Maybe he knew what was coming. She did too. But she couldn't run because she had no independent means whatsoever and she wasn't going to leave us in his hands. Plus, she had no rights to Community property because Trueness had always refused to marry her, which was a Riddle she was only then starting to solve.
My mother came from a solid middle class family and had always been the virtuous type. He resented that treated his hookers better than the mother of his sons, and as a result he had her trapped. She was 100% dependent and if she wanted to leave, she'd have to walk with nothing at all.
My brother and I never slept well at Skateland. The ceiling shook too much because the office was directly below the dance floor.
When my mother walked in that night, I was already awake. She smiled, but I noticed the tears in her eyes and remember smelling the Scotch on her breath when she scooped me up in her arms as tenderly as she could.
My father trailed in after her, sloppy and annoyed. He pulled a pistol from beneath the cushion. Where I slept. He asked. You heard that, right? There was a loaded gun under the cushion on which I slept at six years old.
He flashed at me and smiled before concealing it beneath his pant leg and an ankle holster.
In his other hand were two brown paper shopping bags filled with nearly $10,000 in cash. So far, it was a typical night.
My parents didn't speak on the drive home, though the tension between them simmered.
My mom pulled into the driveway on Paradise Rd. just before 6:00 AM, a little early by our standards. Trueness stumbled from the car, disabled the alarm, dropped the cash on the kitchen table, and went upstairs. We followed him and she tucked us both into our beds, kissed me on the forehead, and turned out the light before slipping into the master suite, where she found him waiting, stroking his leather belt.
Trueness didn't appreciate being glared at by my mom, especially in public.
This belt came all the way from Texas just to whip you, he said calmly. Then he started swinging it buckle first. Sometimes my mother fought back, and she did. That night she threw a marble Candlestick at his head. He ducked, and it thudded the wall.
She ran into the bathroom, locked the door and cowered on the toilet. He kicked the door down and backhanded her hard. Her head slammed into the wall.
She was barely conscious when he grabbed A fistful of her hair and dragged her down the hall.
By then my brother and I had heard the violence, and we watched him drag her all the way down the stairs to the first floor, then Crouch over her with a belt in his hand. She was bleeding from the temple, and the lip and the side of her blood lit a fuse in me.
In that moment, my hatred overcame my fear. I ran downstairs and jumped on his back, slammed my tiny fists into his back and scratched his eyes. I'd caught him off guard and he fell to one knee. I wailed on him.
Don't hit my mom, I yelled. He tossed me to the ground, stalked toward me, belt in hand, then turned toward my mother.
You're raising a gangster, he said, half smiling. I curled into a ball when he started swinging his belt at me. I could feel bruises rise on my back as my mom crawled toward the control pad near the front door.
She pressed the panic button, and the house exploded in alarm. He froze, looked toward the ceiling, mopped his brow with his sleeve, took a deep breath, looped and buckled his belt, and went upstairs to wash off all that evil and hate.
Police were on their way, and he knew it.
My mother's relief was short lived. When the cops arrived, trueness met them at the door. They looked over his shoulder toward my mom, who stood several paces behind him, her face swollen and caked with dried blood.
But those were different days. There was number me too. Back then, that **** didn't exist and they ignored her.
Trueness told them it was all a whole lot of nothing, just some necessary domestic discipline.
Look at this house. Does it look like I mistreat my wife? He asked.
I gave her mink coats, diamond rings, I bust my *** to give her everything she wants and she throws a marble Candlestick at my head. She's spoiled.
The police chuckled along with my father as he walked them to their car. They left without interviewing her. He didn't hit her again that morning. He didn't have to. The psychological damage was done. From that point on, it was clear to us that as far as trueness and the law were concerned, it was open season and we were the hunted.
Over the next year, our schedule didn't change much and the beatings continued while my mother tried to paper over the darkness with swatches of light.
She knew I wanted to be a scout, so she saw me up for a local troop.
I still remember putting on that Navy blue Cub Scout button down one Saturday. I felt proud wearing a uniform and knowing at least for a few hours, I could pretend that I was a normal kid.
