SLAP

By Tom Leveen

Helene Haley ignored a cramp in her side as she raced through renegade chaparral, poking stubbornly out of cracks in the cement beneath her feet. The cramp bit down with terrible teeth near her kidney, forcing Helene to stop and massage the pain away.

Helene gingerly stroked her cheek to soothe a lingering sting, the memory of her father’s slap constricting her lungs. She choked on a rising sob and forced herself to breathe deeply, hating herself and debating whether to turn toward home or not. She chose to wander down the path instead; her father would be waiting whether she turned back now or spent the entire day away from the house. Even if he were gone when she returned, the respite would be temporary. He was relentless. Thirteen years had taught her that much. He’d wait as long as it took.

Call the police, she thought. Call someone. C’mon, Hell, call anyone . . .

She’d exhausted the option of running away six months ago. Helene had made it as far as Meiko’s house, a mile away, when Mr. Haley had roared up in his piss yellow Corvette and physically dragged her screaming into the vehicle. And when they got home

Helene surveyed her surroundings and realized she was near Roosevelt Park. She plodded toward it; the park offered water fountains and shade, small comforts. Hunky guys played football on a grassy expanse at the east end of the park. Around a picnic table, a birthday party was underway. The playground teemed with children, hysterical on the jungle gym and swings. A family of three spread a quilt down on the grass and began unpacking a basket of food.

Helene’s gut twisted as she watched the family laugh a father, mother, and little boy. Twice the mother bear-hugged the boy, tickling him mercilessly until he squealed for release. After unpacking the basket, the father began tossing a Frisbee back and forth with his son.

Helene imagined joining the family, if only for the afternoon. They could play and laugh. She had done neither for a long time.

Delighted and sickened, Helene turned and began walking home. Her father’s wrath would be epic.

Helene tightened her chokehold on the pillow in her arms, and bit down to prevent a cry of terror and agony as Haley’s weapon snapped against her unprotected skin. She heard the rough leather belt slither snake-like through Haley’s hand as he stood over her. He paused then lashed out one final, brutal blow.

“Now get cleaned up for god’s sake! You’re cooking dinner tonight. And then I want to see your homework, do you hear me?”

Helene nodded, ignoring her bangs tickling her nostrils.

“Good,” Haley barked. “And from now on, you think twice about running out on me when I’m talking to you!”

Helene heard him step out of the room and slam her door. Trembling, she pulled a sheet over her aching body. Autumn dusk beamed through her window, lighting up dust motes and throwing several dark vertical stripes across the floor; Haley had mounted bars outside her window after her attempted runaway.

Helene pulled her legs up against her body in a fetal position, knowing there was nothing to be done now; she could only breathe deeply and try to regulate her heartbeat. The immediate stinging would soon dissipate, leaving heavy purple knots to deal with later. With luck, Haley was done for at least a few weeks, his senseless wrath temporarily sated.

Helene’s thoughts turned to her mother. Anne Haley was a chronic alcohol abuser, and as a result, the court had awarded sole custody to Mr. Haley during the divorce and required Anne Haley to seek treatment for her sickness. Failing that would jeopardize any opportunity to see her daughter again.

A year passed, and Helene heard nothing. No phone calls, no letters. Helene tried to hate her mother, to blame Anne Haley for her own predicament, but the attempt failed. Anne Haley had been still was, presumably a drunk who paid more attention to her liquor than her daughter. Helene guessed it was Mr. Haley who had driven her to it, and the cunning bastard had waited until she was at her depth before announcing a divorce.

“So when’s dinner?” Haley shouted from the living room.

Helene swung her sore legs from beneath the sheet, pulled on a pair of black sweatpants, and stepped unsteadily out of her room. She cooked steak and canned corn for dinner.

After dinner, Helene quickly finished her homework and entered Haley’s home office. Haley fed paper into a shredder: resting on one edge of his desk, thin white strips dropped into a recycling wastebasket.

“You finish your homework?”

“Yes.” Helene handed him several sheets of math.

Haley gave it a cursory glance and shoved the paper back at her. “Good. Get to bed.”

“Okay,” Helene mumbled. She looked down at her feet, preparing to leave then froze. She could see into the recycling wastebasket, filled with white lacy paper. Amid the tangles, some print was yet visible. Helene stared at several strands of overlapping paper on which she could read several typewritten characters:

Lo e alw s, yo moth r, nne

Helene’s head jerked up. Haley wasn’t looking at her yet must have sensed her intrigue; his hand shot out across the desk and grabbed a purple envelope. He crunched the envelope in his fist and tossed it into a waste can.

He wasn’t fast enough. The handwriting on the envelope was unmistakably Anne Haley’s.

Haley scowled. “Well? Get out of here, dammit!”

“You son of a bitch,” Helene whispered. Haley slowly pivoted on his office chair. “Pardon me?”

