Crimes Of The Father
Dad threw my innocence into the furnace when he accused me of telling some kid at school that I had raped my sister. I was too young at the time to fully appreciate his accusation. He had to explain to me that rape was when a man forces a woman to have sex with him. Never mind that my comprehension of intercourse was more meager than my understanding of rape. For all intents and purposes, I was conveniently found guilty of doing the unthinkable.
We both sat still in the car parked in the driveway with the smell of chlorine embedded in the upholstery from my sisters’ countless swim practices. He reiterated what my younger sister had told him. Was it true, he demanded. Confess, and my hide would be spared. Dad’s rosary was made of my bare knuckles strung together. What he wanted from me was confirmation of his worst fears. He wanted proof that I was as bad as he had made me out to be. I could tell he was paging back through the days in his memory when I had lied in order to cover myself from the fallout of his overblown rages.
Dad’s pale blue eyes grew even paler and they glistened with the stab of his accusation. My willful silence widened the void that threatened to swallow us whole. His voice shook when he told me he would throw me in jail if he ever found out that I had sex with my sister. He threatened he would make me wish I were still an orphan. He glared at me as if I were a thief caught in the act. He wanted me to talk. He demanded an answer. With my jaw clenched, I knew nothing I could say would nullify his suspicion. My dad had more faith in hearsay than he ever did in me. No, I said softly. And, he told me to get out of the car and help my mom with the dishes.
