Talk to Rob Plath on the Fictionville blog
Once my brother and I were playing baseball in the backyard. It was a hot summer day, probably in July. E very once in while I'd rip a shot through a tree and the rubber ball would tear off some leaves. M y mother would somehow know and be at the screen window telling us that my father would be angry. She told us to just play catch and not use a bat or just practice bunting. We told her we would hit lighter. My eight year-old body tried to ease up when my brother wound up,, but everytime the ball sailed my way, my skeleton and musculature worked on their own , and I swung the bat as hard as my small body could. W e kept playing even when my father came out with a canister of pesticide to spray the trees with. He immediately started to convince us to stop playing in the yard.
Why don't you go in Kevin's backyard. They have no trees, he strongly suggested
Kevin's not home, we replied
Well I‘m going to be spraying soon, he warned while fiddling with the canister.
We continued playing. My father big shape intimidated me and I controlled my swings and hit grounders. My father didn't say anything after that. We were all out there and everything was going okay.
Then as he was bending over next to the house by the garden hose and the spigot my brother pitched one in at me, a fast ball. Mindlessly, I swung hard as I could and hit a line drive that hit a shingle of the house next to where my father was and cracked it . H e jumped at the surprise and the canister fell and a metal prong on it scraped his leg. H e had on green and white striped shorts and the blood below the hem trickled down his large hairy calf. I could see the blood all the way from where I was standing.
You motherfuckers, he growled. I just got done warning you not to play in the fucking backyard, he added. He looked down at his leg and touched the line of blood with his big finger. My mother was at the window.
See. They never fucking listen. Now look at me , he yelled. He left the stuff where it was and went back inside, slamming the back door.
He didn't spray at all that day. H e was silent the rest of the evening. H e ate by himself in the T.V. room, didn't talk to anybody, except when he mumbled under his breath when referring to us: two motherfuckers, for having not listened. My mother and my brother and I ate quietly in the kitchen by ourselves. We didn't say a word to one another. We just heard the mumbling and the sitcom on in the other room. While beyond the voices in the T.V., outside the sliding screen door the summer wind wildy rustled in the hearts of the trees.