The Hollow Identity

By Duane Wisniewski

Shayne Tucker lives in a loveless home. Constantly bullied by his older brother

Doug, and the recipient of physical and emotional abuse from his father. He carefully navigates through his adolescence in an effort to stay clear of his father’s wrath and find some semblance of a normal happy life.

His grandparents provide him with some balance as they are happy to give him the attention and love he so desperately needs. Unfortunately their influence is limited and their efforts to see him are often in vain. As time passes Shayne becomes aware that something about his family is not quite right. There lies a secret within the core of his family that has existed long before he was born. As the secret unfolds it threatens to unravel his entire world and possibly tear his family as he knows it apart.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Oct 9, 2019
• ISBN: 9781796062212

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

T HE BEATING BEGAN like any other: an arm grab, a good hard shake, a couple of jabs to the ribs, and one or two open hand slaps to the face. I hated face slaps. They angered me. It was humiliating, and always made me feel like a wild dog or some other type of animal. It also flamed my deep rooted resentment towards my father which encouraged feelings of retaliation. This of course would have been completely foolish. My father was a large, imposing man. At twelve years of age I was absolutely no match for him, whatsoever.

You understand your place now boy? he asks in his guttural, slurred speech.

It is not so much a question as it is a command.

Eggs aren’t free. Don’t waste them again! his voice snaps me back to the present.

I choose my words carefully and nearly whisper my answer, Yes, sir.

In my mind I had grown tall and strong and picked the miserable excuse for a human being up by the hair, and flung him against the door to his bedroom.

Are you listening to me?!!

Reality sets in.

Yes, I squeak, half under my breath.

Satisfied, he stumbles back towards his bedroom and leaves me alone. Tears begin to build up within me. More from anger than any real pain. I grab my backpack and scamper down the stairs towards the front door.

I launch a quick good-bye to my mother and head out the front door to school. My older brother Doug is standing on our grey lock stone driveway waiting for me.

Are you annoying Dad again Duckman? he says to me with a slight sneer in his voice.

He always calls me Duckman, largely because he knows I hate it.

Shut up! I answer back, a hint of irritation in my voice.

Doug loved antagonizing me. He was a bully, and derived great pleasure out of making my life miserable. He was 16 years old, and much bigger than me. As a result, I really didn’t pose much of a physical challenge for him. I think he felt I was his personal punching bag.

I also have two other older brothers; both of which are older than Doug too. Victor was the eldest at 19. He was also a very large fellow with sandy brown hair and a permanent scowl etched in his face. I didn’t see him much. My parents kicked him out when he was 18. He wouldn’t go to school and was constantly getting into trouble. He liked to fight and to drink beer. Often the two things didn’t go well together. The only thing I had in common with Victor, is that we both hated our father, Victor Senior. Other than that I stayed clear of him.

My brother Michael was the most like me. At 17 he was a little younger than Victor but older than Doug. Michael was what an older brother should be like. He was like a friend and a mentor rolled into one package. He played games with me, and often defended me when Doug was using me as a punching bag. Michael was fun. His imagination was like mine and we both had a love for adventure novels and movies that took us away from the problems we both shared at home. It was unfortunate that Michael was not around more often. He was on the track team, played football, and ice hockey. I suspect this was to keep him away from home as much as possible. He also had a girlfriend named Amanda. I think he spent a fair bit of time at her home.

We crossed the street and headed for the path that cut through the meadow. It was late spring and the grass was a deep green, and reeds and cattails were growing. The cattails were all clumped together in one section of the meadow. They looked like wieners on the end of a long stick blowing around in the breeze.

Hey Shayne! I turn to see my pal, Rich Thompson running into the meadow to catch up to me. Everyone calls him Rich. Even though his mother insists on calling him Richard. He hates being called Richard. His mother thinks Richard is more elegant. His mom doesn’t hit him, but she is overly critical and constantly telling him that he is lazy. Rich says his dad makes up for it and is nice to him. Unfortunately, he thinks his dad is scared of his mom too.

Doug turns to Rich immediately and drops an unrepeatable insult on him. In Doug’s mind if you are friends with me, then clearly there is something wrong with you. We ignore him and slow our pace so that he moves ahead of us. We discuss the fort we are building behind my home but are careful not to say anything that Doug would hear. He would be sure to destroy it if he knew about it. When we are working on the fort we can be ourselves. Our imaginations soar and we are not bound by trivial limitations or scorn from small minded unimaginative people like my brother Doug and my father.

