I couldn’t remember a time in my life when there wasn’t a heavy air of tension in our home. As a kid, I thought of it more as fear. I lived in fear of my father’s temper. Now that I was older, I felt the tension. The cord that was my father’s anger like a rope that is pulled tightly at both ends. All I could do was wait on one end to snap free. It was never the normal things that set him off. It was the things that were everyday life. For example, if my mother made something for dinner he didn’t like, or forgot to buy milk at the grocery store, or spilled something in the kitchen, he unleashed in words and often actions.

  I’d seen him throw a coffee cup against the wall right beside my mother’s head when he didn’t have his favorite brand of coffee in the pantry. Nothing about the man was sane. Even after he broke her arm for forgetting to pick up his dry cleaning, she made excuses for his behavior.

  I could smell dinner as I dropped my backpack at the bottom of the stairs before heading toward the kitchen. It wasn’t often that my mother cooked dinner. Rarely did my father eat what she did cook if she made the effort. The fact she was cooking concerned me. No one was speaking, which didn’t necessarily mean my father wasn’t in there. He found power by sitting in silence, making us feel uncomfortable. I didn’t care if the bastard ignored me or not. As long as he didn’t touch my mother.

  As I stepped into the kitchen, my mother’s back was turned while she worked over whatever she had decided to attempt to make. The large antique table was set for three. Another unexpected effort. Mom and I would usually order takeout or I’d make grilled cheese sandwiches.

  Thankfully, she was alone. I let out a breath I hadn’t even realized I’d been holding. It was a habit. Preparing to face the man and whatever mood he was in.

  “Smells good,” I said, and my mother spun around to face me. Her smile was instant when her eyes met mine.

  “It’s something new I’m trying,” she replied. “How was your day?”

  Having Mom cook dinner was a treat, and seeing her smile was also a nice thing to come home to, but letting my guard down was a bad idea. “It was a Monday,” I replied, then asked, “Are you sure your efforts will be approved?” I didn’t mask my sarcasm. She knew this was a bad idea.

  Her smile faltered some; she understood what I was asking easily enough. She knew trying something new wasn’t safe with the psycho she was married to. Her smile was forced now and less sincere. “It’s just shrimp jambalaya with a new twist. I think both of you will love it,” she said, but what she meant was that my father loved jambalaya and this would go over well with him. When I was younger, she’d cook a lot in an effort to impress the bastard. Years of him cursing her and throwing away the food that she prepared had led to her not cooking and him not coming home until late. Our home was not one where the family sat around the table and enjoyed each other.

  “I know I will,” I told her when she seemed unsure of herself. That seemed to please her. My mother had loved to cook for me when I was younger. She had once told me it was her way of showing her love. My father had used that as one more way to attack her. He’d taken her ability to buy groceries to cook meals by limiting her weekly grocery bill. Then he’d stopped coming home for dinner. It was just one more way he chose to hurt her. As a kid, I couldn’t understand why he would say mean things to her. With age, I realized he was a sick bastard that got his kicks out of causing pain behind closed doors while appearing like the perfect family man to the rest of the world.

  “Tell me about school,” she urged, changing the subject.

  I walked to the fridge to get a soda and stopped to kiss her temple on my way. This was another thing I’d always done. Given her affection to replace the lack of it she received from my father. If I left, who would do this? Who would reassure her, take care of her, make sure she was okay?

  “Boring. Same ole sh—” I stopped before finishing that sentence. Her scowl of disapproval was already in place. I smiled sheepishly, and she shook her head before going back to stirring the pot on the stove. “It’ll be over soon enough anyway.”

  Mom placed the spoon on the ceramic spoon rest I’d painted for her in the third grade and given to her on Mother’s Day. It had been used very little over the years, since she rarely cooked. I watched her walk over to the cabinet to take out a glass, then hold it out to me. She hated for me to drink out of the can. She was convinced it was unhealthy. As if there was anything healthy about a soda anyway.

  I took the glass from her and poured the dark liquid into it.