For the first time in her life, Helene was not cowed. “Why didn’t you tell me?” she demanded, amazed at the edge in her voice, the angry strength building in her limbs. She would accept his beatings without protest, and she would obey his every whim, but she could not stand by and allow him him, this bastard to keep her from her mother.

Haley stood and took one step toward her. Helene instinctively backed away, staring into his chest. Haley put his hands on his hips and glowered down at her.

“What did you say?” he enunciated. The words were a dare; she was sure. He’d heard her perfectly. Go on, Haley said silently; go on and stop me. I kept your mother from you for this long, and I can do it for the rest of your life. Because I hate you both.

Helene screamed and threw a fist toward his face, her knuckles slapping solidly against his mouth. For an instant, Helene could feel his teeth mashing against his lips. Haley’s head cranked right, then spun toward her.

“ . . . Bitch.”

Haley lunged.

Helene’s bravado ended. She squealed and stepped backward, narrowly avoiding his outstretched arms. Helene turned and ran blindly through the house, feeling Haley’s thumping, maddened footsteps behind her.

She turned into the kitchen, searching for escape. The kitchen door led into the garage, so Helene scrambled for it, past the counter where the remnants of their dinner lay in a domestic pile by the sink. Haley bore down on her, an enraged Minotaur, causing the plates to clatter mildly and rattling a butcher knife soaking in an oily frying pan.

Helene grasped the knob in her hand for one moment before Haley crashed into her, expelling her breath in one near-fatal cough. His arms encircled her midsection, her ribs bending beneath his grip. Suddenly she was airborne, slung easily to one side. Helene crashed against the tile countertop. The counter’s edge cracked terribly into her hip, shooting agony down her leg. The grease-stained plates shifted uncomfortably nearby.

Haley spun her around with one hand and forced her head down into the stainless-steel sink. Haley was screaming unintelligibly, punching into her lower back and sides as Helene struggled to maintain consciousness. Haley’s blunt, powerful fist sank repeatedly into her kidneys and spine, causing cold flames to lick the inside of her throat and her feet to lift inches off the tile floor. She heard one of her ribs crack.

Helene went numb to the beating. She twisted her head in the middle of a plea for forgiveness, but her voice was cut off beneath his punishing fists.

Helene’s vision fogged as she focused on the frying pan, and the brown handle of the butcher knife protruding from it. She stretched out an oddly steady hand, pulled the blade out of the pan, and watched its gleaming edge drip thick gobs of grease and water. She wrapped her fingers around the handle, staring at it for an eternity.

In one fatal heartbeat of time between blows, Helene twisted her hips and shot out her right hand like a projectile. There was a moment of sickening resistance before the blade plunged into Haley’s midsection.

Haley froze, one hand upraised in a fist that slowly relaxed. His face still contorted and crimson, screwed into what had been anger clearly registered silent pain. He looked down at the handle protruding from his ribcage and stumbled backward. Helene stood motionless against the counter, watching with horrible clarity as Haley cupped his hands beneath the knife but did not touch it.

“Oh shit,” he stated, and it almost made Helene laugh. It sounded as though he had forgotten to start a load of laundry.

Helene slid along the length of the counter toward the doorway to the living room, abrasions and lumps on her back catching on the counter like sandpaper, watching as Haley collapsed. He stretched out one arm, trying to find purchase against the wall to slow his decent. His head angled down, staring incredulously at the knife. Thick red fluid seeped through his shirt.

At the sight of it, Helene gasped and rushed for the doorway, but fell to the ground with a crash, her legs useless. She pulled herself through the doorway, dragging herself toward her bedroom, away from the dying man. Her legs were dead trunks, less useful than if they had been missing altogether. She slunk into her room, pushed the door shut with one weak hand and fell unconscious. #

A sound crept on sharp-clawed paws into Helene’s consciousness.

“Huhhhhhl . . .”

Helene, prostrate on the floor, forced her eyes open. At this angle, she could see beneath her door. A shadow danced morbidly in the hall.

A scrape. Fingernails against the door.

“Huhhhleee . . .”

Nausea washed through Helene’s torso. The scrape sounded again, scratching at the wooden door.

“Huhleeene . . . ohhh gawwwwd . . .”

Haley’s voice was moist and phlegmy, almost a gurgle. Bloody fingers crept between the door and the carpet. Helene was about a foot away from the fingers, her chin resting on the floor.

The fingers crawled away. A sharp pound on the door made her jump and back away.

“Huhlene . . . honey . . . help me . . .”

The muscles in Helene’s face went slack, and she lurched to her garbage can and vomited, knives of hot iron blistering her throat.

“Huhlene, please I luhve yuh please .”

Helene spat into the can and wiped at her mouth. He was still alive.

The thought burrowed obscenely into her mind. Still alive. You have to help him. Hell, you can’t let him die why didn’t you run out the front door, you could have let him fucking rot . . . !

