Believe what you want to believe

by George Williams

  Believe What You Want to Believe

  First Edition: 2018 March

  Believe what you want to believe

  George Williams and Alicia Kristine

  Edited by:

  PENTIAN

  info@pentian.com

  www.pentian.com

  Plaza de la Magdalena, 9, 3º

  Sevilla 41001

  Spain

  Printed in Spain

  ISBN: 9788417102104

  ISBN eBook: 9781524301200

  Layout, design and production:

  © 2018 Pentian, for this edition

  It is strictly prohibited under copyright law to reproduce or distribute copies of this book, either totally or partially and by any means or procedures, including photocopying and electronic processing, as well as the distribution of copies under loan, public or private.

  This book was made possible thanks to the contribution of the following sponsors

  Andy Greenhalgh

  Jodie Crook

  Juan José Asorey Álvarez

  Pentian

  “You are not a victim for sharing your story. You are a survivor for setting the world on fire with your truth. And you never know who needs your light, your warmth, and raging courage.”

  Alex Elle.

  When I wrote this book it started off as therapy

  and then it developed into something much more.

  There is solace in breaking my silence. Although

  it took me over thirty years to tell my story, my spirit is strengthened from sharing my truth with you.

  It all starts with the choice to live on the other side, of not being the victim.

  I have been fighting since I was a child; I am not just a survivor.

  I am a warrior.

  Chapter 1

  The Year 2002

  The phone rang on the other end a couple of times. I was only half expecting an answer. But the final ring cut short, and there it was, a voice I hadn’t heard in ten years.

  “Hello...” my sister Janie answered quietly.

  “Did you see the news?” was the only response I could muster.

  “I... I did...”

  ...

  That morning started like most Saturdays. I awoke early to the subtle buzzing of the neighbour's lawnmower. It was summertime; the smell of the grass and the heat of the summer sun seeped through my bedroom window. After rolling out of bed and rubbing my tired eyes, I stopped for a second and gazed at my sunburnt, unshaven reflection in the bathroom mirror and thought, “How did I get here?” I had little time to ponder. Life was moving fast. But for once, it moved smoothly.

  “Sean, come on. We’re going to be late for Anthony’s game!” my wife Jody yelled up the stairs. She wasn’t one to be late. Usually it was me running behind. “You’re always a day late and a dollar short!” Jody joked at me. Jody was strict, but an excellent mom and my best friend. We had a pack of four kids to rally in the mornings on our way out to sports games and it wasn’t always easy to get going. We all hopped into the green minivan and were on our way. Being New Englanders, coffee was a must. Two coffees and some donuts for the kids.

  The soccer field was packed with families just like ours. We took pride in watching Anthony play since he was a natural athlete. He handled the ball effortlessly and usually scored a couple of times before the second half was over.

  You could tell the other parents were impressed, maybe even jealous. The order of the Murphy kids goes: Abby, Alisa, Anthony and then finally little Annie.

  After the soccer game, we headed back home to our little South Boston home. I waved hello to my neighbor Jay as we pulled into to the driveway and we chatted it up for a few. He was blue collar like us and a decent guy. Most of the neighborhood folks were good people and I felt fortunate for that.

  Once we got inside the house and all was settled, I sat down in the living room and turned on the news. That’s when the whole day changed. A man, who I hadn’t seen in twenty years, appeared on the screen and was being escorted from a plane at Logan Airport. He was in shackles and handcuffs and he was wearing an orange jumpsuit.

  “Ahead at six, more fallout from Catholic abuse scandals.” Panicking, I turned the television off. My skin crawled at the mention of his name. Seeing his face was almost unbearable.

  “Dinner will be ready in five minutes!” echoed somewhere in the distance.

  I heard nothing but mumble. My mind was somewhere else. My hands were trembling. Everything zoomed in and my other senses were blocked out. Almost like an out-of-body experience, I wasn’t sure where my mind was. Certainly not in the living room.

  I couldn’t eat; instead I headed for the backyard. I began meticulously collecting all the stray twigs, sticks and branches I could find, transporting them to our wood pile. I took out the weed-whacker, edged the whole yard and destroyed every sprout brave enough to pop up from the garden beds. When that no longer served useful, I rustled through the shed, stacking and restacking chairs that appeared out of order. After a few paces back and forth on the cement around the pool, I was utterly exhausted.

  I panted for breath as my mind started to quiet. The exhaustion overrode my ability to think.

  My kids’ heads appeared over the couch and looked through the window blinds at me, beaming with sweat, dirt and frustration. Their eyebrows furrowed with concern but then again they were used to their dad distracting himself through work. As the dirt and sweat dripped slowly down the backs of my arms, I decided a shower might cool me off. I walked into the house and headed straight upstairs without speaking a word to my wife or kids. “Why God? Everything was finally perfect. Why?”

  ...

  It all came back so fast. My family had no idea. I buried most of what happened in the back of my mind and dare I say, I almost forgot it myself. That news blurb, his face on the screen, changed everything.

