The GI Bride

by Simantel, Iris Jones

  A little worried about what Palmer would say, especially if he found out that I had money saved, I told him the church had offered us a free stay at Camp Augustana. I was sure he would tell me either that we couldn’t go or that he couldn’t go because of his new job, but he surprised me.

  ‘I’ll see if Jack [his boss], will let me have a week off to spend some time with the kids,’ he said. Well, what a shock that was. Two days later, he told me that Jack would give him a week off if he made up the time later by working seven-day weeks at a few upcoming conventions, and he had said he would. You could have knocked me down with a feather. Then he surprised me some more.

  ‘Why don’t you see if Jeanette can go with us? She could watch the kids if we want to go out for the evening.’ Jeanette was a twelve-year-old girl who lived in the next apartment building to ours. She occasionally stayed with Wayne and Robin for short periods if I had an appointment. When I asked her and her parents, they jumped at the opportunity, and I made the reservation for us to stay at the camp, for our first ever holiday together.

  Camp Augustana had existed for many years and some of the buildings were tired-looking, but the lakeside setting was beautiful. When we arrived, a member of staff gave us a tour of the facilities, explained the camp rules, then took us to our cabin, which was right on the edge of the lake. Well, I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry when I saw it. To say it was old and rustic would be a gross understatement, but it was adequate. There was a full-size sofa-bed in the living area, and bunk beds in a curtained-off small bedroom; Robin had to sleep in her old playpen, next to the bunks. Tacked on to the side of the cabin, a small screened-in porch was equipped with a few outdoor chairs, a table, a small sink and lots of cobwebs. Another add-on held a toilet. We had to take our showers in a communal building near the dining hall. Palmer wasn’t happy, but the kids loved the adventure of it. It still amazes me that the whole week at Camp Augustana, including meals, cost me less than fifty dollars, but I’d had to work damned hard to save that small amount of money.

  The first few days at the camp were great. It was a joy to see the children having so much fun together. Mealtimes with all the hordes of youngsters, who were attending music and Bible camp, were equally enjoyable. The food was good and sometimes between courses the camp counsellors led the children in song. Elbows had to be kept off the table, and anyone caught disobeying the rule, including adults, elicited a mass reaction. Once someone had called out a culprit’s name, the chant would begin:

  ‘Suzy, Suzy, strong and able,

  Get your elbows off the table.’

  Then the offender had to stand up and run around the outer edge of the barn-like room, while everyone chanted and banged their fork handles on the tables.

  ‘Round the tables you must go,

  You must go, you must go.

  Round the tables you must go,

  My fair Suzy.’

  Everyone joined in and thought it was great fun, except Palmer who refused to participate; he did grin, but I’m sure he thought it beneath his dignity, especially when the children caught me on one occasion and I had to run around the hall.

  Alcohol was not permitted anywhere in the camp, but Palmer had stashed beer in the car and would disappear sometimes, not saying where he was going. At first, he didn’t overdo it, but later in the week, he was drinking more and became difficult. I didn’t say anything because I didn’t want to spoil the children’s holiday, but it made me nervous, especially when he wanted to take Robin out on the water in an inflated rubber tyre.

  One day, Palmer was out in a dinghy by himself and he had paddled to the middle of the lake. While he was out there a storm began to blow in, the winds became fierce and the waves suddenly had white caps. Concerned about their safety, I took the children inside the cabin, then went to see if I could spot him. Shading my eyes, I scanned the lake. For some time, I couldn’t see him. As much as I hate to admit it, the thought entered my mind that perhaps he had drowned, but then he bobbed into view.

  ‘Jeez, that was scary,’ he said, once he was safely back on shore. ‘For a while there, I was afraid I was going to drown.’

  Hmm, I thought, and I was afraid you wouldn’t.

  In all, I had a great time with the children on our ‘free’ holiday and I dreaded going home where I knew nothing would have changed and, of course, it had not.

  With Palmer’s drinking getting worse all the time and his behaviour becoming increasingly unpredictable, I sought help from Al-Anon, the support group for the families of alcoholics, through the local branch of Alcoholics Anonymous. I started going to meetings whenever I could and began learning how to live with an alcoholic. I discovered that I had to react differently to his behaviour if I wanted to effect any change in the situation. On their advice, I tried ignoring his false accusations and the ugly things he said to and about me, often just walking away from him. That only served to send him into a manic rage. When I refused to argue or fight with him, he’d threaten to drag the children out of bed. To protect them, I had to put up with his vile mouth and the pushing around. He was not actually hitting me, but he’d keep poking and shoving me. Was he trying to goad me into hitting him? I don’t know, but I was terrified of what the outcome might be if he became more physical.

  ‘What’s wrong with you?’ I asked him one day. ‘Do you really want our lives to be this way?’

  ‘I’m not doing anything wrong. It’s you that’s the problem,’ he snarled.

  ‘Me? It’s not me that’s drinking, not me that got us into all this debt.’

  ‘Stop nagging! There’s nothing wrong with me everything was fine until I married you! Everything was fine until you tricked me into marrying you.’ He was now shouting.

