The Dork Lord
Whipping Boy
You wake from a vague dream of blood and conspiracy, reaching for me. I am
not there. You panic for a moment, till the white noise of the shower tells you my
location and activity. Glancing at the alarm, you notice it’s 6:30. You call my name, but I
can’t hear over the cascading water. You stand in the doorway to the bathroom.
“Got work today?”
“Huh? Yeah. They called me in baby. Sorry.”
“But you promised today. We’d go……”
“I know dear. We will. When I get off. Frank called in. Go back to sleep, and
we’ll go when I get back.”
“No. You’ve said that before. You’ll be too tired.”
Sighing, I turn off the water, pull back the curtain and reach for the towel.
“We’ll go. Today. When I get back. I promise.” I’m trying to hold back my
frustration. My exasperation. I love you. I know how much it means. To you. And to me.
You lay back down, closing your eyes to the sunlight filtered through the curtains. I dress
and you’re asleep by the time I kiss your forehead on the way out the door.
Five years and thirteen days I think, as I open the car door and slide into the seat.
Then, as I buckle the seat-belt; I’ve been avoiding it nearly two weeks. As I pull out of
the drive way and make my way to the office, I realize we have to go today. Just like I
promised you.
Work is a monotonous blur of incoming calls and the computer screen. Vending
machine sandwich and cola. Cursing Frank, and cursing you.
You wake again around noon, about the same time I’m stuffing a tasteless ham
and cheese in my mouth. You don’t reach for me this time. You know I’m not there.
After a bowl of cereal and a shower, you ready our clothes; an elegant black dress
for yourself, my finest suit. You take the bus to the flower store, purchasing a dozen
white roses.
Your thoughts, when you allow them to come, run from wistful to melancholy.
Fully concerned with the events of half a decade ago. Hospitals and legal offices; bags
packed and unpacked again. You even let his name cross your lips once, on the bus
home.
“Jacob”.
I’m weary as I pull the car back into the driveway, but I no you’ll tolerate no
further delay. You’ve cooked two fat juicy steaks for us, and instant mashed potatoes
with brown gravy. We eat in silence.
We both dress together in the bedroom, quickly and quietly. Helping each other
with buttons and snaps when required. The briefest of glances convey the normal
conversation: “I love you.” I love you too.” “Are you ready?” “Yes, let’s go.” I turn away
when I see your eyes glisten with an unshed tear; feeling too much moisture there myself.
You grab the flowers and follow me out the door.
With dusk coming on, the cemetery is quiet, but not yet locked. We find his grave
easily. As you kneel down to set the roses, I’m frozen as the engraved roses once again
bring home the reality:
Jacob Daniel Homestead
January 6, 1997 --- April 13, 1997
Called before his time.
We stand in silence for minutes that seem like years. Each of us remembering his
little hands, his little face. So full of life, angry red and screaming in the hospital. So pale
and peaceful four short months later.
Suddenly you turn to me, opening your arms; the tears streaking your make up. I
hold you fiercely as you sob onto my jacket. We stand there; crying and holding each
other, for eternal seconds.
“I miss him. I still miss him.”
“I know, me too.”
“It hurts so much.”
“I love you.”
All through the drive home, and for most of the night, we allow ourselves to do
what we haven’t for the last year and two weeks. Talk, laugh, cry, and reminisce about
Jacob. Those stupid Lamaze classes you were never going to use anyway. Those awful
midnight ice cream cravings. Your parent’s joy, and the disdain of mine at the prospect of
a grandchild; we weren’t ready they said. The great name debate. Baby clothes and crib
shopping. How he peed all over my face when we finally brought him home. How I
nearly left you after it happened. How you nearly left me after the vasectomy.
“He’d be walking and talking by now, potty trained too.”
“He’d be ready for school this year.”
“What would his first word have been? Mama, or Dada?”
“His favorite color? Food? Cartoon show?”
We bring out the old photos, the baby book, his birth certificate, foot prints. A
lock of his hair. We pour over it. We celebrate his all too brief life and death.
We make love that night, tenderly and passionately. I bring you to orgasm several
times, then collapse as my own takes me. I pull you close and kiss you deeply; holding
you tight as our sweat dries together.
As you drift off, I let myself think of the one thing I dare not mention. The same
nightmarish instant you’ll never speak of. That night. Five years and two weeks ago.
Jacob was screaming. You went to his room. Instead of quieting, his screams grew
louder. I heard you swearing. Cursing savagely. I stood in the doorway. I watched you.
Shaking him. Just like a rag doll. Something snapped. The screaming stopped. You
dropped him back in the crib. You looked at me. Rage and sorrow.
“Little bastard,” you said. “He ruined our lives.” I was stunned. Felt like I’d been
shot.
Shaken baby syndrome, the doctors said. Post partum psychosis. Years of therapy.
Marriage counseling. Two lives nearly shattered. One snuffed out almost before it could
begin.
It’s been a rough five years. Two sets of divorce papers; one filled out but never
signed. One signed but never filed. You never understood why I had to have the
vasectomy; I never understood why you took all those sleeping pills and slashed your
wrists.
It’s been a rough five years, but we’re still here. Still together. If we survive five
more, maybe we can talk about adoption.
