Hi, Diary.
Although it's Christmas Eve, which is supposed to be a happy time, I'm in my bedroom, feeling grumpy and sad and angry and scared, all at the same time. That's why I'm writing in you.
It's the night before Christ was born in Bethlehem nineteen hundred and fifty years ago. I should be happy. But I'm not. Sorry about that, Jesus.
You might have asked if you weren't a diary, "What's wrong, Gordy?" Well, I'll tell you what's wrong.
Around six O'clock, Dad wasn't home yet.
"Time to eat," Mother called. She had prepared a huge meal for us. She usually prepares a steak for Dad because he's such a fussbudget when it comes to everything. Doctors think they're such big wheels.
"Where's Dad?" I asked.
Although Mother's eyes looked as if she'd been crying, she said, "Your father's likely busy with house calls."
"I'll tell you where he is," said Doc III, helping himself to a huge mound of mashed potatoes which he doused with ketchup (ugh). "He's at the Elks Club, getting hammered."
"Does hammered mean drunk?" I asked.
"Sure does," said Doc III.
"Then, I agree with you."
"Now, James and Gordon, you two don't know that for certain," Mother admonished her firstborn and family reject. "I think you two should apologize to your brothers and sister for saying that."
"I'm not going to," said my sixteen-year-old, oldest brother.
"Me, neither," I affirmed.
Doc III continued. "I'll bet ten to one he's drunk as a skunk this very minute."
"Why don't we eat?" remarked Dork. For the first time in a month of Sundays, Dork finally said something that made sense. So, we ate.
After everyone finished, including my dilly-dallying youngest brother, Little Pete, Mother served up one of my favorite December desserts besides mincemeat pie: Plum pudding. She tops it off with a warm sweet vanilla sauce that tastes so good I could eat it every night of the year. Maybe I couldn't. I'd probably get tired of it if I ate it that often.
After we finished the plum pudding, we waited and waited and waited some more. We sat on the sofa. We sat on the floor. We played Old Maid. We played Chinese Checkers. We played Monopoly. We played Canasta. James sat on Dad's chair. Dork went to the kitchen and poured himself some chocolate milk. Crazy Annie moaned and groaned because, "Father isn't here yet. Is he ever coming home?"
"He'll be here," said Mother.
I went to the kitchen to get a glass of milk. After that, I walked around the house and just waited. Like everyone else. And pouted. That was what I did. I wasn't thinking of Christ or his birthday. That wasn't very nice of me, was it?
At eight O'clock, Mother said, "We're going to attend the nine O'clock mass tomorrow morning."
"Why can't we go to Midnight Mass?"
"Because your father won't be in shape to attend mass tonight and you won't have at least the couple hours of sleep you need before attending Midnight Mass."
I figured she now agreed with Doc III's and my earlier observation: Dad was drunk. Again. Was there ever a doubt?
Then, it became ten O'clock. "It's way past your bed times," said Mother. "You kids need your sleep. We'll open presents in the morning."
"Why can't we open them now?" I demanded.
'You must wait until your father is here."
"That's not a very good reason," I said.
"Why should we suffer because of what he does? Why let him ruin our holiday?" demanded Doc III.
"I want to open all my gifts," whined Crazy Annie. "This isn't fair."
Of course, Dork kept his big mouth shut. He won't say anything because Mother might get mad at him. He's her little angel.
Little Pete? Forget him. He'd been asleep for at least two hours already.
Mother held firm. I was so angry I marched to my bedroom, slammed shut the door, and got you out. I mean, what did Mother want? That Dad wouldn't be drunk just because it's Christmas Eve? Even an eleven-year-old kid knows better than that. Dad's going to do what Dad's always done. Why can't--
· * * * * *
I must've fallen asleep but I woke up because I heard the Oldsmobile's engine running. It sounded like a marble factory. How long had I been asleep?
I got out of bed and pulled aside a window shade. Sure enough, Dad parked the car at such an odd angle that its headlights, which he didn't turn off either, didn't light up the garage door. Of course, I knew. He drove home, drunk.
Mother must've waited up for him. "You're drunk," I heard her yell.
"Yesh I am," returned the drunk. "After all, itch Shrishmas Eve."
"God, please tell Mother to let him sleep it off," I prayed. But I suspected God wasn't going to interfere. He was too busy.
"Night after night after night after night," she continued. A little while later, she screamed again. "The kids stayed up until ten O'clock. I can smell it on your breath."
"And you're a God damned naggin' greash baw bitch. Thash wha' you are, nag, nag, nag."
"And you're a drunken bastard and no good son of a bitch as a husband and a father. You don't give a damn about anyone but yourself."
The noise that followed sounded like an unsettled ghost or an angry Irish Banshee. Something, I don't know who or what, wailed as Mother ran to the kitchen. Dad sprawled after her. The whole house shook.
