by B S Steele
When I was older, I realized that my imaginings of that disgusting little troll had come from a movie called Stephen King’s Cat’s Eye, the culprit of that same nasty nightmare I had until I was about twelve, when I finally realized that I was at least five times the size of that smelly little beast scrabbling away inside my wall.
Around that time, my parents had busied themselves with renovating our garage into a master bedroom and an office for my Mother’s cosmetics business. My Stepfather was planning to build a small shop while also expanding the area where he was raising rabbits for meat. I always felt sorry for the furry little guys, but my stepdad assured me that there were some good lessons to learn by raising our own food.
It taught us that meat doesn’t just come from shrink wrapped packages, and that there is a lot of hard work that goes into raising animals fit for eating. The rabbits were respected by our whole family, and my stepdad seemed to love them more than any of us. He never let me watch while they were being butchered but I would sneak through the woods, hiding behind the trees to see if rabbit skin really did come off like a sock peeling back from a foot, like R.J. had told me. It did, and I was fascinated and horrified at the same time.
Our main female breeding rabbit was a soft brown American short hair with a fat neck and a tolerant spirit for sticky hands and high-pitched voices. She was the closest rabbit we had to a pet, because she’d been around much longer than any of her offspring. My stepdad always warned us not to become attached to the babies, since we’d be either be selling or eating them within a short time of their birth. Nevertheless, he let us hold the mama rabbit, if she wasn’t whelping. One day, being the curious kid with an overactive imagination that I had, I decided to do the forbidden. I let mama rabbit “play” with Jr. Buck. That is, the son of our male breeder. A few weeks later, squirmy pink babies were born, and I was in a heap of trouble. Of course, I didn’t understand breeding genetics, baby rejection, pregnancy timing, or any of the things my stepdad lectured about, but I did know there was a pile of babies I was responsible for. When mama rabbit rejected them, I learned very quickly the gravity of what I’d done. My stepbrother R.J. was told to dispose of them. I don’t know if they died on their own, or if he drowned them.
Either way, my Mother found them in a jar, frozen in the freezer a week later. That’s when I learned a lot about anatomy, and a little about my new Stepfather’s intolerance for unnecessary cruelty. I think R.J. might finally be ungrounded from that incident, but I can’t be entirely positive. My Mother made some curious comment about babies in jars, and how my Grandma had a baby in a jar once. What is it about the macabre that draws us? I can’t say, but I can say that death has always fascinated me. Of course, I never wanted anyone I knew to die, but mummies, aliens floating in formaldehyde, zombies crawling up from graves and the spirits of the dead were a curiosity I’ve had since the first time I listened to Robert Stack narrate Unsolved Mysteries.
I was completely bewildered regarding this baby in a jar. Only crazy people kept babies in jars. Had my Grandma lost a baby? If she had, why would my Mother so callously toss out that tidbit of information? Maybe Grandma needed to bury her child? It was something I could never ask, and back then we didn’t have the internet to satisfy my curiosity.
Oh, the mysteries we learn as we grow! I vowed I’d never be so vague with my own children. After all, secrets don’t make friends! Secrets were something I was not allowed to have. Although I had plenty of them despite my Mother’s efforts to keep me from having any thought outside of her own.
I was growing and curious about things my Mother didn’t tell me about. Like where my vagina was and how you could get pregnant by kissing, and why I’d seen my parents squirming around on top of each other in a dark hotel room on vacation.
I could have orgasms already, but I had no idea what they were, or why they were happening. I told Emma about them, and she told me she could have them too. Then again, she could also free fall off the top of the bunk bed and land her crotch on the open dresser drawer below. I guess my Mother was right about one thing: “If you open it, close it!”
Mom was funny that way, screaming and banging things around one minute, then teaching us a truly valuable lesson the next. She was keen on our changing bodies, and even caught us all playing “doctor,” once. Eric took the blame for that one, but I was always the ringleader of mischief.
