by Greta Cribbs
And she waited.
By noon the pains were surging through her body in relentless waves, one after the other. She knelt on the floor, a towel beneath her knees, and rested her head on the bed while her hands clutched at the patchwork quilt Mrs. Griffin had given her.
The heat was stifling, despite every window in the house having been thrown wide open, and her cotton dress clung to her sweat-soaked skin. She did her best to remain quiet. A few low groans escaped her throat, but those would not carry across the large field separating her from the Crimson Motor Court. The plaintive screams she wanted to let fly from her mouth she kept tightly suppressed. Had she loosed her inhibitions and released those on the world, they likely would have been heard all the way down on Main Street.
During an all-too-brief moment of repose, she wiped her brow with the back of her hand and stood, thinking a quick stroll around the room would do her good. Several more pains came to lay hold of her during this jaunt, and she weathered them with a degree of grace and strength she did not know she possessed. She reclined against a wall or leaned forward over the back of a chair or squatted down in the center of the room and tried to visualize her body opening up and allowing me to pass from her into the world.
Finally, needing a rest, she spread a few towels over the bed and eased herself onto the nest of pillows she had arranged for herself.
It was around one in the afternoon when she started to feel that sensation which all mothers instinctively recognize as the urge to push. She still sat propped up on the bed, so she simply drew her knees toward her, tucked her chin to her chest, and began the work of childbirth.
She had never attended a birth before, and it took longer than she expected. The first time she reached between her legs, a little after two o’clock, and felt the soft fuzz of my hair, she thought surely it was almost over. With the next pain, she pushed with every ounce of strength she could muster and held it, barely breathing, for nearly a full minute. When she collapsed, gasping, onto her pillows, she could not understand why she still felt the pressure at her groin or why the sound of my crying had not yet accosted her ears.
When the next contraction came on, she pushed again. And again. For another half hour, she pushed, and tears sprang to her eyes as she despaired of ever being done with her grueling task.
Then, sometime around two-thirty, when she thought surely there was no strength left in her, she gave it another go for all she was worth, and I slid out onto the towel she had carefully laid on the bed. She lay back, exhausted, and basked in the satisfaction of a job well done.
Then she remembered to cut my umbilical cord.
I don’t think it had occurred to her, before that point, to speculate much about my gender. Some part of her must not have fully realized it was an actual person growing inside her. But when she leaned forward and regarded my tiny form, meekly kicking and squirming between her blood-caked legs, understanding dawned on her and she recoiled in horror at what she had done.
She had brought a male child into this world.
A male child who would someday grow into a man.
Never having known a good man, never having encountered one who treated her with the dignity and respect she surely felt she deserved, she looked into my face and saw evil. You know, I believe she imagined all of it in that moment. Everything I was to become. Everything I was to do. She knew me to the very core of my soul, and she was determined to make me pay for those sins which I had not yet committed.
It was then, sitting on that bed and staring down at my naked and helpless body, that my mother began to hate me.
Chapter Four
Tolloch leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms over his chest. “So, Dr. Bowen, do you still maintain that you’re not a Freudian.”
“Yes. I believe I made that clear.”
“What, then, is your response to the story I’ve just told about my mother?”
“You mean how she hated you from the day you were born?”
Tolloch smiled. “Even you have to admit it smacks a bit of Freud. Am I wrong?”
“I’m not sure Freudian theory adequately explains what your mother was feeling at that moment.”
“So you truly don’t believe it all boils down to penis envy?”
Meredith almost laughed but managed to stop herself. The camera was rolling and she had to play the part of the detached professional. “I certainly don’t believe that is what was going through your mother’s mind after you were born.”
Tolloch cocked his head to the side. “Did you listen to my story, Dr. Bowen? She hated me when she looked down at my naked body. When she realized she’d given birth to a boy. Tell me...what exactly was it about my body that she hated so passionately, if not my penis?”
Meredith shook her head. “Do you honestly think you can use psychology to trick a psychiatrist?”
“How am I doing that?”
“You’re throwing around Freudian theory, but you’re getting it wrong. According to Freud...and I’m not saying I subscribe to this; I’m just explaining the theory...according to Freud, penis envy is a stage all girls go through as a part of their psychosexual development. They all go through it, and they all grow out of it. If they’re emotionally healthy, that is.”
Tolloch turned his head and cut his eyes sideways at her. “You’re saying my mother was emotionally healthy?”
“I never met your mother.”
“But you’ve heard her story.”
“I’ve heard your version of her story. And if it’s true, then I don’t doubt she was dealing with many difficult emotions. But those feelings can be traced back to one specific trauma, not to some sort of inability to outgrow the phallic stage. And I don’t appreciate your trying to use terminology from my own profession to try and manipulate me.”
Tolloch smiled. “Is that what I’m doing?”
“I believe so, yes.”
“And why would I do that?”
