[Author’s Note: As part of the #BareYourMind campaign, this is a story of Adverse Childhood Experiences (ACEs). Traumatic events suffered during childhood can result in long-term negative effects on mental and physical health. If you struggle with mental illness, I encourage you to share your stories as well. Let’s work together to de-stigmatize mental health in our society by giving it a human face.]
Continued from Part 4…
I hopped up the chipped steps to the porch. The boards creaked as I opened the screen door, which screeched as if to announce my arrival. Walking into the house, I could tell by the silence that my mother and little sister Grace weren’t home. They were probably visiting one of my aunts, so my mother could get some respite from the strain of her marriage. I was sure that Helene and Joey weren’t there either. Meaning I was alone with my father.
I moved to the kitchen doorway, and stopped there. He was bent over the stove. Several pots were on the burners, lids bobbing gently as water and Italian gravy bubbled underneath.
So, it was spaghetti for dinner. Sitting on the counter near the sink was the bowl that held the last of the green peppers. I saw their shiny carapaces peeking up over the rim. Their reign of culinary terror was almost over. The end was in sight. I doubted that any of the peppers had made it into my father’s heavy red sauce. He wouldn’t allow anything to spoil the purity of his tomato-based concoctions.
“Hey Dad,” I said.
He turned, and looked at me for a few seconds, face unreadable. Then he turned back to his pots and said, “Where you been, huh?”
“Out. Playing.”
He grunted, his back still turned to me.
“You hungry?” he asked.
“Yeah.”
“It’s almost ready. Go wash up.” He walked over to the sink, and reached for a pepper and a knife. My heart sank. They would be on the table tonight after all. I left the kitchen, and passed through the living room on the way to the bathroom. There was a record playing on the turntable. It was a singer named Lou Monte, his lilting voice alternating between English and Italian. He was singing about a mischievous mouse named Pepino, who lived in a hole in the wall of Lou’s apartment and caused no end of trouble.
I washed my hands in the bathroom, frowning at my reflection in the mirror, trying to resign myself to the bitter taste of the peppers. I went back through the living room, while Lou continued to lament how Pepino kept scaring off the women he brought home. My father was dishing out the spaghetti. Also on the table were some crusty rolls, and next to that was a big bowl of salad.
Resting on top of the lettuce, olives, and cucumbers were ear-shaped slices of green pepper.
In our house, we ate the spaghetti first. My father believed it should be eaten before everything else, because otherwise it would get cold, and that was a mortal sin in his mind. So, the salad came last during the meal. That meant I had to contemplate the peppers while I tried to enjoy the pasta.
We ate in silence. My father methodically worked his way through the spaghetti, twirling big spools of it expertly onto his fork. I did the same, having learned the technique from him. After we demolished our plates, we used the bread to wipe up every trace of the gravy, so none of it went to waste.
“You full? You still want salad?” he asked me as he picked up two wooden spoons.
“Sure, just a little bit.”
The spoons dipped into the greens, and I saw them pick up a pepper along with the other ingredients. My father deposited everything on my plate, then served himself a portion twice as big. As he picked up his fork again, he must have seen me making a grossed-out face.
“What?” he asked.
“Nothing,” I said, shrugging and picking up my own fork.
“You don’t want it?” he asked, pointing with his fork at the pepper in my salad.
I only hesitated for a moment, before my newfound determination asserted itself.
“No.”
He looked at me, and a ghost of a smile touched one side of his mouth.
“You don’t want it? Good, more for me!” he declared, and speared the pepper on my plate with his fork. The offending vegetable disappeared into his mouth, and he crunched on it with relish.
I laughed out loud, unable to help myself. He smirked, and we ate our salad. I suspect there was some disappointment in his expression. But there was definitely something else. I decided that the rest of his smile was made of affection.
As for me, my grin was made mostly of pride. I’d executed a bold move in the war of the peppers. And it looked like I’d won at least a brief peace with my father. One night wouldn’t erase my memory of how he usually treated me. Indeed, his abuses would soon return with a vengeance. But for a small moment in time, we sat at the table as equals.
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