listening
to the thump…thump,
somewhere beneath muscle
and breastbone. I remember
his arms, their sublime
encircling,
and the shadow of his voice:
I love you, little girl.
Put away your bad dreams.
Daddy’s here.
I put them away. Until
Daddy became my nightmare,
the one that came
home
from work every day
and, instead of picking me
up, chased me far, far away.
I Wasn’t Sure Which Dad
I would find inside the shed,
although I had a pretty good
idea he wouldn’t want me
to witness him crying—not
the macho man he wanted
the world to believe him to be.
Truth was, in his day, Dad
was about as bad as they came.
Way back in the late sixties, when
everyone else ducked the draft,
Dad ran right down and joined up.
Wanted to “waste gooks.”
Left Molly, his wife of only
a few weeks, at home while
he toured Vietnam in an A-4
Skyhawk, a not-so-lean killing
machine designed to deliver
maximum firepower.
And Dad was just the man—
boy—to deliver it.
He came home long enough
to get Molly pregnant, then joined
up for a second tour of duty.
Dwight was almost two
before he met his dad.
Sad.
Not Dad’s Fault
Any more than I’m entirely to blame
for what I’ve become. It’s all in the molding.
Dad’s dad, Grandpa Paul, with the scary
gray eyes (scary because, if you dared
look into them, somehow you’d see
the things he’d seen),
served his country too, “slappin’ Japs”
in World War II.
He slapped them good, taking a patriot’s
revenge for buddies lost at Pearl Harbor.
Justified. Glorified.
Deified with a Medal of Honor and a Purple
Heart for the leg lost to shrapnel.
Grandpa Paul refused prosthetics,
said living with a stump was no more
than the Good Lord’s daily reminder
of wrongs still in need of righting.
Mistakes in need of correction.
But It Only Takes One Leg
(And what’s located next to it)
to create a whole brood of kids.
Dad was number three of five.
Hard to stand out
when you’re number three.
Hard to be the apple of your
mother’s eye. Harder still
to gain the affection
of a father whose love for any
living thing was lost along
with his buddies and his leg.
Even Grandma Jane,
his wife till death did part them,
prematurely, would never regain
the love she lost to battle scars.
Distance begets distance begets…
Well, that was yet to be decided.
One Thing Already Decided
Was spaghetti for dinner. Mom was waiting for the sauce, Dad had already hit the sauce, and it wasn’t tomato.
Now Dad had never laid a hand on us girls (not so far, anyway). I wasn’t afraid of that.
But I didn’t want to disturb his demons any more than he already
had. Plus, I knew he was sick of spaghetti.
I Started to Sing
Loud, so he’d know I was coming.
To make double-sure, I clomped
across the wooden walkway,
sounding pretty much like a cow.
Dad was too far gone to care.
He had quit talking to Molly.
Now he whispered to the
other spirits who crowded his life.
You’re dead, you fucking gooks.
North, South, who could tell? You
all looked alike from the air. Go on
back to hell. Your babies need you.
I creaked the door open. “Dad?
It’s me, Pattyn.” Didn’t want him
to think I was a gook in the flesh.
“Mom needs some spaghetti sauce.”
The shed fell silent for a second
or two as Dad tried to collect
himself. When he finally did,
my words sank in.
Spaghetti? Again? You tell your
mother I won’t be sharing
the dinner table tonight. I’m
going lookin’ for Julia Child.
I didn’t dare mention she
was dead, although he probably
would have felt right at home
in her company.
Even Without Dad
The dinner table remained
eerily quiet, as if each of us,
even the little ones,
intuited what was to come.
Mom rarely expected Dad
for dinner on Friday night.
Johnnie, it seemed,
was always on a diet.
Usually we chatted
and giggled, hoping
Dad would wander in late,
settle down on the sofa,
and watch mindless
TV until he and Johnnie
fell deep, deep asleep.
Relatively harmless.
Often, it happened
that way. We’d all tiptoe
off to bed, leaving
Dad to his nightmares.
In the morning, we’d wake
to irrefutable proof of Mom’s
undying love—Dad, snoozing
on the couch, under a blanket.
But on That Night
Dad staggered in, eyes eerily lit.
The corners of his mouth foaming spit.
His demons planned an overnight stay.
Mom motioned to take the girls away,
hide them in their rooms, safe in their beds.
We closed the doors, covered our heads,
as if blankets could mute the sounds of his blows
or we could silence her screams beneath our pillows.
I hugged the littlest ones close to my chest,
till the beat of my heart lulled them to rest.
Only then did I let myself cry.
Only then did I let myself wonder why
Mom didn’t fight back, didn’t defend,
didn’t confess to family or friend.
Had Dad’s demons claimed her soul?
Or was this, as well, a woman’s role?
When the House Fell Quiet
Jackie and I whispered
very late into the night.
We talked about Mom.
She used to be so pretty,
Jackie sighed.
“Too many worries will
take your pretty away.”
We talked about Dad.
Do you think he’s an…
alcoholic?
“Do you think he can stop?
Then he’s an alcoholic.”
We talked about the two of them.
Why does he do it?
Why doesn’t she leave him?
“Where would she go
that he couldn’t follow?”
Why doesn’t she tell?
“Who would care?”
After a While, She Asked
Do you ever wish you were
someone else?
“All the time.
Who’d want to be me?”
I would. You’re smarter
than most, Patty.
“What’s so great about
being smart?”
God has something in mind
for you. Something special.
“You think God would let
a girl do something special?”
Not every girl. Maybe just
you. You’re different.
I felt different. Still,
“How do you know?”
I can see it in your eyes
when they stop and stare.
