Dave Pelzer
A Child Called
'It'
David J. Pelzer's mother, Catherine Roerva, was, he writes in this ghastly,
fascinating memoir, a devoted den mother to the Cub Scouts in her care, and
somewhat nurturant to her children--but not to David, whom she referred to
as "an It." This book is a brief, horrifying account of the bizarre tortures she
inflicted on him, told from the point of view of the author as a young boy
being starved, stabbed, smashed face-first into mirrors, forced to eat the
contents of his sibling's diapers and a spoonful of ammonia, and burned
over a gas stove by a maniacal, alcoholic mom. Sometimes she claimed he
had violated some rule--no walking on the grass at school!--but mostly it
was pure sadism. Inexplicably, his father didn't protect him; only an alert
schoolteacher saved David.
This book is not for sale!!!
This book is dedicated to my son Stephen, who, by the grace
of God, has taught me the gift of love and joy through the eyes
of a child.
This book is also dedicated to the teachers and staff members
of Thomas Edison Elementary School to include:
Steven E. Ziegler
Athena Konstan
Peter Hansen
Joyce Woodworth
Janice Woods
Betty Howell
and the School Nurse
To all of you, for your courage and for putting your careers on
the line that fateful day, March 5, 1973.
You saved my life.
Acknowledgments
After years of intensive labor, sacrifice, frustration,
compromises and deception, this book is finally published and
available in bookstores everywhere. I wish to take a moment and
pay homage to those who truly believed in this crusade.
To Jack Canfield, coauthor of the phenomenal bestseller
Chicken Soup for the Soul, for his extreme kindness and opening
a big door. Jack is indeed a rare entity who, without reservation,
assists more individuals in a single day than many of us can help
in a lifetime. Bless you Sir.
To Nancy Mitchell and Kim Wiele at the Canfield Group for
their enormous enthusiasm and guidance. Thank you ladies.
To Peter Vegso at Health Communications, Inc., as well as
Christine Belleris, Matthew Diener, Kim Weiss and the entire
friendly staff at HCI for their honesty, professionalism and
everyday courtesy that make publishing a pleasure. Kudos
galore to Irene Xanthos and Lori Golden for their tenacious
drive and for picking up the slack. And a gargantuan thank you
to the Art Department for all your hard work and dedication.
A special thank you to Marsha Donohoe, editor
extraordinaire, for her hours of reediting and eradicating “the
Wahoo” out of the tome (that’s “book” for those of you who
reside in Yuba/Sutter Counties in Northern CA), so to provide
the reader with a clear, precise sense of this story through the
eyes of a child. For Marsha, it was a matter of “… Farmer’s
Trust.”
To Patti Breitman, of Breitman Publishing Projects, for her
initial work and for giving it a good run for the money.
To Cindy Adams for her unwavering faith when I needed it
the most.
A special thank you to Ric & Don at the Rio Villa Resort, my
then home away from home, for providing the perfect sanctuary
during the process of this project.
And lastly, to Phyllis Colleen. I wish you happiness. I wish
you peace. May God bless you.
Author’s Notes
Some of the names in this book have been changed in order to
maintain the dignity and privacy of others.
This book, the first part of the trilogy, depicts language that
was developed from a child’s viewpoint. The tone and
vocabulary reflect the age and wisdom of the child at that
particular time.
This book is based on the child’s life from ages 4 to 12.
The second part of the trilogy, The Lost Boy, is based on his
life from ages 12 to 18.
Contents
1 – The Rescue .................................................................... 7
2 – Good Times................................................................. 15
3 – Bad Boy....................................................................... 21
4 – The Fight for Food ...................................................... 30
5 – The Accident ............................................................... 50
6 – While Father Is Away................................................. 60
7 – The Lord’s Prayer ....................................................... 77
Epilogue ............................................................................ 91
Afterword .......................................................................... 95
1 – The Rescue
March 5, 1973, Daly City, California – I’m late. I’ve got to
finish the dishes on time, otherwise no breakfast; and since I
didn’t have dinner last night, I have to make sure I get
something to eat. Mother’s running around yelling at my
brothers. I can hear her stomping down the hallway towards the
kitchen. I dip my hands back into the scalding rinse water. It’s
too late. She catches me with my hands out of the wat er.
SMACK! Mother hits me in the face, and I topple to the floor.
I know better than to stand there and take the hit. I learned the
hard way that she takes that as an act of defiance, which means
more hits, or worst of all, no food. I regain my posture and
dodge her looks, as she screams into my ears.
I act timid, nodding to her threats. “Please,” I say to myself,
“just let me eat. Hit me again, but I have to have food.” Another
blow pushed my head against the tile counter top. I let the tears
of mock defeat stream down my face as she storms out of the
kitchen, seemingly satisfied with herself. After I count her steps,
making sure she’s gone, I breathe a sigh of relief. The act
worked. Mother can beat me all she wants, but I haven’t let her
take away my will to somehow survive.
I finish the dishes, then my other chores. For my reward I
receive breakfast – leftovers from one of my brothers’ cereal
bowls. Today it’s Lucky Charms. There are only a few bits of
cereal left in a half of a bowl of milk, but as quickly as I can, I
swallow it before Mother changes her mind. She has done that
before. Mother enjoys using food as her weapon. She knows
better than to throw leftovers in the garbage can. She knows I’ll
dig it out later. Mother knows most of my tricks.
Minutes later I’m in the old family station wagon. Because
I’m so late with my chores, I have to be driven to school.
-7-
Usually I run to school, arriving just as class begins, with no
time to steal any food from other kids’ lunch boxes.
Mother drops my oldest brother off, but keeps me for a lecture
about her plans for me tomorrow. She is going to take me to her
brother’s house. She says Uncle Dan will “take care of me.”
She makes it a threat. I give her a frightened look as if I am truly
afraid. But I know that even though my uncle is a hardnosed
man, he surely won’t treat me like Mother does.
Before the station wagon comes to a complete stop, I dash out
of the car. Mother yells for me to return. I have forgotten my
crumpled lunch bag, which has always had the same menu for
the last three years – two peanut butter sandwiches and a few
carrot sticks. Before I bolt out of the car again, she says, “Tell
’em … Tell ’em you ran into the door.” Then in a voice she
rarely uses with me, she states, “Have a nice day.” I look into
her swollen red eyes. She still has a hangover from last night’s
stupor. Her once beautiful, shiny black hair is now frazzled
clumps. As usual, she wears no makeup. She is overweight, and
she knows it. In all, this has become Mother’s typical look.
Because I am so late, I have to report to the administrative
office. The grayhaired secretary greets me with a smile.
Moments later, the school nurse comes out and leads me into
her office, where we go through the normal routine. First, she
examines my face and arms. “What’s that above your eye?” she
asks.
I nod sheepishly, “Oh, I ran into the hall door … by
accident.”
Again she smiles and takes a clipboard from the top of a
cabinet. She flips through a page or two, then bends down to
show me. “Here,” she points to the paper, “You said that last
Monday. Remember?”
I quickly change my story, “I was playing baseball and got hit
by the bat. It was an accident.” Accident. I am always supposed
-8-
to say that. But the nurse knows better. She scolds me so I’ll tell
the truth. I always break down in the end and confess, even
though I feel I should protect my mother.
The nurse tells me that I’ll be fine and asks me to take off my
clothes. We have been doing this since last year, so I
immediately obey. My longsleeve shirt has more holes than
Swiss cheese. It’s the same shirt I’ve worn for about two years.
Mother has me wear it every day as her way to humiliate me.
My pants are just as bad, and my shoes have holes in the toes. I
can wiggle my big toe out of one of them. While I stand clothed
only in my underwear, the nurse records my various marks and
bruises on the clipboard. She counts the slashlike marks on my
face, looking for any she might have missed in the past. She is
very thorough. Next, the nurse opens my mouth to look at my
teeth that are chipped from having been slammed against the
kitchen tile counter top. She jots a few more notes on the paper.
As she continues to look me over, she stops at the old scar on my
stomach. “And that,” she says as she takes a deep swallow, “is
where she stabbed you?”
“Yes, ma’am,” I reply. “Oh no!” I tell myself, “I’ve done
something wrong … again.” The nurse must have seen the
concern in my eyes. She puts the clipboard down and hugs me.
“God,” I tell myself, “She is so warm.” I don’t want to let go. I
want to stay in her arms forever. I hold my eyes tightly shut, and
for a few moments nothing else exists. She pats my head. I flinch
from the swollen bruise Mother gave me this morning. The nurse
then breaks the embrace and leaves the room. I rush to put my
clothes back on. She doesn’t know it, but I do everything as fast
as possible.
The nurse returns in a few minutes with Mr Hansen the
principal, and two of my teachers, Miss Woods and Mr Ziegler.
Mr Hansen knows me very well. I’ve been in his office more
than any other kid in school. He looks at the paper, as the nurse
reports her findings. He lifts my chin. I’m afraid to look into his
-9-
eyes, which is mostly a habit from trying to deal with my mother.
But it’s also because I don’t want to tell him anything. Once,
about a year ago, he called Mother to ask about my bruises. At
that time, he had no idea what was really going on. He just knew
I was a troubled kid who was stealing food. When I came to
school the next day, he saw the results of Mother’s beatings. He
never called her again.
Mr Hansen barks he’s had enough of this. I almost leap out of
my skin with fear. “He’s going to call Mother again!” my brain
screams. I break down and cry. My body shakes like jello and I
mumble like a baby, begging Mr Hansen not to phone Mother.
“Please!” I whine, “Not today! Don’t you understand, it’s
Friday?”
Mr Hansen assures me he’s not going to call Mother, and
sends me off to class. Since it’s too late for homeroom class, I
sprint directly to Mrs Woodworth’s English class. Today’s a
spelling test on all the states and their capitals. I’m not
prepared. Usually I’m a very good student, but for the past few
months I gave up on everything in my life, including escaping
my misery through my schoolwork.
Upon entering the room, all the students plug their noses and
hiss at me. The substitute teacher, a younger woman, waves her
hands in front of her face. She’s not used to my smell. At arms
length she hands my test to me, but before I can take my seat in
the back of the class by an open window, I’m summoned back to
the principal’s office. The entire room lets out a howl at me –
the reject of the fifth grade.
I run to the administration office, and I’m there in a flash. My
throat is raw and still burns from yesterday’s “game” Mother
played against me. The secretary leads me into the teachers’
lounge. After she opens the door, it takes a moment for my eyes
to adjust. In front of me, sitting around a table, are my
homeroom teacher Mr Ziegler, my math teacher Miss Woods,
the school nurse, Mr Hansen and a police officer. My feet
-10-
become frozen. I don’t know whether to run away or wait for the
roof to cave in. Mr Hansen waves me in, as the secretary closes
the door behind me. I take a seat at the head of the table,
explaining I didn’t steal anything … today. Smiles break
everyone’s depressed frowns. I have no idea that they are about
to risk their jobs to save me.