We continue past the marsh and over the small stream towards our school. A makeshift log bridge allows us to cross the stream without getting wet. Harper’s Public School is not a large school. Most of the kids that live in Harper’s Hollow attend school here. The town itself really isn’t much more than a large village made up mostly of farms. The other major employer is the nickel mine in the nearby town of Walden.

We arrive at school and Doug grabs the large metal handle on the door. The handle is tarnished and beaten: clearly it has seen better days, much like the school itself. Doug fires another insult at Rich and me, before he disappears into the school. Rich and I clamor through the door and head to our classroom. We deposit our coats onto hooks outside the room and head to our seats. Our teacher, Mr. Barr is a tall, slim man with big hands and spidery long fingers. Overall he is a great teacher. He is positive and encouraging. I truly believe he loves to teach and honestly cares about his students.

Homeroom finishes up and we head towards our first class of the day, which is French. Mrs. Rodriguez is our French teacher. It never really made sense to me how someone with a Spanish last name taught French, but I kept that thought to myself. Mrs. Rodriguez is the opposite of Mr. Barr. She is short in stature, overweight and has the personality of a drill sergeant suffering from chicken pox.

Did you do your French assignment? Rich asks in a quiet voice so as not to attract attention.

Yah, I did, I respond.

Good, hopefully she won’t yell at you today! he adds, optimistically.

Rich reminds me of Mrs. Rodriguez’s other good quality. When she gets excited or yells she tends to spit! Little specks of spittle fly out of her mouth like a World War II fighter plane shooting bullets. It is quite disgusting.

I take my seat in French class: far left side of the room, middle of the row, close to the window. The lesson begins with a review of verbs, or something. I drift off into a happy day dream. I imagine Rich and I are fighting alien invaders at our fort and winning.

Shayne Tucker!! My head instantly snaps back to the front of the room. Are you paying attention Mr. Tucker? Mrs. Rodriguez asks mildly annoyed.

Yes Ma’am, I answer, my heart beating through my shirt.

Good, then give me the answer to the question I just asked! She fires back at me.

Clearly Mrs. Rodriguez has me in her sights. I have no idea what the question was, and no chance of formulating an answer that will even be close to being correct. I look to my immediate right. Across from me is Duncan Moore, the class brainiac. His homework is always done and he always gets A’s in every class. His disapproving dark eyes and pointed nose glance at me, before he quickly looks away.

The rest of the class I spend in the hallway standing outside the classroom door. This is Mrs. Rodriguez’s favourite punishment for students who don’t pay attention in class. The rest of the day is fairly uneventful and I meet Rich at the end of the day to head home. On the way we stop by Mulligan’s, the local bakery to grab a few fresh baked doughnuts. Rich treats me to a couple as he has money from his job delivering the local paper. The doughnuts are fresh and hot, and they melt in our mouths. In between bites of the sugary goodness Rich asks me if I want to go to the fort.

You should have a couple of hours before your mom and dad get home right? he asks inquisitively.

Yah, probably, I answer.

My mom works at a local insurance company as a receptionist which is not a well-paying job, but I think she likes it. My Dad, on the other hand, does have a well-paying job. He runs a farm supply company that he and his two brothers own. The store carries everything that local farmers would need to run their farms. It is the largest company supplying farmers in the area, so it does well. I have heard over the years they were able to undercut a number of other suppliers and maintain a virtual monopoly. I don’t know what his role in the business is, but he always tells us how hard he works and that his job is very important. It is hard for me to picture him in an important job when I usually see him with his hands wrapped around a bottle of liquor.

Rich and I throw our school bags on my front porch and dart around my house towards the woods out back. Behind my house is a large green space divided by a rock wall separating the upper section from a gully littered with trees and bush. Our fort is about 100 yards from my house sheltered by several large trees. We found four well positioned oak trees which serve as a spectacular foundation. We attached some old planks to the oak trees and built a roof using scrap lumber nailed to the planks. One wall was built using a weather beaten old sleeping bag that we found. We simply tacked it to two of the trees and it covered the whole side perfectly. My parents re-built their deck a few years ago, so Rich and I made off with any scrap lumber we could. This provided most of what we needed. Anything else we located in the gully on one of our many salvage missions.

