When my folks had crab feasts — and, living in Baltimore, they invariably did — the shells had to be taken to an incinerator that seemed far,far away to my 6-year-old self. I’m not sure if this journey was required by law, or the vagaries of trash pick-up. It seemed to take forever to reach the trash-burning facility, which was as terrifying as it should be — smelly, with open fires burning and sullen men chewing on cigars. Can any of this be true? At any rate, it imparted the lesson that every pleasure involved some pain. If you wanted to eat crabs, then you had to drive across town to get rid of the smelly, Old Bay encrusted shells and innards.
I’m sure everyone in my family would agree on the memory that I once took a crab mallet and threw it at my sister, hitting her squarely between the shoulder blades. But was it a regular wooden mallet, the kind given away for free, or one of my parent’s special ones? (Dark wood hammer, silver handle shaped for crab excavation) I prefer to think it was the latter, launched through the August twilight a la Ed Ames, albeit with greater accuracy.
When I was five and my older brother was eight, our parents took us on a trip to the national parks out West. I remember all the bears in Yellowstone (they hand’t closed the dumps yet) and a few other details, but what I remember most clearly was playing on some jagged rocks with Jonathan, and the fact that he accidentally pushed me down onto one of them. I landed forehead first, actually chipping the bone and bleeding profusely (I still have a small lump/scar).
Jonathan felt terrible. Even at the time, I knew it was an accident, but that didn’t stop me from using it to browbeat him for years afterwards. (“You broke the head of your little brother!”)It was the best weapon I had to get what I wanted, and I was merciless in employing it.
When I was about thirteen, we were sitting at the dinner table and Jonathan did something that drove me crazy. (Can’t remember what.) Without thinking, I threw my fork at him.
Even as the utensil flew through the air, I was regretting my act…but not because I was afraid I might hurt him. The fork bounced off his nose, causing no damage. And then, in the fullness of time, Jonathan looked at me, his eyes gleaming, his expression one of unmistakable triumph.
“At last,” he said, “we’re even.”
Joe — that’s a lovely story, and reminds me to admit that this idea owes much to the gorgeous travelogues you’ve posted to AOL’s Hardboiled board over the years.
Not my story, but my friend’s: she and her brothers were all sitting at the kitchen table eating, and arguing, when one of the brothers said something to particularly annoy her. She had a knife in her hand and was using it to gesture, when it flew out of her hand and landed in the wall between the two brothers.
She claimed she never had too many arguments with them at the dinner table again. I guess they thought she was subconsciously acting out her anger. They all grew to be over 6 feet tall, but I don’t know if they ever got physical with each other after that incident.
Jonny was three. I was seven. I can see myself sitting on the floor in front of the TV in my quilted bathrobe. What color was it? I probably only remember that robe from a black and white picture, so it’s not an honest memory, and I’ll never know the color, but I bet it was light pink. Jonny apparently wanted to watch something else (he remembers it as Yogi Bear, but I liked Yogi Bear too, so that doesn’t make sense) and apparently I refused to change the channel.
I don’t remember the conflict, whether it was long or he gave up on using words immediately. But he went into the living room (french doors separated the TV room and the living room) where the fire irons were kept in a stand made of the same black, heavy iron. He picked up the poker I think, but in my memory it was a piece that had a 90 degree bend on one or both ends. He raised it over my head and swung or let it drop.
I screamed of course. But I screamed whenever my brothers touched me, or so I’ve been told and have continued to tell myself all these years. I was a cry baby. I was the girl who cried wolf. My mom didn’t come running. She didn’t come at all. I had to walk into the kitchen, blood gushing and dripping down my long hair. I remember perfectly the sky blue Jackie Kennedy dress, with two darts in the front that ran from the bust to the waist. My mom was going out and this was probably a brand new dress, or at least a special one. And I see clearly the big bloody spot I made as she held me and called for help. I was sorry to ruin that beautiful dress.
Head wounds bleed heavily even when they’re not deep our doctor neighbor from across the street said. An ice pack and pressure stopped the bleeding. I never got Jonny back for that, but you can bet I never let him forget it either.