24 May Hope

“You are a no-good, worthless excuse for a son!” my father liked to inform me when I didn’t do something exactly how he specified.

Those uplifting, constructive thoughts were just the highlight of my day. After spending the day at school being bullied by kids who lived in households that brought in a much higher income, I had to come home and endure it from my father as well. Jokes about my weight, my clothes, and my choice of hobbies were all fuel for the other kids’ ridicule and endless jokes. My father seemed to have written the bullying manual for them.

Usually, my father’s rage was due to something as small as a forgotten chore, or because I hadn’t followed his exact steps, no matter if the job was completed. He would find any reason to take his frustrations out on me—his only child. Looking back, I’m thankful that I didn’t have a sibling who also had to endure such things.

My father’s real love in life was to knock back a few Colt 45s or a Labatt’s Blue—whichever was the cheapest at the store at the time—and fiddle around underneath his pride and joy: a blue 1972 Pontiac Firebird that he dubbed “Baby.”

Baby was rarely ever driven. Most of the time, she sat in the garage behind our house, covered in a white tarp. What he was doing underneath her, I’m not sure, but I know that Mom was jealous of that car. She’d stare out the window in the kitchen that overlooked the garage while she cleaned dishes, or sometimes she’d lean on the sink and glare. I’m sure if anything walked between her and the garage, they’d be burnt to a crisp by the heat of her hatred.

On those very rare occasions—if, for instance, it was a nice weekend—my father would throw the tarp off Baby and take us for a cruise around the mountain roads, and maybe to a nearby lake to fish. Not all the memories were bad, but those bad ones hung overhead like an approaching hurricane, blacking out the sun and anything positive from those good ones.

If he happened to polish off a few too many beers, he’d stagger into the house, remove his belt from his pants, and hunt me down. It wasn’t uncommon to be beaten so much that I would go numb from the blows.

I’d just let it happen.

There was no point in blocking them, or else your hands and arms would get the welts too. What other choice did I have? I was a small fry compared to my nearly two meters tall, ninety-odd-kilogram drunken father.

I learned to wrap cotton bandages around my torso, which would help lessen the pain of moving around at school the next day. Back then, the teachers couldn’t do anything about it—or at least they just didn’t. I knew other kids who would come to school with blackened eyes, and nothing would be said.

The feeling of hopelessness was a frequent friend of mine.

Until one autumn afternoon.

There was a river near my house—more like a wide crick—but it was a good spot to fish and to hide from the rage of my father. The afternoon was pleasant, and the fish were biting, which is all that mattered. I was watching minnows play with the slack on my line when I noticed a shadow approaching from behind.

Sheer panic set in. My heart began to race. He had found my secret fishing spot. He would never let me have a moment of peace again. This place was spoiled. Ruined. I’d never be happy again.

I turned around, bracing myself for either a tongue-lashing or one with a belt, but found myself staring at a stranger in a business suit.

“Afternoon, young man. Could I interest you in my wares?” His voice was soft and comforting, similar to one you’d hear narrating a nature documentary.

He squatted down and laid his briefcase on the grass, carefully placing his trilby-style hat beside it. The brass latches popped as he opened them, and inside, I saw that it was empty.

“What’re you getting at, mister?”

“Why, I’m offering you the one thing anybody who looks as sad as you could ever want—hope.”

“Hope? How are you going to sell me that?”

“Yes, sir. Hope. It’s for sale today and today only! What better thing is there in life than hope? Isn’t that what they preach in churches? The message of hope?”

“So… you’re an angel?”

This question caused him to pause. His face went slack as he pondered a response. For some reason, my question seemed to be one he wasn’t prepared to answer—or didn’t want to.

He cleared his throat, closed the case, and tucked it under his arm as he rose. “I think, perhaps, this is not meant for you.”

“Well, hold on, mister. I didn’t say I don’t want it!”

“I don’t think it’s right for you.”

“Why’s that?”