  ‘What the hell are you talking about? It was you who rushed me into marriage, and it wasn’t fine, Palmer. You and your cronies were always drinking. You just didn’t have responsibilities then. Don’t you even care about your daughter?’

  ‘Oh, yes, go ahead and drag the kids into it,’ he yelled. ‘You always use the kids when you don’t have anything else to nag about.’

  ‘Please, Palmer, please stop this,’ I begged, but he just walked out.

  ‘I’m going out for a beer,’ he shouted back. ‘Take it or leave it.’

  Oh, God, I thought. If he only knew how much I wanted to leave. After all of those shouting matches, I began to understand why Al-Anon had advised us against reacting to our spouse’s unreasonable arguments. I kept reminding myself of one of its famous sayings: ‘When they’re drinking, their thinking’s stinking.’ It made sense to me, but knowing it sure didn’t help the situation.

  Palmer had started ‘cheque kiting’. Our financial situation had deteriorated to the extent that he was now running around cashing cheques at various banks, then depositing the money in another bank to cover cheques written on it so that they wouldn’t bounce. This would begin about halfway through his pay period and went on until he received his salary to cover everything. Within a week or so, the cycle would start all over again. He would even have our friends cash cheques for him, knowing that it would take time for them to deposit his cheque and for it to clear, therefore buying him a little more time. I also found that he had been buying gift certificates with his credit cards from department stores, then purchasing a small item to get the balance back in cash. (I understand that shops no longer permit such cash returns. I believe any balance you might have simply stays on the card for future use. It would seem that shops have wised up to the cash-back practice.) There soon came a time when all of Palmer’s credit cards were over their limit so he could no longer get hold of those stopgap gift certificates. His involv
ement in the illegal practice of cheque kiting, which continued to escalate, could have landed him in jail.

  At one point, Palmer became a little less crazy and was easier to live with, but it only lasted for two or three months. I learned that Uncle Art had bailed him out again but with the ultimatum that he stopped drinking or he would never help him again. Palmer even confessed to me that, if the drinking continued, Art would disinherit him. I’m not sure if he was trying to convince himself or me that he could and would give up alcohol after all, an estate worth at least a million dollars was surely worth the sacrifice. However, the drinking didn’t stop and he was soon up to his old tricks. Soon we were in the same financial mess as before. He knew he couldn’t ask his uncle for help and there was no one else to turn to so he decided it was time to call Alcoholics Anonymous. I was overjoyed.

  When Palmer picked up the phone to call AA, he was crying. Here was a desperate man, finally reaching out for the kind of help he needed. I actually found myself feeling sorry for him and a little less sorry for myself with this new ray of hope and the lifeline I thought might save us.

  Two men from AA arrived at the apartment. They spent a lot of time with Palmer, telling their own stories of all they had been through before they’d hit rock bottom and sought help. Those stories were scary but both men had been able to keep their families together in spite of the misery they had caused. Palmer seemed keen to stick with it: he agreed to attend meetings and call for help any time he felt the need. With this new promise from him, I was glad I had kept his drinking secret from my family; perhaps I would no longer have to deal with drunken abusive behaviour; perhaps we could begin to have a more normal life.

  I hadn’t told my parents what had been going on for the past couple of years for two reasons. First, I didn’t want them to think that I had screwed up again, and second, I didn’t want to frighten or worry them. After all, what could they have done except worry? Once, in desperation, I had called Palmer’s parents to tell them about their son’s behaviour, and to ask them what I should do. That had been a huge mistake, which I should have anticipated.

  ‘You’re nothing but a lying, thieving bitch,’ his mother said. ‘Do you think we don’t know why you foreigners come to America and why you marry Americans? We know how you throw money around that doesn’t belong to you. You’ve ruined Bobby’s life and trapped him by having him give you a baby.’ The pair of them took turns on the phone and the ranting went on until I had the good sense to hang up on them. Their attack left me stunned and I couldn’t stop shaking. Defeated, I sank to the floor, and sat there in a daze. When I finally snapped out of it, I realized that now I had a new worry: what would Palmer do when his parents told him I had called them? They did so, and he flew into a rage that sent me running out of the house to escape him. I went to one of the neighbours and stayed there until it was safe to return, when I thought he’d be asleep.

  With all that behind me, and now with new hope, I continued to attend Al-Anon meetings and for a while it seemed that things might be getting a little better at home. The women in the group I attended told their stories of living with alcoholics and so many of the stories were familiar, many far worse than my own, including severe injuries and attempted murders. However, they seemed to be staying in their marriages because of the children or because of the strict confines of their Roman Catholic beliefs. We had two Catholic women in my group who each had thirteen children. I couldn’t imagine having to deal with an alcoholic and thirteen children but I suppose they felt they had no other choice. Protecting and shielding my own two was difficult enough. Robin was still too young to understand what was going on but Wayne certainly knew. No wonder he was always so happy to go off with his own father on weekends. I didn’t blame him. Often, I would gaze around the table at the faces of those brave women, and it always struck me how unhappy they looked, how drawn and tired, and how they appeared much older than their years. I wondered, if Palmer began drinking again, how long it would be before I stopped caring about my appearance, how long it would take me to look as defeated. For now, though, I was confident that Palmer’s drinking days were over, even though the other women warned me about relapses. After all, a million dollars hung in the balance: why would anyone want to risk losing such a fortune? I asked myself. That was the thought I clung to and that gave me hope that things were about to get better.

