Ch 4: Mom Was My Protector — But Not That Night.

Series: The makings of a divorce. Exploring the parallels of abuse. Chapter 4

I could hardly wait to arrive in the Keyes.

I was still contemplating how we’d all manage in a fourteen-person tent for a month. Though, having the ocean at our doorstep more than made up for it — I’d make it work.

As much as I loved road trips — and our nine children, all of us in one vehicle for days at a time, was trying on the nerves.

Minnesota to the Florida Keyes broke down to driving around nine hours each day.

Three days in a row.

Dolly Parton’s, Jolene, came on the radio, and I turned it off, attempting nonchalance.

We were nearing the Smoky Mountains, a stark contrast to the plains back home.

My husband glanced at me. “Isn’t that the lady with the blond hair and big chest?”

I gave him a knowing look.

“What? She sings nice,” he smirked.

The kids started their Scooby-Doo movie, opened their snacks, and settled in their seats.

At times, certain songs are hard to hear, too many associations — memories better forgotten.

When I was around seven, we’d gone to the Old Man’s house one Sunday. I’ve never heard my stepfather, Butch, call his father anything but the Old Man.

Butch’s stepmother, Edith, was in the kitchen trying to open up a jar of her famous dill pickles.

The Old Man was standing next to her, a beer in one hand and a white handkerchief in the other, wiping the sweat off his balding head. He was shirtless, red suspenders holding up his jeans, his Santa Claus belly glistening with moisture.

He grabbed my nose with his two fingers and said, “The cat’s got it — now what are you going to do?”

I giggled as if it were the first time.

“Have a seat guys,” the Old Man prompted. He handed Butch and Mom a beer.

Wesat at the Formica-topped kitchen table. Three fans circulated stale, musty air throughout the house.

A partition separated the living room and kitchen, a perfect peekaboo wall. But instead of games of hide and seek, everything in the house radiated a hollow emptiness, especially the living room.

I knew the rickety furniture and dark heavy curtains all too well. Knickknacks of porcelain doll figurines scattered about that terrified me almost as much as clowns.

And I didn’t understand why Edith had a spider plant hanging from the ceiling in a macramé plant holder. I always had one eye on it, waiting for a creepy daddy long leg to climb down.

Even the black and white television only got two channels, sometimes three if they put aluminum on the antenna.

“Butch, grab the chicken and barbeque sauce, the coals are ready.” The Old Man yelled, holding open the storm door for him.

“You got nuff beer for tonight, or we need to make the Wisconsin run? I don’t want none of that 3.2 bullshit,” Butch said as he grabbed the chicken platter and balanced it on one hand.

He started singing off tune in a high-pitched voice, “Jeremiah was a bullfrog, was a good friend of mine.”

“Three cases; we’ll be fine.”

Edith balanced her cigarette on top of her beer can, the ash falling to the countertop. She ripped apart iceberg lettuce, piece by piece, for the salad.

She and Mom talked about the weather, and I tried to build a house with a deck of cards, but the wind from the fan kept knocking them over. Dolly Parton came on the radio, and Mom cracked open her Lite beer.

“Julie, let’s play Crazy 8. It’s my turn to win; you beat me last time,” Mom smiled. She had a beautiful smile, perfect teeth, except for the big chip missing from her front tooth, where Butch had knocked it out.

“Can I shuffle, please, please, please?”

Edith set the tuna salad and bottle of Western dressing on the table. She grabbed the milk from the Mello-Yello colored fridge and set the gallon down next to me.

Mom won, and I asked if I could deal again.

Edith leaned her gaunt body against the counter by the sink, watching us play. She told a joke in her monotone voice and roared her ear-splitting cackle. Her laughter turned into a deep bronchial cough; her pale white skin turned red, protruding veins throbbing on her forehead.

Butch came in with the platter of grilled chicken and let the storm door slam behind him.

“Ma, ya alright?” Butch’s eyebrows drew together.

“Watch the damn door. You’re going to break it!” The Old Man yelled, coming in from outside.

Butch set the chicken on the table. He turned to the Old Man, giving him a flat look, his eyes narrowed. Edith settled herself down, and we ate. The drinking continued.

“Are the horseshoes in the pit?” Butch asked.

“Yea, I’ll call Billy,” the Old Man grabbed the receiver and placed it to his ear. I tried guessing which number he’d choose before he put his index finger in the hole and rotated the circular wheel.

Butch and Billy grew up together. Billy still lived in the same gold-colored house directly behind them with his mom. Butch said Billy was good people — but a drunk.

The Old Man filled a Styrofoam cooler with beer and ice, and they carried it to the backyard, Mom and I behind.

Billy was already there, horseshoes in one hand and a Milwaukee in the other. Tossing the horseshoes back and forth, they yelled ringer whenever the metal clanged the pole.

I was Mom’s shadow, a puppy determined to play. But Butch didn’t let me because he said I was too young.

