Hitting Louie

I, Louie, brave hearted and six years old, stand barefoot on the linoleum floor in the kitchen and watch father hit mama in the face so hard that her cheeks turn a different color and her head spins sharply on her shoulders and she cannot hold back her tears.

“James, don’t,” she begs him, “Please don’t do this, James.”

“Shut the fuck up,” father says.

It makes no sense to me. Father pushes mother into the table. Hard. He is screaming and saying filthy words. Father has hit Louie of course, but Louie is a child needing punishment. Father had told Louie Louie had done wrong. He hit Louie and made Louie bleed: nose bleed, lips bleed. I talk funny when my mouth is puffy and sore. Mother puts ice on my lips. Cold ice, warm blood. But Louie has never seen papa hitting mama.

“Please Papa, don’t hit mama. Louie will be good,” I say to him.

“Damn right you’ll be good. You’ll be damn good.”

I’m not a superhero. Really. I just make believe. I am really a little boy who likes safe. Not boring, just safe. I don’t know much. I just know I can’t just stand here and watch papa hit mama. Mama is on the floor. Papa stands over her like a prizefighter. I pick up the big black scissors on the table. Father’s back is to me. I hold the scissors like a dagger. I raise my right arm and charge at him. I plunge the scissors down into his back, near his shoulder and neck, with the greatest force I am able.

“What the fuck,” he says.

He stands up and turns around to look at me. “You fucking little maggot,” he says. He puts his hand to his neck. The blood is spurting out forcefully. “You little maggot, prick,” he says. The color starts to change and lighten in his face. He takes a step towards me. He totters and then falls over backwards, directly onto the scissors.

Mother gets up. “Call the ambulance, Louie,” she says in a calm voice. “Call 911. Immediately. Tell them our address. Tell them a man is badly injured and bleeding and to send an ambulance right away.”

I get the phone off the wall and do what mother has told me to do as she goes quickly over to the sink, gets a dishtowel, and goes over to Papa. His breathing is shallow and the anger has left his face. Mother says, “You’ll be okay, James,” and presses the towel into his neck. Papa is just looking at the ceiling. Mother pushes on James’ left shoulder. She is straining and pushing with all her might as James’ body rolls over and mama pulls the scissors out. There is blood now everywhere. On mama, on papa, on the floor.

“Take the scissors and put them in the sink, Louie,” she says. “Wash them good. Put them in the dish drain. Wash your hands. Go to your room. Take all your clothes off and throw them in the hamper. Change clothes. Come back out here. Sit on the couch in the living room and do not say anything. You hear me? Not one word. Not ever. To anyone. Ever. Now go.” She smiles. She makes a kiss with her lips. “Now go boy, do it.”

And Louie does what he is told. I wash the scissors. I put them is the drain. I go to my room.. I hear the sirens. I put my clothes in the hamper. I walk back into the living room and sit on the coach. Mother gets up and walks to the sink. Papa’s eyes are closed. I see her take a clean towel, wipe the scissors dry, and put them in their drawer. The ambulance people arrive. They knock on the door and mama lets them in.

“What happened here.” they asked.

“My husband is badly injured and needs medical attention,” mama says.

The ambulance people look at Papa. One of them goes back out the door to the ambulance. The other one puts a needle into Papa. Then there is a tube running from a bottle into him. They cover papa’s mouth with a mask. They make phone calls on walkie-talkies. They put papa on a stretcher. More people arrive. Some are in suits. Some are in police uniforms. It is like on television. Mama is sitting on the couch with me. She is holding my hand.

“What happened here,” a policeman asks.

“I don’t know,” says mama. “I want a lawyer.”

“Ma’am you don’t need a lawyer, at least not yet, you just need to help us understand what happened here.”

Mama just sits there.

“What happened here, son,” the policeman asks me.

I see his uniform, his badge, his gun, his lips moving, the pool of blood on the floor.

“What happened here son, talk to me, I won’t hurt you.”

“Papa was hitting mama,” I say, forgetting what she told me.

“And then what happened boy.” But mama has squeezed my hand, real hard, and I remember not to say anything, to anyone, ever.

“Do we have a collar here Jim?”

“Looks that way. Call forensics, maybe the D.A., and let’s think about taking both the woman and the kid downtown.”

“I don’t want to go downtown,” says mama.

“You don’t really have a choice, ma’am, we’re gonna take you in for formal questioning.”

“I want to talk to a lawyer,” she says.

“You can do that at the station, ma’am, but right now we are taking you and the boy downtown.”

There are now six or ten police in our house, men and women police, police with guns and police with no guns, police with uniforms and police with no uniforms. Some are talking on phones. Some have cameras and are taking pictures. Louie is just sitting on the couch with mama.

“C’mon ma’am, we’ve got to take you downtown, and the boy too. What did you say your name was son?”

I say, “Louie.”

“And how old are you, Louie?” he asks.

But mama is squeezing my hand hard. And Louie knows he is six, but he says nothing. It is hard to say nothing and know I am six.

“How old are you,” he says again.

The police car is kind of cool, although I really want to be with mama. And I’m tired.