by Dave Pelzer
Twenty-four hours later, on Mulberry Street just outside Salt Lake City, all five Pelzer brothers joined together. Initially it was awkward for all of us, until Ron came up and hugged me. There was so much to say, but we didn’t seem to know how to begin. Over a matter of days, as the five of us talked to each other, I felt overtaken both by shame for what all of us had experienced and pity for the life Mother had lived. We spent nearly every waking moment covered with stench and grime while we gutted out Mother’s dilapidated house. Just before Mother’s funeral, as we cleaned out her bedroom, one of us came across Mother’s wedding portrait. I had seen the photo countless times, but for the first time I realized how stunning she was. Mother’s face seemed silky smooth and her hair glistened, but what took me aback was her eyes. They seemed to radiate with pure joy. Mother’s expression gave me the feeling that she was about to embark on an incredible life filled with happiness. With the frame shaking in my hand, I emptied my chest. I forgave her. I forgave “The Mother.” Over the past several years, after I had visited Mother the summer of 1987, I had wavered on how I felt about her. When I had sat in front of mother just a few weeks before she died, I came within a heartbeat of stating my forgiveness. But because of giving myself away so many times, for so many years, only to appease others, in hope of their acceptance, I hesitated. Then, because of Stephen, part of me detested her. But, as I became involved with others who struggled, in part due to their past, I felt I had to rid myself of any feelings of resentment.
On a wintry, overcast day, only a handful of people came to Mother’s funeral to pay their respects. A gentleman whom I later learned had met Mother a few times and worked part-time as a golf pro, gave Mother’s eulogy. At Mother’s gravesite, with scattered clumps of snow surrounding me, I knelt down and prayed. With my hands clasped, shivering from the chilling breeze, I prayed out loud for God to grant my mother peace. “May your soul finally be given eternal peace. And, may almighty God protect you and deliver you from evil . . . Amen.”
As I finished, I could feel a gigantic weight lift from my soul.
Before I caught my departing flight, all five of us promised to stay in touch, but that was the last time the five Pelzer brothers would come together.
CHAPTER
13
THE LAST DANCE
I was not looking forward to returning to Nebraska. Once again, I discovered Patsy had borrowed money. This time she had begged Grandmother nearly a year ago, while I was flying in Saudi Arabia. I would have never known had I not asked Grandmother for a loan so I could use the money to give to my youngest brother, Kevin, who in his early twenties needed the money to find his own place to live. At first Grandmother was insistent that I had borrowed the money from her. When I assured her I knew nothing about the loan, she then became more livid because I should have known.
All the while Patsy fidgeted in her seat, claiming her innocence until she broke down in tears, saying she had forgotten to tell me and she was now too embarrassed to say anything in front of Grandmother. As I tried to stick up for my wife, Grandmother simply raised her head in a “I told you so” attitude, as if she enjoyed fueling the fire between Patsy and me. At the time I felt like a heel that my other brothers and I could do little to help Kevin, who eventually was able to provide for himself.
At my new air force base, even though I had been stationed there for over eight months, I was still adjusting. My job was completely different and absurd compared to Beale. I was now part of the EC-135 Looking Glass, whose mission had been to serve as an alternative airborne communication command post in the event of a nuclear war. But even though there was a refueling boom attached to the aircraft, the EC-135 rarely midair-refueled other planes. To confuse matters more, the Looking Glass was retired but continued to fly “unofficially.”
During my in-processing I learned my biggest task as a boom operator was not learning to midair-refuel a different aircraft, but to ensure that the twenty plus members of the crew received their lunches.
On my first qualification flight, I found out how serious my job was when a low-ranking radio operator actually berated me in front of the entire crew because his lunch did not receive a mustard package. Upon landing I was immediately reprimanded by my superior, who rolled his eyes in mock dismay. Within days, because of my blunder, all boom operators were mandated to check every item on every meal prior to taking off.
