UPS

I was outside with my brother Tommy. It was a nice, normal day at my aunt and uncle's house, the slightest of breezes making the sweat bearable. Heat had crept into the forecast this fine April day, rising into the 80's. I sat on the porch reading, because that's what I did then, too old to play with dolls, too young to do much else, and aunt and uncle Trapp just aren't the children type of people. Tommy is out on the swing set, practicing his jumps, attempting to beat my record. He won't.

The truck drove by. It was a normal truck, large and brown, letters marking the sides, UPS. Tommy stared it down, it stopped at the end of the driveway and a woman exited the vehicle, walking quickly towards the house. I sat and watched, waiting for the eruption that was sure to occur. Tommy doesn't like UPS.

Tommy got off the swing and ran towards the man, "Get away! Go away! Bitch!"

Well, the woman was in shock at the sudden outburst, and turned to see Tommy running full force into her. Tommy is not a large person by any account. Small for his age at 10, just a little guy really.  He ran full-fledged into the woman tearing into her with everything he had. I giggled watching. Uncle Harry ran out onto the porch to see what the screaming was all about (probably thought I was beating Tommy up again). He took in the scene with a single glance; this was not the first time it had happened.

Uncle Harry tore down the steps and dragged Tommy away screaming, "Let me go, it was her fault."

"Shut up boy, I'll not tolerate this anymore, we's gonna lock you up in the cellar, you don't watch yourself."

I did not stop watching the woman; she resembled my mother; tall, with long legs and sandy blond hair, and a pinched face, sort of like mine. The lady had dropped the package early on in Tommy's little tantrum, and now stood there, tears were welling up in her eyes. She turned away walking back to the truck, trembling.

"Don't come back." I yelled after her. She was not welcome; they were not welcome.

"You hush, girl, it ain't her fault. You just come on inside and help with suppa," said my aunt observing me through the screen door. She went back into the house, and I scowled at her back. Wasn't her business to tell me what to do, I could decide for myself, she wasn't my momma.

My momma lived in jail. Well, it was actually called an institute, but she told us it was like jail. They bring you meals, lock you down, let you outside a little, and take you to therapy. Momma says therapy is bullshit. When she gets out we can be a family again, me and her and Tommy, no more living with auntie and uncle in this drafty old house in the country. Momma used to call this the ass crack of the world; she told Daddy that during one of their fights. "We can't go there, they live in the ass crack of the world."

"It's just for a reunion, the kids will enjoy it." Daddy said.

Daddy was always wrong. Mommy never got her way. We always had to do what daddy wanted, never given a choice.

They fought all the time. Whether it was about religion, daddy's drinking, or something as petty as the laundry, they always yelled. It was distressing. I remember after the yelling I went up to their room (they had the room in the upstairs), and listened to see if they were finished with the quarrel. All I heard was moaning. Both of them were moaning. I assumed it must be a bad thing if they were both moaning about it.