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“I know she is,” Dan insisted. “And if she doesn't come with me, I'll report you to the police for harboring a minor.” His threat was, again, out of desperation and at the same time, I think he would have followed through.

Laura disappeared into the house. Presently, Faith came out and without a word climbed into the car. Her face was closed. Resigned.

The ride home was silent. When we got home, Dan sat Faith down in the den. “Faith, I told you that if you disobeyed me on this, that I'd whip you, didn't I?” he said softly. She nodded, eyes straight ahead. “I have to follow through. Come on upstairs, Faith.”

I knew Dan would rather cut off his right arm than do this. “Deede,” he'd said to me as we'd driven to Laura's to pick up our daughter, “I'm losing control of the situation. I have to get her attention. Make her see that this is the wrong way.”

Faith followed him up the stairs, her back straight, chin high. My emotions swirled and agitated in a blur.

I knew that Dan felt a need to teach her a lesson. I'd had whippings, too. Not bad ones, just enough to get my attention. Some folks, I knew, didn't believe in corporal punishment. In the South, at least in my slice of the
South, it was tolerated as a means to justify the end. And it had never hurt me, Priss or Lexie. To me, it said my folks cared enough to confront.

Today, I heard Dan's and Faith's voices begin to rise from the upstairs and then Faith began to scream and wail. I didn't know exactly what transpired, but I knew Dan loved his daughter and wanted only what was best for her.

One thing I did know: a battle of like-spirits raged.

Faith's passion, in the face of what she considered unjust acts, was legendary.

Faith hated pain.

I put my hands over my ears until the ruckus stopped and Dan came downstairs, pale and shaken. He walked past me and out the door. I heard the car leave and went upstairs to check on Faith.

She lay face down on her yellow bedspread in her yellow butterfly wall-papered room, head cupped in arms, silent.

“Faith?”

She turned over and looked at me with red-swollen eyes that immediately filled with tears again. “He hurt me, Mama,” she whimpered disbelievingly, her grief spilling over that this man who'd been her stalwart protector had “hurt” her.

I took her in my arms. “I'm sorry, honey,” I whispered, torn between the complex variables of the father-daughter conflict.

Later, Dan told me Faith began to fight and grab the belt. It became a battle of wills — the first real one between those two. Definitely not the last. Dan's temper flared, and the licks were harsher than he'd intended. He wept about it later.

“God, I hate to hurt her,” he told me, tears in his big, generous eyes. “I don't want to ever do that again.” And he did not.

The next day, at school, while Faith changed clothes for dance class, a friend saw red welts on her back and legs. “What happened?”

“My Dad gave me a whipping,” Faith replied, by now, she told me years later, resigned that all kids got whippings when they truly deserved them.

The friend went to the school counselor. The counselor called the Department of Social Services.

The next day, at work, Dan received a visit from a DSS officer. Dan was chastised and humiliated. I don't think he was ever the same after that day. He felt betrayed that Faith had told on him, knowing she had willfully disobeyed a direct order, knowing the consequences.

I tried to smooth it over. Truthfully, I told Dan, “She didn't intentionally get you in trouble. Someone saw the welts, Dan, and reported them. Not Faith.” And indeed, Faith denied she'd known her friend had reported the incident until the DSS guy showed up at school to question her.

How did I feel about it all? I hated that Dan had lost his cool during the discipline. He shouldn't have struck her so harshly and I told him so. He apologized and vowed he would never again allow himself to be trapped in that same situation.

Of course, I grasped that DSS intervention could cause Faith to revoke her forgiveness toward Dan. With such authoritative weight behind her father's chastening, at the very least challenging his administering of the “rod,” regardless of the critical nature of Faith's transgression, she would automatically feel abused.

I explained to Dan that Faith had not been aware of all the repercussions of the disclosure.

Still, Dan felt a rip in that close, snuggly relationship. From both the disobedience and then what he perceived as betrayal. He'd always adored — no,
worshipped —
his little girl. Now, when he'd said “no,” to protect her from danger, she'd changed from our quiet, almost docile daughter to one who would go to awful lengths to get her way.

At least, that's the way he saw it.

Me? I saw the collision course falling into place. I would try and try in years to come to ward off the crashes. The DSS cleared Dan of abuse charges. When Dan asked the officer what he would have done under identical circumstances, the man had smiled tightly and said. “I'd have done the same thing. Only I wouldn't have left any evidence on her.”

Personally, I don't think physical punishment, beyond token spankings, accomplishes much. Add to that troubled temperaments, and it can tally up to big trouble as the child enters the adult world. But then, who has all the right answers?

How can a parent harness the stampeding, raging force of a mutinous child?

How must a parent save an offspring from their own self?

What works for some can be disaster for others.

So from that day, I put much effort into keeping peace in our home. It would become my great mission in life.

That Christmas, our clan met at Lexie's house. I held my breath because of Lexie's daughter Chloe's territorial
stance when Faith dared enter her domain. Faith and Jensen, now teenagers, were tighter than ever. Jensen was a high school senior and Faith a junior. Freshman Chloe struggled desperately to outshine Faith at every opportunity, resorting to dirty tactics when the occasion arose. I knew on some gut level that jealousy of her big brother's soul-mate status with Faith had a bearing on Chloe's desperation.

Perhaps Faith's aura of self-assurance and confidence rattled Chloe's rickety cage. Whatever it was, when Faith drew near, Chloe was wary as a cat in a room full of pit bulls.

“Now Faith,” I took her by the arm before entering my sister's elaborately decked out house. “Please behave. This is family time.”

