The Russellite

By Dennis Webb

At a very young age, a sickly, but gifted little boy is born into a world of abject poverty and religious zealotry. The story follows him through life as he pathetically tries to find out just how he's supposed to fit in-being raised in his inherited surroundings of door-to-door religious magazine sales, violence, and parental mental illness and brutality. Growing up in a life wrought with prodigious failure, he slowly begins to lose the ability to function in society in even the least normal capacity. Eventually, he finds himself struggling to survive in a self-generated world of...could it be madness...or reality?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dennis Webb
• Release date: Nov 7, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310195976

Book preview

The Russellite

Dennis Webb

Copyright 2014 by Dennis Webb

Smashwords Edition

This book is dedicated to all my demons (real and imagined), whom I have tried to exorcise from my life-forever. May you all rot in hell.

Table of Contents

Chapter One The Wedding

Chapter Two The Sandman

Chapter Three Barrels

Chapter Four Capture

Chapter Five Witnessing

Chapter Six Mr. Turner

Chapter Seven Mrs. McPherson and Mr. Turner

Chapter Eight Minister's School

Chapter Nine Anointment

Chapter Ten Milk Break

Chapter Eleven Choir

Chapter Twelve Discovered

Chapter Thirteen Marilyn

Chapter Fourteen Stadium

Chapter Fifteen My Boomerang Won't Come Back

Chapter Sixteen St. Christopher's

Chapter Seventeen Refusal

Chapter Eighteen George Miller

Chapter Nineteen Chicago Heights

Chapter Twenty Championship Fight

Chapter Twenty-one Tissue

Chapter Twenty-two Old Sparky

Chapter Twenty-three Bar fight

Chapter Twenty-four Application

Chapter Twenty-five Dy-No-Mite

Chapter Twenty-six False Armageddon

Chapter Twenty-seven Hospital and Guns

Chapter Twenty-eight Mercury

Chapter Twenty-nine Revenge

Chapter Thirty-Dumb Blind Luck

Chapter Thirty-one The Doctor

Chapter Thirty-two The Shrink

Chapter Thirty-three The Bill

Chapter Thirty-four Unwelcome

Chapter Thirty-five Marbles and Winks

Chapter Thirty-six Interview

Chapter Thirty-seven Casino

Chapter Thirty-eight Heating

Chapter Thirty-nine Tracking

Chapter Forty Love

Chapter Forty-one Kidzilla

Chapter Forty-two Cincinnati

Chapter Forty-three Question

Chapter Forty-four Cincy Morning

Chapter Forty-five Back to Joliet

Chapter Forty-six Starting Over

Chapter Forty-seven The Heights

Chapter Forty-eight The Russellite

Chapter Forty-nine Hospitality

Chapter Fifty Tinley Park

Chapter Fifty-one Happy Patient

Chapter Fifty-two Freedom?

Chapter Fifty-three Old Times

Chapter Fifty-four Home Sweet Home

Chapter Fifty-five Camelot

The Russellite

Chapter 1 The Wedding

In the summer of 1890, Henry Billard fell, intoxicated, from the back of an open wagon-bad enough-but then he rolled over, and plopped onto a pile of horse-shit. Not that hard to do, really, if you’re blind drunk and traveling on a dirt road loaded with horseshit. Horses, being the only means of transportation, left plenty on the pathway up the holler.

The word holler in the late nineteenth-century Kentucky Appalachian language meant the low, livable area in a valley formed between two mountains. A dirt pathway for wagons and carts, it followed the meandering lay of the land several miles from the main road to a point where no one cared to live, as it stopped at the edge of nothing but trees. Families cleared off what land they could, and would homestead on each side of the path, trying to scratch out a living to supplement the meager wages of coal mining. Most families, if not all, existed in abject poverty, with little or no communication with the outside world-the world past the entrance to the holler.

The locals named the hollers. Sugar Holler…Whiskey Holler…Black Oak Holler. If a person were literate enough to send or receive mail, it would be addressed, "So and So, Nearest City, Whatever Holler, Kentucky. The mail would be delivered to the nearest town post office for pick-up.

