Father Knows Best

9

                                                      Father Knows Best

     The driver wouldn't stop. "Marital squabble.", he said as he slowed for the light, and "You're a fool, pal.", as I tossed him some cash and jumped out. I hesitated only at the first scream. Her arms were waving like an insect. There was blood all over the street that her feet kept sliding in as she struggled to stay on her feet as he hit and kicked her. I immobilized him with a chop to the neck. I wrapped my arms around him and took him down. I looked up at her leaning against a wall. The terrified glaze on her face was transforming slowly as she wiped the blood out of her eyes. Focusing, she put her hands to head and dislodged a few patches of hair that drifted to the gutter. Her eyes caught mine and the awakening relief growing on her face warped into vengeful rage. She leaped towards us. Her nails raked into my face. I released the man and pushed myself up. He but into my ankle and brought me back down. They unleashed themselves on me kicking and pounding and screaming.
     I threw my arms over my head and howled. They let up enough for me to reach into my pocket and toss my wallet at them. My nose and ear were bleeding profusely. They stood over me emptying my wallet and stuffing the cash into their pockets. I pulled my piece out of my boot, aimed and fired. At the sight of her boyfriend crumpling to the ground, the woman lapsed into a catatonic haze. I stood up painfully, leveled my pistol and fired again. She twitched at my feet as I wiped the blood off my face. I stopped by a stone fountain matted with overgrown ivy to wash my hands and clothes.
     My youngest boy found fault in the story at this point. He asked me how I could have removed the blood stains from my clothes in a fountain. I explained that the water was cold and clear and that the blood had not had a chance to set. His younger brother had dozed off and my daughter started to complain about the lice in her hair. She didn't understand why they had to stay here so long. They had learned enough, hadn't they? They were sick of the lice and the rats and the roaches.
     She was right. They had accustomed themselves to a shared toilet, moaning and screaming all night long, foul smells. They had started altercations and won they, tested most of the drugs that were prevalent in the neighborhood. They had picked up the vernacular and become accomplished pickpockets. But they had not experienced a death, seen someone die, which of course was the whole point of my story that night and those of the last few nights.
     My daughter assured me that she realized what I was saying and that all three of the had been making a conscious effort to participate in a death. The chance had not arisen and they were getting bored. Why couldn't they learn on a video game like other children? There were movies and graphic novels and youtube to teach them how to kill. How long did this have to go on suffering? Could tell them how much longer this lesson was to continue?
     For the first time in their education I realized that it was best to relive them of uncertainty, to give them a break. I told them that this was to be their last lesson in this environment. Their small faces beamed and they fell into a relieved chatter. Soon they grew tired and settled into a peaceful sleep that even the parasites could not disturb.
     The next morning they left the filthy apartment while it was still dark. I was both somewhat apprehensive of their safety and excited by their determination. Dressed in rags and covered with so much dirt they would be safe wandering the streets before dawn, I nevertheless wanted watch over them, and I wanted to watch them. I followed them a dozen blocks into the worst part of the slum until they stopped at a narrow alley. After a huddled conference, they each drew a knife, flipped open the blade and disappeared into the shadows. They were gone for several minutes. Not a sound trickled out of the darkness. I became anxious. I pulled out a small pair of thermal binoculars. The cold light was scattered with figures, unconscious drunks, fenital victims, heroin addicts. I watched my children wander from one to another, stand momentarily over each body before bending down and slitting its throat.
     I lowered the glasses and smiled to myself. They had done well, exceptionally well. Their education in the ghetto had proved more fruitful than I'd hoped. They deserved something special. Maybe a vacation. I turned and walked quickly back to the apartment. We would go somewhere warm and cheerful, to Hawaii maybe, or Tahiti.

For Tom