Читать книгу The Calling - Kim O'Neill - Страница 12

Even as a kid, I knew that my childhood wasn’t normal. Every Saturday night I worried about the abuse my mother would suffer—verbally and physically—at the hands of my alcoholic father. I never knew from one week to the next if we’d be spending Sunday morning watching cartoons and eating pancakes or waiting in the emergency room of the local hospital.

My father, the only child of Swedish immigrants who were themselves big drinkers, would have his first beer early Saturday afternoon. I would watch helplessly, like a practiced—but unarmed—soldier witnessing an all-powerful enemy mobilizing for the inevitable assault that was sure to come later the same day. Unlike my gentle Scandinavian grandparents, alcohol triggered a metamorphosis in my dad that would abruptly transform him from a sensitive, insecure, intelligent human being into a raging, abusive beast.

Despite the fact that my father drank beer all afternoon, he’d still be jovial at dinner. He would eagerly fire up his large Weber grill in the garage, and the flames would shoot alarmingly close to the raftered ceiling where our bikes hung along with the summer lawn chairs. Even in the frigid Midwestern winter, my father would patiently wait outside until the flames died down and the charcoal briquettes were properly red and glowing. While my mother made salad, sautéed mushrooms, and baked potatoes in the kitchen, he’d be in the garage grilling his thick-cut, specially marinated sirloin steaks. As they sizzled and crackled, the rapturous smell would perfume the neighborhood. Each tantalizing slab of Angus beef was painstakingly cooked to order for each member of the family. Unlike anyone else, I liked mine bloody rare. Somehow, he was always able to consistently present that to me. With anticipation, he would hover next to my chair as I inspected the heavily-charred piece of meat so tender that I could cut it with my fork. Inside, pale pink edges framed a red, raw center, and I’d squeal with excitement and tell him that it was perfection! My happy acknowledgment gave him a great deal of pleasure. My dad would comically roll his eyes, asking whether the semi-raw piece of meat needed more grill time, and I’d shake my head, already happily munching.

With the illogical denial of people in the eye of a hurricane whose full strength had not yet hit shore, we’d share a boisterous family dinner where we all laughed and talked over one another.

When we had polished off the last of my father’s culinary masterpiece, my mother and I would clear the dinner dishes and prepare a hot apple pie or frozen chocolate whipped cream cake for dessert. Then we’d all retire—uncomfortably full—to the family room to watch TV. Besides my Dad’s steaks, watching Jackie Gleason on our brand new color TV was also a Saturday night tradition. My parents loved watching the Honeymooners. My two younger brothers and I would sit with them, never quite grasping why grownups thought the fights between Ralph and Alice were so funny.

Following a Saturday afternoon of inhaling six packs, my dad would start on the heavy stuff right after dinner, announcing to no one in particular, “I’ve only had one beer!” He especially liked brandy and Greek Ouzo. He called it Firewater. When my father started getting really drunk, he began to imitate Ralph Kramden during the commercials. At the pivotal moment, he’d look at my mother and say, “Bang! Boom! One of these days, Alice! To the moon!” We knew then that the eye of the storm was going to surrender to the full force of the hurricane. My father’s demons were about to be unleashed . . . full force!

In the flash of a second, my dad would snap and suddenly become unhinged. My two younger brothers and I had learned that when he exploded, we needed to become invisible. With the abruptness of a volcanic eruption, his mindless rage would spew and he’d lash out at my mother. She’d respond with tearful disbelief—as if it was the very first time—and try to escape by running upstairs to get away from him. He would charge after her, yelling, “Don’t you dare run away from me!” They would cloister themselves in the master suite where the verbal tirade would escalate into a physical assault. With adrenalin pumping, we kids would retreat into our individual bedrooms where we’d hear him abusing her for hours.

“You’re NOTHIN’!” he’d scream at the top of his lungs.

“No! Stop!” my mother would plead. There’d be the familiar sounds of muffled slaps. Because she was so terrified of him, I knew that she didn’t dare fight back. That would have made him angrier.

“I’ll see you and those kids in the GUTTER!” he’d threaten.

With my knees drawn up close, my whole body shaking, stomach heaving, I’d cower in my white provincial canopy bed, angry that the neighbors didn’t come to our rescue. I was always certain that his demented, drunken raving could be heard echoing throughout our middle-class subdivision.

Why did he want us in the “gutter”? What did that mean? Why was he so mad at her?

