Fatal Flaws Read online

  I dedicate this book to my wonderful wife Liane. She has been incredibly helpful during the long and arduous process of producing this novel. As has been true for every accomplishment of my adult life, she has been supportive and instrumental in my ability to actually reach the finish line. Not only has she been a great sounding board for thousands of ideas, but she has also provided crucial editorial advice which has allowed me to create a final product that is far superior to the initial version of this manuscript. In short, she is an amazing wife as well as an incredible helpmate, and I love her dearly!

  There is no safety for honest men, but by believing all possible evil of evil men, and by acting with promptitude, decision, and steadiness on that belief.

  - Edmund Burke

  Fatal Flaws

  Section One:

  Men Can Be Cruel

  Chapter 1

  It was late on a winter night in 1976 and I was asleep in my bed, covered by a homemade comforter my mom had made. This personalized blanket was light green with darker green ribbing around the perimeter. Across the mint colored background, the image of a multicolored train engine had been painstakingly stitched. Complete with a smiling engineer in the window, the locomotive rested on a set of train tracks that extended across the fabric, and puffs of smoke rose from the smokestack.

  At six years old I had two fascinations, trains and monkeys. I clearly recall bugging my parents, on a near daily basis, about purchasing a monkey which we could raise as a sibling to me. I’m not sure what enthralled me about the prospect of a simian playmate, but I even remember a time when, having given up on getting an ape for a brother or sister, I asked my mother if she thought I’d at least get to marry one someday. What a goofball I was!

  In what I’ve come to believe was an attempt to lure me towards my other obsession, my mother provided me with the railroad-themed comforter; perhaps hoping to program my juvenile brain through osmosis while I slept. Apparently, it worked, because I spent a lot of time as a kid collecting model trains and designing elaborate layouts—complete with working signals, crossing gates, mountain tunnels, and industrial complexes juxtaposed along the tracks. I eventually gave up on the idea of having a furry playmate who could hang by its tail, and never even contemplated a romantic relationship with such a creature.

  This night was when I began to understand my father and what he was capable of. It was the commencement of my fear of him and the moment when he began sowing the seeds of hatred that I would increasingly feel towards him as I grew.

  Beyond the impact on my relationship with my father, what I witnessed after being torn from my untroubled slumber began to program my developing mind with the knowledge that I should always assume anyone was capable, given the right set of circumstances, of any act. Because I was forced to be an unwilling spectator of the events that unfolded in front of me— rather than being allowed to remain in a state of blissful unconsciousness—an understanding of human nature began to form within my young mind. As this realization was reinforced by my father’s recurrent abusive behavior, I eventually came to realize any individual could choose to embrace his or her negativity and narcissism, evolving into a horrific monster. Likewise, anyone could make a choice to set aside their intrinsic self-preservation instincts and heroically trade them for a chance to save another. Much later in my life, I realized the defining characteristics of someone’s personality are often determined by two categories of factors: the first is made up of cumulative stimuli to which one is exposed during their formative years, and the second includes the cognitive and emotional reactions experienced in response to such stimuli. In other words, real-life bogeymen, just like real-life heroes, aren’t born... they’re made.

  Of course, all my young mind completely understood on this fateful night was that my father, who I had previously idolized and loved unconditionally, was a cruel and violent man. His treatment of my mother during those dark hours became the first in a long series of lessons which I unwillingly received from him over the course of our relationship. Although, during my earliest years he had locked away his intrinsic demons and revealed only the kind and loving aspects of his personality, he eventually came to embrace his fiendish tendencies. His transformation and failure to even attempt to control the malevolent beast, formerly imprisoned within his subconscious mind, taught me he was no longer worthy of my trust, my loyalty, or my love.

  Chapter 2

  I was jerked from my slumber by the thunderous crash of something in another room, repeatedly slamming into the wall beside my bed. As I woke up, I remember thinking that the wall was collapsing onto my bed, imagining that a giant had arrived outside my house and was trying to punch or kick the walls down in order to get at my family. This terrifying fantasy lasted only a second or two before I began to understand that the disturbance had been caused by someone inside the house in the room adjacent to my own, my parent’s bedroom. Within several more moments, I realized that the object seemingly being used to smash a hole in my wall was not the fist or foot or club of a giant. It was my mother.

  “You see what you made me do?” A familiar, though muffled, male voice screamed on the other side of the interior wall. The cheap, wood-grain paneling, such a popular building material during the 1970’s, and frequently used to cover interior walls, offered little functionality as a sound barrier. Even when my parents were using their quiet voices after they had put me and my little sister to bed, I could often hear them talking as they prepared for bedtime in their room next to mine. If one of them were to raise their voice, the inconsequential paneling seemed to barely even muffle the angry comment or complaint. And if an object were to strike the opposite side of my wall, the sound would seem to be amplified, as if a drummer had used his mallet to pound on his giant bass drum. “Why the fuck do you always put me in this fucking position?”

  “David,” I heard my mother reply, “you’re drunk, and we really shouldn’t be talking about this right now. I’m sure that you’ve already awoken the kids and Mark is probably scared out of his mind. I’m going to go check on them.”

