Redemption (8 page)

We’d pretend like we couldn’t hear them as we sat silently in front of the TV. If we still had food in front of us, we’d stop eating it.

Sometimes he was mean, and yelled all kinds of nasty things at her. Other times he was gentle, and he’d try to rub her arm. She’d say, “Don’t touch me.”

More often than not, we heard the words, “I’m not really drunk.”

I believed him. Getting drunk was something that bad people did. My daddy was not bad. He couldn’t be.

I thought all parents got along about the same as mine. I thought all moms and dads chose their favorite children. I thought all daddies came home late smelling funny and making noise. I didn’t have close friends, so I couldn’t compare my family to anyone else’s. We had moved too often for me to get close to people. I didn’t have a clue what was normal—and what was not.

I only knew that when he came looking for me, he made things better.

“Come here, Tiger. Sit on my lap,” he’d say, smelling tangy yet sweet. His lap was soft and warm. “Tell me how your day was.”

My mom never asked me about my day. She didn’t tell me everything was going to turn out all right. She didn’t hug me all the time. I couldn’t comprehend how she got so mad at him. When he was drinking, he seemed happy to me. He’d make jokes and slow down and spend more time with me. We’d talk about everything. I could listen to him for a hundred years; it didn’t matter what he said. He hugged me as I sat on his lap.

The Real Alhambra

lhambra wasn’t the Camelot I had hoped it would be. The village—it wasn’t even a town—had fewer than six hundred people. Residents held various blue-collar jobs after the steel mills closed in the ’80s. Of course, farming was big. Corn and soybean fields bordered long stretches of country roads. Alhambra was all-white, rural Midwestern American farmland.

Kids at school were mean. They had all grown up together, and I was a newcomer, and not in a good way. They called me a weirdo. All of their parents were truck drivers or farmers, and my dad was an actuary. They’d look at me cockeyed and ask, “What’s that?” I couldn’t explain it to them—I barely knew what my dad did. Those kids called me a snob, not realizing that I liked to play outside during the rain as much as they did.

When they asked me what kind of stuff I liked to do, I talked about waterskiing. That was a mistake. These kids swung from a rope into the lake or went fishing for bluegill. They’d never even heard of waterskiing, my favorite summertime activity in the world. I couldn’t find common ground with them, and there was just no place for me to fit in. The girls had their little tomboy cliques, and compared to them, I looked like Malibu Barbie. I couldn’t be known as the new girl because there was already another more popular new girl. So, for the first time, I dreaded going to school. Christy, however, liked her new first-grade class, and she made friends. Not me. I thought all rural kids were brutal in a yee-haw kind of way.

I missed my old classmates—suburban kids who seemed to be more open-minded. They had to be more adaptable and less judgmental. For instance, my last school had four classes for each grade level. In Alhambra, the one third-grade class had fifteen kids. I also had trouble with my teacher, and I had no choice but to stay in his class. If the kids were tough on me, Mr. Richardson was even tougher. Alhambra students had learned cursive writing in second grade. At my old school, we didn’t learn it until third. I couldn’t do the loopy script any better than I could go frog-gigging. So Mr. Richardson put Fs on my writing assignments because I completed them in print. My mom had to teach me cursive at home with workbooks. Meanwhile, he kept telling her I was slow. She told him—and me—that I most certainly was not slow. She went to battle over it, insisting that I was smart. The year before in Kansas, I had been asked to go into an advanced class, and now in that rinky-dink town, everyone thought I was dumb.

I knew I wasn’t. About the same time, my aunt Deanna was studying to get her GED. She had decided to drop out of school. I looked at the workbooks and explained some of the exercises to her when she had trouble. We both took the practice tests, and sometimes I scored higher. She got mad at me, but I didn’t care. At least I had proof that I wasn’t stupid.

I didn’t have school friends, so I spent most of my time with my family. Aunt Deanna lived close by, and I thought she was cool. She was the baby out of five kids, and her parents and siblings spoiled her rotten. She was very pretty—she looked like my mother, petite and blond. Deanna wore lots of makeup, and she always fixed her hair. Her smile alone told the world that she was beautiful. She carried herself in an entitled way, and she acted entitled. When she was a teenager, she went to Branson, Missouri, with us and bought a T-shirt that said, “God’s gift.” She wore it immediately.

Christy and I followed her around like puppy dogs. We danced around in her room to Madonna songs when she let us. She fixed our hair and let us play with her clothes. She let me wear her clogs; then she made me take them off. Deanna could flip her moods like a lightswitch.

Aunt Deanna was an addictive mix of good and bad. She could be entertaining, so we always came back for more abuse from our cool aunt. I also hung around with her because I didn’t have any other friends. She was just another wacky, weird part of my new life in Alhambra.

Grandpa Paulson’s Influence

ad didn’t like Grandpa Paulson, and to be honest, neither did I. Dad knew what Grandpa had done to my mother. My father called him a lowlife and a hillbilly right in front of us. But my dad, like me, didn’t have a lot of friends in Alhambra. When the tractor broke, he called my grandfather. When the faucet needed fixing, Grandpa Paulson worked on it with him. Slowly, the two of them became friends.