Five games later, Billy raised his eyebrows and smirked, high-fiving the Old Man. He sang, “We are the champions of the world.”

Staggering, he said his goodbyes and followed the worn path back home.

“We get ya next time, you cocky son bitch,” Butch shouted at Billy.

Butch shook his head back and forth, laughing, “That Billy’s so drunk he can barely tell his head from his ass. How’d the hell did he beat us?” He shook his head and raised his eyebrows at Mom with his mouth half-open, bloodshot eyes bulging like a treefrog.

We came in through the kitchen door, and Edith was doing dishes. It was time for penny poker.

Mom got out her Folger’s can and dumped the coins in front of her. The kitchen table seated four chairs, so I stood next to Mom. I knew better than to talk, but it was hard.

If I was as silent and still as a mannequin, I thought Butch might forget about me, and I could stay longer.

There was nothing unique about the night really.

The Old Man started talking about how well-endowed Dolly Parton was, and Edith grunted disgust. Butch laughed, saying he didn’t get lucky with his old lady either. Mom snorted, nodding her head, agreeing she’d missed that boat.

“Mom, what boat?” I whispered in her ear.

Butch’s smile turned to a snarl. “Get the damn hell outta here and quit buggin your ma. You’re like a mosquito.”

“She’s not doing anything. Let her be,” the Old Man gave him a hard stare.

I kept still.

“You better not say nothin. This ain’t no place for kids,” Butch eyed me and took a swig from his beer.

I shifted my weight from one leg to the other. I wanted to be next to Mom — it didn’t matter if my legs were tired. Besides, the only thing on TV was Benny Hill. I wished for the hundredth time I had a sister, brother, someone I could play with.

The Old Man won the pot, and it was Mom’s turn to deal.

“Ugh. Edith, please light a candle — it stinks so bad, my eyes are tearing up,” Mom pleaded, waving her hand in front of her nose.

The Old Man always passed rotten gas, flaunting it every chance he got.

“At least warn us so we can leave the room,” Mom plugged her nose, shaking her head.”

I looked at Mom’s glasses, and they were getting foggy. I giggled but knew I’d made a mistake. I stared down at my feet, rubbing and twisting my hands together.

“How many damn times I need to tell ya to quit playin with your hands? Time to go. Out.” Butch’s eyes narrowed as he pointed to the living room.

I laid down on the stiff couch and played heads and tails with a penny for a while. The half-wall blocked me from seeing the action. I tried peeking over, but Mom caught me with wide eyes, mouthing the word no.

Lying back down, I watched the smoke swirl about, disappearing, the blades from the fan whirling it throughout the air.

I listened for pennies going into the pot, hoping Mom and Butch won. I imagined becoming rich. Johnny Cash blared on the portable radio, and Butch complained about too much static on the station.

The Benny Hill show was on, and I tried to understand his humor once again.

Eventually, sleep found me, somewhere near midnight, though short-lived on that particular night.

“You’ve always been a no-good son of a bitch,” Butch screamed.

“Get out of my house. Get a job, you damn drunk. And don’t you bother calling me for any money. Get out, now,” the Old Man yelled.

I heard the storm door slam. “Mommy,” I yelled. “Mom!”

“Your mother is outside,” Edith broke the silence with a flat tone.

I jumped off the couch and ran through the kitchen out the door. I didn’t see her anywhere. I sat down on the concrete steps wondering if she had forgotten about me.

June bugs were swarming everywhere. I lifted my chin — I tried being brave.

I heard the song of crickets and frogs. My heart belted against my chest while my stomach turned. I hugged my knees into my chest and buried my face, my teeth chattering.

An ignition turned over, and I saw headlights beam on near the end of the driveway. I ran to the station wagon. Mom was in the driver’s seat, but I didn’t see Butch.

“Mommy?”

“Get in,” Mom said, rolling down her window as fast as she could.

“Where’s Butch?”

“Don’t know, ran off. Need to find him,” she slurred.

I opened the front passenger door and sat in the forbidden spot. Mom lit a cigarette, and it dangled from her mouth. I didn’t like it when she did that. It reminded me of Butch.

She moved the gearshift, looked over her shoulder, and pressed the gas. Nothing. She pressed harder.

“What the fuck?”

She moved back to park and tried again, this time finding reverse. The wagon jerked to attention, and she floored it straight into the neighbor’s lawn.

“Mommy, are you okay?”

She drove up the street and turned onto the road that led to the highway. She took a drag of her cigarette and swig of beer, resting it between her legs.

I saw a pair of headlights coming towards us, closer and closer, the lights shining in my eyes.

“Mom, you’re on the wrong side of the road!” I screamed— jerking forward, bracing the palms of my hands against the dashboard.

“Mommy,” I cried, squeezing my eyes shut.

She swerved in time, the other car blaring their horn and yelling something I couldn’t understand. Pulling over to the side of the road, she put the wagon in park and finished her beer.

She drove back to the Old Man’s house, and we waited in the driveway for Butch.