Girl Called Karen

by Karen McConnell

  They came home from their Florida vacation and walked onto our porch, looking tanned and affluent. They were surrounded by six excited, messy children bubbling over with delight because their daddy was home. We were together again. We needed to be a family. We were a family. But our delight wasn’t reciprocated, our joy wasn’t rewarded by hugs or kisses or any show of affection at all.

  The vacationers never entered our house that evening. They didn’t treat it as their home. They never seemed to realize we were not just a bunch of waifs. They never acted as if we were a family – their family.

  Finally we calmed down enough and quieted our welcoming hubbub so they could make themselves heard, and, without bothering with any preliminary explanation at all, they abruptly told us they were married. MARRIED! I don’t know which of them said it first.

  I was stunned, speechless, in shock. I don’t remember much. I don’t remember what the other kids said, and I have no idea how long the honeymooners stayed. I never said any of the “right things,” although in retrospect, I can’t imagine what would be a right thing in that circumstance.

  When I saw they were about to leave, I asked if they would be picking us up for church in the morning. My father looked at the ground and was silent. Marge said they had decided that we would not be attending church anymore.

  That bombshell was yet more shocking than their marriage announcement. It was mean. It was cruel. It was disastrous.

  What was I to do? I looked straight at my father and asked, “What about Catholic school?” He looked away. Marge said, “You will not be attending Catholic school.”

  I was dumb, mute, utterly shattered. Never had I contemplated the powerlessness of a child.

  Don’t whine, don’t cry! I got a ride with parish friends to church the next morning, and I choked back my sobs as I told the priest I didn’t know if I would ever be returning.

  If you understand anything about Catholicism and especially twelve-year-old Catholic girls, you will know that I was totally involved with my religion. I attended a Catholic school, where the nuns were my strongest role models. My mother had died a very few months ago. The faith that we shared was my greatest comfort, and now I had been deprived of it.

  Later on, my father and his bride said they were making living arrangements for all of us. They talked of buying an unoccupied estate, which included quite a bit of property, several stables, and two houses. My father and Marge, with her son, would reside in the main house, while Sally’s six children would live in the servants’ house with a housekeeper.

  That plan offered hope. We’d get to see our daddy and spend time with him, and his new wife couldn’t help loving us as soon as she got to know us. So the kids all began their happy chatter about “when our daddy gets our farm.”

  My mother had died in March 1955. My father and Marge had been married in early summer, and I don’t know exactly what happened next in the adult world. I only know that my sister Sandra and I were sent to New York in July for a “vacation.”

  We couldn’t help looking forward to the trip. It was exciting to think of seeing the big city, and it would be wonderful to come back home to our family and our new home on our farm. So Sandy and I happily said goodbye to Larry and Patti and Grace and David and to my father, who was strangely very quiet. Little sister Grace had turned five in May, and David would be “tore” (four years old) in October.

  All of us kids – even the little ones – were thrilled because we’d soon be back together again in a joyous reunion on our daddy’s new farm.

  CHAPTER SIX

  New York

  Sandy and I were visiting Aunt Mary Louise and Uncle Lyle in New York City. We thought almost everyone in New York was rich, but now I know that my aunt and uncle were not. They had lived in Hell’s Kitchen in a cheap little apartment on Ninth Avenue where it got so hot on summer nights that sometimes they rode back and forth on the Staten Island ferry to cool off in the ocean breeze. They could ride all night for a nickel, and it was a way to keep cool. They had been living on money from the occasional odd job while Uncle Lyle was writing books and articles.

  Their fortunes had now improved enough that they lived in a one-bedroom apartment in Manhattan’s Greenwich Village. It was a nice place. Aunt Mary Louise was a neatnik and took pride in her house. It must have been tough for her to see her living room torn up night after night as we brought out our bedclothes and made up the living room couch before we settled down to sleep.

  Sandy and I at ages eight and twelve had no clue to the sacrifice and generosity of that young couple when they housed and entertained us in the bustling overcrowded city.

