The more these individuals thanked me for my efforts, the more I’d open up and reach out with everything I had. I began to see my place in the world and the difference I could make to ease a bit of suffering, rather than turning my back as I had with little Katie. For years, in the back of my mind, I had always hoped something or someone else would fix the problem of not only children being brutalized, but the scores of individuals who blamed their current predicament on their past. As my father had years ago, I, too, had fantasized that if I swept the situation under the rug it would magically disappear. Now, as a parent, my conscience could no longer let me turn away.
My travels escalated to the point where after a night flight, I’d hop in my car at one in the morning, drive six hours without a break, to arrive just in time to spend the day at a teen conference. Other times I’d take leave to journey to the southern part of the state to speak to college students studying the psychological effects of abuse. I always relied on my own means. Whenever I was offered money for lodging or even gas, I’d refuse, asking instead that the sums be funneled back into the organization. As much as I felt the pinch, I believed it was wrong to accept payment. For me, changing a person’s attitude for the better was payment enough.
As my activities increased, the problems of my childhood being exposed to the air force was becoming a reality. If discovered, I felt, I would lose my clearance. Whenever the squadron received a letter from one of the agencies I’d worked for, I’d casually reply that I was simply helping out. Even when I received an award from the governor’s wife, Patsy accepted on my behalf and I never told my squadron. The extensive traveling and flurry of kudos from across the state were beginning to take their toll. I felt caught between two worlds. If I was to continue, I had to come up with a different tactic that would keep me local as well as provide a lower profile.
After assisting as a volunteer youth service worker, I was hired part-time in juvenile hall. I jumped at the opportunity to work directly with teens, who, like me at their age, were skating past the edge. Patsy liked my job because it kept me from constantly going all over the state, and working at juvenile hall added to our income. Patsy had been cross when I recently donated my award money to a local organization. “Do you know how much money that is?” she asked.
“It doesn’t matter,” I had pleaded at the time. “It’s the right thing to do. Besides, we’re doing fine.”
“Oh, really? You may live in a high-horse morality world, but I live in a real one!” Patsy vented. As taken aback as I was, Patsy was right. Even though I had checked with her every step of the way, I had in fact spent family funds for my cause. Over the course of a year, besides all the traveling expenses, I had sponsored a child abuse–awareness contest, providing scores of prizes and certificates for all the kids who entered. During Christmas I ran around town, collecting mounds of candy, hundreds of comics, and even a big Christmas tree for the kids at juvenile hall. Since I knew what it was like for some of them, I wanted to brighten their world if only for a day.
As upset as Patsy was, I knew she had a soft heart. When I ran out of Christmas stockings for the kids in juvenile hall, Patsy not only sewed makeshift stockings out of cloth by hand, but spent an entire day making cookies for the kids and staff. I was fully aware of other influences on her. She hung out with other wives from the block who seemed to complain about everything in their lives and how the air force somehow owed them for all their sacrifices. Caught up in the tide, more than once Patsy had brought up the subject when she was upset. Part of me understood her frustration of being alone while I was away, but she, unlike some of her friends, had family only minutes away, as well as everything she could desire. Once, when I thought she went too far, I adamantly stated, “Okay, it’s not a mansion, but we live in a beautiful home, rent free. The only bills we have are car, gas, insurance, and food. Period. You don’t work; you have a beautiful baby. So tell me; how bad can it be?”
“You don’t know what it’s like. Sometimes I just go crazy,” Patsy fired back. “You’re . . . you’re always out there flying or doing God knows what. I support you in your little promotional things . . . helping the kids, making them laugh, or whatever . . . but I thought it would be different. I just . . . I just want something more, that’s all.”
At the time I simply thought Patsy was bored. Her moods seemed to change on a daily basis, and I didn’t consider she was giving me a vital message. Wanting to get away, Patsy joined me during one of my long drives to the southern part of the state for another series of volunteer presentations to college students. In my heart I believed our time together—without interruptions from the air force, juvenile hall, the scores of agencies I worked for, or from Patsy’s family tearing at her—would give us time to sort through some issues that were simmering below the surface. A part of me also wanted to peel away some of the layers of my past so I could finally be honest and open to Patsy. Maybe, I thought, hiding my past was interfering with my being able to trust Patsy. Due to our leaving at three in the morning, Patsy slept until we arrived at our destination. Moments before I left the motel to go to the campus, Patsy suddenly became ill and remained behind. But by the time I returned that night, Patsy had recovered and was now ready to paint the town. Because of the lengthy drive, the exhausting day, and the prospect of a long drive back home in order to mission-plan a flight with the air force, I was a walking zombie. As much as I wanted some time off to be with Patsy, once again I knew I had disappointed her by declining a night out. Bit by bit, without meaning to, I was adding to our strained marriage.
Still fuming on the drive back to Beale Air Force Base, Patsy said, “I don’t get it! Why do you do this? This running around with the kids at ‘the hall,’ the colleges, collecting toys. . . . Half the time I don’t know where you are or what you’re doing. I just don’t understand. It’s not like it’s gonna change anything.”
