Flesh of My Flesh, Flesh on Flesh

I am in Target, picking up a few things for breakfast tomorrow. Maple syrup, juice, milk, yogurt, that sort of thing.

*

A young couple exits an aisle as I pass. A boy of about two sits in the cart and a baby sits in the front. The mother is obese and tattooed. The father is short, and bears a startling resemblance to an actor named Giovanni Ribisi.

*

“Sit down and shut up!” the father barks at the toddler.

I keep walking, thinking about how terrible it is for him to treat his son like that.

Then I hear it.

Smack.

In fact, out of the corner of my eye I see the father use his palm to strike the boy across the top of the head.

The boy places both of his tiny hands on his hands and says, “Ow.”

“Don’t say ‘no’ to me,” barks the father again.

*

My heart races, my head gets dizzy, and I feel like I am outside of myself.

*

I want to do something, but what? Various lines go through my head.

In fact, I end up semi-following the family through the store for another 20 minutes as I listen to the dialogue in my mind.

Hey, buddy, did you really just hit your son?

Pal, you’ve gotta do better than that.

And of course, there’s the small voice in me fantasizing about getting the father away from those kids just for an instant so I can open the conversation by bloodying his nose.

*

I’m not serious about that. That is, the thought crossed my mind, but simply as a fleeting thing, part of my sudden desperate need to find some satisfaction.

*

I call my sister, trying to spin a joke. “Next time you’re not feeling so great about your parenting skills, just remember this guy.”

*

I have more imaginary conversation with the guy as I follow them around.

I understand how hard it can be, but you can’t do that. You’re going to get CPS breathing down your neck.

You can do better than this.

Maybe I can find somebody to help you.

*

I cannot imagine this scene going well.

*

I flash back to my orientation. I now work for a social service agency. I can hear the coworker telling us, “We are mandated reporters.”

*

I lose them for a minute. As closely as I’ve been following them, I’m surprised. Then I come around the corner and see the boy in the basket, hunched down. He’s not made another sound. His eyes are watery, his face is blotchy and flushed, and his tormented little eyes stare up at me. I realize I will see them forever.

*

The family splits up, the dad carrying the baby one way while the mom goes another. I wind through some aisles looking for the dad, but with no luck. I see them again in the checkout lane.

I check out two rows over, and I’m barely answering, barely even hearing the checker.

Pieces:

Target card?

Huh? No.

Everything?

Yeah.

Cash back?

Cash back?

Oh, yeah.

*

The family heads for the exit, the opposite one from where I need to go.

I follow them. They reach their vehicle and I stop.

And here is where I fail.

In my haze, in my out-of-body state, it does not occur to me to get a license plate number and call someone. I can only think to myself that I’ve missed my chance, and that I’m not going to be a creep who suddenly confronts them in a darkened parking lot.

*

I walk across the parking lot, lost as I look for the van, sobbing a little.

*

I cannot find the van for several minutes.

*

At home I tell Kelli. I can’t find justification for my lack of action.

We go over some scenarios. Does Target have video cameras going everywhere? Is there any way to find out who they were?

My only comfort is in the fact that if that man is that blatant about being abusive, it won’t be long before it gets him in trouble. Someone out there will see him do this and won’t freeze like me.

*

I hold THEGIRL for a while, doing her piggies, listening to her point out her ears, her nose… she repeats the parts, trying to get my attention as my mind wanders.

*

I tuck in THEBOY, and as I read The Lunatic Adventure of Kitman and Willy to him, my eyes are welling up with tears.