"Thring, thring, thring." Crazy Man sharpens a knife and turns up the phonograph's volume so neighbors can't hear him and Mother. That's a joke. You can hear them a city block away. Some soprano sings in Italian. I want to sleep, that is, until Crazy Man screams he's going to kill. I'm wide awake.
"Thring, thring, thring." Even Doc III cries. He and Dork's bedroom is in what used to be the attic that Uncle John, Doc III, and Dork remodeled. It's the first time I hear Doc III cry. Dork's crying, too. Crazy Annie is bawling, Little Pete, blubbering. I'm scared.
"Thring, thriing, thring." A chorus sings mightily in Italian. I don't understand a word. They don't argue every night. But just about. This is the worst. Ever. Crazy Man's on the rampage. He's going to kill.
"Thring, thring, thring." Mother's in the locked bathroom. She sounds as if she's in my room because the bathroom has a bedroom on either side. Mine is one. Crazy Annie and Little Pete's is the other.
"Thring, thring, thring." "I'm going to cut out your heart and chop the rest of you into pieces and feed you to the carp." The orchestra's drums make thunder. Crazy Man stands alongside the Elks Club, tossing into the Wisconsin River Mother's thighs, looking like ham roasts with a bone in the center. We're next. Carp wait. They want Hoffman flesh instead of poop from drain pipes.
"Thring, thring, thring." I can't see him but hear him, sharpening. He's probably on his parlor chair, honing a butcher knife on a sword-like sharpener. Violins accompany a soprano. If he's going to murder Mother, we're next. I make the sign of the cross: "Please God, don't let him kill me and make me carp food. Hail Mary, full of—"
"Thring, thring, thring." And then nothing. Only the opera. Did he pass out? He has in the past. I make the sign of the cross. "Please, let him pass out."
"Kaboom, kaboom, kaboom." Oh my God. Crazy Man pounds, pounds, pounds the floor. The house shakes. The phonograph squawks as the needle jumps. He stops. Music starts. A tenor sings.
"A-heh, a-heh, a-heh." I can hear him wheeze on the other side of my door. I slither under the bed, or else he might find me. He'll find me anyway under the bed. The closet, too. "I'm going kill you," he screams. The choir sings what they sang before. I've got to pee but hold my pecker so I can't.
"Go ahead," Mother yells back, "I have nothing to live for, anyway."
"Where's the axe?"
"That's my Boy Scout hatchet." It's Doc III. He's sixteen years old and owns his own car. "It's my hatchet I paid for with my own money, and you can't use it."
"The hell I can't," Crazy Man screams. "I'm the master of this house. And I'm going to kill that Grease ball bitch. Where is it?"
"I'm not afraid of a drunken bastard."
Oh, oh. Doc III's in for it.
"What'd you just call me?"
"Drunken bastard."
Right now, I'm glad Doc III is my brother. I don't often feel this way.
"Kaboom, kaboom, kaboom." Crazy Man runs. The house shakes. The phonograph squawks. He opens the kitchen door. I'm sure it's the kitchen door. It's just orchestra music now. No words. "Bumble, bumble, bumble." Crazy Man pounds down the stairs into the basement. Then, nothing. "Bumble, bumble, bumble." Up the stairs, he slams the kitchen door. Ka-rack. "I found it," Crazy Man screams. "I have your axe."
Jesus Christ Almighty, he has Doc III's Boy Scout hatchet and he's going to kill us with it.
"Ka-rack, ka-rack, ka-rack." Mother's screams accompany hatchet strikes. A baritone sings. Drums sound. "Ka-rack, ka-rack, ka-rack."
"Stop it, or else." It's Doc III. He sounds as if he's in my room. Quickly, I pull myself from under the bed. Forehead hits springs and hurts. I don't care and open door. Doc III glares at Crazy Man who glares at Doc III. Annie opens door. She screams, sees what I see: Splinters and huge holes in bathroom door, Crazy Man holding hatchet. Dork stands behind Doc III.
"Or else what?" screams Crazy Man.
"If you even touch her, I'll kill you," snarls Doc III, holding a golf club as if it were a baseball bat.
"Did you hear that? Everyone?" Crazy Man's eyes are flaming and huge, his face crimson and blue. "Did you hear my first born?"
"Yes," screams Annie. "Don't you kill our mother." She cries even harder.
"Your oldest brother," yells Crazy Man. "Did you hear him? He's going to kill me."
"Only if you kill Mother," I yell. "Only if you kill her."
"Dad?"
"Who said that?"
"I did," said Dork. "I think you ought to go to bed and sleep it off. You're drunk, Dad."
Crazy Man starts bawling. "You, too?" Hatchet falls to the floor. Crazy Man leaves. He goes to his and Mother's bedroom. Dork saves us. Must I now call him Bill or William? He doesn't like William. I'll call him that. Mother in night dress wipes away tears and looks at me and shudders. "Gordon, you're bleeding. Let me wash it off," she sobs.
"I'll wash it. Besides, I have to pee."
She nods and limps to the kitchen. The others follow. Opera music continues. New 33 1/3 rpm records play forever. Not like 78's. A soprano and tenor sing together. I pee. Then, I wash tiny wound with cold water and dry it. Finally, I attach small piece of toilet paper. I watch me in the mirror. I’m crying. I go to the kitchen. "Go to your bedrooms," says Mother. "You kids need your sleep." The whites of her eyes are red.
"I'll shut off the record player," says Doc III.
"Don't do that," says Mother. "Turn the volume down, but let it play to the end. Your father might wake up if you turn it off suddenly. You kids need sleep. I'll be okay. I'll sleep on the couch."
