‘Oh, my God,’ he said, ‘they’re leeches! Quick! Get the salt!’ I ran into the cabin and got the shaker. By the time I returned, Bob was pulling leeches off Wayne’s legs, and when we sprinkled salt on them, they curled up and fell off.
‘We can’t go in the water any more,’ I told Bob. I was still shaking with fright, and I knew I had nightmares to look forward to, but Wayne grinned. He didn’t seem fazed by the experience at all.
‘He wasn’t scared until you screamed,’ laughed Bob, but I still didn’t think it was funny. We told the old couple who ran the resort what had happened.
‘Just steer clear of the dock, honey, and you won’t have to worry about leeches cos that’s the only place you’ll find ’em.’
The following day, the next disaster hit. I hadn’t slept well on the night of the leeches. I was still upset about what had happened but I was also having difficulty breathing. Oh, no, I thought. Don’t tell me I’m coming down with a cold. By morning my eyes had swollen shut and I could hardly swallow. My palate was swollen too, almost completely blocking my air passages.
Bob rushed up to the resort owner’s house to find out what we should do. They told us to leave Wayne with them and get to the hospital right away, and that was what we did.
We learned that many people coming from out of the area had severe allergic reactions at that time of the year, something to do with ragweed pollen in the vicinity. They also told us that it was a particularly bad year for it.
The hospital staff shot me full of antihistamine, which knocked me out for the next two days. We felt it safer to cut short our holiday and headed home, disappointed that our attempt at togetherness had not accomplished what we’d hoped it would.
I can’t deny that Bob and I enjoyed some good times together, but we were drifting apart, and rapidly, to say nothing of the disdain that I felt coming from his family. I also can’t deny that it must have been difficult for him, dealing with all my emotional problems. I’m sure that at times I was hard to live with. He had slapped me now and again, and I don’t believe that was his nature but I could feel his frustration building into anger. We were making each other miserable and something had to change. I decided to tell his mother what was going on.
‘Can you please talk to him?’ I begged, through sobs. ‘He’s been hitting me and I’m scared.’
‘Well,’ she spat back at me, ‘I’m sure you deserved it.’
I remembered then that Bob had told me his father would hit his mother; I also remembered seeing her once with a black eye. She’d told us she had walked into a door. How could I have been stupid enough to think she might sympathize? I’d forgotten the old saying about blood being thicker than water. I determined then to try harder to avoid arguments, to steer clear when Bob was in a bad mood or had been drinking, to try anything and everything to protect myself from further abuse. I also promised myself that I would try to be more of the kind of wife he seemed to want, and that, I supposed, was obedient.
It had occurred to me that, in marrying so young, I had given away my youth and all the activities that you normally experience in your late teens and early twenties. For months now I had listened to Cindy, Brenda and all my other English friends exchanging stories of the fun they’d had going to dances on Saturday nights, travelling to London to see shows, holidays with friends at Butlin’s holiday camps. I had done none of those things, except for a couple of days out with Bob while we were courting. There seemed to be a huge chunk missing from my life, a chunk that I hadn’t thought important in my haste to get married before Bob went back to America. Perhaps that was what my parents had warned me about. Perhaps this was what they were afraid would happen, that I would suddenly realize what I had missed. Of course, they had been right: all of the things they had predicted might happen were happening, but what could I do except try to make things work? Two things ran through my mind: I must not let my parents down, and they must not think of me as a failure. I hoped my connections with other GI brides, Cindy Ballmaier and my sister-in-law Brenda would help me to make up for lost time and my lost youth. I thought that enjoying a new and different kind of entertainment would enable me to forget what I had missed, but to do that, I needed the support of my husband and his patience seemed to be running out.
We did two things with other couples that made me hope our social life was improving. First, Bob invited Peter and Brenda to attend his union’s annual dinner and dance, which would be held at the famous Hilton Hotel in downtown Chicago. Brenda and I went shopping for something special to wear, both choosing summery white dresses. Everything went well and we were enjoying the evening until I had to visit the ladies’ room. Brenda came with me. My dress had a long red scarf-type adornment that draped round the neck and fell in a flowing tail down the back of the dress. I forgot to hitch it up when I sat on the toilet. When I stood up, the now soaked tail slapped around my legs. It soon became abundantly clear that the red dye was not colour-fast. My legs, the skirt of my beautiful white dress and my shoes were sucking up the red colour, which was about the same shade as my face. At that moment, Brenda came out of her cubicle. She just stood there, staring at me. ‘Oh, my God,’ she said. ‘What have you done?’
‘What have I done? Well, it looks like I’ve ruined our night out. You’ll have to go and tell Bob that I can’t come back in.’
‘I thought you were bleeding,’ she muttered, as she scurried off.
While she was delivering the bad news, I tried to wash and dry myself so that at least our miserable ride home wouldn’t smell like the inside of a toilet. No one said much on the way, but I could see that my husband wasn’t happy. I tried to lighten the mood: ‘Well, at least we got to eat our dinner,’ I said, but his response was a couple of disapproving grunts.