My mom smiled as we headed for the door. My pride. Her smile wasn't just because of the damn Cub Scouts. They rose up from a deeper place. We were taking action to find something positive for ourselves in a bleak situation.
It was proof that we mattered and that we weren't completely powerless.
That's when my father came home from the Vermilion room.
Where you 2 going?
He glared at me. I stared at the floor. My mother cleared her throat.
I'm taking David to his first Cub Scout meeting, she said softly.
The hell you are.
I looked up and he laughed as my eyes welled up with tears. We're going to the track.
Within the hour we'd arrived at Batavia Downs, an old school harness horse race track, the type where jockeys ride behind the horses and lightweight buggies.
My dad grabbed a racing form as soon as we stepped through the gate. For hours, the three of us watched him place, bet after bet, chain smoke, drink Scotch, and raise holy hell as every pony he bet on finished out of the money.
With my dad raging at the gambling gods and acting a fool, I tried to make myself as small as possible whenever people walk by, but I still stuck out. I was the only kid in the stands dressed like a Cub Scout. I was probably the only black Cub Scout they'd ever seen, and my uniform was a lie. I was a pretender.
Trueness lost thousands of dollars that day, and he wouldn't shut up about it on the drive home, his raspy throat raw from nicotine. My brother and I were in the cramped back seat, and whenever he spat out the window, his flem boomeranged into my face.
Each drop of his nasty saliva on my skin burned like venom and intensified my hate.
I'd long since learned that the best way to avoid a beatdown was to make myself as invisible as possible.
Avert my eyes, float outside my body and hope to go unnoticed.
It was a practice we'd all honed over the years, but I was done with that ****. I would no longer hide from the devil.
That afternoon, as he veered onto the highway and headed home, he continued to rave on And I'm mad, dogged him from the back seat. Have you ever heard the phrase faith over fear? For me it was hate over fear.
He caught my eyes in the rearview mirror.
You got something to say?
We shouldn't have gone to the track anyway, I said.
My brother turned and stared at me like I'd lost my damn mind. My mother squirmed in her seat.
Say that one more time.
His words came slow, dripping with dread. I didn't say a word, so he started reaching behind the seat, trying to smack me. But I was so small it was easy to hide.
The car veered left and right as he was half turned in my direction, punching air. He'd barely touched me, which only stoked his fire. We drove in silence until he caught his breath.
When we get home, you're going to take your clothes off, he said.
That's what he'd say when he was ready to bestow a serious beat down, and there was no avoiding it. I did what I was told.
I went into my bedroom and took off my clothes, walked down the hall to his room, closed the door behind me, turn the lights off, then laid across the corner of the bed with my legs dangling, my torso stretched out in front of me and my *** exposed.
That was the protocol, and he designed it for maximum psychological and physical pain.
The beatings were often brutal, but the anticipation was the worst part. I couldn't see the door behind me, and he'd take his time letting my dread build. When I heard him open the door, my panic spiked. Even then, the room was so dark I couldn't see much With my peripheral vision. I couldn't prepare for the first smack until his belt hit my skin.
It was never just two or three likings either. There was number particular count, so we never knew when or if he was going to stop.
This beating lasted minutes upon minutes. He started on my **** but the sting was so bad I blocked it with my hands. So he moved down and started whipping my thighs. When I dropped my hands to my thighs, he swung at my lower back. He belted me dozens of times and was breathless, coughing, and slick with sweat by the time it was over.
I was breathing heavy too, but I wasn't crying. His evil was too real and my hate gave me courage.
I refuse to give that ************ the satisfaction.
I just stood up.
Look. The devil in his eye limped to my room and stood in front of a mirror.
I was covered in welts from my neck to the crease of the knees. I didn't go to school for several days.
When you're getting beat consistently, hope evaporates. You stifle your emotions, but your trauma off gases and unconscious ways after countless beatings she endured and witnessed this particular beat down left my mother in a constant fog, a shell of the woman I remembered from a few years before.
She was distracted and vacant most of the time, except when he called her name. Then she'd hoped to like she was his slave.