“Hope isn’t something money can be exchanged for. No, what you need to find hope is a path—a way through the troubles you’re in. That, I cannot provide.”

“So, I have to find this path myself?”

“Exactly, young man. What was your name?”

“Gary. Gary Liski.”

“Ah! I see! Mr. Liski, the path may not be easy to see, nor easy to get to, but it must be there for hope to exist,” he said as he gently laid his hat on the ground, then popped open the briefcase latches. “This is a tool that can aid you in this endeavor.”

The briefcase was no longer empty. Inside, I saw a large crescent wrench.

“This?”

“Yes, Mr. Liski! This is exactly what you need! A literal tool to help you find your way.”

“I don’t see how this can help me.”

“That is what you have to conquer! You have to see how it can,” he said, thumbing the knurl to adjust the size of the wrench upwards and downward. “See how it can be changed to suit a needed purpose? This is what hope can be as well. The only catch, Mr. Liski, is that you open those young eyes of yours! That is the only requirement, Mr. Liski. Open your eyes and see the way!”

I paused, thinking the whole matter over. I wasn’t allowed to touch my father’s tools unless he asked me to hand him something—and heavens help me if I gave him the wrong one. This wasn’t like my father’s rusty, well-used tools. This shiny object appeared to have even been polished to a pristine, bright glow. Not a single scratch was on this item. It might as well have just arrived straight from the factory.

The hunk of metal vibrated in my hands—a low hum that was similar to an idling car. I couldn’t take my eyes away from it. Something about the thing mesmerized me.

“How much do I owe you?”

“Oh, today is a special day, Mr. Liski! Today, you can have this for free. Absolutely free! No hooks, no gimmicks. Just take this and find your hope, young man,” his strange smile spreading across his face as he picked up his briefcase, donned his trilby hat, and turned around to leave.

I watched as the man descended the hill, toward the main road. The crescent wrench sat on the grass next to me, glistening under the midday sun. A thought occurred to me, one that I wished I had asked before he left. I jumped to my feet and ran over the small hill to ask the man the question, but as I crested the hill, no one was there.

The man was gone.

There was nowhere for him to reasonably hide. I mean, why would he be hiding from me? All logic would say he would have continued onward across the empty field to the dirt road. Even if he had been running at full speed, he still wouldn’t have made it to the road by then.

Baffled, I sat down, staring at the object before me, dwelling on the other puzzling question.

What do I do with it?

* * * * * *

That evening, I was helping my father work on Baby again. What he was working on exactly, I was unsure of, but he was under it on a small cart he fashioned out of old 2x4s with wheels to roll it around. He liked to brag about how it had been saving his back.

“Damn it!” he yelled. “Wrong size! Gary!” I snapped to attention, terrified I had screwed something up. “Hand me a crescent wrench! One of those bigger ones!”

I dug through his tool chest and couldn’t find one bigger than what he already had. I knew I had seen a few of those before, but they were absent then. The adrenaline of panic was pumping hard through my body. I was shaking, knowing that my father’s patience would be near its end.

But then, I remembered.

It was in my pocket, burning and humming once again.

The warmth of the thing was surprising but oddly welcoming. It felt peaceful to hold. It reminds me now of a warm blanket on a cold day. My thumb rolled around on the knurl, feeling its grooves dig into my flesh as it went up and down.

I debated whether I wanted him to have it. It was special, given to me and only for me to use. The strange man even said so.

“Where are you, dummy? Come on, already! If I have to get it myself, you’re gonna get it, boy!”

His yelling jarred me back to reality, and I hustled over to him. The thought came across my mind to not hand it to him—that it was mine, not his.

“Gary!”

The wrench went from my hand to my father’s dirty, car-grease-blackened paw. I heard him crank it around a few times and yell, “Finally! I’ve spent all day trying to get this loose!”

About thirty minutes later, he handed me the wrench back, which I tried to pocket as stealthily as possible. He paused, contemplating something.

“Is that mine?”

“What?”

“That crescent wrench. It looks new.”

