Memories are funny things, elusive at times and intrusive at
others. Sometimes welcome, sometimes not, more often bittersweet; a knowing
smile and a soft sigh, trapped where the shadows pool and pull. Childhood
memories, wisps of smoke beyond my grasp and so much of that childhood is lost
to me, or hazy and smudged, the result of traumatic brain injuries and
additionally, I think, the willful suppression of most of whatever does remain,
the memories that wait, like a trap to be sprung. And then, there are the
things that I do remember, the monsters locked away in the closet and under the
bed, where I’m afraid to look.
Sometimes, I look where I shouldn’t. I pick at the scars and
the scabbed over wounds and I remember…
Memories truly are funny things. So funny. Memories of my
mother, the little things that come to mind when I think of her and the
complicated mix of emotions those little things bring forth, surging like a
tsunami of childhood terrors brought forth by the ever-haunting ghost of her.
How do I explain how the smell of soap makes me gag and remember the taste of
every bar that she shoved into my mouth? One bar of soap that she’d forced me
to eat, all because I’d asked her what a ‘grand prix’ was. I’d just wanted to
know what the word ‘prix’ meant. She’d thought I’d said pricks, which was the
way I’d pronounced it. One false word.
Locked in the closet for hours, the
darkness and isolation scratching at my soul, inciting shame, anger and
madness. A betrayal of love, the smack of a paddle, a shoe, my father’s belt,
his fist, in later years, a baseball bat; whatever might be within reach at the
time. As I got older, the line between hidden and public abuse became blurred. I'm sure many of my friends remember my father beating me on the boardwalk in Atlantic City, or watching me flee, as I ran from him, or in later years, as I held my ground and stood up to him, fists flying. I never won.
Sometimes, I’d be punished for the things that I hadn’t been caught
doing, misdeeds that existed only in my mother’s imagination. Not that any of
it mattered, though, because I’m worthless and useless and stupid and a regret
and so many other things that frankly, I’m sure I deserved all of it and who
can deny the truth?
I know this because my mother showed me the truth of all
things and she told me these truths every day. Her truth, her fury, however she
saw it at the time and her will was God’s will and it was God’s punishments
that were being inflicted on me, in all His righteousness and wrath. That’s one
story, one truth. And then there’s my story, my truth. The two truths are quite
different. In my truth, I can’t place any real moment of affection, love or
concern from my mother, but I can paint, quite vividly, so many scenes of her
cruelty, both mentally and physically. I remember fear. I remember tears. I
remember pleading, as only a small boy can, wishing for it all to stop and for
me to go away, to cease existence, but it never did and I never did and my soul
was kept in chains. Little things. The little things that come to mind when I
think of my mother. Little things.
Soul killing things.
And with a strength borne from where I know not, I endured.
Somewhat perversely, I also loved my mother, and desperately
so. I begged for her attention, her love and for her affection. I begged for
these things, but I never knew them, not in anything other than the meager,
measured and miserly fashion in which she dispensed them, only employed when
she wanted something. It was pure manipulation and I fell for it, hook, line
and sinker, every time. Desperation breeds fools. Love becomes a pyre and burns
to ashes. All that remains are ashes, the burnt taste in my mouth. Love and
loathing, a strange dichotomy to live with, to hate and love someone so much,
at the same time. Strange indeed, but I’ve learned to accept it. Maybe it’s
more like I just got used to it. Maybe there isn’t any difference between the
two. And maybe I just don’t know anything. Whatever.
My parents were pretty hands off. They had rules, sure, but
so long as I followed the few there were, they really didn’t care what I did,
or where I went, so I had a lot of freedom at a very young age. I learned to
take care of myself, because nobody else would do it for me. My parents just
weren’t interested in being parents and so they abdicated all parental
responsibility and I was pretty much left to my own devices. In my family, it
was all about appearances, really. That and following the rules. If I screwed
up in any way, if I were not the model child for all the world to see, there
would be hell to pay and I paid Hell, almost daily, on a never-ending
installment plan.
My mother had many strange obsessions, one of which was
timeliness. She not only had to be on time for everything, she needed to be
there fifteen minutes early, or she considered herself late and if I made her
late, I’d be paying a little extra on that installment plan, so I usually had a
bit of motivation. Usually, but not always. Being a young boy, I was
perpetually tardy for everything, in the way that young boys are and I had the
bruises to show for it. When I was seven years old, I had missed the bus to
school and my mother was in a rage, because she had to drive me to school. That
one incurred a beating both before and after school, plus, she locked me in the
closet for hours. As did the second instance and once again, I was locked in the
closet, a favorite and effective torment of my mother’s.
That closet…
A linen closet, just deep enough to wedge in a small boy in
the space between the shelves and the door with no space to spare and none to
move. A confined space, claustrophobic and made even more so by the absence of
light and sound as the door would close and the darkness settled in. Nothing
but the darkness and the smell of bleach to keep me company for all those hours
spent in exile.
It was after the second time that I had missed the bus, my
mother had told me that if I missed the bus again, I would be forced to walk to
school. In my young mind, this was not a bluff. I’m sure that many mothers have
uttered those words to their children over the years, but the difference is
that my mother meant it and I’ve never had any doubt that she did. My mother always
meant exactly what she said and she always followed through on her threats and
promises. If she told you something, it was a one hundred percent guarantee of
what and how it was going to happen.
I made every effort to get to the bus and school, on time.
