Getting the Important Things Right

by Padgett Gerler

  Each afternoon after a couple of hours of practice, I’d say, “Better run. My mom will be waiting supper.”

  Then I’d pass through Mrs. Webb’s kitchen and inhale the aromas of pork chops and yams and pineapple upside down cake.

  I’d also inhale the kindness emanating from Mrs. Webb’s eyes as she would say, “See you tomorrow, Sugah.”

  Suzanne and Mary Sue taught, and I learned. Apparently, they were good teachers and I was a very quick study because the following week we all became cheerleaders—and we remained cheerleaders until we graduated from high school.

  And Suzanne and Mary Sue got to ride on the team bus with Percy many, many times.

  Seven

  As we were packing to leave North Carolina behind and head to our new home in Waynesville, Percy and I dragged our bicycles to the curb so that The Colonel could add them to our pile of belongings.

  Then from behind us came The Colonel’s booming voice: “Oh, no you don’t! Those pieces of shit won’t be accompanying the Albemarles to Waynesville.”

  Normally, we didn’t talk back to our father or question his decisions—well, at least, I didn’t—but this was a crisis, and our reflexes jumped ahead of our judgment. The Colonel was taking away our ticket to nighttime freedom. He was stealing our magic carpets that transported us to the Land of No-Colonel.

  We started sobbing and flailing our arms. Then The Colonel held up his hand, clenched his jaw, and squinted his eyes, silencing our cries.

  “Okay, little crybabies, listen to The Colonel. Those crap bicycles are nothing but hunks of rust, and they’re so small that the two of you look like trained chimpanzees on them. Now, I will not have the citizens of Waynesville thinking that The Colonel has fathered a flock of chimps. There will be new, regulation-size bicycles for all when we reach our new home.”

  As The Colonel carried our rusty pieces of shit away from the curb and deposited them by the veranda for the next flock of chimps who would inhabit the space-challenged duplex, we piled into the family car, laughing and describing the regulation-size bikes we would own once we settled in Waynesville. And if we said flock of chimps once on the trip, we said it a thousand times. To this day we still find reasons to say flock of chimps.

  Once we arrived in Waynesville, we were too busy falling in love with our big, wonderful house and making new friends to think about bicycles.

  One night while we were eating supper, The Colonel said, "Percy, you have a birthday coming up, don’t you? Which one is this? Nineteen? Twenty-four? Seems like you have been bugging the shit out of me forever. It has to be at least twenty-nine, right?”

  Percy laughed and said, “Feels that long, doesn’t it, Colonel Tom? But it’s actually fourteen.”

  “Ooh! Fourteen, huh? That’s a big one. You’re not just practicing to be a teenager anymore. You’re bona fide. Isn’t the fourteenth year the year of the first lay?”

  Oops didn’t react to The Colonel’s remark because she was in her own little world. To this day I don’t know where that childhood world of hers was. Percy and I both laughed at The Colonel, but Ma’am was not one bit amused.

  She said, “Colonel Tom, I find that remark most inappropriate, and I must insist that you not speak to our children in that manner.”

  The Colonel feigned an embarrassed look and said, “Ma’am, I am so sorry to have offended you. Please forgive me. I’ll try to watch my language in front of our children.”

  Ma’am lowered her lids and fluttered her long lashes and got that smug look that said she had bested The Colonel. Then she said, “All right then, I accept your apology.”

  The Colonel rolled his eyes and winked at Percy, and I wondered how in the world Ma’am could be fooled by The Colonel’s insincerity after fifteen years of marriage.

  Then The Colonel said, “Well, then, son, if not a lay, then what? A Ferrari? How about a trip to the Riviera? I got it! A weekend of gambling in Vegas with a bevy of beauties cheering, ‘Percy needs a new pair of shoes.’”

  Percy laughed again and said, “Colonel, as tempting as all of that sounds, I believe I’ll let you get by a lot cheaper than that. For my birthday I want a regulation-size bike.

  Somehow, Percy’s response managed to suck the levity right out of the occasion. The change in mood made the hair stand up on my neck, but Percy was so caught up in the moment that he didn’t seem to notice.