  “When are you signing with a college?” she asked in a chipper tone.

  I didn’t look at her. I couldn’t. This wasn’t something I’d talked to her about. I assumed she knew. That she understood I couldn’t leave her here. How could she want me to leave her here?

  “Not sure,” I replied, not ready to have this conversation with her.

  “Ole Miss. It’s the best option. You have a better chance of standing out. You’re sure.” My father’s voice filled the room as he entered it and left no room for debate or conversation. He was final. What he didn’t realize was that I no longer gave a shit what he said, demanded, or wanted. I wasn’t a scared little boy trying to fight the monster by myself. I was a grown-ass man, and he was the reason I’d grown up so damn quickly.

  “She was asking me,” I said, lifting my gaze from my glass to meet his eyes.

  “And I answered for you,” he replied with a warning in his icy-cold blue gaze. Eyes I hated I’d inherited from him.

  “I don’t need you to speak for me,” I shot back. The blaze in his glare was familiar. This time I’d put it there on purpose. If I continued to back down from him, he would believe he was all-powerful in this house. That he could do whatever he wanted and get away with it. I was done trying to keep him calm.

  He walked across the room and stopped in front of me. Standing toe-to-toe, he didn’t seem at all concerned with the fact I stood two inches taller and my shoulders made his once-impressive ones appear thin. “I won’t tolerate back talk, boy. You’ll sit your ass down and shut the fuck up.” His voice was raised just enough to get his point across.

  “No thanks… Dad,” I said without any fear. The anger boiling inside me had been building for years. I had contained it out of fear—until the fear had slowly faded as the hate began to overtake any other emotion.

  His hand slammed my chest with what I was sure he meant to be forceful, and on a smaller man it would have sent him back a few inches. I didn’t budge. I conveyed my own warning while glaring at him.

  “Asa, sit,” my mother said with the waver of fear in her tone that I knew so well. I didn’t want to scare her, but it was time he knew I wasn’t going to let him hurt her or me. His days of abuse were done.

  He turned and as his hand shot out in my mother’s direction, I moved quickly. This ended now. Today. My hand clamped down on his arm and stopped it with very little effort. “Don’t touch her,” I warned him.

  His eyes shot back to me. Disbelief, fury, and the unbalanced crazy that stirred under the surface all shined in his gaze. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing, boy?” he roared this time. No attempt to control his voice level.

  I tightened my hold on him, and for a brief moment I saw a glimpse of uncertainty in his eyes before the insanity took back over. “You aren’t touching my momma,” I told him.

  “And you fucking think you are big enough to tell me what to do now? That you’re all grown up now and can handle a man?” He laughed then and tried to pull free of my hold, but I proved my point and held him without release.

  “Yeah, I reckon I do.” I was taunting him, but that wasn’t what this was about. I wasn’t out to get revenge. I was out to change this psycho my mother wouldn’t leave. If she was determined to stay with him, then I was going to have to make sure he left her alone.

  His laughter was gone, and an enraged snarl was on his face as he tried again to free his arm. Using his body, he moved toward me and I quickly reached out to grab his other arm. He fought against me and made a growl as he tried with more strength than I expected to get free of my control.

  “You will regret this,” he said in a twisted voice.

  “I only regret waiting so long,” I replied calmly.

  “Asa, please,” my mother begged as her hand touched my back. I felt her slight tremble and I hated upsetting her. She’d had enough distress in her life. I didn’t want to be the cause for more upset.

  “Shut up, bitch, and stop stinking up the house with that shit you’re trying to cook,” my father roared at her.

  I had been going to let him go and deal with his reaction. I had started to tell myself that for my mother I had to ease the situation I had incited. Until he had called her a bitch. A switch inside me that I didn’t know existed flipped. My blood pounded in my ears as I stared at the man in front of me. He cursed again, and I knew my hands were tightening on his arms in a vise meant to cause pain. I wanted him to hurt. I wanted his mouth shut. I didn’t want to hear him speak. I didn’t want him to be free to touch my mother. He didn’t deserve her.