At home, after settling into a nice condominium we could not afford, Patsy soon became bored. Because we lived off base, she felt even more isolated. When I first found out about my reassignment, I had prayed the move would somehow force us to rely on ourselves, as a couple, without “family” interference once and for all. During our drive to Nebraska. Patsy had even chatted about getting her GED and then taking courses in college. She had seemed so optimistic. But within weeks Patsy complained of missing her family in California.
I had assumed with the reduced flight times, due to budget cuts, I would be able to spend more time with my family, finish my college degree, and volunteer once in a while. But because of the ever changing flight schedule, I could not attend college or volunteer as I had in California, and I rarely saw Patsy or Stephen. To make matters worse, when I received my promotion to technical sergeant, I was assigned as the wing’s senior in-flight evaluator, forcing me to work longer hours. At times I’d come home only long enough to throw a ball a few times with Stephen and give him a bath before reading to him in bed. At times I was so tired, I’d fall asleep with Stephen on his bed. As the months passed, I felt my job was completely worthless, and I began to detest myself as a father and a husband.
In the spring of 1992, rumors began to float of severe personnel cutbacks. I saw the writing on the wall. Since the Looking Glass was no longer an operational aircraft and boom operators were not allowed to perform their tasks, I believed I would be among the first to be relieved from active duty. I had always envisioned myself serving twenty years until I could retire, but now that was no longer an option. The air force was also offering early retirement bonuses but for a limited time, and after a certain cutoff, the air force claimed, they could legally dismiss anyone as they deemed necessary. Because of my years in service and my pay grade, I knew I was a prime candidate.
After months of speculating, I had a heart-to-heart with Patsy. So not to upset her, I had deliberately tried to keep her in the dark. “We’ve got to make a decision,” I began. “Uhm, the air force, is going to announce—”
“Get out!” Patsy broke in. “Your job sucks, you’re not happy. I’m miserable. I hate this place, there’s nothing to do. Stephen needs . . . to be with his family. Let’s take the money, bonus, separation thing, and go home before the air force gives you the boot and you have nothing to show for it.”
“Okay.” Patsy’s outburst had stunned me. “How long . . . I mean, when did you know?”
Patsy raised her eyebrows. “I know a lot more than you think.”
“Well, hang on, there’s more. If we do this, you need to know, I mean fully understand what this means. It’s a one-time payment; we won’t have medical coverage—”
“How much?” Patsy quizzed.
“Well, if we don’t have any unexpected bills,” I said, “we should be able to put some money away for Stephen’s college and, well, the rest we’ll use to save up for a down payment on a home. But,” I warned, “with me being the only one working—”
“I told you, I got a bad back,” Patsy said defensively.
I waved her off. “I’m not saying that. But listen, I’ll need to get at least a full-time job with lots of overtime, if not two jobs.”
“So, they’re not going to give you a lot of money?” Patsy asked, as if offended.
“The way I see it, the air force doesn’t have to give me a thing.”
“What will you do?”
“I’ve thought about this a great deal. I can’t work full-time at juvenile hall; I need a degree, and aeronautics is not what they’re looking for. If I
’m lucky, I could work there part-time. Jobs right now are scarce with the recession and all, but . . . there is an option. . . .”
I spent the remainder of the time telling Patsy about a local speaker organization. “They’ve seen me speak a couple of times, and, well, Rich and Carl, the owners, think I have what it takes to become a speaker. It’s not a bureau,” I warned. “It’s like having my own business. The firm, they provide the support staff. I can work out of California, and you know me, I’ll work my tail off. In a couple of years, if we get lucky, maybe we can get a house and live on the river. Think of it, Patsy.” I reached over to clasp her hand. “It’s the best of both worlds. If I do this, I’ll never be laid off. I can help kids, the people who work with kids, corporations, the works. I know I’ll never be one of those motivational speakers you see on TV, and I don’t want to be. I can’t explain it, but I believe with all my heart I have a message that could really help a lot of people. We may not get rich, but who cares? Think about the impact we can make! And,” I smiled, “they said they’ll publish the book.”
“That thing? You’ve been working on it for how long? Why is that so important to you?”