“To take the blame off yourself, of course. You’ve already tried to shift blame once, by saying the town you grew up in was cursed. Surely you realize the “devil made me do it” excuse is not one that’s going to get you any credibility anywhere.”
“So you don’t believe in Freud or the devil? What do you believe in, Dr. Bowen?”
“I’m a woman of science.”
“And what does your science tell you about a boy’s relationship with his mother?”
Meredith leaned forward again, resting her elbows on the table. She looked Tolloch directly in the eye. “All boys have mothers. Not all boys grow up to be murderers.”
“So you think it came from my father, then? That he passed his violent tendencies down to his son?”
“You’re shifting blame again.”
“Am I?”
“Yes.”
“So it wasn’t genetics, the devil, or my mother. So then, why do you think I did it?”
“I’m here to get that story in your own words.”
“But you keep shooting down my attempts to tell it in my own words.”
“As I said before, I’m only shooting down your attempts to manipulate me.”
“How do you know I’m trying to manipulate you?”
She sighed and massaged the back of her neck. “Mr. Tolloch, it’s 1975. You start talking about cursed towns, or throwing Freud’s name around with any degree of seriousness, and any psychologist worth her salt will shoot that down.”
“So you don’t believe my relationship with my mother was important?”
“Of course I think it was important. Perhaps vitally so. Experiences in childhood can have a great impact on who we grow up to be. But we also have to own our actions.”
“You think I should have stopped myself from killing those women.”
“Of course I think you should have stopped yourself. The question is: Why didn’t you?”
“And you’re not inclined to look to the great field of psychology to find that answer?”
“I’m
always inclined to look to psychology to find a great many answers. I just tend not to look as far back as Freud.”
“Then I wonder, Dr. Bowen,” Tolloch said, cracking a half-smile, “what you will think of my earliest memory.”
***
I’ve said that the cottage was separated from the motel by a large field dotted here and there with the occasional tree. It was just woods behind the house, and this was where I was generally allowed to play.
Whose rule was it that I was to stay behind the house, always out of sight? Did some edict come down from Mr. Griffin, who cared for nothing so much as hiding the fact that he had a single mother living on his property? Or was it Mother, desperately attempting to delay the moment when the creature of evil she had created was unleashed on the world?
I’ve never known the answer to that question. At the age of three, I did not understand enough about our circumstance to even ask it.
Nor did I understand what was to happen to me should I venture forth from the confines of those trees. Children of that tender age are generally incapable of making such mental leaps.
As I said before, I want to talk about my earliest memory. At least, I assume it was my earliest memory, though I don’t trust myself to tell it completely accurately. My recollection of those days exists primarily in the form of images that tend to blur together somewhat. This one, in particular, stands out, though, so I feel quite confident calling it my earliest memory.
I remember being keenly aware that I was three years old, in the way most small children are always keenly aware of their exact age, and I felt very big. Very mature, though that word was not yet part of my vocabulary.
Mature enough, in fact, to feel quite confident in my ability to make my own decisions. And I made a decision that day. A couple of decisions, actually.
A family of feral cats lived in the woods behind our house. I know what you’re thinking, and, no, I was not, at that time, fond of torturing small animals. I found the cats fascinating. I could sit and watch them all day. The way they stalked birds, squirrels, and other small game. The way they hid in the bushes, waiting for just the right moment to pounce. The way the young ones would play at fighting with one another. I followed the cats all through those woods. Or, at least, that’s how it seemed to my three-year-old mind. Truth be told, I never ventured far enough into the trees to lose sight of the house, but when you’re that small the world seems very big and full of wonder. And I had some amazing adventures tromping over the dead leaves and through the underbrush in pursuit of my furry feline friends.
There was a small orange one which was particularly playful and adventuresome and which therefore became my personal favorite. I had been watching him all morning as he scurried up trees, darted under bushes, and attacked his brothers and sisters. I remember wanting very much to pick him up, and so I had chased him all over what constituted my back yard. Once, I nearly cornered him under our back stoop, but at the last minute he eluded me and scampered off to rejoin the others. And I followed him.
I followed him into the deep shade of the woods.
I followed him under bushes.
I followed him around and around the large oak tree from which someone had hung a tire swing.
But when he, in all his daring, disappeared around the corner of the house, into that great expanse of forbidden territory known as the Front Yard, I had a moment’s pause.
What was I to do? Defy Mother’s edict that I never, ever venture out into that prohibited land? Or allow the cat a clean escape, thereby forfeiting any chance I had of capturing him?
You, I’m sure, are well aware that the three-year-old mind is a fairly rigid place, with little capacity for contemplating the subtle nuances of morality. To a three-year-old, a rule is a rule, and terrible, terrible things come from breaking the rules.
There is one thing, and one thing only, that can trump a tiny child’s fear of breaking rules. That thing is desire, and I desired that orange cat. Strongly enough that I stood there questioning, to the extent that I was at the time capable of questioning, the validity of Mother’s rule.