  “Fuck!” he yelled as my hands squeezed him hard enough that my own knuckles felt numb.

  The smolder inside me erupted into a blast, and my father was flying backward as a loud, deep sound came from my chest. I heard my mother’s voice and she was crying, but I couldn’t focus on that. The man I’d just tossed onto his back was getting up, and I had to stop him.

  He sat up and was scrambling to stand. I saw his hatred and anger with a healthy dose of fear in his eyes before my fist slammed into his face, sending him back again. This time his head bounced off the hardwood floor several times before he went still. Unmoving.

  The roar in my ears had been deafening, but now it slowly faded as my mother’s crying registered. She rushed past me and dropped to her knees beside his unresponsive body. Her hand went to his neck. She was checking for a pulse. She feared I’d killed him. I’d just hit him. He wasn’t dead. I hadn’t meant to knock him unconscious… had I?

  She had to know I was defending her and not trying to kill my father. I ran my hand over my head and stood there staring at him, thinking he’d move any second. He had to move. As much as he deserved all the pain he’d caused turned back on him, he didn’t need to die. At least not at my hand. Jesus, he was my father.

  “Get away from him. He’ll hurt you when he comes to,” I warned her, making my way toward her.

  She held up a hand at me. “NO! Stay back. Don’t come near him. You’ve done enough,” she yelled at me as if I were the monster. Me. Her son. I’d just stopped the real monster. The man who had beaten her all of her married life, and she was acting like I was the one in the wrong? What was wrong with her? Why was she like this?

  “Momma,” I began as my anger began to transform into pain.

  Tears streaked her face. “I raised you better. I taught you to be a good man. This is not the boy I raised. I didn’t want you to be like him. I wanted you to be good. I raised you better. Go, just go,” she said as she affectionately placed a hand on my father’s head to brush his hair back out of his face.

  She was blaming me. She was acting like I’d become my father when all I had been trying to do was stop the bullshit we’d both lived with too long. I’d done this for her… and I’d done it for me. I wanted the freedom to leave. If she was determined to stay with him, then I needed him to fear me. It was the only thing I could think of to protect her from him.

  “How can you defend him?” I asked almost in a whisper. My voice was failing me. My chest felt like it had taken a hard blow.

  “He is your father.” She said those four words like it made all of the hell we’d endured from him okay. The life he’d given me, given both of us, was nothing to be thankful for. He’d been my childhood nightmare. I owed that man nothing.

  “No, he’s never been a father,” I replied.

  She lifted her eyes to look at me, and they were full of unshed tears. “He’s not always… cruel. He has been good, too. He loves you.”

  I shook my head. “No, Momma. That man loves no one. Except himself. It’s time you accept that. How can I leave you here alone with him in the fall?”

  She frowned at me as if I should know the answer to my question. “I love him.”

  Those words hurt me as much as they confused the hell out of me. How could she love him? How did a woman love a man who had not only beaten her but had hit her kid? I couldn’t stand here and talk to her about it. I was tired of trying to get her to see the truth.

  I had no more words. I turned from the scene in front of me and walked toward the door. I needed space from this. I’d spent my life worrying over my mother. I used to go to sleep at night praying that my father would be good. That he’d stop hurting us. That he would be nice to my mother. Then those prayers had become that he wouldn’t come home. That he’d just go away.

  Those prayers were never answered.

  I knew now they never would be.

  I Wasn’t Expecting an Audience CHAPTER 4

  EZMITA

  “Sit down, Manuel, and eat your pozole,” I ordered him, more annoyed with my mother than my little brother.

  I had tried twice this afternoon to talk about college, and she acted as if I’d said nothing at all. Both times she had sent me to take care of my younger siblings. If I didn’t do something drastic, I was going to be stuck in this small town the rest of my life, working behind the counter of the store. Giving people coffee and cinnamon rolls. The idea made me cringe.