The next attempt at a night out consisted of eight couples going for dinner and the show at a well-known nightspot. Brenda and I were particularly excited, as neither of us had ever been to such a place. We all sat at a long table and soon the drinks began to flow. Bob and I each had one, then chose the cheapest thing on the menu because that was all we could afford. Everyone else was ordering lobster and steak. None of that mattered until the bill came and someone decided that we should just split it evenly between the eight couples. I thought Bob was going to explode. Next thing I knew, everyone was staring at us while he made his feelings known.
‘There’s no way in hell I’m going to contribute to your goddamn lobster dinners and your endless rounds of drinks,’ he shouted. ‘I’ll pay for what we had and that’s it.’ By then, everyone in the place was staring at us. I wanted to crawl under the table, but I understood his anger: we really couldn’t afford to pay for such luxuries. I just wished he could have expressed it quietly. That group of friends never did invite us to go out with them again, and I can’t remember what the show was like. Bob and I certainly seemed to have a problem when it came to having fun with other people.
9: The Questionable Gift of American Citizenship
In an effort to make Bob happy, I applied for American citizenship. I had been in America for three years, and that was the only requirement I had to fulfil since I was married to an American. Secretly, I gathered the information I needed to go through the naturalization process. One of my neighbours, Pat Yuskus, agreed to help me study for the test. I began in earnest, learning about American history, the Constitution, and so on. When Pat thought I was ready, I sent in my application and waited to hear back from the Office of Immigration and Naturalization.
When I received an appointment for the test I was a nervous wreck, but off I went, with Pat taking care of Wayne. Although I didn’t do all that well, I passed. I could hardly believe it
when the interviewer asked me questions about the Magna Carta.
‘I only studied American history and politics,’ I told the bored-looking official. ‘I didn’t expect you to ask me about British history.’
‘My dear young lady,’ he said, ‘the Magna Carta is very much a part of American law and history.’ Then, after a brief silence, he really surprised me: ‘Why don’t you just go ahead and tell me what you do know?’ he said. For a moment, I was struck dumb this wasn’t how it was supposed to go but I took a deep breath and rattled off all the facts I could remember until he said, ‘That’s enough. That will do nicely.’ He began to fill in some paperwork while I gave a great sigh of relief and breathed normally again.
The final step towards citizenship was the swearing-in ceremony. Finally, the big day came: in a large courtroom in the US Federal Building in Chicago, with about a hundred other people, a judge swore me in as an American citizen.
Now, I must confess that when I had to swear to take up arms against the country of my birth in the event of war with it, I crossed my fingers behind my back. I supposed that admission could get me deported, but so be it: I never could have sworn to that.
I could hardly wait to tell Bob what I had done. I had been visualizing his surprise, pride and happiness when I showed him my citizenship papers, but when I made the big announcement and proudly produced them, he reacted as if I had told him that dinner was ready. That might have been what pushed me over the edge. I don’t know if I was more hurt or angry, but the wedge between us had been driven deeper. That his family had thrown a party to celebrate their daughter’s husband, Mike, receiving his citizenship made it worse, but Mike seemingly allowed his in-laws to run and rule his life. He hardly ever spoke.
In the event that Bob and I separated, I knew I would need a job so I started checking the newspapers, looking for something I might be able to do. I was interviewed at an employment agency for a receptionist position that offered switchboard training, but required a little typing. I lied, telling them I could type. I think they liked the idea of having an English voice answering their telephone so they hired me to start on the following Monday morning.
It was Thursday afternoon and I spent the next three days teaching myself to type on Bob’s old portable machine. On Monday morning, off I went, nervously, to start my new job. At that point, having done nothing but practise typing, I was even typing my thoughts inside my head.
I enjoyed that job and liked the people I worked with. We were always busy and the time passed quickly. My responsibilities were gradually increased and I began to feel better about myself, developing more confidence. I was also optimistic about the future now that I had more skills.
I still laugh about the way some of the job seekers filled out their applications. When it came to the box that required them to fill in their sex, instead of writing male or female (M or F), several noted the frequency of their sexual encounters. Blimey, I thought. No wonder they’re out of work.
So that I could take a full-time job, I had enrolled Wayne, who was now about two and a half, at the Gay Time Nursery School. Its bus picked him up early each morning and brought him home in the evenings. On the first day, he almost broke my heart: he cried and didn’t want to go; then, when he came home that evening, he wouldn’t talk to me. He cried again the next morning, but that night he was babbling about his new friends and all the fun he’d had. He was also proud of the picture he’d brought home with him. The next morning, and every morning after that, my little man went off happily on the bus.
