“You think you’re the only one who’s been through hell? You’re the source. You made everyone’s, every single person’s life a living nightmare, and you thoroughly enjoyed it. You relished it. You had everything. You blew it. Not me, not Father, Grandma, the teachers, the neighbors, your friends, Uncle Dan, Ron, Stan, Russell, or Kevin. It’s not my fault, not then as a kid, and not now! Father deserved better. No matter all the fights, his fault or yours, he deserved better!”
“Why, you pompous, filthy piece of . . .” Mother muttered under her breath. Again she raised a hand to strike me down.
“Don’t you even think about it!” I shot back. “Know this,” I stated in a low, clear voice, “everything you’ve done to me, to Father, to everyone, will come back to you. The pain, the suffering, the hell . . . everything!”
“Don’t you—you . . . try and change the subject,” Mother fumbled. “One of the nurses . . . told me . . . he said he saw you . . . go through his jacket pockets stealing the papers.”
Papers? I truly had no idea what Mother had been ranting about. Unless she was referring to when I was first searching for his badge in the hospital . . . and found a set of documents and stuffed them into my back pocket near my wallet. My only concern had been for Father’s badge. In all the chaos of dealing with Mother, Grandmother, and the lack of sleep, let alone Father’s needs, I had stupidly forgotten to look over the papers. For all I knew . . .
My facial expression must have given me away. “Yeah,” I hesitated, “I have ’em. I didn’t mean to . . . I mean, I meant to give them—”
“Shut up and give me the fuckin’ papers!” Mother ordered.
I could only guess that the papers were some gigantic insurance policy that Father had taken out years ago. Part of me wanted to whip out the papers and watch Mother grovel on her hands and knees as I ripped them to shreds. After years of enduring Mother’s misery, head games, and torture, I now had control over something she desperately craved. I now called the shots. But as I stood in front of this pitiful wreck, I realized that my passing fantasy was not the outcome Father would have intended. In all, I still had the prize of prizes. But by withholding the documents, I thought I would somehow discredit whatever dignity Father had. No matter how many times Mother had plotted to kill me, stooping to her level was something I could not do.
“Here,” I said as I unfolded and presented her the papers. “It was a mistake. I forgot I had them. Really, I did. I never meant to keep anything from you. I would have given them to—”
In a flash Mother snatched the papers. The only time she ever moved with such speed was years ago when she used to beat me. Her eyes sparkled and she sighed with relief. “And now, young man, I indeed have everything I will ever need.”
“You lose,” I smiled.
“What?” Mother asked as she leafed through the papers.
“All those years you tried your best to break me, and I’m still here. Father’s finally free, Ron’s in the service, and soon the boys will move out on their own. I’m a good person. I try my best in everything I set out to do. I make mistakes, I screw up, but I learn. I don’t blame others for my problems. I stand on my own. And one day you’ll see, I’m going to make something out of myself. Whether I dig ditches or flip burgers for the air force, I’ll be the best, and somehow, some way, I won’t waste my life away. If you taught me anything, you taught me that.” Turning, I saw Mother’s boys milling around at a safe distance with a small group of adults. I took a half step forward and pointed a finger in Mother’s reddened face. “Stay away from me. Everything you’ve done to others . . .” I stopped as my voice quavered. I could feel whatever energy I had fade away. The last seven days had taken their toll on me. Taking a deep breath, I lowered my finger and backed away. “I pray for you every night, I swear to God, I really do. You may have your papers, your money, whatever. You can hate everybody and everything on this planet, but you lose!”
Mother stood with her mouth gaping. Before I left her, I clasped my hands together, then made the sign of the cross and leaned toward her ear, whispering, “May God be with you, Mrs. Pelzer, for no one else will be.”
* * *
Ten hours and three thousand miles later, I returned to Hurlburt Field, in Florida, only to discover my somber mood was no match for that of the base. After a small fleet of specially outfitted C-130 cargo aircraft landed, I learned that the air unit had been directly involved in the ill-fated rescue attempt of the American hostages held in Iran. Five of the eight men who gave their lives when a helicopter accidentally sliced into the C-130 had been assigned to Hurlburt Field. To make matters worse, I learned that the men had died the same day Father did.
