Once home, on the days he was able to walk, our father would either stumble in the dark to the kitchen, knocking over everything in his way, or go straight to bed fully dressed in his soiled clothing. If he decided to go to the kitchen first, he would slobber through the dinner my mother had left for him hours earlier. He’d get food everywhere. Whether he was conscious enough to eat or not, my mother had to have his dinner waiting for him in his spot at the kitchen table. If the meal wasn’t to his liking, which it usually wasn’t, he grumbled his way through it, brewing one more reason to fight with her. “Cold. Hard. salty crap! Wouldn’t feed this slop to pigs. No-good woman. Awful wife!”
Too drank to know that food sitting around for hours would naturally be cold and hard by five in the morning.
I guess he didn’t realize that he was in fact, worse than a pig. With snot coming out of his nose, drool oozing out of his slobbering mouth; pants stained and reeking from peeing in his pants, filthy from being dragged through the streets. He smelled, sounded and acted like a pig. What’s more, he was giving pigs a bad name!
Regardless of what he did on his arrival home, we would not get any sleep. Once in bed, he engaged in deafening, incoherent conversations—mostly with himself. These exchanges involved death rants against everyone including my mother’s family, who my father despised. This detestation was mutual between him and his in-laws. He liked detailing the many ways he planned to slaughter them. “Premye, mwen kai tiuye” (first, I kill you) “Alo, mwen kai tiuye tout ou fanmi” (then, I will kill all your family).
Our father enjoyed his machete very much; he liked sharpening, cleaning, and keeping it in good working condition. A sharp machete was more than just an important farming tool to my father; he also wielded it as a symbol of his power over us, his preferred saying, “Mwen jire kai koupe tèt ou!” (I swear I will kill all of you).
Our mother’s participation in these pillow talks was crucial. If she dozed off or didn’t respond at the appropriate times with the right amount of enthusiasm at the thought of being hacked up, our father, deeming her lack of contribution a crime, would start brutally beating her.
Once the hammering began, my brothers and sisters would rush in to get him off her. At first, their intention was clearly to defend our mother. But, as this went on week after week, it became a means to vent, fight back for themselves and an opportunity to get rid of the problem. With time, this man was no longer their father, but rather an evil to eliminate.
The bloody fight would go on for hours. Even drunk, our father was a strong, formidable man, his physical strength impressive. On these nights, he was possessed even stronger than in daytime when he was sober. Like a bull in a ring, he gained momentum from the sound of the roaring crowd. One moment, he would be too unsteady and hardly able to get into bed, the next, he would be fighting off six or seven people and holding his own quite nicely.
I never understood how he did it. Our father would be standing in the middle of the angry Joseph mob, bloody, and still able to do damage to whomever he could seize. However, in the end, it was seven to one, and he was the one who would need medical attention.
One night, our father was putting up a good fight, one of my sisters, Jeanette I believe, decided that tossing him out the bedroom back door, which was about four feet above stony ground, would be the best way to get rid of him for the night. At the same time cause some serious injury. They managed to successfully dragged him to the edge of the door, but as they were about to push him out, our father grabbed on to the door frame and would not let go. They spent quite a bit of time trying to get him to release his grip by hitting, biting, pulling, and pushing him, but to no avail. They finally gave up. By that time, the cops had arrived.
Whenever a fight broke out, I had two responsibilities: remove all sharp metal objects from the kitchen, and go in search of Gilbert. Gilbert matched our father in strength and rage and I was always relieved to see him when the fighting began. My other siblings didn’t stand much of a chance against our father without Gilbert’s help. When my job was done, I retreated to the streets to scream my ass off—or to a corner somewhere—trying to escape to a safe place in my mind where I was peacefully asleep in a cozy, warm bed.
When I was out on the streets screaming, I know I sounded like a howling, trapped animal. My screams were a combination of high-pitched wails, which after time, when I had lost my voice, became wordless screeches. They were squeals from embarrassment, desperation, and fear that someone would die that night. An expectant crowd would have gathered in front of our house taking in the circus show. The scene never surprised them. In fact, they would have been shocked if it was a Friday night and there was no commotion at the old, crumpling Joseph residence, located at the crossroads of Twa Chemen, Three Roads.
The police would eventually show up but they always took their sweet time. After all, it was just another night, and the Joseph family was trying to kill its patriarch again. The police tried to keep the peace, but couldn’t do much more. Often, an emergency vehicle would also accompany the officers. They would set my father on a stretcher and take him to Saint Lucia’s only hospital, in Castries, to sober up, get stitches or a cast for a broken limb.
The mornings after were just as awful. The house was cloaked in a hushed, surreal cloud. We functioned like in a fog—slow, and almost robotic. The air was thick and heavy with sorrow and despair. I often hoped that this was a dream, and that I would soon awaken. But the sight and smell of human blood, combined with the potent scent of the antiseptic Dettol, served as a cold, jolting reminder that this was our reality.
It was usually up to us kids to erase the evidence left behind and try to get things back to normal. We would straighten the furniture that was tossed around, covered up or taped broken windows and other broken glass. The most heart-wrenching part was getting the blood off the walls. We may have succeeded in cleaning them, but nothing can ever wash away the indelible grief and anguish that these smells and images have evoked in my memory. I pondered the same thoughts and asked the same unanswered questions. “My family is truly messed up. Other families do not spend their weekends trying to kill each other. My God, what is wrong with us? What did we ever do to deserve this?”
There’s Another Way
Elias’ godmother, Ms. Janie, was my mother’s best friend. Actually, they were more like sisters. Ms. Janie’s husband, Mr. Victor, was my father’s drinking partner. They lived a short walking distance from us with their only daughter Glenda, who was about the same age as Jeanette. After my mother became a born-again Christian, she tried converting everyone, including her best friend. Ms. Janie, who was happy being a Catholic, made a simple request, “If you want us to remain friends, don’t try to convert or save me, I don’t need saving.” So my mother gave up, knowing her friend was serious. She did not want to risk losing the only friend my father allowed her to have.
Ms. Janie was a kind, yet no-non-sense person. She never watered down or repeated her words. As far as I know, she never tried telling my mother what she should do about my father. She was just always there, unwavering in her support. Initially, my mother would run to Ms. Janie’s house for shelter and it was the first place my father would start searching. She soon stopped going there - not wanting to drag her friend into her mess.
My father disliked Ms. Janie, but in an odd way I think he admired her strength. He knew that she would never tolerate his ridiculous behavior if she were in my mother’s shoes. In turn, he considered Mr. Victor a weakling for being respectful to his wife.
Although Ms. Janie was not my father’s favorite person, he did not interfere in the women’s friendship or the other couple’s