The police officer explains why Mr Hansen called him. I can
feel myself shrink into the chair. The officer asks that I tell him
about Mother. I shake my head no. Too many people already
know the secret, and I know she’ll find out. A soft voice calms
me. I think it’s Miss Woods. She tells me it’s all right. I take a
deep breath, wring my hands and reluctantly tell them about
Mother and I. Then the nurse has me stand up and show the
policeman the scar on my chest. Without hesitation, I tell them it
was an accident; which it was – Mother never meant to stab me.
I cry as I spill my guts, telling them Mother punishes me because
I am bad. I wish they would leave me alone. I feel so slimy
inside. I know after all these years there is nothing anyone can
do.
A few minutes later, I am excused to sit in the outer office. As
I close the door, all the adults look at me and shake their heads
in an approving way. I fidget in my chair, watching the
secretary type papers. It seems forever before Mr Hansen calls
me back into the room. Miss Woods and Mr Ziegler leave the
lounge. They seem happy, but at the same time worried. Miss
Woods kneels down and wraps me in her arms. I don’t think I
will ever forget the smell of the perfume in her hair. She lets go,
turning away so I won’t see her cry. Now I am really worried.
Mr Hansen gives me a lunch tray from the cafeteria. “My God!
Is it lunch time already?” I ask myself.
I gobble down the food so fast I can hardly taste it. I finish the
tray in record time. Soon the principal returns with a box of
cookies, warning me not to eat so fast. I have no idea what’s
going on. One of my guesses is that my father, who is separated
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from my mother, has come to get me. But I know it’s a fantasy.
The policeman asks for my address and telephone number.
“That’s it!” I tell myself. “It’s back to hell! I’m going to get it
from her again!”
The officer writes down more notes as Mr Hansen and the
school nurse look on. Soon he closes his note pad and tells Mr
Hansen that he has enough information. I look up at the
principal. His face is covered with sweat. I can feel my stomach
start to coil. I want to go to the bathroom and throw up.
Mr Hansen opens the door, and I can see all the teachers on
their lunch break staring at me. I’m so ashamed. “They know,”
I tell myself. “They know the truth about my mother; the real
truth.” It is so important for them to know that I’m not a bad
boy. I want so much to be liked, to be loved. I turn down the
hall. Mr Ziegler is holding Miss Woods. She is crying. I can
hear her sniffle. She gives me another hug and quickly turns
away. Mr Ziegler shakes my hand. “Be a good boy,” he says.
“Yes, sir. I’ll try,” is all I can say.
The school nurse stands in silence beside Mr Hansen. They all
tell me goodbye. Now I know I am going to jail. “Good,” I tell
myself. “At least she won’t be able to beat me if I’m in jail.”
The police officer and I walk outside, past the cafeteria. I can
see some of the kids from my class playing dodge ball. A few of
them stop playing. They yell, “David’s busted! David’s busted!”
The policeman touches my shoulder, telling me everything is
okay. As he drives me up the street, away from Thomas Edison
Elementary School, I see some kids who seem to be fazed by my
departure. Before I left, Mr Ziegler told me he would tell the
other kids the truth – the real truth. I would give anything to
have been there in class when they found out I’m not so bad.
In a few minutes, we arrive at the Daly City Police Station. I
sort of expect Mother to be there. I don’t want to get out of the
car. The officer opens the door and gently takes me by the
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elbow, into a big office. No other person is in the room. The
policeman sits in a chair, in the corner, where he types several
sheets of paper. I watch the officer closely as I slowly eat my
cookies. I savor them as long as I can. I don’t know when I will
be eating again.
It’s past 1:00 p.in. when the policeman finishes his
paperwork. He asks for my telephone number again.
“Why?” I whine.
“I have to call her, David,” he says gently.
“No!” I command. “Send me back to school. Don’t you get
it? She mustn’t find out I told!”
He calms me down with another cookie, as he slowly dials 75-6-2-4-6-0. I watch the black dial turn as I get up and walk
towards him, straining my whole body while trying to hear the
phone ringing on the other end. Mother answers. Her voice
scares me. The policeman waves me away, and takes a deep
breath before saying, “Mrs Pelzer, this is Officer Smith from the
Daly City Police Department. Your son David will not be
coming home today. He will be in the custody of the San Mateo
Juvenile Department. If you have any questions, you can call
them.” He hangs up the phone and smiles. “Now that wasn’t so
hard, was it?” he asks me. But the look on his face tells me he is
assuring himself, more than he is me.
A few miles later, we are on highway 280, heading towards
the outskirts of Daly City. I look to my right and see a sign that
reads, “THE MOST BEAUTIFUL HIGHWAY IN THE
WORLD.” The officer smiles with relief, as we leave the city
limits. “David Pelzer,” he says, “you’re free.”
“What?” I ask, clutching my only source of food. “I don’t
understand. Aren’t you taking me to some kind of jail?”
Again he smiles, and gently squeezes my shoulder. “No,
David. You have nothing to worry about, honest. Your mother is
never going to hurt you again.”
-13-
I lean back against the seat. A reflection from the sun hits my
eyes. I turn away from the rays as a single tear runs down my
cheek.
“I’m free?”
-14-
2 – Good Times
In the years before I was abused, my family was the “Brady
Bunch” of the 1960s. My two brothers and I were blessed with
the perfect parents. Our every whim was fulfilled with love and
care.
We lived in a modest twobedroom house, in what was
considered a “good” neighborhood in Daly City. I can remember
looking out of our living room bay window on a clear day, to
gaze at the bright orange towers of the Golden Gate Bridge and
the beautiful skyline of San Francisco.
My father, Stephen Joseph, supported his family as a fireman,
working in the heart of San Francisco. He stood about five feet
ten inches tall, and he weighed about 190 pounds. He had broad
shoulders and forearms that would make any muscle man proud.
His thick black eyebrows matched his hair. I felt special when
he winked at me and called me “Tiger”.
My mother, Catherine Roerva, was a woman of average size
and appearance. I never could remember the color of her hair or
eyes, but Mom was a woman who glowed with love for her
children. Her greatest asset was her determination. Mom always
had ideas, and she always took command of all family matters.
Once, when I was four or five years old, Mom said she was sick,
and I remember feeling that she did not seem to be herself at all.
It was a day when Father was working at the fire station. After
serving dinner, Mom rushed from the table and began painting
the steps that led to the garage. She coughed as she frantically
brushed the red paint onto every step. The paint had not fully
dried, when Mom began tacking rubber mats to the steps. The
red paint was all over the mats and Mom. When she finished,
Mom went into the house and collapsed on the couch. I
remember asking her why she had put the mats down before the
paint dried. She smiled and said, “I just wanted to surprise your
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dad.”
When it came to housekeeping, Mom was an absolute clean
fiend. After feeding my two brothers, Ronald and Stan, and I
breakfast, she would dust, disinfect, scour and vacuum
everything. No room in our house was left untouched. As we
grew older, mom made sure we did our part by keeping our
room neat. Outside, she meticulously attended a small flower
garden, which was the envy of the neighborhood. With Mom,
everything she touched turned into gold. She didn’t believe in
doing anything halfway.
Mom often told us that we must always do the best we could,
in whatever we did.
Mom was truly a gifted cook. Of all the things she did for her
family, I think creating new and exotic meals was her favorite.
This was especially true on those days when Father was home.
Mom would spend the better part of the day preparing one of her
fantastic meals. On some days when Father was working, Mom
would take us on exciting sightseeing tours around the city. One
day, she took us to Chinatown in San Francisco. As we drove
around the area, Mom told us about the culture and history of
the Chinese people. When we returned, Mom started her record
player, and our home was filled with beautiful sounds from the
Orient. She then decorated the dining room with Chinese
lanterns. That evening, she dressed in a kimono and served what
seemed to us as a very exotic but delicious meal. At the end of
dinner, Mom gave us fortune cookies and read the captions for
us. I felt that the cookie’s message would lead me to my destiny.
Some years later, when I was old enough to read, I found one of
my old fortunes. It said, “Love and honor thy mother, for she is
the fruit that gives thou life.”
Back then our house was full of pets – cats, dogs, aquariums
filled with exotic fish and a gopher tortoise named “Thor”. I
remember the tortoise best because Mom let me pick a name for
it. I felt proud because my brothers had been chosen to name the
-16-
other pets and it was now my turn. I named the reptile after my
favorite cartoon character.
The five– and tengallon aquariums seemed to be everywhere.
There were at least two in the living room, and one filled with
guppies in our bedroom. Mom creatively decorated the heated
tanks with colored gravel and colored foil backs; anything she
thought would make the tanks more realistic. We would often sit
by the tanks while Mom told us about the different species of
fish.
The most dramatic of Mom’s lessons, came one Sunday
afternoon. One of our cats was behaving in an odd way. Mom
had us all sit down by the cat while she explained the process of
birth. After all the kittens has slipped safely out of the mother
cat, Mom explained in great detail the wonder of life. No matter
what the family was doing, she somehow came up with a
constructive lesson; though we were not usually aware that we
were being taught.
For our family – during those good years – the holidays
started with Halloween. One October night, when the huge
harvest moon was in full view, Mom hurried the three of us out
of our house, to gaze at the “Great Pumpkin” in the sky. When
we returned to our bedroom, she told us to peek under our
pillows where we found Matchbox race cars. My two brothers
and I squealed with delight as Mom’s face was flushed with
pride. The day after Thanksgiving, Mom would disappear to the
basement, then bring up enormous boxes filled with Christmas
decorations. While standing on a ladder, she tacked strings of
ornaments to the ceiling beams. When she was finished, every
room in our house had a seasonal touch. In the dining room
Mom arranged different sizes of red candles on the counter of
her prized oak hutch. Snowflake patterns graced every window
in the living room and dining room. Christmas lights were
draped around our bedroom windows. Every night I fell asleep
while staring at the soft, colorful glow of the Christmas lights
-17-
that blinked on and off.
Our Christmas tree was never ever an inch under eight feet,
and it took the whole family hours to decorate it. Each year one
of us was honored by being allowed to place the angel at the top
of the tree, while Father held us up in his strong arms. After the
tree was decorated and dinner was finished, we would pile into
the station wagon and cruise the ne ighborhood, admiring the
decorations on other homes. Mom always rambled on about her
ideas of bigger and better things for the next Christmas, even
though my brothers and I knew our house was always the best.
