The Warmest December by Bernice L. McFadden Read Free Book Online Page B

hopped from foot to foot.
    “I said shut up!” Hy-Lo yelled and finally turned to look at us. His eyes were bloodshot and I suspected that he had consumed more than the one pint of vodka that sat on the table.
    He got up from the table and moved to open the door of the oven to check on the meat he had cooking there. I looked at Malcolm: he had stopped dancing, a dark stain was spreading across the front of his pants, and his eyes were filling with tears, his bottom lip trembling uncontrollably.
    Hy-Lo closed the oven and stared back at us. He saw the wet stain on Malcolm’s pants and began to laugh. He laughed until he coughed and then he wiped at the tears that formed at the corners of his eyes. “Idiots,” he muttered and took a jerky step toward the sink. He turned on the faucet and filled a glass with water. Lifting the glass, he stopped before his lips touched the rim and slowly turned his head toward us and said, “Malcolm, go take off those pissy clothes and go into the drawer and choose the belt you want to be beaten with.” He finished the glass of water in one swallow.
    In the bottom drawer of Hy-Lo’s dresser was a bottle of Old Spice aftershave, a small jewelry box that held his wedding band, a deck of cards, ten pairs of black nylon socks, and three belts that were coiled like sleeping snakes. Two were black and one brown. The width and length of the belts were identical, but still whenever Malcolm and I were sent to the drawer to choose, we agonized over which one would hurt the least.
    Malcolm began to bawl as he stumbled toward the bedroom; his wails filled the tiny apartment and tore at my insides. I did not look after him; my eyes remained ahead of me, on my father.
    “You eyeballing me, Kenzie?” Hy-Lo’s tone was loose, almost jolly.
    “No,” I said loud and clear.
    “No, who?” he asked, raising his eyebrows.
    “No, D-Daddy.” I hated the word; it always seemed to stick to my tongue like peanut butter when I said it.
    “No, sir!” he bellowed and my heart skipped two beats.
    “No, sir,” I said.
    There was a time before Malcolm was born, up until he took his first steps, when I had to refer to Hy-Lo as “sir.” “Daddy” was not used in our home. Hy-Lo was proud of the service he rendered his country during the Vietnam War in the early ’60s. He spent three years in the army, two of which were served in the Philippines.
    During those years, uniformity, discipline, and respect shaped his character while alcohol hacked away at his mind and undid his soul.
    “This is not the army, Hyman,” Delia would say in a soft, chastising tone she usually used on us kids. “You are their father, Hyman, not their sergeant.”
    Delia had won those long-ago conflicts because they were still young and so was his disease.
    “No, sir.” My response was meek. I was putting great effort into hiding the anger that was building within me. I did not want to choose a belt today.
    He mumbled something I could not hear and then dug into the front pocket of his pants. He still wore his blue work uniform pants. He pulled out a wad of bills and shoved it at me. “Count it,” he said and sat back down at the table. He reached for the bottle, but his hand stopped in midair, suddenly remembering it was empty.
    I started to count.
    Malcolm’s sobs kept coming from the bedroom. The agony of waiting for a painful act could drive you mad, and Malcolm sounded like he was on his way there.
    I started over again placing the tens, twenties, and fives in neat little piles on the table as I counted out the four hundred and twenty dollars. It was the same amount every week.
    “Go straight to the bank. Don’t stop. Don’t talk to anyone, and come straight back home.” Hy-Lo spoke slowly, methodically. I blinked twice and then nodded. He stared through me and waited for the proper response.
    “Yes, sir,” I replied as I curled the money tight into the palm of my hand.
    “Don’t come home if you lose it,” he