  That man was pure evil. To say he corrupted my youth, or destroyed my innocence, was an understatement. I kept his name and everything that happened a secret; there was only pain in those memories, and no one else needed a part of it. “It’s in the past. No one needs to know,” I kept trying to tell myself. I stepped out of the shower and stared at the ceiling, but it offered no comfort. The skeletons were coming out of the closet.

  I wrestled with the thought as I tried to sleep, but at about one am I finally picked up the phone. I had Janie’s number scratched in the back of an address book that was buried in the bottom of an old cabinet. The phone rang on the other end a couple of times. I was only half expecting an answer. But the final ring cut short, and there it was, a voice I hadn’t heard in ten years.

  “Hello...” my sister answered quietly. “Sean, is that you?”

  I replied, “Yes.”

  “Did you see the five o’clock news?” was the only response I could muster.

  “I... I did,” she winced back.

  “Janie, I’m sorry,” was all I could come up with.

  We hadn't spoken in ten years but we could easily read each other's thoughts. “You're not alone, Janie.”

  There was an awkward silence. Then holding back tears, she said, “I know.”

  Chapter 2

  Home

  The story I am about to tell you begins in the south Boston suburbs. There was nothing ordinary about our upbringing. We didn’t have much but the clothes on our backs and we spent most of our time getting into “stuff” we shouldn’t have with less-than-adequate adult supervision.

  My family’s house in the early 1970s sat at the bottom of a long, steep driveway covered by trees and was fairly secluded. It looped around into the garage and overlooked a massive front
yard covered by the trees and a steep hill dressed in tall weeds. When we parked the car and walked towards the house, we passed a beautiful green apple tree that sat eagerly in the front yard. Entering the porch into the house, the smell of old cigarettes and pine exuded. We had to be careful not to cut our hands with a nasty splinter coming up the railing.

  We had ample room in the living room, with an antique chair in the corner and an old grandfather clock. Parallel to the clock laid a working fireplace and outdated furniture. It was quiet and cold, like a museum for antiques that kids couldn’t touch.

  My mother Jane was an attractive woman. Other women stopped her midstroll at the grocery store and compliment her. “Oh my. You are so beautiful. Did anyone ever tell you that you look like Jackie Kennedy?” My mother shook her head and smiled. She was always humble about her looks. Raised wealthy, she was well versed and educated. She always spoke proper English and had perfect posture, unlike my father Joe who was rough around the edges but witty, and charming. He could talk to practically anybody and his secret was to always develop a connection. You could say he had the gift of gab, which made him an unbelievable salesman. He was also a handsome man. Just not a healthy man. His belt was bursting due to his forty-inch waist. He was an emotional eater and had a face as red as a tomato. Not just when he was mad, but all the time. I suppose that was due to the alcohol. Often, he had false alarm heart attacks, as he clutched his chest and grimaced in pain, but most of the time it was just gas. My father warned, “Sean, you need to learn how to do all the things a man does around the house because I could be gone soon. I could drop dead just like that.”

  At the young age of seven I learned what responsibilities being a homeowner entailed. I quickly learned about fixing the furnace, replacing fuses in the fuse box, shoveling the driveway, cutting the grass, washing windows and painting. Most kids entering grade school’s biggest responsibilities were to tie their shoes and learn how to make their beds, but not me. If my father didn’t know how to do something, he made it up. I'm not sure whether to blame that on the alcohol or the stubborn Irish genetics.

  I was the youngest of seven, with four older sisters and two older brothers, so space was limited. My sister Janie and I, being closest in age, naturally spent a lot of time together. Out of everyone in the family, Janie and I looked the most alike. We both had dark features and had been mistaken for twins on several occasions. For the most part we got along, but at the flip of a switch we were at each other’s throats. Most of our remaining older siblings were busy working jobs, at school, with friends stopping in or were out on occasion.

  There was no need for alarm clocks in the house since my mother was an early riser. Up at 5:30 am sharp every morning, she was out of bed, drinking coffee and reading the newspaper at the dining table. When people asked why she woke so early, she explained, “I have to get up early. It’s the only time I have any peace with seven kids.”

  When it was time to get up and go to school, my mother banged the broom on the ceiling below our room and yelled for us. If we didn’t come down right away, she’d be certain to head up to our room and hit us with the bristles of the broom until we woke up. If that still didn’t work, she turned the broom around and hit us with the stick end. Usually to avoid this, we got up on our own. “Ma, where are my shoes?” I asked.

  “Sean, how many times have I told you not to call me that? I’m your mother, not your Ma.” Her proper English side hated being called Ma, but that didn’t stop us.

  Nine people getting ready together in the morning was absolute madness. Elbows were thrown in hallways, people were pushed out of the bathroom and there was usually at least one fist fight. I was almost always late for school because of this. School was long and boring. I stared out the window and daydreamed of something better.

  After school, Janie and I were sometimes left alone for about four or five hours. My mother and father were always busy working in Boston at my father's monument (aka gravestone) business. When school got out and our stomachs were growling to be fed, the hunt for food began. Sometimes the only food we found was moldy bread. That didn’t stop us from cutting the mold off and devouring it anyways. Other times it was just saltine crackers that we put peanut butter and jelly between. It wasn't much, but at least it kept us satisfied for the moment. With so many kids in the house, it was often first come, first served with the groceries.