  The time in New York was a jumble of pleasure and pain. The city was exciting. I fell in love with Joe Whalen, one of my uncle’s friends. He was my first crush, and I have remembered him my whole life.

  Uncle Lyle could be wonderfully creative. One of my best memories is the subway play. We concocted a play and presented it to a captive audience while hurtling through the under-ground world of Manhattan. And our audience applauded us. One lady leaned in, clapped enthusiastically, and said we were pretty and talented. Others began talking, agreed we were very good, and offered to share snacks.

  The whole experience was so affirming that I believe it contributed to my belief that I was talented. People say that New Yorkers are cold and unfriendly. I have never found it so. This rich experience set the stage for all my adult visits to New York.

  Sandra and I loved going to the movie theater, which became the site of my first social protest. Because I was twelve, I was required to purchase an adult ticket at the higher price, but Sandy and I were directed to the children’s section. It was filled with loud, sloppy kids, and I didn’t think it was right for us to be seated there. I knew an adult was permitted to take a child into the quiet adult section, and I had bought and paid for an adult ticket.

  I screwed up my courage and went back to the usher, to whom I explained the injustice of this situation. I was very scared when I did that, as I had been thoroughly indoctrinated in the belief that adults were not to be questioned. The usher was a great tall black man in an impressive uniform. He listened patiently, nodded his head slowly, and, behold, we were shown to the adult section.

  We returned often, and he always gravely showed us to the adult section.

  I credit my Uncle Lyle with encouraging this protest and my future social protests. My Uncle Lyle and later Aunt Eileen were instrumental in shaping my world view.

  It was a great vacation, but it was marred by our differences in religious belief. Uncle Lyle was a card-carrying atheist, or he could have been if atheists carried cards. I, on the other hand, was a well-indoctrinated little Roman Catholic prepubescent female. It was the worst possible combination of self-righteous zealots locked in acrimonious combat.

  Until this time, I had not encountered atheism. I had a vague idea that it was the lack of something. You know, like not believing in something. It had never occurred to me that someone could be more fanatic about denouncing religion than a missionary could be eloquent about an evangelical cause.

  Catholics were still forbidden to eat meat on Friday. On one occasion, Uncle Lyle and his friend, Bill Gaines, the publisher of Mad magazine, drove to a frankfurter joint for Friday night supper. Little sister acquiesced very quickly to a juicy hot dog, but I was steadfast in my faith. I ate no supper that night. And I told Sandy she would go to hell.

  Some of the religious discussion occurred after Sandra and I had gone to bed for the night on the living-room couch. Uncle Lyle would pull up a chair to ridicule Catholicism and preach atheism. I would often escape into sleep, leaving my eight-year-old sister to defend the faith against the infidel. Night after night, the logical adult would win the debate.

  It was fun to visit New York, but these ongoing ecclesiastical discussions upset me. I identified my church with my dead mother and felt I must defend it at any cost.

  Then a telephone call came from my father to Aunt
Mary Louise. He asked her if she’d like to “try us” for a while.

  I heard her explain this to Uncle Lyle. “I don’t know what’s going on,” she said, “but it sounds as though he’s not eager for their return.”

  Uncle Lyle was silent.

  There was a second call the next day. Uncle Lyle spoke with him, then turned to the three of us and said, “He’s planning to give away five of the children.”

  He handed me the phone, telling me that I should talk with my father. I had just seen a movie in which the leading lady was a feisty, dramatic woman who had captivated the hero with her lively ways. So with this cinematic heroine as my role model, I dramatically denounced my father for his outrageous plan. I asked if “that woman” was still going to be with him. It was she who had said we would not be going to church anymore. It was she who had said, “You will not be attending Catholic school anymore.” It was she who was making my father arrive at all those bad decisions.

  That ended the discussion. My father refused to go on talking to me. I had no idea then that it would be the last time in my life that he would ever speak to me. Or that it would be the last time in my life that I ever spoke to him.