“That book is definitely going to change people’s lives,” I stated. Besides, I told myself, it’s a promise I made a long time ago.
“Listen,” I continued, “I know I’m hitting you with a lot. We still have some time. I don’t want to jump into anything without both of our heads on straight. This is only the first of many steps we have to address. Either way, it’s not gonna be overnight. I love the air force, it’s been like a family for me . . . but I think my time has come.
“I’ll promise you this. If I have to work a dozen jobs to pay the rent and put food on the table, I’ll do it. I’ll never put you or Stephen at risk. I promise.”
Taking it all in, Patsy asked. “How much? With you speaking, how much can we make?”
“Well,” I said, stumbling, “it’s like being on commission. The more programs I do, the more I can make. But there are expenses; I’ll be on the road a lot, and I’m going to have to fill the pipeline giving free programs. But, like I said, after a couple of years we should be able to make a living. I just wanna do a good job, that’s all.”
“One thing,” Patsy asked, “what’s the name of the book?”
“A Child Called ‘It.’ ”
“That’s a depressing title. It’s about you, isn’t it?”
Still trying to shield her, I shrugged my shoulders. “Let’s just say it’s a story about a kid who never quit.” Looking at Patsy, I could tell I had lost her. I paused slightly before restating. “We don’t need to decide now, but I just want to let you know—”
“Go for it!” Patsy grinned. “I say fuck ’em! Take the money and don’t look back. We’ll be fine. I know you’ll take care of us. Let’s do it! Get out!”
I received an honorable discharge from the air force that August. As much as I craved to live on the Russian River, we returned to the area where I had first met Patsy, outside Marysville, so she could be close to her family. We enrolled Stephen in a fantastic school and started anew.
In the fall of 1992, while doing a series of fact checks for A Child Called “It,” I contacted my elementary school to discover that one of the teachers who had notified the authorities, Mr. Ziegler, was still teaching. He asked me to visit the school. There was an odd note in my teacher’s voice, as if there was something he wanted to tell me.
One of the hardest things for me to confront, far more than stepping into Mother’s lair, was returning to my former school. In the middle of October, on a beautiful, crisp morning, I stepped onto the school yard as if revisiting hallowed ground. The first thing I recognized was the scent of food from the cafeteria, where years ago I used to sneak in, run off with a handful of hotdogs, only to gobble them down behind the dumpster.
I met Mr. Ziegler as he accompanied his class into the library, where I gave my various presentations. Because we both felt a little awkward, we gave each other a half-felt handshake and a quick hello. As I spoke to his class, whenever I glanced at Mr. Ziegler he seemed to avoid me by looking down and away.
At the end of the day, as hundreds of kids scurried from the school to play or run home, a young boy dressed in a worn-out, oversized down jacket politely asked if he could talk to me. In the heat of the afternoon sun, I noticed that the child was nervously tugging on the ends of his jacket sleeves. After calming the young boy down and assuring him everything would be fine, I knelt down and held his hand. The boy suddenly exploded in a burst of tears, telling me how his uncle would beat him and burn his arms with lit cigarettes. As his little chest heaved, he sniffled. “I’m sorry, Mr. Pelzer, I don’t mean to take your time. I don’t want to get anyone in trouble. Please,” he begged, “you can’t tell. Please?”
I felt as if I had stepped into a time warp. I had met the child I once was. “Listen,” I said, still holding the boy’s hand, “you remember what I said about what happened to me when I was a kid?” The child nodded as he wiped away his tears. “Here’s the deal. We need to get you some help. We’re not here to get anyone in trouble, but that’s no way to live. Am I right?” The boy again nodded. Thinking of my social worker Ms. Gold and what she had said to me when I had opened up to her about my secret, I relayed, “Listen, you’re going to be fine. It takes a brave young man to tell a secret like you did, and it’s the first step in making things better. You gotta be strong, but you gotta trust me.” I stopped to look him in the eye. “You’re going to be fine. I promise you”—with my finger I made an X sign on my chest—“cross my heart and hope to die, you have my word. You don’t deserve to live like that, and we’re going to turn things around.”