A typical day for us was to work on the fort, play a game or read some comic books. When we played games, we were always the heroes; trying to right a wrong or protect someone in need. That was our angle anyways. I think it gave us some peace of mind and helped ease the burden of knowing we couldn’t change anything about our own lives.

After we tired of the game, Rich dropped on a rotten log and wrestled a can of pop out of his jacket pocket. After two long gulps he turns towards me and asks, Did you see the new girl at school today?

Yes, I saw her, I reply.

Well what did you think? he asks, pushing the subject.

About what? I ask, already knowing where this is headed.

Oh come on, she is pretty hot, don’t you think? he adds excitedly.

Yes, she is pretty, I add quietly.

I would never have told Rich what I really thought. When I saw her in the hallway of my school I thought she was the most beautiful girl I had ever seen. She had raven black hair that reached her shoulders, and beautiful green eyes. Her smile was warm and honest, and actually made me blush a little when I saw her. It was very unsettling. As she drew closer to me I barely had enough time to duck around the corner and break for the boys bathroom! If she had actually spoken to me, I would never have known what to say. I didn’t know the first thing about talking to girls; at least not really pretty ones!

Rich looked at his watch and announced he had to get home. We both headed up the hill towards the fence surrounding my backyard. The fence was about a foot or two above our heads. It was painted a deep brown colour. The colour had faded a little over the last few years as a more weathered look started to take hold. I pulled on the small string which connected to the gate latch on the other side. As the gate swung open Rich and I push our way inside. Rich hurries around to the front to get his bag and head home. He nearly misses the approach of our family dog, Barnabus. Barnabus eagerly bounds across the lawn to greet me. Our friendly family retriever rushes to my side, his brown matted fur covered with burrs.

Chasing squirrels again weren’t you boy, I say to him as I reach down and scratch his ear gently. His tongue swings like the pendulum of a grandfather clock side to side accepting my greeting without hesitation. As I pet my faithful companion a familiar voice bellows from inside the house.

Shayne! Get in here! You’re late for dinner again!

CHAPTER 2

M Y PARENTS MUST have finished work early today. It’s not typical for them both to be home at this time. My mother was quietly going about her work in the kitchen preparing a salad, and steaming some vegetables for our evening meal. My father was cooking something on the barbecue which looked to be pork or some other type of similar meat. He seemed to like barbecuing. I always found that somewhat humorous as he was terrible at it. The meat was always over cooked and chewy, with little pieces of black gristle on it. As bad as it looked, it tasted even worse. Everything he tried to cook looked like he had used a flamethrower on it.

Eventually we all moved into the dining room to take our seats for dinner. My father always sat at the head of the table in front of the large picture window that overlooked our backyard. My mother always sat on his immediate right. Doug and I would fill in the remainder of open spots with no particular affinity to any seat. Michael was at a track practice and would not make the evening repast. My father reached for a large bottle of red wine that was set in the centre of the table. He poured the wine into an oversized wine glass set beside his plate. He studied me with his typical disapproving stare and fixed a scowl upon his face. Rarely did I see him smile. His thin hair stretched finely across the top of his head. The sparseness of his hair leaving many spotty bald patches of dark wrinkled skin. The result of this was a network of long and thin craggy lines that channeled across the top of his head. The lines were probably created from years of scowling.

Shayne, you can say grace, my father announces in a commanding tone. Similar to a village chieftain giving orders to his tribe.

Looking up at him I state, I said grace last night.

Do as you’re told, is the firm unyielding reply that I am given.

Something important to understand about my family and our household is that control is very key to my father’s rule. Any and every chance he can, he asserts this control. He knows full well that I hate saying grace. I barely speak in class at school. I find public speaking, even with my own family, difficult and intimidating. It makes me very self-conscious. If you find a kid that hides in the back of the classroom and doesn’t say a word, you can usually find me right beside them.

I manage to get through grace without too many hiccups. I choke down the burnt meat and eat some salad and vegetables. Dinner passes without too many more hitches. My father barely speaks to Doug and me except to bark orders, clear the table, take out the trash; that sort of thing. I think we are just an annoyance to him. Most of the time I get the feeling he wishes