We kids had a buffer in Ayako, who warned us of any danger signs and guided us out of harm’s way as often as she could. Susan did her part as well to protect me and Kit. I knew that my mother had effectively taken me, Daddy’s first-born son, and favored me, and he was prone to destroy anything she favored.
The atmosphere of terror that we lived in day to day could not last for long. One night I was awakened by rage-filled screaming. I peeked out of my room toward the double door leading into my parents’ bedroom. As I watched, my father swung his right hand and hit my mom so hard, her body lifted off the floor and flew through the air. She landed with her legs hanging over the wooden footboard of their king-size bed. In his rage, he looked larger than his six foot, one inch frame with nearly three hundred pounds on it. When my mom raised her head, blood was running from her mouth, dripping on her dress and the bedcover. My father suddenly saw me and slammed the double doors shut. I shuddered uncontrollably, both from fear for my mother and the thought that he’d come and find me next.
The next day she moved out and returned to Los Angeles.
During the day, my dad worked at the Coca-Cola Bottling Co., so daytime was relatively safe. I started the second grade at Miller Street Elementary School, four blocks from my home on Morrison Street. Once again, school was a safe haven. At home, I stayed as close to Ayako as possible.
As weeks passed, Daddy came home later and later from his office. He did not seek us out for punishment. He even seemed even-tempered during the short periods we saw him. Usually we were asleep when he came home. The reason why he was calmer was soon forthcoming. One night I heard voices and crept out of my room. Susan was already on the upstairs landing, listening to them downstairs, laughing and playing jazz music. Her name was Nelda, and it was easy to tell he liked her. Susan knew about Nelda for some time before I became aware of her. When I met her, I liked her too. Susan confided in Ayako, and she concluded that as long as “Mr. Cobb was happy, the rest of us are better off.”
He still had many times when he was not happy. Phone calls from my mother would ignite his fuse and an explosion inevitably followed. Susan told me that Mom had hired a lawyer, and I acted like I knew what that meant. Susan liked to show off her superior knowledge of adult ways, and said that they were “officially separated.” I didn’t know what that meant either.
One day during summer I came home from playing, and Ayako told me my grandfather had written me a letter. I rushed to the chest near the front door and spotted a small envelope with writing in dark green ink on the front. I looked at the envelope and turned it over. On the back, small block type printed in green ink read, “Tyrus R. Cobb, Glenbrook, Douglas County, Nevada.” That was it, no street address. Ayako told me he was at Lake Tahoe. I knew the letter was for me, because it was addressed to “Herschel Cobb Jr.” He thanked me for writing him, asked me how I liked school, told me to be sure to read a good book, said that he knew I was a good boy and could do anything I set my mind to. He told me he had been at Lake Tahoe for the summer, and that I would like it there, and that he was going to go to Atlanta, Royston, and some other places, and that he missed me. His handwriting was steady, and I especially liked the end, “I am, With Love, Granddaddy.”
I read the letter again as I climbed the stairs, and again in my room. I sat on the edge of my bed, looked around the room for a safe place to hide the letter, then returned it to the envelope, sat and looked at it while my body filled with warmth and hope.
He wrote me again in late August, telling me he was leaving Lake Tahoe, had put his boat in dry dock, had locked up his cabin, and was anxious to visit Royston. He didn’t know where he would be if I wanted to write a letter back; he wanted me to study hard and told me again I could do anything to which I set my mind.
Susan received letters from him as well, and we shared them. He missed her and said he wanted to see us as soon as he took care of some matters. Neither of us could bring ourselves to write him about the terror we lived with each day.
The months passed toward the holiday season, and I managed to avoid spankings, beatings, confrontations in the bathrooms, and being thrown around. Daddy was very busy with his business, and Nelda held sway over his emotions. The phone calls from my mother, however, were broadcast like an air horn blasting from a large truck. His voice boomed throughout the house from the instant he picked up the receiver. Kit and I scrambled to our room, shut the door, hid, and stayed hidden until Susan found us.
