616

Each Sunday, it was drilled that women were the keeper of the homes and the men were the head of the women. The most important part was that women were only to be seen in church, never heard and were under subjection of their husbands.
Little Joe, who was always made to sit on the front row, watched as Big Joe Donohue’s big black bushy eyebrows fluttered like hairy caterpillars as he turned to the side where the men sat, in what was called The Amen Corner. He would always ask, “Can I hear an Amen, Brothers?” They seemed to always be stirring themselves out of their slumber long enough to repeat a resounding “Amen, Brotha’ Joe!”
Mother was a stern woman who may have been a keeper of the home but it was Father who was the keeper of her and everything else.
Sunday dinners were not much different than any other and always consisted of a meat and three and a jar of pickles. Joe preferred his meat and most everything to be fried in an iron skillet. Not in lard and certainly not just any type of oil. It had to be Crisco shortening which Mother bought by the tub. The only exception to the frying rule was potatoes, which must be mashed, adding milk and butter, Heaven help us, not margarine. Forks to the left of the plate, spoon to the right with the knife, blade must face in, placed on a folded white napkin.
Big Joe would carefully unfold the napkin and tuck it in his collar to cover his tie. His favorite glass was an empty 16 ounce jelly jar, clear, with the pleasant scallop crowning the top. It always sat to the right of the knife. After each use, the glass was to be carefully washed so it would be ready for the next meal.
If no guests came Sunday after preaching, his father started giving his mother the business. No matter what she cooked or no matter what she did, he always found fault. The biscuits were too hard, the potatoes too runny, the food too cold, she was holding her mouth wrong, she wasn’t giving him due respect.
Didn’t never matter. It was always something.
He started out in a nice voice, cigarette smoke curling around his face, gently stating his case. “Hon, I don’t know if you meant to but did you notice you burned the biscuits?’ Then on and on and on, working himself up to a snit.
Next, his voice became more of a roar, increasing with intensity. Red eyes, red-faced, looking like a monster with spittle running out of both sides of his mouth, arms flailing, knocking food off the table.
What always came next was seeing his father slapping his mother down, with the back of his fist directed to her chest or abdomen, knocking her on her haunches. To him, it was like she fell in slow motion, nothing but a raggedy doll, her feet flying up, skidding across the kitchen floor. Then he heard a sick thump as she slid to a stop along the wall.
He always struck her torso so there would be no visible bruises to her face. If he could catch her, he would straddle her abdomen, tear off her blouse and burn her breasts with the end of his cigarette, telling her what a whore she was, telling her she deserved it. Due respect, woman, you got to give me due respect. You are nothing but a barnyard slut.
Then if she was able, she would scoot to the stove, sit in a ball, hands locked around her knees, tears running down her face. That is, if she could get up at all that day.
They would all wait until he broke open a bottle of Jack Daniels (finest whiskey in the land, by Heaven), watch Sunday ballgames and finally pass out. Then he always helped his mother mop up the blood and clean the kitchen. His sister went to her room and hid in the closet, in the dark.
Little Joe’s two brothers had already been raised and left home. Ron was in the state prison for murder; Roy had been killed in Vietnam. Four other brothers died at birth or early infancy, only leaving him, the seventh son and his little sister, who was not exactly right in the head. She didn’t play with toys like other girls her age. Mostly, she sat and stared out of vacant eyes.
A year before Little Joe started kindergarten, Big Joe began to visit him each Sunday night, giving him mortal wounds that would never heal.
His mother ignored his screams.
Crying until there were no more tears, one night he shook his fist in the air and swore to the heavens he would kill his father.
When Little Joe turned twelve, things changed. Instead of his father coming to his room on Sunday nights he started visiting his little sister. He could hear the screams. It was more than Little Joe could bear and he cried himself to sleep. Later that night Little Joe began to hear voices.
Most often, the voices would speak to him around midnight. Actually, not the middle of the night and not every night but when it happened, he would turn in his bed to the clock and read it: 3 a.m., right on the dot.
At first he was afraid of the voices but then he got used to them. Waking him, whispering in his ear, he was told he had been chosen and the time was near, to take comfort, not to fear, he was going to be given great power, power to conquer the heavens.
Then one night, he thought he was hallucinating. He saw a glowing figure like a man with wings appear at the end of his bed. Then it began to speak. Out of its mouth came the same words that had been spoken to him months before, telling him not to be afraid. The being identified itself as an angel and stated he had been sent to give Little Joe an important revelation.
At first, he was afraid of the angel who began to glow bright orange then pulsate. He was used to the voices but all of a sudden, seeing an apparition that wasn’t supposed to be there in his room frightened him.
After a while, His fright soon turned to curiosity. Mesmerized, he watched as the angel’s intense color and pulsation began to dim. Then the otherworldly being began to speak to him in a level but low voice, demanding he bow on his knees in worship.
Slowly, Joe lowered himself to his knees, then dropped to his hands, then leaned on his elbows, ultimately pressing his nose to the floor, hoping his stance was pleasing to the being, imitating what he thought would be appropriate worship.
After what seemed to be a lifetime of holding his pose, his heart thumping out of his chest, the angel finally ordered him to rise.
Little Joe painfully raised himself to his knees which were feeling numb and finally got back up on his feet. Moving one leg at a time in place to restore circulation he moved slowly, afraid he might scare off the angelic being.
He couldn’t pull his attention away from the unearthly glow that kept pulsating. Not because of what the angel was saying but it was like he was magnetized. He felt holy in the most unholy way. His body, his mind and his total will responded, seemingly against its own will.
Then he came into agreement. He wanted power. He wanted dominance.
He listened and swore to obey.
When he came out of his bedroom that night, he felt different. He couldn’t exactly put his finger on it but he felt older, more mature.
Doing as he was told, Little Joe hauled his father back to his little twin bed with superhuman strength. Then he tied him spread eagle.
With a little smile curling on his lip, Little Joe silenced his father, as he cut him in pieces with his mother’s Southern fried chicken cleaver.
He wrapped the parts in Saran wrap and put him in the deep freeze on the back porch, preserving him until he could safely get rid of the remains.
His mother ignored the screams.
Big Joe’s flock later hired another preacher, as Big Joe’s wife, with big tears in her eyes, informed them he ran away with a blonde.
The grass grew greener as the back forty was fertilized one ground body part at a time.