Rereading both the envelope and the letter, I frantically hunted for the return address, but there was none. Father’s handwriting had always been barely legible, but this letter was almost impossible to read. Nearly every sentence was incomplete or rambled on without any conclusion. Words were either misspelled, jumbled, or ran off the page altogether. I concentrated so hard on Father’s writing that my head began to throb with pain. Suddenly it struck me: he probably had been drunk when he scrawled out the letter. That had to be the only conclusion. That would explain the condition of the soiled envelope, his penmanship, and, more important, the reason he forgot a return address.
In the blink of an eye I became furious. I was so ashamed of the life Father was living. How, I wondered, could he be so foolish to keep drinking? He had to realize his binges—his entire lifestyle—would be the death of him. Why? I yelled at myself. Why couldn’t Father just quit once and for all? He had been so courageous as a fireman; why couldn’t he muster the willpower to deal with something so relatively simple? How hard was it to throw away the bottle?
I closed my eyes, replaying the countless times Father had nearly passed out, literally on top of me, with his eyes bloodshot and his clothes reeking from days-old perspiration and spilled drinks. Dad had always promised that he would someday, somehow, take me away from Mother’s evil clutches. But even back then I realized it was the booze talking. As brave as Father had been on the job, he had no intention of crossing Mother. Sitting outside the air force barracks, I felt utterly helpless. To me, Father wasn’t a bad man. Maybe, I justified, Mother’s fury forced him to drink. Maybe . . . his drinking was his only outlet to deal with . . . ? “Oh, my God!” I cried out. What if Father’s boozing began as his way to escape all the hell between Mother and me? What if I was the reason for Father’s drinking problem?
My body shuddered from humiliation. My thoughts swayed between the intense guilt of Father’s plight and wanting him to find the determination to help himself. I thought if I was the reason for Father’s alcoholic condition . . . then I was responsible for the family’s devastation, my parents’ separation, and for Father’s downfall at the fire station; I was the reason for his current condition. The sudden wave of shame was so overwhelming that I began to weep. In some sense, in the back of my mind I had always known this. As a child, I knew I was the bad seed. Somehow I had made everyone I had come into contact with miserable. As an adult, I had to make things right—buying a home for Father and me was not enough. Who knew what condition Father would be in by the time my enlistment was complete? I was the only one who could ease his pain, and I had to do it now.
I decided to wire Father some money. Even if he used the funds to buy booze, I didn’t care. Who was I, my conscience argued, to judge a grown man when in so many ways I was still a pitiful child? After all the hell I had put Father through, this was the least I could do for him. If the money helped to numb his loneliness and despair for a few hours, then so be it.
After I reached a definite decision, my fingers quit shaking. I wiped my tears away and stared at the crumpled envelope. Seconds later I shook my head in disgust after remembering that Father left no return address. “Goddammit!” I exploded. “Why?” I cried as I clutched the letter. “Why is my life constantly plagued with so much bullshit!” When my own mother tried, for twelve years, to kill me, I never fought back. I never ran away. I had just taken the abuse by adapting every moment of every single day to surviving. And foster care was no breeze, but I made the best of it. As a teenager I’d worked my tail off while normal kids were having the time of their lives. While scores of others waltzed into the recruiter’s office to enlist, it took me forever to join the air force. When my lifelong dream of becoming a fireman was shattered because of some foul-up in the paperwork, I bit my lip and pressed on. And now I couldn’t even help my father because he had no address or no phone number for me to call. I couldn’t even disturb Mother and beg her for information on Father because I have been excommunicated from her precious family—I was not worthy of the privilege of having her unlisted phone number. As I sat and stewed at my latest predicament, I so badly wanted to be anyone other than David James Pelzer. I covered my face with my hands as if to squeeze an answer from my brain.
