[Psyche - March, 1990] Daddy's Gun
Being small is an advantage when a little girl doesn’t want to be noticed. Tonight, Bernie definitely didn’t want to be noticed. She wasn’t even supposed to be home, because her da had invited his poker buddies over and little girls weren’t meant to know what das did with their poker buddies. And Bernie didn’t want to be home anyway. It was her grandmother’s fault she was curled up in her bed, buried under seven layers of quilting. Her grandmother had forgotten about her. Again.
And there she was, perched in her rocking chair with Bridge to Terabithia. She was good at being quiet when she needed to be, and she could hardly hear anything at all going on outside anyway. She wasn’t worried. But then the shouting had started. She’d hid under the covers, then, and shut her eyes tight. She knew what Father was like when he started shouting. She could even see him beneath the dark of her eyelids - red hair growing damp at the roots, face going blotchy and pink, the little vein on the right side of his head bulging fit to burst. When he was really, really mad, he spit. It was hard not to flinch or blink when the little globs hit her in the face, but she’d learned. Everybody in the O’Kelly house learned that, even Gran. Everything stopped in the O’Kelly house when her da started shouting - even breathing.
But this time, something was different. Something was wrong. Bernadette struggled upright under the weight of all her blankets, pushing them off her head and shoulders. She had to make sure she was hearing what she thought she was hearing. She was - there were two voices. Someone else was yelling. Someone was shouting at her father. But...nobody ever shouted at Da. And then there were other voices. They weren’t as loud, but they sounded funny to her. Next there were weird sounds, like crashes and things falling. Nothing was making sense.
Hardly breathing, Bernie slid off the bed and tip-toed to her door. She cracked it open, careful not to let the knob make any sound, and slow so that it didn’t squeak at all. Peering though the crack, the first thing she saw was broken glass on the floor, a brownish spill that had reached all the way to the carpet, and scattered cards. The table was on its side. She knew all of the men she could see - Patrick O’Conner from down the block, Jimmy, and Mr. Rafferty, who always said hello to her when she passed him coming home from school. And Pa. She shrank back, almost shutting the door when she saw her father’s face. It was purple. She’d never seen him look like that, not ever.
Something was ringing in her ears. Another weird noise. She couldn’t tell where it was coming from, and she wasn’t thinking - she stuck her head out the door to see if there was something to make it. That’s when everything went silent. The change was so sudden and so strange that she forgot about the ringing and stared at the four men.
“No one feckin says that shit to me in my own house. You’re gonna give me my feckin money, boyo, or I’m gonna blow your fuckin face off.”
Her da was holding something in his hand, pointing it at Mr. Rafferty. Whatever it was, it made Mr. O'Conner’s eyes pop. But Mr. Rafferty didn’t look scared at all.
“Aye, go on then, O’Kelly. Ya think ya got it in ya, do ya? Feckin go right ahead and do it. You won’t see a single dime outta me.”
Jimmy shook his head and Patrick O’Conner said something and her da did too, but Bernie couldn’t hear it. She couldn’t hear the sounds that went with the muzzle flashes and the bright patches of red that exploded on Mr. Rafferty’s face and all over his shirt. She didn’t hear the wet splatter of skin and guts and blood, or the crack of splintering bones. All Bernie heard was a momentary roar, then a deafening silence - and then the bells. She clapped her hands over her ears and screamed, and her da saw her but it didn’t matter. The bells were splitting her head in half. It hurt! It hurt more than the time she feel out of the tree in her back yard and broke her arm, and it hurt more than when she’d gotten in a fight with Meghan Sullivan, who’d broken her nose. It hurt worse than her da yelling at her, or him hitting her, or the things Gram said about her ma. And it felt like it was going to go on forever.
But it did stop, when she felt her father’s heavy hand on her shoulder. She flinched, she couldn’t stop herself, and she was sure he was going to hit her again.
He didn’t.
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That was the first time I saw my father kill a man. I was nine. And it wasn’t the last time, either. I never was able to enter a confessional and not think about it, though I've never said. I wasn't allowed, but I don't think I could have anyway.
He knew I fuckin hated it. He knew it hurt me to see someone die. So he took me along. He'd send me sometimes by myself with his boyos. He said I needed to learn, since I was too nosey to stay stupid like he'd planned. He said cause my ma was too fuckin dumb to have a boy, he'd have to teach me the shit my brother should have learned. I had to grow some balls. He took me along, man or woman, old or young, one poor fuck or twenty, just him or him and all his fuckin boyos or one of his boyos or whatever and his marks never figured that a pre-teen girl being there might still mean they were about to have their fuckin brains sprayed all over the wall. They always looked so fuckin surprised. Every one of his men knew I had to watch. He always made me watch. I didn't know what the look on his face meant then, but I do know.
