Raising Myself

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Raising Myself Page 7

by Beverly Engel


  The cab driver was kind enough to carry our suitcases up all those stairs, and by the time we reached the top Uncle Forrest was standing at the door to greet us. He had a big smile on his face as he bellowed, “Welcome!”

  Aunt Opal was standing just behind Uncle Forrest, and she was laughing with glee.

  My mother and my uncle stood and smiled at each other for a minute, and then Uncle Forrest said, “Come in, come in. Put those suitcases down and take a load off.”

  Aunt Opal repeated his words, “Yes, yes, come in. I’m so happy you’re finally here!”

  I hadn’t seen either my uncle or my aunt since I was a baby, and I really didn’t remember them. But I did remember what it felt like to be in their presence: I felt all warm inside and immediately felt happy we had moved to be with them.

  Standing behind Uncle Forrest and Aunt Opal was a slight man, much shorter and smaller than Uncle Forrest. My mother took one look at him and, without greeting him, turned away. He didn’t seem fazed by Momma’s slight of him but turned to me and said, “Hello, Bevy. I’m your uncle Frank.”

  The only other person who called me Bevy was my mother, so I was surprised to hear that name coming from a stranger. The man reached out his hand to me and I stepped forward from behind my mother to shake it.

  “Yes, Bevy, this is your uncle Frank,” Uncle Forrest said cheerfully. “He’s been staying with us awhile, so we’re going to have a full house!”

  Uncle Forrest wasn’t looking at me but at my mother.

  I already knew Momma hated Uncle Frank. She had been estranged from him for years, with absolutely no communication between them. I got the feeling that she was surprised to discover that Frank was staying with Forrest, just like she’d been surprised by the fact that it was still snowing in June.

  Now Uncle Forrest turned his full attention to me. “My, you are a big girl, aren’t you?”

  I knew he was referring to the fact that I was big for my age; I was the tallest girl in my class, and I had what was at the time referred to as “big bones.” But his comment hurt my feelings, not just because of the words he had said but the way he said them. He sounded like he was criticizing me, telling me I shouldn’t be so big. And I wished it wasn’t the first thing he said to me. I wished he had said something like, “I’m so glad to see you.” In spite of this, I noticed that he had kind eyes, and something about him told me he had a kind heart.

  All of a sudden, Aunt Opal was all over me, hugging me and laughing. “Oh Bevy, I haven’t seen you in so long. I can’t believe you are so grown up!”

  I felt a bit awkward having this woman be so friendly to me, but I liked it. I may have lost Pam but I’d gained an aunt. Aunt Opal was just what you’d want an aunt or a grandmother to be—cheerful, warm, sweet, and cuddly.

  Uncle Forrest’s house turned out not to be a house at all but what they called a “duplex”—meaning that Uncle Forrest only rented one half of the building, and another family lived on the other side. Because of that, everything about their apartment seemed all mixed up. The bedrooms were on the first floor and the kitchen and living room was upstairs. And the stairs going up to the living room and kitchen seemed like they chopped off the other half of the house—everything was arranged on the left-hand side.

  Uncle Forrest put our suitcases in one of the two bedrooms downstairs and explained that Uncle Frank would be sleeping on the couch upstairs. “Make yourself at home, Olga. This will be your room for as long as you want it to be,” he said with a warm smile.

  My mother had told me that Uncle Forrest was the most stable of her brothers, and the most loving. He had been married to Aunt Opal for many years and they had one child, Joanne, who was already grown and married.

  Uncle Forrest was an attractive man in a rough kind of way. He looked a lot like Humphrey Bogart with his long, weary face and black, slicked-back hair. He even had some of Bogart’s mannerisms, like the way he patted his hair to make sure it was in place and the way he lowered his head and looked up at you.

  He was quite intimidating to me at first. He was bigger than life, with a great deal of charisma and intensity. When he was in the room, he was in charge. He spoke in a very loud voice, which I later learned might have been due to a hearing loss. Aunt Opal was always telling him to lower his voice because she was afraid the people living in the other half of the duplex could hear him through the walls.