  Uncle Lyle and Aunt Mary Louise had been startled by my father’s request. Now Lyle was upset by my behavior. He said I should have been tearful and loving instead of snotty. Looking back though, I doubt that my attitude made much difference in the grand plans of the honeymooners. In any case, twelve-year-olds are not recognized for their diplomacy. A temper outburst was a rare response to conflict from me. The alternative I had found for “Don’t whine, don’t cry” was more often that I would simply withdraw.

  I wanted to go home. I had been planning to go home. I knew I was needed there. I wanted my mother and my home and my church. I called my mother’s best friend, Mrs. Smith, and she said that I could come to live with her. She would meet me at the airport.

  Uncle Lyle bought me a plane ticket. He was annoyed at my father for not buying my plane ticket. I don’t think Uncle Lyle had a lot of money, and he and Aunt Mary Louise were expecting their first child. A plane ticket for an ungrateful guest was not in his budget. I was really too young then to understand all this. As I grew older, I began to connect the dots.

  So it was decided. My sister and I would be going home the next day. Aunt Mary Louise told us that we were welcome to stay in New York until things got straightened out. I would have none of it.

  That evening Sandra walked into the bed-room where Uncle Lyle was resting on the bed.

  Sandy had a lisp. Sandy still has a bit of a lisp. On this occasion, she said, “Uncle Lyle, can I talk to you?”

  He sat up, surprised. Until this moment, Sandy had always been in my shadow.

  “Can I tell you a secret?” she asked.

  “Sure. What is it?”

  “I want to stay with you.”

  Almost as a reflex, he asked, “But honey, what about your church?”

  “Uncle Lyle, could I tell you another secret?”

  “Tell me.”

  With some vehemence, she announced, “The Catholic Church has almost ruined my life!”

  All of this was reported to me later. I saw Uncle Lyle coming from the bedroom. He went into the kitchen where Aunt Mary Louise was preparing supper.

  “Guess what?” he said. “Sandy wants to stay with us.”

  “How do you feel about it?” she asked hesitantly.

  “I’d love it!” he said. “You know I love both the kids.”

  “Let’s talk to Karen,” she said.

  They called me to the dining table. They sat across from each other. Sandy sat at one end and I at the other.

  Mary Louise spoke. “Karen, you know Uncle Lyle and I would be happy to care for both of you,” she said. “I would see that you go to your church on Sunday, but I wouldn’t avoid meat on Friday. We would work things out.”

  Then Uncle Lyle spoke up. “Sandy wants to stay with us,” he said quietly. “We’d be happy if you –”

  I interrupted him by speaking directly to Sandra Lee. “What about the church?”

  She shouted at me: “The church has almost ruined my life.”

  I stared at her in disbelief. During the next twenty-four hours before my departure, I didn’t speak another word to her.

  So I went home, and Sandra stayed. For years, I felt that I had abandoned her.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  First There Were Six and Then There Was One

  When I got back to Toledo, I found that I had no family there. Not a single one! Every member of my family had disappeared. There was no big farm, my father and stepmother were gone, Larry and Patti and Grace and David were nowhere to be seen.

  Mrs. Smith was waiting for me at the Toledo Airport, and she took me home with her. Hers was a great big noisy Italian household. The Smiths had five children, lots of pets, and a constant flow of extended family. I just slipped in and hoped that no one would notice I was there.

  In bits and pieces, I learned what had happened to my family. I know that my father had been fired from his job as veterinarian at the Toledo Zoo. I know that the community outrage at his behavior was at fever pitch – especially among the Catholic parishioners – so that his veterinary practice had died away, and that the honeymooners had moved to Louisiana.

  I heard that there had even been bad talk about my mother – questions as to whether some of us were really his children. I can only imagine his shock when he discovered how my mother in her pathetic effort to “leave something” for her children had gambled away the family’s savings at the racetrack.

