Redemption (5 page)

Davenport, Iowa

owa was awesome. I was in preschool and felt smart because I knew how to write my name. Life was pretty fantastic at that age. I loved my little sister. I even had a little boyfriend named Bobby. My mom and his mom were close friends, so we saw each other often. He wasn’t really my boyfriend, but our moms would say stuff like that. We would hold hands, and the grown-ups would go on about how cute we were. I have mostly fond memories of that time. Mostly.

One day we were outside playing while our moms were inside doing mom stuff. Bobby didn’t like whatever I was playing with, so he pushed me. I got mad. He had no right to push me; we were supposed to be having fun together. So I decided enough was enough, and I hit him as hard as my preschool self could. I think it was more of a shove than a punch, but either way, it was enough to scare Bobby and make him leave me alone.

What I remember most is how my mom reacted. She was so proud of me. She was glad I hadn’t been scared. She said to his mom and the two of us, “I’m glad Stacey won’t take anything off of a boy.” She really believed that, as if shoving a boy would be the answer if a male attacked me.

No one was mad for long that day. The moms stayed friends, and so did Bobby and I. But I felt more powerful. My mom bought me a figurine with a girl holding a bat. At the bottom, it stated, “Anything boys can do, girls can do better.”

I really didn’t fight much. Mostly, I was just a little kid who liked to take bubble baths with Mr. Bubble—I could make the biggest bubble wigs in the bathtub that my mom had ever seen. Sometimes, Christy and I would take baths together. That stopped when I realized that she peed in the water.

We dressed alike, and we felt so pretty. Mee Maw bought us matching Easter outfits every year. And anytime we had special photos taken, she made sure we had new clothes. She loved to buy us things. We would get anything we wanted—toy phones, books, baby dolls, whatever. All we had to do was ask. She was so sweet to Christy and me. She was retired then, and wasn’t involved in a lot of things outside of family. She just took care of Ken and watched
Wheel of Fortune
. I’m sure there was more to her life than that, but that’s all I remember. She seemed to live for her grandchildren—and my dad. She spoiled us. Mee Maw knew Mom wouldn’t let us have sugary cereal because we had cavities in our baby teeth, so when we got to her house, we’d get to choose a box from those six-packs of assorted sweet cereals. It was heaven. I loved visiting her, and I would do anything for her. I did do everything for her later, when I was a teenager.

Whenever we saw her, she’d say, “Oh, here are my baby girls!”

Grandpa didn’t say much, and I don’t remember him as the tanned, bespectacled, mechanical genius that he was. He had a damaging stroke before I turned five. Grandma Lannert had to devote her life to taking care of him. I don’t think she liked it, but she didn’t concern us with the situation as much as she did my parents. She complained to them.

My dad also liked sugary cereal, but unlike Grandma Lannert, he would not give us any. He ate Trix, but it was off limits to us.

Christy and I would beg him, “Let us have Trix!”

“Nope,” he’d say from his spot on his bright orange velour chair.

We’d jump up and down. “Trix are for kids!”

“Trix are for Dad.” He was smiling, but he wasn’t kidding.

We girls got Kix instead. That was the bland, healthy stuff shaped like little balls. But sometimes, Mom would bring home a box of Trix for Dad, and we would get to it before either of them found out.

When he got home, he’d complain, “Who’s been in my Trix?”

We would giggle and hide.

At least he let us eat his popcorn sometimes—but not out of his bowl. His famous bowl was the biggest, yellowest piece of Tupperware you can imagine. When he made popcorn, it was special. He stood over the stove shaking the metal pan as the kernels hopped around. He popped it on the stove using lots of oil and topped it with this salty, buttery, bright orange seasoning. When Dad made popcorn, he was happy.

My mom bought him one of those air poppers. She’d try to get him to use it because it was healthier. He didn’t want any part of it; he wanted to pop it himself, and
shake it, shake it, shake it
. Sometimes he was just so much fun.

Mom was fun, too, but she was the serious parent. She was responsible for discipline because that’s the way Dad thought it should be. When he was a kid, his mom had done the punishing while his father traveled, so Dad thought that discipline was the mother’s job. Mom corrected us and did the spanking, rarely Dad. Instead, he was goofy. He’d take the whole box of Trix and mix it with his popcorn in his yellow bowl. Then he’d tease us with it. Eventually, he’d get out two little bowls, and we’d get a treat, too.

