Actions Louder than Words

It wasn’t an aggressive feeling. He wouldn’t allow that, but Jordan was a consistent thought—one that always seemed to be there when there was nothing else to think about. After that first day in Mrs. Reagan’s class, over a year had passed, and Jordan and Jericho had become friends—if you could call it that. They never ate together, never sat near one another in class, never joked together in the hall, never did anything that would have indicated that they were friends. Though Jericho found it increasingly harder to pretend to laugh at the jokes his other friends made about Jordan, and almost cringed when he heard the name Shantaye, he still hadn’t found the courage to defend him. Whatever they said to one another was reserved for privacy, after they both were home, away from everyone, and it was mostly always on paper. Jericho felt it; it was that thing that made him check to see if he were being watched, made him move quickly, made his heart throb in his chest when he heard footsteps. It was why Jericho always rushed to locker 341 immediately after the last bell rang and snuck his letter in only when he knew no one was around. He didn’t allow himself to labor on why he snuck, but he did. It was the same reason Jordan rushed from his last class, oftentimes forgetting to write down his homework assignment, to sneak the letter from his locker into his pocket before anyone saw him. They didn’t acknowledge it then, but even at their young age, they knew why they had to sneak.

April 8, 1995
4:06 PM

Something seemed all wrong as Jericho approached the house. He saw that his father’s truck was outside, which was awkward because he usually didn’t get home from work until long after Jericho was there. Equally awkward, it was completely silent as he walked through the front door into the dim house. No lights, no voices, no anything except the natural light that snuck in and laid itself in random places around the room. His mother was sitting on the sofa, not asleep, reading, or anything, but seemed to look away as he passed through. Slightly confused and not sure why, he walked down the dark hall toward his bedroom, and then suddenly, as he turned into his room, like the sight of a dead body, it became shockingly clear. On his bed, sprawled out, unfolded, lay all the letters Jordan had written, and, beside them, shaded by the lack of light, straight faced, rigid framed, in a tailored suit, dress shoes, with a cross hanging from his neck and an extension cord hanging from his hand, stood his father, Pastor Diggs.
    Jericho knew that there was nothing vulgar in the letters—nothing but what they had done during the day; silly, pointless, innocents things; friendly questions like what are you doing after school … this weekend … tomorrow? He was aware, however, that the fact that they were from Jordan made them vulgar, and aware of the absurdity of every explanation that swam through his mind. He just exhaled.
    “Take off your clothes,” his father demanded calmly.
Jericho heard him. “Sir?”
    “Take your clothes off,” he said again calmly, but forcefully. Jericho wanted to explain that the letters were nothing, that he and Jordan were just friends, that they just wrote letters because they couldn’t talk at school, and because people would think things if they talked in public, but he quickly realized how even his thoughts sounded ridiculous, how written all over this situation and embedded deeply in his thoughts was exactly why his father was in his room. Again he could find no words. He knew that his father, too, had heard of Jordan—of Shantaye. In a daze, too ashamed to be scared, yet too scared to think, he peeled off his shirt, then his pants then stopped.
    “Take them all off!” Anger had now arrived in his father’s voice, and, sensing it, fear quickly leapt on Jericho. He looked up at his father as a baby would as he pulled of his underwear. Shame now swallowed him, and he tried covering himself. His father’s face rearranged itself into a snarl, and, before Jericho could respond to his father advancing across the room, the extension cord ripped around his back causing him to uncover his privates, let loose a squeal, and stand up straight. The next blow wrapped around his body and hit him in his privates, causing him to scream throwing his body over on the floor. His father said nothing—arms still pumping out blows, maneuvering around Jericho’s flailing, naked body.
Jericho balled up on the floor. It felt like his skin was being ripped off. More blows came, and they continued to come. The blades—as they felt—were endless, and Jericho squirmed on the floor, trying desperately to hide his naked body from them, but his father was relentless. Jericho could take it no more, and let out one long scream, as high pitched as he could, then lost his breath, not daring to look at his father, who said nothing. Jericho grabbed the wall and floor, and squealed repeatedly, clawing at the wall.
      The blades would not stop, catching him across his back, wrapping around his legs, slicing his side … his chest … his neck, and again they ripped the skin from his privates. He screamed again, and then his bladder released itself and the warm wetness stung the raw places and the welts on his legs and privates.
    “Jesus!” he screamed. He prayed his mother would come help him, but he knew she wouldn’t. “Please, Daddy. I’m sorry! I’m sorry! I’m sorry! Please stop, Daddy!” he pleaded, but the blows would not stop.
Again, he let out a gutsy, gargling scream—his mouth wet with slob—then gasped deeply for air. Pastor Diggs still said nothing, his face emotionless. Another blow wrapped around Jericho’s leg setting his privates ablaze again. He felt as if he had been kicked in the guts, and screamed again. Wet, tired, and on fire, he finally noticed that the blows—the blades—had stopped. Facing the floor, against the wall, trash from the garbage can that usually sat by his door scattered beneath him, knees in the wetness of his tears, urine, and what he would later discover was blood, he felt his father step over him and heard his footsteps down the hall.
    He lay catching his breath. He could feel the welts growing on his skin, stinging, and, soon thereafter, he heard his father’s footsteps coming back toward his room. Still too afraid and ashamed to look up, Jericho remained facing the floor in a ball when, suddenly, a cold wetness hit his back and immediately erupted into a blinding red fire all over his body. He leapt wildly to his feet screaming, attempting to run toward his bed to wrap himself with the blanket, but his father grabbed him roughly by the arm and threw him back on the floor, pouring the rest of the alcohol on his welted, raw skin sending another wave of fire over his body. Jericho writhed to free himself from his father’s grip, and screamed until he had no more breath. When his father finally released him, he wanted to grab his blanket and dry himself, but he couldn’t move, paralyzed by his father’s dark eyes. The burning finally decreased to a point where exhausted, wet, and wrapped up in his school clothes, he heard his father finally say something. “When I get back, have all this mess cleaned up.” That was it—no fussing, no lecture, no acknowledging why he had beaten him.
    “Yes, sir,” Jericho barely whispered with his face still down. Shortly thereafter, he heard his father’s footsteps down the hall, the slamming of the front door, and then the decrescendo of the engine of his truck as it traveled down the road. It wasn’t until then that he pulled himself from the floor. He caught a glimpse of his mother as she went into her room and closed the door behind her. Though his father had spoken no words, that day he said many things. That unspoken message was painfully clear, and Jericho had heard it, and wouldn’t forget it.