I sighed as I rubbed my eyes. I knew as exhausted as I was, I would most likely make the situation worse. “Have you ever seen something that was wrong and . . . wanted to . . . to do something, anything? You know, just lend a hand and help out? I mean, I’m not trying to save the world, but if I can just—”
“Just what?” Patsy interrupted. “Hello? Earth to David? It’s not our deal. Besides, don’t you know that you’re being laughed at? Come on, all anybody has to do is pick up the phone and tell you some sob story and boom: you’re off saving the world. The least you can do is get something out of it. I know for a fact you’ve been offered some money.”
My hands tightened on the steering wheel. “Really?” I asked. “Who’s laughing?”
“Well,” Patsy said, “my mom, for one thing—”
“Your mom,” I retorted, as if she were a factor.
Losing steam, Patsy muttered, “And there’s more . . . uhm, everyone on the block thinks you’re stupid. Come on, who else would be stupid enough to drive off in the middle of the night and lose sleep just to talk to some college dweebs, knowing full well whatever you say to them, they can get from a book, huh? They’re laughing, David. They’re all laughing at you.”
With sarcasm I said, “Is that so? Did they laugh when you met the governor’s wife for the ceremony?”
She shot back, “Well, if you must know, it wasn’t all that. In fact, at lunch the chicken was cold. All your work for what—a cold piece of chicken and some idiotic award? Like I said, someone gives you a call and you come runnin’. You may say it, but you don’t owe anybody a damn thing. And if you do, it’s me! You keep this up, and the day will come that you’ll have to decide between what you’re doing and me. The air force stuff I can take, but this ‘we are the children’ ‘save the planet’ thing is getting a bit too much.”
“But,” I defended myself, “what if I’m on to something? I don’t know what it is, but I truly believe in what I’m doing. Maybe these late-night drives don’t add up to a hill of beans, but in my heart if I can go to bed knowing I took a chance and gave it my best, that??
?s good enough for me. That’s why I push myself. When I commit, I give it my all. I can’t explain it right now, but I feel I have this gift. I feel I’m making a difference. You gotta trust me on this, Patsy, for our sake, for the sake of Stephen. If we don’t do something, who will? And if we don’t step in now, then when? I’m just trying to make it a better place. You know what it’s like. I’m just trying to make it better for you and for Stephen. I can’t turn away. Please,” I added, “you just gotta trust me.”
“Making a difference? I don’t see it,” Patsy said with a snap of her fingers. “Besides, it’s not like buying a kid a pair of shoes, giving them a video or a stupid Slurpie is gonna change anything,” she finished with a roll of her eyes before nodding back off to sleep.
Patsy’s reference to a Slurpie struck a chord in me. When I was a foster child, people like my social worker Ms. Gold had not only given me hope that I could make something of myself, but little things, like surprising me with an occasional Slurpie or Orange Julius. The sincerity of their gestures was something that I would never forget. And now seventeen years after others had made such an impact on my life, I reached out to lend a hand.
Yet with every program I did, every contest I promoted, donation I made or mile I logged in the wee hours of the night, I simply did what I believed was true and just. In the midst of my crusade I was becoming enveloped in a certain peace. Besides dedicating myself to being the best father I could, I had made a pact that I would do what I had to in order to ensure that no one became anything like my mother.
CHAPTER
12
THE LONG FAREWELL
In the summer of 1990, subtle changes began to take a toll on our marriage. As an air crew member it began in January with the retirement of the SR-71. After years of rumors of base closings and cutbacks in personnel, the Blackbird was deemed too expensive. The retirement festivities held an emotional significance for me. After years of studying and being part of the unique program, I had the chance to actually see my favorite plane up close. Dressed in my flight suit, with Stephen cradled in my arms, together for the first and only time we ran our hands lightly across the titanium skin of the spy plane.
Before the aircraft’s last flight, as some personnel from the base worried about a new mission to fill the void left by the SR-71 Blackbird, a few members of my squadron, including myself, were tasked to mid-air refuel a new aircraft that was coming out from the highly shrouded world of “black operations”—the F-117 Stealth Fighter.
Working with the F-117 meant no more lengthy overseas deployments. After we had spent months apart for the last five years, my being home more seemed to amplify stresses between Patsy and me. Without meaning to, I drove her crazy. Patsy had always had the run of the house, and now I got in her way. Even after a few weeks of coming home from work every day, I still felt more like a guest. When I began to become frustrated over petty little things, Patsy bore it with the patience of a saint, but I could sense that the number of these situations, however insignificant, was forming a wedge between us.
But I knew my apprehension was due to matters of trust. After being together for nearly six years, I had grown to know by Patsy’s sudden eruptions that something was brewing below the surface. During July 1990, two situations brought matters to a head. I discovered Patsy had a credit card under my name. After Patsy swore up and down that she had received the card out of the blue one day in the mail, she gave me the phone number to the company. As I dialed the number, Patsy snatched the receiver and slammed it back down. “I already called and talked to them . . . and they said it was okay if we’re a little late.”