When we returned home, Mom sat us down by the fireplace to
drink egg nog. While she told us stories, Bing Crosby sang
“White Christmas” on the stereo. I was so excited during those
holiday seasons that I couldn’t sleep. Sometimes Mom would
cradle me, while I fell asleep listening to the crackle of the fire.
As Christmas Day came nearer, my brothers and I became
more and more excited. The pile of gifts at the base of the tree
grew day by day. By the time Christmas finally arrived, there
were dozens of gifts for each of us.
On Christmas Eve, after a special dinner and caroling, we
were allowed to open one gift. Afterwards, we were sent to bed.
I always strained my ears as I laid in bed, waiting for the sound
of Santa’s sleigh bells. But I always fell asleep before I heard his
reindeer land on the roof.
Before dawn, Mom would creep into our room and wake us,
whispering, “Santa came!” One year she gave each of us a
yellow, plastic, Tonka hard hat and had us march into the living
room. It took us forever to rip the colorful paper from the boxes,
to discover our new Christmas toys. Afterwards, Mom had us
run to the backyard in our new robes, to look back in through
the window at our huge Christmas tree. That year, standing in
the yard, I remember seeing Mom cry. I asked her why she was
sad. Mom told me she was crying because she was so happy to
have a real family.
-18-
Because Father’s job often required him to work 24hour
shifts, Mother often took us on day trips to places like the
nearby Golden Gate Park in San Francisco. As we slowly drove
through the park, Mom exp lained how the areas were different
and how she envied the beautiful flowers. We always visited the
park’s Steinhart Aquarium last. My brothers and I would blaze
up the stairs and charge through the heavy doors. We were
thrilled as we leaned over the brass, seahorseshaped fence,
looking far below at the small waterfall and pond that were
home to the alligators and large turtles. As a child, this was my
favorite place in the entire park. I once became frightened, as I
thought about slipping through the barrier and falling into the
pond. Without speaking a word, Mom must have felt my fear.
She looked down at me and held my hand ever so softly.
Spring meant picnics. Mom would prepare a feast of fried
chicken, salads, sandwiches and lots of desserts the night before.
Early the next day, our family sped off to Junipero Serra Park.
Once there, my brothers and I would run wild on the grass and
pump higher and higher on the park’s swings. Sometimes we
would venture off on a new trail. Mom always had to pry us
away from our fun, when it came time for lunch. We wolfed
down our food, hardly tasting it, before my brothers and I
blitzed off for parts unknown, in search of high adventure. Our
parents seemed happy to lie next to each other on a blanket, sip
red wine and watch us play.
It was always a thrill when the family went on summer
vacation. Mom was always the mastermind behind these trips.
She planned every detail, and swelled with pride as the activities
came together. Usually we traveled to Portola or Memorial Park,
and camped out in our giant, green tent for a week or so. But
whenever Father drove us north across the Golden Gate Bridge,
I knew we were going to my favorite place in the world – the
Russian River.
The most memorable trip to the river for me, happened the
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year I was in kindergarten. On the last day of school, Mom
asked that I be excused a halfhour early. As Father honked the
horn, I rocketed up the small hill from the school, to the waiting
car. I was excited because I knew where we were going. During
the drive, I became fascinated at the seemingly endless fields of
grapes. When we drove into the quiet town of Guerneville, I
rolled my window down to smell the sweet air from the redwood
trees.
Each day was a new adventure. My brothers and I either spent
the day climbing an old, burnt tree stump with our special
whomperstomper boots or swimming in the river at Johnson’s
Beach. Johnson’s Beach was a whole day’s event. We would
leave our cabin by nine and return after three. Mom taught each
of us to swim in a small, trenched hole in the river. That summer
Mom taught me how to swim on my back. She seemed so proud
when I was finally able to do it.
Everyday seemed sprinkled with magic. One day after dinner,
Mom and Dad took the three of us to watch the sunset. All of us
held hands, as we crept past Mr Parker’s cabin to get to the
river. The green river water was as smooth as glass. The
bluejays scolded the other birds, and a warm breeze blew
through my hair. Without a word, we stood watching the
fireballlike sun as it sank behind the tall trees, leaving bright
blue and orange streaks in the sky. From above, I felt someone
hug my shoulders. I thought it was my father. I turned and
became flushed with pride to find Mom holding me tightly. I
could feel her heart beat. I never felt as safe and as warm as that
moment in time, at the Russian River.
-20-
3 – Bad Boy
My relationship with Mom drastically changed from
discipline that developed into a kind of lifestyle that grew out of
control. It became so bad at times, I had no strength to crawl
away – even if it meant saving my life.
As a small child, I probably had a voice that carried farther
than others. I also had the unfortunate luck of getting caught at
mischief, even though my brothers and I were often committing
the same “crime”. In the beginning, I was put in a corner of our
bedroom. By this time, I had become afraid of Mom. Very
afraid. I never asked her to let me come out. I would sit and wait
for one of my brothers to come into our bedroom, and have him
ask if David could come out now and play.
About this time, Mom’s behavior began to change radically.
At times while Father was away at work, she would spend the
entire day lying on the couch, dressed only in her bathrobe,
watching television. Mom got up only to go to the bathroom, get
another drink or heat leftover food.
When she yelled at us, her voice changed from the nurturing
mother to the wicked witch. Soon, the sound of Mother’s voice
began to send tremors down my spine. Even when she barked at
one of my brothers, I’d run to hide in our room, hoping she
would soon return to the couch, her drink and her TV show.
After a while, I could determine what kind of day I was going to
have by the way she dressed. I would breathe a sigh of relief
whenever I saw Mom come out of he r room in a nice dress with
her face made up. On these days she always came out with a
smile.
When Mother decided that the “corner treatment” was no
longer effective, I graduated to the “mirror treatment”. In the
beginning, it was a no notice form of punishment. Mother would
-21-
simply grab me and smash my face against the mirror, smearing
my tearstreaked face on the slick, reflective glass. Then she
would order me to say over and over again, “I’m a bad boy! I’m
a bad boy! I’m a bad boy!” I was then forced to stand, staring
into the mirror. I would stand there with my hands locked to my
sides, weaving back and forth, dreading the moment when the
second set of television commercials aired. I knew Mother
would soon be stomping down the hall to see if my face was still
against the mirror, and to tell me what a sickening child I was.
Whenever my brothers came into the room while I was at the
mirror, they would look at me, shrug their shoulders and
continue to play – as if I were not there. At first I was jealous,
but soon I learned that they were only trying to save their own
skins.
While Father was at work, Mother would often yell and
scream while forcing my brothers and I to search the entire
house for something she had lost. The quest usually started in
the morning and lasted for hours. After a while, I was usually
sent to search in the garage which was under part of the house –
like a basement. Even there, I trembled upon hearing Mother
scream at one of my brothers.
The searches continued for months, and finally, I was the only
one singled out to look for her things. Once, I forgot what I was
looking for. When I timidly asked her what it was that I was to
find, Mother smacked me in the face. She was lying on the
couch at the time, and she didn’t even stop watching her
television show. Blood gushed from my nose and I began to cry.
Mother snatched a napkin from her table, tore a piece and
rammed it up my nose. “You know damn well what you’re
looking for!” she screamed. “Now go find it!” I scurried back
down to the basement, making sure I made enough noise to
convince Mother I was feverishly obeying her command. As
Mother’s “find the thing” became more common, I began to
fantasize that I had found her missing item. I imagined myself
-22-
marching upstairs with my prize and Mom greeting me with
hugs and kisses. My fantasy included the family living happily
ever after. But, I never found any of Mother’s lost things, and
she never let me forget that I was an incompetent loser.
As a small child, I realized Mom was as different as night and
day when Father was home from work. When Mom. fixed her
hair and put on nice clothes, she seemed more relaxed. I loved it
when Dad was home. It meant no beatings, mirror treatments or
long searches for her missing things. Father became my
protector. Whenever he went to the garage to work on a project,
I followed him. If he sat in his favorite chair to read the
newspaper, I parked myself at his feet. In the evenings, after the
dinner dishes were cleared from the table, Father would wash
them, and I would dry. I knew that as long as I stayed by his
side, no harm would come to me.
One day before he left for work, I received a dreadful shock.
After he said goodbye to Ron and Stan, he knelt down, held my
shoulders tightly and told me to be a “good boy”. Mother stood
behind him with her arms folded across her chest, and a grim
smile on her face. I looked into my father’s eyes and knew right
then that I was a “bad boy”. An icecold chill rushed through my
body. I wanted to hold on to him and never let go, but before I
could give Father a hug, he stood up, turned and walked out the
door, without saying another word.
For a short time after Father’s warning, things seemed to calm
down between Mother and I. When Dad was home, my brothers
and I played in our room or outside, until about 3:00 P.M.
Mother would then turn on the television so we could watch
cartoons. For my parents, 3:00 P.M. meant “Happy Hour”.
Father would cover the kitchen counter top with bottles of
alcohol and tall fancy glasses. He cut up lemons and limes,
placing them in small bowls beside a small jar of cherries. They
often drank from midafternoon, until my brothers and I climbed
into bed. I remember watching them dance around the kitchen to
-23-
music from the radio. They held each other close, and they
looked so happy. I thought I could bury the bad times. I was
wrong. The bad times were only beginning.
A month or two later, on a Sunday, while Father was at work,
my brothers and I were playing in our room when we heard
Mother rush down the hall, ye lling at us. Ron and Stan ran for
cover in the living room. I instantly sat down in my chair. With
both arms stretched out and raised, Mother came at me. As she
came closer and closer, I backed my chair towards the wall.
Soon, my head touched the wall. Mother’s eyes were glazed and
red, and her breath smelled of booze. I closed my eyes as the
oncoming blows began to rock me from side to side. I tried to
protect my face with my hands, but Mother would only knock
them away. Her punches seemed to last forever. Finally, I
snaked my left arm up to cover my face. As Mother grabbed my
arm, she lost her balance and staggered back a step. As she
jerked violently to regain her stability, I heard something pop,
and felt an intense pain in my shoulder and arm. The startled
look on Mother’s face told me that she had heard the sound too,
but she released her grip on my arm, and turned and walked
away as if nothing had happened. I cradled my arm as it began
to throb with pain. Before I could actually inspect my arm,
Mother summoned me to dinner.
I plopped down at a T.V. tray to try to eat. As I reached for a
glass of milk, my left arm did not respond. My fingers twitched
upon command, but my arm tingled and had become lifeless. I
looked at Mother, trying to plead with my eyes. She ignored me.
