Book Summary—Dave Pelzer: A Child Called “It”

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Part I: Summary

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Part II: Two Episodes

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Part III: Personal Reactions and Recommendations

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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 -11- 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 -12- 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 -15- 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 -19- 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 -52- 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.” -53- 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, -54- 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 -55- 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 -56- ...
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