Susan had a special role in our lives. She looked out for us, took care of us, cooked us dinner, made us lunches, baked chocolate chip cookies, made sure we had clean clothes, and acted as our lookout, ally, and protector. My father had grown to love my sister, especially as she matured during the third and fourth grades. Physically, she was built like him, a little plump, with a round face and lovely red hair that hung in large curls to her shoulders, framing the flawless peach complexion of her cheeks. On most occasions she could dampen his fury with her smile and her willingness to stand directly in front of him and tell him what she thought.
We knew he was in a battle with my mother, and we children were barter. She wanted more money or us. She was living a life he was supporting, one dominated by drinking, going out at night, and sleeping all day. He had to pay the bills, and any reminder of that fact made him furious. Susan and I knew his anger would eventually erupt, and we dreaded being within range when it did.
It burst with uncontrolled fury one Saturday. The heavy rains had stopped and early spring was in bloom. Nelda was not around. It was a late afternoon in April 1951 when Ayako called to Daddy, “Mrs. Cobb is on the phone, Mr. Cobb.”
The phone was downstairs, and the three of us huddled on the second-floor landing, leaning against the banister, listening intently. Ayako stood midway up the stairs. Susan and I exchanged glances, filled with apprehension. I held Kit’s hand, listening as hard as I could. The sounds from downstairs were muffled but loud, sparked with a fury that sent shivers up my spine.
It ended with a final “Damn you!” and a huge slam of the receiver onto the phone. A ripping sound was followed by a crash. We heard Daddy start up the stairs. Susan and I, holding onto Kit, backed up against the wall across from the banister.
Ayako gasped, “Mr. Cobb, you pulled the whole phone right out of the wall.” Her voice was filled with terror, but she was only hoping to slow him down. Her hands were in front of her face, half protecting herself.
He bolted past her, up the stairs two at a time, and saw us cowering against the wall. In one powerful swipe he reached down and grabbed Susan. She shouted to us, “Run! Run!” then, “Daddy, don’t, that hurts.” He picked her up and held her like a football. I heard him shout, “That bitch will never have you,” as he threw her against the wall.
I pulled Kit with me as I ran down the hall. I opened the door to the linen closet and looked back as Susan fell to the floor. He turned and started after me, but I was prepared. I pushed Kit into the bottom of the linen closet, into my secret cubbyhole, and crawled in after him as fast as I could.
The closet was narrow and deep. The bottom shelf was a mere foot and a half from the floor and was nailed fast to the side walls of the closet. I had made a secret hiding place under that shelf, way in the back. I had happened upon it during one of our hide and seek games. The rear of the closet was unfinished and opened into a space formed by the thick supporting studs of the house. When I hid there, I piled towels and sheets in front of me. That way I could never be found. The deepest part of my cubbyhole went back probably seven or eight feet from the closet door.
I pushed Kit all the way back and coiled in front of him with my arms braced on each side of the wall. Daddy opened the door and tried to crawl in to grab me, but he was too big to fit through the space between the floor and the first shelf. He was furious, and his voice bellowed into our cave, demanding we come out at once. I was crying by this time, and could only repeat over and over again, “No, no, no.” I was so scared, I could no
t have moved anyway. Kit was crying too, not understanding what was going on, and I was squashing him as I tried to back farther and farther away from my father. I will never forget his face, red and screaming. Sweat was pouring down from his forehead, his underarms were wet, and his huge hand groped toward me, trying to grab hold. I pushed with all my might against the side wall of my cubbyhole. I sucked in my belly to make myself smaller. This was it. I thought, “If he reaches me, I’m a goner.”
He was yelling, “Come here, come here, come here, damn you.” His face was twisted by his shouting and squirming to reach farther into my cubbyhole. His hands remained two feet distant, outstretched and grabbing. If the shelf above broke loose, he would have me.
I kept shouting, “No, no, no! Go away, go away!” I pushed harder backward, ignoring Kit pushing at me. I was not going to surrender, even though I was so scared I could feel the warmth between my legs, in my crotch.