  “I don’t want pozole! I want crunch crunch!” Manuel demanded with his small fist hitting the table to enforce his words. “Crunch crunch” was what he called Cap’n Crunch cereal. He wanted to eat it three times a day. It was all he ever wanted to eat.

  “You can’t eat sugar all day,” I reminded him for the millionth time.

  “Crunch crunch!” he yelled, a little braver than I would have been.

  “Silence!” my father demanded in his firm, hard, no-nonsense tone.

  Everyone immediately went silent, although I could see Manuel thinking about how badly he wanted to push for his cereal. I hoped he wasn’t thinking of continuing to push this.

  “I love the pozole, Papa,” Teresa said in her best kiss-ass tone. I turned my head away before rolling my eyes. My parents had no idea the future drama they were going to face with Teresa. She was already sneaky. I had caught her twice sneaking out to see a boy. Both times I’d covered for her but warned her if she didn’t stop, I’d tell in order to save my ass.

  Manuel crossed his arms over his small chest and scowled at the plate of food in front of him. Papa would ignore his reaction as long as he didn’t yell or demand anything else. This was a regular evening-meal routine.

  It was loud during our meals. Everyone talked, and the language was English and Spanish. My family’s voices filled the small kitchen as the others fixed their plates and found a spot around the rectangular table my father had built twenty years ago. My sisters were arguing over who was better-looking on some show about teens in North Carolina; my brothers were arguing over who got the seat closest to the living room, in hopes of catching a glimpse of the television. My mother was telling my sisters to stop watching television at night and read books.

  I remained silent and waited until everyone was seated with their food. My mother then nodded her head at my father. He cleared his throat, then said the blessing over the food. Once he finished, voices began talking again. All at once, loudly and with passion. This house was never quiet.

  I wasn’t interested in my sisters’ newest conversation about TikToks they had seen today or my brothers’ argument over who had the highest score in their video game. My complete focus was on my parents. My father mostly. I was giving up on my mother for now. She had made it clear she wasn’t going to talk about my moving away for college.

  “I was accepted to Loyola Marymount and they’ve offered me a scholarship,” I blurted out. I was directing this at my father. That didn’t matter, though, because the entire room went silent. The words that had come out of my mouth affected every sibling I had. One day they, too, would be faced with trying to get the hell out of here. The girls knew this even if my brothers didn’t understand how important this was to them yet.

  I could feel everyone looking at me. The small gasp from Teresa was one of hope and fear for me. I didn’t have to look back at her to know that. She wanted out as badly as I did. I didn’t meet any of their gazes. Especially Momma’s. I kept my focus on Papa and waited.

  He lowered his fork to the table as he studied me a moment. One thing I knew was that he wouldn’t ignore me. He’d address this and we’d talk about it. That was more than my momma had been willing to do.

  “That’s in California,” he said as if that was his answer. The simple fact that Loyola wasn’t in Alabama and close enough that I could live at home was all they could see. But it was a free Catholic school education.

  “Yes. The scholarship is for business administration. It covers lodging, too,” I continued as if he wasn’t about to tell me no.

  “What about UNA? Did they not accept you?” he asked before taking a bite of his food. The silence remained. No one, not even Manuel, was speaking. I wasn’t sure if they were even breathing.

  The University of North Alabama was where my parents expected all of us to go. There or to the local junior college. I hadn’t applied to UNA because I didn’t want to be accepted. I wanted to move away.

  “I didn’t apply.” I said the words with more confidence than I felt. The little girl inside of me wanted to hide under the table.

  My father’s brows drew together sharply as he stared at me. “You didn’t apply to UNA?”

  “No sir,” I replied, and I could hear the few sharp intakes of breath in the room. It was as if I was telling my father I was pregnant and running away from home with a guy from a motorcycle gang. The ridiculous way they were all reacting to this made my situation even more hopeless. Even my four-year-old brother knew the idea of me going off to college was a pipe dream. He just didn’t know how important it would be for him one day when it was his turn to go to college. I needed to fight for all of us.