At our house, the Saturday Night Fights were'nt just on TV. My parents got drunk and fought on Saturday night. Actually, any time both of them were drunk there was the possibility of a fight, but Saturday almost guaranteed it. They had all day to liquor up, and a day to recover.
It usually ended up with my father seated at his place at the kitchen table while my mother zoomed in and out of the room spewing invective. Dad would eventually lean forward and cradle his head in his arms, if he was allowed to. As often as not, my father would weep. No wail or the gnashing of teeth, but just a little trembling of the head in the arms.
It was my understanding that my father was considered a mama's boy back in the old country. His relationship with his mother ran deep.
Whenever my drunken mother saw my drunken father weeping at the table, she started right in with the mama's boy bullshit. "Why are you crying, little boy? Do you miss your mommy?" my mother would sneer at my father. It was brutal, and my father's only reply was, "No cry. I no cry," when it was obvious that he was crying.
The fighting would continue until they both ran out of steam, my mother in her bedclothes and bed, asleep, and my father passed out at the kitchen table.
Funny thing is, I cry for my mother every night now.