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Show grateful and happy. My father was a monster. Home from the university, he crawled down the orange-shag hallway on all fours and grabbed at our legs, growling. I'm going to get you. When he pulled me across the carpet by my ankle, the rug burned my knees and thighs, brought tears to my eyes, but I only laughed and struggled to break free. His hands were iron. Pry his thumb and index finger and the other three held; pull those from your ankle and the thumb and finger returned like a vise. Scott attacked from the side, laughing the whole time, and diverted his attention for a moment, while I dove for his belly, pushed my fingers into the soft folds, hoped to topple the man who remained on all fours like a house. Rarrhh, he cried, up on his knees, flailing his hands, looking for another ankle or an arm, anything to grab. Get his hands, get his hands, Scott yelled. And I tried, tried to hold a hand as broad as my stomach while he moved to tickle my knees, my thighs, under my arms. Help, me! I gulped between laughs to Scott, who was busy fighting his own hand, my father's head down, taking the two of us to the ground. On those nights, I laughed until I wet my pants, a squirt of urine leaving a wet place on my underwear that grew cold in minutes. Yet, I didn't stop. Out of breath and sore from being tickled, Scott and I would mount attack after attack as my father hunkered down on the carpet, protecting his face, moving forward against us. Trapped in 102 |