Knocking on my own front door felt weird.  I’d been gone for two years, but nothing much had changed. Our chickens still scampered around the dusty yard, my old rusty bike still leaned against the garage, and the beat up rocker was still shoved into the corner of the porch.  The moldy orange cushions were gone.  I wondered how Mom had talked DA3 (that’s dumbass husband number 3) into pitching them.       

     They were a wedding gift from DA3’s mother.  When Mom commented on how ugly they were, DA3 smacked her across the face, throwing her across the room.  That was her wedding gift from him.  I hid behind the couch during the fight.  Over the next ten years, I grew numb to the abuse, until the last day of my sophomore year of high school.           

     My friend, Matt, dropped me off at 3:30pm on a Thursday afternoon.  After the rumbling of his supped up Mustang disappeared over the hill, I could hear cursing coming from the back of the house.  It was just Mom hollering, so I started up the porch steps.  Then I heard a loud thump and a woman’s scream that seemed to come right out of a B horror flick.  I changed course and sprinted to the back of the house.           

     Mom was sprawled out on the ground crying for help.  Her left arm tried to block the blows from DA3’s fist.  He had her right arm pinned to the ground with his hand.           

     I hit him like Coach Petty taught me in football practice.  We collided with such force that he flew into the air and landed flat on his back.  His head cracked on a rouge cement block.  I jumped on top of him and pummeled his face over and over. 

          Mom started screaming for me to stop, but I didn’t.  I wanted to hit him as many times as he’d hit me and Justin and Mom over the past ten years.  Even though blood gushed out of Mom’s nose and her arm was broken she tried to stop me by whacking my head with her good arm.           

     Justin showed up and grabbed my fist to make me stop pounding DA3 to death.  I finally stopped when I saw tears streaming down his red face.  Mom and DA3 rode off in an ambulance together and that was my last day in Hayesville, Ohio.  The next morning, I was on a Greyhound bus bound for Fredricksburg, VA.           

     Now I was back.  I lifted my hand to knock on the door again when it jerked open.  Startled, I jumped back.  Before me was an unfamiliar face with a balding forehead and greasy black hair.  He didn’t say anything; just stood there glaring at me. 

     “Does Becky Johnson still live here?” I asked.  I was beginning to think about pounding this grease-ball.  Who did he think he was?          

     “What do you want her for?” he asked, looking me up and down.  I wasn’t much taller than him, but I bet I out-weighed him by 50lbs.  It’d probably only take one short contact with my fist and he’d be nursing a broken nose.           

     I heard Mom call from the kitchen, “Richard, who’s at the door?”           

     “Some punk kid looking for you,” he said this without taking his beady eyes off of me.           

     My mom’s scant figure emerged from the kitchen.  Here eyes shrunk as she approached the door until they were tiny blades ready for battle.  Maybe I should’ve stayed at my dad’s in Virginia, but I missed Justin and Sarah.           

     “When’d you get back?”  she asked.  You’d think a mom would be happy to see her son after two years.           

     The grease-ball shifted his position in the doorway and looked away from us, but didn’t leave.           

     I looked down at my feet and said, “I just got into town.” I pulled a piece of paper out of the back pocket of my faded 501’s and unfolded it for her to see.  “I graduated last Sunday.” I said, looking up at her and thinking, Like you said I wouldn’t.  

     “Well, yippy-ki-yay for your Dad.  He did what I couldn’t,” she said. She didn’t even look at the diploma.  “So what’re you doing here?”           

     “To see Justin and Sarah,” I said, instead of sharing what I really wanted which was to move back in for a while; at least until I got on my feet.     

      She nodded and said, “They’re not here right now.  You gotta number?  I’ll have them call you.” She started to close the door, but grease-ball stopped it with his hand.           

     “What’s the matter with you?” he said to her.  “This is your son.”  He stuck out his hand to me.  “I’m Richard Kline.  Your mom and I just got hitched in Vegas about three months ago.”           

     I shook his hand and stared at Mom.  What had happened to DA3?  I wondered.  I’d only been gone for two years.  DA4 invited me into my own house with a short sweep of his hand.  Mom glared at him and stormed back into the kitchen.           

     It didn’t appear like Richard had brought anything with him when he’d moved in with Mom; everything looked just like outside – as if I’d never left.  The 27 inch console tv with an inch of dust hadn’t been moved, the stench of leftover cigarette butts offended my nose, and empty beer cans littered the coffee table.  I did notice they were Busch cans instead of Natural Light and the dark brown tweed couch had a new bleach stain.           

     “Sit down. Sit down.  Tell me about yourself.”  DA4 sure had made one great big attitude adjustment since he’d first opened the door.  I sat down on the old couch – avoiding the stain.           

     “I came back to get a job and live around here.  I’d like to be here for Justin and Sarah.  Dad said Justin’s playing football now.”           

     Richard eyed me from the edge of the grimy lazy-e-boy, rubbing his hands together, and grinning at me, showing off his tobacco stained teeth.           

     “I see. I see.  So you’re planning on staying around here?” he asked.           

     “Yeah.” I said, nodding.           

     “Where you gonna work?”           

     “I dunno.  I figured I could find something somewhere.  There’s a ton of new stores.  I can't believe how much things have changed out on Springfield Rd.  All those new stores and restaurants are crazy.”           

     Apparently Richard could believe it because he ignored me.  “Where you gonna live?” he spit out.           

     “Here,” I said it before thinking.           

     A glass shattered on the kitchen floor and Mom let out a string of loud, clear curses. They were still on her breath when she burst into the living-room.

     “What? Did your father kick you out!  I’m calling that good for nothing, two-faced…” she picked up the corded phone from the side table that had the broken leg.  Richard grabbed the phone out of her hands and slammed it back in the cradle.           

      “Now Becky, it can’t be that bad,” he looked down at his watch -- a cheap Timex -- “Justin should be home from work any minute.  Let’s let the boys get re-acquainted and we’ll talk about this over supper.”  He turned back toward me.  “Ok?”

     That was more than I expected; maybe DA4 wasn’t so bad after all.  He certainly couldn’t be worse than number 3.  I nodded.  But, Mom glared at him so hard I thought he’d combust on the spot.  He ignored her and leaned back in the lazy-e-boy.  She finally turned her back on us and returned to the kitchen, cursing all the way.           

     “It’ll be Ok,” he said to me as he pulled two beers out of a cooler sitting by the chair and tossed one to me.  I doubted anything would be ok.  He must not know Mom like I do.  How could he?  He’d only been around a few months.  I leaned back against the couch and chugged the beer.  Justin would be home soon and he could persuade Mom into anything.  She'd let me stay for a while.