I knew the only way to resolve this was to play out her game. When I probed for the person’s name, Patsy could only come up with “Richard.” She refused to give me a last name, position, or extension number. It seemed to be another obvious lie, but Patsy was steadfast to the point that even when I called in front of her, she acted as if everything was as she claimed. After explaining my situation to several people, finally I was able to speak to an account supervisor. He confirmed a signature on the card, and said no payments had been made since the card was activated months ago. Apologizing like a child, I informed the supervisor of what had actually happened and promised to make amends. I also begged him not to expose the issue to anyone outside his organization.
“Why?” I fumed as I hung up the phone. “You . . . you could have told me the truth. . . . You could have gotten a card under your own name. Why do you have to always drag me into your—?”
Patsy jumped in. “Duh! I can’t get a card! You know that. I had credit problems.”
I could not believe Patsy’s gall. “That’s not the point. The card, the spending, calling some guy from the card company whose name you can’t remember, telling you it’s okay for you to be late with a payment! With you it never ends. It’s always something. I’m tired of being lied to. The games, the constant deceptions. You think, you really believe I’m that stupid? Feeding me a line that if you call some guy, from some company, it’s gonna wave some magic wand over what you did and make things better? It’s a matter of responsibility, and I’m tired of cleaning everything up!” I turned to leave the room, wondering if I was right to be accusing her. Had Patsy really deceived me or had I signed for a credit card long ago that I had forgotten about? Things were moving too fast for me to ever get to the bottom of it. I stopped as I approached the door. I spun back toward Patsy. “Do you know or even care that I have another security review coming up? If the air force finds out about this, they can pull me from—”
“From what?” Patsy lashed out. “I’m tired of air force this, air force that. You’re so full of it! You ain’t doin’ nothin’ and you know it. You never did. You ain’t shit; you’re enlisted. You just tried to make out that you’re a part of something just to keep me in line, but I’m telling you this: I can do what I want when I want, and no one is going to tell me what to do!
“You wanna be truthful? You wanna talk about honesty? Come on, let’s be honest! Tell me about you! Come on, I’m waiting, tell me!”
For almost a year as the SR-71 was being phased out, I had signed paperwork swearing to absolute secrecy about my involvement with the Stealth program, even though the aircraft had already been revealed to the public. Even after our squadron’s involvement with the F-117 during its debut in Panama, as part of Operation Just Cause, we had been warned again of repercussions if anyone said anything, including being threatened with imprisonment.
To compound matters, I hadn’t told Patsy about some of the organizations I was working for outside the air force. When I had tried to before, she was either too bored or simply wasn’t interested. In my heart I had hoped Patsy would discover for herself the feeling of assisting others in need, and then, maybe, we could work as a couple, through issues that still seemed to tug at us both. But even after accepting the award from the state’s first lady, Patsy still had not made the connection.
So, standing by the door with Patsy’s face turning red, I knew if there was a hypocrite in the house it was me. Taking a deep breath, I meekly asked, “Talk to me, what’s going on? Do you think we are having problems with money?”
“That’s your problem,” she said. “That’s all you care about is money, money, money!”
“If there’s anything you want, if it really means that much to you, I’ll get it for you. You know that. It may take some time, but if there’s something out there that would make you happy . . .” As I searched for the elusive answer, the more guilty I began to feel. Was I saying Patsy had to spend money in order to find happiness? If Patsy had everything she desired, that would somehow fill the void of whatever troubled her? I wondered if maybe Patsy spent so much in part because I did not provide for her emotional needs.
Suddenly, I felt I was being snowed. “Hold on! Wait up!” I said. “No, it’s not about money—”
“Bullshit!” Patsy yelled. “Even your grandmother says so. Everybody knows that’s all yo
u care about. Money, money, money. That’s all you’re worried about. You need to chill out.”
“You don’t get it. It’s like you don’t want to understand. We have a son, we need to save for Stephen’s college. We owe him that, and a home, a real home, that’s ours. We’re not going to be in the air force forever. You may not see it, but there’s a lot of changes coming down the pike, and we’re spending everything we have.”
“Don’t give me that ‘poor house’ attitude,” Patsy said, shaking her head. “I know you always have some kind of secret stash. We’ll be fine. You act as if the sky is always falling.”
“Patsy,” I said, “it’s not about the money, it’s about us! It’s at the point you don’t even care. I know you do, a lot, and I appreciate everything but . . . at times I feel like all I do is clean up after you. It’s like you don’t even think about the consequences of what you do. Do you really think I like battling you just to drag out a shred of information, just so I can fix something you did?
“Yeah,” I went on, “I want a home! I want to save for our son’s future! Does that really make me a bad guy? I’ve been working my tail off for what, since I was thirteen, and even before that as my mom’s slave? A slave! And I’m tired of it. So, if having only one credit card and saving a few bucks makes me the bad guy . . . then I’m guilty. The bottom line is: I still have to fix your mess.”