I knew something was very wrong, but I was too afraid to utter a
word. I simply sat there, staring at my tray of food. Mother
finally excused me and sent me to bed early, telling me to sleep
in the top bunk. This was unusual because I had always slept on
the bottom. Sometime near morning I finally fell asleep, with
my left arm carefully cradled in the other.
I hadn’t slept long when Mother awakened me, explaining
-24-
that I had rolled out of the top bunk during the night. She
seemed to be deeply concerned about my condition, as she drove
me to the hospital. When she told the doctor about my fall from
the top bunk bed, I could tell by the look he gave me that he
knew my injury was no accident. Again, I was too afraid to
speak up. At home, Mother made up an even more dramatic
story for Father. In the new version, Mother included her efforts
to catch me before I hit the floor. As I sat in Mother’s lap,
listening to her lie to Father, I knew my mom was sick. But my
fear kept the accident our secret. I knew if I ever told anyone,
the next “accident” would be worse.
School was a haven for me. I was thrilled to be away from
Mother. At recess I was a wild man. I blitzed through the
barkcovered playground, Looking for new, adventurous things
to do. I made friends easily and felt so happy to be at school.
One day in late spring, when I returned home from school,
Mother threw me into her bedroom. She then yelled at me,
stating I was to be held back from the first grade because I was a
bad boy. I did not understand. I knew I had more “happy face”
papers than anybody in the class. I obeyed my teacher and I felt
she liked me. But Mother continued to roar that I had shamed
the family and would be severely punished. She decided that I
was banned from watching television, forever. I was to go
without dinner and accomplish whatever chores Mother could
dream up. After another thrashing, I was sent to the garage to
stand until Mother called me to go to bed.
That summer, without warning, I was dropped off at my Aunt
Jose’s house on the way to the campsite. No one told me about
this and I could not understand why. I felt like an outcast as the
station wagon drove away, leaving me behind. I felt so sad and
hollow. I tried to run away from my aunt’s house. I wanted to
find my family, and for some strange reason, I wanted to be with
Mother. I didn’t get far, and my aunt later informed my mother
of my attempt. The next time Father worked the 24hour shift, I
-25-
paid for my sin. Mother smacked, punched and kicked me until I
crumpled to the floor. I tried to tell Mother that I had run away
because I wanted to be with her and the family. I tried to tell her
that I had missed her, but Mother refused to let me speak. I tried
once more and Mother dashed to the bathroom, snatched a bar
of soap and crammed it down my throat. After that, I was no
longer allowed to speak unless I was instructed to do so.
Returning to the first grade was really a joy. I knew the basic
lessons and was instantly dubbed the class genius. Since I was
held back, Stan and I were in the same grade. During recess, I
would go over to Stan’s firstgrade class to play. At school we
were the best of friends; however, at home, we both knew I was
not to be acknowledged.
One day I rushed home to show off a school paper. Mothe r
threw me into her bedroom, yelling about a letter she had
received from the North Pole. She claimed the letter said that I
was a “bad boy” and Santa would not bring me any gifts for
Christmas. Mother raged on and on, saying that I had
embarrassed the family again. I stood in a daze, as Mother
badgered me relentlessly. I felt I was living in a nightmare that
Mother had created, and I prayed she would somehow wake up.
Before Christmas that year, there were only a couple of gifts for
me under the tree, and those came from relatives outside the
immediate family. On Christmas morning, Stan dared to ask
Mother why Santa had brought me only two paintbynumber
pictures. She lectured him saying, “Santa only brings toys to
good boys and girls.” I stole a glance from Stan. There was
sorrow in his eyes, and I could tell that he understood Mother’s
freakish games. Since I was still under punishment, on
Christmas Day I had to change into my work clothes and
perform my chores. While I was cleaning the bathroom, I
overheard an argument between Mother and Father. She was
angry with him for “going behind her back” to buy me the
paintings. Mother told Father that she was in charge of
-26-
disciplining “the boy” and that he had undermined her authority
by buying the gifts. The longer Father argued his case, the
angrier she became. I could tell he had lost, and that I was
becoming more and more isolated.
A few months later, Mother became a den mother for the Cub
Scouts. Whenever the other kids came to our home, she treated
them like kings. Some of the other kids told me how they
wished their mothers would be like mine. I never responded, but
I wondered to myself what they would think if they knew the
real truth. Mother only kept the den mother job for a few
months. When she gave it up I was so relieved because it meant
I could go to other kids’ homes for the Wednesday meetings.
One Wednesday, I came home from school to change into my
blue and gold Cub Scout uniform. Mother and I were the only
ones in the house, and I could tell by the look on her face that
she was after blood. After smashing my face against the
bedroom mirror, she snatched my arm and dragged me to the
car. During the drive to my den mother’s house, Mother told me
what she was going to do with me when we got home. I scooted
to the far side of the front seat of the car, but it didn’t work. She
reached across the seat and seized my chin, lifting my head
towards hers. Mother’s eyes were bloodshot and her voice
sounded as if she were possessed. When we arrived at the den
mother’s house, I ran to the door crying. I whined to her that I
had been a bad boy and could not attend the meeting. The den
mother smiled politely, saying that she would like me to come to
the next meeting. That was the last time I saw her.
Once home, Mother ordered me to strip off my clothes and
stand by the kitchen stove. I shook from a combination of fear
and embarrassment. She then revealed my hideous crime.
Mother told me that she had often driven to school to watch my
brothers and I play during our lunch period recess. Mother
claimed that she had seen me that very day playing on the grass,
which was absolutely forbidden by her rules. I quickly answered
-27-
that I never played on the grass. I knew Mother had somehow
made a mistake. My reward for observing Mother’s rules and
telling the truth was a hard punch in the face.
Mother then reached over and turned on the gas burners to the
kitchen stove. Mother told me that she had read an article about
a mother who had her son lie on top of a hot stove. I instantly
became terrified. My brain became numb, and my legs wobbled.
I wanted to disappear. I closed my eyes, wishing her away. My
brain locked up when I felt Mother’s hand clamp my arm as if it
were in a vice grip.
“You’ve made my life a living hell!” she sneered. “Now it’s
time I showed you what hell is like!” Gripping my arm, Mother
held it in the orangeblue flame. My skin seemed to explode from
the heat. I could smell the scorched hairs from my burnt arm. As
hard as I fought, I could not force Mother to let go of my arm.
Finally I fell to the floor, on my hands and knees, and tried to
blow cool air on my arm. “It’s too bad your drunken father’s not
here to save you,” she hissed. Mother then ordered me to climb
up onto the stove and lie on the flames so she could watch me
burn. I refused, crying and pleading. I felt so scared I stomped
my feet in protest. But Mother continued to force me on top of
the stove. I watched the flames, praying the gas might run out.
Suddenly I began to realize the longer I could keep myself off
the top of the stove, the better my chances were for staying
alive. I knew my brother Ron would soon be coming home from
his scout meeting, and I knew Mother never acted this bizarre
when anyone else was in the house. In order to survive, I had to
buy time. I stole a glance at the kitchen clock behind me. The
second hand seemed to creep ever so slowly. To keep Mother
off balance, I began to ask whining questions. This infuriated
her even more, and Mother began to rain blows around my head
and chest. The more Mother slugged me, the more I began to
realize I had won! Anything was better than burning on the
stove.
-28-
Finally, I heard the front door fly open. It was Ron. My heart
surged with relief. The blood from Mother’s face drained. She
knew she had lost. For a moment in time, Mother froze. I seized
that instant to grab my clothes and race to the garage, where I
quickly dressed. I stood against the wall and began to whimper
until I realized that I had beaten her. I had bought a few precious
minutes. I used my head to survive. For the first time, I had
won!
Standing alone in that damp, dark garage, I knew, for the first
time, that I could survive. I decided that I would use any tactic I
could think of to defeat Mother or to delay her from her grizzly
obsession. I knew if I wanted to live, I would have to think
ahead. I could no longer cry like a helpless baby. In order to
survive, I could never give in to her. That day I vowed to myself
that I would never, ever again give that bitch the satisfaction of
hearing me beg her to stop beating me.
In the coldness of the garage, my entire body trembled from
both the cold anger and intense fear. I used my tongue to lick the
burn and soothe my throbbing arm. I wanted to scream, but I
refused to give Mother the pleasure of hearing me cry. I stood
tall. I could hear Mother talking to Ron upstairs, telling him how
proud she was of him, and how she didn’t have to worry about
Ron becoming like David – a bad boy.
-29-
4 – The Fight for Food
The summer after the burn incident, school became my only
hope of escape. Except for the short duration of a fishing trip,
things with Mother were touch and go, or smash and dash – she
would smash me, and I would dash to the solitude of the
basement/garage. The month of September brought school and
bliss. I had new clothes and a shiny, new lunch pail. Because
Mother had me wear the same clothes week after week, by
October my clothes had become weathered, torn and smelly. She
hardly bothered to cover my bruises on my face and arms. When
asked, I had my readymade excuses Mother brainwashed into
me.
By then, Mother would “forget” to feed me any dinner.
Breakfast wasn’t much better. On a good day, I was allowed
leftover cereal portions from my brothers, but only if I
performed all of my chores before going to school.
At night I was so hungry, my stomach growled as if I were an
angry bear. At night I lay awake concentrating on food. “Maybe
tomorrow I’ll get dinner,” I said to myself. Hours later, I would
drift off to sleep, fantasizing about food. I mainly dreamt of
colossal hamburgers with all the fixings. In my dreams I seized
my prize and brought it to my lips. I visualized every inch of the
hamburger. The meat dripped with grease, and thick slices of
cheese bubbled on top. Condiments oozed between the lettuce
and tomato. As I brought the hamburger closer to my face, I
opened my mouth to devour my prize, but nothing happened. I’d
try again and again, but no matter how hard I struggled, I could
not taste a morsel of my fantasy. Moments later I would wake
up, with my stomach more hollow than before. I could not
satisfy my hunger; not even in my dreams.
Soon after I had begun to dream about food, I started stealing
food at school. My stomach coiled with a combination of fear
-30-
and anticipation. Anticipation because I knew that within
seconds, I would have something to put in my stomach. Fear
because I also knew that at any time, I could get caught stealing.
I always stole food before school began, while my classmates
were playing outside the building. I would sneak to the wall,
right outside my homeroom, drop my lunch pail by another pail
and kneel down so nobody could see me hunting through their
lunches. The first few times were easy, but after several days,
some students began to discover Twinkies and other desserts
missing from their lunches. Within a short time, my classmates
began to hate me. The teacher told the principal, who in turn
informed Mother. The fight for food became a cycle. The
principal’s report to Mother led to more beatings and less food
for me at the house.
