Redemption (10 page)

On Deck

was in the school play that year.
The Wizard of Oz
sounded incredibly cool, and just like every other little girl, I was hoping to be Dorothy. No matter how much I clicked my heels, I didn’t get my wish. Mr. Robinson told me I had to be the Wicked Witch. No one liked the witch. She was mean. I even had to wear green goo.

Tired of drama, I decided to try baseball that summer. Mom came to all of my games. She even made Dad attend sometimes. I thought joining the team would be lots of fun. But mostly, I hoped I would finally make some friends in Alhambra. I was still batting zero with my country peers.

I was young, and I didn’t take all the factors into consideration. For one, Alhambra had a boys’ baseball team. All the athletic teams were male because the school was so small. If girls wanted to play, they had to be tough enough to go against the boys. So different teams—soccer, track, and basketball—sometimes had one girl. The boys usually liked that girl as much as they liked striking out.

As it turned out, I wasn’t the only girl on the team—I had to go and be the second. The boys didn’t take too kindly to Kyla, but they accepted her because she’d been hanging around since T-ball days. Thanks to me, their team had two girls.

I don’t know what I was thinking. During one of the games, I almost threw in the towel. I was at bat, getting ready to hit. I wound up and immediately dropped my Louisville Slugger. The pitcher had clocked me in the hand with the baseball. Meanwhile, the umpire called it a strike.

At least our coach was on my side. “Are you blind?” he yelled. I was playing it tough. I blinked. I made an angry face. If I really wanted baseball suicide, all I needed to do was cry.

“I heard a clink,” the umpire said.

My mom ran over to make sure I was okay. At that point, my toughness melted along with my pride. I cried hard because my hand hurt like hell. Mom brought me ice while the coach argued with the umpire. The umpire won, and I was still out.

Mom said I could sit out the rest of the game if I wanted to, but I went back in and played till the end. That’s the only way I could regain my reputation. I had started the game, and I was going to finish it. My parents didn’t raise a quitter.

They always taught me persistence—to just keep getting along any way I could.

I was out in left field and at least I could move my fingers a little bit. If I had given up at that moment, then the boys who hated me would’ve won. So I finished the rest of the season with my chin up and my batting helmet—and gloves—on. I was careful not to get in the way of any more balls. I was glad when baseball was over.

I hadn’t endeared myself to the boys in my school, and the girls were so “country” that I had a hard time adjusting. At least I had track. I could always run. I could jump, too. I was excited for our school’s track and field days at the end of the year. The grandiose titles of Mr. and Miss Peanut would go to the two children who earned the most first-place ribbons in a series of competitions. I was good at sports, but I never dreamed I’d win the coveted title. I just know that this arrogant snob of a fifth grader named Keith was hot when I beat him in the short-distance run. I don’t know why it bothered him so much; he could still beat me in the long run. I creamed him in the dashes, though, and he hated me for that. He always got Mr. Peanut, and that year was no different. There was one change, though: I stood next to him in the winner’s spot. I was the underdog, and the surprise Miss Peanut winner. I had overthrown the reigning queen, Carla. I was proud of myself on the inside, but I couldn’t be truly happy because everything I did made those kids hate me more. I felt so alone in Alhambra. My daddy—when he was Daddy, not when he was Tom—and my dog were the only two things I really had. I felt accepted only when I was at home with them.

It didn’t matter how much, or how little, my mom did for me. I resented her, though I didn’t yet hate her. Sure, she might come to my baseball games, but she hadn’t come to my rescue. She was just starting secretarial school and sliding into her own world. She was building a life of her own that didn’t include any of us—me, Christy, or Daddy. She was in her early thirties, and she acted like everyone else could just be damned. The change showed in the way she started speaking to Dad, and in the way she spoke a lot less to all of us. Her daughters came second to her own freedom. I could tell by the quick dinners and leaner lunches. I could tell by how much she was gone from the house. She had realized there was a way out of her unhappiness. School and education were her exit signs.

Meanwhile, my best friend Prince was misbehaving. He was an outdoor dog, and I never got to bring him inside. If I could’ve convinced my parents to let him be an indoor dog, maybe this wouldn’t have happened. But they wouldn’t have him shedding and getting into dog mischief in the house. Regardless, I needed Prince as badly as I needed air. Unfortunately, Prince had an addiction to chickens. He raided the neighbor’s coop and killed some birds. The owner was upset and said my parents needed to keep Prince off his property.

So we bought a heavy chain for Prince, but that determined little dog broke through it. When we locked Prince up in the shed, he dug or scratched his way out. Then Dad would be mad because Prince messed up the shed.

He was such a strong little dog. He could carry the weight of my problems, but he wouldn’t listen when I told him to stay out of the chicken coop. I begged my dog to leave those dumb birds alone.

Mom told me if he killed one more chicken, we’d have to get rid of him. I was terrified. The only time I felt protected and safe was when I was with that dog. I had another stern conversation with Prince that night. He couldn’t do this to me; he had to stay with me. He had to stop with the chickens.