A wracking sob jerked her attention back to the door. Haley moaned and wept miserably, now choking and gasping between pleas. The redstained fingertips pried helplessly at the bottom of the door.

“Can’t make phone,” Haley burbled in the hall. “Hans unna work. Can’t geddup.”

Helene stared at the door, supporting her weight on quivering arms. Her entire body ached and groaned, her right side bright with searing pain.

“Heleeeeeeeeeene!”

A terrific screech. Helene clamped her hands over her ears. “Stop it!” Helene screamed. “Stop it, stop it, stop it!” She kicked meaninglessly at the doorjamb.

With one final thud against the door, the shadow in the hall ceased its profane dance.

Trembling, Helene released the grip on her skull. Haley’s body, unconscious or otherwise, lay against the door. There was no way out of the room without disturbing him. If he was unconscious, she didn’t want him to wake, and if he was dead, she didn’t want to touch him. She had to get out and call for help. But his corpse

You don’t know he’s dead, Hell.

She blinked blankly, realizing she was effectively trapped.

Even now he’s in control, she thought.

Even now.

Helene gasped as a deeply rooted pain in her lower back took her breath away. Whatever damage Haley had done, it was critical. She swallowed bile and climbed carefully to her feet. The distance to her bedroom door seemed to grow with each step she took toward it. She grasped the knob in a damp hand and pulled the door open.

Haley’s torso fell past the threshold. His eyes open, dry, and dark stared up at Helene. His face had blanched; his hands cramped around the handle of the knife sticking out of his sternum. Black blood congealed around the wound. Helene stared down at the apparition with utter disbelief, unable to break her gaze away from this thing that had once been her father.

Helene stepped forward, her bare foot catching on Haley’s cold, gray arm. She screamed and danced awkwardly away from the body and lurched down the hall into the kitchen, following a trail of blood. Maddened, Helene grabbed a cordless phone from its base and raced outside, clutching the phone to her chest.

The night was beautifully cool, the air sweet and clean. Helene crashed into the soft lawn and dialed the phone with numb fingers.

“Nine-one-one, what is your emergency?”

Helene stared emptily into the street. “I killed my dad,” she said.

“What? Is someone hurt? Hello?”

Helene’s side was a cauldron of ice spikes and fire, the pain bright and alive. She tried to find a comfortable position in which to pass out.

Gray drapes seemed to be dropping over her vision as she heard the operator’s voice asking questions Helene could not answer. The phone, still on, slipped from her hand and she fell back into the grass.

The last thing she heard were sirens.

Mr. and Mrs. David Miller picked up their son Jimmy between them and swung him high in the air. Jimmy, six years old, screamed and laughed.

His parents laughed too. It was a moment Rockwell might have painted.

They set Jimmy down near a picnic table and proceeded to unpack lunch as Jimmy rushed off, giggling hysterically. Helene Miller watched him go with an envious grin.

“He’s a good boy, right, Dave?”

“Oh yeah. He’s the best.” David kissed her on the cheek. “Has a good mother, that’s the ticket.”

Helene’s smile grew wider. They kissed again and Helene looked into his eyes. They’re a father’s eyes, she thought. David reached into the picnic basket and pulled out a softball. He lobbed it to Helene, who caught it with a juggle and a giggle.

“Toss this to him,” David said. “I think we’ve got a little jock in the making, here.”

Helene smiled at him again and walked toward the playground as David began unwrapping sandwiches.

Roosevelt Park hadn’t changed over the years, Helene realized as she stepped through the lush grass. She paused, drinking in the sights. It was fifteen years ago, she realized as she watched Jimmy running around the swing set on the playground. Fifteen years since

Helene shook her head. It’s the past, Hell, she reminded herself.

No charges filed, no trial. The police contacted Anne Haley who had been sober for eight months before that terrible night while Helene recovered in the hospital from a laceration to her liver that could have been fatal. “She’s lucky to be here,” a doctor had murmured to Anne Haley, and Helene had heard.

Helene finished high school and college, Cum Laude with a B.A. in sociology, met David Miller and married soon after; and these days, Helene often called Anne Haley “Grandma.” Helene grinned and continued walking toward the playground.

“Jimmy!” Helene called, shielding her eyes from the autumn sun. The hem of her shorts tickled her tanned legs. Helene yanked up a strap on her tank top and called to her son again. The day was beautiful, the sun warming her whole body. It had taken years for David to get her to wear shorts and tanks, but now she was proud of herself and enjoyed showing off her body for him.

“Jimbo! Come on, we’re eating!”

Jimmy waved, but did not leave his post at the swings. Helene’s clutch on the softball tightened as she strode toward the playground.

Jimmy Miller was waiting patiently for his turn on the playground equipment as Helene gripped his arm and flung him around to face her. The softball fell from her hand, forgotten, and tumbled into the grass where it lay like a relic.

“Did you hear me? I said we’re eating! Dammit look at me when I’m talking to you!”

Helene slapped her son.