Child of the Apocolypse

Realizing I had bad parents was a revelation that seeped in gradually, sucking away my freedom to be a normal child. Had things been different, I might have become more than an anxious replication of their genetic soup, lacking any clues as to whether my parents loved one another. At times when a bolt in his head came loose, Dad said Mom had to prove she loved him.

I often wondered who was responsible for the apocalypse. The bad-tempered husband who thought Mom was oblivious to his philandering while away on his weekly sales trips? Or the lonely wife who thought she might find love with a new neighbor who’d rented the Kendall house? 

At Christmas, Mom dresses up more than usual. She wears a black scoop-neck blouse, a flowing pink skirt, and high-heeled shoes. She dresses my sisters, Grace and Binky, in new red pinafore dresses that have a white ruffle across the chest from shoulder to shoulder and white ruffles to outline the pockets. She makes me wear slacks and a sport coat. She seems to be ramping up her social inclination by inviting the new neighbors to visit our house. 

Tom Randall has pale blue eyes and the aura of sophistication when he talks about his seventeen-year-old cousin, Astrid. He says Astrid’s mother moved from Boston to New York when Astrid was seven to get her ready to be a movie star. She’s already been to Barnard College and ballet school and is auditioning for parts on Broadway. My sister Grace, who devours movie star magazines, asks Tom if she can meet his cousin when she becomes famous. Tom smiles and says he’ll try to arrange it. Tom’s wife seems shy, although she talks a bit about their two small children, who are with a babysitter. As the adults drink their cocktails, Dad becomes quiet, which is unusual, because drinking usually makes him more talkative.

After the Randalls leave, I watch Dad follow Mom into the kitchen. The look in his eyes compels me to slide into the living room chair closest to the kitchen.

Dad says, “If I ever catch you with Tom Randall, I’ll kill you. I’ll kill the kids.”

Mom says, “You always know how to spoil a good time.”

I hear what sounds like a scuffle. Then Dad says, “You heard me. I’ll kill you both.”

January rolls in with nights so cold upstairs I wear a sweater over my pajamas. I wake up on a Wednesday night, hearing music and the murmur of voices downstairs. I have no idea how long I’ve been sleeping, only that there is never music and soft voices on school nights, when Dad is on the road. I tiptoe to the top of the stairs. The voices seem to come from a stuffed armchair that is just out of my sight. I lower myself slowly until my stomach is flat against the floor. I lean over the top step and see the edge of Mom’s pink dress, her legs, and her high-heeled shoes. Also a man’s trousers. Mom is sitting on the man’s lap. I concentrate on their voices that are barely above a whisper. Mom is sitting on Tom Randall’s lap, and I know they are being way too friendly.

Mom doesn’t take Dad’s threats seriously. Is she blind to danger or stubborn or what?

I inch back from the stairs, rise, and cat-step to my room. In a fake sleepy voice, I call out, “Mommmm!” I hear a rustle downstairs, then silence. “Mommmm! I’m thirsty. I need some water.” 

Mom says, “Okay, I’ll bring you some. Just stay in bed and I’ll bring it up.” 

I crawl into my bed and pull up the covers. When Mom brings the glass of water, I say, “Is there someone downstairs?”

She says, “No, there’s nobody downstairs.”

“I thought I heard somebody’s voice.”

“No, it was just me singing along with the music a bit before going to bed.”

I sip the water. “Are you going to bed soon?”

“Just as soon as I can.”

I hand her the unfinished glass of water.

“Go back to sleep now.”

After Mom goes downstairs, there is silence until I hear the squeak of our front door opening, a pause, and the front door closing. If I ask Mom in the morning why she opened the front door after leaving me, she’ll say she was letting one of the cats in. Or out. So I won’t ask. No sense forcing her to lie again.

A few weeks later Dad calls in the middle of the week and says he is coming home. As so often with these calls that come after supper, Mom spends time on the phone trying to calm him down, telling him to stop drinking and go to bed. Suddenly she says in a forceful way, “I am not! Don’t be ridiculous!” There is a pause and she says, “We are not!” End of conversation.