  There was one thing about Uncle Forrest that made him seem a little less intimidating—his index finger on his right hand had been chopped off at the knuckle. When I asked Momma about it she said it had happened when he was working in a bakery. I remembered her telling me he had dropped out of high school to work in a bakery to help out the family. She told me that for many years after losing his finger he had worked in the fish canneries in Monterey.

  When I met Uncle Frank I expected to dislike him, since my mother never had anything good to say about him. Much to my surprise, he was a nice man, gentle and kind and very patient with me. He seemed to like me and he enjoyed showing me his art. He even spent time drawing pictures with me.

  Uncle Frank was so gentle and sweet that I simply couldn’t understand my mother’s insistence on seeing him as bad. He told me stories of the days when he had paned for gold up in the “Mother Lode” country in the Sierra Nevada Mountains and about his time as a Merchant Marine during World War II. His ship had the distinction of having been torpedoed by German warships twice in two days. And he talked about how it was to work on a Lone Ranger set. They had filmed a Lone Ranger movie near Sonora called The Lone Ranger and the Lost City of Gold, and he and Uncle Forrest had been hired to cook and bake for the actors and crew. Uncle Frank seemed to have lived an exciting life.

  There was a softness to Uncle Frank that was missing in Uncle Forrest and my mother. He didn’t seem to need to be in charge like they did. Looking at Uncle Forrest and Uncle Frank, you would never imagine that they were even related. Forrest was darker and taller and bigger than his brother. He seemed to take on an elder sibling attitude toward Frank, too, even though he was three years younger. Frank was fair skinned and small boned and much more mild-mannered than Forrest.

  Forrest looked like his father from the picture I’d seen. They both seemed harsh and even mean. Frank looked like my grandmother, sweet and kind.

  I remembered the story my mother had told of how Frank, at seventeen, had been shipped off to California to stay with relatives because my grandfather could no longer afford to feed five children. I knew they had all suffered due to the Depression, but my mother had told me that Uncle Frank had suffered the most. He was a very talented artist, she said, so talented that he had won a full scholarship to a prestigious art school back East. But the family couldn’t afford the plane fare to get him there, or food and housing while he was in school, so he had to turn down the scholarship. Even though my mother reported that Frank was devastated by this, and that she thought this probably contributed to his alcoholism, it was clear she didn’t feel sorry for him.

  I felt very happy being around my two uncles. I’d always missed having a father, or even a grandfather, so it satisfied a deep need inside of me. Even though Uncle Forrest could be gruff and even critical, I could tell he had fond feelings for me by the way he sometimes looked at me, and this made me feel good about myself.

  Uncle Frank’s attention satisfied an even deeper need—the need to be physically close to a man. As I sat beside him while he shared his artwork or as we drew pictures together, I took in his maleness—the smell of his aftershave, the sound of his deep voice. When he hugged me I felt the roughness of the stubble on his face, and when he held my hand I let my fingers trace the calluses on his hands. All these sensations made me feel safe and secure in a way I’d never felt around women.

  Between Uncle Frank and Uncle Forrest, I received more male attention there in Sonora than I’d experienced in my entire life. I’d always been surrounded by women and hadn’t really known what I was missing. Just lik
e I felt when I ate something I really liked, I wanted more.

  In spite of the fact that I missed Pam a lot, Sonora was a giant adventure for me. I loved the mountains, the clear, fresh air, the smell of pine trees, and the squirrels scampering about.

  And it was also a healing experience. Opal loved to cook and bake, and this was a good thing since Uncle Forrest insisted on being fed the moment he became hungry. He was the opposite of my mother, who never seemed to get hungry. He insisted on Opal cooking a full breakfast, lunch, and dinner every day, and expected fresh-baked pie or cake to be available whenever he wanted it. So Aunt Opal was constantly on the go—frying bacon and eggs and making biscuits and gravy for breakfast, fried potatoes and onions for lunch, and some kind of meat and potatoes for dinner. The duplex was always filled with the smells of fried food mixed with the sweet smell of pie or cake baking in the oven.