The only alternative I could think of was if Father by some chance wrote me again. Maybe then he would scribble his address. Whenever I was faced with overwhelming, impossible odds, I always turned to God. As a child I always felt guilty, begging for His time to help me, but now I pleaded for God to keep my father safe and warm. Mostly I begged for God to somehow ease my father’s pain. “Please,” I whispered, “do what you can to protect my dad. And please, deliver him from all evil. Amen.” After pleading with God I discovered that a film of snow covered my fatigues, the bench I was sitting on, and the entire air base. Even though the tips of my fingers had turned purple and my ear lobes raged with pain, I somehow felt warm inside. As I stood up and walked back toward the barracks, a howling wind blew in my face. I didn’t blink an eye. “It’s up to God,” I said to myself. “Only He can save my father now.”
Days turned into weeks, which turned into months. As much as I waited, as much as I prayed, I never heard from Father. After graduating from specialty training, I was transferred to my permanent base in the Florida panhandle. Just as my counselor in basic training had boasted, I expected to serve in a typical setting while overseeing civilians who ran the kitchen. But it was not meant to be. I was stationed with a combat engineering group, which entailed spending most of my time laboring under the cover of a tent rather than simply monitoring others in an air-conditioned building. I dreaded rolling out of bed in the early morning, before driving over an hour, in the middle of nowhere, to the field site, and work straight through without a break, then finish the day at eight that evening, only to repeat the cycle the next day. I detested the job, and I felt as worthless and degraded as I had when I lived with Mother.
As always, I swallowed my pride and rose to the challenge. However, as much as I tried, it seemed that I could do nothing right for my two hard-nosed supervisors, who berated me every minute of the day. I refused to cave in. Because I had a hard time getting the field burner units, which cooked the meals, up and running in time, I had to begin my day at three a.m. rather than four-thirty. By the time others showed up to begin their shift, I had almost everything cooked and on the serving line and ready to be dished out. But that was not good enough for the sergeants. When I accomplished that feat, I only found myself being chewed out for something else. Every week, it seemed to me, the harder that I’d focus on my tasks, the more I’d screw up. I seemed to be in the middle of a never ending cycle. It never failed: I always had everything under control, right up until the moment the sergeants peeked in on my progress, only to find me fighting off my latest blunder. A short time later I discovered I was the only cook preparing all the meals, while the sergeants and other airmen seemed content to watch me sweat away.
Then one afternoon, out of the blue, my supervisor, Technical Sergeant Campbell, a towering black man who always bellowed at me while his gleaming white teeth maintained a vise lock on one of his huge cigars, called me for what I thought was another lecture on my shortcomings. “I tell you, Airman Pelt-der, you a working fool,” he stated with a wide smile.
My eyes dodged down at my splattered boots. “I’m trying hard, Sergeant Campbell.”
“You need to understand, squadron’s job’s to build bases from nothin’ and fix runways in the event they’ve been damaged after an enemy attack. Runway’s not fixed, planes don’t take off. Mind can’t be on business of buildin’ and fixin’ if everyone’s hungry. It’s that simple. You get what I’m sayin’?” I nodded my head. “I get you to work hard, to see if you quit. That’s why I ride ya. Ride ya hard. Gets the job done, that’s all that matters to me. We’re in this together. You still needs to work on adjusting that attitude, though. Ain’t no shame being a cook. I know you want something else; you can do whatev
er you like in the future. But for now you stay with us,” Sergeant Campbell said. “You done good! No need to be ridin’ on your behind no more,” he stated with a grin as he slapped me on the back.
It was then that I understood why I had been constantly harassed and forced to carry the load more than others: I was being tested. I let out a sigh. At least, I told myself, I tackled a job I detested and was willing to give it my best shot. Above all, I knew that I would never give up and with my determination I would find honor.
A short time later I found myself on my first temporary duty assignment (TDY). Because of Sergeant Campbell’s faith in me, two peers and I were the sole cooks to feed a small group of pilots and support staff in a remote location. The two senior airmen and I worked from dusk to dawn, and our efforts were rewarded with praise. During my stay I began to feel a certain pride that I, in some small way, had contributed to a team effort.
