The Hammer and the Bunny

It’s amazing how vivid some things can be in your mind. It’s interesting how the brain holds onto certain events and the corresponding details for a long time. I suppose it’s a coping mechanism. When something intense happens, it needs to be processed and stored so that you can see it coming before it happens the next time. Sometimes, the pieces don’t all get stored until they all connect. Sadly, sometimes that means previously happy experiences are forever tainted by the ones that follow. It’s not always good to connect the dots.

We went to one of those family bonding places that you visit in the Fall. Hay rides, craftsmen, cute gift shop. I remember a few specific things about the day, like throwing hay around in a fenced in area. Kid stuff, hunting down your dad and brother to plop a solid handful of the stuff on their head.  We took some photos that day, the picturesque family shots where everyone looks happy and normal. Well, not quite family shots. My mom always took the pictures, so she was never actually in them. She never, ever, wanted to be on camera.

We also went and made our own sledgehammers. There was a station set up where a craftsman helped you form the head, hollow out a hole, and set the handle. All wood of course, like the early settlers. I thought it was the coolest thing. It inspired daydreams of log cabins and horse corrals and cowboys from all those Louis L’Amour books I read. I longed to heft it to my shoulder and swing it like a man. Instead, I brought it home and tucked it in the corner of my room next to my bed. I figured it was as good as the proverbial baseball bat for keeping bad stuff at bay. Not so much, as it turns out.

On the other side of the room was a ceramic bunny. Actually, there were lots of bunnies. My mom decided I should collect bunnies. I suppose we’ll revisit that emasculating concept later on. Anyway, this bunny was about life size, maybe a little bigger. My grandmother had made it in a ceramics class for me, and I liked the concept that someone actually thought about me and made something for me. Grandma was dead now. I watched her waste away and finally succumb to brain cancer, so this was the only thing I had to remember her by. I hated all the bunnies gracing the shelves, but that big one on the floor made me happy.

I woke up one morning to a quiet house. No big surprise there, mommy dearest never made it out of bed before noon. Depending on what shift my dad was working, he was either not home or sleeping. The siblings weren’t up yet. I wandered down the steps and saw that my mom had been painting the night before. She kept odd hours, usually staying up into the wee hours and then sleeping all day because she had a migraine. Oftentimes here midnight pursuits involved rearranging the house or making a craft of some kind.  On this occasion, she had pulled out some oils and painted a daisy on a piece of slate. It wasn’t big, maybe 6” x 10”. It wasn’t particularly good, but had that folk art charm that some people dig. It was, however, shiny. And I was mesmerized by the sheen. I had never seen an oil painting up close before. I loved the smell and the paint daubs scattered on the pallet. I loved its texture and the way it glistened. The whole concept fascinated me — it felt real and alive.

I reached out and ran my finger along the edge of the slate. I dabbed a finger on the flower to see what it felt like. I thought it was dry. Oils, as it turns out, do not dry quickly.  The flower smudged. My stomach dropped. My curiosity had once again made a mess of things. I had to fix it. I tried to move the paint back where it was with my finger. It smudged even more. I stood there frozen. Now what? Do I attempt to paint over my mess? I had no idea how to even begin that process.

About this time, my dad ambles out of the bedroom in his tighty whiteys on the way to the bathroom. He stops when he sees me standing there and comes over to see what’s going on. He takes a look at the mess I’ve created and does what any normal dad would do. He squeezes my shoulder, gives me a conspiratorial grin and says “uh oh, how are we going to fix this?”

Actually, no. He didn’t do anything of the kind. Instead, he spun on his heels and marched right back to the bedroom to wake my mother and tell her what a destructive little shit I was. He couldn’t wait to give her all the juicy details on her ruined flower painting.

As a woman who rarely slept during normal sleeping hours, it was a bit like waking a grizzly during hibernation. There was going to be a great deal of unhappiness, roaring and screaming, and you might get eaten. I was about to get devoured.

She lit out of the bedroom like the house was afire. Pale pink “headache” bandana wrapped around her greasy head; chubby body falling out of the ratty plaid nightgown. She’s yelling. Screaming. The usual fare, what an awful, deceitful child I am, how I can’t be trusted with anything, how all I cared about was myself. I ruined everything I came in contact with.

Then inspiration struck. She told me to stay in the kitchen and I listened to her stomp upstairs. I stared at the pattern on the dingy brown and yellow linoleum with impending dread. I didn’t know what it was going to be this time. Was she going to smack me around for a bit? Throw things at me? Was she going to my room to find some other evidence of criminal activity to add the list of sins for which I needed to be punished?

She marches into the kitchen with the wooden sledgehammer in one hand and the ceramic bunny in the other. She places the bunny in the middle of the floor and drags me over to the counter. Then she swings. She screams. I scream. She becomes more enraged. She swings the hammer again. Chards of ceramic fly around the kitchen. She keeps swinging, trying to break off more and more pieces. Chunks slam into my skin. She’s at full throttle now, swinging and screaming and foaming at the mouth. She tells me how much I deserve it. I destroyed something of hers, and she is going to destroy something of mine. I need to know what it feels like to have something important to me destroyed. I need a lesson. I am such an ungrateful little shit, breaking everything around me, intentionally hurting others. She’ll teach me. She’ll show me.

She throws the hammer down, grabs me by my hair and shoves me to the floor. “Look at the mess you made” she screams. “Pick this up. Pick it all up. PICK IT UP!!!” I’m trying not to cry, that will just make it worse. I’m not sure if I should actually pick up the pieces or just lie there and wait for her to hit me. Everything is fuzzy, my brain is not processing fast enough. I know whatever I do, it will be wrong, I’m trying to pick the least wrong immediate response. My palms and knees are digging into chunks of clay. I start to pick up a few of the pieces next to me. She screams “Get up!” and slaps me on the head. She points to a big chunk of ear by the door and pushes me towards it. I am thankful to be temporarily out of arms reach.

As always, dad stands idly by and watches the carnage.

I take the garbage can out from under the sink and start mindlessly bending down and placing pieces into the brown paper trash bag.  I am a piece of shit. I can’t believe I ruined her painting. The room is a blur. And now Grandma is really dead.

Many years later, my brother remembered the incident. Which is always a bit weird to me, too. I suppose there is some part of me that thinks I’ve just concocted the whole story in my head and none of it ever happened. So when I get independent confirmation that it did, it’s somewhat surprising to me. Anyway, he had this to say about it:

“And I have a totally different recollection of the bunny. I had forgotten the wooden sledgehammer. That was a nice touch; she certainly had a flair for irony, didn’t she? For some reason I remember her going upstairs and the sinking feeling in my stomach, deep sinking, churning, dark, dark dread. Near panic. Wanting to do something, feeling helpless, wanting to protect you, feeling worthless. In that way you have always been stronger than me; I couldn’t handle it. I hid. I found a place as far away in that small transparent house as I could and I hid. I covered my eyes, I smashed a pillow or something over my ears, till the world was black and far away. Maybe that’s why I always assumed it happened upstairs. And I heard the smash. And I cried, I sobbed. I hated her. I wished her gone. I hated her. Hated her. Hated her. What she did was wrong, I knew it in my bones then. And I hated her for what she did to you. Me, fine, but not to you. Made me angry, made me want to throw her against a wall. I went to you afterwards, and in silence we tried to pick up the pieces for the next few years.”