I whined about the situation to Daddy, too. He said I had to talk to my mom about it. So I bugged her again, and she told me we didn’t have any other choice. She asked her parents for advice about Prince. They were the kind of country folks who knew how to hunt and skin their own food. So to them, an animal was just an animal—totally disposable. They told my mom to shoot Prince; that would be the end of it.

The next day, Prince had gnawed his way out of his doghouse again. More chickens were dead. When I got home from school, Prince wasn’t there. I looked everywhere for him. My heart raced until Mom got home.

“Where is he?” I screamed and cried in the kitchen. I shook all over.

Mom said, “I’m sorry, honey, we had to get rid of him.” I don’t know which was worse—my inconsolable crying, or the rage I had toward her. She had taken him away from me. From then on I believed she was heartless. That was the end of our relationship as far as I was concerned. I had nothing left but Daddy—Daddy in his good mood. He was all I had to cling to in Alhambra.

I slept with Prince’s collar. After the rapes that went on and on, I would hide outside and pretend to talk to my dog. Every time I missed Prince, I blamed my mother. I missed him all the time.

Not even a year later, Aunt Deanna babysat us, and I was still dragging his collar around.

“What’s wrong with you? Why are you doing that?” she asked me, popping her gum. “Why are you talking to a stupid dog collar?”

“Maybe Prince will come back one day.” I held myself together—crying would give Deanna way too much ammunition.

“Oh, he’s not coming back.” She was matter-of-fact. Christy was there, too, and she listened intently.

“You don’t know anything,” I said as I stared at the worn leather collar that still smelled of dog food and fur.

“I know they got rid of him, all right.” As Deanna spoke, my stomach made its way to my barf reflex. She was almost laughing at me at this point. “Uncle Derek came and shot him a while back. He’s buried in your backyard.” Uncle Derek was Mom and Deanna’s quiet, smart brother. I hated him with all my might.

Christy ran off, and I sat there with my head down.

“Wake up,” Deanna said to me. “They shot him. He’s not alive.”

I ran outside. I couldn’t take Deanna another second. I couldn’t breathe either. I ran as hard as I could around our property. I ran until my sweat soaked my shirt. I didn’t know what to do or who could help me. I knew where we had buried Buttercup and Bandit, so I figured Prince was buried there, too. I don’t think I ever found the exact spot, but I pretended he was under my feet, right next to them. I went out often and talked to him. I felt like I had lost Prince twice, and both times messed me up.

As if I needed more to mess me up.

Mom found bloody underwear beneath the stairs. The incidents were happening in the basement. Afterward, I had a ritual of hiding the clothes, bathing, and then going outside to talk to Prince. I’d just shove my panties up under the wooden staircase because no one messed around in there. I was afraid someone might find the panties in the garbage can, and I didn’t know what a nine-year-old was supposed to do with filthy, dirty clothes. I didn’t know how to use the washing machine; I couldn’t even reach it.

One weekend morning, Mom lined up Christy and me downstairs and stood across from us pointing her finger. Christy and I were pretty much the same size, and we grabbed our underwear out of the same drawer. We’d put on whatever panties were clean.

“Whose are these?!” she yelled at us. I didn’t know how to deal with it. I was so scared. I couldn’t tell her they were mine. If I did, I was afraid she’d hate me, and Dad would kill me.

“What happened?! Somebody better tell me something right now!” It was Saturday, and she was home doing the laundry in the basement.

Christy started crying, too. Mom didn’t yell that much, and she rarely got that mad. Christy said absolutely nothing. She was seven, and she was confused.

“If you girls don’t tell me whose these are, I’ll take you to the doctor,” Mom said, threatening us. “The doctor will know the answer. I’ll take you both right now.”

I knew I was never supposed to lie to the doctor. I was trapped. Through tears and sniffles, I told Mom that the panties were mine. She walked away. About an hour later, she found me and gave me a lecture about when a girl starts her period.

A few days later, Mom brought me to Grandma Paulson’s house and said, “Stacey’s become a woman.” She told Aunt Deanna and Grandma. I even think one of my uncles overheard the conversation. I turned red, which just added embarrassment on top of embarrassment. I couldn’t believe it. I didn’t know what I could do.

For all I knew, I
was
getting my period. I’d seen a movie at school on this topic. I knew girls menstruated every month once they got to a certain age. So maybe what he was doing to me caused my period because after each time, I bled. I tried to put it all together, but nothing made sense. If I got my period, did that mean I would get pregnant? I did have a little belly. So was I pregnant? What exactly made me a woman? What he did to me, or getting my period? Had I really started my period?

I stopped sleeping well at night. My breath became shallow sometimes for no reason, and I struggled to stay calm. I woke up with nightmares. There was no woman in my body. I felt like a scared little girl.