  Late one afternoon while playing out in the yard, I saw a birds’ nest up in the apple tree and it needed a closer look. While I was in the tree, the birds came back to protect their nest and they startled me. Letting go of the branch abruptly, I was left hanging from my ankle, screaming, “Help! Someone help!” My mother observed me through the window and screamed up the stairs for my brothers, yelling, “Sean’s caught in the apple tree. Go help him!”

  Hearing my mother’s calls, my two older brothers Mike and Jason jumped up at the same time. Not knowing which door to go out, they ran smack into each other in the hallway. Jason’s anger got the best of him as he rammed Mike’s head through the wall. Dust and drywall smoke filled the air and I heard Mike’s screams from the apple tree.

  Doubting anyone was coming to save me, I managed to grapple myself out of the tree. A little scratched up but alright, I walked in the house to find my father wrestling Jason in a headlock on the floor, while Mike held his bloody, scratched up head, grimacing in pain.

  “Whoa, Mike, what happened?” I couldn’t help but ask.

  Grabbing a towel to stop the blood, Mike screamed back, “Jason’s an asshole! That’s what happened! I’m out of here!”

  When I followed Mike outside, I watched him grab my mother's garden rake and slam it into the trunk of Jason’s brand new GTO sports car. This car was Jason’s baby. What a bold move by Mike. Usually I looked up to my brothers who were both ten years older than me, just not today.

  When dinner came around, Jason was still fuming about his injured car and Mike was nowhere to be seen. We sat down to the usual boiled spaghetti with red sauce while my father ate steak separately. Fortunate for me, my mother chopped some pieces of my father’s steak up and put it on my plate. Janie and Jason sneered at me in envy.

  “Why does Sean get steak? I’m tired of spaghetti!” Janie whined.

  “Food is expensive. Keep quiet and eat!” my father demanded.

  “Sean is always getting special treatment because he’s the baby!” Jason fussed.

  “Look how small he is! He is seven years old and the doctors are worried he’s underweight. He needs the protein,” my mother explained.

  “How much does that bottle of booze over there cost, old man?” Jason said in a smart-ass voice.

  “Shut up and eat your food, Jason,” my father demanded.

  Jason lifted his plate of spaghetti, paused for a second and threw it at the wall. “You eat it, old man!” Jason yelled as he stormed out.

  “That’s okay, Jason. We’ll just save it for you to eat later,” my father said, grinning.

  My mother began to cry and ran to clean up immediately. “Why are you two always fighting?” she asked my father.

  My father’s face instantly turned red as he walked over to the bottle of whiskey to pour himself another glass. As my father sipped the whiskey, he glanced over at Janie. His eyebrows came together as he pursed his lips. “So, how was school today kids?” my father asked.

  Janie and I looked at each other, puzzled.

  “It’s Sunday. We’ve been out of school for almost two days now Dad...” Janie said.

  My mother picked up the broken pasta plate while my sister Peggy cleared the dinner table. There wasn’t much time for peace when my eldest sister Colleen bust through the door in tears. She sat down next to me, put her elbows on the table and pushed her fingers through her long brown hair. “What’s wrong, Colleen?” my mother asked.

  “I’m pregnant!” Colleen whispered.

  We all sat in silence for a moment... Then my mother chime
d in. “You know your grandmother will not accept her granddaughter having a child out of wedlock. You and Peter will have to get married before the church finds out and we become an embarrassment to the whole parish.”

  “Yes I know,” Colleen replied.

  “Your Grandmother Mea Mea has special connections in the church. She will make this happen before you are showing,” my mother explained.

  Chapter 3

  Church

  Being from a strict Irish Catholic family meant it was a sin to skip church on Sunday. Every week Janie and I sat next to Mea Mea in the front of Saint Francis Parish. One Sunday late into mass, the collection basket came to our family. I thought the ushers were giving money away so I reached in to grab a handful. Then I glanced up at my grandmother who gave me the sternest glance imaginable. I opened my hand, releasing the cash. After mass I got yelled at as if I were the son of Satan for attempting to steal from the collection. Honestly, I was just confused. My grandmother forced me to go to confession after mass. When I told the priest my story, he just laughed, and said, “Say three Hail Marys and you will be forgiven.” I wasn't sure what a “Hail Mary” was so I said, “Number one Hail Mary, number two Hail Mary and number three Hail Mary. Done.”

  Some Sundays my grandmother took us to the late mass. It was held at ten am and was called the folk mass because of the guitars and singing. Janie and I were easily swayed to go because of the all-you-could-eat free donuts at the end.

  At the end of the ceremony Mea Mea put her hand to her heart and said, “That Father Paul is really going to change things in the church. He is the hope that these poor children need,” firmly believing in him and everything he stood for.

  My father rolled his eyes, and said under his breath, “Eh, that scam artist? He’s full of shit.”

  “How can you say that, Joe? Have you done half of what he has accomplished for kids?” she sneered while rolling her eyes at my father.