1
Evil in the Kindest of Places
By Luke Hulse
It is March 1, 2005, and friends and family gather for the funeral of my
father. Pawhuska, Oklahoma is very plain this time of year—anytime of year,
actually. It is strange to see the yellow, lifeless grass try to regain its lush
green life while my father is lowered into its tangles. Individuals surround
the pit of earth as I sit front row to witness the proceedings. The gathering
of people whisper just to make sound it seems. I cannot make out what they
say nor do I care what they have to say. All the whispering people melt into
a field of stone, taking the same shape as those that lie at their feet; they
are of no significance to me. It’s strange to think that something as basic as
a feather tucked into the wreath situated perfectly on the wooden casket or
a vibrant orange butterfly fluttering overhead are all I seem to notice. My
father has taken his own life. Life—something a 12-year-old boy like me has
yet to understand. Isn’t life meant to be held onto, even fought for? My mind
floods with questions. How? Why? Was this somehow my fault? Suddenly,
the whispering of the funeral comes back to me, trying to steal my attention
away from the true matters at hand. Where did this horror story begin? I
can only think of one night as the turning point of my father’s life.
The all so familiar whispering takes the form of a television screen’s
white noise. The same white noise tries to grab my attention while my eyes
and thoughts are fixed on something much more frightening. Who is this
person? No…what is this thing hovering over our kitchen sink? I peer
through the crack in my sister’s doorway out into the kitchen, trying to
comprehend what I see. A monster is slouched over the sink, guzzling the
last drops out of a liquor bottle as if it the only thing that will bring this
monster life. Its work clothes are matted with oil and asphalt, still glued to
its body as if it still had a job to do. There were only three people at our
house that night—my mother, my father, and I. My sister was at her friend’s
house, and they were probably talking about the cutest boy in school or
what life had next for them—normal teenage girl thoughts. After what
occurred, I am glad she is not there; she can still cling to the innocence that
this night will steal from me. Knowing that there are only three of us at the
house this evening, I can only wonder, who is this stranger I see before me?
I come from a no-heavy-drinking family with no abuse—a seemingly perfect
upbringing for a 12-year-old boy. The monster catches a glimpse of me in
the doorway out of the corner of its eye and turns in an instant.
“Go back to your room!” my father says.
2
Does he yell, or am I just frightened by what stands before me? I
close the door abruptly, returning to the safe depths of the bedroom.
My father, Martin, is a hardworking man, just as my mother is a
hardworking woman. Marty is what everyone called him. He is an oil field
worker turned dump truck driver, working his way to a good home and life
for his wife and children. What has changed? Is there some figurative light
switch in our mind that just flips? All I have are questions, questions that will
never be answered. However, I can tell you one thing; there is evil, evil in
the kindest of places.
Over the television chatter, I can hear whispers of a husband and wife
bickering. Why do the whispers haunt me? They come smooth at times, like
a gentle summer breeze tickling my senses. Then they come sharp, with
excruciating sound sending me into a daze the way a migraine would. What
do they mean to say? Never do my parents argue around us children; they
always keep issues to themselves. Why should children be bothered with
such trivial issues, right? However, these problems are not basic, and in
turn, they will lead to the loss of my father.
I open the door to see what the disturbance is about. To my surprise,
the kitchen is empty as is the adjoining dining room. Now I am alone, my
own mind left to wander. I move forward through the kitchen, no light
illuminating the room. Touch and sound are the only senses responding. I
feel the cool smooth tile beneath my feet, begging for warmth. Darkness is
so thick I no longer need sight; I can feel the darkness clinging to me, hiding
me. I hear nothing, but that nothing sounds so loud. Silence reverberates
through my ears, which wait for the first sound to grab their attention. There
is no sound and not a soul to be seen. I creep further through the house,
feeling the cold tile under my feet turn into soft, welcoming carpet. Carefully
placing my feet to avoid any obstacles in the living room, I approach my
parents’ doorway.
This doorway no long takes shape in its normal way. It looms over me
like a predator about to finish its prey. It does not seek my life; it seeks my
innocence. When I do cross over this threshold, my life will forever be
changed. The light seeps out any crack it can find, looking as if it wants to
escape, but it has nowhere to go. I have nowhere to go.
Are they there? No sounds, just anxious silence, hysteria patiently
waiting its turn. Suddenly, I hear voices, but I cannot make out the words.
Nevertheless, one voice is clear, searching for understanding, providing only
love and concern. That voice is quickly silenced by the growling of a
monster. What does the monster want? I am suddenly overcome by fear. It
knows I am here. I must flee, but my feet are stuck to the carpet, which no
3
longer feels welcoming; instead, it wants protection and is using me as a
shield. I am able to break free from its grasp. Finally, I turn and bolt for the
safety of my sister’s bedroom, no longer being careful of any obstacles. I
fight my way through the darkness; it grabs me, trying to hold me still for
the evil that would have me. However, I will not allow it. Within an instant, I
am back in the safe confines of my sister’s bedroom, lying on soft sheets
and staring at the pale door, waiting for the bronze doorknob to turn and
shatter my safety. It doesn’t turn. Only the television keeps me company
here.