In Stump Holler, Kentucky, not terribly far from Lexington in 1890, Esther Velda Billard and Franklin Walter Billard, first cousins, were a matched pair to be wed. In the south at the time, this first cousin thing did happen on occasion. Proximity often dictated the choices. People rarely left, and outsiders seldom arrived, so interbreeding was a way of life.

In fact, throughout history, in various parts of the world, it still goes on. To this day, some royalties world-wide, by choice, in efforts to keep their bloodlines pure from peasantry infestation, still marry within bloodlines.

But in most societies, the wisdom of first cousin marriages is generally frowned upon, as was the case in 1908 Kentucky.

So then, when Franklin’s brothers, Kyle and a very drunk Henry showed up at the home of the Justice of Peace in Irvine, Kentucky, it was not business as usual.

First of all, Kyle got out and noticed he’d lost Henry. Jesus, he mumbled to himself. He ran back the fifty yards where Henry lay. Turning him over, he wiped the dirt and shit from his hair.

Henry came to life-loudly. GODDAMN, KYLE! WHEN WE GONNA’ GO TO THE WEDDIN?

Seeing that Henry was no worse than his usual state, Kyle helped him up, and walked him back to the wagon.

You O.K. Henry? he asked, dragging him along.

SHURE, came the response. LONG AS YOU DON’T TRY TO RUN HORSHEY TO DEATH AN’ MAKE ME FALL AGAIN.

Alright, we’re here, Kyle assured. Just try to stay here ‘til I call fer' ya’, an’ we’ll get this thing over with.

Propping him up against the wagon, he scurried up to the door of the Justice of the Peace, and tapped sheepishly a couple of times.

Knock, knock.

Meanwhile, the prospective bride and groom waited in the wagon clutching hands and looking somewhat confused about the entire situation.

Henry staggered to the horse, unbuttoned his trousers, and promptly began urinating, much of it going on the horse’s leg, who didn’t seem to mind.

Meanwhile, Lonnie Nielsen, the J.P., was a short, balding, middle aged man with a bib around his neck. He was holding a piece of chicken he had been gnawing on. Looking through the curtains, and sensing what was about to unveil, he opened the door, stepped outside on the porch, and was livid. Jesus fuckin’ Christ, Kyle, he said in disgust. What in the hell is your brother doin'?

Kyle slowly turned, looked at the wagon, and turned back to the Judge with up-turned palms, He’s pissin', Judge.

Not Henry, Goddamn it! the Judge barked, gesturing with the drumstick. You know damn well who I’m talkin’ about. FRANKLIN! FRANKLIN! I’M TALKIN’ ‘BOUT FRANKLIN! What the hell’s he think he’s doin’ here today?

Oh, well, now your honor, Kyle sheepishly offered. We told you last week he ‘es gonna’ marry up with Esther.

The J.P. was attempting to stay in control. Yeah, you did, Kyle, he said. That you did. And I told y’all that in this county, you cain’t marry your first cou…GODDAMN IT, HANK! he yelled, noticing Henry who had begun to sway and spray in all directions. Will you PUHLEASE quit pissin’ on that horse?

Henry, through mostly closed eyelids, slathered a loud, drunken reply while patting the horse on the rump. WHY JEGE? HE GITTIN’ HITCHED, TOO? HA, HA, HEE, HEE, HEE, HEE. LORDY, OH, LORDY!

J.P. put his face in his palms, drumstick held like a pencil between his fingers, and leaned his head against the door very lightly. He spoke into his hands-to himself as much as to Kyle. Every time some a ya’ll cousins wanna’ get married, (emphasizing) an’ you got the same last names, I say the same thing. He then tapped the hand with the chicken leg on Kyles’ chest in cadence with his statement. Even if I wanted to…when the names are the same…the county recorder ain’t a gonna’…

HORSHEY GITTIN’ MARRIED, Henry sang out.

J.P., losing patience, screamed out, HENRY! LEAVE THAT GODDAMNED HORSE ALONE, AND SHUT YOUR MOUTH, OR SO HELP ME…

Henry, still exposed and dribbling, clawed his way to the front of the horse, and sang in his ear, still yelling, HORSHEY GITTIN’ MARRIED. HORSHEY GITTIN’ MARRIED….