I fuckin promise you, every time after he took me home and put me to bed, he’d park it in the john and rub one out to the look on my face.
Maybe I really do look like my ma.
And there she was, perched in her rocking chair with Bridge to Terabithia. She was good at being quiet when she needed to be, and she could hardly hear anything at all going on outside anyway. She wasn’t worried. But then the shouting had started. She’d hid under the covers, then, and shut her eyes tight. She knew what Father was like when he started shouting. She could even see him beneath the dark of her eyelids - red hair growing damp at the roots, face going blotchy and pink, the little vein on the right side of his head bulging fit to burst. When he was really, really mad, he spit. It was hard not to flinch or blink when the little globs hit her in the face, but she’d learned. Everybody in the O’Kelly house learned that, even Gran. Everything stopped in the O’Kelly house when her da started shouting - even breathing.
But this time, something was different. Something was wrong. Bernadette struggled upright under the weight of all her blankets, pushing them off her head and shoulders. She had to make sure she was hearing what she thought she was hearing. She was - there were two voices. Someone else was yelling. Someone was shouting at her father. But...nobody ever shouted at Da. And then there were other voices. They weren’t as loud, but they sounded funny to her. Next there were weird sounds, like crashes and things falling. Nothing was making sense.
Hardly breathing, Bernie slid off the bed and tip-toed to her door. She cracked it open, careful not to let the knob make any sound, and slow so that it didn’t squeak at all. Peering though the crack, the first thing she saw was broken glass on the floor, a brownish spill that had reached all the way to the carpet, and scattered cards. The table was on its side. She knew all of the men she could see - Patrick O’Conner from down the block, Jimmy, and Mr. Rafferty, who always said hello to her when she passed him coming home from school. And Pa. She shrank back, almost shutting the door when she saw her father’s face. It was purple. She’d never seen him look like that, not ever.
Something was ringing in her ears. Another weird noise. She couldn’t tell where it was coming from, and she wasn’t thinking - she stuck her head out the door to see if there was something to make it. That’s when everything went silent. The change was so sudden and so strange that she forgot about the ringing and stared at the four men.
“No one feckin says that shit to me in my own house. You’re gonna give me my feckin money, boyo, or I’m gonna blow your fuckin face off.”
Her da was holding something in his hand, pointing it at Mr. Rafferty. Whatever it was, it made Mr. O'Conner’s eyes pop. But Mr. Rafferty didn’t look scared at all.
“Aye, go on then, O’Kelly. Ya think ya got it in ya, do ya? Feckin go right ahead and do it. You won’t see a single dime outta me.”
Jimmy shook his head and Patrick O’Conner said something and her da did too, but Bernie couldn’t hear it. She couldn’t hear the sounds that went with the muzzle flashes and the bright patches of red that exploded on Mr. Rafferty’s face and all over his shirt. She didn’t hear the wet splatter of skin and guts and blood, or the crack of splintering bones. All Bernie heard was a momentary roar, then a deafening silence - and then the bells. She clapped her hands over her ears and screamed, and her da saw her but it didn’t matter. The bells were splitting her head in half. It hurt! It hurt more than the time she feel out of the tree in her back yard and broke her arm, and it hurt more than when she’d gotten in a fight with Meghan Sullivan, who’d broken her nose. It hurt worse than her da yelling at her, or him hitting her, or the things Gram said about her ma. And it felt like it was going to go on forever.
But it did stop, when she felt her father’s heavy hand on her shoulder. She flinched, she couldn’t stop herself, and she was sure he was going to hit her again.
He didn’t.
--------
That was the first time I saw my father kill a man. I was nine. And it wasn’t the last time, either. I never was able to enter a confessional and not think about it, though I've never said. I wasn't allowed, but I don't think I could have anyway.
He knew I fuckin hated it. He knew it hurt me to see someone die. So he took me along. He'd send me sometimes by myself with his boyos. He said I needed to learn, since I was too nosey to stay stupid like he'd planned. He said cause my ma was too fuckin dumb to have a boy, he'd have to teach me the shit my brother should have learned. I had to grow some balls. He took me along, man or woman, old or young, one poor fuck or twenty, just him or him and all his fuckin boyos or one of his boyos or whatever and his marks never figured that a pre-teen girl being there might still mean they were about to have their fuckin brains sprayed all over the wall. They always looked so fuckin surprised. Every one of his men knew I had to watch. He always made me watch. I didn't know what the look on his face meant then, but I do know.
I fuckin promise you, every time after he took me home and put me to bed, he’d park it in the john and rub one out to the look on my face.
Maybe I really do look like my ma.