Together they bought a 1950s Ford that needed a lot of work. They restored it in a shed my dad built for their project. On weekends, they’d tinker while they drank Busch. I’d go in and help sometimes, but I tried not to stay for long. My grandfather was too country. I didn’t like some of the things he said. He thought children should be quiet and women should stay in their place. A woman’s place, of course, was in the kitchen, and that went against everything my mom had taught me. She always told me I could be the president of Harvard if I set my mind to it. Grandpa didn’t think a woman needed much education—especially if she was only going to cook, clean, and have babies.

Men had a natural right to do what they wanted to their women—that’s what I think Grandpa believed.

My aunts, including Deanna, told me to stay away from him. That was fine with me; I didn’t feel safe around Grandpa Paulson.

But there was no keeping Daddy from working on that old Ford with Grandpa. I can only guess what ideas he got from my grandfather. This was at the same time Mom and Dad were starting to fight again, and I know my dad complained to Grandpa Paulson about their problems. He complained to all of us about my mom. Grandpa took my dad’s side, as any good ole boy would. Both Grandpa and Grandma thought my dad was great, and they didn’t support my mom during their fights. With everything they said and did, they seemed to show that they loved my father more than they loved their daughter. They’d tell Mom her marital problems were her fault.

I cringe to imagine the marital advice Richard Paulson could have given my dad. I overheard him complaining that Mom wasn’t “giving him any.” I didn’t know what “any” was. Looking back, I can picture Grandpa Paulson telling him, “Who cares? You’ve got Stacey.”

The more terrible an idea is, the easier it can be to fall into.

I wish I hadn’t been on my father’s side back then, but I very much was. To me, he was right, and Mom was wrong. My eight-year-old eyes saw her as weak. She never stood up to her own parents. She couldn’t control arguments with my dad. She did what he said, and he never did what she asked him to do. When they fought, Dad would call her “a worthless piece of shit.” His put-downs became nastier over time. It was confusing for me because I didn’t like what he said, but I loved him. Maybe she caused him to behave that way—as he claimed. No matter what, I supported him, and I wanted to be his favorite daughter.

Now I realize that the cards were stacked against Mom no matter what she did. Her family was rife with alcoholism and sexual abuse, and she didn’t stand a chance as long as she accepted the role of victim. A victim is someone who relives her abuse and continues to suffer from it long after it’s over. She thought the abuse she suffered was her fault, not her parents’. Mom wasn’t a victim forever, but she was then. She thought she could find peace and happiness in what was familiar.

Instead, she brought Christy and me to an unsafe world.

A Death in the Family

hen I was eight, Grandpa Lannert died. My dad hadn’t been that close to him for several years, but he was devastated nonetheless. I didn’t understand the meaning of death yet, so his passing was easy for me to accept. Paw Paw had been very ill after having several strokes, and he went peacefully in his sleep.

My dad couldn’t accept it. The finality of their troubled relationship seemed to push him over the edge.

He went on drinking binges, sometimes with my other grandfather. I do believe Grandpa Paulson may have been a bad influence during that upside-down time. Dad fought with my mom and Christy nonstop. He spent hours and hours with me in the basement playing Ping-Pong and watching TV, the only times he seemed to feel better. Downstairs with me, he calmed down. He would even smile sometimes. He’d loosen up and turn into Daddy again, telling stories and cracking jokes. I wanted to help him. I stayed with him as often as he’d have me.

My mom was wearing down. She wasn’t home as much, and when she was, she stayed in her room more often. When she was around, she and Dad fought. They even argued about sex in front of us. Christy and I didn’t know what sex was; we just knew my mom “was a bitch” for not “giving it up.”

Shortly after the funeral, Dad and I were in our downstairs family room as usual.

I was lying on the floor, and my father was relaxing in his recliner. He asked me to sit on his lap, and of course, I did.

“Come on, Tiger,” he said to me.

“Okay, Daddy.” I was excited that he was in a good mood again. He’d been so nasty since Paw Paw died.

“Honey, you’re going to be nine years old soon. Do you know what that means?” he asked. He held my arms tight like he was about to say something very important.

“It means I get a lot of presents!” I answered. I loved birthdays.

“Yes,” he said, smiling. Then he added. “Being nine means you’re a big girl now—and big girls do certain things.” He waited a few seconds. “Give me a kiss.”

I gave him a proper kiss on the cheek like I always did.

He shook his head no. “That’s not how big girls kiss.”

“How do they kiss, Daddy?” I was curious, I wanted to be big, and I wanted to please him.

“Open your mouth, and I’ll show you.” He turned his head so it faced mine, and he got really close.

The position was weird. But I was always willing to try what he said. I opened my mouth as widely as I could. He rubbed my back, and he encouraged me to just relax.