  Opal was a cheerful person and seemed to really enjoy feeding people—again, the complete opposite of my mother. For the first time in my life, I felt filled up. The smiles and the smells of our new household wafted into the far corners of my body and soul, filling every crack and crevice. Finally, I was getting a glimpse of what a normal family home was meant to be. Closeness, togetherness, love, and warmth.

  The only remnant of my old life was the way my mother continued to ignore Uncle Frank. She acted as if he wasn’t even there—looking right through him even when he spoke. I didn’t know what he had done to my mother to make her hate him so much, but whatever it was she was extremely bitter about it. All she told me was that he was a horrible alcoholic who didn’t think about anyone but himself.

  I knew how it felt to be ignored by my mother and I felt sorry for Uncle Frank. But I knew better than to say anything to my mother. No one else said anything to her either. I figured that whatever he’d done must have been pretty bad—either that or she had finally given up on him the way she often threatened to do with me.

  As much as Sonora was a blessing to me, it was a nightmare for my mother. She had planned on us staying with Uncle Forrest and Aunt Opal just long enough for her to get a job. Unfortunately, there were no jobs in this little town—that is, unless you were a miner or a lumberjack.

  With her movie star looks, charm, and charisma, my mother could sell snow to a snowman. So, in desperation, she started selling Avon cosmetics door to door. Fortunately, it didn’t snow again while we were there, so at least she didn’t have to contend with that. She’d get all dressed up—her usual routine, with full makeup, jewelry, and high heels—and drag herself and her cosmetics case up and down the hills of Sonora, knocking on doors and selling her wares. It must have been quite a surprise for the housewives of Sonora when they opened their front doors and found such a glamorous woman standing on the other side. But the houses were few and far between, and soon my mother was exhausted from climbing the hills.

  She was unwilling to inconvenience Uncle Forrest for very long, so after about a month she decided we needed to move to Ceres, a little town down in the valley about fifty miles from Sonora, where she thought she’d be more likely to find work and where the weather was warmer. I was heartbroken once again. I loved living with my aunt and uncles and didn’t want to leave them. And I didn’t want to leave that warm, cheerful home.

  Momma couldn’t afford to rent an apartment or house yet, so we moved in with Forrest and Opal’s daughter, my cousin Joanne. The story went that Uncle Forrest had married Opal when she was pregnant by another man. My mother had always been impressed that Forrest would do that—raise another man’s child as his own. He adored Joanne, and Momma said he had spoiled her.

  Joanne had gotten married very young—I think it was at the age of sixteen—and although she was only in her early twenties, she already had four children. Her oldest, Donny, was a couple of years younger than me. Then there was Sherry, the apple of Aunt Opal’s eye, and Linda, who was about two years old. Lee Ann was about six months old. To say that Joanne had her hands full was an understatement.

  She and her husband, Keith, a small, short man who compensated for his size by being a tyrant, lived with their gaggle of kids in a suburban neighborhood where there were lots of other kids running around. Every morning, right after our breakfast of Kix or Sugar Smacks or some other sugary cereal, we were sent outside to play until lunch. I loved being around so many kids because there was always someone to play with.

  Joanne adored my mother. She always talked about how glamorous and sophisticated she was and how she wished she could be just like her. It was because of this admiration that she’d invited us to stay with them in their little three-bedroom tract home. Momma slept on the couch, I slept on the floor.

  Joanne always seemed to compete with me for my mother’s attention. She often interrupted me when I was trying to talk to her. If I came into the kitchen to ask Momma something or just to be near her, Joanne would shoo me away to go play with the other kids. She took on an air of impatience with me, even disdain, treating me more like a younger sibling than the daughter of a beloved aunt.

  Donny didn’t seem to welcome me either, and I didn’t blame him. I was just another girl to put up with. But Sherry was always sweet to me and I adored Linda, the two-year-old, who I carried around like she was my own child. Linda reminded me of a little Pam with her big, dark eyes and dark brown bob.