“Yeah. It was in that drawer,” I said, hastily pointing in a vague area behind me.

“Hmm. Guess I forgot about it,” he said as he rolled back under Baby.

My nerves were shot. Vomit bubbled in my stomach, tossing and turning like a stormy sea. The terror of my father questioning me about how I had acquired it—the man and his promise—was too much. I didn’t want him to know because he’d destroy my happiness, dashing it against my cage’s cold, steel bars.

Shaking, but trying to hide it, I awaited my next orders, which came in short time.

“Go in the house and bring me the six-pack from the fridge. The Labatt’s in the back! And hurry the hell up!” he commanded, letting out a lengthy, baritone belch.

When I returned with his goods, he wheeled out on his cart, popped the top, gave it a few quick chugs, burped again, and said, “Thanks,” as he wheeled back under Baby, setting the can on the hood.

Like a good little soldier, I once again awaited the next orders at my post. I took the wrench from my pocket and couldn’t help but stare at it. The thing felt like a treasure that held some forgotten, ancient magic.

My father wrapped up his tasks, and we headed inside to have dinner with my mother. I noticed she was sporting a new bruise going across her cheek and her ear. Later that night, I heard them fighting well into the night. The sounds of slapping, yelling, and things hitting the wall filled the night until my father finally collapsed into a drunken slumber. Mom would usually come into my room and sleep with me after these arduous battles. She said she couldn’t stand to sleep with him when he would behave that way and reek of beer. Once I was too big to sleep in my tiny twin-size bed with her, I slept in my sleeping bag and let her have the bed. She’d argue, but I had matured enough to understand that she needed the peace more than I did.

That night, as my mother cried herself to sleep, I kissed her goodnight on the cheek, whispered that I loved her, and sat on the front porch. The only company I had was the darkness and the sound of insects and frogs. I rocked in my mom’s favorite chair as a gentle, warm summer breeze wrapped itself around me. Lost in a fantasy world where my father was dead and my mom was happy, I heard bootheels clicking on the wooden boards in my direction. To the left, I saw a figure sit down in my father’s chair and begin rocking.

“Good evening, Mr. Liski.” I knew that voice.

“You’re back?”

“Yes, sir. I came to check on your progress. Have you found the way yet? Or are you hopelessly lost?”

“I… well, I haven’t… yet,” I said, disappointed in myself.

“Ah. Well, don’t sound so glum, young man. Hope is not an easy thing to find. Usually, it is because you are not looking in the correct place or at the correct time. Everything has to align in just the right way, and it will be as if a light has been activated in your mind—everything will become clear. One must not give up. Perseverance is key, but so is that crescent wrench,” he said, pointing down at the metal object I didn’t realize I was holding.

“Can I ask you something?”

“Ask me anything!”

“What do I do with it?” The tool’s metal gleamed in the pale moonlight.

“As I said before, Mr. Liski, that is for you to find. But if you want a clue—it is blue,” he said, smiling as he stood up and walked down the road once more. I watched him walk out of sight, but this time, I didn’t give chase—I knew he wouldn’t be there.

* * * * * *

The weeks passed, and the weather became colder and harsher. Soon, we were spending more time indoors than out. My fishing was on hold until spring, so I was trapped in my room with books and my imagination for fun. I was immersed in a world of my creation, a safe place far from the chaos that could erupt in my actual life. My life was horrifying as it was, so I’d read fictional stories of killers and monsters that were not my father.

With each passing day, it became apparent that something in my father was breaking. Whatever that force, that wall that contained his rage, was shattering. The beatings of my mother became more ferocious and energetic. One day, it went from dawn to dusk when my father had finally gone to sleep. Every room in the house, minus mine, had witnessed their back-and-forth slugfest.

My mother, bless her, would try to hold her own. She sometimes would get the best of the bastard and knock him on his ass. That’s how the last battle had ended. I watched through the crack in my door as he slammed their bedroom door closed, holding a hand over his right eye.

