When Momma came back inside, I could tell she was upset because her body was stiffer than usual and she had a frown on her face. She immediately went over to the dining room table where she kept her cigarettes, sat down, and lit one up. As she took her first puff, her shoulders relaxed more and I could tell it was safe to ask her what had happened.
“What did you find out, Momma? What was going on?”
“Well, that man they arrested was a peeping tom.”
“What’s a peeping tom?” I asked.
Momma shot me a look that said, I don’t really want to explain this to you. She sighed. “Just be patient and let me tell you the story and you’ll understand.”
She explained to me what Linda’s father had told her—that a few nights earlier, when Bud had come home from a date, he had seen a man lurking outside our house and looking in our windows.
As Momma talked, I imagined that the man had gotten an eyeful: it was summer and my mother had been traipsing around naked nearly every night.
Bud told his father about the man, Momma said, and they decided to watch to see if he’d come again. Sure enough, the very next night he was back. So they decided to take matters into their own hands.
“What were they going to do?” I pressed.
“Stop asking me all these questions. I’m trying to tell you!” Momma hissed. “They had noticed that the man used their yard to make his entrance and exit to our house, so as soon as it got dark they put up a rope between the two houses. Then they waited for him to come back.”
I could just see Linda’s father and brother waiting in the dark like amateur detectives. I wanted to ask Momma how long they waited but I knew better.
“Sure enough, the man came back, and just when he was positioned outside our living room window they yelled out, ‘Hey! What are you doing there!’ They scared him and he ran out of our yard and right into the rope, which knocked him to the ground!”
Momma didn’t tend to be dramatic but she told this part of the story with great relish. She was obviously pleased that the man had been caught, and she seemed to be caught up in the excitement of the moment.
My reaction to the story was different from Momma’s, though. When I heard the story, I felt scared to realize that someone had been watching us like that—scared and exposed. I was afraid it could happen again, that the man could get out of jail and come back or that another man could watch us like that.
I did feel relieved that the man had been caught. And I felt vindicated. There had been someone looking in at me in the bathtub all along—I was sure of it now!
I suddenly felt a wave of rage rising up inside of me. Why didn’t my mother ever believe me? She hadn’t believed me about Steve and she hadn’t believed me about someone watching me in the bathtub.
And I felt embarrassed—that my mother had enticed this man in the first place by walking around naked, that we didn’t have enough money to buy curtains. And embarrassed that the neighbors had to take steps to protect us because my mother wouldn’t. Why couldn’t Momma just put on some clothes like a normal person? She’d always stressed that the worse thing I could do was embarrass her in front of other people, and here she’d gone and embarrassed us both.
But Momma didn’t seem embarrassed at all. I had seen her thanking the Landers men in her charming way. And of course, she never acknowledged to me that I’d actually had good reason to be worried about someone looking in the bathroom window while I was taking a bath.
As if things weren’t bad enough, shortly after the peeping tom incident, my uncle Kay came to live with us. I had never met Uncle Kay, so at first I was happy about meeting another uncle. I assumed he’d be as nice to me as Uncle Frank and Uncle Forrest, and I was excited to have him live with us. My mother explained that it would just be temporary until he got a job. She also told me that like Uncle Frank, Uncle Kay was a hopeless alcoholic and this was why she hadn’t seen him for such a long time. But she didn’t seem bitter toward Kay the way she did toward Frank.
Uncle Kay was a strikingly handsome man in his early forties with beautiful, thick, prematurely grey hair so typical of the Irish. He was a large man, about 6’3”, and like me, he was “big boned.” In fact, Uncle Kay had a similar body type to mine— tall, long arms and legs, and a tummy. My mother had always said I resembled my father, but I could clearly see the similarity between my uncle and myself, and it felt good to know we were related.
Some of the neighbors also saw the similarity and asked me if he was my father. I guess they must have asked my mother as well, because one day, shortly after Uncle Kay arrived, Momma complained to me, “I know the neighbors don’t believe that your uncle Kay is my brother. They think he’s your father. Mrs. Hill told me that some people even think he’s a boyfriend that I’ve moved into our house. And the lady across the street even had the nerve to ask me if he was my boyfriend!”
Momma was clearly upset about all this. She was walking around the dining room, taking quick puffs on her cigarette and biting her lip.
I knew how important Momma’s reputation was to her so I assumed the neighbors’ gossip made her feel ashamed. I knew all about feeling ashamed and I secretly felt happy that for once Momma was experiencing what I felt all the time.
“Even when I explained to her that he was my brother, she looked at me like I was lying! Can you imagine?”
Momma sounded indignant; how dare someone not believe her! I could understand that not being believed by that neighbor made Momma angry. But again, I was secretly happy that someone thought she was a liar for a change.
As much as I wanted to like Uncle Kay, as much as I liked having a relative around, especially one who looked like me, there was something about him I just didn’t like. And he seemed to have absolutely no fond feelings for me either. There was no warm hug, no “glad to finally meet you” smile from this man when he arrived. He was completely indifferent toward me.
But when Momma and Uncle Kay started drinking beer and talking about old times, it was clear there was a feeling of affection between them. And while I was used to being pushed aside whenever my mother was talking to her girlfriends, this felt different. It was as if I didn’t exist at all.
