Total pages in book: 128
Estimated words: 119454 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 597(@200wpm)___ 478(@250wpm)___ 398(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 119454 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 597(@200wpm)___ 478(@250wpm)___ 398(@300wpm)
Axel thought about that for a moment. “…I don’t know. Probably not.”
Another minute or two passed.
“I don’t expect you to finally open up and tell me the truth about your life, or take any accountability for the shit you’ve done over the course of my entire life. Takin’ accountability would mean being responsible, and we both know how you feel about responsibility. If anything, what happened today might make you dig your heels in even more. All I know, Dad, is that before you die, it would be nice to know who I come from. The REAL man behind the curtain. Not the stories. Not the deceits. The real story of Tommy Hendrix the second.”
Daddy sat up, then closed his eyes. He took a big gulp of beer, then set it down on a coaster on the nightstand.
“I was born in Albany, Kentucky.”
“You already told me that.”
“I know I told you that, but it bears repeatin’ in case you forgot. My mother, Gayle, was a homemaker. My father worked here and there. Odd jobs. He only had a third-grade education, but was a self-taught electrician. He ain’t have no license or schoolin’, but he did a good job, I ’spose. He made enough to keep us from starving. I had two brothers, yer uncles—Theodore, who we called Ted, and Barry. Ted went off to war and never came back. Barry is still kickin’, but he has a bunch of health problems last I heard. I saw him ’bout fifteen years ago, pure coincidence. We had one sister, Bethany. She was a flight attendant. Moved away to Virginia, married a teacher. She’s dead now. Somethin’ about her heart.”
“Are your parents dead, too? I never met my paternal grandparents.”
Dad took another swig of beer, then placed it back down.
“Yeah. They’re gone. I left home, moved to Portland a long time ago, but I know they’re dead. Family news always gets back to me, no matter where I run off to.”
“What about my grandfather? How’d he pass away?”
“Story I heard was that he had a huntin’ accident.” He shrugged. “I don’t know. Mama got dementia. Passed on in a nursin’ home.”
“How old were you when you moved away?”
“Fifteen.”
“Why so young?”
Daddy’s shoulders went up and down. “Just ready to start my life, I ’spose.”
Axel turned away, and took a deep breath. The old man was closing down again. Feeding him bits and pieces of information, the bits he felt okay with. The bits that were less stained and tattered.
Ms. Florence, I tried. I told him how I felt, and he isn’t doing his part. I knew it wouldn’t make any difference. He ain’t gonna change. The lies are more important to him than me. The lies are a comfortable tomb, and he’d rather die than live his truth.
“All right.” Axel stood, refusing to sit there like some idiot and be force-fed substandard revelations. I’m done practically begging for a miracle. “I’m gonna head on out now.”
Daddy’s eyes widened, and his forehead wrinkled.
“Why?”
Axel didn’t respond. I’m not playing these games with him. He knows damn well why. He slid his phone out of his pocket, checked the time, then put it back.
“Okay… I get it. I figured if I knew the truth, that’s all that mattered.” Axel turned to his father. The man swallowed and looked away towards the window. “I ain’t one of these folks that believes my own stories though, Axel. I know the truth from fiction. Life is a bitch, and then you die. I disappointed myself, too. Not just you and Dallas. Son, what was the sense of us both being disappointed?” The old man turned back towards him, then pointed to the bed for him to sit back down.
Axel slowly sat down, but was mentally prepared to get right back up.
“I left home when I was fifteen ’cause my daddy was strict and ruthless. I went back at sixteen, and stayed until I was seventeen. When I left the second time around, it was for good. I know there ain’t nothing wrong with discipline. Spare the rod, spoil the child, but he… he was beatin’ us real bad.” Daddy’s voice trailed and he looked towards the television, as if it had called his name. He ran his hand along his jaw bones. Over and over, petting himself.
“He was drinkin’, and kickin’ us. Using closed fists. Smackin’ us around. All of us. If he was workin’, he’d spend the check up at bars. Get drunk. Beat us worse. I was the oldest. I got it the worst as far as I’m concerned. I’m not sure why, but I did. He used to call me stupid all the time. Hit me in the head, over and over again. He fractured my leg one time, too. Wailed on it with a bat because he said I wasn’t doing my chores.