  Even when The Colonel said, “Okay, sport, I’ll make a deal with you,” Percy continued to ride the wave of conviviality.

  I wanted to scream, “Watch your back, Percy. There’s a dagger in his hand!”

  But Percy was ready to cut a deal. Percy loved a deal. I’m sure he was thinking The Colonel’s deal would be, “I’ll buy you a bike if you’ll ride it with no hands down the freeway median for two miles,” or “I’ll buy you a bike if you’ll ride it off the diving board into the University pool.” Percy would have welcomed—even encouraged—either challenge, but he was not at all prepared for the deal The Colonel offered.

  “I will buy you a top-of-the-line bicycle if you agree never to set foot in that grease pit again.”

  Percy said, “You mean Mr. Peterson’s garage?”

  The Colonel said, “Damn straight. I get you a new bike, any kind you want, and you never set foot near that tattooed jarhead again.”

  Of course, Percy couldn’t resist saying, “Why?”

  Then The Colonel narrowed his eyes, jutted his face toward Percy, and gave him his standard response: “Because I’m your father, and I can say any goddamn thing I please!”

  All Percy said was, “No deal, Colonel.”

  With that, The Colonel stood up, knocking over his chair, and strode out of the dining room, stopping only long enough to level Percy with his gaze and say, “Wrong choice, stupid.”

  The silence after that storm made my stomach churn and my temples throb. I looked at my mother who was staring at her folded hands in her lap. She had been incensed at The Colonel’s suggestion that Percy get laid; yet she said nothing as her husband pummeled her son and called him stupid. Now, I love my mother dearly, but I can honestly say that I hated her at that moment.

  And as I was sitting there hating Ma’am with my slitted eyes and clenched jaw, she dabbed her lips daintily with her linen napkin. Then she folded it neatly, placed it next to her plate, and said cheerily, “Well, then, let’s get these dishes washed.”

  Eight

  As soon as Thanksgiving was behind us, Ma’am said the same thing she said every year as soon as Thanksgiving was behind us: “You children had best be writing your letters to Santa. How else will he know what you want for Christmas?”

  It did not matter that Percy and I hadn’t believed in Santa for years. Oops was still little but had more than likely figured out before Percy and I the improbability of a fat man traversing the globe in one night, carrying enough toys in his sleigh for all the world’s children. But we played the Santa game to the hilt to humor our mother and insure Christmas loot.

  So Ma’am handed each of us a pen and a sheet of her fancy, pink monogrammed stationery because we know that Santa is impressed by fancy paper.

  Each year we were allowed to ask for one special gift and two lesser gifts. Ma’am called the lesser gifts trinkets. We didn’t try to flatter Santa, asking after the health of Mrs. Clause or inquiring about elves and reindeer. Nor did we bribe Santa with the promise of cookies and milk. We got right to the point, writing I want 1., 2., 3.—boom, boom, boom. We figured Santa could see right through all that flattery and just wanted the facts. So that’s what we gave him.

  That year Oops wrote:

  Santa Claus, bring me

  1. Books

  2. Book bag (for all of those new books, of course)

  I was surprised Oops hadn’t asked for a subscription to the Wall Street Journal. She had been reading since she was three years old, and she was never seen without her nose in a book—even though she was only seven. Reading was her escape from the lunacy t
hat was our family dynamic.

  3. Majorette boots

  I have no idea how Oops decided she wanted majorette boots or where she had ever seen majorette boots. Perhaps she had seen a picture of a majorette in the Wall Street Journal. And she was very specific about the kind of majorette boots she wanted.

  She said, “I want majorette boots with fluffy pink tassels that bounce when I march.”

  How did she know that a majorette marched? Or that her tassels bounced?

  My letter was not as formal as my little sister’s. I addressed Santa as Santa, not as Santa Claus. I felt that he and I had known each another long enough to be on a first-name basis.

  Santa, I want:

  1. Skates (white, leather shoe skates)

  I needed to make sure Santa knew I wanted shoe skates, not those things with the loud metal wheels and clamps that rip the soles off of your shoes. There was a roller-skating rink in town, and we weren’t allowed to wear those old loud metal skates at the rink. We had to wear rubber-wheel skates, and rubber wheels were attached to leather high-top shoes. Suzanne, Mary Sue, and I went to the staking rink every Saturday afternoon. We’d skate around and around for hours, holding hands and singing along to Buddy Holly’s Peggy Sue, the best roller skating song ever.

