So why was there blood only on the shirt and not my arm? And the scratch looked to be almost healed?
Also in the mirror, I noticed that my right upper forearm was bruised. Looking closer, I saw a pattern that resembled the hand print of a small child, but there were just three fingers and a thumb. I noticed the exact same bruise and pattern on my left forearm.
What the heck could have caused that?
I sat on the stool and bent down to untie my tennis shoes. Darn if they weren’t tied in a strange and unfamiliar knot. I finally figured out how to get the knot undone and removed my shoes and socks. I saw that my left big toe was bruised and tender.
As I removed my undershirt and underpants, I noticed that the labels were on the outside. I had been wearing them inside out.
How had that happened? I must have been in a rush to get dressed that morning.
I was too tired to think about anymore of this weird stuff, so I took my weekly bath and went to bed.
The next morning my folks noticed that I wasn’t wearing my eyeglasses. I had had to wear them since the third grade. I thought I had them on, as I was seeing just fine. When I got them and put them on, my eyesight became blurred, as if I had them off. When I removed the glasses, it was as if I had them on. My parents thought I was joshing them, but when I read the headlines in the newspaper from across the room, they were convinced.
What is goin’ on here?
Also that morning, unbeknownst to me, the local radio station was reporting that several people had called and reported strange lights in the sky out by the city dump the night before.
Dad drove out to examine the area where I told him I had had the accident. He was gone a long time. When he finally returned, all he said was, “Give me the car key. You’re grounded.”
I reckon he didn’t find any potholes.
The following morning, I awoke with blood in my underpants. Young boys my age were known to have wet dreams and I must have had a dilly. There was blood in my semen. Mom discovered the blood while doing the laundry. I was taken to the doctor. He concluded that something must have been inserted into my penis. My urethra seemed to be damaged. He said not to worry, as it would heal itself in a few days. I had a hard time explaining to the folks that I had no idea what the doctor was talking about.
A week later dad returned the car keys. He had fixed the car for it to be street legal to drive. Since I would be leaving for the Navy in the spring, he couldn’t see spending the money to fix the dents and scrapes. Betsy became known as the Bad Mobile, but as bad as she looked, there was no way was I going to bring the bike out of retirement.
Dad never did tell me what he found when he went to check out the accident area. He must have found something, because when I asked him about it years later, he got a distanced look on his face. He stared off into space, probing for an answer. After what seemed like an eternity, he looked me straight in the eye and asked, “How can I explain something that I don’t understand?” We never talked about the incident again and I suppose he never knew what had actually occurred that evening.
I would eventually discover the truth that would send me on an unbelievable and exciting adventure. Buckle up...we’re in for one hell of a ride.
CHAPTER TWO
The Inauguration
Every story has a beginning. Mine started with a twinkle in my Daddy’s eye. I was born Thomas Leonard Hay, on April 15, 1943, at the University of Kansas Hospital in Kansas City, Kansas. My father was Leonard Monroe Hay. My grandfather was Elijah Monroe Hay. Now pay attention here, cause the name Monroe plays an important part in this intriguing story.
My parents were separated at the time. It had something to do with the world at war. Dad was an aircraft mechanic in the Army Air Force, stationed in England. He received a few days leave to come home when I was about six months old. After that, he didn’t see me again until after the war.
In my baby book Mom mentioned that I liked to sing. While I’m telling you my story, you will be hearing me sing. The songs that I sing remind me of some life events that I will be telling you about.
...Don’t you feel it growin’ day by day. People gettin’ ready for the news. Whoa oh, listen to the music...
Following the war, my folks settled in the Golden Valley town of Clinton, Missouri, where Dad had been raised. The first memory that I can recall was around the age of four. Don’t know why, but I was running away from home.
“Come on, Flip,” I shouted at the mangy mixed-breed mutt following me. There weren’t many pure bred dogs in those days. He wagged his tail as he caught up with his best friend.
I was walking down the middle of the railroad tracks, about a half mile outside of town, carrying a small pillowcase packed with my meager belongings. I had no idea where I might be headed or from what I was running. I just knew I had to get away.
Suddenly, I heard a train whistle. It was coming up fast behind me. I started running and bailed off the tracks, falling head over heels down an embankment as the train sped by. I had escaped its deadly force by the skin of my teeth. I had to cup my hands over my ears to drown out the noise of the train racing down the tracks. My meager belongings were scattered everywhere.
“There he is! We found him,” I heard someone shout in the distance, after the train had past.
“Tommy, where you think you is a-goin’?” hollered my Uncle Olaf.
Grandpa had noticed I was missing and had the whole family out looking for me. I couldn’t understand what all the fuss was about. Nobody seemed to care about me before, so I had figured I wouldn't be missed. After all, I was just one of many faces my grandparents had to feed.
My relatives were in a panic because just a few months earlier, two kids about my age had wandered off in the same area and had drowned in a pond nearby. Everyone was relieved that I was safe, but after the dust had settled, it didn't keep me from getting a whooping.