Crazy Annie called out, "Gordy." She opened her bedroom door. "Gordy, tell me a story, puh-leaze."
I also heard Little Pete in his and Annie's room, plus both my older brothers, whose bedroom is above mine, crying. Even Doc III. Sixteen-year-old Doc III was crying. G. B. Hoffman was not going to cry. No way.
Mother shrieked. It was at that moment I figured Dad must've grabbed her by the hair and yanked her out of the kitchen like a caveman. He dragged her into the dining room and kept punching her with his fist. How do I know that?
I opened my door and instantly thought I'd peed on an electric fence—for the second time in my life. The sight. It was horrible. Blood. Liquid red. Everywhere. Mother's blood. It soaked the front of her nightgown. Drenched it. And covered her face as if she were wearing a mask. There was an empty hole between her top front teeth where earlier in the evening there was a tooth. He had knocked out Mother's tooth. There was a gash on her forehead. As she howled in pain, blood flew out her mouth.
"This time," I thought, "he's going to kill her."
As I stood in the doorway adjacent to the dining room, I took a deep breath: "You drunken son of a bitch. You dirty bastard. You'd better not kill my mother. Or I'll kill you."
Dad stopped yelling and slugging Mother. He just stood there, mouth open, staring at me. Not saying a word. Speechless. Now, it was Dad who looked as if he had peed on an electric fence.
'You drunken son of a bitch," I screamed again, "I hate you. Why don't we leave him, Mother? Why don't we? I hate him more than anybody else in this whole world."
"Gordy," said Mother, "it's all right. You can go to your bedroom. We won't fight anymore. It's over with. Your father won't hit me."
"Are you sure?"
"I'm sure."
I jerked around, returned to my room, and eventually wrote in you. I could hear Dad bawl like a baby, and Mother telling him, "It's all right, Jim. He didn't mean it."
If she was talking about me, Diary, Mother was wrong. Dead wrong. I meant every word. At least, we'd be able to sleep at night and not have to worry about being struck with a belt buckle because all we were doing was having fun, playing, while he was nursing his morning-after hangover. We'd have peace and quiet without him. That's for certain. Maybe I'd stop wetting the bed. Who knows?
I'm very tired, Diary. I'm going to quit writing in you and try to go back to sleep. At least, I hope I can sleep.
Happy birthday, Jesus. Hope you got some nice presents.
Although it's Christmas Eve, which is supposed to be a happy time, I'm in my bedroom, feeling grumpy and sad and angry and scared, all at the same time. That's why I'm writing in you.
It's the night before Christ was born in Bethlehem nineteen hundred and fifty years ago. I should be happy. But I'm not. Sorry about that, Jesus.
You might have asked if you weren't a diary, "What's wrong, Gordy?" Well, I'll tell you what's wrong.
Around six O'clock, Dad wasn't home yet.
"Time to eat," Mother called. She had prepared a huge meal for us. She usually prepares a steak for Dad because he's such a fussbudget when it comes to everything. Doctors think they're such big wheels.
"Where's Dad?" I asked.
Although Mother's eyes looked as if she'd been crying, she said, "Your father's likely busy with house calls."
"I'll tell you where he is," said Doc III, helping himself to a huge mound of mashed potatoes which he doused with ketchup (ugh). "He's at the Elks Club, getting hammered."
"Does hammered mean drunk?" I asked.
"Sure does," said Doc III.
"Then, I agree with you."
"Now, James and Gordon, you two don't know that for certain," Mother admonished her firstborn and family reject. "I think you two should apologize to your brothers and sister for saying that."
"I'm not going to," said my sixteen-year-old, oldest brother.
"Me, neither," I affirmed.
Doc III continued. "I'll bet ten to one he's drunk as a skunk this very minute."
"Why don't we eat?" remarked Dork. For the first time in a month of Sundays, Dork finally said something that made sense. So, we ate.
After everyone finished, including my dilly-dallying youngest brother, Little Pete, Mother served up one of my favorite December desserts besides mincemeat pie: Plum pudding. She tops it off with a warm sweet vanilla sauce that tastes so good I could eat it every night of the year. Maybe I couldn't. I'd probably get tired of it if I ate it that often.
After we finished the plum pudding, we waited and waited and waited some more. We sat on the sofa. We sat on the floor. We played Old Maid. We played Chinese Checkers. We played Monopoly. We played Canasta. James sat on Dad's chair. Dork went to the kitchen and poured himself some chocolate milk. Crazy Annie moaned and groaned because, "Father isn't here yet. Is he ever coming home?"
"He'll be here," said Mother.
I went to the kitchen to get a glass of milk. After that, I walked around the house and just waited. Like everyone else. And pouted. That was what I did. I wasn't thinking of Christ or his birthday. That wasn't very nice of me, was it?