Then he started nibbling on my lips. It felt okay—nothing about it hurt; nothing about it was unpleasant. But the kiss was also strange and tickly, so I started laughing.

“Just relax,” he said. He told me to soften my face and mouth as he started nibbling my lips once again. After a few long seconds, he stuck his tongue in my mouth. I giggled. It felt funny playing Touch Tongues with Daddy. Christy and I played it. We stuck our tongues out at each other, shut our eyes, and moved in closer until our tongues collided. We’d fall over laughing about it.

He let me laugh for a while. Then he said, “Let’s play again.”

So I opened my mouth—not too wide, not too hard—to play Touch Tongues with Daddy.

“Wiggle your tongue a little bit, Tiger,” he requested.

Strangeness wrapped me like a wet blanket. His tongue was a ball of gum, chokingly large. It was hard to breathe with his mouth clamped over mine. I was not having fun anymore, but he was. He made noises, and he told me I was doing a good job. As long as he was happy, I kept playing.

There were more rules to this game. Daddy took my hand and moved it to his crotch area. It was hard, and I had never felt or imagined anything like it.

“What’s that?” I asked. I felt around just a little bit, fumbling with my fingers. I was curious. But I also wasn’t sure I wanted to know the answer to my question.

He told me he had a special friend, and he asked if I would like to see it.

I said yes because I didn’t want to disappoint him. But I was scared of his friend. Something felt off to me, but I tried not to worry because Daddy was happy, and Daddy would always protect me from everything. Next, he opened his pants and underwear and pulled it out. I stared in amazement at the first penis I’d ever seen. I mean, I had caught him naked once when I barged in on him in the bathroom, but that was an accident. This time was completely different.

I told myself,
Okay, this isn’t too weird. Really, it’s not weird
.

He asked me to kiss his friend, and I didn’t hesitate. I always did what he told me to do. I didn’t feel scared or threatened because I was with the one person in the world I trusted. His friend looked like a snake or something. It changed sizes and moved around. I couldn’t stop laughing. I told him his friend was alive.

I said, “It keeps growing!” Then I giggled some more.

“Open your mouth, Tiger, and let my friend in.” I opened as wide as I could for the second time that night. He put his friend inside my mouth and told me to close my mouth. He jumped suddenly and said ouch. I guess I bit him. He wasn’t mad at me. He just told me to not close all the way.

“Keep your mouth open a little bit. Let my friend just sit inside.” He rubbed my back trying to get me to relax.

This position was very uncomfortable for me, and when he started to move his penis back and forth, I choked. Instinctively, I backed away from him, sat up straight, and clamped my mouth shut. I hadn’t meant to react so definitively; it just happened.

“You don’t like that?” he asked. He was calm, kind, and patient with me.

I shook my head no. “It hurts me when he moves.”

“Well, Tiger, my friend also likes to be licked. Can you do that?”

Of course, I’d try it if he wanted me too, and licking his friend didn’t hurt as much. But then I stopped because white stuff came out, and it tasted bitter.

“You don’t like that?” he asked. “That’s marshmallow cream.”

“It tastes funny! Yuck!” I wanted to stop.

He told me not to give up yet and to hang on a second. He went into a back room where we stored extra groceries. He had a jar of marshmallow cream in his hands. I was a little less worried because I loved marshmallow cream. I watched as he put some on his friend.

“Okay, this will be better,” he said. “Try it again.”

When I finished licking off all the cream, he put more on. He told me to keep going and to pretend it was a popsicle. I did, and more white stuff—not marshmallow cream—squirted into my mouth almost instantly. The taste was disgusting, so I ran into the bathroom and spit it out. I was scared to come out of the bathroom again. I didn’t want to play with his friend anymore.

“Come here, Tiger,” he said calmly. “Sit on my lap.”

“I don’t want to play anymore,” I said from the bathroom.

“We’re not going to play. Let’s talk.”

I still trusted him, so I walked toward him again. If he said we weren’t going to play, then we weren’t. I climbed into his lap in the exact spot I’d been sitting before.

“You know that you’re a big girl now?” he asked.

“Uh-huh.”

“Big girls know how to keep a secret. Can you keep a secret, Tiger?” He looked into my eyes, but I kept looking down.

“Yes.”

“Our little game is our secret. My friend is our secret, okay?” He gently nudged me to make sure that I got it.

“Why?”

“Because I usually only play this game with Mommy, and she may get mad that I’m playing it with you instead of her. We don’t want her mad at us, do we?” He was very serious about this talk, so I listened carefully.

“No.” The last thing I wanted to do was give them something else to fight about.

“Good. Then this means that you’re my number one daughter,” he said, smiling.

I was so excited. I hugged him.

“Now we have a father-daughter secret. Christy doesn’t have a secret, so that makes you my favorite daughter.” He started to look away and fiddle around in the chair.

“I love you, Daddy!” I yelled it. I was delighted. At that moment, I was the happiest little girl in the world.

I had no idea that my life had changed forever.