Until that one day…
I had been waiting for the bus, my hands full of books, notebooks,
folders, my lunchbox and pencil box. Backpacks weren’t really a thing back
then, so you were stuck carrying everything by hand and it was always a
juggling act, balancing more things than you had hands for. As the bus pulled
up, I started making my way to the door as the other children started up the
steps. Suddenly, I tripped and dropped my pencil box, spilling the contents out
onto the sidewalk. As I stooped down to pick up my things, I could hear the
other kids telling the bus driver that I wasn’t on the bus yet, but to no
avail. I heard the familiar squeal as the door to the bus closed. I looked up
in horror and panic as I watched the bus start to drive off. I dropped
everything and chased after it, leaving my things behind and I ran as fast as
my legs could carry me, which wasn’t fast enough, of course and I started
crying in fear and frustration as I watched as the bus gained distance before
it disappeared.
I went back to where I’d dropped my books, head down, walking
like a condemned man to his execution.
I picked my things up, got myself situated and weighed my
options. I didn’t know what to do. I was too scared to go home and incur the
wrath of my mother. I didn’t want a beating now and then another when I got
home. And then another, when my father got home. Three for the price of one.
Such a deal. Plus, my mother was only going to make me walk to school anyway,
so why not just skip the beating and walk to school? In my mind that was the
only option that was available to me and so I set off, determined to walk to
school. It was only about a thirty-minute bus ride, so how far could it
possibly be?
It was four and a half miles. I Googled it.
It was a typically hot, late spring day, in Florida, with no
breeze to speak of. Traffic was heavy on Collins Avenue, but I paid it no mind
as I put one foot in front of the other and trudged on, step after step, the
blocks turning to miles. I walked and I walked and then I walked some more, the
Bal Harbor Bridge in the distance and it seemed to pull further away with every
step. I counted those steps until I lost count. Bored beyond words, I kicked
rocks and squashed bugs. I lost myself in my own mind, daydreaming, and for a
time, I rose and I soared above it all. But mostly, I was bored. I was also
thirsty and hot, soaked in sweat, sore and tired, but I was scared, determined,
angry and frustrated. I cried nearly every step of the way.
As I was passing the golf course at Haulover Park (about
three miles in), a Ford Mustang Convertible pulled over onto the shoulder of
the road in front of me and the driver turned his head and called my name. I
was dumbfounded. Right there in front of me was my principal, Mr. Stearns, who
had come to my rescue. I couldn’t believe my eyes.
I was very familiar with my school principal, almost being a
permanent fixture in his office, as I was always in trouble for something or
other, whether it be fighting or just being a general annoyance and disruptive
in class. These episodes were always followed by a trip to the principal’s
office, a short lecture, a call to my mother and then, more often than not, the
judicious application of corporal punishment that would be inflicted on my
bottom by the school’s wooden paddle and the stern hand of Mr. Stearns.
I would be in the principal’s office, sitting across the
desk from Mr. Stearns and we would discuss what happened and then the paddle
would make an appearance. Our conversations would go something like this:
Mr. Stearns: “Now, I’m going to have to call your parents
and get permission to spank you.”
Me: “You don’t need to do that, Mr. Stearns. You know my
mother will say yes. You don’t need to call her, you can just go ahead and
spank me.”
I was more terrified of that phone call to my mother than I
was of being spanked. That phone call meant at least two more beatings.
Beatings and a punishment that would make whatever Mr. Stearns could do to me
seem like nothing and I wanted to avoid that at all costs. Unfortunately, it
never worked that way and he always made the call and then I’d spend the rest
of the day in agonized terror of what would happen when I got home.
Anticipation.
Mr. Stearns beckoned me to the car, opened the passenger
door and I got in. I’ll never forget what happened next. He looked at me and he
told me that when the bus got to the school, the other kids had told a teacher
that I had missed the bus and that teacher had reported it to the office. Concerned,
Mr. Stearns told me that he had called my mother to see if I had made it home
safely. I hadn’t and my mother had no clue where I was. I’m not sure that she
even cared. After he hung up the phone, Mr. Stearns called the police and then
he took it upon himself to go looking for me, while my mother stayed home
watching soap operas, something I didn’t know until much later.
A stranger to come to my rescue when my own mother wouldn’t.
As I got into the car, Mr. Stearns admonished me for walking
and he told me that he would call my mother as soon as we got to the school and
let her know that I had been found, safe and sound. Mr. Stearns must have
noticed something in my face, perhaps it was a moment of fear that I hadn’t covered
up quickly enough, but whatever shadow it was that had crossed my face seemed
to completely unnerve him and I watched as a look of compassion and sadness
flitted across his face, as if he had an inkling of what would be waiting for
me, once I got home.
Things were different back then.
“I’m sorry. It will be okay,” he said.
And then he hugged me and I buried my face into his chest
and cried once more, warmed by his compassion and shamed by his pity.
Mr. Stearns took a bit of a detour, before he drove us back
to school, allowing us to enjoy a small part of the day in that fast Mustang
convertible. He opened it up and it wasn’t long before he had me laughing and
smiling, a moment to soar above it all. A fleeting moment, for all too soon, we
pulled into the school’s parking lot and then he shepherded me into his office
and called my mother to let her know I’d been found. He had her on speakerphone
so that I could talk to her as well. When confronted, she denied ever telling
me that I’d have to walk to school, but then she caught herself in her own lie
and asked why I’d ever believe such a thing in the first place. She didn’t seem
unduly concerned, but I could tell by the timbre of her voice that I had
embarrassed her and there would be hell to pay. Just another day.
After that, Mr. Stearns plied me with ice cream and asked me
if I’d like to go back to class. He told me that I could hang out in his office
and read, if I wanted to, but I wanted to go to class. I just wanted to be
around the other kids and not think about what would be waiting for me when I
got home.
The school day ended and I took my time leaving the
classroom. Unfortunately, I wasn’t lucky enough to miss the bus ride home.
And then I was home.
The next day, my mother called the school and told them that
I’d had an accident and would be out for a few days. I ended up missing a week
of school after I “fell” down the stairs.
I never missed the bus again.
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