“What?” What could she
see, buried inside of me?
You’re not like the rest
of us. You’re not afraid.
That Made Me Think
I felt angry,
frustrated.
I felt I didn’t belong, not in my
church, not in my home, not
in my skin.
Amidst the chaos, I felt
alone,
in need of a friend instead of
a sister, someone detached from
my world.
The “woman’s role” theory
disgusted me.
I would soon be a woman, and I
knew I could never perform as
expected.
I was tired of my mom’s
submission
to her religion, to her husband’s
sick quest for an heir,
to his abuse.
I was sick of my dad, of
reaching for
him as he fell farther away
from us and into the arms of
Johnnie WB.
Something bigger drew
my worry:
the creeping cold in my own
famished heart, emptiness
expanding.
Some days I was only
sad,
others I straddled depression.
But I was definitely
not afraid.
Which Brought Me Up Short
If I wasn’t afraid, I must be crazy.
Right? Didn’t dads who hit moms
usually wind up hitting their kids,
too? (And sometimes worse?)
Or maybe that’s what I wanted?
Did some insane little piece of me
think even that might be better
than no relationship with my father at all?
And why wasn’t I afraid of the path
already plotted for me—mission work,
early marriage, brainwashing
my own passel of Latter-Day kids?
Did that same mixed-up part of my brain
somehow believe I could circumvent
all I’d ever been groomed for?
Perhaps all I was really good for?
God has something special in mind for you.
I knew deep down she was right.
But how would I ever find out,
mired there in the Von Stratten bog?
I Tried Asking Him Once
“God, what do you have
in mind for me?”
I listened really hard,
opened my ears and heart.
I looked for signs,
in places expected—and not.
Expected: church, seminary,
the Book of Mormon.
Unexpected: clouds, constellations,
wind-sculpted patterns in sand.
But I never heard His answer,
never got one little hint of His plans.
Which was either good or bad,
depending on your point of view.
Because if He would have mentioned
then what He had in mind,
I would have thanked Him for His
faith in me, then tucked my tail and run.
I Slithered Out of Bed
The next morning, hungry
for a little target practice—
a great way to blow off steam.
I walked a long way out
into the desert, absorbing
the faux spring day.
Every year, two or three weeks
of fine weather interrupted
our winter deep freeze,
teasing soil into thaw
and stream into melt
and plants into breaking leaf.
It was all a game, all for show,
as if God understood we needed
to defrost our spirits, too.
As I walked, I thought
about Dad, at home, using
this fabulous day to tune his car.
When I was little, he used
to hike this very route,
lugging his favorite rifle.
I always begged to go along,
mostly as a way to spend
some time alone with him.
I was ten before he finally
said yes, and didn’t I feel
like the favored one?
Dad and I went out to the shed.
He unlocked the cabinet
that housed his guns.
Hunting rifles. Shotguns.
Pistols. And one little .22
“peashooter,” just right for me.
This was Dwight’s, Dad said.
I don’t suppose he’d mind,
long as you take good care of it.
He Made Me Carry My Own Gun
I knew he would have made Dwight
do the same, so I tried my best
not to complain. But by the time
we’d walked far enough so an errant shot
had only sand or sage to hurt,
that little peashooter felt like a cannon.
Dad showed me how to load it, flip
the safety, sight in the tin-can target.
Squeeze the trigger, little girl. Don’t pull.
I pulled, of course. The barrel lifted,
lofting the bullet high and wide right.
Try again. Take your time.
I brought the .22 to my shoulder,
willed my aching arms to quit shaking.
Level the sight. Breathe in. Ease the trigger.
The shot wasn’t dead center, but it hit
the top of the can with a satisfying BLING!
Better. Do it again. Concentrate. And relax.
Concentrate. Level the sight. Breathe in.
Ease the trigger. And relax?
BLAP! The can somersaulted across the sand.
Pride swelled till I thought I’d burst.
But my smile slipped at Dad’s reality check.
Not bad. Pretty good, in fact. For a girl.
After That
I still tagged along with Dad sometimes.
He taught me a lot on those outings:
how to account for the wind’s contrary
nature, its irritating whims;
how to move silently across the sand,
a no-brainer compared to the jungle;
how to aim slightly in front of a moving
target, assuming a straight-on run.
I even brought home a rabbit or two
for Mom’s always-hungry stew pot.
But I could never be Dwight.
And Dad never let me forget it.
Finally, I did my target shooting alone.
Killing Bunnies
Was not the point,
drawing blood,
watching life ebb,
pulse by pulse.
No, that wasn’t
it at all.
Neither was feeding
the family—not
my job, for sure.
Dad and Mom
made us kids,
only right
they fed us.
And the whole
skinning and
gutting thing,
well, that
was enough
to make your
skin crawl.
Truly, though,
the attraction
was more than
just being good—
really good—
at something
> for a change.
The lure of my
little peashooter
was in its gift
to me, in the way
only it could
make me feel.
Powerful.
If You’ve Never Shot a Gun
You can’t understand
how it feels in your hands.
Cool to the touch, all its venom
coiled inside, deadly,
like a steel-scaled serpent.
Awaiting your bidding.
You select its prey—paper,
tin, or flesh. You lie in wait,
learn that patience is the killer’s
most trustworthy accomplice.
You choose the moment.
What. Where. When. Decided.
But the how is everything.
You lift your weapon,
ease it into place, cock it
to load it, knowing the
satisfying snitch means
a bullet is yours to command.
Now, make or break,
it’s all up to you. You
aim, knowing a hair either
way means bull’s-eye or miss.
Success or failure.
Life or death.
You have to relax,
convince your muscles