It was common for him to come home, have dinner, and then relax and eat popcorn while watching sports. Football and baseball were his picks; he didn’t care for basketball. He spent Sunday afternoons in front of the TV. He loved his college team and other Midwestern teams. I sat on his lap and watched with him. We’d talk for hours and hours. Christy was usually with Mom; she’d sit still and color when I was with my dad.

If he wasn’t watching TV, Dad was down on the floor playing with me. He wouldn’t even take off his work clothes first—he’d be in his polo shirt and brown pants from a nice store called Famous Barr. He always wore the same leather loafers. Sometimes, he wore suits when he was working. I remember him shopping at a store called Grandpa Pigeon’s, which despite the name, was surprisingly nice. The only time he dressed down was on the weekends. He wore ringer T-shirts and shorts that were frayed on the ends and splattered with paint. He often wore his Marines jacket when he wasn’t working. He usually looked more put together than other dads.

When I was a baby, I had a little ghost on a stick that he’d wiggle behind my head. He’d throw me high up in the air until I got too big; then he’d just hold me. I have a photo of him looking totally handsome and happy—baby Christy is sleeping in the crook of his right arm; I’m on the left, with his left arm around me, and I’m thrilled. I have both hands pressed against my cheeks. I’m smiling because I’m with Daddy.

Becoming a Tiger

efore I started kindergarten, we packed up and moved from Iowa to Manchester, Missouri. I was sad to leave Bobby, but Mom said I would make friends and learn to swim. She told me about the community pool that was just a few short blocks from our new ranch-style home. She also promised to paint my new room any color I wanted, and I told her I wanted purple. We had a new dog, a white toy poodle named Max, and I was in love with him. Of course, Mom told me Max was moving with us and would have a big fenced-in yard for playing. As sad as I was to leave the old place, I was even more excited about something new.

Our new house was beautiful, and I quickly made friends with a girl named Jennifer. Mom spent most of her time redecorating our new home, and that gave me plenty of time to play with my new buddy. I would get mad when Christy wanted to join us because she was just a baby who would mess up Candy Land and Chutes and Ladders. So Christy spent more time with Mom, helping her with all the household jobs.

Jenny and I even rode the same bus to kindergarten. We had the best bus driver in the entire world. His name was George, and he was at least sixty years old with shocking white hair, a wrinkled face, and kind blue eyes. He wore a uniform, a white oxford shirt and black pants, every day even though it was not required. He knew all kinds of kid music, and he would lead his troupe of five-year-olds in song as if we were his choir. My favorite was “The Wheels on the Bus.” We could get loud, but George would just smile and sing.

Life was as ideal as it possibly could be, but then I began to have trouble with a boy on the bus. His name was Butch and he was mean to me every day. George would yell at him to stop, but he wouldn’t. He would sit one seat in front of me and throw things at me, or sit behind me and pull my hair. I started wearing glasses, and one day, he threw a football in my face. It gave me a black eye. When I came home crying to Mom, she sat me down and told me, “Anything boys can do, girls can do better. Don’t let any boy hurt you.” I looked at my figurine and vowed to stand up for myself next time.

The next time came faster than I expected. The following day, Butch sat right in front of me and started up again. He leaned over the back of his seat and pulled one of my pigtails. I told him to stop, or I was going to hit him. He scoffed, shook his head, and leaned over to pull again. I cocked my arm back, balled up my fist, and let one fly. I caught him square in his eye. Butch started crying.

Terrified of what I’d done and whether I’d get in trouble, I looked into the rearview mirror, and I saw George’s kind eyes looking straight at me. He smiled and nodded his head. I got the silent message that George was proud of me. But I still worried that I’d get into trouble.

Mom was waiting for me at the bus stop, and I immediately told her everything that had happened. George was still at the curb, and Mom stepped onto the bus to speak to him for a minute. When she returned, she took my hand and walked me home.

“Am I in trouble?” I asked.

“No, but we have to tell your father.” She squeezed my hand, but I wasn’t reassured.

I thought,
Uh-oh
.