That evening, while the other cooks cruised to the local bars, I stayed behind and studied one of my books. Part of the reason was that I felt enormously intimidated in front of other people. While others would tell wild stories of where they grew up and adventures in school or dating, I would become afraid, lock up like a statue and stutter. I couldn’t look at anyone in the face, let alone maintain eye contact long enough to tell a joke. So I had decided that I’d rather be alone than make myself out to be more of a fool than they already knew.
Hours later, after reading several chapters of my book, after filing away another written letter to Father that I would never mail, and after staring at the ceiling, I still could not fall asleep. For some reason something seemed to keep me from relaxing. I was wide awake even after my cohorts stumbled in and collapsed on their beds, As usual, whenever I’d become uptight about something, I’d doze off literally minutes before I had to begin another day.
The next day, after serving lunch, one of the cooks thrust a phone in my hand, refusing to look at me. Confused, I shook my head. My eyes darted between my friend standing a few feet away and the phone cradled in my fingers. For a moment I hesitated before pressing the receiver end against my ear. “Hello?” I uttered.
“David?” The voice seemed to crackle from a million miles away.
My heart skipped a beat. “Mom, is that you? What is it? What’s wrong? How did you get this number? Why are you calling?” I asked my foster mother as fast as the words could spill from my mouth.
“My God!” Alice exclaimed. “David, I’m so sorry. I beg of you, please forgive me. It took days, and I mean days, to reach you. Your squadron . . . in Florida. . . . they weren’t sure where you were. . . . I tried every number they gave me. Please know that I—”
“Wait! Slow down, I can barely hear you! The line . . . it’s too much static. Just tell me, what is it? What’s wrong?!”
“Harold’s fine. I’m fine. . . . David, just believe me when I tell you how hard I tried. Honest to God, I tried. . . .”
My stomach began to clench. The more my mind ran through every possible option, the more the answer became crystal clear. “Tell me,” I said as I clamped my eyes shut and uttered a quick prayer, “just tell me. Tell me he’s not . . .”
On the other end of the line I could hear Alice lose control. “Come home, David. Come home,” she sobbed. “Your father’s in the hospital. They say he’s not going to . . . he only has a few days. . . . Come home, David. Just come home.”
As the words sank in, the receiver dropped from my hand. I fell to my knees as a static shrill from the phone filled my head.
CHAPTER
4
WISHFUL THINKING
Nothing could have prepared me for seeing my father. I had zero tolerance for the assistant at the nurses’ station at Kaiser Hospital, in the heart of San Francisco, who stood in front of Alice Turnbough and me as if we were invisible, while refusing to say if Stephen Pelzer was indeed on that particular floor, let alone admitted to the premises. Because of my insomnia, zigzagging across the country in the middle of the night, and the anxiety of seeing Father, I was ready to explode.
Whatever scenarios I had formulated during the flight over, dealing with the actual situation was far more stressful than I had planned. Aboard the plane, every option seemed cut and dried, but now, I strained just to lean my upper body against the counter to keep from collapsing. I could feel my resistance to stay razor sharp, to retain a crystal-clear focus, drain away. The sterile pine smell nearly caused my nose to bleed and triggered memories of being trapped in the bathroom with Mother’s concoction of ammonia and Chlorox. The thought of not only coming face to face but actually dealing with Mother whenever she showed up would be hellish at best. My only wish was that somehow Mother would for once find it in her heart to bury her immense hatred and permit me a few moments alone with Father without unleashing her explosive fury.