It’s bedtime, and my heart is pounding. I say, “Is Dad coming home?” 

Mom says he is not coming home. He’s just drinking again. He makes these calls when he’s drinking. Nothing to worry about.

I say goodnight and go to bed. In my bedside prayers, I say, “Dear God, please keep us safe from Dad.” Then I crawl into bed and fall asleep.

I wake up in the night. I know Dad is home. I hear him shouting. “Prove it. Get Tom on the phone now. Let him tell me to my face. Maybe he’ll tell me the truth.”

I hear Mom on the phone. I hear her say, “He’ll be down in five minutes. Maybe when you hear the truth from him you’ll know how ridiculous you’re being.”

There is a loud thump, and Dad shouts, “You lying bitch.”

Dad going crazy is the nightmare I hoped would never happen. I press the pillow against my ears, hoping to block out the sound. If I can’t hear anything, maybe the nightmare will end. Maybe Tom Randall will come and convince Dad that being friendly with Mom is not a sin. Maybe Tom can calm Dad before he explodes.

I keep the pillow pressed against my ears. Suddenly Dad is in my room, reaching into the storage closet across from my bed, pulling out his .22 rifle. The smell of alcohol. I say, “No, Dad. No, Dad.”

I hear bullets clicking into the rifle’s long tube. He says, “I’m only going to scare them.”

“No, Dad. No, Dad.”

“I’m only going to scare them.” He lurches out of my room.

“No, Dad.” I rush to the top of the stairs. Dad is at the bottom already.

“Are you crazy?” Mom shouts.

“We’ll see who’s crazy,” Dad shouts. “Both of you! Over by the French doors! Have a seat. Maybe now we can get to the truth.”

Mom shouts, “Stop waving that gun around.”

Dad shouts, “Shut up and sit down.”

From the top of the stairs I see Dad sitting in a stuffed armchair by the front door. I see him aiming the .22. Suddenly, Grace and Binky press in behind me. They are crying. Binky is shaking. Grace asks if Dad is going to kill Mom. Binky whimpers that she doesn’t want Dad to kill Mom. I say, “He’s just trying to scare them.”

Dad says, “Okay! Who’s going to tell me the truth?”

Mom speaks in a calm voice. “We are telling you the truth.”

BANG! 

Mom screams.

“You see I mean business. Good. Now who’s going to tell me the truth?”

Tom Randall says, “There’s nothing between us. Please believe me. Doing this is not going to solve any problems you and Lacy are having.”

Dad says, “I don’t blame you, Tom. I know how Lacy uses her fucking low-cut dresses to suck men in. You aren’t the first guy she’s fucked. She’s a whore, a fucking whore. What you’ve gotta do with whores is teach them a lesson. How about it, Lacy. Admit you’re a whore. Admit you fucked Tom. Admit the truth and we can all go home.”

Mom says, “You’ll regret this, Frank.”

BANG! 

Mom screams.

The second shot. Is she still alive? Grace and Binky are crying harder now and shaking. Why am I not brave enough to do something about this? Why am I afraid? I can only pretend for the sake of the girls that I’m not afraid. I tell God in my head that He has to do something about this.

Dad shouts, “The next time it’s going to be closer. Now tell the truth! Tell me the fucking truth. How many times has Tom been down here? I’ll bet Emma knows what’s going on. Women always know what’s going on. Do I have to bring in Emma and Wilber to find out? Make it easy. Just tell the truth.”

Mom says, “We’re telling the truth. You just don’t want to hear it.”

BANG! 

Mom screams. “That parted my hair!”

Someone is running.

Dad shouts, “Come back. I’ll shoot Tom.”

The side door slams. Mom is outside.

Dad says, “Like I said, Tom, I don’t blame you. But you have to take some responsibility too. You’re smart enough to recognize a whore when you see one. You’re smart enough to know if you get involved with a whore, you risk your own family. Does your wife know you’re playing around with a whore?”

No answer.