I suppose you could say I had a somewhat normal upbringing if you discount the runaway, secrets, and mysterious abductions that supposedly occurred in my future. I experienced many of the bumps, bruises, insecurities, and childhood adventures most kids experienced growing up in a small town in the middle of American in the fabulous 50’s. I was raised with three younger sisters consistently poking a thorn in my side.
The neighborhood kids played all sorts of games, including marbles, lids, red rover, London Bridge, horseshoes, hopscotch, basketball, dodge ball, kick the can, football, and my favorite, baseball. Grandpa got me hooked on Saint Louis Cardinals baseball at an early age. Every Sunday during baseball season, we would sit by the radio and listen to Cardinal broadcasters, Harry Carey and Jack Buck. There’s a drive. Way back. It might be, it could be. It is! A home run. Holy Cow! I played the game all my life from Little League to Babe Ruth League and into senior leagues.
We had no air conditioning, only fans to circulate the hot air. There was no shower, except when it would rain. We had to take a bath once a week, whether we needed it or not and we shared the same bath water. Since I was the only boy, or probably because I was always the dirtiest, I went last. “We peed in the water, Tommy,” my sisters would torment. I could only hope that they were fibbing since I had no other choice. But I’d get my revenge by putting live bugs in their beds. Their horrendous shrieks gave me a smiley face.
Yeah! Paybacks can be a bitch!
In the third grade, I found out there was a completely different world out there than what I was seeing. My teacher noticed I was always squinting when I looked at the blackboard. She told my parents that maybe I should get my eyes checked. Sure enough, I was nearsighted. Everything past ten feet was a blur. I didn’t know any better. I’d always thought that’s the way everyone saw things. When I got my eyeglasses, I couldn’t believe this whole new world exposed right in front of me. I was so excited, but I still wondered why I had such bad eyesight because no one else in my family or school had to wear these ugly glasses. The excitement didn’t last long as I became geeky Tommy fou
r eyes and soon thought myself to be an ugly duckling.
Everyone had chores. My main chore was mowing the lawn with a push mower. Sometimes, by mistake, I would mow over Mom’s flowers. Some of them looked like weeds to me. Honestly, they did. Of course, I couldn’t convince Mom of this, and she would get mad at me. But then, Mom seemed to be upset with me no matter what I did. I just couldn’t do anything to appease her. I started to believe that she didn’t like me and I couldn’t understand why.
Maybe, I thought, it was because I was the oldest and the only boy.
I hardly ever heard my folks argue, but when they did, it was always about me. I never heard them arguing about my sisters. It seemed they could do no wrong. In any disputes I had with my sisters, Mom would always side with them. I started to feel like I was the black sheep of the family.
...I see a bad moon arising. I see trouble on the way. There’s a bad moon on the rise...
When I was reared, there were no time-outs, groundings, or stress cards to flash. You took your licking and kept on ticking. Child abuse was unheard of. Most parents disciplined their children with a belt or switch cut from a tree. Mom would let Dad do most of the ‘dirty’ work. Her famous words were always, “Just wait till your dad gets home.”
My sisters and I quickly learned that the louder we wailed, the less swats we’d receive. Dad never seemed to get out of control with it. And it was an effective method to keep us in line. There is no such thing as a perfect child, certainly not me. I figured I deserved every spanking that Dad gave me. It was the one and only one I received from Mom that got out of hand.
One day a younger cousin was visiting and we began wrestling. I got the better of him and he started crying and shouting, “MOMMY, Tommy is hurting me.” My Mom and Aunt heard the commotion and came running. Mom grabbed me and one of Dad’s belts and dragged me to the basement. I could tell she was really mad, so I tried to explain that it was an accident. She wasn’t interested in listening and started whoopin’ me with the belt. At this age, I’m an invincible teenager and too tough to cry. Bad mistake, because this made her even madder and she started whoopin’ on me like I was some junk yard dog. I had to raise my arms to protect myself.
I was thinking that if I didn't do something quick, she was going to hurt me bad. I had had enough, so I starting fighting back. I grabbed the belt with one hand and swung at her with the other. My swing landed square on her jaw, knocking her on her behind.
I shouted, “Stop it! Stop it right now!”
Of course, this stunned both of us, but it seemed to knock some sense in her.
She pulled herself up and staggered upstairs yelling her famous line, “Just wait till your dad gets home. You stay down here in the basement.”
I was a shaking like a leaf and scared half to death. All the invincibility was drained out of me. I knew I was really in a heap of trouble now. It had to be the longest day of my life, sitting in the basement waiting for Dad to come home.
When he finally arrived I could hear Mom and Aunt talking upstairs. I couldn’t make out what they were saying, but it seemed to go on forever. Finally Dad comes downstairs. Fear hit me like I’ve never felt it before. I figured I was surely going to die. Should I run and hide? Where would I go? But I noticed he didn’t have his belt in hand, which surprised me and calmed my nerves at bit.