On weekends, to punish me for my thefts, Mother refused to
feed me. By Sunday night, my mouth would water as I began to
plot new, foolproof ways to steal food without getting caught.
One of my plots was to steal from other firstgrade rooms, where
I wasn’t known as well. On Monday mornings I would dash
from Mother’s car to a new firstgrade classroom to pick through
lunch boxes. I got away with it for a short time, but it didn’t take
long for the principal to trace the thefts back to me.
At the house, the dual punishment of hunger and violent
attacks continued. By this time, for all practical purposes, I was
no longer a member of the family. I existed, but there was little
or no recognition. Mother had even stopped using my name;
referring to me only as The Boy. I was not allowed to eat meals
with the family, play with my brothers, or watch television. I
was grounded to the house. I was not allowed to look at or speak
to anybody. When I returned to the house from school, I
immediately accomplished the various chores Mother assigned
me. When the chores were finished, I went directly to the
basement, where I stood until summoned to clean off the dinner
table and wash the dishes. It was made very clear that getting
-31-
caught sitting or lying down in the basement would bring dire
consequences. I had become Mother’s slave.
Father was my only hope, and he did all he could to sneak me
scraps of food. He tried to get Mother drunk, thinking the liquor
might leave her in a better mood. He tried to get Mother to
change her mind about feeding me. He even attempted to make
deals, promising her the world. But all his attempts were useless.
Mother was as solid as a rock. If anything, her drunkenness
made it worse. Mother became more like a monster.
I knew Father’s efforts to help me led to stress between he
and Mother. Soon, midnight arguments began to occur. From
bed I could hear the tempo build to an earshattering climax. By
then they were both drunk, and I could hear Mother scream
every vulgar phrase imaginable. It didn’t matter what issue
started the fight, I would soon be the object of their battle. I
knew Father was trying to help, but in bed I still shivered with
fear. I knew he would lose, making things worse for me the next
day. When they first began to fight, Mother would storm off in
the car with the tyres screeching. She usually returned home in
less than an hour. The next day, they would both act as if
nothing had happened. I was grateful when Father found an
excuse to come down to the basement and sneak me a piece of
bread. He always promised me he would keep trying.
As the arguments between Mother and Father became more
frequent, he began to change. Often after an argument, he would
pack an overnight bag and set off in the middle of the night for
work. After he left, Mother would yank me out of bed and drag
me to the kitchen. While I stood shivering in my pyjamas, she’d
smack me from one side of the kitchen to the other. One of my
resistance techniques was to lay on the floor acting as though I
didn’t have the strength to stand. That tactic didn’t last long.
Mother would yank me up by the ears and yell into my face with
her bourbon breath, for minutes at a time. On these nights, her
message was always the same: I was the reason she and Father
-32-
were having problems. Often I became so tired, my legs would
shake. My only escape was to stare at the floor and hope that
Mother would soon run out of steam.
By the time I was in the second grade, Mother was pregnant
with her fourth child. My teacher, Miss Moss, began to take a
special interest in me. She began by questioning me about my
attentiveness. I lied, saying I had stayed up late watching
television. My lies were not convincing, and she continued to
pry not only about why I was sleepy, but also about the
condition of my clothes and the bruises on my body. Mother
always coached me on what to say about my appearance, so I
simply passed Mother’s story to the teacher.
Months crept by and Miss Moss became more persistent. One
day, she finally reported her concerns to the school principal. He
knew me well as the food thief, so he called Mother. When I
returned to the house that day, it was as if somebody had
dropped an atomic bomb. Mother was more violent than ever.
She was furious that some “Hippie” teacher had turned her in for
child abuse. Mother said that she would meet with the principal
by the next day to justify all the false accusations. By the end of
the session, my nose bled twice and I was missing a tooth.
When I returned from school the next afternoon, Mother
smiled as if she had won a milliondollar sweepstakes. She told
me how she had dressed up to see the principal, with her infant
son Russell in her arms. Mother told me how she had explained
to the principal how David had an overactive imagination.
Mother told him how David had often struck and scratched
himself to get attention, since the recent birth of his new brother,
Russell. I could imagine her turning on her snakelike charm as
she cuddled Russell for the benefit of the principal. At the end of
their talk, Mother said that she was more than happy to
cooperate with the school. She said they could call her any time
there was a problem with David. Mother said the staff at school
had been instructed to pay no attention to my wild stories of
-33-
child beating or not being fed. Standing there in the kitchen that
day, listening to her boast, gave me a feeling of total emptiness.
As Mother told me about the meeting, I could sense her
heightened confidence, and her new confidence made me fear
for my life. I wished I could dissolve and be gone forever. I
wished I would never have to face another human being again.
That summer, the family vacationed at the Russian River.
Although I got along better with Mother, the magical feeling had
disappeared. The hayrides, the weenie roasts and story telling
were things of the past. We spent more and more time in the
cabin. Even the day trips to Johnson’s Beach were rare.
Father tried to make the vacation more fun by taking the three
of us to play on the new super slide. Russell, who was still a
toddler, stayed in the cabin with Mother. One day, when Ron,
Stan and I were playing at a neighbor’s cabin, Mother came out
onto the porch and yelled for us to come in immediately. Once
in the cabin, I was scolded for making too much noise. For my
punishment, I was not allowed to go with Father and my
brothers to the super slide. I sat on a chair in a corner, shivering,
hoping that something would happen so the three of them
wouldn’t leave. I knew Mother had something hideous on her
mind. As soon as they left, she brought out one of Russell’s
soiled diapers. She smeared the diaper on my face. I tried to sit
perfectly still. I knew if I moved, it would only be worse. I
didn’t look up. I couldn’t see Mother standing over me, but I
could hear her heavy breathing.
After what seemed like an hour, Mother knelt down beside me
and in a soft voice said, “Eat it.”
I looked straight ahead, avoiding her eyes. “No way!” I said
to myself. Like so many times before, avoiding her was the
wrong thing to do. Mother smacked me from side to side. I
clung to the chair, fearing if I fell off she would jump on me.
“I said eat it!” she sneered.
-34-
Switching tactics, I began to cry. “Slow her down,” I thought
to myself. I began to count to myself, trying to concentrate.
Time was my only ally. Mother answered my crying with more
blows to my face, stopping only when she heard Russell crying.
Even with my face covered with defecation, I was pleased. I
thought I might win. I tried to wipe the shit away, flicking it
onto the wooden floor. I could hear Mother singing softly to
Russell, and I imagined him cradled in her arms, I prayed he
wouldn’t fall asleep. A few minutes later my luck ran out.
Still smiling, Mother returned to her conquest. She grabbed
me by the back of the neck and led me to the kitchen. There,
spread out on the counter top, was another full diaper. The smell
turned my stomach. “Now, you are going to eat it!” she said.
Mother had the same look in her eyes that she had the day she
wanted me to lie on top of the gas stove back at the house.
Without moving my head, I moved my eyes, searching for the
daisycolored clock that I knew was on the wall. A few seconds
later, I realized the clock was behind me. Without the clock, I
felt helpless. I knew I needed to lock my concentration on
something, in order to keep any kind of control of the situation.
Before I could find the clock, Mother’s hands seized my neck.
Again she repeated, “Eat it!” I held my breath. The smell was
overpowering. I tried to focus on the top corner of the diaper.
Seconds seemed like hours. Mother must have known my plan.
She slammed my face into the diaper and rubbed it from side to
side.
I anticipated her move. As I felt my head being forced down, I
closed my eyes tightly and clamped my mouth shut. My nose
struck first. A warm sensation oozed from my nostrils. I tried to
stop the blood from escaping by breathing in. I snorted bits of
defecation back up my nose with the blood. I threw my hands on
the counter top and tried to pull myself out of her grip. I twisted
from side to side with all my strength, but she was too powerful.
Suddenly Mother let go. “They’re back! They’re back!” she
-35-
gasped. Mother snatched a wash cloth from the sink and threw it
at me. “Clean the shit off your face,” she bellowed as she wiped
the brown stains from the counter top. I wiped my face the best I
could, but not before blowing bits of defecation from my nose.
Moments later, Mother stuffed a piece of napkin up my bloody
nose and ordered me to sit in the corner. I sat there fo r the rest of
the evening, still smelling traces of the diaper through my nose.
The family never returned to the Russian Kiver again.
In September, I returned to school with last year’s clothes and
my old, rusted, green lunch pail. I was a walking disgrace.
Mother packed the same lunch for me every day: two peanut
butter sandwiches and a few limp carrot sticks. Since I was no
longer a member of the family, I was not allowed to ride to
school in the family station wagon. Mother had me run to
school. She knew I would not arrive in time to steal any food
from my classmates.
At school I was a total outcast. No other kid would have
anything to do with me. During the lunch recesses, I stuffed the
sandwiches down my throat as I listened to my former friends
make up songs about me. “David the Food Thief” and “PelzerSmellzer” were two of the playground favorites. I had no one to
talk to or play with. I felt all alone.
At the house, while standing for hours in the garage, I passed
the time by imagining new ways to feed myself. Father
occasionally tried to sneak scraps of food to me, but with little
success. I came to believe if I were to survive, I would have to
rely on myself. I had exhausted all possibilities at school. All the
students now hid their lunch pails, or locked them in the coat
closet of the classroom. The teachers and principal knew me and
carefully watched me. I had little to no chance of stealing
anymore food at school.
Finally, I devised a plan that might work. Students were not
allowed to leave the playground during lunch recess, so nobody
-36-
would expect me to leave. My idea was to sneak away from the
playground and run to the local grocery store, and steal cookies,
bread, chips or whatever I could. In my mind, I planned every
step of my scheme. When I ran to school the next morning, I
counted every step so I could calculate my pace and later apply
it to my trip to the store. After a few weeks, I had all the
information I needed. The only thing left was finding the
courage to attempt the plan. I knew it would take longer to go
from the school to the store because it was up a hill, so I allowed
15 minutes. Coming back downhill would be easier, so I
allowed 10 minutes. This meant I had only 10 minutes at the
store.
Each day when I ran to and from school, I tried to run faster,
pounding each step as if I were a marathon runner. As the days
passed and my plan became more solid, my hunger for food was
replaced with daydreaming. I fantasized whenever performing
my chores at the house. On my hands and knees while scrubbing
the bathroom tiles, I imagined I was the prince in the story “The
Prince and the Pauper”. As the Prince, I knew I could end the
charade of acting like a servant any time I wanted. In the
basement, I stood perfectly still with my eyes closed, dreaming I
was a comicbook hero. But my daydream was always
interrupted by hunger pangs, and my thoughts soon returned to
my plan of stealing food.