C’mon, Judge, Kyle coaxed, as Franklin and Esther sat looking straight ahead, oblivious to the goings on.

HORSHEY AIN’T GETTING’ MARRIED, AN’ HE AIN’T NEVER GETTING’ NO PIECHE A’ AYASSH.

The Judge had heard enough, and turned to walk inside. Kyle stopped him. Judge, please. You know all about ‘em both. ‘Member two years ago, Esther’s father got all shit-faced an’ broke her nose and knocked out one of her teeth…

J.P. looked out at the two, Well…

HORSHEY AIN’T GETTING’ NO PIECHE A AYASS, ‘CAUSE I CUT HIS BALLSH OFF TWO YEARSH AGO…

Kyle continued pleading his case. And shit, Judge, you know Franklin, he’s kinda slow…

AN’ THE ONLY WAY FRANKLIN’S GONNA GIT A PIECE ‘A’ AYASSH, IS IF’N HE MARRIESH IT FIRSHT

Kyle had long since learned to ignore Henry, and continued. So how ‘bout it, Judge. They two neither likely never gonna’get nobody.

I just don… the Judge looked at him quizzically, What?

What. Kyle responded, without a question.

"What did you say?’ J.P. shot back.

YA KNOW, JEGE…YA JUSH CAIN’T HARLY MAKE A SHTALLION PULL A WAGON…

What? J.P. questioned, growing more confused. He was looking for something resembling a sentence that he could understand. You said…uh…they two neither…never…what was that?

Well, I was jus’ sayin’ that since the two ‘em neither one never likely gonna’ get nobody no how, no way, then why not…

Stop! the Judge responded, raising his drumstick. "This is getting’ sorrier by the

…LESSHIN’ YOU CUT HISH BALLSH OFF, AN MAKE ‘IM A EX-SHTALLION…SHO-O-O-P," Henry spit out, making a slicing gesture across his pelvis.

The Judge asked Kyle with frustrated sincerity, Why, oh why, did you bring him? gesturing to Henry.

Kyle then proudly explained, because he was sure he’d thought of everything. Well, Judge, he started. Ya know ya’ need two witnesses at a weddin’…

J.P. raised his hands to interrupt, You mean to stand there and tell me that you bring these two poor souls out here, an’ they probly’ don’t even know what’s happenin’ and you bring THIS? he stated, gesturing to Henry. At that moment, he was hanging onto the horses’ bridle with his head back, eyes closed, and mouth open making hiccuping and coughing noises, his trousers having fallen to his ankles.

Kyle submitted. Yeah, Judge, okay. Yer’ right. But he’s still family, an’ when he ain’t drunk, he ain’t too bad. He’s celebratin’ Franklin gettin’ hitched.

I AIN’T BRUNG NO FLOWERS FOR POOR LIL’ BALLESSH HORSHEY…

J.P. looked hard at Kyle, and Kyle looked back with a rather lost expression. Then, J.P. asked, Why does he keep calling that Goddamn horse (mimicking) Horshey?

That’s his name, Judge, Kyle informed him, blankly.

J.P. surrendered. ALL RIGHT, all right, he surrendered, calming down. I’ll do it."

Aw, thanks, Judge.

But one thing.

Sure, Judge, calling to Franklin and Esther. C’MON! YA’LL GETTING’ HITCHED!

Now, Kyle, they cain’t have the same last name.

"What ya’ mean, Judge?

I mean I will NOT marry them if they already got the same last name. You spell one of ‘em a little diff’ernt, an’ I’ll do it.

Which one ya’ want, Judge?

At that precise moment, Henry vomited all over Horsheys’ neck, BLA-A-ACH! BLA-A-ACH! he heaved.

Seeing Henry vomit, the Judge offered, Let’s change Franklin’s last name,

Fine with me, Judge.

"BLA-A-A-CH!

Okay, Kyle, the Judged reluctantly agreed. They ain’t gonna’ be the first cousins been married. Tell ya’ what. Get ‘em, and come on in an’…

Like HELL, they’re comin’ in! Mrs. Nielsen complained from inside.

Now sweetie, the judge whispered.