I woke up in the early morning hours the next day to find I could barely breathe—the sides of my throat had swelled to the size of oranges. After a quick examination at the base’s clinic, I was rushed to the hospital and admitted for severe mononucleosis. Since it was the first time I had ever been admitted as a hospital patient, and coupled with the strain of just losing my father, I was terrified. Because of my condition, I was heavily sedated. As the medicine took effect, I was finally able to lose myself and whatever problems I had through sleep.
During the night, I dreamed I was lying next to Father. I tried to stretch my arm toward him and hold his hand, but I could not budge. I fought to scream out to Father, to say something, anything. But, just like Father, I could not utter a single word.
CHAPTER
6
REGROUP
Because of severe mononucleosis, I was heavily sedated in a hospital bed for over a week. Even after being released, I found myself without a clear-cut purpose for the first time in my life. I was devastated that I had lost my father. My sole objective for the past few years had been to push myself beyond any normal limits in order to save every penny, which would enable me to buy my home, then scour San Francisco until I found Dad. Without him, though, sharing the cabin in the serenity of the redwood trees, fishing at the river, talking over a crackling fire, or anything that might resemble an ordinary family life was a complete delusion.
As a shivering child in the garage, I had always dealt with my challenges by pushing down my feelings, thinking of what I could learn from the situation, and do whatever it took to somehow make things better. I had always formulated the ultimate plans and broken them down to the tiniest detail. This strategy helped me prevail over Mother, served as my protective shield while I was in foster care, and propelled me into the air force. As long as I had a chance—a glimmer of hope in a tunnel of darkness—all I had to do was clear my head, rid myself of any self-pity, and forge ahead.
And yet another part of me felt that my best-laid plans of becoming a knight in shining armor to my father were nothing but an idiotic pipe dream. Since Father and I spent so little time together during his lifetime, we were obviously not that close. But I had always believed that if I could put all the large-scale pieces in place, I could smooth out the minor details of a relationship later. This delicate process had become a guilt-filled obsession. How dare I go to the beach with my air force friends, buy records or even clothes while Father was out in the cold somewhere. It had gotten to the point that I never did anything beyond waking up, working my tail off, returning to the barracks to catch a bit of sleep, then repeating the cycle the next day. Whenever I had a day off, I’d simply sleep in, watch television, or read. To do anything more meant taking money away from my goals. Yet, I had to admit to myself, it was also because of my lack of social skills, taking a chance at making a jerk of myself in front of people. Even as a young man in my early twenties, I’d continue to say the wrong things at the wrong time, and whenever I became nervous, I dug a deeper hole by stuttering uncontrollably.
By focusing on my future, I was able to reject the present.
Months dragged on, and I came to realize that I had used Father as an escape from dealing with my new life as a young adult. Now with Father’s death, I had to learn to deal with mysel
f.
I coped with Father’s death the only way I knew how: working. I would get off work and rush to the barracks to change clothes before putting in a full shift as a short-order cook at the local Denny’s restaurant. After an eight-hour shift I would get off from Denny’s with just enough time to change back into my rumpled air force fatigues and head out to the field for a day’s work. At times I went without sleep for several days. I really didn’t care. I hated my jobs. I hated my life. After a while, when I’d sleep, I often had intense nightmares of being late for either my air force or restaurant job.
At least now when I slept, I no longer had nightmares of Mother trying to kill me. She used to always appear in my dreams standing at the end of a hallway surrounded by a gray mist. But now as Mother moved forward to attack me, instead of fleeing, I’d march toward her, step for step. When Mother would raise the knife above her head, I would rip open my shirt and hiss, “Do it . . . ! C’mon, do it!” The gleaming knife would remain frozen beside Mother’s red face. Stepping within inches of her, I’d whisper, “Kill me now or let me be!” Even though I was still intimidated by Mother in real life, she no longer had control of my dreams. I had been terrified for so long, yet with Father’s passing, day by day I believed I was finally releasing myself from her grasp.