  Donny turned out to be a real bully—he taunted me constantly. Sometimes, when we were playing in the front yard, he’d run by me and push me for no apparent reason. Other times, when he was playing softball in the street with the other boys in the neighborhood, he’d yell, “Hey, Beverly, why are you so ugly?” or “Hey, stupid!”

  At night, when we were all crammed into the little living room watching TV, I’d look up to see him glaring at me for no apparent reason. I never complained to my mother or to Joanne, though; I knew we were intruding on his territory, and besides, I couldn’t afford to make waves.

  My mother hated it that she had finally been forced to accept someone’s charity. She was so uncomfortable with the situation that she spent every moment when she was back from selling Avon products trying to help Joanne in the kitchen or with the kids.

  One evening, after we had been at Joanne’s for about six weeks, my mother came home a little later than usual. Along with her Avon case, she was carrying a bag of groceries and a six-pack of Pepsi-Colas. All us kids spotted the large bottles of cola and squealed with delight. Joanne couldn’t afford such luxuries as Pepsi, so we mostly lived on Kool-Aid.

  Donny and Sherry each walked over to the counter, where the Pepsis sat on display, and grabbed a bottle. I followed suit. But my mother quickly grabbed the bottle out of my hands and said harshly, “You’re going to have to share this with Linda. Here, pour some in a glass for her.”

  “But, Mama,” I pleaded, “everyone else got a whole bottle.”

  She gave me a look that said it all—“Don’t mess with me” and “You’re embarrassing me.”

  But the thought of sharing my Pepsi with someone else— even Linda, who I adored—was just too much for me to take. It just didn’t seem fair, since Donny and Sherry had each gotten a whole bottle and they were younger than me. Besides, it was my mother who’d bought the Pepsis.

  “But, Momma, there’s enough for everyone to have their own bottle,” I said, trying to reason with her.

  Momma didn’t say a word. She grabbed me by my shirt and pulled me into the small backyard. She walked over to the apricot tree, yanked a switch off it, and proceeded to hit me hard on my bare legs.

  She hit me with such ferocity that it scared me more than it hurt. I started crying hysterically, partly from pain and partly out of fear. I had never seen her so angry.

  When she finally stopped hitting me, I looked up to see Donny watching from the kitchen door window. He was smirking in a very self-satisfied way.

  It was bad enough that I was being punished unfairly, but it was humiliating to have someone witness it, especially Donny. I was devastate
d. I wished I could disappear. The humiliation from that event left an emotional mark on my psyche that was much deeper and more painful than the welt the beating left on my legs.

  chapter 12

  Shortly after the Pepsi incident, my mother got enough money together from selling her cosmetics to rent us a house in Ceres, across town from Joanne. The place was a grey wood-framed house with a small backyard. It was unfurnished except for a bed in one of the bedrooms, a rocking chair in the living room, and a small dining table and chairs in the kitchen. Although the house had two bedrooms, the smaller one—“my” room—had no bed or any other furniture, so I slept with my mother.

  I didn’t mind that there was so little furniture. In fact, I liked it. We’d been so cramped living at both Joanne’s and Uncle Forrest’s that I liked the feeling of space around me.

  My mother, however, seemed unhappier than I’d ever seen her. She had no lady friends to sit and drink beer and tell stories with, and she was always exhausted from work. But for me, it was a bright spot in my life.

  Momma got me into school right away and I loved everything about it. It was a little one-room country school. Kindergarten and first through third grade kids sat on one side of the classroom, and kids from the fourth, fifth, and sixth grades sat on the other side.

  In Bakersfield, I had always gotten lost in the large classrooms of almost thirty kids, but in Ceres there were only about ten kids altogether. That meant that the teacher, Mrs. Green, had plenty of time to spend with each of us.

  Mrs. Green was the kindest teacher I’d ever had. She always had a smile on her face and she was very creative. She filled the walls with bright, beautiful pictures and she had easels set up all over the room in case someone wanted to paint. She introduced us to all kinds of art projects and she took an interest in each student and tried to discover everyone’s innate talents. She helped me discover that I was especially good at creating figures in clay.

 

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