  I know also that he had systematically disposed of all his children.

  Larry had gone to live with Grandpa John and Grandma Lucile. I have always wondered how my father explained to his sixty-five-year-old father why his bright and lively eleven-year-old son couldn’t stay with him and his new bride.

  Sandra was with Uncle Lyle and Aunt Mary Louise in New York.

  Patti was sent to an orphanage, where she remained until she was adopted.

  My father first sent the two little ones to my Great-Aunt May and Great-Grandma Grace in Detroit in the hope that they would adopt them, but Aunt May consulted social work professionals, and it was agreed by all that Aunt May and Grandma were too old to undertake such a long-term venture. Then my father and Marge went to Wyandotte and took the children away, as Aunt May wrote later, “We knew not where.”

  That child-disposal plan having failed, their daddy put little five-year-old Grace and three-year-old David in an orphanage in a suburb of Toledo.

  Aunt Eileen had been out of touch with her family, and she did not learn what had happened until the two little ones had been in the children’s home for more than a month. She immediately called her brother to ask that she be allowed to raise the two children. He said he couldn’t get the children from the home. She asked Uncle Lyle and Aunt Mary Louise to intervene, and Lyle was able through mysterious means to persuade my father that failure to accede immediately to Eileen’s request would work greatly to his disadvantage.

  So Larry was in Florida, Sandy was in New York, Patti was in an orphanage in the Toledo area, Grace and David were with Aunt Eileen in Chicago, and I was trying to keep anyone from noticing me at the home of the Smiths in Toledo.

  Incredibly, all six of us kids didn’t get together in one room again until some twenty years later when Grace and Phil got married in New York.

  I thought I was getting away with hiding out at the Smiths until the day that Mr. McCarthy came to visit. He was a social worker with Catholic Charities, and I was one of “his children.” It seems that Mrs. Smith had rheumatic fever, and her home was not appropriate for me. For the next few days, I was paralyzed with fear. Up to this point, I had the illusion of some control over my destiny. Suddenly, I had none.

  The day came that I had to say farewell to the Smiths and climb into Mr. McCarthy’s automobile. We drove and we drove. My new family lived out in Sylvania. It’s
just a suburb of Toledo now, with an almost unbroken flow of contiguous neighborhoods. Back then, it was as if I was moving far away to a different town. It was one of the longest trips of my life. I didn’t know what to expect or what it would look like. I felt totally vulnerable.

  When we arrived, I was impressed by the house. It was a large ranch in the middle of a wooded area.

  Everyone in my new foster family was lined up to meet me. There were Mike the father and his wife, Mary, and sons Michael and Patrick and daughter Kathy. I shared a room with Kathy, the boys’ bedroom was next to the girls’ room, and the master bedroom was at the other end of the house. In the backyard, there was an in-ground pool and bathhouse. It was a large spacious yard. I liked it very much. I also liked being able to walk out in the woods, where I would sit and read for hours.

  I was scared to death of doing something wrong. I didn’t know where I would have to go next. I had been abandoned, and I felt abandoned. My family was gone, and people could do whatever they wanted to me. I knew it was imperative that I be very good.

  Several incidents stand out from the early days in foster care.

  Sometime during the first month, Mike went out of town on business. The boy Michael and I were horsing around in the living room, and I went over backward in the recliner, putting a gouge in the wall. The following night, I visited my friend Maureen Mackley’s house. I was depressed and anxious. I was convinced that Mike would send me away when he returned home. Maureen’s mom finally got me to open up. I think she must have called my foster father because I was comforted and reassured that I was not going to be sent away.

  Throughout the first months, I routinely hid food and saved money like a miser. You just can’t trust grownups. I got through all the first holidays. Then on Easter Sunday, Michael threatened me with a BB gun, and I went flying through the house, threw myself on my bed, and lay there sobbing. Mary came in to find out what went so very wrong. I kept sobbing that I wanted to go home. She told me my home was gone.