  “I don’t give a shit if they do wake up!” he screamed back at her. “I want to talk about this now, and that’s exactly what we’re gonna do. Sit your ass down and shut the fuck up!”

  The door leading from their room to the hallway was subsequently slammed shut and the drummer’s mallet, once again pounded away. The next sound I remember hearing was the wailing of my 10-month-old sister Amanda from her crib in the room across the hallway. Frozen with fear, I couldn’t understand why my daddy was being so mean to my mommy.

  “David, I didn’t even accuse you of anything,” my mother sobbed. “I just asked where you’d been. It’s late and I’ve been worried about you. It’s okay, though, I don’t need to know. Please, just let me check on the children. Amanda is crying and she needs me!”

  “I’m so sick and tired of hearing about how those goddamn kids need you! I’d like a little of your precious attention myself every once-in-a-while. You know I had a shitty day and that I needed to blow off some steam, but no! You had to sit at home and imagine that I was doing something bad. It can’t just be that I had a couple of drinks and that now I’m home and it’s my turn to get some of Mommy’s attention. You can’t just be ready to service me when I get home. No, you just have to start running your mouth and accusing me of shit!”

  Amanda continued to bawl, and I couldn’t take the sound of her cries as well as my father’s ranting, so I crawled out of bed and crossed the floor on my way to see if I could calm her down. As I opened my door, the hinges made a loud squeaking sound, revealing the fact that I was out of bed.

  “Goddammit! I’ve told that little shit a thousand times to stay in bed,” my father yelled. “He’s about as worthle
ss as you!”

  I had poked my head out of my bedroom door, but I hadn’t yet ventured into the hallway. Amanda’s door, as was usual at night, had been left partially ajar so that my mother could hear if she was stirring or fussing. With my door open, the volume of her crying seemed to have doubled. The yellow-hued nightlight which my mother kept in the hallway provided just enough light for me to navigate my way to the bathroom during the night. The luminescence was adequate for that purpose, but insufficient to light the entire hallway. I looked down the dark corridor and saw nothing but a thin bead of light escaping from under the door of my mom’s room. Just as I began to step into the hallway, the door flew open and my father stomped out into the hallway. The small incandescent bulb of the night light may not have provided sufficient light to visualize the corridor itself, but it was more than bright enough to be reflected in the eyes of what seemed to be a nocturnal predator stalking its prey rather than my father. I was instantly terrified, and I froze in my tracks.

  As my father approached me, I heard my mother yell, “David! No! You leave him alone! He’s just a scared little boy.”

  “Shut your mouth, bitch! I’ll be back to deal with you,” he screamed back over his shoulder. “What the hell are you doing out of bed, boy? Huh?”

  My throat was aching, and my eyes suddenly filled with tears. I could, almost instantly, feel the floodgates within my nose open, allowing a river of tears and mucus to flow from my nostrils. I began to sob uncontrollably and the vision of my furious father staring down at me was blurred as if my eyes had been smeared with Vaseline. I tried to speak, but my throat would only allow whimpers and wails to escape it.

  “I asked you a goddamn question, you little brat!” He was yelling right into my face. Without giving me any additional time to respond, he snatched me up and carried me under his right arm like 40-pound bag of dog food, right into Amanda’s room. Once there, he essentially tossed me onto the thinly-cushioned rocking chair that my mother sat in while feeding my infant sister. He pointed his right index finger at the bridge of my nose as he glared into my eyes.

  “You keep your ass in this chair until I tell you to get out,” he barked at me as he repeatedly poked me in the middle of the forehead with his outstretched finger. It was as if a giant woodpecker had chosen my brow to repeatedly peck as it attempted to find its next meal. The force of each of these blows was brutal enough to snap my head back and would be evidenced by a small cluster of bruises that would adorn my brow for the following week. Clearly, I had disrupted a tirade meant to be focused on my mother, so he wasted no additional time with me. As he turned and marched out of Amanda’s room, he didn’t even seem to notice that his baby daughter was so distraught she was literally choking on the tears and snot that had accumulated from her as she wailed.

  Seated in my mother’s rocking chair across the room from the door, I could feel a gust of wind, generated by the slamming of the door, wash over me, cooling my tear-drenched cheeks. Unbeknownst to him, my father had slammed the door so hard it bounced back open before the latch had time to engage the door frame, so it remained partially open. This allowed every furiously spoken word, every whimper, and every sound generated by flesh colliding with flesh to reach my young ears.

  “Get back in that room!” He screamed at my mother as he stepped out into the hall.

  “No way! This is over! I’m taking my babies and we’re getting out of here!” Her reply was a phrase that would become a pitiful mantra, one that my mother would repeat over and over during similar violent episodes that my father would create over the coming years. I’m not sure if she really meant it that night or if she would ever mean it in the future. What I do know is that she never acted on it, and, eventually, even gave up on issuing the threat.

