The Fury - Jason Pinter [88]
never hurt anybody. So whenever he went on one of his
rampages, she would take it like more of a man than he
ever was, then go back to her needles."
"That's awful."
"She deserved another chance at love, at life. It was
almost like at some point she became shell-shocked,
just her nerves and her wits fried by everything he'd
done. I remember one night when I was about eight. I
spent that summer working at a corner deli, restocking
shelves a few hours a day for a dollar an hour."
Amanda laughed. "Even for an eight-year-old that's
pretty far below minimum wage."
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"It wasn't the money. They couldn't afford to send me
to camp, and I didn't want to be around the house any
more than I absolutely had to. One night I came home
around seven, usually when we had dinner. It was one of
the few times he was getting a regular paycheck. He got
home from work around seven-thirty most days, and he
would walk in and head right for the dinner table, sit
down and start eating. It didn't matter if we were there to
join him. To him, that's what he worked the day for. To
be alone. This day, though, he came home early. We both
arrived home about seven, and the meat loaf was still in
the oven. One thing about her, my mom made the best
meat loaf in the world. Onions, red peppers, just deli
cious."
I continued. "He went to the table, sat down and
noticed there was no food out. No drinks set. He yelled
her name--Marilyn--and waited. She came out, stared
at him, simply said, 'It'll be about twenty minutes.' It
turned out he found out that day they were cutting back
his shifts, and he'd lose about twenty percent of his
salary. I didn't know this. Neither did she.
"He took a glass, threw it at the wall. It shattered into
a thousand pieces. My mother just stood there, her
mouth open, more confused than scared. Then he took
a plate, did the same thing. It exploded. Then he took
another plate, then another, then every piece on the table
and threw it at the wall. I remember screaming, telling
him to stop, worried he would hit her or me. Instead, he
kept throwing until piles of broken glass were laid over
our floor like a carpet. He was breathing heavy. My
mother just stood in the doorway, mouth open. Then she
turned around, went back to the stove and checked the
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temperature on the food. I called 911, but the cop they
sent over ten minutes later was in a bowling league with
my dad. Since nobody was hurt and my mother wouldn't
press charges, it all went away. After that my father
went upstairs, and twenty minutes later the food was on
the table and he was eating. Nobody picked the glass up
for a week. That's when I knew there was something
wrong, that she wasn't like most of my friends' mothers.
And it was eighteen years of my life before I could
leave. I actually tried to take her with me, to convince
her she could start a new life somewhere. You know
what she said to me?"
Amanda shook her head.
"She said, 'Why would I leave everything I have
here?' I had to leave before living there sucked the life
out of me like it did her."
"Mya," Amanda said. "Me. That's why you always
come back."
"I don't know," I said. My eyes felt heavy, my body
too tired for the morning. "I just never imagined at any
point in my life that I would lift a finger to help that
man. And now here we are."
"Doing what you're doing, helping him," she said,
"is why you're not him."
We sat there, the bright day outside hiding something
dark that was waiting for me. I stood up. Went to the
now-infamous suitcase and found a clean shirt. My cell
phone was on the floor. I picked it up, noticed I had a
message. It was from Wallace Langston. My heart sped
up as I listened, a surge within me as a ray of hope
appeared.
"Henry, it's Wallace. I have those files you wanted.
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Let me know how you want to get them. Call me. Hope
you're okay."
I immediately called him back, Wallace's office
picking up on the first ring. His secretary connected