Soon I found out my squadron had been chosen to fly to Egypt and build a temporary air base. Nearly all of the four hundred men assigned to the unit were tasked for the mission. I found myself desperately wanting to be a part of the extraordinary adventure. As a low-ranking airman who had been in the squadron for less than a year I was not considered, but a major officer in charge of logistics spoke with my hardhearted supervisors to give me a chance. And they did. When I was finally selected, I was so elated that I waltzed into Denny’s, quit my job, and packed my duffel bag.
The exercise, dubbed “Proud Phantom,” gave me a different perspective on being part of a team. As a cook in the middle of the desert, just outside Cairo, I’d work ten to twelve hours in furnace-like heat during the day, then in bone-chilling temperatures at night, without any breaks. I was proud to sweat side by side with others who also pushed themselves beyond the norm in our combined effort to achieve a military mission. Whenever I’d steal a few moments for myself, I would step outside the sweltering dark green tent and scan the skies for the vintage American F-4 Phantom fighter jets as they raced overhead, showing off to the Egyptian pilots by either making diving passes or pushing their planes through Mach 1, shaking the ground like a volcanic eruption. The shock wave would practically demolish our cooking tent, scattering pots, pans, and every other piece of equipment in every direction. During more serene times, I’d stand outside mesmerized by the streaks of powder blue and bright orange skies before the sun set beyond the brown-speckled dunes. At other times, just before dawn, when an eerie quietness filled the base camp, I’d gaze at the thin layer of fog, minutes before the rising sun, and watch as a blanket of purple evaporated the mist. Halfway across the world, it was a relief not to worry about my future or be locked away in my past. I had finally found some peace.
Immediately upon returning from Egypt, I called Alice. Barely giving her a chance to talk, I began recalling my adventures of putting in grueling hours at the base camp, my visit to the pyramids and the sphinx, and the loads of postcards I had mailed her and Harold. Finally she broke in, telling me that my uncle Dan had passed away. Cutting the conversation short, I phoned Grandmother so I could get the telephone number of Uncle Dan’s wife, Jane. As always, I didn’t know what to expect, so I took a deep breath, waiting to see what mood she was in. I was not prepared for the frail tone of Grandmother’s voice. In all my years of knowing her, even as a child in Mother’s house, I had never heard her so vulnerable. “I am truly sorry to hear about Uncle Dan,” I gently said.
Thousands of miles away, outside the limits of Salt Lake City, I could hear Grandmother whimper. After crying for a few minutes, her entire manner began to change. As much as I wanted to “be there” for Grandmother on the phone, I knew I was just her captive audience. “No one knows what it’s like,” she began, “to lose your children, to be all alone. No one knows.”
“What?” I exclaimed. “Did you say she’s dead? Mom’s dead?”
“Well,” Grandmother sniffled, “she sure as hell might as well be. You’d think the least she could do is visit her own mother.”
“So she’s alive? I’m sorry, I misunderstood, I thought you just said . . .” My words trailed off.
“You know damn well, young man, that when your mother sold the house to some foreigner—and let me tell you, I heard she got a pretty penny for it, too. That house sold so fast it would have made your head spin. And does she offer me anything? Hell no! Not one red cent, let alone grant a kind word to her own mother. . . .”
I steadied myself, trying to clear my head. I had no idea Mother had moved. And I truly did not care. All I could think about was my brothers—if they were still with her, if they were safe. Maybe they even had a new chance of happiness. Slowly I came out of my trance, wondering how the conversation had turned. I knew the unspoken rules of speaking with Grandmother: Let her rant as long as she wanted, never question her opinion, never interrupt, and, above all, never ask a question. Any questions could mean dire consequences. “Grandma, I am sorry, but . . . could I please have the number to Aunt Jane’s? I just would like to pay my respects. I’ve been away for a while, and I don’t want her to think . . .”
“Well,” Grandmother said, “I just don’t know if I can find it. I just don’t know what I’m going to do.” After a lengthy pause, she let out a labored sigh. “And if that weren’t enough, can you believe she settled here?” I could hear Grandmother stab her finger into the phone. “Here of all places? She doesn’t even have the decency to come see me. Not once. Well, if she’s waiting for me to traipse over to her place and bow down before her holiness, well, she can wait till hell freezes over! I don’t need this, you know.”