  My optimism was short-lived.

  Palmer did not stay on the wagon for long. He was soon drinking again, and the financial situation worsened. Apparently, he had managed to get a small amout of money from his parents, who had very little and still lived in their dreary attic apartment. I later found out that they were convinced I was sending all of Palmer’s ‘hard-earned money’ to my family in England. I don’t know if that was something he had told them, or that they couldn’t believe their precious son could get himself into such a situation. Their only child could do no wrong, even though they were fully aware that there was a long history of alcoholism in the family. Palmer’s father spent most of his time in a tavern, and we had all recently attended the funeral of another uncle who’d been found dead from alcoholism in a Skid Row gutter. Uncle Art paid for his brother’s funeral but did not attend, such was his disgust at the abuse of alcohol.

  When I asked Palmer why he had stopped going to AA meetings, he said he had only gone in the hope that they would help him out financially. It had been another of his schemes to dig himself out of the financial pit that continued to spiral downwards. He had said the same when he had stopped going to church.

  What he did with his money was a mystery to me. How could anyone spend so much on drink? I wondered. But I had forgotten the visits to Dr ‘Feel-good’ H. and the cost of steam baths. One day when he was drunk, he told me his expense account now had tighter limits and that his boss was making him justify every penny he charged to the company; he now had to produce receipts for everything. I knew by then that it would be almost impossible for Palmer to produce receipts: he was usually too drunk to keep track of anything. He whined to me about having to use his own money to entertain customers but I no longer knew what to believe. Most of the time, I didn’t believe anything he told me.

  By now, I was so depressed and tense that I could neither sleep nor eat. The only relief I could find was in taking hot baths. Gradually I found myself needing to have the water hotter and hotter. It would be near scalding temperature and even then it was not hot enough so I began adding kettles of boiling water. The physical pain I felt as I lowered myself into the intense heat somehow made the emotional pain easier to bear, but when the water began to cool, the internal gut-wrenching agony rose up to choke me again. There were days when I took those baths many times but the moments of relief were brief so the number increased. In later years, when I was able to look back at the agony of those days, I came to understand why people cut themselves: it’s a pathetic effort to externalize the internal pain.

  When the cheque kiting became almost a full-time job, with Palmer spending entire days running around covering cheques, he told me I would have to help him.

  ‘I can’t do that,’ I told him.

  ‘You have to!’ he screamed.

  ‘I’m sorry, Palmer, I put up with a lot of things but there’s no way I’m going to do anything illegal.’

  He grabbed me by the hair and pulled my face up to his. ‘You’ll be sorry,’ he hissed, through gritted teeth.

  I stood my ground. ‘No, this is one thing I will not do for you. I will not risk jail or deportation. You got yourself into this mess and you can get yourself out of it.’ He threw me to the floor. ‘If you don’t stop threatening and hurting me, I’ll turn you in to the police.
’ He stopped for a moment, but then pulled me to my feet again and began hitting me. I reached for the telephone but he grabbed it and tore it out of the wall. He over-balanced, stumbled and fell, giving me time to run out of the apartment.

  I knew the children were asleep in bed and I prayed they hadn’t heard this latest commotion. I didn’t worry about Robin so much: I was sure that, being a baby, she wouldn’t be affected, and I knew Palmer would never hurt her. Wayne, though, was a different matter. Fortunately he was smart enough to stay in his bed, hopefully with the covers pulled over his head.

  It was late at night by then but I couldn’t return to the apartment yet: I was too frightened of what he might do. My ribs hurt and my head felt as though it was going to burst. For a while, I just wandered the streets, but then I went to the park and sat on a bench, holding my head, rocking and quietly wailing. Inside I was screaming.

  My situation was insufferable and I was in a desperate state. I didn’t know what to do next so I just got up and walked some more, back and forth in the park and up and down the dark, dangerous streets of Chicago. Only one thought entered my mind, that perhaps someone would murder me and put me out of my misery. I was no more afraid of being attacked and perhaps killed on the street than I was of going home to my nightmare of a life. I honestly didn’t know how long I could go on.

  As I walked, I came to a church and thought I would go inside, maybe find some peace there, but all the doors were locked. Eventually I came to another. I tried the door, it opened and I went in. I walked to one of the front pews and knelt down. There I stayed, praying, for I don’t know how long. Suddenly a tap on my shoulder startled me. I looked up into the face of a minister. My heart lurched. Here was someone I might be able to talk to, someone I could trust with my horrible secrets, who would offer me understanding and perhaps even a little hope. Silence stretched between us, and when I thought he was about to sit next to me, to talk to me, his words entered me like a dagger thrust into my heart: ‘I’m afraid you’ll have to leave now. I have to lock up the church.’ I stared into his face. Had he just said what I thought he had? At first I was speechless, but then I managed to get words out.