A Man Named Dave

by Dave Pelzer

  Ever since Patsy had phoned me days ago from the hospital, I had been seized with fear. It wasn’t an issue of escaping parenthood; it was a matter of responsibility. For most of my life I had felt rejected and inferior, so now as an adult, how could I abandon my own child? More than that, knowing full well that children who were severely abused stood a strong chance of becoming abusers themselves made me all the more terrified. As much as I had told Patsy about my childhood, she only knew the tip of the iceberg. As I promised myself years ago, in order to protect the person I was with, I had for the most part maintained my vow of burying the past. To compound the situation, since living with Patsy, I had come to realize how petty and argumentative I could be. If that wasn’t enough, air crew members in general had an extremely high divorce rate. As these thoughts clashed in my mind, I became consumed with the single thought of doing what was right for my baby.

  Here I was lying in bed, next to my future wife, a person I would spend the rest of my life with, hours before the fresh start to a new year, and yet I did not trust her, let alone have the love for Patsy that she claimed to have for me. I truly didn’t mean to, but at times I displayed the affection of a statue. To the outside world, I had a great career, but on the inside, after years of pushing down my emotions in order to survive, I had become robotic. How in the world, I asked myself, could I raise my baby with love and encouragement when I barely had feelings for my fiancée and far less for myself?

  Patsy was far more optimistic. “I’ve always wanted to have a baby,” she cried. “My mom’s got all boys for grand kids, and maybe, maybe we’ll have a girl. This is going to be so great. I can dress and bathe the baby; I’ll never be alone. This baby will be the answer to my prayers. A baby will make my life whole. We are going to be so happy.”

  The more Patsy prattled on, the more I felt she lacked the seriousness and all that having a baby entailed. Only days ago, we had been arguing for the umpteenth time, and now because of her pregnancy, suddenly everything was going to be roses. I couldn’t help but think: How could a person who constantly scraped by in everyday life manage a baby?

  Clearing my head of Patsy, my thoughts turned to the one person I had to inform of my upcoming marriage. With the phone shaking in my hand, I punched the numbers to Mother’s private line. Even though I had secretly had her telephone number for years, this was the first time, since Father’s funeral, I had made contact with her. Holding my breath, I asked myself why I was doing this. Nothing was going to change. Mother still hated me and always would. But I still felt a bizarre need for her approval, and I thought maybe, because of the years gone by, the holiday season coming, and the good news of getting married just might soften her heart. I shook my head at the thought, but before I could hang up the phone, Mother’s hacking voice came on. “Yes, hello?” Mother coughed.

  I swallowed hard. “Mrs. Pelzer?”

  At the other end I could hear her gagging reply. “Yes, and who is this?”

  “Mrs. Pelzer, this is David”—for a split second I panicked before completing the sentence—“David Pelzer.”

  “And how did you get this number?” Mother bellowed.

  As calmly as possible I stated, “I only called to wish you a Happy New Year, and . . . I, uh, wanted to tell you that, ah, I’m—I’m going to get . . . get married.”

  After a few seconds of dead silence Mother replied, “Well, yes, that’s good of you.”

  I wasn’t sure of Mother’s meaning, or if she had really heard what I had just told her. “I said, I’m getting married . . . a little after New Year’s.”

  “And the same to you,” Mother chimed.

  “Thank you . . . but I’m getting . . .” As I stumbled in my vain attempt to draw her out, the line clicked dead. All I could do was lean against the headboard while still clutching the phone. In the course of a few days, my life had spun out of control. With the phone still in my hand, I began to shake from anxiety. My thoughts continued to shoot off in a thousand different directions, until just a few minutes before midnight when I finally drifted off in an uneasy sleep. My last thought of 1985 was how unworthy I felt of becoming a father.

  Patsy and I were married in mid-February, in a small church of the town where she had been raised. Not a single member of my squadron—my air force family—came to the wedding. After several of them had given me excuses before the ceremony, I learned through the grapevine that they did not support my decision. One of my female co-pilots was so upset that she pinned me against a wall days before the wedding. “This is the real deal, Pelz,” the lieutenant stated. “I know why you’re doing this. We all do. There’s something you should know. . . . It’s not easy for me to say, you’re like a brother to me. . . . I’m not saying your fiancée’s a derelict, but I’ve seen her kind before.”