Even when I was sure my plan was foolproof, I was too afraid
to put it into action. During the lunch recess at school, I strolled
around the playground making excuses to myself for my lack of
guts to run to the store. I told myself I would get caught or that
my timing calculations were not accurate. All through the
argument with myself, my stomach growled, calling me a
“chicken”. Finally, after several days without dinner and only
the small leftover portions for breakfast, I decided to do it. A
few moments after the lunch bell rang, I blitzed up the street,
away from the school, with my heart pounding and my lungs
-37-
bursting for air. I made it to the store in half the time I allowed
myself. Walking up and down the aisles of the store, I felt as if
everybody was staring at me. I felt as though all the customers
were talking about the smelly, ragged child. It was then that I
knew my plan was doomed because I had not taken into account
how I might look to other people. The more I worried about my
appearance, the more my stomach became seized with fear. I
froze in the aisle, not knowing what to do. I slowly began to
count the seconds away. I began to think about all the times I
had been starving. Suddenly without thinking, I grabbed the first
thing I saw on the shelf, ran out of the store and raced back to
school. Clutched tightly in my hand was my prize – a box of
graham crackers.
As I came near the school I hid my possession under my shirt,
on the side that didn’t have any holes, as I walked through the
schoolyard. Inside, I ditched the food in the garbage can of the
boys’ restroom. Later that afternoon, after making an excuse to
the teacher, I returned to the restroom to devour my prize. I
could feel my mouth begin to water, but my heart sank as I
looked into an empty trash can. All my careful plans and all the
pain of convincing myself that I would eat, were wasted. The
custodian had emptied the trash can before I could slip away to
the restroom.
That day my plan failed, but on other attempts I was lucky.
Once, I managed to hide my treasure in my desk in homeroom,
only to find on the next day that I had been transferred to the
school across the street. Except for losing the stolen food, I
welcomed the transfer. Now, I felt I had a new license to steal.
Not only was I able to snitch food from my classmates again,
but I also sprinted to the grocery store about once a week.
Sometimes at the grocery store, if I felt things weren’t just right,
I didn’t steal anything. As always, I finally got caught. The
manager called Mother. At the house, I was thrashed
relentlessly. Mother knew why I stole food and so did Dad, but
-38-
she still refused to feed me. The more I craved food, the more I
tried to come up with a better plan to steal it.
After dinner, it was Mother’s habit to scrape the leftovers
from the dinner plates into a small garbage can. Then she would
summon me up from the basement, where I had been standing
while the family ate. It was my function to wash the dishes.
Standing there with my hands in the scalding water, I could
smell the scraps from dinner in the small garbage can. At first
my idea was nauseating, but the more I thought about it, the
better it seemed. It was my only hope for food. I finished the
dishes as fast as I could and emptied the garbage in the garage.
My mouth watered at the sight of the food, and I gingerly picked
the good pieces out while scraping bits of paper or cigarette
butts away, and gobbled the food as fast as I could.
As usual, my new plan came to an abrupt halt when Mother
caught me in the act. For a few weeks I quit the garbage routine,
but I finally had to return to it, in order to silence my growling
stomach. Once, I ate some leftover pork. Hours later I was bent
over in extreme pain. I had diarrhea for a week. While I was
sick, Mother informed me she had purposefully left the meat in
the refrigerator for two weeks, to spoil before she threw it away.
She knew I couldn’t resist stealing it. As time progressed,
Mother had me bring the garbage can to her so she could inspect
it while she lay on the couch. She never knew that I wrapped
food between paper towels and hid them in the bottom of the
can. I kne w she wouldn’t want to get her fingers dirty, digging
in the bottom of the trash can, so my scheme worked for a while.
Mother sensed I was getting food some way, so she began
sprinkling ammonia in the trash can. After that, I gave up on the
garbage at the house and focused my sights on finding some
other way to get food at school. After getting caught stealing
from other kids’ lunches, my next idea was to rip off frozen
lunches from the school cafeteria.
I timed my restroom break so that the teacher excused me
-39-
from the classroom just after the delivery truck dropped off its
supply of frozen lunches. I crept into the cafeteria and snatched
a few frozen trays, then I scurried to the restroom. Alone in the
restroom, I swallowed the frozen hot dogs and later tots in huge
chunks so fast I almost choked myself in the process. After
filling my stomach I returned to the classroom, feeling proud so
I fed myself.
As I ran to the house from school that afternoon, all I could
think about was stealing food from the cafeteria the next day.
Minutes later, Mother changed my mind. She dragged me into
the bathroom and slugged me in the stomach so hard that I bent
over. Pulling me around to face the toilet, she ordered me to
shove my finger down my throat. I resisted. I tried my old trick
of counting to myself, as I stared into the porcelain toilet bowl,
“One … two …” I never made it to three. Mother rammed her
finger into my mouth, as if she wanted to pull my stomach up
through my throat. I squirmed in every direction in an effo rt to
fight her. She finally let me go, but only when I agreed that I
would vomit for her.
I knew what was going to happen next. I closed my eyes as
chunks of red meat spilled into the toilet. Mother just stood
behind me, with her hands on her hips and said, “I thought so.
Your Father’s going to hear about this!” I tensed myself for the
volley of blows that I knew was coming, but nothing happened.
After a few seconds, I spun around to discover that Mother had
left the bathroom. I knew the episode wasn’t over. Moments
later she returned with a small bowl, ordered me to scoop the
partiallydigested food out of the toilet and put it in the bowl.
Since Father was away shopping at the time, Mother was
gathering evidence for his return.
Later that night, after I finished all of my evening chores,
Mother had me stand by the kitchen table while she and Father
talked in the bedroom. In front of me was the bowl of hot dogs
that I had vomited. I couldn’t look at it, so I closed my eyes and
-40-
tried to imagine myself far away from the house. A short time
later, Mother and Father stormed into the kitchen. “Look at this,
Steve,” Mother barked, thrusting her finger in the direction of
the bowl. “So you think The Boy is through stealing food, do
you?”
By the look on Father’s face, I could tell he was getting more
and more tired of the constant “What has The Boy done now”
routine. Staring at me, he shook his head in disapproval and
stammered, “Well, Roerva, if you would just let The Boy have
something to eat.”
A heated battle of wo rds broke out in front of me, and as
always, Mother won. “EAT? You want The Boy to eat,
Stephen? Well, The Boy is going to EAT! He can eat this!”
Mother yelled at the top of her lungs, shoving the bowl towards
me and stomping off to the bedroom.
The kitche n became so quiet I could hear Father’s strained
breathing. He gently placed his hand on my shoulder and said,
“Wait here, Tiger. I’ll see what I can do.” He returned a few
minutes later, after trying to talk Mother out of her demand. By
the saddened look on his face, I knew immediately who won.
I sat on a chair and picked the clumps of hot dogs out of the
bowl with my hand. Globs of thick saliva slipped through my
fingers, as I dropped it in my mouth. As I tried to swallow, I
began to whimper. I turned to Father, who stood looking
through me with a drink in his hand. He nodded for me to
continue. I couldn’t believe he just stood there as I ate the
revolting contents of the bowl. At that moment, I knew we were
slipping further and further apart.
I tried to swallow without tasting, until I felt a hand clamp on
the back of my neck. “Chew it!” Mother snarled, “Eat it! Eat it
all!” she said, pointing to the saliva. I sat deeper in my chair. A
river of tears rolled down my cheeks. After I had chewed the
mess in the bowl, I tilted my head back and forced what
-41-
remained, down my throat. I closed my eyes and screamed to
myself to keep it from coming back up into my mouth. I didn’t
open my eyes until I was sure my stomach wasn’t going to reject
my cafeteria meal. When I did open them, I stared at Father who
turned away to avoid my pain. At that moment I hated Mother to
no end, but I hated Father even more. The man who had helped
me in the past, just stood like a statue while his son ate
something even a dog wouldn’t touc h.
After I finished the bowl of regurgitated hot dogs, Mother
returned in her robe and threw a wad of newspapers at me. She
informed me the papers were my blankets, and the floor under
the table was now my bed. Again I shot a glance at Father, but
he acted as though I was not even in the room. Forcing myself
not to cry in front of them, I crawled, completely dressed, under
the table, and covered myself with the newspapers, like a rat in a
cage.
For months I slept under the breakfast table next to a box of
kitty litter, but I soon learned to use the newspapers to my
advantage. With the papers wrapped around me, my body heat
kept me warm. Finally, Mother told me that I was no longer
privileged enough to sleep upstairs, so I was banished
downstairs to the garage. My bed was now an old army cot. To
stay warm, I tried to keep my head close to the gas heater. But
after a few cold nights, I found it best to keep my hands clamped
under my arms and feet curled towards my buttocks. Sometimes
at night I would wake up and try to imagine I was a real person,
sleeping under a warm electric blanket, knowing I was safe and
that somebody loved me. My imagination worked for awhile,
but the cold nights always brought me back to my reality. I
knew no one could help me. Not my teachers, my socalled
brothers or even Father. I was on my own, and every night I
prayed to God that I could be strong both in body and soul. In
the darkness of the garage, I laid on the wooden cot and shivered
until I fell into a restless sleep.
-42-
Once, during my midnight fantasies, I came up with the idea
of begging for food on my way to school. Even though the after
school vomit inspection was carried out every day when I
returned to the house from school, I thought that any food I ate
in the morning would be digested by the afternoon. As I began
my run to school, I made sure I ran extra fast so I would have
more time for my hunt for food. I then altered my course –
stopping and knocking on doors. I would ask the lady who
answered if she happened to find a lunch box near her house.
For the most part, my plan worked. I could tell by looking at
these ladies that they felt sorry for me. Thinking ahead, I used a
fake name so nobody would know who I really was. For weeks
my plan worked, until one day when I came to the house of a
lady who knew Mother. My timetested story, “I lost my lunch.
Could you make me one?” fell apart. Even before I left her
house, I knew she would call Mother.