At eight O'clock, Mother said, "We're going to attend the nine O'clock mass tomorrow morning."
"Why can't we go to Midnight Mass?"
"Because your father won't be in shape to attend mass tonight and you won't have at least the couple hours of sleep you need before attending Midnight Mass."
I figured she now agreed with Doc III's and my earlier observation: Dad was drunk. Again. Was there ever a doubt?
Then, it became ten O'clock. "It's way past your bed times," said Mother. "You kids need your sleep. We'll open presents in the morning."
"Why can't we open them now?" I demanded.
'You must wait until your father is here."
"That's not a very good reason," I said.
"Why should we suffer because of what he does? Why let him ruin our holiday?" demanded Doc III.
"I want to open all my gifts," whined Crazy Annie. "This isn't fair."
Of course, Dork kept his big mouth shut. He won't say anything because Mother might get mad at him. He's her little angel.
Little Pete? Forget him. He'd been asleep for at least two hours already.
Mother held firm. I was so angry I marched to my bedroom, slammed shut the door, and got you out. I mean, what did Mother want? That Dad wouldn't be drunk just because it's Christmas Eve? Even an eleven-year-old kid knows better than that. Dad's going to do what Dad's always done. Why can't--
· * * * * *
I must've fallen asleep but I woke up because I heard the Oldsmobile's engine running. It sounded like a marble factory. How long had I been asleep?
I got out of bed and pulled aside a window shade. Sure enough, Dad parked the car at such an odd angle that its headlights, which he didn't turn off either, didn't light up the garage door. Of course, I knew. He drove home, drunk.
Mother must've waited up for him. "You're drunk," I heard her yell.
"Yesh I am," returned the drunk. "After all, itch Shrishmas Eve."
"God, please tell Mother to let him sleep it off," I prayed. But I suspected God wasn't going to interfere. He was too busy.
"Night after night after night after night," she continued. A little while later, she screamed again. "The kids stayed up until ten O'clock. I can smell it on your breath."
"And you're a God damned naggin' greash baw bitch. Thash wha' you are, nag, nag, nag."
"And you're a drunken bastard and no good son of a bitch as a husband and a father. You don't give a damn about anyone but yourself."
The noise that followed sounded like an unsettled ghost or an angry Irish Banshee. Something, I don't know who or what, wailed as Mother ran to the kitchen. Dad sprawled after her. The whole house shook.
Crazy Annie called out, "Gordy." She opened her bedroom door. "Gordy, tell me a story, puh-leaze."
I also heard Little Pete in his and Annie's room, plus both my older brothers, whose bedroom is above mine, crying. Even Doc III. Sixteen-year-old Doc III was crying. G. B. Hoffman was not going to cry. No way.
Mother shrieked. It was at that moment I figured Dad must've grabbed her by the hair and yanked her out of the kitchen like a caveman. He dragged her into the dining room and kept punching her with his fist. How do I know that?
I opened my door and instantly thought I'd peed on an electric fence—for the second time in my life. The sight. It was horrible. Blood. Liquid red. Everywhere. Mother's blood. It soaked the front of her nightgown. Drenched it. And covered her face as if she were wearing a mask. There was an empty hole between her top front teeth where earlier in the evening there was a tooth. He had knocked out Mother's tooth. There was a gash on her forehead. As she howled in pain, blood flew out her mouth.
"This time," I thought, "he's going to kill her."
As I stood in the doorway adjacent to the dining room, I took a deep breath: "You drunken son of a bitch. You dirty bastard. You'd better not kill my mother. Or I'll kill you."
Dad stopped yelling and slugging Mother. He just stood there, mouth open, staring at me. Not saying a word. Speechless. Now, it was Dad who looked as if he had peed on an electric fence.
'You drunken son of a bitch," I screamed again, "I hate you. Why don't we leave him, Mother? Why don't we? I hate him more than anybody else in this whole world."
"Gordy," said Mother, "it's all right. You can go to your bedroom. We won't fight anymore. It's over with. Your father won't hit me."
"Are you sure?"
"I'm sure."
I jerked around, returned to my room, and eventually wrote in you. I could hear Dad bawl like a baby, and Mother telling him, "It's all right, Jim. He didn't mean it."
If she was talking about me, Diary, Mother was wrong. Dead wrong. I meant every word. At least, we'd be able to sleep at night and not have to worry about being struck with a belt buckle because all we were doing was having fun, playing, while he was nursing his morning-after hangover. We'd have peace and quiet without him. That's for certain. Maybe I'd stop wetting the bed. Who knows?
I'm very tired, Diary. I'm going to quit writing in you and try to go back to sleep. At least, I hope I can sleep.
Happy birthday, Jesus. Hope you got some nice presents.
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