  The next thing I heard was a series of slaps followed by the sound of something heavy falling on the floor. I couldn’t restrain myself and I crossed Amanda’s room and peeked out the partially open door. Because their bedroom door had been left open and the bedside lamp was on, it wasn’t difficult to silently peer down the hall at the shadowed images playing out the scene before my eyes. My mother, on the floor in a fetal position, was covering her face with her hands and quietly weeping. Between sobs, I could hear her moaning out, “I thought this was over. I thought you were better now. I thought we could be happy.”

  “So, you admit it,” he snarled. “You’re not happy. Maybe that’s why you can’t just keep your damn mouth shut when I get home. What can I ever do to make you happy? You pathetic joyless bitch!”

  As he said this he squatted down, grabbed her by the ponytail and yanked her head back so her eyes were looking into his.

  “It’s like I always used to tell you, babe. Guess I better remind you. I don’t have a problem, so if there is a problem, it must be yours. I’m done trying to be someone that I’m not. It’s just too damn hard, and you’ve clearly never forgiven me for the way I used to be.” With a sneer, he continued. “Well guess what? I’m back, baby, and you’ll never have to wonder about me again!” he sneered.

  He continued grasping her hair and stood up. “Let’s go,” he said. “By the way, don’t even think about holding out on me tonight!”

  In order to minimize the pain of being dragged by her hair, my mother did her best to shuffle her feet and push herself backward. As she looked down the hallway to the partially open door, she caught a glimpse of my tear-filled eyes and knew that I’d seen and heard the entire interaction as my father’s rage poured out of him like superheated magma from a live volcano. The look in her eyes suddenly transformed from sad resignation to one of intense concern for me. While my father finished dragging her into their bedroom, she made sure to give no indication to him that I was witnessing his abusive words and actions. She did her best in that moment to stifle her crying and show me a look of bravery... or acceptance. Or, I don’t fucking know what. I was just a six-year-old kid whose entire view on life and love and family had just come crashing down around him. I do remember looking into her eyes at that moment. As she was dragged the rest of the way through the threshold to their room, she brought her right hand up to her face and held her outstretched index finger in front of her lips. Then the door to their room slammed shut and I, in turn, closed the door to Amanda’s room.

  My young mind did not record any further sounds or images from that night. The next thing I remembered was waking up the next morning lying on the floor next to my baby sister Amanda, who was lying on a pile of blankets on the floor. Somehow, I had blocked out the rest of the audio track from the horror movie that, undoubtedly, continued to play in the room down the hall for some time after the bedroom door had closed. It didn’t matter, however, because in the end, I had many opportunities to share a front row seat with my little sister as we watched and re-watched the many sequels to that night’s feature presentation.

  Chapter 3

  When you live with an abusive man, you learn very quickly what he’s capable of. Once you glimpse his inner monster, you understand that ‘Mr. Hyde’ is always lurking just below the surface of his ‘Dr. Jekyll’ countenance. You learn to appease him and strive to avoid provoking him whenever possible. However, as anyone accustomed to walking on eggshells knows, eventually a shell is going to crack. Depending on his mood and demeanor, the sound caused by your misstep may be so quiet that he doesn’t even perceive it among the ambient noise within his egocentric world. Other times, the sound is like a crack of thunder emitted from a lightning strike occurring just outside the front door. At these times, you instantly know that your transgression, however small it may be, will act as the crowing of the rooster or the ringing of the alarm clock which could awaken his inner beast.

  The other thing that the wife and children of a typical perpetrator of domestic violence knows is that he will most likely spend a large amount of his lifetime apologizing and trying to make up for his temper tantrums. Initially, he’ll try to rationalize his behavior, saying that, if people will just avoid p
ushing his buttons, he’ll be able to control his temper. Sometimes, in order to keep his wife caught in the trap that her life has become, he’ll even promise to get some help. Of course, his perception of the lengths he must go to in order to preserve his family will depend largely on how cowed his mate is versus how much personal strength she still holds in reserve.

  My own mother was ill-adept at dealing with a man like my father for several reasons. First, she was a helper, a fixer. The kind of person who found it very difficult to turn away a stray dog or cat, for instance. She was compelled to sacrifice her own time, effort and sometimes expense to provide care for lost animals until she could find a new home for them. Although she and my father were lower middle class and did not have an abundance of money, she would never walk by a homeless person or drive past a panhandler without offering a generous donation. I think that she somehow identified with the weak and the misfortunate. She knew that she could not solve her own problems, so she was driven to provide others, on a much smaller scale, with the assistance they needed. As much as she feared my father, and despite the fact that he was willing to lash out, both verbally and physically, at her and her children, she knew he was a broken man. She had insight into his history, which included being raised by an abusive father. I don’t think she thought she could fix him entirely, but she could never suppress her need to try to help him deal with the stressors, low self-esteem, and alcohol addiction, all which fueled his temper.

  The second reason was one that is probably common to most victims of spousal abuse. My mother lacked self-confidence and had very low self-esteem. As I searched for a reason to explain why she allowed my father to treat her and us the way he did, I gradually came to understand that she didn’t believe she truly deserved a better life. Of course, by the time a woman becomes convinced she is living the life that she deserves, her motivation for escaping her unhappiness and her dreams of a better future have both eroded to the point that survival becomes her only concern.