I escorted the boy to the same room where I had waited before I was rescued nearly twenty years ago. After speaking to the school principal, Mr. Rizzo, I said good-bye to the young man, again assuring him that he was doing the right thing. I then stumbled toward the parking lot in a daze. As I watched a group of children in the playground, screeching with laughter—the same place I had once so desperately longed to be—I started hyperventilating. I couldn’t stop myself. At last, with my hands on my knees, I recovered just before a group of children strolled past. I took a moment to pray for the young boy. I then thanked God for the strange twist of fate of having the privilege of returning to the school that meant so much to me, and how I had played a small part in helping a child in need.
Behind me the voice of my fifth-grade teacher startled me. “Just heard what you did. The kid’s gonna be fine. You certainly have a way with them—the kids, I mean.” Mr. Ziegler held out a hand. “Listen, I know you have a long drive ahead of you, but if you can spare the time . . . ?” A lump began to creep up my throat. All I could do was nod yes.
That evening, during supper in a local restaurant, both of us stumbled to keep the conversation going. I noticed that we made little to no eye contact. I was simply too ashamed. From across the table Mr. Ziegler turned away when I looked up from my food and spoke. Clearing his throat as he finished dinner, Mr. Ziegler said, “It’s really good to see you. . . . It’s been on my mind for a while, and I need to get this off my chest. I’m not sure if you even know, but . . . that day, when you came to my class, that day in March when you were taken away . . .”
I suddenly became paralyzed with fear. I had never known why my teachers finally intervened and called the police. I became so anxious that I thought my eyes would pop out of my head. With my left hand under the table, I squeezed my thigh. I almost raised my hand to stop Mr. Ziegler. I got as far as running my fingers through my hair.
“You . . . came to school that day . . . you were so small. But, uh—I just got to get this out—you came to school that day in March, with, uh . . . with no skin on your arms,” Mr. Ziegler finished, then took a gulp of wine.
I dropped the fork that I was using. I sucked in a deep breath, staring at my right arm. “I, uh, I remember. I remember . . .” I felt almost
in a trance-like state. “Yes, I remember, grayish flakes, dark grayish flakes, like patches, on my arms and . . . and my fingers. . . . Right?”
Looking as if he had seen a ghost himself, Mr. Ziegler stated, “Yes.”
“I forgot—I mean, I never knew why. It’s stupid, but I never thought it was anything she did different. . . . I mean, at times she, Mother, she was so careful . . .” I was sputtering as I struggled to find that one thing Mother had done to me that . . . “Holy shit! Excuse me.” I shook my head. “That’s it. The day—the morning you, all of you, called the police, I remember!” My eyes welled up. “I remember,” I repeated, “my fingers and arms . . . they itched. I couldn’t stop scratching . . . and uh, I didn’t finish my chores on time. That Friday morning when you called the police . . . Mother had to drop me off at school that day. She never did before, but . . . I was so late, late with my chores. Without skin . . . I couldn’t grip anything . . . I couldn’t get them done on time. . . .”
I emptied my lungs in one deep breath. I could feel the tips of my fingers beginning to twitch. “But . . . it was the afternoon, before Friday, she made me stick my arms in a bucket that had . . . the mixture . . . ammonia and Chlorox. That’s it. That’s what did it.” I closed my eyes and shuddered from the cold that crept up my spine. When I opened my eyes, I could feel a small tear running down my cheek. “I’m sorry,” I apologized to my teacher. “I, uh, always had to think ahead, I mean to survive, to outsmart her, and I remember Mother tried, I think, to force my head into the bucket, so, stupid me, all I could do was . . . to think of . . . getting any air I could in case . . . in case she put my head into the bucket.” I stopped for a moment. “I just forgot, the whole thing. My God. I remember everything she did, every word she said, but, I just, I dunno. For the life of me, I never knew what made all of you call the police that morning. So much happened to me on a given day . . .” I looked down at my hands, which were now shaking. “I know it sounds lame, but you . . . all of you . . . saved my life.”