That day at school I prayed for the world to end. As I fidgeted
in the classroom, I knew Mother was lying on the couch,
watching television and getting more drunk by the hour, while
thinking of something hideous to do to me when I arrived at her
house after school. Running to the house from school that
afternoon, my feet felt as though they were encased in blocks of
cement. With every step I prayed that Mother’s friend had not
called her, or had somehow mistaken me for another kid. Above
me the skies were blue, and I could feel the sun’s rays warm my
back. As I approached Mother’s house, I looked up towards the
sun, wondering if I would ever see it again. I carefully cracked
the front door open before slipping inside, and tiptoed down the
stairs to the garage. I expected Mother to fly down the stairs and
beat me on the cement floor any second. She didn’t come. After
changing into my work clothes, I crept upstairs to the kitchen
and began washing Mother’s lunch dishes. Not knowing where
she might be, my ears became radar antennae, seeking out her
exact location. As I washed the dishes, my back became tense
-43-
with fear. My hands shook, and I couldn’t concentrate on my
chores. Finally, I heard Mother come out of her bedroom and
walk down the hall towards the kitchen. For a fleeting moment I
looked out of the window. I could hear the laughter and screams
of the children playing. For a moment I closed my eyes and
imagined I was one of them. I felt warm inside. I smiled.
My heart skipped a beat when I felt Mother breathing down
my neck. Startled, I dropped a dish, but before it could hit the
floor I snatched it out of the air. “You’re a quick little shit,
aren’t you?” she sneered. “You can run fast and find time to beg
for food. Well … we’ll just see how fast you really are.”
Expecting Mother to bash me, I tensed my body, waiting for her
to strike. Whe n it didn’t happen, I thought she would leave and
return to her TV show, but that didn’t happen either. Mother
remained inches behind me, watching my every move. I could
see her reflection in the kitchen window. Mother saw it too, and
smiled back. I nearly peed my pants.
When I finished the dishes, I began cleaning the bathroom.
Mother sat on the toilet as I scoured the bathtub. While I was on
my hands and knees scrubbing the tile floor, she calmly and
quietly stood behind me. I expected her to come around and kick
me in the face, but she didn’t. As I continued my chores, my
anxiety grew. I knew Mother was going to beat me, but I didn’t
know how, when or where. It seemed to take forever for me to
finish the bathroom. By the time I did, my legs and arms were
shaking with anticipation. I could not concentrate on anything
but her. Whenever I found the courage to look up at Mother, she
smiled and said, “Faster young man. You’ll have to move much
faster than that.”
By dinner time, I was exhausted with fear. I almost fell asleep
as I waited for Mother to summon me to clear the table and
wash the evening dishes. Standing alone downstairs in the
garage, my insides became unglued. I so badly wanted to run
upstairs and go to the bathroom, but I knew without Mother’s
-44-
permission to move, I was a prisoner. “Maybe that is what she
has planned for me,” I told myself. “Maybe she wants me to
drink my own pee.” At first the thought was too crude to
imagine, but I knew I had to be prepared to deal with anything
Mother might throw at me. The more I tried to focus on my
options of what she might do to me, the more my inner strength
drained away. Then an idea flashed in my brain; I knew why
Mother had followed every step I took. She wanted to maintain
a constant pressure on me, by leaving me unsure of when or
where she would strike. Before I could think of a way to defeat
her, Mother bellowed me upstairs. In the kitchen she told me
that only the speed of light would save me, so I had better wash
the dishes in record time. “Of course,” she sneered, “there’s no
need to tell you that you’re going without dinner tonight, but not
to worry, I have a cure for your hunger.”
After finishing the evening chores, Mother ordered me to wait
downstairs. I stood with my back against the hard wall,
wondering what plans she had for me. I had no idea. I broke out
in a cold sweat that seemed to seep through to my bones. I
became so tired I fell asleep while standing. When I felt my
head roll forward, I snapped it upright, waking myself. No
matter how hard I tried to stay awake, I couldn’t control my
head that bobbed up and down like a piece of cork in water.
While in my trancelike state, I could feel the strain lift my soul
away from my body, as if I too were floating. I felt as light as a
feather until my head rolled forward again, jolting me awake. I
knew better than to fall into a deep slumber. To get caught could
be deadly, so I escaped by staring through the molded garage
window, listening to the sounds of the cars driving by and
watching the red flashes of planes flying overhead. From the
bottom of my heart I wished that I could fly away.
Hours later after Ron and Stan went to bed, Mother ordered
me to return upstairs. I dreaded every step. I knew the time had
come. She had drained me emotionally and physically. I didn’t
-45-
know what she had planned. I simply wished Mother would beat
me and get it over with.
As I opened the door, a calmness filled my soul. The house
was dark except for a single light in the kitchen. I could see
Mother sitting by the breakfa st table. I stood completely still.
She smiled, and I could tell by her slumped shoulders that the
booze had her in a deepsix. In a strange way, I knew she wasn’t
going to beat me. My thoughts became cloudy, but my trance
broke when Mother got up and strolled over to the kitchen sink.
She knelt down, opened the sink cabinet and removed a bottle of
ammonia. I didn’t understand. She got a tablespoon and poured
some ammonia into it. My brain was too rattled to think. As
much as I wanted to, I could not get my numbed brain into gear.
With the spoon in her hand, Mother began to creep towards
me. As some of the ammonia sloshed from the spoon, spilling
onto the floor, I backed away from Mother until my head struck
the counter top by the stove. I almost laughed inside. “That’s
all? That’s it? All she’s going to do is have me swallow some of
this?” I said to myself.
I wasn’t afraid. I was too tired. All I could think was, “Come
on, let’s go. Let’s get it over with.” As Mother bent down, she
again told me that only speed would save me. I tried to
understand her puzzle, but my mind was too cloudy.
Without hesitation I opened my mouth, and Mother rammed
the cold spoon deep into my throat. Again I told myself this was
all too easy, but a moment later I couldn’t breathe. My throat
seized. I stood wobbling in front of Mother, feeling as if my
eyes were going to pop out of my skull. I fell on the floor, on my
hands and knees. “Bubble!” my brain screamed. I pounded the
kitchen floor with all my strength, trying to swallow, and trying
to concentrate on the bubble of air stuck in my esophagus.
Instantly I became terrified. Tears of panic streamed down my
cheeks. After a few seconds, I could feel the force of my
pounding fists weaken. My fingernails scraped the floor. My
-46-
eyes became fixed on the floor. The colors seemed to run
together. I began to feel myself drift away. I knew I was going
to die.
I came to my senses, and felt Mother slapping me on the back.
The force of her blows made me burp, and I was able to breathe
again. As I forced huge gulps of air back into my lungs, Mother
returned to her glass of booze. She took a long drink, gazed
down at me and blew a mist of air in my direction. “Now, that
wasn’t so hard, was it?” Mother said, finishing her glass before
dismissing me downstairs to my cot.
The next evening was a repeat performance, but this time in
front of Father. She boasted to him, “This will teach The Boy to
quit stealing food!” I knew she was only doing it for her sick,
perverted pleasure. Father stood lifeless as Mother fed me
another dose of ammonia. But this time, I fought back. She had
to pry my mouth open, and by thrashing my head from side to
side, I was able to make her spill most of the cleaner onto the
floor. But not enough. Again I clenched my fingers together,
beating the floor. I looked up at Father, trying to call out to him.
My thoughts were clear, but no sound escaped from my mouth.
He simply stood above me, showing no emotion, as I pounded
my hands by my feet. As if she were kneeling to pet one of her
dogs, Mother again slapped me on the back a few times before I
blacked out.
The next morning while cleaning the bathroom, I looked in
the mirror to inspect my burning tongue. Layers of flesh were
scraped away, while remaining parts were red and raw. I stood,
staring into the sink, feeling how lucky I was to be alive.
Although Mother never made me swallow ammonia again,
she did make me drink spoonfuls of Clorox a few times. But
Mother’s favorite game seemed to be dishwashing soap. From
the bottle she would squeeze the cheap, pink liquid down my
throat and command that I stand in the garage. My mouth
became so dry, I sneaked away to the garage faucet and filled
-47-
my stomach full of water. Soon I discovered my dreadful
mistake, and diarrhea took hold. I cried out to Mother upstairs,
begging her to let me use the toilet upstairs. She refused. I stood
downstairs, afraid to move, as clumps of the watery matter fell
through my underwear and down my pant legs, onto the floor.
I felt so degraded; I cried like a baby. I had no selfrespect of
any kind. I needed to go to the bathroom again, but I was too
afraid to move. Finally, as my insides twisted and turned, I
gathered the last of my dignity. I waddled to the garage sink,
grabbed a fivegallon bucket and squatted to relieve myself. I
closed my eyes trying to think of a way to clean myself and my
clothes when suddenly, the garage door opened behind me. I
turned my head to see Father, looking on dispassionately, as his
son “mooned” him and as the brown seepage spilled into the
bucket. I felt lower than a dog.
Mother didn’t always win. Once, during a week when I was
not allowed to attend school, she squeezed the soap into my
mouth and told me to clean the kitchen. She didn’t know it, but I
refused to swallow the soap. As the minutes passed, my mouth
became filled with a combination of soap and saliva. I would not
allow myself to swallow. When I finished the kitchen chores, I
raced downstairs to empty the trash. I smiled from ear to ear, as
I closed the door behind me and spit out the mouthful of pink
soap. At the trash cans by the garage door, I reached into one of
the cans and plucked out a used paper towel, and wiped out the
inside of my mouth ensuring that I removed every drop of soap.
After I finished, I felt as though I had won the Olympic
Marathon. I was so proud for beating Mother at her own game.
Even though Mother caught me in most of my attempts to
feed myself, she couldn’t catch me all the time. After months of
being confined for hours at a time in the garage, my courage
took over and I stole bits of frozen food from the garage freezer.
I was fully aware that I could pay for my crime at any time, so I
ate every morsel as if it were my last meal.
-48-
In the darkness of the garage I closed my eyes, dreaming I
was a king dressed in the finest robes, eating the best food
mankind had to offer. As I held a piece of frozen pumpkin pie
crust or a bit of a taco shell, I was the king, and like a king on
his throne, I gazed down on my food and smiled.
-49-
5 – The Accident
The summer of 1971 set the tone for the remainder of the time
that I lived with Mother.
I had not yet reached my nth birthday, but for the most part, I
knew what forms of punishment to expect. To exceed one of
Mother’s time limits on any of my multiple chores, meant no
food. If I looked at her or one of her sons without her
permission, I received a slap in the face. If I was caught stealing
food, I knew Mother would either repeat an old form of
punishment or dream up something new and hideous. Most of
the time Mother seemed to know exactly what she was doing,
and I could anticipate what she might do next. However, I
always kept my guard up and tensed my entire body if I thought
she might come my way.
As June turned to early July, my morale dwindled. Food was
little more than a fantasy. I rarely received even leftover
breakfast, no matter how hard I worked, and I was never fed
lunch. As for dinner, I averaged about one evening meal every
three days.
One particular July day began like any other mundane day, in
my now slave like existence. I had not eaten in three days.