Dad says, “I’ll bet your wife knows. My question is how can she put up with it. How can she know her husband is traipsing off down the road to fuck another man’s wife and not do anything about it? Tell me that. Just tell me that.”

No answer.

Suddenly Mom bursts through the front door behind Dad’s chair and begins wrestling with him over the gun. Dad shouts, “Watch it! Watch it! I’ll shoot you. Watch it! I’ll shoot you!” Mom must have superhuman strength, because she has the rifle. As she walks away, she says, “Sober up, Frank. Just sober up. This is over.”

But it’s not over. Someone is knocking at the front door. I see Mom open the door. I see Wilber Perkins and a policeman standing there. Wilber says, “What’s going on here?”

Mom begins crying.

Wilber says, “The kids better come up to our house.”

Mom nods. Wilber and the policeman enter. The girls and I back away from the stairs into my room, staying huddled together until Mom arrives with our winter coats and boots. Through a bloody mouth she says we should go up to Wilber’s for the rest of the night.

...

Emma Perkins settles Grace and Binky and me into her big upstairs bed in their old farm house. The room is so cold we keep our coats on under the covers. When Emma leaves, I tell Grace and Binky everything will be okay. Then they fall asleep.

I am grateful to Wilber for bringing us to this safe place. I’m sure Emma told Wilber he had to call the sheriff and go down there to save Lacy from her crazy husband. In my mind I can hear Wilber say, “Goddamnit! Why’d she hafta git mixed up with that goddamn sumbitch in the first place?” That’s what Wilber says about someone he doesn’t like. 

I’m angry with myself for not helping Mom. I hate the feeling of being small and powerless, hate feeling that God has no intention of revealing Himself. Did He perform a miracle by preventing Mom’s death? Or was He sipping coffee this night with several seductive angels? 

I want to sleep, but my mind seems to say the night is too dangerous for sleep. Dad is mentally ill and needs a long stay at the loony bin. But if he disappears, how will Mom support us? What will become of us? What will the town say about us when the gossips reveal our secret life?

It seems as though I’m asleep for only a couple minutes when I wake up with a jolt and a pounding chest. The sun is shining through the trees, the room is quiet. I take long, deep breaths. I hear muffled voices downstairs. Mom and Emma come upstairs and into the room and wake up Grace and Binky. I squeeze my feet into my boots. Mom and Emma help Grace and Binky with theirs and then lead us across Wilber’s yard to our house. Mom makes French toast and lets us drench it with maple syrup. Dad is gone. She doesn’t say where he’s gone, just that Grace and I won’t be going to school today. I think maybe he’s in jail, or already in some institution where the doctors are checking him in for a long stay. Mom is quiet, telling us through swollen lips to try to play quietly. She doesn’t talk about what happened, and I can’t ask her. When she is in the kitchen, I go to the living room near the French doors and touch three bullet holes in the wall. Each hole is tiny, as if an insect drilled a home for itself and is hiding behind the wall.

Returning to my room, I open the storage closet. The .22 rifle leans next to Dad’s shotgun in the near corner. I move the guns deeper into the closet, propping them up in the far back corner. I pile old quilts over them so they are hidden in the dark shadows.

I go downstairs and pull one of our kid chairs onto the heat register. I sit over the grate, feel the warm air rise around me, try to read comic books. I worry whether Dad will return. In the afternoon, when I’ve about decided it would be impossible because Mom would never have him back, Dad’s car pulls into the driveway. Grace and Binky run upstairs. I stay downstairs with Mom.

I see from the window that Dad is dressed up in his suit and carrying flowers. He knocks on the front door. Mom answers it. He pleads with her to let him come in. He’s crying and apologizing to Mom and saying he can’t remember what happened. He says the alcohol made him crazy. He begs her to forgive him. He says it will never happen again. 

I watch from the dining room. I’ve never seen Dad cry before. Why is he crying? He must know Mom won’t let him live with us again. I know Mom will tell him she can’t continue with a man who threatens to kill us whenever he gets upset. I know Mom will say that parting her hair with a bullet was the last straw.