But maybe, I imagined, I was the one going too far. It was in fact Mother who had called Alice to tell her of Father’s condition. Maybe, there was already a crack in Mother’s defensive armor. When I had spoken to her before joining the air force, she had seemed overly pleasant, even proud of my efforts. For a fleeting moment her soothing tone reminded me of the mommy I had once adored. What if, I thought, Dad’s condition brought them back together? As a small child, before events turned the family upside down, I knew my parents had been deeply in love with each other. I had always heard that a crisis could bring strained relationships back together. There had to be a reason why Mom and Dad never divorced after all those years of separation. So now there was hope. I knew it! The scare of Father being in the hospital could be the best thing to happen for the entire family.
The more I thought about this possible outcome, the more my anticipation of seeing Father grew. Like a lot of folks in similar situations, I, too, had initially overreacted. As my optimism grew, I pictured myself with Father, checking him out of the hospital in a few days, spending time with him one on one, then maybe . . . one day soon . . . I could return again on military leave, and all of us could sit down to a dinner. I told myself, feeling replenished with energy, that no matter what the consequences, nothing was going to be the same. The winds of change had begun to stir the moment Mother broke down and telephoned Mrs. Turnbough. The entire charade would be over. Nodding my head in agreement to myself, but nodding more to the deranged woman at the nurses’ station, who continued to act as if she was engaged in more important matters, it no longer fazed me. I was in control of my emotions, and I knew that everything would work out for the better.
From out of nowhere, a male nurse wearing a name tag STEVE slid behind the station and took immediate control of the situation. Before I could badger him, Steve read my name, stitched on my green air force fatigues, and let out a heavy sigh. “My father, Stephen Pelzer, he’s here? I mean, he’s okay and he’s in this hospital on this floor. Right?” I blurted out. I stared down the arrogant woman, who turned away after tossing her hair in disgust.
Steve began to reply but raised a hand to his mouth as if to first collect his thoughts. “Man, we’ve been waiting on you. Yeah, kid, your father’s here, and . . . yeah, he’s on this floor. But chill for a sec. There’s a few things you need to know.”
I rolled my eyes as if to say, Yeah, yeah, come on, out with it. “So . . .” I nagged, “what’s the deal? What happened? He fell down, broke an arm? What is it? When does he check out?”
As Steve rapped his fingers on the countertop, wondering how to deal with me, my ears picked up the faint sound of a hacking cough. Without thinking, I spun to the right and marched into the room next to the nurses’ station. It took a few seconds for my eyes to adjust. Before me, shaking like a leaf in a flimsy hospital gown, was the skeleton-like figure of my father. His arms were twitching uncontrollably as he struggled to slide his bare feet in front of him. He seemed to be using whatever strength he could muster to make it to the bathroom. By the vacant look in his eyes I could tell he had no idea of who I was, or even that someone else was in the room with him.
Coming around behind him, I slung his arm around my shoulder and helped him into the bathroom. His wafer-thin body trembled against mine as he fought to stand straight while relieving himself. My mind was spinning, and I kept questioning like an idiot, “Are you all right? Are you okay?” over and over again.
Only after helping Father to his bed did I realize how bad his appearance was. His eyes were blank. They rolled to whatever caught his attention for that split second before drifting off somewhere else. As he lay flat on his back, the only time his arms were still was when he would drag his bony hand over to the other and hold it. Looking into Father’s face, I smiled, hoping to catch his darting eyes. The skin around his cheeks was crimson red and stretched thin. I noticed a large white patch taped to the right side of his neck and shoulder but paid no attention to it. Instead I reached out to cup Father’s hands. “Dad,” I gently whispered, “it’s David.”
No reaction.
“Dad,” I said in a firmer tone, “can you hear me?”
Father’s only response was a raspy exhale.
I could hear Alice sniffling from the entrance of the room. Out of frustration, I lay my body next to Father, while keeping my face just above his. “Dad? Hey, Dad! Can you . . . do you hear me? It’s me, David. Say something, anything. Dad?”
Studying Father’s eyes, I looked for the slightest response. I thought if he couldn’t speak, at least he could communicate with his eyes. Minutes crawled by with no answer. I wanted to grab the sides of his face and squeeze out some type of reply that Father indeed knew I was with him.