Sometimes that mischief got me into dangerous situations, like the time my stepdad had his friend Al over to help pour concrete for our new shed. Al was a short, furry man with deep set eyes and sharp yellow teeth. He was a good Father to his only child, Steven. He was a single Dad and did his best to raise him well. I still think it wasn’t entirely his fault that Steven was a huge weirdo. Steven was spoiled and had a dark nature that I could feel crawling beneath my skin whenever he was around. The day it happened; my baby brother Ben had been sitting in his highchair in our playroom. Mom had given him some hotdogs diced up for a snack, and Steven had given him a dollop of glue to dip them in. I remember walking in the playroom to look in on my brother and there Steven was, freak in the flesh, pouring glue onto my brother’s tray.
“You can’t give him that!” I challenged.
Steven just laughed and proceeded to show Ben how to dip his fingers in and eat the glue. I turned towards the door, ponytail flying, to tell my Mother that this kid was trying to poison our baby, when suddenly, he jerked me back by the arm, slamming the door shut and locking it. I squirmed out of his grasp, but he pushed me down onto the little twin cot that was set up for Grandpa Silver-Tongue to sleep on while he helped my stepdad renovate.
Steven’s greasy lips hissed in my ear, his course curly hair smelling like toad skin. “You tell anyone and you’re dead.”
I squeezed my eyes shut, wondering why he was grinding his privates on my body. It felt like some weird little elephant trunk pushing against my clothes. The door handle rattled. Relief flooded me as I heard my stepdad’s deep voice on the other side of the door.
“You kids better open this door, right now!”
Steven might have been a pervert, but he wasn’t an idiot. He unlocked the door and bolted past my stepdad. I pointed to the glue and ran around my stepdad, down the hall and into my Mother’s new office. I found her smoking a cigarette, her feet kicked back in her large cushioned chair. I could still smell the spackle and fresh paint.
“What is it Anna?” she asked, blowing out her smoke, irritated I’d interrupted her. She hated smoking in front of her kids.
I told her what Steven had done. Sure, he’d threatened to kill me if I did, but then again, the moron didn’t know my Mother. The smoke billowed around her head. She waved it away, frustrated I was seeing her smoking.
“Okay, honey, go play. I’ll take care of it.”
I stood there a few seconds longer. I was pretty sure something serious had just happened to me. My eyes were full of questions. She avoided my gaze, her voice getting sterner.
“GO PLAY!” she yelled.
I ran, but not before I noted where her ash tray was. Later, I’d fish out a butt and take my first puff behind the washer and dryer, more nervous about the flame I was playing with than the terrible habit I was unintentionally about to start.
Chapter 9: Popular Ants
Sitting on the floor of my Grandma’s bedroom I studied a faded photograph of my Great-Grandfather. It was a mirror portrait of him as a young man, looking handsome in his U.S. Army dress uniform. He had pink cheeks, an early photoshop effect that stood out against the olive cast of the sepia colored picture. I wondered about his life, who he had been and what things would have been like for my Grandma if he hadn’t departed this world when she was just a little girl. Maybe she wouldn’t have married the Silver-Tongued Devil, also known as my Grandpa Osborn.
He’d rarely been in my life, popping up now and then when he needed money from my parents or had some hair-brained idea to open another business.
“Your Grandfather was
a very intelligent man,” Grandma would tell me. “He had this way about him, a sort of charm,” she’d chuckle. “They used to call him the Silver-Tongued Devil, since he could talk just about anyone out of their money. His brother used to get so upset because he’d had a steady job for years and couldn’t get the banks to loan him a dime. Your Grandpa on the other hand, never paid his taxes, had multiple collapsed businesses, and yet he would walk into the bank and a mere hour or so later, walk out with thousands.”
While my Grandparents had been married, he’d opened business after business. A fruit stand, a roofing company, a parts house and many more. They were often successful, until the point my Grandpa would make just enough money to drink, gamble, or fraternize it away.
“His Mother was crazy,” my Grandma continued. “A cruel woman to say the least. Your Great-Grandfather was devoted to her, spending every penny on her doctors. . . in those days they used to give shock treatments.”