Enough. Never mind the last five years, today was enough, and I have work in
seven short hours. I close my eyes and pull you closer; joining you in vague dreams of
blood and conspiracy.
not there. You panic for a moment, till the white noise of the shower tells you my
location and activity. Glancing at the alarm, you notice it’s 6:30. You call my name, but I
can’t hear over the cascading water. You stand in the doorway to the bathroom.
“Got work today?”
“Huh? Yeah. They called me in baby. Sorry.”
“But you promised today. We’d go……”
“I know dear. We will. When I get off. Frank called in. Go back to sleep, and
we’ll go when I get back.”
“No. You’ve said that before. You’ll be too tired.”
Sighing, I turn off the water, pull back the curtain and reach for the towel.
“We’ll go. Today. When I get back. I promise.” I’m trying to hold back my
frustration. My exasperation. I love you. I know how much it means. To you. And to me.
You lay back down, closing your eyes to the sunlight filtered through the curtains. I dress
and you’re asleep by the time I kiss your forehead on the way out the door.
Five years and thirteen days I think, as I open the car door and slide into the seat.
Then, as I buckle the seat-belt; I’ve been avoiding it nearly two weeks. As I pull out of
the drive way and make my way to the office, I realize we have to go today. Just like I
promised you.
Work is a monotonous blur of incoming calls and the computer screen. Vending
machine sandwich and cola. Cursing Frank, and cursing you.
You wake again around noon, about the same time I’m stuffing a tasteless ham
and cheese in my mouth. You don’t reach for me this time. You know I’m not there.
After a bowl of cereal and a shower, you ready our clothes; an elegant black dress
for yourself, my finest suit. You take the bus to the flower store, purchasing a dozen
white roses.
Your thoughts, when you allow them to come, run from wistful to melancholy.
Fully concerned with the events of half a decade ago. Hospitals and legal offices; bags
packed and unpacked again. You even let his name cross your lips once, on the bus
home.
“Jacob”.
I’m weary as I pull the car back into the driveway, but I no you’ll tolerate no
further delay. You’ve cooked two fat juicy steaks for us, and instant mashed potatoes
with brown gravy. We eat in silence.
We both dress together in the bedroom, quickly and quietly. Helping each other
with buttons and snaps when required. The briefest of glances convey the normal
conversation: “I love you.” I love you too.” “Are you ready?” “Yes, let’s go.” I turn away
when I see your eyes glisten with an unshed tear; feeling too much moisture there myself.
You grab the flowers and follow me out the door.
With dusk coming on, the cemetery is quiet, but not yet locked. We find his grave
easily. As you kneel down to set the roses, I’m frozen as the engraved roses once again
bring home the reality:
Jacob Daniel Homestead
January 6, 1997 --- April 13, 1997
Called before his time.
We stand in silence for minutes that seem like years. Each of us remembering his
little hands, his little face. So full of life, angry red and screaming in the hospital. So pale
and peaceful four short months later.
Suddenly you turn to me, opening your arms; the tears streaking your make up. I
hold you fiercely as you sob onto my jacket. We stand there; crying and holding each
other, for eternal seconds.
“I miss him. I still miss him.”
“I know, me too.”
“It hurts so much.”
“I love you.”
All through the drive home, and for most of the night, we allow ourselves to do
what we haven’t for the last year and two weeks. Talk, laugh, cry, and reminisce about
Jacob. Those stupid Lamaze classes you were never going to use anyway. Those awful
midnight ice cream cravings. Your parent’s joy, and the disdain of mine at the prospect of
a grandchild; we weren’t ready they said. The great name debate. Baby clothes and crib
shopping. How he peed all over my face when we finally brought him home. How I
nearly left you after it happened. How you nearly left me after the vasectomy.
“He’d be walking and talking by now, potty trained too.”
“He’d be ready for school this year.”
“What would his first word have been? Mama, or Dada?”
“His favorite color? Food? Cartoon show?”
We bring out the old photos, the baby book, his birth certificate, foot prints. A
lock of his hair. We pour over it. We celebrate his all too brief life and death.
We make love that night, tenderly and passionately. I bring you to orgasm several
times, then collapse as my own takes me. I pull you close and kiss you deeply; holding
you tight as our sweat dries together.
As you drift off, I let myself think of the one thing I dare not mention. The same
nightmarish instant you’ll never speak of. That night. Five years and two weeks ago.
Jacob was screaming. You went to his room. Instead of quieting, his screams grew
louder. I heard you swearing. Cursing savagely. I stood in the doorway. I watched you.
Shaking him. Just like a rag doll. Something snapped. The screaming stopped. You
dropped him back in the crib. You looked at me. Rage and sorrow.
“Little bastard,” you said. “He ruined our lives.” I was stunned. Felt like I’d been
shot.
Shaken baby syndrome, the doctors said. Post partum psychosis. Years of therapy.
Marriage counseling. Two lives nearly shattered. One snuffed out almost before it could
begin.
It’s been a rough five years. Two sets of divorce papers; one filled out but never
signed. One signed but never filed. You never understood why I had to have the
vasectomy; I never understood why you took all those sleeping pills and slashed your
wrists.
It’s been a rough five years, but we’re still here. Still together. If we survive five
more, maybe we can talk about adoption.
Enough. Never mind the last five years, today was enough, and I have work in
seven short hours. I close my eyes and pull you closer; joining you in vague dreams of
blood and conspiracy.