If you were passing by my parents' house anytime between 1966 and
1996, you would have pegged us for the perfect American family. The
outside of our house looked like something out of a TV show. A split
bi-level on the southwest side of Chicago, perfectly manicured,
color-coordinated, and polished to perfection. My mom even swept the
curbs. The materials may not have been the most expensive, but one
could tell our house was lovingly cared for. Inside, the house was so
clean that you could have eaten off the floor, but no one would ever
have dared drop a crumb. My mother was known to have the cleanest house
in the neighborhood.
A married single mother was what my mother was. This is something I
knew I never wanted to be. Married seemed o.k. as long as you had one
of the good ones. Mom always said, "You should marry a rich schmuck
instead of a poor schmuck, because they are all schmucks." I didn't
know what "schmuck" meant back then -- and I bet my mother still doesn't
know. Single seemed to be the perfect choice. Even if you had a baby,
it was still better than being a married single mother. A married
single mother is a term I coined after observing my parents' marriage.
The term describes a woman who is married to a man who contributes
nothing and causes only problems when he is around. I saw this role
played out in the form of my always emotionally and sometimes physically
absent father. It was best to have him passed out, or better yet, at work
pulling a double shift, than to have him around the house. My mother
had to do all the physical work.
When I say all, I mean all. In hindsight, I'm happy that my father
was gainfully employed at the same company for forty-five years. Not
many people can say that, especially people who are raging alcoholics.
He could control himself during working hours. Rarely did he miss a day
of work that I can recall. When he did, never once was it for an
alcohol-related incident. Outside of the three to eleven pm shift at
the steel mill, he was good for absolutely nothing, at least nothing
that counted to a family. Yes, he made money, but he also kept it all
for himself. He had priorities. He needed to show the guys at the
bowling alley or the golf club that he had plenty of money for clothes,
cars, and repeated rounds of drinks. He gave my mother exactly enough
money for groceries and if the price went up, we were to just do
without. Beer and cigarettes could go up astronomically, but don't even
think about bread or milk. To this day, I get nervous around both food
and money, feeling that I'll never have enough of either.
My mother would try to save five dollars from the grocery money
every week if she could. She would squirrel the money away so that she
could buy my brother and me clothes on lay-a-way at K-Mart or take us to
the movies. The movies were easy. It wasn't as if we would go when my
father was home. We wouldn't even dare ask him to come. We made that
mistake once. Never again. It was 1981, when "On Golden Pond" was
playing in theaters. I had seen it once before and really liked it. We
thought it would be one those movies that would teach my father that
life lesson he so needed. Once he saw the movie, we were sure that he
would give up his Miller Lite beer, realizing that he had two kids and a
wife who wanted the "nice" him around. We asked him a few days in
advance if he would go.
"Maybe. I don't know. We'll see," all came out of his half-sober mouth.
"Hum, he said maybe," I said. "It wasn't a no."
"Maybe he really will go," my brother whispered.
On the afternoon of the big event, I stood there asking him to
please go. We probably started whining as kids do. He was on the sofa
with a Miller Lite. The TV wasn't on. Nothing was happening.
"Please, Dad, please," we all begged.
"It's really good, you'll like it," I added, since I had already seen it.
"Jim, we would all love to spend the afternoon with you," my mother added.
Bamm, that did it.
"Damn it, NO!" my father screamed back at us.
I don't know if it was my mother, or just all three of us, or some
childhood ghost who was haunting his thoughts at the moment. He picked
up his ashtray and threw it through the TV screen.
I really tried never
to cry in front of my father. When he would hit us, he would continue
until we stopped crying. Even at a young age, I was logical enough to
know that the more one inflicts pain, the more the person being harmed
will cry. Sometimes, I would have to jam my entire fist in my mouth
just to muffle the sound. I think this "hit them until they stop
crying" method of discipline came from his childhood. My aunt would
tells stories of how my grandparents would tie my father up to a tree
and beat him with a whip. His offence, not giving them all of his
paycheck. He saved a dollar from his check to buy a wallet.
"What do yew need a wallet fir?" they said. "Yew don't need no money. We git it all!"
I can't blame my father for his lack of parenting skills. He
wasn't that crazy, and Lord knows he had no guidance. Still, I didn't
cry in front of him. Mom drove the three of us off to the movies in her
1974 Ford Pinto that afternoon, all silently crying to ourselves.
Before the daily verbal abuse from my father began, my mother was a
beautiful woman. She dressed impeccably before I was born.
Unfortunately, I remember her more for the second hand polyester,
stained clothes that were years out of style. She would wear old, extra
large men's t-shirts and shoes with the toes cut out.
"They were on sale, you see, and just a little snug in the toes.
Who is going to notice? It isn't like I go anywhere," she would say
shyly, hoping that no one would hear.
People noticed. They noticed the stained polyester shorts and the
shoes with the holes. What they pretended not to notice was the
alcoholic man who lived in the perfectly manicured house.
Our house, given the little money that was invested in it, always
looked like something out of "Better Homes and Gardens". However, closer inspection would reveal the damage. A ribbon
strategically placed so a crack wouldn't show. Extra magic marker on
the corner of a table to cover a scratch. White toothpaste filling a
small hole in the wall. Nothing huge, but when it was all added up, became overwhelming.
One time, she put us on a diet, and really broke into the grocery
money. She saved for well over a year to buy a grandfather clock. That
was the big step. Dad would notice such a big piece of furniture and
want to know where she got it. More importantly, he would want to know how she paid for it. By purchasing such an item, she was also taking an
emotionally huge step. She was making it clear that she could buy
something upscale on her own. A figurine she could cover by saying she
picked it up at a yard sale for a few bucks. However, a yard sale
grandfather clock was still going to cost more than what my father deemed
reasonable. He must have been in a good mood the day the clock was
delivered. I don't remember any real arguments -- just more of a
clenched jaw, with a sideways tilt of the head. He ate dinner, then
drank until he passed out on the sofa saying nothing.
Mom polished the clock daily. It was in a place of honor in the
living room, right by the front door. Any guest entering would see it
immediately. The afternoon sun caught it just so. Combined with the
smell of Lemon Pledge, there was nothing more beautiful than her polished
grandfather clock keeping perfect time.
Until my father kicked it in.
Now don't ask me why he kicked it in, besides that he was drunk. Do
alcoholics ever need a real excuse? No, something happened at work, or
on the road on the way home, or he wasn't feeling well, or he was mad she bought it without asking or …
My mother cried and cried.
The next day, while he was at work, the patching began. There was
no need to call a repair person. It wasn't as if Mom could afford
that. No, she did it all herself between her tears. If you saw that clock today, you may
think it got damaged during the move from Illinois to Florida.
It would be a reasonable assumption. Things like that happen, you know.
The clock still stands in my parents' home. It is no longer right
by the front door, where all can see it as they enter. Nor is it where
the light can catch it just so. No, it is between the TV room and the
bathroom, with nice plants placed strategically around it, out of direct sunlight.
My
parent's marriage is a lot like that old grandfather clock. There are
cracks, but no one outside the house would ever notice. After 49 years,
they are still holding it together.