Through the crack, I saw my mother slide down the wall onto her bum, and then she wept. I had never heard her cry like that. It’s difficult to describe. I suppose you could say it was the wailing of someone who had concluded they had no escape, no salvation—no hope.

I don’t know what happened then, but I felt something snap at that moment.

Finally, I could see it—my path to hope.

The purpose of the wrench was so obvious then.

* * * * * *

The following day, I helped my father work on Baby once again. He was now nursing an eye that was ten shades of purple and black. He cursed and belched while he was underneath his true pride and joy. I handed him whatever he asked for, as I always had. Out of all those times I’d helped him, he hadn’t once attempted to show me how to fix anything. To him, I was just a dog that played fetch.

I had a dog once. He was my best friend—my only friend. I named him Lemmy after the lead singer of Motörhead. Lemmy didn’t like my father and would growl when he started getting mouthy with my mom. One day, he punched Mom on the cheek, and Lemmy clamped down on his thigh. He tore open a vein, and my father gushed blood. He nearly bled to death before arriving at the hospital. I can remember wishing that he had. When he came back home, he hobbled to the backyard where Lemmy had been tied up and shot him.

He made me watch the entire thing.

“See, boy. This is what happens when you break the rules. This is what happens when you cross the boss!”

I stood beside Baby, fiddling with the wrench as he dropped another loud curse, and I heard the ping of something metallic hitting the floor. It rolled across the floor, stopping as it hit my sneaker.

“Will ya get that for me, or are ya too stupid?”

I bent down and examined the rusted nut. I thought about throwing it across the garage and telling him to go to Hell, but something better came to mind.

After getting onto all fours and crawling under the car a bit, I said, “Here it is.”

“Are you forgetting something?”

“Sir,” I said, feeling a twinge of fear snaking its way down my spine. He had trained me to call him that since I was old enough to speak, and if I didn’t—well, that would be another reason for him to hit me.

“Good boy.”

I stood up and then turned my attention toward that rusted, piece-of-crap car jack. It was a miracle that thing could hold up Baby. It looked as if it couldn’t even hold up a Radio Flyer wagon, let alone a multi-ton muscle car.

I smiled, turned around, and hollered, “Hey, sir. Do you remember Lemmy?”

He paused and said, “You mean that mutt that sent me to the hospital? What about him?”

“This is for Lemmy… and Mom.”

I took the wrench and loosened the nut that held the pin in the jack. Then, with one swing, I hit the pin, and it flew out of the jack across the garage.

The rest happened in an instant.

Baby and its massive steel body fell on top of my father, bouncing off of him a few times. Something warm and wet splattered all over my lower half. I looked down and only saw crimson covering me and half the garage.

After that, there was beautiful, wonderful silence.

I smiled and laughed for a few moments, and then I cried.

Those tears weren’t for my father or for what happened. It was because I had found exactly what that strange man had told me about.

Hope was finally in sight.

It’s blurry after this point for a while, but I told my mom a version of what happened. I left out the part about me causing the jack to fall. She freaked out at first and called the police. It was determined that the rusty jack had failed, resulting in my father getting crushed into a flapjack.

* * * * * *

We took the little money that my father had squirreled away from us to afford his fun, and after selling Baby, we moved in with my mother’s parents in Toronto.

Things only improved from there.

She met a man while working at a café as a server. His name was Bert. He was a very well-off investment banker and had recently lost his wife to cancer. They were married within a year. Another year passed, and I had a little sister. Bert and I became close. To this day, I still call him Dad. I spent a lot of time in therapy to put my life before Bert behind me.

I write this in the hopes of getting a lot off my chest. My mother doesn’t even know what happened, and I doubt she’d ever believe all the details. She’s now in a retirement home, waiting out her remaining time in a state of dementia.

When my mother and I boarded that bus heading toward Toronto, I stared out the window watching the rain. I saw something move in a nearby shop window. A man turned and waved. He wore a business suit and a trilby hat, and in one hand, he held a crescent wrench.