We are a loving family, always looking out for the best interest of each
other, letting each person make their own decisions, and offering only
understanding. When anyone fell down, the others would be there with kind
words, a helping hand, and an understanding shoulder to lean on. But…who
does the father turn to when he wants to show no weakness to his family?
The church? The pastor was “too busy” for my father at the time. Fifteen
minutes can end up having more of an impact on a life than you will ever
understand.
While I sit in the safe confines of the bedroom, the still silence of the
house is suddenly broken. “LUKE, HELP ME!” This shout is the only thing I
understand through this whole night. I have never heard so much fear or so
much pain in my mother’s voice. There was no physical pain, only emotional
pain—the pain of love and heartbreak. If I say that adrenaline took hold of
my body at this moment, it would be a lie. I am afraid, so afraid. My loving
mother needs me, and all I can do is be there for her. I rip the door open,
surprised it doesn’t come off the hinges. I round the corner of the kitchen at
a full sprint, heading directly for my room. I have no clue as to the gravity of
the situation; I only know that I have to give myself the upper hand. I know
this monster has power, but how much power still remains to be seen.
Reaching behind the door in my room, I grab a smooth piece of wood; the
bat will have to do. My mother keeps repeating the same words, “LUKE,
HELP ME!” Nothing good can come from this.
I bullet towards the living room. No lights illuminate the house except
the light creeping from my parents’ doorway. I am about to cross that
threshold, and after this point, I will not have my innocence. Life is going to
show me how cruel it can be, and evil is going to show me its power. I bust
the door in, and I am blinded, not by the piercing light flowing from the
ceiling lamp, but from the scene before me. My mother is wrestling the
monster, holding it back as well as she can so it cannot execute any sinful
plan it has in mind. She subdues it just long enough that she can kick the
.38 Special out of its reach. I am frozen for what seems an eternity, but this
4
is my mother; I can never let my mother be harmed. I raise the bat and let
out a horrendous roar, “LET MY MOM GO!”
I go back to the idea of the light switch in the mind. What flips it?
What makes us decide that something should or must be done? Love forces
my hand in this house; love forces me to protect my mother from even the
closest of people—my father. Before I start to swing the bat downwards, the
monster releases my mother abruptly. The switch flips again, and there,
lying in front of me, is no monster. It is my father, looking into my eyes with
as much confusion as I feel. My mother grabs the brown handle of the blued
steel pistol with one hand and my wrist by the other, pulling me out of the
room with the same concern she would use if I were drowning in a pool. All I
can do is look back and see my father rolling on the ground, yelling and
stumbling over his words as he tries to produce some message. What is he
saying? Possibly, he is delivering the message that this monster’s will can
never be stopped, that later this week, the plot will be complete when my
father uses the same gun to take his life.
My mother and I hide in another room while she calls the police.
Within five minutes, our street is lined with vehicles that flood nearby houses
with their flashing lights, and police come through our front door. I despise
these people just for carrying out their job; I feel as if each one of them
coming through our doorway is taking a piece of my innocence with them.
How can I be a child now? My life has forever changed because of the acts of
one person within a matter of minutes. My mother files the report, scribbling
down all the chaos that has taken place this night.
My mother goes to talk to my father while the authorities strap him
into a stretcher. Once again, I am left to my own thoughts. I can hear the
whispering, always talking but never saying anything. Then my mother
returns, carrying a message: “Your father would like to talk to you.” I love
my father, but I have never seen him in any condition like this before. Is this
truly my father? How am I supposed to handle seeing my strong, proud,
loving father strapped to a stretcher that restrains his intoxicated, ill-willed
body? I cannot handle it. “I don’t want to see him,” I say. My mother looks
at me with shock, which quickly turns to a look of understanding. She leaves
the room, leading the last cop and my father away from the house.
I cannot remember how it all went; all I know is my father returns
home the next day and avoids me as if I am a stray dog.
How can one decision make me feel as if I am at fault for everything,
for all the unhappiness? Should I have seen my father? Maybe that one
moment could have changed the whole situation. My attention is drawn back
to what lies before me as I look at the casket of my father as it is lowered
5
into the ground. At this moment, he is no longer a monster, and no one else
knows of the terror left in the monster’s wake. They know only of Marty, the
loving, kind father and husband. The thoughts of the evil monster fade
away, and all I can think of is the love I still have for my father and the
admiration I once had for him. Yet again, the whispers return to me, but this
time they take shape; they form into my father standing before me. He
leans in with caring and directs the message just for my ears to hear, “I love
you.” The words stun me. They are the only words I have longed to hear
from the one voice I want to deliver them. As quietly as he appears, he
vanishes. The words still ring in my head. No evil is left in my heart, just the
words of a loving father who will always be missed. March 1, 2005, my
loving father has passed away.