I found out later that my Aunt had stood up for me and claimed Mom might have gone a little overboard. I didn’t get another whipping, but Dad warned me that I was never ever to lay another hand on Mom again. He must have told her the same thing, because that would be the last time she ever did. In fact, from that day on, the mental and physical abuse from my Mom ceased. I got introduced to every teenagers nightmare; grounding.
Her attitude toward me changed completely. She became much more civil and even friendly toward me. She would help me with my school homework. My grades even improved. She taught me how to iron, sew, make my bed, and fold my clothes. This would be a blessing as I would put these skills to good use later in life. I actually started thinking she may even like me.
At the time, I wasn’t aware of a couple of secrets my folks were keeping from my sisters and me. It weren’t long after this when they were exposed.
*****
It was a few days before Halloween, and behold, the wicked witch from the North came a-callin’. It would be a day that rocked my little world upside down and inside out. But it would also be a day of reconciliation.
“Tommy, Tommy! Stop!” I heard a desperate voice shout in the distance.
I was delivering the Clinton Democrat newspaper on my route, as usual, that day when a strange lady came running out of a house, shouting my name.
“Stop! I need to talk to you.”
Now, I always tried to throw the newspaper as close to the front porch as possible, but sometimes one would go astray, so I figured I was going to catch hell for one landing in the bushes, or a mud puddle. I stopped, expecting to get scolded.
“Tommy, I’m your mother,” she said, as she approached, slightly out of breath.
Whut? My mother? Did she jest say she was my mother? How can that be? I must have misunderstood her. She probably said she knew my mother?
“Tommy, I’m your mother. I want to talk with you,” she repeated as she approached. Time stood still as I stood there dumbfounded.
I’m thinking something must be wrong with my hearing. Why would this strange woman be claiming she was my mother? I’d never seen her before.
This really spooked me, but I eventually snapped out of my trance and took off, like a bat out of hell, thinking that this woman must be some kind of a witch. I imagined I might be next in line for her witch’s brew. I looked back over my shoulder to make sure she hadn’t hopped on her broom to chase me down. But she was just standing there, with her hands on her hips, watching me high-tail it down the street like a scared jackrabbit.
For the rest of my route and all the way home, I couldn’t shake how she looked and what she had said. I didn’t say anything to anybody when I got home, but I lay awake most of the night wondering why this strange witchy woman would claim to be my mother.
The next day on my route, at the same house, the witch swept upon me again. She was a restless spirit on an endless flight.
“Tommy, Tommy, please stop. I just want to talk to you. I’m your mother,” she shouted again.
Now I was totally convinced that this was one witchy woman. I put the pedal to the metal and ski-daddled out of there before sparks could fly from her finger tips.
That evening, at the dinner table, I worked up the nerve to tell the folks what had happened in the past two days. It got very quiet. I mean real quiet. You could have heard a pin drop. Finally, Mom broke the silence when she started choking on the bite of food she had just taken.
“How cun Tommy have another mother?” my oldest sister Sandy asked.
Mom looked at Dad and said, “Suppose it’s time we told him.”
“Tell me whut?” I cried.
Truth be told, the mom I knew was actually my stepmom. Dad explained that during the war he and my birth mother had divorced, right after I was born. I was only two years old when my birth mother dropped me off (“abandoned me,” were his words) with his parents in Clinton. He said that my birth mom no longer wanted to be bothered with me because another man had come into her life, while he was stationed in England.
In his quivering voice, I heard the hatred he felt toward my birth mom, as he struggled to explain things to me. Grandpa had raised me until he returned home from the war. Dad said he had met my stepmom in England and they were married after the war. I was too young to remember all this.
A few months later I discovered another little secret that had been kept from me. One day as I walked to my next ninth grade class, this scrawny kid who looked like a scarecrow called out my name in the hallway.
“Hey Tommy,” he said, “don’t you know that we is brothers?”
Now this stopped me dead in
my tracks.
Why in the world would this skinny dude claim to be my brother?
All I could think to say was, “My brother? You is got to be missing some marbles. I don’t have no brother.”
I had seen this kid before but had never talked to him. He was in the seventh grade and lived on the other side of the tracks. It was an unwritten law that you never associated with people from the other side of the tracks, because they were either poor white trash or colored folks. This kid had a ducktail haircut and wore a black leather jacket. Good kids had flat-top haircuts and wore turtleneck sweaters.
Fortunately, the bell rang for my next class, so I hurried off, eager to put some space between us. For the rest of the day, though, I kept wondering why this scrawny kid would claim to be my brother.
That evening at the supper table, I related what had happened at school that day. Dead silence again. Of course, it was my oldest sister, Sandy, who broke the silence. She was always the inquisitive one.
“How cun Tommy have a brother?” she asked with mashed potatoes squiring out of her mouth.
The Abduction Chronicles Page 2