Long minutes went by, and suddenly he withdrew. He turned his head as if listening for something, then pulled his wedged body out of the cubbyhole. I saw his knees under him, and then his feet, and then nothing but dim light. I didn’t dare move. I knew he was setting a trap. Kit pushed at me, yelling he couldn’t breathe, so I shifted a little bit, but kept him pinned far back in the cubbyhole. I waited and waited.
Ayako’s face appeared and she motioned for me to come out, saying, “It’s all right, Hersch. It’s all right to come out.”
I could barely move my muscles. I crawled out and stood up with Kit staying right behind me. I heard talking outside and went to a window overlooking the front yard. Daddy was talking with two policemen. Ayako had gone to the neighbor’s house and called them. She took Kit and me and led us downstairs to the back door, where Susan was waiting. Ayako put us into her car and drove us to her friend’s house, where we stayed overnight.
The next day, we returned home and Ayako had set up beds for us in the downstairs bedroom next to the kitchen. I saw my dad pass on the stairs a couple of times during the next few days, but he didn’t look at me. The tension in the house was like walking barefoot through a field of bristles. At school, all I could think about was how he was going to pay me back. I didn’t talk to Susan because I knew how much she loved Daddy. She would only say that everything was going to be okay.
I rode my bike home on a Friday and knew I had two days to dodge and hide until I could get back to school on Monday. I walked in the front door and thought nobody was home because it was so quiet. I went to the kitchen for cookies and saw Ayako leaning against the counter, holding Susan in her arms. I stopped short, preparing for whatever it was.
Ayako said, “Hersch, come here. I have to tell you something.”
I edged toward her. Tears were streaming down Susan’s cheeks. Ayako softly said, “Hersch, your father died today.” I instantly felt sick in my stomach. “He had a heart attack.”
I asked what a heart attack was, and she answered, “His heart just gave out; it exploded.” I couldn’t picture this in my mind, but that didn’t matter. “It happened this morning, in Paso Robles, while he was working. I called your mother and she’ll be here tomorrow.”
She then asked if I wanted to be held, and I shook my head a little. Instead I took small steps out of the kitchen. I wanted to be alone.
I felt dazed walking to the front door and outside, where my bike was lying on the grass. All I could hear in my mind was, “He’s dead. He’s dead. He’s dead. He can’t hurt me anymore. He can’t kill me.” I got on my bicycle and took off. I could hardly believe how relieved I felt. I rode for a block and then it struck me like a lightning bolt that I’d wished my father dead before and my wish came true. I had killed him. I instantly felt awful, filled with guilt, and wanted him back alive.
I would never have a father—not the father he was, but the one I wanted in my heart. I stumbled to a stop on my bike, walked across the train tracks, and sat on the cement steps of the old railroad building. I was overwhelmed with a horrible mixture of guilt, remorse, and elation. I felt sick and wanted to throw up, but I was also free of him. I couldn’t stop the words in my head or the feelings washing through my body. I looked around and didn’t see a single person. I had nobody to talk to or ask for help. I swallowed hard, and as all my feelings and thoughts bubbled up uncontrollably, I sat for a long, long time.
When I got on my bike and started to ride home, I kept looking everywhere, trying to find my dad. I held the idea in my heart that if I found him alive, he would be the father I truly wanted, loving and protective. It was April 13, 1951; he was thirty-three years old, and I was eight.
The next morning, Ayako woke Susan and me early. Nelda had gathered the possessions she had at our house into a suitcase. Crying, she hugged us both and mumbled that though she loved us, she probably would not see us again.
My mother arrived just before noon. She hobbled up the front steps on two crutches, with her left ankle heavily bandaged. She tried to bend down to hug us, but the crutches under her arms interfered, and she settled for patting me on my head. She smelled of whisky. Later, Ayako told us that she had sprained her ankle when she fell down some stairs. I guessed that she had smelled of whisky then too.
