Books by S.B. Martin

Mother wasn't happy with her lot in life and she made that amply clear to everyone around her. She hadn't intended to marry a garbage man. She thought my father would be somebody, but after the children started coming he sat aside his dreams and ambition to put food on the table. He was content to work and raise his family, but Mother was not.

In the fall of 1942 he took a chance at a better life for all of us. He enlisted in the military and was stationed at an internment camp in the states. Mother was ecstatic at this opportunity not only to bring more money into the household, but for her to receive a little freedom. Unfortunately, this decision ensured that my life and the lives of my siblings would never be the same again.

At the time I was living in a small town in Michigan with my mother, Irene, Bobby, and Margie. Irene was my older sister by eight years, Bobby was a year younger, and Margie three years younger. I was six.

After father left things began to change. It was little things at first. Mother would go out and not come home until early the next morning. The laundry and the dishes began to pile up. Within a month there was scarcely enough food in the house to feed a starving rat let alone four hungry children. Irene yelled at Mother about the lack of food, but it did little good. Mother told her it was her job to take care of us when she wasn't there. That's when Irene started stealing from the store.
Eventually Mother took a job at the local airport, which had been turned into a car manufacturing company. We thought things would get better now that she was working, but we were proven wrong. She rarely came home after work. At times she would be gone for a week or better. Irene did a good job of filling in on these occasions. Neither Bobby, nor Margie, seemed to notice her absences.
On the rare instances when she was home none of us wanted her there. She acted resentful that we even existed. The law of belt and fist ruled our household and we would cringe and scatter like whipped dogs.

After a few months of this abuse Irene took to leaving when Mother came home, which left me to care for the younger children and take the brunt of the attack. I would've gone too if I'd had somewhere to go.

Mother's cruelty turned violent for the first time on a cold afternoon in December of that year. Father was on his way home having been given a three day pass for the Christmas holiday. She was upset that her plans had been ruined by her husband. She cleaned up the house then set to working bathing us. She knew if he figured out what was going on behind his back there was a chance he would stop sending home his pay and she couldn't abide that.

It was during my bath that I had my first meeting with fear, not fear of the belt or fear of the fist, but the tangible, haunting fear of death.

She scrubbed the dirt from my face with a washcloth. If I close my eyes I can still smell the ivory soap on it. As she scrubbed the washcloth slipped into my closed eye, just enough to create the stinging sensation. I screamed. She told me to shut up. Then I did the unthinkable. I called her what I'd heard Irene call her on other occasions, whore. It was out before I knew what I was saying. Her face grew red with anger.

"You called me what?" she screamed.

In one swift movement she grabbed the back of my hair and pulled me under the water. I was in shock. I looked up at her face seeming to float on the surface. In that instant I knew that she could kill me. I kicked my feet and pushed with my palms, but it was no use. She was stronger than me. I tried to scream, but only managed to choke down water.

I heard someone enter the bathroom then Irene shouted, "What are you doing to her?" Mother was too busy struggling with me to answer. "Get her out of there." Still Mother didn't answer.

I heard a loud bang, like something falling. Then I was free. My face broke the surface and I gulped the air. I, shakily, climbed out of the tub chocking, and coughing. I saw Mother on the floor between the bathtub and the toilet. Irene stood next to her holding a fist in the air. I realized Irene must have hit her to free me. I wanted to hug my sister, but Mother was coming to.

Irene threw me a towel and shouted, "Go, get out of here."

I stood there for a moment, unable to move then Mother got my feet moving. She got up shouting, "I'm going to kill you, you little whore."

I ran still coughing through the dining room and into the living room. The room was filled with piles of molding laundry. I jumped in one of the piles and pulled the clothes over me. The smell was almost unbearable, but I was so afraid of Mother at that moment that I easily ignored it.

I heard banging from the other room. Mother was yelling, but I couldn't make out what she said. Then Irene screamed. It was such an awful sound that I put my hands over my ears. A few minutes later I heard the front door slam shut.

I waited with my breath held for Mother to come find me, but she never did. Eventually, I slept and when I woke the house was quiet. I came out of hiding and found Irene changing into her nightclothes. When she pulled her shirt off I saw the marks on her back where Mother had hit her with the belt. They were long, red, raised marks. I picked up my nightclothes and began changing without a word. We never spoke of what Mother did to us. It was better to forget.