ribs with his casts. His father swatted him away and sent him hurtling against the edge of the couch, where he stayed, pressed against it, curling his knees into his chest and whimpering. Jimmy’s father focused back on his mother.

 "I’m sick of you talking back to me. I’ve put up with it far too long. And hurting you does nothing. So maybe I need to try something else." He tightened his grip around her throat. "You leave the house ever again without my permission, and it won’t hurt you. I’ll hurt him. I’ll snap his neck like a wild rabbit.” He turned his head to Jimmy, who slunk further into the edge of the couch, eyes wide.

 "And I don’t wanna do that, Jimmy. You know Daddy loves you. But if Mommy keeps being a bad Mommy, Daddy is going to have no fucking choice.” He released Jimmy’s mother, who slid down the wall, sobbing quietly. Jimmy felt his lip wobble again. But that was all he remembered of that night.

 Things changed after that. His mother never needed to wear sunglasses and make excuses anymore. She stopped doing much of anything. Jimmy’s father had found a new target. A way to hurt her better than before. And that was Jimmy. But it didn’t work quite like his father wanted it to. Eventually his mother just seemed numb to it. She barely flinched when his father would pounce on him. It was as if she was totally detached.