  Rodney Wheeler came to the rink every Saturday, too. He was at least sixteen years old, while we were only twelve, which made him mature and mysterious to us. He wore tight blue jeans and a tight white T-shirt, with a pack of cigarettes rolled up to his shoulder in his shirt sleeve. And just in case anyone missed the pack in his sleeve, he’d tuck one cigarette neatly behind his ear. He had dirty blonde hair made dirtier by the grease he used to slick it back in a duck tail.

  As we skated around and around, Rodney would whiz by, and, once past, he’d turn around, skate backwards, and wink at us. And we’d giggle like idiots each time he winked. Then he’d turn forward, lap us, and do it all over again, eliciting more idiotic giggles.

  Suzanne and Mary Sue had their own skates—beautiful white leather skates. I, on the other hand, had to rent skates at the rink—ugly, tan skates with brown toes and brown stripes up the backs. And if the brown trim weren’t embarrassment enough, the size—in my case, a whopping 9—was stitched on the back in brown leather. So I asked Santa for my own skates so I wouldn’t have to advertise my shoe size and the fact that I was a renter, not an owner.

  2. Red plaid slacks, yellow V-neck sweater

  I had seen the most adorable slacks and sweater at Leggett’s Department Store, and I was sure that they would look great with white leather skates. And I was certain that wearing them would make Rodney notice what a cool twelve-year old I was.

  3. A trinket of your choosing

  Well, I guess I did try to flatter Santa a little. I felt that by letting him choose number 3., he’d find me unselfish and would be delighted to bring me numbers 1. and 2.

  Then Percy wrote:

  Dear Santa, this Christmas please bring me a

  1. Bicycle

  And that was it. That was absolutely all Percy wanted. I guess he figured that the birthday storm had blown over and that The Colonel had punished him enough for his defiance. Five months of denial—and not one single birthday gift from The Colonel—had surely earned him a Christmas bike. And as unselfish as I had been, leaving trinket number 3. to Santa’s discretion, Percy had been more selfless than I had been. He had that bike in his back pocket.

  Once our yearly Santa letters were written, we addressed our pink envelopes and gave them to Ma’am to stamp and drop off at the post office. We were great at playing the game. All we had to do was wait for Christmas morning.

  The Colonel had in his possession one regulation military bugle, an obnoxious piece of equipment, if ever there was one. He told us that he had stolen it from a bugler at West Point, “because the goddamn thing just annoyed the shit out of me.” So The Colonel seized every opportunity he could find to annoy the shit out of his family with the goddamn thing.

  Christmas is a fine time to annoy one’s family, don’t you think? Well, The Colonel seemed to think so. Our Christmas day began at six o’clock in the morning when The Colonel tiptoed into Percy’s room—because The Colonel enjoyed annoying Percy more than he enjoyed annoying any other member of the family—and blared his obnoxious bugle right in Percy’s ear. Percy had learned to sleep with ear plugs on Christmas Eve, and he had also learned to laugh at The Colonel’s lame joke every Christmas morning. Not laughing would have indicated to The Colonel that Percy had no sense of humor whatsoever; and if Percy failed to laugh, The Colonel would poke and prod him all day long and tell every holiday visitor what a wet blanket he had for a son.

  So on our first Christmas morning in Waynesville, we hit the deck when we heard the familiar tuneless blast and Percy’s peals of laughter. Christmas was officially underway. Each of us kids staggered to the bathroom and waited in line for our turn. And The Colonel stood at the door, blaring his horn and ridiculing us for peeing too long. The guy could suck the life right out of Christmas. Hell, he could even suck the life out of a simple pee.

  Once we had all finished, we raced down the stairs together to see if Santa had brought us 1., 2., and 3.—or, in Percy’s case, just 1.

  As soon as we rounded the corner into the living room, Percy and I saw it at the same time—the bicycle wheel sticking out from behind the tree. Our father really wasn’t the heartless bastard we presumed him to be. He had actually come through for his son. Percy had a new magic carpet.