I waited in the living room for Dad to come home. I was terrified. How would he react? Would he be mad? Would he spank me? He had never spanked me before. Why wasn’t he home yet? He was usually home by now; what was taking so long?

He came home late and happy, with the faint smell of something heavy, sweet, and increasingly familiar on his breath. He scooped me up into his arms and hugged the giggles out of me. Mom came into the room, and I put on my somber face again.

“Tom, Stacey has something she needs to tell you,” Mom said.

He smiled.

I was still in his arms as I said, “I hit Butch today on the bus.”

“Where did you hit him?” He put on his serious voice.

“In the eye.” I was trembling. I felt bad about it.

He lowered me down to the ground and said, “Show me how.”

I balled my fist, pulled back, and swung into the air. Then I looked into Daddy’s face for a reaction.

“You are quite the little tiger, aren’t you?” he said, smiling. I looked at Mom, and she smiled, too. We all just stood there smiling. I sighed heavily, very relieved.

Then the doorbell rang. Butch was standing on our front porch with his parents. He had a bright blue black eye. Mom and I went out on the porch to talk to them while Dad changed clothes. Mom draped her arm over my shoulder. With this new development, I still didn’t know if I’d get in trouble or not. His parents wanted me disciplined; I could tell by their faces. Butch’s Mom said something so low that I couldn’t quite hear it, but my mom wasn’t intimidated.

She said, “I’m not going to punish Stacey for standing up for herself.”

His parents were hot, but there wasn’t much they could do. They hadn’t come looking for a fight; they just wanted to make sure I got scolded. And I didn’t.

Whew
.

Mom went on to tell Butch’s mom: “George says your child picks on Stacey all the time. I’m proud of her this time.” She gave me a little squeeze—a half hug—and I beamed. I couldn’t help but smile and look up at her gratefully. I felt strong and brave and thankful. Both of my parents were proud of me.

When we walked back into the house my new nickname was born, “There’s my Little Tiger. Come give me a hug,” Daddy said.

I ran into my father’s arms.

———

During the summer of that year I had another “fight,” but this time it was with a girl. Her name was Kendra, and she was horrible. She was big and mean, and she called me names like butt face. I knew she wanted to fight me. This was bad. I ran into our house looking for backup. Maybe Christy could help me—she was especially feisty. Or at the very least, my parents might be able to tell me what I should do. It turned out that Christy was out with Mom, but at least I found my daddy. He was sleeping on the couch. I thought it would be okay to wake him up because Kendra’s desire to whip my butt was important.

I shook him frantically.

“This girl outside says she’s going to beat me up.” I was panting and scared. I hadn’t meant to start stuff with her—that’s the kind of thing my sister did—but I didn’t want to be a soft little flower petal either. I wanted Kendra off my back.

“Go fight her,” he told me, still groggy. He seemed amused. I did not think this was funny.

“I can’t do that,” I said. I thought,
Do I hit her or slap her or kick her
? I had no clue, but none of the options sounded like fun to me. I did know how to mouth off, though, and that’s exactly what had gotten me into hot water in the first place.

“Throw something at her, Tiger,” he said as he rolled off the couch. I followed him into the kitchen where he handed me an egg.

I went back outside and threw that egg right at her—or somewhere in her vicinity. I thought I had been cool and tough, but actually, the egg had lobbed through the air like a badminton birdie. I totally missed Kendra, but I was proud of my effort. The only bad thing was, she was even more enraged. I decided it was best to run inside and hide.

A few minutes later, Kendra’s dad came over, yelling as he knocked on our door. Gearing up for a fight of his own, my dad talked tough as he stalked to the front door. He told me to stay out of sight. I hid around the corner, expecting things to get ugly fast. To my surprise, though, he backed down quickly, apologized for the incident, and put on his charm. He talked Kendra’s dad down, and they left our lawn. When I asked him why he didn’t fight, he told me Kendra’s father was the assistant coach for St. Louis’ football team. The man was very big, kind of like Kendra.

“Can I still be a tiger even though I lost?” I asked.

My dad answered, “There is one thing I have learned from the Mizzou Tigers, kid. Sometimes you may lose, but in your heart you are still a Tiger. You, Stacey, have the heart of a tiger.” I think my dad and I both felt whipped, but we felt whipped together. We were a team, and that made everything okay.