SWEETIE, MY ASS! sweetie responded. Damn it, Lonnie, they’re cousins, they’re both dim-witted an’ don’ have the brains to know what they’re doin’ an’ Henrys’ covered with piss and puke,

Kyle made a weak attempt in defense. Now, Mrs. Nielsen, they deserve a weddin’ jus’ like anybody else…

WITH LOTSCH A’ ORGAN MUSIC!

NOT IN MY HOUSE, YOU FILTHY, GODDAMNED DRUNK!

Kyle was disappointed. You mean you ain’t gonna’ play the organ, ma’am? he questioned.

My wife’ll play in there, the Judge offered, shushing at his wife. We’ll be out here. We’ll hear the music fine.

"BLA-A-ACH!

Thus, on June 21, 1890, Franklin Walter Billiard and Esther Velda Billard were wed legally, as witnessed by Kyle Billard and Iva Lou Nielsen, wife of the local Justice of the Piece.

Following the ceremony, Franklin’s brother Kyle drove the new couple to an old, broken down little shack back in Stump Holler. There, they would raise a family whose descendants would live in total squalor-with occasional interbreeding-for the next fifty or sixty years.

Franklin’s brother Henry spent a couple of hours staggering and napping his way back from the J.P.’s house…covered with vomit, horse-shit and piss.

Nobody washed the horse-which didn’t bother him at all.

Chapter 2 The Sandman

Any, six-year-old boy whipped hard enough and long enough by an adult who is using a leather belt, will eventually lose control of his bodily functions and urinate on himself.

It’s difficult to describe the sounds being made by the belt as it makes contact with the skin. An audible who-o-o-sh followed by a sharp noise. It may come across as a crack or a splat.

Definitions aside, a young, innocent, completely helpless child is being brutally and savagely beaten.

Yet another whack!

Unfortunately, if it is the adult’s goal to continue the beating until the child’s urine flows, it may take more than just a couple of lashes.

So, it’s not surprising that this day-eventually pathetic, sickly, little six-year-old Wally Ford did lose control. He urinated on the bed while enduring yet another beating from his mother, Velda. Once again, she had used an old tried and proven standard-a doubled, two-inch wide leather belt.

Again, the belt makes a very recognizable, offensive noise when it strikes flesh-noise that Velda knew other people didn’t need to hear. Those people were her three coffee clutching neighbors-her girlfriends waiting in the kitchen. She was holding up their morning game of five-hundred rummy, which was always washed with generous portions of morning coffee.

Velda, always cautious about revealing her methods of Wally’s discipline, had cleverly excused herself from the table after turning up the radio. As always, she had been meticulous in her preparations. The scheduled beatings never resulted from spontaneous fits of rage. Each was a very carefully choreographed performance.

That particular morning, Velda had intended to whip the boy much earlier. She had planned it as soon as she had finished her daily routine of matching dates and meanings in the Bible. Daily, she would arise at 6:00, put on coffee for her husband Sam, and sit down at her usual spot at the end of the kitchen table, nearly naked, wearing only the flimsiest, see-through gown. She would light up her first cigarette, and then research the Bible, looking for clues to the impending end of the world. Finally, when Sam was shaved and dressed for work, he’d come in and sit across from her. She’d get them both coffee.

Try to send the electric company ten dollars, huh? Sam asked through his cup.

Uh huh, she responded, taking a drag off her cigarette.

And then you wanna’ take out them pork chops for tonight?

You wanna’ take ‘em out yourself?

That’s how it generally went. They’d sip and exchange brief nothings about each other’s lives and duties for the day.

Eventually, after a few minutes, his cup emptied, he’d get up, and occasionally give her a quick peck on the cheek, depending upon the temperance of the previous conversation. Then he’d grab a couple of beers from the refrigerator, and leave. She would then resume matching her charts with those in the Bible depicting the always-imminent Battle of Armageddon.

Later, when it was time, she would get her three kids up for school, or as was often the case, only two-Wally’s older brother Sammy, and their older sister, Charlene.

This particular morning, Wally had been long awake when his mother had opened the bedroom door, and gave her morning alarm with a cheerful flourish to Sammy. Sammy, come on. Get up. Come on, sweetie. Get up. Time for sch-o-o-o-l, she purred.