And it got worse. Although he was good at putting on the charm with my mother, Kay didn’t waste any time on me. When my mother was at work, he completely ignored me, or he looked at me with disdain when I walked into the living room, which he had completely taken over. His message to me was clear: “Go away. You’re bothering me.” All my life I’d been used to getting this message from my mother, but getting it from Kay, who had come into my house, was especially insulting.
And Kay was selfish. Not long after he moved in, he came home with a package of imported ham, a bunch of green onions, and a loaf of white bread. Momma could never afford to buy packaged ham like that so I was excited about the prospect of having a ham sandwich. But Kay stood at the kitchen counter and used up the entire package of ham, making several sandwiches, and then went into the living room to eat them without offering me one. This was especially infuriating because when my mother got home and cooked us dinner he sat shoveling food down like he hadn’t eaten all day. Here my mother was supporting him, working hard to put food on the table, and he was too selfish and ungrateful to share with me.
It turned out Kay was even more arrogant than my uncle Forrest. At least with Forrest, you knew he had a good heart under all his bravado. He had some kindness to balance the know-it-all-ness and the need to control everything and everyone. Even when he was overly blunt, and even insulting, you knew he didn’t mean to hurt your feelings. Not so with Kay. When he hurt your feelings you knew he’d done it on purpose.
As time went by, I could see how much of an alcoholic Kay was. He drank vodka, and he always reeked of alcohol—which became a sickening smell to me. He was often passed out on the couch in his underwear when I got home from school, and sometimes I could see his genitals. He never bothered me sexually, but I felt really uncomf
ortable seeing his penis or testicles. After a while, this habit of his became so frequent that I avoided coming home.
I tried telling Momma about Kay—that he was drinking all day instead of looking for a job. But of course, she didn’t believe me.
“I can tell when he’s drinking hard liquor, and believe me, he’s not. He’s really trying this time. You’re just upset because I’m focusing my energy on someone other than you. You’re jealous.”
I didn’t know what to say. Sure, I didn’t like it that she spent her evenings drinking beer and talking to Kay. But I wasn’t telling her about Kay’s drinking because I was jealous. I was telling her because I could see he was fooling her and this upset me.
When my mother was around, Kay was a totally different person, and I soon realized he was a con artist who was capable of fooling anyone. He only drank beer when he was in her presence and he really put on the charm with her, complimenting her and telling her funny stories.
I guess my mother finally figured out that he was drinking vodka and lying around all day instead of looking for work when she wasn’t around, because she asked him to leave several months after he arrived. I was so relieved. It felt like I had my house back.
I guess Kay didn’t have any hard feelings about my mother kicking him out, because he kept in touch with her through the years. She told me he eventually got a job as a used car salesman and she said it was the perfect job for him because he had the charm and good looks to talk people into buying anything. And he could set his own schedule. Nevertheless, he lost that job because of his drinking. Through the years, he eventually worked his way through all of the used car lots in Bakersfield.
The one thing Kay did for me was to help me to stop pining away for a father. I realized that, when I’d thought of having a father or stepfather, I’d always imagined him being a good man, a loving man who would spend time with me, teach me things, and take me places. I never imagined he might ignore me like Kay did. I never imagined he might be selfish and cruel. And I certainly never imagined he might be a manipulative alcoholic who would take advantage of my mother. Kay showed me that having a father could be worse than not having one. And I learned something else from both the experience with Kay and the peeping tom: my mother wasn’t always right.
Like Uncle Forrest, Momma believed she was always right and that her opinion was the final word. She was so adamant that she could convince me the color I was looking at was blue when I knew it was green. This often left me questioning my perceptions, and even my reality. But in these two situations my mother had clearly been wrong. She’d been wrong when she told me that no one would want to peek in a window to watch a nine-year-old take a bath, and she’d been wrong in thinking that Kay was really turning over a new leaf this time. It seemed that my mother wasn’t perfect after all.
chapter 17
I didn’t know how my absence had affected Pam because we never talked about it. But in the year since I’d been back from Ceres, she’d seemed to become more and more withdrawn from me.
We were both maturing. She was a year older than me, so she was eleven, and we seemed to have less and less in common as time went on. Since her mother stayed in bed most of the day, we weren’t the only ones left on our own—her two brothers, Dean and Peter, were too. And now that Pam and I were out playing in the yard more, we saw them more frequently.
Peter was older, already in high school, and Dean was younger than us by a few years. Peter was usually gone, doing things with his friends, but Dean sometimes hung around with me and Pam in the backyard. One day, we were all playing together when Peter came home and said he was bored. He asked us to come into his room, which was on the opposite end of the house from Pam’s room—closer to their parents’ bedroom.
Once we were inside his room, Peter suggested we play “strip poker.” I had no idea what this was, but I went along with it. I was thrilled that Peter would even pay attention to us, since he was a teenager.
Peter was still fully dressed but Pam and I had our tops off and Dean had his pants off when Mrs. Delis walked into the room. I was shocked to see her and felt horribly exposed and embarrassed.
