Read Online Things Unsaid: A Novel by Diana Y. Paul - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Diana Y. Paul
Ads: Link
bare legs showing, Andrew limped towards the couch in the solarium. His mother and sisters seemed to have ignored what had been going on upstairs. His little sister, Joanne, he could understand. She was too young, and she was busy watching TV. But Jules knew. She knew, all right.
His mother came to his side and kissed his cheek. “Does that make your owwie better?” she asked, looking down at his legs: red welts with little white dashes where the stitching on the sides of his father’s belt were embossed. He raised his right leg so she could have a closer look. She bent down and kissed him on the leg, too. Andrew let her do it, but she made him uncomfortable: too much contact. He was the sun that rose and set for their mother. She often told him so, even in front of his friends.
His very first childhood memory: his mother’s kisses. The ones in the wrong places.
His father had ordered a rubberized, electrically charged sheet as a deterrent to bed-wetting. To make him a man. He was getting ready to enter kindergarten, and bed wetters weren’t allowed. The school principal had said that naptime would be ruined for the other children if anyone peed. So right before kindergarten started, he remembered waking up in the middle of the night, zapped with electrical current, his pajamas soaked through. Smelling like pee.
Crying and screaming “Mommy, Mommy,” he would run to his mother, who would be waiting in the bathroom. Stripping him naked, she would hug him and stand him on the toilet seat, kneeling in front of him, washing his body with a cool washcloth. Andrew rememberedher saying, “Now, now, Andrew. You’re a big boy. Your daddy wants you to go to kindergarten, so we bought that special bedsheet just for you. It’s to wake you up in the middle of the night when you do pee-pee. You can’t go to school if you wet your bed, you know. Big boys don’t do that kind of thing. And Daddy and Mommy want you to understand that. We love you very much and want you to make us proud of you.” And then she kissed his penis.
It surprised him. Who kisses where your pee-pee comes from? He remembered understanding that much, even at five years old. But before he could say anything, he saw his father peeking through the cracked-open bathroom door. He still remembered that one dark eye tilted at him.
He was the only son, and it came with a price.
“You know, I never liked chicken when I was growing up,” his father would start off. “The slaughter of chickens would turn and churn in my stomach when I was a kid. Those bloodied chickens squawking with their heads cut off—gushing blood from open wounds, running in circles. They’d stink so badly. My father shoved it down my throat. Shouted that we had to eat whatever was in front of us. We couldn’t afford anything else. One of those chickens had been my pet. Used to sleep with it. I never ate chicken after I left home.”
Andrew ended up hating chicken just like his father.
But when he was maybe about ten years old, he’d tried an experiment. He’d chopped chicken into squares, skewered them, and slathered them with loads of spicy jerk sauce. The taste of smoky barbecue and the crispiness ringing the meat had been irresistible to his dad. After his father had eaten at least four kebabs, Andrew couldn’t control himself any longer. Smirking, he said, “Hmm, Dad, how’d you like those kebabs? They were really good now, weren’t they? They didn’t have any nasty smell or dirty taste, now did they—did they?”
His father stared at him, the beginnings of suspicion in his eyes.
Andrew couldn’t keep it to himself any longer. “You ate chicken,” he blurted out, gloating. “You ate chicken!”
His father stood up immediately and said something in an unnaturally low, soft voice that Andrew couldn’t quite make out. And then it happened. He retched on top of the platter with the remaining kebabs.And he retched some more, throwing up everything, as everyone else
His mother came to his side and kissed his cheek. “Does that make your owwie better?” she asked, looking down at his legs: red welts with little white dashes where the stitching on the sides of his father’s belt were embossed. He raised his right leg so she could have a closer look. She bent down and kissed him on the leg, too. Andrew let her do it, but she made him uncomfortable: too much contact. He was the sun that rose and set for their mother. She often told him so, even in front of his friends.
His very first childhood memory: his mother’s kisses. The ones in the wrong places.
His father had ordered a rubberized, electrically charged sheet as a deterrent to bed-wetting. To make him a man. He was getting ready to enter kindergarten, and bed wetters weren’t allowed. The school principal had said that naptime would be ruined for the other children if anyone peed. So right before kindergarten started, he remembered waking up in the middle of the night, zapped with electrical current, his pajamas soaked through. Smelling like pee.
Crying and screaming “Mommy, Mommy,” he would run to his mother, who would be waiting in the bathroom. Stripping him naked, she would hug him and stand him on the toilet seat, kneeling in front of him, washing his body with a cool washcloth. Andrew rememberedher saying, “Now, now, Andrew. You’re a big boy. Your daddy wants you to go to kindergarten, so we bought that special bedsheet just for you. It’s to wake you up in the middle of the night when you do pee-pee. You can’t go to school if you wet your bed, you know. Big boys don’t do that kind of thing. And Daddy and Mommy want you to understand that. We love you very much and want you to make us proud of you.” And then she kissed his penis.
It surprised him. Who kisses where your pee-pee comes from? He remembered understanding that much, even at five years old. But before he could say anything, he saw his father peeking through the cracked-open bathroom door. He still remembered that one dark eye tilted at him.
He was the only son, and it came with a price.
“You know, I never liked chicken when I was growing up,” his father would start off. “The slaughter of chickens would turn and churn in my stomach when I was a kid. Those bloodied chickens squawking with their heads cut off—gushing blood from open wounds, running in circles. They’d stink so badly. My father shoved it down my throat. Shouted that we had to eat whatever was in front of us. We couldn’t afford anything else. One of those chickens had been my pet. Used to sleep with it. I never ate chicken after I left home.”
Andrew ended up hating chicken just like his father.
But when he was maybe about ten years old, he’d tried an experiment. He’d chopped chicken into squares, skewered them, and slathered them with loads of spicy jerk sauce. The taste of smoky barbecue and the crispiness ringing the meat had been irresistible to his dad. After his father had eaten at least four kebabs, Andrew couldn’t control himself any longer. Smirking, he said, “Hmm, Dad, how’d you like those kebabs? They were really good now, weren’t they? They didn’t have any nasty smell or dirty taste, now did they—did they?”
His father stared at him, the beginnings of suspicion in his eyes.
Andrew couldn’t keep it to himself any longer. “You ate chicken,” he blurted out, gloating. “You ate chicken!”
His father stood up immediately and said something in an unnaturally low, soft voice that Andrew couldn’t quite make out. And then it happened. He retched on top of the platter with the remaining kebabs.And he retched some more, throwing up everything, as everyone else
Similar Books