  By then the frustration was too much for me. “Don’t you think I know? I gotta do this . . . you don’t know, I mean, it’s my responsibility.”

  “You’re wrapped pretty tight, Pelz-man. You don’t have to get married. You can still be the father, see the kid and all that. You better think about that baby and what happens if things don’t work out,” she warned.

  Agitated, I grabbed my fellow crew member—an air force officer—by the lapels and flung her against the wall. “Don’t you get it? That’s all I do is think about the baby? What do you and the others want me to do? I see you, all of you, looking at me, talking about me behind my back, saying what an idiot I am for doing this. You think it’s like I’m trapped into this. You’re wrong, you’re all wrong! You don’t know, you really don’t. You think I can just pack my bags, hit the bricks, and flee? Ride off into the sunset or fly off into the wild blue yonder? Well, I can’t do that!

  “I know the odds are against me. But you don’t know me. I’ve beaten the odds before. I’ll make it work, you’ll see. Besides,” I smiled, “Patsy loves me, she does. She really does.”

  My co-pilot leaned over to hug me. “Now, who’s the one you’re trying to convince? You don’t have to do this. You say the word, and . . . I could round up the rest of the crew and we’ll kidnap you and take you to Reno. We’ll make it a no-notice deployment. I’ve got it all planned. You think about it. We’re all just a phone call away.”

  “Thanks, Lisa.” I swallowed. “That’s about the kindest thing anybody ever said to me.”

  I had received the same response from David Howard, my childhood friend from foster care, who was so against the marriage that he refused to attend, even after I begged him to be my best man. Out of frustration, I blurted into the phone, “For God’s sake, I’m begging you, stand with me. Please?” I groveled.

  David and I had known each other for over ten years, and he was one of the first friends I ever had. He gave a deep sigh. “I know a lot’s happening really fast, but I saw this coming. Did you know that Patsy practically bragged to my girlfriend that she’d do anything she could to marry you?”

  I brushed David off. “Come on, man, you took it the wrong way. She meant it . . . in, ah, a romantic way.”

  David replied, “Get with it, man. I’m not downing Pats, but it’s not like you’ve been ‘out there’ when it comes to dating. I know and respect what you’re trying to do with your life, but man, what’s it gonna be like for the kid with the two of you going at it all the time? You know what it’s like. My old man was the same way. What then?” After a few seconds of silence he went on, “I’m sorry, man, I can’t back your play on this. I love you bro, but—”

  “Hey man,” I jumped in, “I, ah, I understand.” Thinking quickly, I tried one last time. “I know you two don’t get along that well, but Patsy’s really a great lady, a class act—”

  “Yo, man, hold up. Don’t even go there with that one!” David interrupted. “Are you even listening to yourself? You two are as different as oil and water. Again, I’m not downing Patsy, but I know how this whole thing’s gonna end.”

  Patsy, who I discovered had been straining to listen in, snatched the phon
e from my hand. “We don’t need you or want you at our wedding. So . . . fuck off!”

  David’s and Lisa’s warnings still rang in my ears as Patsy strolled down the aisle at the wedding. I gazed left, at the groom’s side of the church. Besides Alice’s daughter, Mary, and son-in-law, Del, and a handful of others, my side was virtually empty. Patsy’s side spilled over with friends, relatives, and nearly every member of the town, who beamed as Patsy made her way to the minister. At least one friend from my days in foster care, J. D. Thom, stood with me as my best man. I was so nervous during the exchange of the vows, I dropped Patsy’s ring. Later at the reception, one of Patsy’s brothers smiled widely as he slapped me on the back, announcing to the world, “You’s family now!”