Wally, however, wasn’t getting up. Not today. Wally wasn’t going to school today.

Wally missed a lot of school. He was often sick, or his mother would keep him home from what she referred to as Pagan Holiday Parties, or for punishment, which was followed by witnessing-selling magazines door-to-door.

But the punishment-this mornings’ punishment-would come later. For, as was often the case shortly after the neighborhood kids left for school, Velda’s girlfriends had shown up.

Wally would have to wait. Wait for her mood. Wait for the right moment.

So, all the while the girls played and chatted the neighborhood gossip, Wally cowered in bed, knowing what was coming.

As he lay sobbing, making very low whispers and pleading in vain to no one, he could hear the good time going on in the kitchen. His little body trembling, he could make out the happy sounds of their game. Though he couldn’t understand the words, he could recognize the occasional laughter, exclamations, and obscenities. He could even tell that the radio was on as always, tuned to WJJD, 1160 on your dial. But he could not identify the words to most of the Top Forty rock and country music songs played in 1955 Chicago.

What he could identify, were the dots in the rough paint on the wall just inches in front of his face. With his young eyes and sharp vision, he had learned to multiply the dots. His main tool in learning multiplication had been a ruler that his mother occasionally used as a weapon, and which was usually lying around. It interested him, so he often played with it.

In his bed waiting, he counted. He had developed a grasp of approximately how much an inch was, and then a foot. The way he saw it, there were eleven dots, or imperfections to every inch going sideways. He could see that it took about four of them to make up an inch going long ways, or up and down.

Having been born with a naturally keen mind for numbers, he figured 11x 4 =44 per big line, as he had no idea what a square inch meant. Next, he knew there were 12 inches to a ruler-a foot. So, if one of these inches equaled 44, then 12 of them were…528. These computations came from a boy of six, having only just begun basic arithmetic in school, which he seldom attended.

In the kitchen, the women played, smoked, and sipped.

So, he counted, as Mr. Sandman, by the Chordettes, was played on the little white Philco radio in the kitchen. The tune was one of the girls’ favorites. As soon as the singers on the radio started harmonizing, Boom, boom, boom, boom…Velda and her friends-neighbors Marge, Lorraine, and Hudge (a bastardization of Hilda) immediately jumped in to join. Velda then quickly stood, walked to the shelf over the sink, and turned up the little white radio. The music put her in a good mood. When the Chordettes harmonized, … Mr. Sandman, bring me a dream..." Velda reached down and held herself at the crotch.

Ooooh, I’ve gotta' go sissy, she mugged, pulling her flimsy nightgown up between her legs in modesty, so no outlines would show. She then went into her Harpo Marx impersonation. She’d crouch over and scurry out around the corner and down the hall to the bathroom, accompanied by butchered lyrics and laughter from her friends.

Wally didn’t hear her go into the bathroom. He had learned to occupy his mind during his many punishments, and counting things was his favorite pastime. Assisting in his figuring, he knew that his father was 6 feet 6 inches. That fact was routinely discussed whenever kid sizes came up at neighborhood or family get-togethers. People routinely remarked how Sammy, Wally’s brother, was going to be big like his dad, and how Wally was a midget.

Anyway, Wally figured the ceiling was just 1½ rulers over his dad’s head. He computed (even though the word barely existed in 1955) the length of the tiny room compared to the height. He envisioned the wall in front of his face turned over sideways, and how many rulers would be left over long-ways.

He had an amazing ability to concentrate-picture things in his mind, while blotting everything else out. By the time he had come up with the answer, including the door and the ceiling, and deducting the window (5 rulers x 5 rulers) and the closet (4 rulers x 6 ½ rulers), he had concentrated himself into serenity. He smiled, and whispered to no one, 222,228 total imperfections in the paint. The total was quite unlikely, because no two areas on the wall were identical, but Wally didn’t let that bother him. Right or wrong, he just liked to forget his troubles and count.

The figure had been based on the memory Wally had of his room, without looking around beyond his front field of vision, and, without benefit of pencil and paper. This ability, this gift of focused concentration, would stay with him the rest of his life.