We return to our rooms. Slowly. I shut the door. Maybe he'll wake up and kill her yet. But he doesn't. I make the sign of the cross. "Thank you, God." The music stops. I sleep. I dream I'm lying in a coffin, and Crazy Man is laughing.
"Thring, thring, thring." Even Doc III cries. He and Dork's bedroom is in what used to be the attic that Uncle John, Doc III, and Dork remodeled. It's the first time I hear Doc III cry. Dork's crying, too. Crazy Annie is bawling, Little Pete, blubbering. I'm scared.
"Thring, thriing, thring." A chorus sings mightily in Italian. I don't understand a word. They don't argue every night. But just about. This is the worst. Ever. Crazy Man's on the rampage. He's going to kill.
"Thring, thring, thring." Mother's in the locked bathroom. She sounds as if she's in my room because the bathroom has a bedroom on either side. Mine is one. Crazy Annie and Little Pete's is the other.
"Thring, thring, thring." "I'm going to cut out your heart and chop the rest of you into pieces and feed you to the carp." The orchestra's drums make thunder. Crazy Man stands alongside the Elks Club, tossing into the Wisconsin River Mother's thighs, looking like ham roasts with a bone in the center. We're next. Carp wait. They want Hoffman flesh instead of poop from drain pipes.
"Thring, thring, thring." I can't see him but hear him, sharpening. He's probably on his parlor chair, honing a butcher knife on a sword-like sharpener. Violins accompany a soprano. If he's going to murder Mother, we're next. I make the sign of the cross: "Please God, don't let him kill me and make me carp food. Hail Mary, full of—"
"Thring, thring, thring." And then nothing. Only the opera. Did he pass out? He has in the past. I make the sign of the cross. "Please, let him pass out."
"Kaboom, kaboom, kaboom." Oh my God. Crazy Man pounds, pounds, pounds the floor. The house shakes. The phonograph squawks as the needle jumps. He stops. Music starts. A tenor sings.
"A-heh, a-heh, a-heh." I can hear him wheeze on the other side of my door. I slither under the bed, or else he might find me. He'll find me anyway under the bed. The closet, too. "I'm going kill you," he screams. The choir sings what they sang before. I've got to pee but hold my pecker so I can't.
"Go ahead," Mother yells back, "I have nothing to live for, anyway."
"Where's the axe?"
"That's my Boy Scout hatchet." It's Doc III. He's sixteen years old and owns his own car. "It's my hatchet I paid for with my own money, and you can't use it."
"The hell I can't," Crazy Man screams. "I'm the master of this house. And I'm going to kill that Grease ball bitch. Where is it?"
"I'm not afraid of a drunken bastard."
Oh, oh. Doc III's in for it.
"What'd you just call me?"
"Drunken bastard."
Right now, I'm glad Doc III is my brother. I don't often feel this way.
"Kaboom, kaboom, kaboom." Crazy Man runs. The house shakes. The phonograph squawks. He opens the kitchen door. I'm sure it's the kitchen door. It's just orchestra music now. No words. "Bumble, bumble, bumble." Crazy Man pounds down the stairs into the basement. Then, nothing. "Bumble, bumble, bumble." Up the stairs, he slams the kitchen door. Ka-rack. "I found it," Crazy Man screams. "I have your axe."
Jesus Christ Almighty, he has Doc III's Boy Scout hatchet and he's going to kill us with it.
"Ka-rack, ka-rack, ka-rack." Mother's screams accompany hatchet strikes. A baritone sings. Drums sound. "Ka-rack, ka-rack, ka-rack."
"Stop it, or else." It's Doc III. He sounds as if he's in my room. Quickly, I pull myself from under the bed. Forehead hits springs and hurts. I don't care and open door. Doc III glares at Crazy Man who glares at Doc III. Annie opens door. She screams, sees what I see: Splinters and huge holes in bathroom door, Crazy Man holding hatchet. Dork stands behind Doc III.
"Or else what?" screams Crazy Man.
"If you even touch her, I'll kill you," snarls Doc III, holding a golf club as if it were a baseball bat.
"Did you hear that? Everyone?" Crazy Man's eyes are flaming and huge, his face crimson and blue. "Did you hear my first born?"
"Yes," screams Annie. "Don't you kill our mother." She cries even harder.
"Your oldest brother," yells Crazy Man. "Did you hear him? He's going to kill me."
"Only if you kill Mother," I yell. "Only if you kill her."
"Dad?"
"Who said that?"
"I did," said Dork. "I think you ought to go to bed and sleep it off. You're drunk, Dad."
Crazy Man starts bawling. "You, too?" Hatchet falls to the floor. Crazy Man leaves. He goes to his and Mother's bedroom. Dork saves us. Must I now call him Bill or William? He doesn't like William. I'll call him that. Mother in night dress wipes away tears and looks at me and shudders. "Gordon, you're bleeding. Let me wash it off," she sobs.
"I'll wash it. Besides, I have to pee."
She nods and limps to the kitchen. The others follow. Opera music continues. New 33 1/3 rpm records play forever. Not like 78's. A soprano and tenor sing together. I pee. Then, I wash tiny wound with cold water and dry it. Finally, I attach small piece of toilet paper. I watch me in the mirror. I’m crying. I go to the kitchen. "Go to your bedrooms," says Mother. "You kids need your sleep." The whites of her eyes are red.
"I'll shut off the record player," says Doc III.
"Don't do that," says Mother. "Turn the volume down, but let it play to the end. Your father might wake up if you turn it off suddenly. You kids need sleep. I'll be okay. I'll sleep on the couch."
We return to our rooms. Slowly. I shut the door. Maybe he'll wake up and kill her yet. But he doesn't. I make the sign of the cross. "Thank you, God." The music stops. I sleep. I dream I'm lying in a coffin, and Crazy Man is laughing.