A Hundred Ways to Kill My Old Man

I am certain that by now you have figured out that the man in my mother's life had alot in common with my father. Did I dislike him because of that? I often wondered but could never honestly tell. I never had dreams of pissing on his grave, if that means anything.

One afternoon a few years back my niece came to me in tears. She was living with my mother and her man at the time. He had been treating her much like he had always treated me, and I decided it was time to put the old man in the street. Seeing my niece cry like that truly hurt me. I felt all my old pains and hers as well. She is a sweet young woman and a genuinely good girl. She didn't deserve such treatment, and I was hell bent that it was going to end. I stormed over to my mother's house with the firm intention of sending that old man to hell. When I got there he was gone. My mother met me at the door. She knew why I was there. She could see it in my eyes. I was furious and eager to choke the life out of the old man. My mother and I had heated words. I wanted to storm out of her house and never return. I told her that, too.

I told her that I was ashamed of her, ashamed of our family and ashamed of the old man and how she had let him hurt us all. I was a good kid dammit and I didn't understand why she let him do the things he did. She started crying and so did I. Twenty eight years after he died, my mother sat me down and told me about my father. Everything.

Albert Evans was the proud father of ten healthy bright eyed children, and husband to a beautiful fair skinned woman. He was also a severe abusive alcoholic and sexual deviant. I won't go into gruesome detail, but I know now that my sisters suffered at his hands as well. After they were married and the babies began to come, my father often spoke of how he dreamed of having a son. I imagine that after the third or fourth girl he wondered if it was ever going to happen. Sadly enough, as the years went by his drinking habit became worse and the punches became more frequent. So after the sixth or seventh girl I bet he had resigned himself to being a father to all girls. I can't say he wasn't proud of his daughters, I never knew the man. I would like to think he was. After the ninth girl came along I am sure he was convinced that a son was never going to be.

Then on October the tenth nineteen seventy two I came along, and all hell broke loose. My father didn't live long after I was born. I guess I was about a year and a half old, maybe two when it happened. My father decided he wanted out, and he was taking me with him. He took me and left. Back then folks didn't go running to the police over family disputes. I can't imagine the cold terror my mother felt, not knowing where I was or if he was going to ever bring me back. He returned with me the next day, though. It was also the day my father died. He waited until my mother was gone. All the girls were in school or with the family sitter. He came back home to the little house in Tallassee that he had shared with my mother and nine girls for so many years. He sat me down on the bed he shared with my mother and got a short barreled rifle from under the bed. Like so many folks from the south he kept a gun stashed just in case.

Albert Evans sat down next to me, lay the gun against his chest then shot himself through the heart.

"I'm so sorry I never told you." My mother said through her tears.

In her her eyes I could see the pain of all those years. Not telling me had hurt her, but telling had nearly torn her apart. I was always ashamed of my father's memory, mostly because so much of it was clouded with doubt. I believe that she knew this, and telling me about my father would only make me more ashamed of him. And maybe, the most frightening part for my mother was that I might be ashamed of myself, too. I knew then that she had always tried to do what was best for me, and not telling me until I was ready was the only right thing to do.

I think I will always have these dreams about my father. His grave will probably be a permanent fixture in my sleeping thoughts. I will remain a shadowy figure looming over a broken slab of marble until the day I die. I doubt I will ever lose my desire to punish him, to right his wrongs or heal the wounds he left open. There are days when I fear I will be like him, when my temper gets the better of me. When I feel like I have failed and my future is uncertain. And then I look at my darling, my true love. I look at my dream talisman and she reminds me.

I am not an alcoholic.

I am not a wife beater.

And my children will never hate me.

Goodbye Father,

Your Son.