Standing in the cramped phone booth, I automatically nodded in agreement. “Yes, Grandma,” I replied, “I understand.” Yet, as I thought about it, Mother moving near Salt Lake City made absolutely no sense. I recalled as a small child that Mother had told stories to Ron, Stan, and me about how she despised Utah, the extreme winters, and what she dubbed, “the inner society of ‘The Church.’ ” I would have never guessed that Mother would, of all places, move near her own mother—a person that she treated with absolute malice.
Clutching the telephone, I recalled Mother’s instantaneous change of attitude whenever Grandmother dropped by. Even when I had sat at the bottom of the stairs in the basement, I could distinctively hear Mother’s unique way of being both slightly submissive and coldly dispassionate. Mother seemed to attempt to appease Grandmother but only to a limit. The more Grandmother tried to reach out, the more Mother refused Grandmother and whatever offers she made. Whenever Grandmother left Mother’s home, there was always hell to pay, and I was usually Mother’s outlet. Now, leaning against the metal ledge of the phone booth, I could not remember a single gesture of love or compassion between the two women. Straining to pick up what Grandmother was saying, I could not help but make the connection between mother and daughter—both consumed by their mutual hatred and yet they were a mirror image of each other.
From the books I was studying on psychology and human development, I could only assume that Mother’s drinking, vindictive behavior, and her treatment of me were somehow linked to her past.
Grandmother’s labored breathing caught my attention. “And . . .” she huffed, “I just don’t know what to do about Stan. I give him odd jobs and I pay him, of course, but I’m not going to be around forever, you know. I’ve told him time and time again, he needs to finish school and get a high school diploma. I’ve told him over and over that I’d pay for a tutor. You’d think he’d listen to me. You’ll see, when he’s on his own without a pot to piss in, he’ll come running to me. You’d think with all I’ve done . .
.”
I had to jump in to keep her from belittling my younger brother, Stan, who had been mildly retarded since suffering a severe fever as a small child. “Grandma,” I interjected, “I’m sorry about Stan, but could I please, please get the phone number for Aunt Jane?” By the extended pause on her end, I knew I had pushed too hard, but I also knew that the simplest request was always met with a wall of resistance. After several more gentle nudges, Grandmother finally relented. I hung up the phone feeling completely drained. Part of me felt I should mail Grandmother a card, send her some flowers, or maybe take some military leave to visit her. I had been outside the family fold for so long that I wasn’t sure what to do or how my intentions would be received. For years I had wanted to do the right thing and make up for years of loss. As always, a blanket of guilt covered me and I wasn’t sure how to proceed. Stepping outside the booth, I took in a few deep breaths to clear my head. Yes, I told myself, Grandmother was obviously having a hard time, but I had gotten so wrapped up in her grief that I almost forgot about my uncle Dan.
Thinking of our conversation, I realized Grandmother had said little of Aunt Jane and how her children were coping. When I had asked about my brothers, the question was brushed aside. Like Mother, the center of attention had shifted to Grandmother and her anguish.
Speaking with Aunt Jane was completely different than with Grandmother just minutes before. She was more concerned about my feelings than her loss. Trying to take Aunt Jane’s mind off Uncle Dan, I told her of my trip to Egypt and my hopes of going to college to make something of myself. “You already have, David. Dan was proud of you, and all of us here are, too. Don’t push too hard and just live life. Take time and enjoy a little.” As we spoke back and forth, I remembered Uncle Dan as a hard-nosed man who had lived as the ultimate outdoor sportsman, and who also drank as much as Mother and Father. I remembered as a child looking deep into his eyes, and sensing that Dan was like Mother—a person with a volatile temper that could erupt at any moment. As Aunt Jane opened up to me a little more on the phone, I felt that her marriage to Dan and the lifestyle that went with it was not a smooth one. “It wasn’t easy for anyone back then, David. Back then things were different . . . the drinking, everything. It was considered the norm back then; ‘The days of wine and roses.’ ”