Then a strange thing happens. Mom forgives him. I wonder how she can forgive a drunk who just shot up the place. Does she have a death wish?

Mom says, “You just need to control your drinking.”

Dad is on his knees with his head in Mom’s lap. He is sniffling. She strokes his head. “I’m going to quit hard liquor. No more, I swear. I’ll have a beer now and then, but that’s it.”

“You’ve got to stop being so jealous.”

“I will. I promise I will. It was the alcohol. It made me crazy.”

Mom thinks she can save Dad. He says he will become a new man. I can see Mom wants us to be a happy family. I wonder how to be happy if you’re anxious. The sound of the phone ringing at night always startles me.

In the weeks before spring, Mom and Dad seem happy. When Dad is home on weekends, Grace and Binky and I fade into the background, trying to avoid doing anything that will upset the new man. When he wants to play chess, I try to avoid it. I say, “You always win.”

He says, “I’ll give you a queen handicap.”

“You beat me before with a queen handicap.”

“Okay, then. I’ll play without both my rooks.”

“Your queen and one rook.”

“That’s too much of a handicap.”

“How do you know unless I beat you?” 

When he agrees to my conditions, he still wins. Playing chess frustrates me. The new man says I should sit still, but he takes too long thinking about his next move. I make quick moves that lead to mistakes. I don’t see the many spots where the knights can attack. And when I think about the role of the pawns, sacrificing them for the good of the king or queen, I get an uneasy feeling that the girls and I are the pawns in Dad’s destructive mind.

I don’t see Mom with Tom Randall again, and when spring arrives, the Randalls move away. On Easter Sunday, Mom makes us dress up and go to church, including the new man, as if maybe to help our family be resurrected like Jesus was. 

Dad fidgets as if he needs a cigarette. I don’t believe he’s thinking about Jesus.

In Sunday school, Mrs. Dawson teaches us God loves little children. She says His son, Jesus, loves little children. We sing about how Jesus loves us. I don’t understand how God and Jesus can love me. Jesus is dead, and God doesn’t know who I am. Mrs. Dawson says God is everywhere and knows us all and will protect us. But I’m not sure whether God hears my night prayers. If He does hear me, I’m not sure He has the power to prevent Dad from going haywire and shooting us with the .22 rifle. I’m anxious about the possibility that God is not real. I become restless and chase a boy who is flicking spitballs with his fingers. Mrs. Dawson chases us, saying we can’t run in church.

In November Mom poses Grace and Binky and me outside for photos that she can use on our family Christmas card. She has us sit on the front steps, Grace holding a kitten, and me steadying Binky between my legs. Mom tells us to smile. It’s difficult to smile all the time as Mom does. 

I think Mom savors the idea of happiness. Her big smile allows her to cover up secrets like the handsome husband being a failure who acts like his wife has kicked him in the balls whenever she mentions money problems. She shoots an entire roll of film of us kids in various locales and searches for one perfect photo that tells the Christmas world we are a cheerful crew on a steady ship. 

In the spring I tap maple trees, carry buckets of sap home, and boil it in Mom’s biggest pot on our kitchen’s old wood stove. The steaming liquid thickens until it becomes a remarkable candy. Its sweetness almost cancels my fear that our family will be forever volcanic and nothing at all like the image of serenity in Mom’s photographs.

The Christmas card photo does not show that sometimes Dad feels like killing us. And the card’s caption gives no indication either, just Greetings from our house to your house.

Mom continued to send similar Christmas photographs of us kids even after she divorced Dad. Often during this time I had nightmares about a man chasing me with a gun. I never saw the face of the man with the gun, so I always assumed it was my father. But my college roommate suggested maybe the faceless man symbolized my fear of death. I said I wasn’t afraid to die, but thought maybe I was. Later I decided the only way to be free of fear was to move into it. To realize a dream that had been inhibited by anxiety, I flew alone to Luxembourg and became a vagabond in Europe for a year. On my return I felt a freedom from past trauma that compelled me to shed tears as my ship approached the Statue of Liberty. Finally I was free to find the tranquility that had been absent since the apocalypse.