This should have seemed strange to someone as straight-laced as my father, a grown woman sporting bunny ears, but he was in love. And although most would have considered him a bore, a responsible doctor who ran his own family practice, I think he understood that we all have moments when we misplace our sanity. He had his when he met my mother.
She was, in our suburban village a coast away from the real mansion, our version of a “Playboy Bunny.” Although here, they were called “Playful Rabbits;” the change of the name safely protected them from any copyright suits. Everything else was much the same: high stilettos, small leotard, enticing bunny tail and ears. She had been wearing it all for over eight years. Although it was tighter than her skin, she was used to it.
She met my father during her first month on the job and remained a Rabbit ever since due largely to his encouragement. And when I would whine to have her home in the evenings he’d insist, ironically, that work gave people a sense of respect. And although we didn’t need the second income, my mother, as you can imagine, having no formal education except for a dance class or two taken down at the community center, never disagreed with her husband. Knowing my effort was futile, I tried anyway to plead with my mother nightly, as she dipped in a bath before work. She would tell the same story as I half listened. I didn’t want to hear any more about responsibility, so I occupied my focus by tracing the zigzag pattern of the fishnets now tattooed upon her skin. I didn’t want to hear of responsibility, as I located the beginning of the pattern, or the desire to be the best, hoping to realize the aforementioned respect my father preached of, as I searched for the end.
Instead, she sacrificed what she could to find moments of time for me opting, unfortunately, not to waste any of it in the changing room. Unwittingly, my mother ripped the innocence away from many a wide eyed boy or girl as she picked me up from school, shattering their once younger ideas of cuddly, soft bunnies. And after seeing the principal at least once a month, during my third year in grade school, about my insatiable lack of respect for him and his school, we would share a malted shake and I would go without punishment. He was one of her best customers, so clarity was lacking in the knowing of whose naughtiness he really wanted to discuss.
Indubitably, I would tell my father of what sparked our outings to the malt shop hoping the heat would make him demand his wife to quit her job. But according to him, I was lucky to have such a playful mother. He was unknowing yet of the regret to come a quick year later when he returned home from work to find me, alone, painting the whites of his walls with the red of my mother’s lipstick. I was eight then and probably old enough to know not to paint on the walls, but it was my way of coping. It had all become too much, my mother being lusted by middle aged men thinking she was there for only their pleasures and my father having to share her beauty with these men who were slowly ripping it from her being. Similar my parents were in their desires for success, but success in my mother’s field came with a heavy burden, one she tried to scour off in the heat of the shower.
She surprised me that lipstick day, pulling me out of school early. She had been there most of the morning meeting with Mr. A. on my behalf (My own presence was not necessary, I was told.) Excited I was to see her, I sensed a difference. Her eyes, usually hidden by the dark shades of her eye shadow, seemed accidentally aware and clear as she grabbed my face towards her own. I felt as if she knew of something I would never. She had missed me terribly; she declared applying ruby stained crescents upon my cheeks with her kisses. These were the stains I later traced upon the walls trying to connect the spaces where the kiss had not pressed its shape. I was desperate to make her presence permanent.
Raging by my marks, my father searched for her through our split level ranch eventually finding her in the garden stripped of her nightly costume, stripped of everything. Mesmerized by the sight, he halted in his tramp. On his heels, lipstick in hand, I stumbled popping the waxy scarlet stick from the applicator, leaving blood colored smudges upon the pale tiled floor. Past my father, I saw her. Her skin which habitually mocked tautness in her corseted suit now hung loosely; her breasts, once ripened by life, sank; and the dark of her hair between her legs, damp with matted curl, made it appear as if her sex was missing. She was hollow. Imperfectly, I wanted to remember her the way I should — untouched. But bare in that garden she revealed the truth.
For what happened next, I’m ashamed to say, I understood. Even at the time, even being eight, I knew what my father was feeling because I felt it too. Unbridled emotion poisoned my father’s sagacity. He pulled the screened door from its hinges and tossed it into the yard startling my mother. Like an animal of prey; she remained still, not having too many other options. She hadn’t met this beast yet, silent in words but roaring with action. It wasn’t until his large hand clenched the hair from the back of her head and he began to drag her across the patio towards the house did he start to speak. A contradiction to his erratic manner, his voice was eerily calm. I’m not too sure what all was said. I was too young, I think. Everything is exaggerated today, or maybe its things are exaggerated when you’re a child. Which ever the case, my father’s discontent was real.
My mother didn’t fight back, as my father yanked her closer to our home. Her hands just clutched her shoulders forming an X across her heart with her arms. Her eyes remained opened, unfocused. It wasn’t until after he slapped her across the face and she looked at me did she start to cry. Aware finally of my presence, my father sent me to my room.
I remained, waiting for my mother.