She gave me an innocuous look. “Who, me? Mama, I'm always sweet to Chloe.”

I scowled at her blatant lie. “I've heard how you tease her mercilessly, Faith.”

Faith stifled a laugh. “Jensen teases her, too.”

“Which is even worse, Faith. He's her brother. You two need to be kinder to her. She's younger and looks to you two for leadership.”

“Hey,” Faith muttered under her breath. “She asks for it. She is so stupid at times.”

“Faith!” Her callous attitude shocked me.

“Just kidding, for cryin' out loud!” She laughed then. “But it is kinda true, y'know, Mama? She puts herself right out there, asking for it.”

I had to concede that Chloe had become a real drama queen, adept at conjuring up calamity at the drop of a paper clip. I shook my head, appalled that Faith was drawing me into her distorted logic.

“You should never disparage someone because they're skinny or have a big nose or ears that stick out. They can't help what they're born with — ”

Lexie appeared at the door then, resplendent in green sequined sweater and black velvet slacks, “Come on in out of the cold, you guys. Merry Christmas!” We all hugged and I turned loose of Faith with an uneasy feeling in my gut. I was not particularly warmed by what I was learning of my daughter's relationship philosophy.

“Look at you two.” Lexie planted her hands on her hips and slanted us a bright-eyed approval. “I love that satin crimson blouse with those black velvet lounging slacks, Deede. Sexy. Faith, you're gonna have to loan me that holiday vest and turtle neck. I love it!”

“Yeh, right.” Faith cackled, then snorted. “Hey! You'd get lost in this outfit and wouldn't show up again before New Year's.”

Lexie's hugely blinking crimson necklace and matching earrings, her customary touch of the ridiculous cracked me up. “You look cute,” I said truthfully, kissing her on the cheek. “Everything smells delicious.”

“Sam helps me,” she winked at me. “Discount, y'know? Their food fares fool everybody.” Then she whispered in my ear. “Promise not to tell?”

I laughed, delighted at her candor, and whispered. “Promise.”

I added my own food contributions to the turkey and trimmings, my own special recipe of dressing and gravy, homemade cranberry sauce and chicken bog, a scrumptious rice, chicken, smoked sausage, onion dish that had become a tradition in our family. Last, I lifted the dome on my pedestaled three-layer Italian cream cheese cake.

Priss arrived bearing ham, pasta salad, yams, veggies, assorted pies and her lip-smacking orange slice cake. She looked festive in Santa hat and red sweatshirt emblazoned with sequined “Santa's Helper.” Jeans, sneakers and red socks completed her comfy attire. Her two girls, Ginger and Betty, college gals, wore green elves hats and matching “Helpers” sweats. They contributed an array of goodies, from walnut fudge to peanut butter balls to sandy fingers. All spawned from Priss were excellent cooks.

Our men all adjourned to the den to watch any sports event available, each wearing Christmas-y sweaters over turtlenecks.

“Mom,” we told our aging mother, “don't you dare cook anything but your macaroni and cheese pie.” Under threat of serious disapproval, she complied. Jensen went to pick her up because we wouldn't let her drive after dark. She was resplendent in Mrs. Santa Claus garb, complete with frilly apron and cap. In years past, she'd always done the lion's share of food preparation, deliriously happy to do so.

“Now, it's our turn,” we corporately insisted at each approaching yuletide season.

Dad had, those last holidays of his life, gone against the tide to insist, “I'm doing my coconut-egg custard pies. It's no trouble a'tall.” We did not resist because his custards – that would rival Paula Deen's – were ones we'd eaten at every holiday during childhood days.

A tradition.

Oh, how we missed them now that he was gone.

Family, to us, was everything. Its solidarity was something neither of us siblings took for granted. Neither did our precious mom and dad.

So, with the Faith-Chloe rumblings, I went into high gear protecting it.

After dinner, we voted for the most imaginative holiday attire. Mom moderated, calling each family member forward and asking for applause.

Tonight, Chloe won hands down when she did a dainty spin around the room in her days gone by ballet costume from the Nutcracker. Thin as gossamer, she was remarkably engaging with her flushed cheeks and sparkling, victorious dark eyes. The prize was a beautiful ceramic American eagle, wings spread for flight, compliments of Nonie Eagle.

A chorus of “Woo hoos” and applause deepened Chloe's blush of pleasure.

The gifts were dispersed and Jensen took Faith out for a drive in his first car, a used, but well maintained, silver 280Z.

Chloe immediately appeared, fiercely offended. Her colorful Sugar Plum Fairy role would have been extraordinarily charming had she stayed in character.

“They didn't even ask me to go.” She plopped into a vacant easy chair and crossed her arms, finely tuned features ablaze with umbrage.

“It only has two seats,” Lexie reminded her in a tone of voice that matched my own hackles-risen response.

Chloe crossed her matchstick thin legs and swung one defiantly back and forth, insuring that all gazes would be tethered to her. “Faith has my new tennis bracelet on. I haven't even worn it yet.”

My heart lurched. Why,
why, why?
Faith knew better. She knew Chloe's proclivity for scenes. I dialed Faith's cell phone number.

“Get back here,” I ordered quietly.

“Why?” she shrieked. “We've just left.”

“You have on Chloe's bracelet.”

I heard her muttering.

“Do not use that language,” I ordered. “Get back here and straighten it out.”

Within moments, Jensen and Faith entered the front door. Faith was livid. She marched straight to Chloe and tossed the bracelet into her lap. “There. Satisfied?” Then she stalked from the room.

“Wait,” I called after her. “Come back here. You owe Chloe an apology.”