  Within a short time Patsy and I were fortunate enough to move into military base housing. Before I set off for another extended overseas assignment, the two of us set our ground rules. She surprised me by adamantly stating she had given up smoking and drinking, and from that moment on, Patsy claimed, she’d do whatever she could to make things right for our baby. “I married you, David. I can imagine what you think of me, but I married you for life. I wanna do right for our baby. Both of us had sucky childhoods, so let’s do right with our own. But know this, I do love you, David. It’s not the baby. I knew from the moment I saw you that you were the one for me. No more fighting, partying, running around. It’s over.”

  I was relieved that Patsy had become serious about being a parent. At times when things were good between us I knew she loved me, but now as her husband, my sole concern was to ensure that I did anything I could for our child. “I wanna make sure our baby isn’t treated like we were. I just want to do what’s right.”

  Hugging me, she cried, “I love you, David.”

  I took a deep breath and closed my eyes before replying for the first time, “I . . . I love you, too.”

  “Thank you, David, thank you,” Patsy whispered. “You’ll see, the baby’s gonna make everything different. Everything’s gonna be fine, you’ll see.”

  When not flying overseas, I dedicated every moment to redoing our house. I spent hours rearranging furniture, placing trinkets just the right way to capture as much light as possible. I wanted our home to be open and warm. I felt proud when I purchased a lawnmower and other garden tools. I’d wake up just after sunrise on Saturday mornings to spend the better part of the day mowing, raking, trimming, and watering or planting flowers to beautify our yard. I thought of myself as a husband providing for his family. I did my best to think ahead, trying to take care of every need to alleviate any friction between Patsy and me. Once all the bills were taken care of, I made certain Patsy received the bulk of our remaining funds. With each passing day my initial fears began to fade.

  On payday I’d rush to the on-base department store and scour every aisle that had anything to do with babies. As the months progressed, I picked out toys, stuffed animals, or anything I knew the baby would enjoy. When I ran out of playthings to buy, I spent time in search of the perfect stroller, carrying basket, or clothes, even though I knew the baby wouldn’t be able to wear some of the shorts and tank tops for years. I couldn’t control my excitement. When overseas, because money was so tight, I skipped a few meals in order to buy the baby a cute stuffed yellow alligator, which I named Wally. The more I did for my baby, the more my heart warmed.

  When a member of my squadron asked if I wanted a boy or a girl, my instantaneous response was “A healthy child with ten fingers and ten toes.” In the early spring, the air force doctors assured me that the fetus was perfectly healthy and was a boy. I was overjoyed with the news, but with my luck I had to think we weren’t out of the woods yet. Not until I held my baby in my arms would I be convinced that everything was fine.

  Since Patsy and I had set our rules, we got along better. Now whenever we had a disagreement, rather than argue I’d escape outside to putter in the yard until we both calmed down. I knew I had caused the disputes more than half the time, and it was Patsy who would make amends. Even though I still did not trust her as I felt I should, Patsy and I were now living together as husband and wife. All we could do was wait for our baby boy.

  In June of 1986 I had to attend a six-week flight instructor school course. Patsy was due in late July, so on every flight I’d drop by the administration office to give them the plane’s identifying call sign and frequency in case there was any news. On Fridays, after a lengthy day, I’d make the three-hour drive at warp speed, praying Patsy wasn’t in labor yet. The weeks crawled by and still no baby. Even after flight school, when the doctor assured Patsy and me everything was normal, I worried that something was wrong. Finally, in mid-August, Patsy went into labor. For months we had known our baby was a boy, but we could not decide on a name. As Patsy was wheeled into the delivery room, I held her hand and bent down to whisper if we could name our child Stephen Joseph. “Why?” she groggily asked. “Isn’t that your father’s name?”

  “Yeah, but it’s another chance, my chance to set things right. Please?” I begged. “It will make things clean for me.” Patsy smiled as she squeezed my hand. A short time later, I was the first person besides the doctor to hold my son, Stephen Joseph Pelzer.

  Stephen was so tiny and delicate I thought for sure he’d break if I moved the wrong way. I could have held him forever, but the small group of nurses insisted I relinquish my son to their care. Hours later, in the middle of the night, I lay on my bed thankful that Stephen was indeed completely healthy. Before falling off to sleep, I began to feel an invisible weight bear down on me, for now I was a father.