Because school was out for the summer, my options for finding
food vanished. As always during dinner, I sat at the bottom of
the stairs with my buttocks on top of my hands, listening to the
sounds of “the family” eating. Mother now demanded that I sit
on my hands with my head thrust backward, in a “prisoner of
war” position. I let my head fall forward, half dreaming that I
was one of them – a member of “the family”. I must have fallen
asleep because I was suddenly awakened by Mother’s snarling
voice, “Get up here! Move your ass!” she yelled.
At the first syllable of her order I snapped my head level,
-50-
stood up and sprinted up the stairs. I prayed that tonight I would
get something, anything, to soothe my hunger.
I had begun clearing the dishes from the dining room table at
a feverish pace, when Mother called me into the kitchen. I
bowed my head as she began to babble her time limits to me.
“You have 20 minutes! One minute, one second more, and you
go hungry again! Is that understood?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Look at me when I’m talking to you!” she snapped.
Obeying her command, I slowly raised my head. As my head
came up, I saw Russell rocking back and forth on Mother’s left
leg. The harsh tone of Mother’s voice didn’t seem to bother him.
He simply stared at me through a set of cold eyes. Even though
Russell was only four or five years old at the time, he had
become Mother’s “Little Nazi”, watching my every move,
making sure I didn’t steal any food. Sometime he would make
up tales for Mother so he could watch me receive punishment. It
really wasn’t Russell’s fault. I knew Mother had brainwashed
him, but I had begun to turn cold towards him and hate him just
the same.
“Do you hear me?” Mother yelled. “Look at me when I’m
talking to you!” As I looked at her, Mother snatched a carving
knife from the counter top and screamed, “if you don’t finish on
time, I’m going to kill you!”
Her words had no effect on me. She had said the same thing
over and over again for almost a week now. Even Russell wasn’t
fazed by her threat. He kept rocking on Mother’s leg as if he
were riding a stick pony. She apparently wasn’t pleased with her
renewed tactic because she continued to badger on and on as the
clock ticked away, eating up my time limit. I wished she would
just shut up and let me work. I was desperate to meet her time
limits. I wanted so much to have something to eat. I dreaded
going to sleep another night.
-51-
Something looked wrong. Very wrong! I strained to focus my
eyes on Mother. She had begun to wave the knife in her right
hand. Again, I was not overly frightened. She had done this
before too. “Eyes,” I told myself. “Look at her eyes.” I did, and
they seemed normal for her – halfglazed over. But my instincts
told me there was something wrong. I didn’t think she was
going to hit me, but my body began to tense anyway. As I
became more tense, I saw what was wrong. Partly because of
Russell’s rocking motion, and partly because of the motion of
her arm and hand with the knife, Mother’s whole body bega n to
weave back and forth. For a moment I thought she was going to
fall.
She tried to regain her balance, snapping at Russell to let go
of her leg, while she continued to scream at me. By then, her
upper body looked like a rocking chair that was out of control.
Forgetting about her useless threats, I imagined that the old
drunk was going to fall flat on her face. I focused all of my
attention on Mother’s face. Out of the corner of my eye I saw a
blurred object fly from her hand. A sharp pain erupted from just
above my stomach. I tried to remain standing, but my legs gave
out, and my world turned black.
As I gained consciousness, I felt a warm sensation flowing
from my chest. It took me a few seconds to realize where I was.
I sat propped up on the toilet. I turned towards Russell who
began chanting, “David’s going to die. The Boy’s going to die.”
I moved my eyes towards my stomach. On her knees, Mother
was hastily applying a thick wad of gauze to a place on my
stomach where dark red blood pumped out. I tried to say
something. I knew it was an accident. I wanted Mother to know
that I forgave her, but I felt too faint to speak. My head slumped
forward again and again, as I tried to hold it up. I lost track of
time as I returned to darkness.
When I woke up, Mother was still on her knees wrapping a
cloth around my lower chest. She knew exactly what she was
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doing. Many times when we were younger, Mother told Ron,
Stan and I how she had intended to become a nurse, until she
met Father. Whenever she was confronted with an accident
around the home, she was in complete control. I never doubted
her nursing abilities for a second. I simply waited for her to load
me in the car and take me to the hospital. I felt sure that she
would. It was just a matter of time. I felt a cur ious sense of
relief. I knew in my heart it was over. This whole charade of
living like a slave had come to an end. Even Mother could not
lie about this one. I felt the accident had set me free.
It took Mother nearly half an hour to dress my wound. There
was no remorse in her eyes. I thought that, at the very least, she
would try to comfort me with her soothing voice. Looking at me
with no emotion, Mother stood up, washed her hands and told
me I now had 30 minutes to finish the dishes. I shook my head,
trying to understand what she had said. After a few seconds,
Mother’s message sunk in. Just as in the arm incident a few
years ago, Mother was not going to acknowledge what had
happened.
I had no time for selfpity. The clock was running. I stood up,
wobbled fo r a few seconds, then made my way to the kitchen.
With every step, pain ripped through my ribs and blood seeped
through my ragged Tshirt. By the time I reached the kitchen
sink, I leaned over and panted like an old dog.
From the kitchen I could hear Father in the living room,
flipping through his newspaper. I took a painfully deep breath,
hoping that I could shove off and make my way to Dad. But I
breathed too hard, and fell to the floor. After that I realized I had
to take short, choppy breaths. I made my way into the living
room. Sitting on the far end of the couch was my hero. I knew
he would take care of Mother and drive me to the hospital. I
stood before Father, waiting for him to turn his page and see me.
When he did, I stuttered, “Father … Mo … Mo … Mother
stabbed me.”
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He didn’t even raise an eyebrow. “Why?” he asked.
“She told me if I didn’t do the dishes on time … she’d kill
me.”
Time stood still. From behind the paper I could hear Father’s
labored breathing. He cleared his throat before saying, “Well …
you ah … you better go back in there and do the dishes.” My
head leaned forward as if to catch his words. I couldn’t believe
what I had just heard. Father must have sensed my confusion
when I saw him snap his paper and heard him raise his voice
saying, “Jesus H. Christ! Does Mother know that you’re here
talking to me? You better go back in there, and do the dishes.
Damn it boy, we don’t need to do anything that might make her
more upset! I don’t need to go through that tonight …” Father
stopped for a second, took a deep breath and lowered his voice,
whispering, “I tell you what; you go back in there and do the
dishes. I won’t even tell her that you told, okay? This will be our
little secret. Just go back in the kitchen and do the dishes. Go on
now, before she catches the both of us. Go!”
I stood before Father in total shock. He didn’t even look at
me. Somehow I felt if he could at least turn a corner flap of the
paper and search into my eyes, he would know; he would feel
my pain, how desperate I was for his help. But, as always, I
knew that Mother controlled him like she controlled everything
that happened in her house. I think Father and I both knew the
code of “the family” – if we don’t acknowledge a problem, it
simply does not exist. As I stood before Father, not knowing
what to do next, I looked down and saw droplets of blood
staining the family’s carpet. I had felt in my heart that he would
scoop me up in his arms and take me away. I even imagined him
ripping off his shirt to expose his true identity, before flying
through the air like Superman.
I turned away. All my respect for Father was gone. The savior
I had imagined for so long was a phony. I felt more angry at him
than I did at Mother. I wished that somehow I could fly away,
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but the throbbing pain brought me back to reality.
I washed the dishes as fast as my body would let me. I quickly
learned that moving my forearm resulted in a sharp pain above
my stomach. If I sidestepped from the wash basin to the rise
basin, another pain raced through my body. I could feel what
little strength I had, draining away. As Mother’s time limit
passed, so did my chances of getting fed.
I wanted to just lie down and quit, but the promise I made
years ago kept me going. I wanted to show The Bitch that she
could beat me only if I died, and I was determined not to give in,
even to death. As I washed the dishes, I learned that by standing
on my toes and leaning my upper body towards the counter top,
I could relieve some of the pressure on my lower chest. Instead
of sidestepping every few seconds, I washed a few dishes at a
time, then moved over and rinsed them all together. After drying
the dishes, I dreaded the task of putting them away. The
cupboards were above my head, and I knew reaching for them
would cause great pain. Holding a small plate, I stretched my
legs as far as I could and tried to raise my arms above my head
to put the dish away. I almost made it, but the pain was too
great. I crumbled to the floor.
By now, my shirt was saturated with blood. As I tried to
regain my footing, I felt Father’s strong hands helping me. I
brushed him away. “Give me the dishes,” he said. “I’ll put them
away. You better go downstairs and change that shirt.” I didn’t
say a word as I turned away. I looked at the clock. It had taken
me nearly an hour and a half to complete my chore. My right
hand clamped tightly onto the railing, as I slowly made my way
downstairs. I could actually see the blood seep from my Tshirt
with every step I took.
Mother met me at the bottom of the stairs. As she tore the
shirt from my body, I could see Mother was doing it as gently as
she could, however, she gave me no other comfort. I could see it
was just a matter of business to her. In the past, I had seen her
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treat animals with more compassion than she did me.
I was so weak that I accidentally fell against her as she
dressed me in an old, oversized Tshirt. I expected Mother to hit
me, but she allowed me to rest against her for a few seconds.
Then Mother set me at the bottom of the stairs and left. A few
minutes later, Mother returned with a glass of water. I gulped it
down as fast as I could swallow. When I finished, Mother told
me that she couldn’t feed me right away. She said she would
feed me in a few hours when I felt better. Again, her voice was
monotone – completely without emotion.
Stealing a glance, I could see the California twilight being
overtaken by darkness. Mother told me I could play outside with
the boys, on the driveway in front of the garage door. My head
was not clear. It took me a few seconds to understand what she
had said. “Go on, David. Go,” she persisted. With Mother’s
help, I limped out of the garage to the driveway. My brothers
casually looked me over, but they were much more interested in
lighting their Fourthof-July sparklers. As the minutes passed,
Mother became more compassionate towards me. She held me
by the shoulders as we watched my brothers make figure eights
with their sparklers. “Would you like one?” Mother asked. I
nodded yes. She held my hand as she knelt down to light the
sparkler. For a moment, I imagined the scent of the perfume
Mother wore years ago. But she had not used perfume or made
up her face for a long time.
As I played with my brothers, I couldn’t help but think about
Mother and the change in the way she was treating me. “Is she
trying to make up with me?” I wondered. “Are my days living in
the basement finally over? Am I back in the family fold?” For a
few minutes I didn’t care. My brothers seemed to accept my
presence, and I felt a feeling of friendship and warmth with
them that I thought had been buried forever.
Within a few seconds my sparkler fizzled out. I turned
towards the retreating sun. It had been forever since I had
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