Random Acts of Prose

The picture is real, the story isn't. I see this house everyday on the way to work and decided to stop and photograph it one morning. As I stared at the developed photo, this is the story I imagined took place within its pink walls. Enjoy this random act of prose...

The Pink House

Damn that house! Damn that pink house!

I see it from time to time when I decide to drive the coast to work and there it is, a pink nightmare! I haven’t stepped foot in the house for over twenty years but I can still remember every nuisance of its pink existence. My stepmother, Barbara-Jo, (who insisted that she be called Barbara-Jo) begged my father to paint the house pink. Not just pink but an eerie, iridescent pink. I hated and still hate Barbara-Jo. I hate her for her false opulence, I hate her for her over-the-top extravagance and most of all I hate her for what she put me through during the fourteen years I lived in that damn house.

My mother passed away when I was the young age of three. Passed away. The terminology seems so inappropriate for the death of my mother. I understand the concept completely, but my mother was not one to just pass away from anything. She was the quintessential busybody and over reactor. All of this I learned from her sister but I can imagine her scurrying around our home fawning over every little detail. The house wasn’t pink then. It looked like a normal house.

Images of my mother exist only in my head because I have no actual memories of her. My father kept no pictures and he refused to say her name much less allow himself to remember her. I only know of one picture of my mother and my Aunt Rose keeps it in a teak, wooden dresser drawer given to her by my grandmother (another matriarchal figure of my family I do not remember.) The picture is of a woman with auburn hair and over sized dark-rimmed glasses. She had a slight overbite that caused her lips to jut ever so slightly upward. Her smile seemed unfinished and her nose crinkled right below the bridge. Beneath her thick lenses sat eyes that were an unfinished blue like a pale amethyst. Her face was slightly freckled and she appeared no older than twenty-five. My Aunt Rose swore she was only eighteen when the picture was taken. That would have meant I would not come into the world for at least four years. Whenever my aunt allowed me to look at my mother’s picture I would compare her face to mine. The only semblance we shared was red hair and the crinkle, which I have grown to adore.

Aunt Rose informed me that my mother’s interloping was a direct result of my father. She insists that before my father came along, my mother was quite reserved and would never dream of meddling in other people’s affairs. My father, a man who shows loyalty to absolutely nothing, would disappear for days on end with no excuse or explanation. Again, my memory of my childhood with my parents is both blurred and unreadable. Aunt Rose contributes all of my mother’s bad attributes to my father. It is no secret that she despises my father and his second wife, Barbara-Jo.

Barbara-Jo. What a character. If you were to close your eyes and imagine the most ridiculous woman in the world, you would have a snapshot into the life and lifestyle of Barbara-Jo. She is living proof that my father had to have taken my mother's death very badly. Everything about her is excessive; her hair, her make-up, her perfume, everything. I learned that my father was having an affair with Barbara-Jo shortly after my mother became pregnant with me. It never mattered because to me she has always been Barbara-Jo. It seems odd that I would completely block the first three years of my life. Most people I know remember snapshots of their youth but I don’t. I only remember the time I spent with Barbara-Jo.

Every morning Barbara-Jo would make breakfast for me. Every morning I sat before a plate of eggs, bacon or sausage, and toast. Every morning except Sunday morning, when she had to nerve to make pancakes in the shape of my choice. Every day I came home from school and there she was... Barbara-Jo. She would be sitting on the porch of that hideous pink house with an ignorant grin on her face. She would ask me meaningless questions about my day as if she really cared. I hated Barbara-Jo. I hated her because she would never allow me to complete my school projects with out going overboard as she did with everything else. The solar system had to rotate around the sun. The volcano had to erupt bright red food coloring. The poster couldn’t simply read, “Vote for Candace,” it had t be ornately decorated like everything in her life. This was Barbara-Jo. I hated her. I hated everything she stood for and I hated my father for marrying her.

My seventeenth birthday was the night my disdain for Barbara-Jo grew out of control. It was night that my father, a man who drowned his failures and doused his triumphs in alcohol, stumbled into my room. He was holding a large box wrapped in red paper with a large gold bow flanked by little silver stars. I could see that it was Barbara-Jo’s handiwork. My father, a man who stood six feet, three inches when he was sober and able to stand, fell on the edge of my bed as I lay pretending to sleep. He was unshaven and his salt and pepper beard displayed more salt than pepper. His breath was both audible and pungent. I could smell the alcohol fermented on his tongue. His brown eyes were surrounded by a yellow haze and were glazed over as if he was unaware that he was even in my room. He mumbled something and shoved the box in my direction. I half-heartedly smiled and began to peel back the wrapper.

I’ve read stories that wild animals in captivity can be triggered by almost anything and violently revert back to their primitive instincts. I’m not sure what I did or said but my father went from drunken stupor to violent rage in seconds. Before I could say a word he was on top of me swinging his arms wildly, slapping my face. “Why did you leave me?” he garbled. He tore open my nightclothes and began raping me as if he had never seen my face. For what seemed like an eternity my father violated me while muffling my screams with his calloused dirty hands.

The ordeal was horrific and to this day I still shiver at the thought that my father could have violated me. Immediately after my father fell asleep, I ran into Barbara-Jo’s room and locked the door behind me. I crawled into her bed and wrapped my arms around her. I sobbed in her bosom refusing to reply to her constant inquisition, “What’s wrong?”

Finally, I mustered the courage to tell her what happened. Her face was stoic. She didn’t reply. Instead she stroked my hair, kissed my cheek and took my hand leading me back into my bedroom. She wrestled my father to his feet and drug him back to their room. She came back to my room and stood at the door smiling. It had to be at least ten o’clock at night, but I distinctly remember Barbara-Jo still wearing an absurd amount of make-up as she did everyday. The mixture of her Red Door perfume and my father’s drunken must created a malodorous stench throughout my room.

She kissed the palm of her hand and blew the imaginary kiss towards me. She turned off my light and turned and walked away. I must have cried myself to sleep because I remember waking up to the sound of sirens. Red and blue lights chased each other around on the walls of my room. I peered out my window and saw police cars, an ambulance and a fire truck. I ran into the living room to witness two men in uniform zip up a large white bag. I recognized my father’s red nose as the zipper barely traced its tip.

Sitting on the coach was Barbara-Jo, shaking but not hysterical. I listened as she told the police about a man who had broken into our house that night as I slept. She told the police that the man entered their bedroom and demanded their belongings. She reported that she screamed and the masked man fired his weapon through a pillow at my father three times and then turned and ran out of the house. She described the man with great details and paused as she thought of the terrible act he perpetuated against my father. The police officer wrote vigorously in his little notebook and once placed his hand on Barbara-Jo’s knee to comfort her. He turned towards me and Barbara-Jo stood, walked towards me, and placed her hands on my shoulder. She informed the police officer that I was a heavy sleeper and probably didn’t hear a thing. The police officer was satisfied and promised that his crew would finish up as quickly as they could.

I didn’t attend my father’s funeral, but Barbara-Jo did. She tried to convince me that my attendance would be appropriate but I refused. Three months after he was in the ground, I moved out of the pink house and vowed to never return. I’ve never questioned the validity or the details of my seventeenth birthday with Barbara-Jo. All I know is that I hate her. I hate her for not sharing with me the vengeance I believe she exacted upon my father that night. If she was telling the truth about the masked man, I hate her for allowing him to carry out a punishment that should have been reserved for us.