Wally’s’ mother, meanwhile, wasn’t going to the bathroom. She had another duty to perform. She had a date with a helpless little boy. She knew that with the radio turned up, her girlfriends would never hear a peep.

The exercise then, was always the same. Emotion would drain from her face as she walked down the hall to Little Wally’s room. At his door, she’d straighten up and collect herself. Her mood then always went from pleasant or plain, possibly even happy-to determined. It was as if she was on her way to look at something on a store shelf. She exhibited all the interest one might take pulling back the curtain to see if it’s raining. She didn’t scowl or frown. She was simply going to do something that she was convinced had to be done. Her attention was rather like checking the mail, or setting an alarm clock.

Standing at the door, she listened-but not for long. The girls wouldn’t wait forever. She opened the door and saw the poor little waif in the familiar position she always demanded as he waited for her. He laid naked, flat on his stomach, legs straight, tight together, both hands under his face-buried in the pillow when he’d heard the door.

And, he always, heard the door open. But he hadn’t needed to. He was all too aware of her presence in the room. Nonetheless, he had heard the radio getting louder, and the girls singing and hamming. His whimpering, which had stalled during his counting exercise, was getting higher and faster. His heartbeat immediately increased. He began to ooze perspiration. He then heard the radio grow quieter as Velda deftly eased the door shut. Stopping, she scanned, and saw the belt coiled on the dresser where she had left it last time-God forbid it had been moved. Soon now…soon.

Wally could feel movement through his bed as the thin plywood floor gave and squeaked. Silently…slowly, she circled, past the other bunk-the one belonging to Wally’s brother Sam. Then, squeezing sideways, she inched between the battered dresser with the simple lamp, and the end of Wally’s bed. She grabbed the belt, and while staring at Wally, almost knocked the lamp from the dresser. Like a cat snatching a little bird off a bush, she grabbed it before it hit the floor.

Wally had been waiting in terror since 6:15 A.M., when his father had gone to work. He always knew he was safe until his father left-not that his father would ever have stopped Velda-no. It was just that Sam Sr. seldom got involved with any of the goings on in the house. Wally didn’t know why, but he knew his mother wouldn’t attack until sometime after his father had gone to work.

But now she was in the room…stalking her prey.

Three hours of sobbing had taken their toll on little Wally’s face. Much of it was crusted with dried mucous from his perpetually runny nose. His eyes were blood-shot and puffy. Three hours of waiting for yet another horrendous beating from his mother. Three hours of wondering what he had done this time to deserve it.

It was now 9:00 A.M., and she was there.

She was standing next to his bed as the song played on, …then tell him that his lonesome nights are over…

She reached over with her left hand and decidedly stroked the belt, her eyes fixed on Wally. She squeezed the smooth leather, and felt it curve, yielding to her grip. She eased it across and in front of her, admiring the craftsmanship, all the while keeping the unfortunate lad in sight. She caressed it with her left hand, straightening it out-doubled. She could feel the cool texture of the two surfaces against her left palm, contradicted by the coarse, almost sandpaper like edges.

Belt quality a non-issue (it always did the job), she had awakened him the night before, and had whispered her intentions in his ear, cautious not to wake his brother, who was sleeping in the other bunk. Tomorrow morning, she’d hissed, you’ll be getting a beating. Don’t get out of bed when you wake up. You’ve got it coming. You know you got it coming. Just lay here and wait for me, you little heathen, and take your punishment!"

Now was morning. He waited. The air in the room stood still. The world stopped. Wally could hear her skin stretch as she raised the belt over her head. He gritted his teeth. He squinted his eyes. He locked the muscles in his legs and arms. His little body stiffened.

…Sandman, I’m so alone….

Velda waited, listened for a whimper, and then brought the belt down violently to chop the head off the chicken she had done so many times as a little girl in Kentucky. Wally’s little body convulsed, but made no audible sound…just like the chicken hadn’t, having lost its head.

And so it went.

Just a small, faint whish followed by…the report.