The next day was Daddy’s funeral. Susan and I dressed in our church clothes and waited in the kitchen. Mom appeared in the middle of the morning and told us that we were not going to see Daddy buried. I looked at Susan, bewildered. She looked at Mom, but she would brook no arguments. We weren’t going to see our father buried. Nor would we see any of our aunts or uncles or Granddaddy that day. Mom left by herself, and we were left behind.
Granddaddy called in the afternoon. Susan answered the phone, and I knew it was him by the way she conversed with him. I stood next to her and listened to her part of the conversation, hanging onto each word, whispering into her ear, asking if he was going to come and see us.
Susan asked him, “When are you coming to see us?” Then, “Why not?” And then, “Oh. Why?” and “Well, Hersch wants you to too.” Silence for a few seconds, then, “Hersch wants to say hi.” She turned to me and said, “He says for me to give you a big hug.” Then I heard, “She’s not here. We’ll be okay. I’ll take care of the boys. Ayako is here.”
I knew the conversation was nearly over when Susan said, “Yes, if she does anything, I’ll call you.”
“Bye-bye, Granddaddy, I love you too. So does Hersch.” I was nodding my head while she slowly put the receiver back on the cradle, as if she was letting go of our lifeline to safety. She was crying when she gave me my hug from Granddaddy.
I asked her why Granddaddy wasn’t coming. “Hersch, he doesn’t sound very good. He doesn’t want to see Mom, and he doesn’t have anything to say to her.”
That part I understood. I mumbled, “What’s going to happen to us?”
She weakly replied, “I don’t know, Hersch. Where could we go?”
I just shook my head.
The rest of the day passed as if nothing had happened, except my father was gone. I was filled with guilt and longing. I hadn’t seen my father laid in the ground, and suspected that Mom had lied to me, that he was alive somewhere. I constantly looked at strangers, hoping to find my true father.
My mother expected to inherit all her husband’s wealth. The opposite happened. He had spent every penny that his father had given him, and on top of that his business owed creditors a great deal of money. She was stuck with these debts and three children she did not want. The only asset, the Coca-Cola Bottling Co., was in jeopardy of being sold, leaving her nothing. While in Los Angeles, she became close to a powerful lawyer who kept my father’s estate open for years and the banks at bay, and permitted my mother to maintain an income. My mother was furious and disgusted. No inheritance, three unwanted children, debts, the faint smell of Nelda’s perfume lingering, and only a modest income.
When school ended, she moved us all into an old house on a rundown street in a rundown neighborhood in Santa Monica. Ayako stayed with us, whic
h was fortunate because my mother had no intention of raising her children. She went out nearly every night and slept most of the day. We didn’t visit Grandma that summer, and Granddaddy wrote to me only once. I knew how much he disliked my mother, so I wasn’t surprised, but still I felt isolated and invisible. Susan and I were anxious that we might never see our grandparents again. We were stranded. Our father was dead, our mother openly resented us, and our grandparents were old and far, far away.
Summer in Los Angeles was hot, and without any friends there wasn’t much to do except wait for school to start. In September, I started third grade at a huge school on Wilshire Boulevard, called Wilshire Crest School. During recess I met a bully named Marshall Cohn. The problem for him was, he was close to my own size and I could hit him back. Although he was in the fourth grade, he played tether ball with the third graders so he could win all recess long because he was a little taller and could hit over their heads, then laugh when they couldn’t reach the ball. I watched him taunt them for a few days at tether ball and take their candy when they lost. The next day at recess I made up my mind. I got in his line to get my turn to try to “stay in.” I grabbed the tether ball on his first serve, while the tether was long, quickly aimed, and hit it as hard as I could right into his face. His nose started to bleed and he stumbled out of the circle, done. With my job done, I handed the tetherball to the next third grader in line and went over to the basketball hoops. Marshall never bothered me again.
That first school year in Los Angeles was miserable. I developed a reserve, feeling that I was alone in the world. That feeling never left me even as the months passed and I gained friends to play with. I had not one whom I actually trusted.
Heart of a Tiger: Growing Up With My Grandfather, Ty Cobb Page 7