An Italian family, who treated all the children as their own, ran the nursery school, which was very well organized. It had a large playground with lots of equipment, and the children took their afternoon naps on folding cots. The grandmother, or ‘Nonie’ as they called her (from the Italian word nonna), prepared all of their food. Wayne informed me that he had carrots every day ‘to make my eyes work real good’, and celery, ‘for my brains’. It was often hard not to laugh at some of the things he told me, with such a serious look on his face. Gay Time Nursery School still holds a special place in my children’s hearts and mine; it truly was a godsend. It was more like sending your child to stay with relatives than to an institution.
With me working full time, things at home were worsening. My new-found confidence caused conflict between Bob and me. In tears at work one day, I confided in my boss, Mr Dillon, about the situation at home following a particularly unpleasant evening and night. He had seen me crying in the staff-room and he told me that he would be there for me if I ever needed to talk. The previous night, Bob had had a few beers and had become extremely belligerent. It had taken me longer than usual to get dinner on the table for him: he had complained about having to wait for his meal and that I hadn’t cooked the pork chops the way he liked them. Then he derided me for getting behind with the laundry and ironing and for my reluctance to go to his parents’ house every weekend.
‘How am I supposed to keep up with the chores when the only time I have is on the weekends?’ I countered. ‘I can’t be in two places at once. Don’t you think you could explain that to your folks?’
‘My mother worked and kept up with everything. She even managed to tile the kitchen and hang wallpaper,’ he protested.
‘Yes, and you told me it had almost killed her. I don’t plan on letting household chores kill me. I just need time to get organized and that means having some free time on weekends.’
‘Well, if you can’t keep up with things at home, you’re going to have to quit that job and start doing what you’re supposed to be doing,’ he said, as though that was final.
‘Bob, I’m not going to give up my job,’ I told him. ‘It will just take me a little longer to get a proper routine going. I’ll soon have caught up on everything.’
Then he said something that really hurt me.
‘You’re just lazy,’ he said. ‘You can’t be bothered to take care of your son or me. You’re selfish.’
‘I’m not selfish. I thought we were going to save up for a house, which was the main reason I started working in the first place. Have you forgotten that we even went and looked at houses?’ At one time, we had looked at model homes in a new sub-division, but at thirteen thousand dollars, Bob had said we couldn’t afford one on his salary of ninety dollars a week: we’d have to wait until we’d saved a larger down-payment. I reminded him of all that but he carried on berating me.
By now I was crying, deeply hurt, but I was also angry. Then he took me by the shoulders and shook me. Before I could think, I hit him. Shocked by the intensity of our confrontation, we both stepped back and stared at each other. Outwardly I was shaking, but inside I was screaming. I’m sure we were both thinking the same thing: what’s happened to us? How had we arrived at this heartbreaking impasse in our marriage? Where was the tenderness we had once known, and why had it gone? I wanted to make him happy, but if I did it his way, I would suffocate. I simply had to have something to fill the well of despair that was threatening to drown me.
I knew Bob was having a hard time dealing with my new independence. I was also aware that I was equally to blame, especially since I was no longer the passive little girl he had married. I’d had terrible mood swings after giving birth to our son but now I was dogged by depression, excruciating loneliness and frustration. I couldn’t seem to do anything right. Every time I thought I had moved a step forward, his criticism and negativity brought me crashing down to an ever deeper place. Emotionally, I wasn’t walking through each day, I was crawling.
The fact was that I was outgrowing him and his work-eat-sleep routine, and neither of us knew how to deal with it. I suppose that’s one of the dangers o
f marrying too young. Just before our wedding Nat King Cole’s ‘They Try To Tell Us We’re Too Young’ was popular and I’d often heard Dad singing it. Now those words haunted me daily.
My boss, Mr Dillon, had listened patiently as I explained some of what had been happening. Eventually he told me his wife’s brother was an attorney and, if I wanted, he would arrange for me to see him.
For the next few days I continued to work and tried to catch up on the household chores that Bob complained I’d been neglecting. I was exhausted from lack of sleep. My mind was in turmoil. Bob and I fought about every little thing and I was sure he was just as miserable as I was. Soon I realized that I couldn’t live like that any longer: it was destroying both of us.
The following week, I told Mr Dillon it was time for me to talk to his brother-in-law.
My meeting with the attorney was difficult. He told me the grounds for divorce, if not adultery, would have to be physical cruelty. I didn’t want to accuse Bob of physical abuse because I knew he wasn’t an abusive person. The only times he had struck me were in moments of frustration, nothing like the violence you read about in the newspapers. Besides, I had hit him back, and that made me as bad as he was, didn’t it?
When I broke the news to Bob that I had talked to an attorney, he was devastated.
‘You can’t do that, Iris. Please give us another chance,’ he said. ‘How can you possibly think you can make it on your own? How can I, for that matter?’
‘It’s too late, Bob. You’ve told me over and over again that you don’t want to change just to make me happy, but I have changed,’ I told him.
‘What about Wayne? You can’t take my son away from me. How do I know you won’t take him to England?’
The GI Bride Page 9