Would Daddy come after us? Was he mad at us, too?

“No!” would come the muted voice of my mother. “Stig—no—please!”

“You’re NUTHIN, you bitch! Nothin! DO YOU HEAR ME?”

My anger at the neighbors fueled a growing self-hatred. Why wasn’t I already a grown-up? I would fight him! I would save her! I fantasized about grabbing him and throwing him to the floor, screaming at him to leave her alone! Get out and never come back! We hate you!

On Saturday nights, the unaffordable colonial house that my parents had acquired “just for you kids” became an inescapable prison. My brothers and I were literally trapped inside with no place to hide. From the time I was five years old—when I had first witnessed the abuse—I kept praying that my Dad would stop drinking, or that my Mom would somehow turn into a superhero and save all of us . . . or involve someone who could. But as the weeks slowly turned into months, and the months unfolded into years, it became apparent that no one was going to come to our rescue.

One particular Saturday night, after consuming a whole bottle of Greek Ouzo, my father went berserk. No more Ralph Kramden . . . he literally snapped. I had never seen such a look of hatred on anyone’s face as he lunged at my mother. Bellowing and cursing at the top of his lungs, he tore after her as she tried to get away. Like a madman, he thundered up the curved staircase in close pursuit, and we heard them disappear into the inner sanctum of the master bedroom. As a terrible commotion ensued, we kids sought the little refuge open to us in our rooms. Unfortunately, mine was right next door to theirs.

As time dragged on, his explosive, throaty blustering went from aggressive to downright ferocious, and it struck an ominous chord inside of me. Although this kind of melodrama was typical for a Saturday night in our household, on this particular occasion I was truly worried for my Mom. I was too scared to just sit and listen, and I was too scared to act. What should I do? As if maneuvered by a force outside of myself, I acted upon my recurring I’m-going-to-save-my-Mommy fantasy.

Emboldened, I snuck out of bed and silently tiptoed into the hallway. Their door was ajar. I had to be extra careful; I didn’t know what my father might do if he saw me spying on them. His voice was at fever pitch. I peaked inside, my heart pounding. The room was shrouded in semi-darkness; muted slivers of light from the outside streetlamp filtered through the closed blinds, casting a spooky glow. Light was reflected by the pale green ceramic handprint that I had made for them at school—now being used as an ashtray—that sat on the dresser close to the bed. Seeing it scorched and filled with cigarette butts made me feel hurt that they thought so little of my gift.

Then . . . as my eyes adjusted to the dim light, I was stunned by what I saw. I couldn’t believe it! My father was straddling my mother in their bed . . . and he was choking her! He was trying to strangle her! Both of his large hands were tightly clutching her throat, and the muscles in his arms were taut with effort. He was so enraged that he was banging her head against the mattress like she was a rag doll.

“I’m going to KILL YOU, you bitch! You’re NUTHIN! Do you HEAR me? NUTHIN!”

My mother was wildly scratching at his arms, hoarsely protesting, and kicking her legs in a futile attempt to knock him off of her. All the while, my father was screaming at her in a fury unlike anything I had ever seen. I stood, paralyzed, my mouth open in shock. Horrified, I quickly withdrew and jumped back into my bed.

I thought my heart was going to explode! What should I do? I wasn’t strong enough to fight him! He was going to kill her! I loved her more than anything—I can’t let him do that! She’s my Mom! Who would take care of us? Should I call someone? I didn’t know the phone numbers of any other grownups in the family. Should I call the police? My Mom never called the authorities—or anyone else—about my Dad, so maybe it wasn’t the right thing to do? If I did nothing . . . would her death be my fault?

With tears streaming down my face, I sat quivering, ashamed, and very angry at my cowardice. I wanted to save her, but all I could do was shrink under my ruffled covers. I worried about my younger brothers and hoped they were okay. I was too frightened to be found in their bedrooms should my drunken father come looking for one of us. He could easily kill any of us kids if he tried.

“You’re NUTHIN’!” continued the guttural shouting from down the hall. “You and those kids will always be NUTHIN!”

“No, Stig, please—”came my mother’s raspy reply.

I stuck my head under my pink blanket and covered my ears. The drunken raving went on . . . and on . . . and on. I had never been so scared, and my head began to pound unmercifully. Almost as if I had been knocked out, I fell into an exhausted, trance-like sleep. The moment I dozed off, my first psychic dream began.