“What in the world are you doing in here?” she asked, looking more surprised than angry.
Before we could answer, she said, “Put your clothes on right now. All of you. Pam, Peter, Dean, go to your bedrooms and wait for me there. I’ll talk to you later. Beverly, you come with me.”
I followed her into the dining room, where she directed me to sit at the large dining room table.
“I’m going to have to tell your mother about this,” she said sternly.
I became very upset and started crying. I imagined my mother hearing this and blaming me for what had happened. I remembered the way she looked at me when the twins’ mother had told her what I’d done. I knew she wouldn’t believe me if I tried to tell her that this time I didn’t start it. It was Peter. I couldn’t stop crying.
Mrs. Delis just sat there not saying anything. I think she must have been surprised at my reaction. Finally, I stopped crying and pleaded for Mrs. Delis to not tell my mother.
“Please, please Mrs. Delis, please don’t tell my mother. She’s going to get so angry with me. She’s going to blame me and it wasn’t my fault. It was Peter’s idea.”
And then I told her about Steve molesting me. I don’t know why, exactly, except that I wanted her to understand why I was so upset and why it was so important to not tell my mother.
It felt like we were two adults talking now, and in so many ways I was an adult. Mrs. Delis treated me with respect, and I loved her for it.
“Because that happened to me, she’s going to blame me. She’s going to say I started it,” I explained.
Mrs. Delis fell silent for quite some time. I could tell she was thinking about this whole thing very seriously. Finally, she said, “I won’t tell your mother about this. But I don’t want you coming over here anymore. Pam can go to your house, and you can see her at school, but I don’t think it is a good idea for you to come here.”
I felt tremendously relieved. But I also felt like a bad person again. Once again, I had been banned from a friend’s house.
I imagine Mrs. Delis knew the strip poker incident was Peter’s fault, since he was so much older than the rest of us. It would have been great if she had reassured me of that. But nevertheless, I had a good feeling about Mrs. Delis and the way she had listened to me and seemed to understand my dilemma.
Pam did come over to my house after school sometimes, but only on my mother’s day off. We’d play pick-up sticks and jacks on the cold concrete floor in my living room. Then, when the shadows started stealing the sunshine, I’d walk her halfway home. Her father also took us to his country club to swim a few times in the summer. But after the strip poker incident, nothing was ever the same between us.
Soon I met a new friend at school, another misfit. She wasn’t in my class but she was in the fifth grade, same as me, and I’d often seen her playing alone on the playground looking downtrodden. Her name was Charlene. One day at recess, she joined me and Pam at the far end of the playground to play horses. From then on the three of us galloped around the playground—which was soaked in oil to prevent the wind from blowing the dirt away— leaping up on our back legs every so often to greet one another or to fend off an attacker. Even though both Pam and Charlene were quiet and withdrawn, they found their voices when they were horses. They whinnied as loud as I did and galloped just as fast.
Charlene also lived in Hillcrest, so I started going to her house after school since I could no longer go to Pam’s. Charlene usually didn’t have any time to play because she had chores to do, like cleaning her mother’s big house and raking leaves in the front and back yards before her mother, a single mother like mine, came home from work.
I was used to doing chores, too, but I did them willingly, to help out my mother. It was an entirely different story with Charlene. She had to do them and do them right, or she wou
ld be punished. I felt sorry for her, so when I came over I often tried to help her out.
Charlene was deathly afraid of her mother, and as time went by I began to understand why. She was a tyrant. If Charlene didn’t have her chores done when her mother came home, or if she hadn’t done them to her mother’s specifications, she would be severely punished. Charlene never talked about what those punishments entailed, but I often saw bruises and cuts on her face and arms.
I’d been the recipient of my mother’s anger and even rage, but it didn’t come close to Charlene’s mother’s rage. I witnessed it more than once during the time I knew them.
One day, Charlene was cleaning the oven and she’d put on a sort of mask to protect herself from the fumes from the oven cleaner, the way her mother had instructed her. She looked so funny that she made me laugh. We started giggling and couldn’t stop.
All of a sudden, the side door opened and her mother was standing there.
“What’s wrong with you two?” she said, glaring at us. “Why are you laughing? Charlene, you’re supposed to be cleaning the oven, not playing around.”
Charlene tried to explain what had happened, but her mother was on a roll.
“This kitchen is a mess. Look at these countertops—they are filthy,” she said as she passed her hand over the top of them. “And look at the bottom of these pans in the drainer. They need a good scrub. What have you been doing, playing around all afternoon?”
Charlene’s mother was working herself up into a rage. I could see her temples throbbing and her face turning red. Her eyes flashed in a way that made her look possessed. She was clearly out of control.
She pushed Charlene out of the kitchen so hard that she stumbled and fell. She yanked her up and pushed her into the hall, yelling at me to “get the hell” out of there. I knew Charlene was in for a beating.
If you’ve ever seen the movie Mommie Dearest, you have a good picture of what Charlene’s life with her mother was like. After that day, I tried to leave before her mother came home to save us both—Charlene from the embarrassment of having me see her mother in a rage and me from the risk of getting some of her mother’s leftover wrath.
Raising Myself Page 11