…Don’t have nobody to call my own…

It was clear. It was definitive. It was the sound of horror. It whispered the whistle of madness with each stroke. To a moral ear, it was a sickening sound…but not to Velda's. That’s because, concentrating on her work, she wasn’t listening.

And neither was anyone else. The whippings-the beatings themselves were never heard at the other end of the house. Even if her girlfriends hadn’t been singing, they always sat, drinking coffee, and chatting, oblivious to what was going on in the back bedroom.

No, Velda's concerns were not the whipping noises, but the Wally noises. She allowed none. None. Not even the tiniest peep was permitted whenever she corrected little Wally, readying him for Jehovah’s New World. That meant no crying out, sobbing, or pleading.

So, the air was dead still between lashes, while in the kitchen, the girls were up dancing, doing a little chorus line kick, laughing and singing, …and lots of wavy hair like Liberace…

But there was no dancing in Wally’s room. The only rhythm there was, happened to be Velda stopping at the top of each up-stroke to acknowledge, if not admire her performance. She looked at herself in the mirror, and saw a thirty-year-old-woman, quite thin, with hollow eyes sunken from worry. Brutal labor as a child, combined with severe malnutrition had taken a toll on her. At any rate, indifferent to her appearance, she went back to work. Up, down. Up, down. Six, seven, ten…it continued. Poor little Wally was at her mercy. He bucked with each stroke, and waited for the next.

He’d had many beatings. This one was worse than most, for he’d insulted his mothers’ friend, Lorraine. While Velda had been out with several of her brothers and sisters from the congregation ‘witnessing,’ Lorraine had called for her, and had asked where she was.

Wally, home sick with yet another cold, had answered the phone, and had given a response he had heard from a skit on the Red Skelton Show. You tell me, and we’ll both know. He thought he was as funny as his idol, Clem Kadiddle-Hopper. He had been aping the comedian, and looking for a laugh.

Lorraine, on the other end of the line, had not thought it was funny, and hadn’t liked his attitude. Later that evening, when little Wally was in bed, she had called Velda to tell her so.

Velda, of course, apologized profusely. I am so sorry, Lor, she had pleaded. That Goddamned kid drives me crazy, and I try my damndest to straighten the little heathen out. It won’t happen again, I swear-see you in the morning?

Okay, Lorraine acquiesced. I just thought you should know. And I expect you to tell me if those little assholes of mine get rude with you.

I know. I know, Velda replied. See you in the morning. We’ll talk in the morning. I’ll take care of it.

Okay, Lorraine returned. All right. Okay. She paused, and then, Five hundred. I’ll call Hudge and Marge.

That’s fine, Velda agreed. And ask Marge if she’s got some cigs. It’s her turn. No, I know she does. Have her bring ‘em. I’m havin’ a nicotine fit tonight. Bye.

Bye.

She stopped the beating for just a moment to flex her fingers, the knuckles turning white from the strength of her grip. The delay afforded her time to repeat another threat to little Wally. Not one sound, she snarled through clenched teeth, lips parting just enough to issue the warning.

Not one sound meant nothing spoken out loud. He could make all the noise he wanted, as long as his face stayed buried in that pillow so the girlfriends couldn’t hear.

In the past, to the opposite extreme, whenever there had been no neighbors in the house, he was allowed to yell all he wanted. And, make no mistake about it, muffled or screamed, she demanded a response. Her personality required it. It was fuel. It was food. It made her feel alive. It provided revenge…revenge for all she herself had endured during the seemingly endless bouts of hopelessness throughout her life.

Interestingly, she frequently told him several hours or even the day before he was scheduled to be punished. Knowing that she had put the boy into a lasting terror somehow made her feel as though she had accomplished something. And, it was the only time she used the belt-always and only in bed. Any other spur-of-the-moment discipline was with her hands, feet, or whatever object she could find; a broom, a ruler, a club-whatever was handy. But, it was the scheduled whippings with the belt that actually, in a twisted way, gave her reason to look forward to…living.

So, had he not responded, he’d have taken away the closure she desperately needed, and without the muffled screaming into the pillow, she would almost certainly have beaten him unconscious right there on the spot.

She raised the belt over her head and brought it down again…and again…and again.