I didn't know until years later that she was considering suicide.
My brother and I took our pain out on each other. We'd sit or stand across from one another and he would throw punches as hard as he could at me. It usually started out as a game, but he was four years older, much stronger, and he connected with all his power.
Whenever I'd fall, I'd get up and he hit me again as hard as he could, yelling like a martial arts warrior at the top of his lungs, his face twisted with rage.
You're not hurting me. Is that all you ******* have? I'd shout back. I wanted him to know that I could take more pain than he could ever deliver. But when it was time to fall asleep and there were no more battles to fight, no place to hide, I went to bed nearly every night.
My mother's everyday was a lesson in survival. She was told she was worthless so often she started to believe it.
Everything she did was an effort to appease him so he wouldn't beat her sons or whip her ***. But there were invisible tripwires in her world, and sometimes she never knew when or how she set them off until he slapped the **** out of her.
Other times, she knew she'd feed herself up for a vicious beat down.
One day I came home early from school with a nasty earache and laid down on my mother's side of their bed, my left ear throbbing and excruciating pain.
With each throb, My hate spiked.
I knew I wouldn't be going to the doctor because my father didn't approve of spending his money on doctors or dentists.
We didn't have health insurance, a pediatrician or a dentist. If we got injured or sick, we were told to shake it off because he wasn't down to pay for anything that didn't directly benefit trueness. Goggins, our health didn't meet that standard, and that ****** me the **** ***.
After about 1/2 hour my mother came upstairs to check on me and when I rolled onto my back she could see blood dribbling down the side of my neck and smeared all over the pillow.
That's it, she said. Come with me.
She got me out of bed, dressed me and helped me to her car. But before she could start the engine, my dad chased us down. Where you think you're going?
The emergency room, she said as she turned the ignition.
He reached for the handle, but she peeled out first, leaving him in her dust.
Furious, he stomped inside, slammed the door and called out to my brother. Son, get me a Johnny Walker.
Trueness Junior brought over a bottle of Red Label in the glass from the wet bar.
He poured and poured and watched my dad down, shot after shot. Each one fueled an inferno. You and David need to be strong, he raved.
I'm not raising a bunch of *******. And that's what you'll be if you go to the Doctor every time you get a little Boo Boo. Understand.
My brother nodded, petrified.
Your last name is Goggins and we shake it off.
According to the doctor we saw that night, my mother got me to the ER just in time. My ear infection was so bad that if we'd waited any longer, I would have lost my hearing in my left ear for life. She risked her *** to save mine, and we both knew she'd pay for it. We drove home in eerie silence.
My dad was still stewing at the kitchen table by the time we turned onto Paradise Rd. and my brother was still pouring him shots.
Trueness. Junior feared our father, but he also worshipped the man and was under his spell.
As the first born son, he was treated better.
Trueness would still lash out at him, but in his warped mind trueness Junior was his Prince.
When you grow up, I'm gonna wanna see you be the man of your house, Trinis told him. And you're going to see me be a man tonight.
Moments after we walk through the front door, trueness beat our mother senseless, But my brother couldn't watch. Whenever the beatings exploded like a thunderstorm overhead, he'd wait them out in his room. He ignored the darkness because the truth was way too heavy for him to carry.
I always paid close ******* attention.
During the summers, there was no midweek respite from trueness, but my brother and I learned to hop on our bikes and stay far away for as long as we could.
One day I came home for lunch and entered the house through the garage like normal. My father usually slept deep into the afternoon, so I figured the coast was clear. I was wrong. My father was paranoid.
He did enough shady deals to attract some enemies, and he'd set the alarm after we left the house.
When I opened the door, sirens screamed and my stomach dropped. I froze, backed up against the wall and listened for footsteps.
I heard the Stairs Creek and knew I was ******.
He came downstairs in his brown Terry cloth robe, pistol in hand, and crossed from the dining room into the living room, his gun out front. I could see the barrel come around the corner slowly.
As soon as he cleared the corner, he could see me standing just 20 feet away.
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