  Just over a week later, on a beautiful Saturday, Patsy and I made our first family trip. Before noon, with sunlight beaming through the towering redwood trees, I pulled up next to the same house where my father had taken his family on summer vacations seemingly a lifetime ago at 17426 Riverside Drive. Patsy and I had made countless trips to the Russian River, sometimes staying for only a few hours or even minutes at a time, and I had bored her to tears, constantly harping about one day living in Guerneville. And yet I could not explain to Patsy why I was so drawn to the area. With Stephen cradled in my arms, I sat on the old, decayed tree stump where my brothers and I had once played. As Stephen slept soundly, I shielded his sensitive eyes and whispered, “One day we’ll live here. We’ll live here at the river.” Rocking Stephen, I couldn’t help but think of my foolish pie-in-the-sky fantasy of my father and me having a relationship at the same spot my son and I now shared. “I’m gonna make things right,” I promised Stephen, “What I do, I do for you. As God is my witness, I’ll make things right for you.”

  That afternoon at the river was more than a family outing. Since that day my anxiety began to ease. Since Stephen was born, I had become paranoid, not only as a parent sustaining him, but other fears like illnesses, late-night fevers, and getting him all the appropriate shots at the right time. Back in our home at Beale Air Force Base, I discovered a million different ways my son could accidentally hurt himself—jamming his fingers into light sockets, crashing down the stairs, or even suffocating from his baby blanket. “How,” I asked myself, “can I protect him from all of this, all the time?” It was at the river when Stephen unknowingly taught me my first lesson: Do everything I possibly could as situations arose, but ease up a little and let go. I realized I could not shield, fix, or control every aspect of my son’s future, let alone my own.

  From that point on, not a single day passed that I was not utterly amazed at Stephen. How he curled up and slept in my lap, the softness of his skin, or the gentle sounds that escaped his tiny mouth. When I returned home from a late-night flight, I would always tiptoe into his room and become lost in time as I stood over his crib to watch him sleep. Almost every time I did, after a few minutes of no movement from him, I would think Stephen was dead! My heart would seize as I reached down into the crib and snatched him up. I was always rewarded a split second later as Stephen’s screeching cry became music to my ears. I would then take him i
nto my bedroom, where I would lay him on my chest.

  In the mornings while Patsy still slept, I always made sure I woke up early to spend time with Stephen, listening to him coo, watching him suck on his fingers or crawl through the sheets all over the bed. I was captivated by his constant smile and how every little thing made him laugh. At times I played with him so much that I was late for mission planning at work. At the squadron I’d show off stacks of Polaroid photos before sticking them in my in-flight checklist, so no matter where I flew I always had Stephen with me. After work I would race home, breezing by Patsy with a quick hello before playing with Stephen. By the time he was in his walker, I would chase him throughout the house as he sped away, giggling at the top of his lungs. I laughed as he learned to build up speed by pumping his tiny legs, then lean his walker before taking a sharp turn. More than once I kept my eyes on him instead of the wall that I smashed into at the end of the hallway. At the end of an exhausting day, I’d slowly read Dr. Seuss books to Stephen while he jabbed his finger at the pictures. Even though he was too young to understand, I wasn’t concerned, just as long as we were together.

  Before his first birthday, Stephen’s room, which at one time had been vacant, had become a virtual Toys R Us warehouse. He had so many stuffed animals at one point that I would fill his entire crib to the brim and gently toss him in. He would disappear, only to resurface a few moments later, giggling for me to toss him again. To me, nothing was too much if it made Stephen happy.

  With Stephen, Patsy gave her all. She always made sure he was bathed and covered with baby lotion. When she fed him she seemed happy and beamed whenever he did the smallest thing. As a couple, if we had a flare-up, all we had to do was gaze at Stephen and our anxiety disappeared. At times she’d joke that I spent more time with Stephen than I did her. I took the hint. I just didn’t have the heart to confess that for the first time in my life I was filled with an emotion that I never felt before. Without a shred of hesitation, my son, Stephen, was the first and only person I adored—that I absolutely loved with all of my heart and soul.