Manhood: How to Be a Better Man-or Just Live with One Read Free

“Don’t, Trish,” he said, his voice pleading.
    I blinked against the light, scared, trying not to do anything to make it worse.
    “I’m telling you, I’m gonna take them,” she said.
    Something in Big Terry seemed to snap.
    “You do that, and you’ll be sorry,” he said, his voice growing angry.
    Trish yanked me out of bed and held me in her arms, gesturing toward the door. Big Terry’s silhouette hulked over us in the darkness. He was yelling now.
    “Calm down, Trish! Calm down.”
    She held me closer, my heart beating wildly, scared of what would happen. And then, just like that, she placed me back in bed. I pulled the covers up over me.
    “Go to sleep!” she yelled at Marcelle and me.
    Trish stormed out of the room, Big Terry close behind her. They slammed the door, but I could hear them continuing their argument in the living room. Sleep was impossible. My nerves were on high alert, and I stayed up for hours until the adrenaline finally wore off, and I fell into an uneasy sleep that left me exhausted.
    Eventually, Marcelle and I grew bolder and climbed down out of our beds in our matching onesie pajamas to witness the action in the other room. I was the one to open our bedroom door so we could see what was happening, and we both peeked out. In the living room, Big Terry and Trish were fighting. Her hair was all messed up and crazy, and she looked like she’d already been hit a couple of times. She had something in her hand—a kitchen utensil, maybe.
    “You ain’t nothin’!” she screamed. “I’m sick of you. You’re a drunk.”
    “Leave me alone!” he screamed back at her, slurring. “Leave me alone, Trish. Don’t make me do something.”
    Marcelle and I stood there, wiping the sleep from our eyes, watching it all go down, wondering how it was going to end. She hit him, and when that didn’t make an impact, she started pushing him.
    “Don’t make me do something!”
    He pushed back, and she slipped a little, and then she hit him again.
    “You made me do this!” He hauled off.
POW
. He hit her so hard she fell down and started crying. For a second, it all went quiet except for the sound of her sobs.
    “I’m sorry,” he said, leaning down toward her. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”
    “Get away from me!” she screamed. “I hate you! I hate you!”
    These were our parents, and watching them fight was unreal. Big Terry was aptly named, as he seemed like a giant, his hands the size of bowling balls with calluses that looked impenetrable. His every step shook the foundation of the house, and his deep voice filled my little boy heart with fear. My mother was by no means a shrinking violet, though, and she could prod, taunt, and goad without mercy. She called him every name in the book, and I knew even then that a woman could cause violent pain to a man by lancing his pride with a few skillfully aimed obscenities.
    Over time, as these fights kept repeating themselves night after night, Marcelle and I started treating them like scenes in a movie. As the shouting and shoving started, he hopped down from the top bunk.
    “I got Trish,” he said, already moving to open the door.
    “Okay, I got Big Terry,” I said. “Who’s gonna win?”
    “I don’t know,” he said.
    We weren’t being cold or unfeeling. We were just trying to cope with what we couldn’t understand, and maybe even put a cheery face on a dark moment. The fact that two people who said they were in love—our parents—could hurt each other so much was too difficult to comprehend.
    I threw off my blankets and followed Marcelle out into the arch of the living room doorway. Trish pushed Big Terry, and he pushed her back. They were grappling, both trying to get a grip on each other, almost like wrestlers.
    Marcelle and I giggled. “Get ’em, get ’em,” we whispered to each other.
    We were trying to make this nightly horror into a fun game, hoping the violence would finally stop, and we could be a family, just like on TV.