She’d shake her head, summing it all up to the “Osborn gene” something I’d prayed I hadn’t inherited. When Silver-Tongue came around on his rare visits, my Mother became a smiling, gooey, disgusting pile of mush. My Grandpa Osborn was short tempered and rude. A far cry from my loving, good-natured Grandpa Blue. Sometimes Grandpa Silver-Tongue would reach out and grab me when I’d walk past him, thinking he was asleep. He’d laugh this tetchy little chuckle, thoroughly enjoying scaring me. It was a strange form of affection, but my Mother seemed to glow whenever he showed any of us the slightest bit of attention.
She’d nod at us and smile, as if to say, See, I knew my Dad would come around, I knew he wasn’t as bad as they say.
He was bad, and probably worse than what ‘they’ said. He was the kind of man who made the air feel as if static electricity was going to snap and crackle at every move. He would whistle and sing, his eyes never resting on anything. The low timber of his humming lilting to a higher pitch just before a torrent of cursing would explode from his lungs, the backs of his large, calloused hands finding the closest thing to knock about.
“One winter there was no water,” Grandma once told me. “I remember going out and getting snow to melt to bathe the children. Can you imagine? Eight children and no water?” She’d shake her head, as if trying to dislodge the memory. “One time I got fed up, and somehow got a ride in to town to track him down,” she said, frowning. “You know where he was? He was at the restaurant eating pie.” She paused.
“Pie!” She scoffed. “With eight kids at home without water.”
She’d look out the window listlessly, the pain still fresh in her blue eyes. “That’s the sort of man he was.”
My Mother had a much different story to tell. In her version, Grandma was the villain, and her Dad was the wounded victim of bad circumstance.
She’d lower her voice and say: “You’ll never know what your Grandma was like, Anna. They were both drunks, and your Grandma was spoiled. She’d always had money from her Father’s life insurance and because of that she never learned what the word ‘no,’ meant.”
It all brought me back to the question, is evil born, or is it made? From what I could tell so far, maybe it’s a little bit of both.
Chapter 10: Sunshine Comes After the Rain
Like openings in storm clouds, places where the sun would shine on our family created just enough hope to keep us all off the ninth floor. I remember one summer afternoon watching my Mom work her garden. She was focused on weeding the earth around a few tall purple flowers that had already bloomed. Just sitting there watching her, I knew that I loved her. She looked up at me and smiled, chuckling at my gangly appearance.
My Mom has this laugh, it’s kind of a family trait, I suppose. It’s loud and sincere coming from deep in her gut, just like mine. On one of our memorable family vacations, I remember stopping off on the rocky coast of Lake Superior. The air was frigid, blowing under the seven-mile stretch of the Mackinac Bridge and pushing large waves up over the rocks.
“Hey Anna!” My stepdad shouted at me. “Grab that rock, the smooth one down on the beach,” he said, pointing to a large grey stone.
I ran, picking it up and running my fingers along its oddly spherical shape. He’d been teaching me about rocks; bringing home samples from his job as a highway engineer.
“Look, you just use a harder stone like this shard of granite over here,” he said, picking up a chunk of nearby rock. “If I’m correct, there will be a nice surprise inside this one.”
His cheeks were red from the wind, his large hands carefully hammering the rock. I heard a soft crack and leaned in closer to see.
“Ah! Yes, Look! It’s amethyst,” he said, showing me the inside of the sphere. Beautiful purple crystals sparkled inside.
“I wonder how this got out here?” He questioned, looking surprised. “Hm, Oh well, that’s a nice surprise for us!”
We traveled further North across the Mackinac Bridge and up into Northern Michigan, where the untouched beauty and friendly locals made us feel like we were crossing into a different world. There were magical meat pies called pasties; creamy and hot, stuffed with vegetables and smothered in gravy. Museums and landmarks told of a rich cultural history from the early pioneer days, coupled with miles of sprawling forests full of wildlife, making for the perfect family getaway.