  I watched as my brother made a bee-line for his bike and pulled it out into the middle of the living room. And there it was: a blue girl’s bike with a white wicker basket and sparkly silver streamers hanging from the handlebars.

  And from behind us came The Colonel’s booming voice: “Well, Baby Girl, what do you think of your new bike? Ain’t she a beaut? Top of the line!”

  Percy and I stood there in stunned silence. Oops, of course, was oblivious to The Colonel’s cruel trick. She had found her majorette boots and was already marching all over the house, bouncing her pink tassels. I so wanted to escape to her world, if only I had known where her world was.

  While Percy and I were standing there, struck mute by what The Colonel had done, Ma’am emerged from the kitchen, bearing a silver tray of bakery pastries. She must have gotten out of bed at three a.m. to have been so perfectly appointed. She had on a bright red dress with a gathered skirt flared over her crinolines and matching red high heels (as well as matching fingernail polish and lipstick, of course). Over her dress she wore her new Christmas apron. This year’s model was white organdy with red poinsettias marching around the hem. The pocket was one large poinsettia, into which she had tucked her linen hanky so that just a small piece of its lace peeked over the edge.

  And she chirped, “Merry Christmas, family! Let’s have pastries!”

  She knew. She had to have known. How could The Colonel have pulled this stunt without our mother having been complicit? It would have been impossible. And she had allowed her children to walk right into his trap.

  My mother was born in August—a Leo. She was supposed to be a mother lion. She was supposed to protect her young with her life. How could she let these things keep happening to her children? Yet, there she stood, bearing pastries and acting as if all was right with the world and her family.

  But she was looking down, not looking at us. She knew, and she couldn’t face us. And for the second time in a month, I hated my mother. Over time I learned that when my mother couldn’t meet our gaze, I hated her. When she looked us in the eye, I loved her.

  Throughout my life I have found my mind screaming, “Look at me, Ma’am, so I won’t hate you.”

  But this Christmas morning I hated my beautiful, tastefully-dressed mother as she stood before us offering perfect pastries on a silver tray. In our daze Percy and I ignored her, and soon she turned and silently retreated to the kitchen.

  Oops had marched up the stairs and was parading ove
rhead, so Percy and I were left alone with The Colonel. Still we couldn’t move or speak, but The Colonel was glad to fill the dead air with his Christmas cheer.

  “And look what Santa brought for the grease monkey—his very own motorcycle. That is what a grease monkey wants, isn’t it? Don’t you just love motorcycles, Percy? Don’t you and your jarhead buddy tinker with motorcycles all the time?”

  And while The Colonel was staring Percy down and badgering him, he held out a box containing a remote-control motorcycle. It was quite an elaborate machine that probably set Colonel Tom back a bit, financially. But money was no object when The Colonel was trying to make a point. As Percy stood with his arms at his sides and his eyes trained on the floor, a huge tear fell from his eye, hit his bare foot, and ran off onto Ma’am’s Oriental rug. Wouldn’t you think that would break a father’s heart? Well, not our father’s. He just continued to shove the box with the motorcycle at Percy while he stared at the floor.

  Finally The Colonel said, “Well, all right then, you little ingrate. You can just spend the rest of this day in your room.”

  As Percy turned and trudged up the stairs to his bedroom, The Colonel muttered, “Try to do something nice…” before he disappeared into the kitchen for one of Ma’am’s pastries.

  So there I stood before our Christmas tree all by myself. The only sound coming from the Albemarle house was that of Oops marching, marching, marching in her own little world. And as I surveyed the Christmas loot, I realized, for the first time, that Santa had not brought me number 1., white leather shoe skates.

  I was still standing there trying to make sense of it all—I would never make sense of it all—when the The Colonel reappeared with a pastry and a cup of coffee.

  He said, “Go put on your clothes. I want to see you try out your new bike.”

  Not looking at him, I said, “I don’t want to.”

  He squinched his eyes and clenched his teeth, the sign that he was pissed and meant business, and said, “I don’t give a shit what you want. Now get your goddamn clothes on and get your ass out front. Your bike and I will be waiting.”