The Slammer

by Bill Tope

"Tommy, what's the matter with Mama?" said Mary, my baby sister, hurrying into my room sometime after 12 am, on a school night. She was in her pajamas: The Jetsons, the family of tomorrow. Her little feet were bare. I asked her what she meant. I was sitting up in bed.

Image credit: Joonas Sild on Unsplash

"Mom put chewing gum in my hair," she said, pulling out strands of her blonde locks to show me. Of course, her hair was clean, having been washed by my mother before she put the six-year-old to bed, as she did every night.

"You were only dreaming, honey," I told her, pulling her onto my lap.

She shook her head determinedly, her long hair flickering back and forth. "Nuh uh," she said.

"Then tell me about it," I said, hoping that recalling the dream might make her feel better.

"Daddy was drinking again," she said quietly.

My dad's ongoing intoxication was something we didn't speak about in the Bronstein household. Since being injured in an accident at work more than two years before, Thomas Bronstein II had gone from addiction to painkillers to addiction to alcohol.

"I enjoy my spirits," he'd say jokingly, pouring vodka into orange juice for breakfast, but we all knew he was an alcoholic. It didn't matter how anyone painted it; Dad had declined in the ensuing 24 months. He'd begin at breakfast--or continue from the night before--and wind up unconscious in the middle of the day, when the rest of us were trying to live out some kind of a life. Sometimes Mom would get up in the middle of the night to change the bed after Dad had vomited onto the sheets.

It had all made Mom a little unpredictable. Sometimes Mary would come into my room, wrinkling her nose at the smell of the weed that Mom had developed a recent fondness for. Other times, Mom would grow annoyed at Mary's childishness and strike out without thinking. Honestly, the rest of us sometimes felt we were spending our lives in jail.

Who were the rest? Mary, my older brother Larry and I. It helped little that Larry was certifiable, a 16-year-old who girls accurately appraised as having "dangerous eyes." He had a juvenile arrest record longer than my arm. We all knew that eventually Larry would outlive the forgivable nature of the authorities, and he would go upriver to Riker's Island. Chances were good that he wouldn't survive that long. He had stolen a case of beer from a gas station, picked pockets, gotten a girl pregnant and, only the week before, stolen a car. He told me that this gave him street cred. The judicial process was already ticking down.

Mom was the breadwinner of the family now. Always the "pretty girl" in high school, she'd never had to work for anything before. A student council leader, prom queen and all the rest, she'd never studied or tried hard for anything in her life, beyond marrying the captain of the football team. I know, a huge stereotype. Now she worked in an office, bringing home more money than she earned because she was the boss's favorite, whatever that meant. I'm just 12, but I understand how the world works. With the pressure of an addicted and disabled husband, a completely helpless little daughter and a bad seed, she saw nothing positive on her horizon.

And then there's me. Tom Bronstein III, up until two years ago known as a chip off the old block. But, since Dad's accident, I suffered misfortune of my own. Diagnosed with mesial temporal lobe epilepsy (MTLE) just out of the blue. At an uncle's wedding, I flipped out, fell on my face, even bit my own tongue. It was gross. My uncle was pissed; my mom was humiliated, and my dad was still in the hospital after his accident. Mary was too young to come to the wedding. Larry teased me about it for months.

How do you get MTLE? At first, they thought I got it from kissing a girl. I had, up until that time, kissed exactly one girl, a kid in my class named Deb Hatcher. And I hadn't even kissed her until the day of the wedding, during the reception. The doctors figured out I'd gotten meningitis around that time, which went untreated, and that can lead to epilepsy. But you can't get sick that fast, though we didn't know that then.

In the hospital, my doc discovered I had a fall almost six months before, when I was riding my bike on a street near our house. I skidded on some gravel and hit my head on a curb. I was out for a minute, then I was alright, except for a headache, some bruises and scrapes.

Since the wedding, Larry and his friends have ragged me about being a spaz. I think my brother hates his whole family, but especially me. Maybe it's because I get better grades than him, I don't know. My mom is always fussing over me because of my dicey health. Dad doesn't say much of anything to anyone anymore. Larry doesn't respect him. Before the accident, Dad used to whip Larry with a belt, but he just lets Larry do and say what he wants now.

The person who came out worst in all of this is my little sister. Mary doesn't know which way to turn. Her friends won't come to our house because their parents are afraid Dad will be roaring drunk, or I might have a fit, or maybe Larry will burn the house down with their kids inside.

Mom works so hard but doesn't get any respect from her boss or the people she works with. Her boss, Mr. Glorey, touches her, and her coworkers are jealous or something. The only thing that keeps Mom going is her need to take care of Mary, me and my dad. She's about to give up on Larry.

I remember this morning: I was sitting on my bed, where I spend most of my time, since I can't risk having a fit and getting hurt, and I was thinking back to the way it was before. I was sitting very still, and I suddenly became aware that Larry was in the room. He was staring at me. I turned my head and stared back, and he sort of jumped. I think he thought I was in an "aura"; that's what they call it before you seize.

When he saw that I was alright, he let out a deep breath and relaxed, but only for an instant. Then he said, "Are you fixing to have a fit, Toast?" he needled me. He calls me Toast because he says that's what my brain has become. I ignored him.

One time, when he was making fun of me, a friend of his joined in, and Larry slugged him.

"Why'd you do that, Lar'?" his friend asked.

After a second, Larry said, "I don't need a reason," and then they left the house.

Turning back to Mary, I asked her gently, "Why’d you think that Mom would put chewing gum in your hair, Molly?"

"I spilled my milk," she said simply. "She said she was tired after work and didn't wanna put up with me."

"That's no reason to..." I began.

She interrupted. "But it was the last glass, and she said she needed it to keep you on your special diet." She began to softly sob.

I gathered my beautiful sister close and held her tight. "Don't cry, baby," I said, as I took my comb and began to gently untangle the gum from her hair.

***

Bill Tope is a retired public assistance caseworker; construction laborer; line cook at Hilton Hotels; and one-time nude model for university art classes. He lives in the American Midwest with his mean little cat Baby.