My parents rented a cabin near my Mother’s old stomping grounds and drove us out to visit a layered rock formation carved out by the cold lake waters many centuries before, known as the Pictured Rocks. On one hike we found a swiftly moving river near where we were told we’d find a waterfall. Signs everywhere warned tourists to stay on their own side of the river, because wild bear were known to fish on the opposite side. My Mom found a downed tree and some rocks that formed a natural bridge and didn’t even hesitate to cross. Urging us to follow her.
“Look Anna!” My brother Ben shouted, pointing down river towards a heap of felled logs. “It’s a beaver!”
We never saw more wildlife than in that trip. I was brave, but also logical. I knew one slip and my swimming skills would be put to the test of my life. I refused to cross, but watching my Mom’s cheeks flush with excitement was enough for me, and with the added possibility of seeing her get chased by a pissed off bear, I was left anticipating an old saying I’d heard: ‘It doesn’t matter if you can’t run faster than the bear, you just gotta be able to outrun the guy next to you.’
On our way back to the cabin, we stopped by an old party store for supplies.
“Oh my gosh, Ray, I haven’t been here in years!” My Mom said looking excitedly at my stepdad, her eyes shining.
I looked around, wondering what could possibly be so interesting about the little shack of a store ahead of us.
“The kids will get a kick out of the bear,” she said.
“Bear?” Emma asked. She was afraid of pretty much everything, but bears were on the top of her list.
As we rounded the corner pulling up in front of the store, I saw him. A fully-grown black bear sat spread eagle inside of a chain link fence enclosure.
“Whoa! Look at that bear!” One of my brothers exclaimed. “Can we go see him?!”
My Mom chuckled. “Yep, and we can feed him too. See that little white pipe? You slide a Coke down there and he’ll drink it, just like a person.”
“Coke?” I echoed. “Bears can have pop?”
We all climbed out of the van, Emma following timidly towards the bear’s cage. He looked at us, his soft brown eyes steady and unafraid. His claws were long and sharp as knives, his hair thick and matted. He smelled terrible. Like a greasy, damp rug. His wet nose was twitching to catch our scent, reminding me of a giant, toothy dog. The bell on the shop door tinkled as my stepdad came out with a Coke and a bag of marshmallows.
“The owner said he likes both,” he laughed in disbelief. “Here kids, give him one at a time,” he said, handing them to us one by one.
My siblings took turns popping marshmallows down the pipe that ran into his enclosure. The bear a
te them happily, smacking his lips and watching our hands to see who would give him his next treat.
“Can I give him the Coke?” I asked.
“May I,” my Mom corrected automatically, “and yes, you may,” she said, handing me the Coke.
I twisted the cap off and slid it down the pipe. The bear looked at me a moment, then reached for the bottle, grasping it with both paws, opening his jaws and chugging the entire soda in seconds, spilling frothy foam all down his chin and into his scruffy coat.
“Wow,” I said, completely in awe. “He’s just like the Coke-a-cola bear.”
He tossed the bottle aside, and sat there, looking at us curiously. I stared back, wondering if that much sugar was good for a bear, and I swear he winked at me.
“Mom! He winked. Did you see that?” I asked.
“Sure Anna, I bet he did,” she laughed. “Okay guys let’s get going. Dad wants to get packed up for camping tomorrow.”
We left reluctantly, waving good-bye to the bear.
Back in the van, I elbowed Emma. I was tired of being crammed in like sardines.
“What is that smell?!” I yelled, catching a strong odor. “It’s worse than the bear!” I moaned. “Mom! Emma stinks!”
“I do not!” Emma denied, her voice not sounding so confident.
“Emma, did you poop yourself?” My Mom asked, rolling down her window and trying not to make it too obvious she wanted to barf.
Emma didn’t say anything.
“Oh God! What’s that smell?!” My brothers chimed in.
“Okay, boys, that’s enough,” my stepdad warned. “We’re almost to the cabin. Everyone just be quiet until we get there.”