Occasionally, she wouldn’t even tell Wally why he was being beaten. There were also times she would whip him awake without any warning whatsoever, resulting from some prior misdeed, for which he had no memory.

And so it went.

Welts were beginning to raise deep crimson. Some skin had been broken, and the little naked body was bleeding, no underwear to soften the blows.

He wore no underwear because Velda had always insisted he go to bed naked every night. Two birds with one stone, she felt that during a morning correction, there should be no fussing with clothing. She absolutely refused to pull down his shorts, or touch his skin in any way during the set ritual. She always demanded crisp, concise punishment with no hassles. On the occasions when he was asleep, she’d slip quietly into the room, so as to eliminate any chance for pleading. She’d then tear back the covers and start delivering blows upon the sleeping little boy in the frail, sickly little body.

This time, though, he knew it was coming, so he waited in the way she demanded. In addition to the posture she insisted upon, he had learned to cup his hands around his mouth, pinch his nose, and dig his fingers up into his eyes as hard as he could to relocate the pain. He thought it would help him stay silent, because knew that any sound emitted from the pillow would cause her anger to increase, and the blows would come harder-and longer.

Her lashes were usually well aimed. She was good at her work. She aimed for the buttocks, and she usually found her mark. But on occasion, while trying to see herself in the mirror while swinging, she would miss, and lay a welt across his legs or lower back-welts that could be seen when in a bathing suit or shirtless. She knew enough to be careful. She WAS careful-and deliberate.

After each blow, she turned her head to listen…nothing.

Ten, twelve, fifteen. Wally would exhale loudly with groans into the pillow, but it was muted. He’d inhale with a sucking sound coming from around his hands, but also stifled. He cried uncontrollably, his body writhing after each blow, but he dared not lift his head, or attempt to defend himself with his hands.

Her head motions…tilted…frozen between chops, were similar to the searching innocence of a red-robin on a beautiful, misty Sunday morning-a lovely little bird plying the grass for a morsel to feed her young. A robin takes a couple of furious steps, then stops – head cocked – looking – listening. The robin waits for a sound or movement-anything to reveal prey.

And little Wally was this robin’s prey-always had been.

Velda waited. She held her breath, and leaned forward over the little body she had violated so many times before. You make one sound… she whispered at the back of the tiny head, rolling her tongue double so it knotted at the corners of her mouth. One sound, and I’ll knock your Goddamned teeth out!

And so it went.

Jerk the belt up…see the mirror…listen…drive the belt down. She raised and struck the blistering little bottom three more times.

…bring…me…a…dreeeeeeaaammmm.

Timely, as the song was ending, and the girls were breaking out in laughter, little Wally’s’ urine began to flow, darkening the sheet, and filling Velda's nostrils.

At last, she was satisfied. Her work was done. She never ended a beating without a result. A climax. It had to be something definitive. If the boy wouldn’t piss, she would secure something else from him…something that an observer, a teacher for instance, could explain as having been obtained during a fistfight or ball game. On such occasions, she would settle for a handful of hair, a bloody nose, a split lip, or even a release from his bowels.

So, the urine darkening the sheet, the beating stopped. It was over – for now.

She leaned down with teeth still clenched, and whispered into his ear, All entering Jehovah’s New World suffer. And if you ever, ever, talk that way to one of my friends again, may God help me, I’ll kill you, you miserable little son-of-a-bitch! Now, you get cleaned up, ‘cause we’re gonna’ take a nap, and then go witnessing. So, you get ready, and you be ready when I get back!

She stood up, reached and put the belt on the dresser, straightened her hair in the mirror, adjusted her nightgown and calmly walked out, completely oblivious to the heaving, bloodied, tiny mound of pain she had just violated. Easing the door shut, she straightened herself and put on her game face before returning to her friends. Entering the kitchen, she ignored the obligatory, We thought you fell in! and grabbed a Herbert Tareyton off the table, bent over the stove, pulled her gown tight, and sucked her cigarette to life. She stood up, exhaled to the ceiling, struck a humorous Marilyn Monroe pose for the girls, and said with a laugh, I JUST HAD THE BEST b.m!

With her leaving, Wally began an almost slow motion collapse. He pulled his hands from under his face,