Adding It Up

n the fifth grade, one thing—just one thing—started going right. I loved school again. This happened even though the man who had seemed so out to get me, Mr. Richardson, was again my teacher. He had been my dreaded third-grade teacher, too, the one who had tried to fail me for not knowing cursive. As time went on, he was nicer, thankfully. He was also my volleyball coach. Volleyball was great, too. My mom didn’t go to many games, and my dad even fewer, but that was okay. I scored points and got comfortable with my teammates. We were the Alhambra Tigers, and while the girls weren’t my best friends, they were much better than the boys, who gave me evil looks while holding their baseball bats.

At the end of that school year, I also scored high on the achievement tests. My scores put me in the gifted category, and I could finally relax. For the last year, I’d been worried that maybe I was slow at school. These tests gave me proof that I wasn’t. Moreover, I was asked to go into a gifted program called the Think Tank. We came out of our regular class for a few hours on Tuesdays and Thursdays, and we got separate homework.

Because my dad was such an intelligent person, I thought he’d be proud of me. So I’d bring my Think Tank math problems home to him, hoping we’d work on them together. Turned out, my idea added up to nothing. While my dad was one of those people who got math and understood the way numbers flow, he wasn’t the type who could explain those complicated equations. He was quickly frustrated with me and told me he didn’t want to help me with my homework anymore. He got mad, huffing around the room and ignoring me.

Still, I’d strive for his approval even though he never gave it. I’d see glimpses of his satisfaction every once in a while in his sober smiles. I always hoped for those moments when things clicked with him. Once I made him happy, I wanted to make him happy again and again. I just wanted to see the daddy who picked that first apple for me in Alhambra. I wanted the daddy who put me on the tractor with him. Once I’d had Good Daddy, I wanted him back. I was hopeful, always.

Sometimes, when he was happy drunk, I’d get close to getting into his good graces. He’d give me these long lectures that I enjoyed. They were about school and boys. His advice was protective: “Never let a guy treat you badly” and “Study hard in school, so you can become anything.” If I caught the happy drunk talk, he’d use the words, “I’m proud of you.” I basked in those moments.

That year, my mom continued to have trouble with my father. Each day was one challenge after another. There were late dinners, late nights, and late fights. Why my mother wanted to memorialize that moment in time is beyond me, but when the time for school pictures came around, she signed us up. Christy and I got ours taken during the day, and they offered family portraits in the evening. Mom planned for it well in advance. She wanted us to have a proper family photo, and I still don’t know why she cared. She was either fighting with my dad or away at school. She was not home enough. And she was never home when the incidents happened in the basement.

But we all tried for her sake. The whole week beforehand, Christy and I got our dresses together. Dad needed to have his nicest suit cleaned. We figured out how we would do our hair. I had a new short haircut that didn’t require much fuss. Mom reminded us we had to be there at such and such a time. The family photo was a big deal to everyone—everyone except for Dad. That night, he came home two hours late and drunk. We were about ready to walk out the door without him.

The four of us headed to the school in case they could still squeeze in our appointment. Mom screamed at him the whole way. “I told you all week to get home in time. I can’t believe you!” she yelled.

“Oh, Debbie, it’s going to be all right,” he said, driving the car way too fast. He was happy drunk that night. You can see it in how the picture turned out. His eyes were droopy, and his smile was easy. Meanwhile, our smiles were stiff, like we had something to hide.

When we arrived at our school, he tried to hug her, and she brushed him off. He had let her down one more time. She was upset, but Christy and I were just glad he was there. He was happy, so what was the problem? We wanted to get on with it. He did, too. He joked with the photographer and the assistants. He was having a good old time.

At that time, my parents had stopped sleeping together, though they still shared a bedroom. They didn’t tell us this information; Christy and I picked it up during their fights. What he did to me happened mostly on the weekends when Mom went shopping, or right after school. He’d be home early, and Mom would still be out studying. She took Jazzercise classes afterward, so she’d come home late.

He didn’t rape me more after their fights. He didn’t rape me more when he was rip-roaring drunk, though he did rape me often when he was intoxicated. The incidents were steady, unpredictably predictable, and mind numbing. At about six o’clock in the afternoon, he and I were alone. Sometimes, he would come find me three times in one week, and sometimes he would leave me alone for a month. I never knew when to prepare, so my anxiety levels stayed high at all times just in case. I have trouble picturing Christy in my mind during those times. She must’ve been outside. I know she never came into the basement. It wasn’t her territory, and she didn’t dare trespass.

The basement was our special place. The more my parents pulled away from each other, the more often Dad and I went down there. He turned to me, and I felt horribly weak for letting him. I fought with him a few times in the beginning, and those were painful mistakes. I couldn’t beat him no matter what. I couldn’t win. So I became too quiet and too compliant. It didn’t hurt so badly if I closed off my mind and shut down my body. I’d lie there while my thoughts took me other places.

Even then, he had different rules for his moods. He wasn’t always hurtful. There were still times when he’d sit me on his lap and talk about nothing for hours. He’d keep me awake until one in the morning. Those were the times when I got what I needed from him. I got that he loved me and felt that I was special. We bonded during the good times, and I blocked out the bad.

I didn’t think I had any other choice.