You are familiar, I assume, with the story of Adam and Eve? Whatever one’s religious leanings may be, that’s one story I’m fairly confident everyone knows. Do you remember what the serpent said to Eve as he held out the apple to her? He said, “You will not surely die.” He took a rule, one which Eve had been wont to obey quite blindly, and threw the whole thing into question. He made her wonder if maybe, just maybe, the consequences of breaking that rule were somewhat less dire than she had been led to believe.
Let me pause here to say that there was no talking serpent who came to me on that blustery autumn day. I want to make that clear, in case you’re planning to accuse me once again of using Satan as an excuse for all of my past misdeeds. And in case you’re wondering whether I’m prone to hearing voices which do not really exist, I can assure you I am not. But something took place in my little mind that day. Something new.
I began to question.
I began to wonder what would really happen if I stepped out from behind my house and emerged into the open.
I began to wonder if anything would happen at all, aside from me having a better shot at finally catching the cat.
And, like the serpent in the garden, a voice inside my head (a metaphorical voice, just to keep that point absolutely clear) seemed to say, “You will not surely die.”
And so I took a step. Possibly the most significant step of my life. I rounded the corner, and the cat came into view in front of me.
Having shed my inhibitions, I pursued him further. All the way around the house. The motel came into view in the distance, and, beyond that, the highway.
I can think of no words adequate to describe the sense of freedom, of power, this small act of rebellion imparted. I felt invincible. Having accomplished this seemingly insurmountable task, I felt that there was no limit to the amazing things I might be able to do. I could go anywhere I wanted. Do anything I wanted.
But first, the cat.
He was a spry little thing, and my chubby legs were hardly a match for him. And try as I might to sneak up on him quietly from behind, at the last minute he always heard me and fled from the reach of my grasping hands.
I passed the majority of the afternoon in the futile pursuit of my fluffy orange prize.
And, as they tend to do, certain biological processes began to demand my attention.
It is a well-known fact that one of the great privileges of being male is the ability to relieve oneself whenever and wherever one pleases, within reason, of course. And I, naturally, found it to be quite within reason that I should take care of my physical needs in the confines of my own front yard.
The exterior of the cottage could not be called a pretty place, exactly, but it did have one redeeming quality. A yellow floribunda rose bush grew to one side of the front stoop. It was Mother’s pride and joy. Though she was not the one responsible for its being there, she nonetheless put herself in charge of its care. She lavished upon that plant all the love and affection she could not bring herself to lavish upon me. Several times a week she went out to douse the thing with water or prune away the wilted blooms. I frequently sat in the chair by the window and watched her perform these tasks. Tending her roses was one of the few things in this world that could make her smile.
It was onto the slender stems and stalks of this rosebush that I decided to empty my bladder. It seemed perfectly reasonable at the time. After all, it was where water was supposed to go, right?
This perfect logic was apparently lost on Mother. I don’t know where she was or what she was doing when she finally noticed me. All I remember is her hand appearing, without warning, around my upper arm.
“What do you think you’re doing?”
As she turned me around to face her, she squeezed my arm so tight my fingers began to tingle. Her face was that unique shade of red one only sees when particularly fair-skinned people become particularl
y angry. She picked me up by my one arm and for a moment I dangled over the top of the rosebush, the supple ligaments in my shoulder struggling to bear the full weight of my young body.
I was still urinating at this point, which seemed to anger her further. She set me down on the top step, grabbed me by both my shoulders, gave me a few rough shakes, and shouted, “Stop it!”
I was three years old. I did not know how to stop it.
I started to cry, and she slapped my cheek so hard my vision blurred for a moment.
“If you’re looking for sympathy,” she said, “you’re going to be disappointed. I will not tolerate naughty little boys doing naughty things.”
“I...I’m s...sorry,” I gasped between sobs.
“It’s too late for that. You go in the house right now. You can stay inside the rest of the day and think about what you’ve done.”
I obeyed her orders to the letter. I did not venture out of the house for the rest of that day or for several more afterward. And despite having absolutely no idea what I’d done that was so horrible, I did think about it. In fact, I haven’t stopped thinking about it since.
And when I was finally allowed outside again, the first thing I did was pick up some small rocks, which I proceeded to throw at the cats.
Chapter Five
“You were a college man, weren’t you, Mr. Tolloch?”
“For a couple of years. I wasn’t able to graduate, for obvious reasons.”
Meredith nodded. “Yes. Tell me, was introductory psychology a required course at your school?”
“Isn’t it a required course at most colleges?”
“So you studied Freud?”
“Naturally.”
“And now you think you can pull together a few random facts you remember from your freshman year...a turbulent relationship with your mother, a traumatic memory involving toilet training...and put together a cohesive picture of who you are and what makes you tick?”