Redemption (4 page)

He and Mae lived in that house until they died.

Mae couldn’t get used to Ken’s work schedule. Raising two boys was hard, and she didn’t like doing it alone all week long. She’d tell her sons that Ken could’ve chosen to work closer to their home in St. Louis, but instead wanted to be away from them and to travel a lot. Tom loved his father, and he wanted love in return. He felt he wasn’t getting it, so he grew up resenting Ken tremendously. It was bad enough that Ken wasn’t around for track meets and baseball games. Mae’s words, he chose a job requiring travel, stung worse.

While Ken was away, Mae believed he was cheating on her. She was probably right. A family story is that when Ken had a bad car accident, there was another lady in the car with him. He defended himself, saying he was just taking her home from a party. No one believed that, though. Mae would sometimes threaten to leave Ken, but Tom would tell her to stay. Tom told Mae he would never speak to her again if she ever left Ken.

My mother believes that Grandma Lannert did a lot of psychological damage to my father. Mae didn’t intend to enrage my father or make him a monster. She wasn’t a consciously cruel person; she was just desperate for her sons to love her. From the rumors I’ve always heard, her marriage certainly wasn’t satisfying. And for whatever reason, she needed Tom to be totally dependent on her. She smothered him, and he was her baby. Tom grew up mad at his father and spoiled by his mother.

I don’t know why my grandmother did the things she did—I saw only the wonderful side of her. Grandma Lannert was the sweetest person; she was like an older, wiser mother and I loved her very much. I called her Mee Maw and my grandpa Paw Paw.

When I was older, I recognized her fierce and frequent manipulative streak. To maintain her control, she would turn family members against each other. She’d bad-mouth loved ones behind their backs. She especially didn’t like my mother after she left my dad. Through all the years, I never heard my father speak badly of Mee Maw. He didn’t fault her. He didn’t question her. He believed what she said and cared what she thought.

Tom’s parents were complicated, and that might be why he grew up with little respect for authority. On paper, he was an excellent student, member of the student council, and top runner on the varsity track team. But in his 1964 senior yearbook, there are references to partying and mischief in almost all of his classmates’ signatures.

One guy wrote: “Thanks for barfing all over my cabin. Keep blowing off.”

Someone named Dianne was clearly dating him. Among other flirtations, she wrote, “Here’s hoping that you stay with your word and stay off the booze … Take up women. I’ll clue you in, they’re a lot more fun.”

My dad wanted everything to seem okay from the outside—he wanted teachers and adults to think he was squeaky clean. His classmates’ opinions show a very different side of my father.

He wasn’t just being a kid; some of his troubles were serious. In his senior year, he started hanging around with the wrong crowd—one boy in particular was bad news. He tried to get Tom to steal cars and commit petty crimes. He and Tom got into a fight one night. Apparently, Tom wanted out; he didn’t want to be associated with the gang anymore. This one boy wouldn’t allow Tom to leave that easily. He continued to bully Tom to do things he didn’t want to do. Dad got sick of it. He swiped a gun from his parents’ attic and threatened the boy with it at their next confrontation. They fought. My father shot the kid square in the shoulder and then ran away. He ditched the gun somewhere, hiding the evidence so his actions wouldn’t come back to haunt him. As my dad suspected, the kid never reported the incident. Years later, after he was married, his parents confronted him about the missing gun. He acted like he didn’t know what they were talking about. But that night, he told my mother the real story. That was the first time she was truly scared of her husband.

My dad told me about the incident, too. When I was younger, he’d use it as a warning to hang out with the good kids and stay on a straight path. When I was older, when things got really bad, Dad told me he had shot one kid, and he’d be happy to shoot me, too. There were two sides to my father, Good Dad and Bad Dad.

He told me how hard his life was growing up. He complained that his dad was never home. He told me that his father liked his brother better. Tom hated Ken sometimes. He hated Ken because he loved him—if that makes sense. My father held on to deep resentment while constantly striving for his father’s approval. Ken rarely gave it. He was kind, but he did not know how to praise, acknowledge, or pat his son on the back. Tom could be an actuary ten times over, and it would still not be quite enough for Ken. At least, not in my father’s eyes.

Tom did not think he could please Ken by staying in the military, so after his brother died, Tom left. My father used the sole surviving son military rule to get himself discharged. No questions were asked, and Tom was no longer a Marine. Ken called my dad The Baron, and the sarcasm must’ve stung. My dad would never be a pilot.

Once out of the Marines, my dad was a mess over Bill’s death. To make him feel better, his parents bought him a cool convertible, a Plymouth Barracuda. But a car didn’t do the trick. Tom took off for Tahiti, where he lost all control. He was a big drunk there, he admitted to my mother. He came home only when his visa expired and the country kicked him out. Then my father accepted the car, cleaned up his act, and enrolled at Mizzou. The rest is history.

I can remember Dad studying for the rigorous, infamously difficult actuarial exams, which he had to pass to get his license. Once he did, he immediately found jobs and worked his way up to partner in various actuarial companies. His career kept him out at all hours of the day and night. At least, that’s what he told us—it was business that made him late all the time. I missed him terribly when he was gone.

I was a little girl, and I didn’t know about his past. I just knew he was my daddy who hugged and kissed me. He lavished me with attention, and I could see no wrong in my father.

He was just
it
for me.

Happy Baby

have a favorite photo album from when I was young. The cover is bright poppy red, and the edges are so dog-eared that brown cardboard pokes out underneath. The requisite words
Photo Album
are written in gold, 1970s-style cursive script that reminds me of
Charlie’s Angels
. For long stretches of time, I haven’t looked at the pictures. Sometimes I want to walk down memory lane, and sometimes I want to run away from it. Whether I look at the album or not, I keep it with me now that I’m out.

Like me, it’s getting old. Some of the photos are crooked and loose because the sticky backing is worn out. Some of the plastic coverings are bent, scratched, or torn. I like them this way.

On days I decide to open the album, I can’t help but wonder what might have happened to that blue-eyed baby—me—if things had been different. There were so many twists and turns as I grew up. What if, just one time, something bad that happened had been something good instead? Were there different options for my future? Could I have been an athlete for a college track team? That would have been fun. Maybe I would have become an English teacher. Would I have had a family? I could’ve had two kids, maybe four, by now. I’ll never know.

I can’t help but be wistful. Being wishful is a lot better than being angry about circumstances I cannot change. Acceptance isn’t easy, but it’s the only way. Thank God I was a happy baby, and I didn’t have to wish for anything then.

I was a peanut of a kid. In one photo, I’m wearing a purple, ironed shirtdress decorated with duckies and lace around the edges. I’m so young that I must be propped up by a hidden hand or pillow. I’m wearing white patent leather shoes over thick, warm baby tights and have a great big smile. A baby’s face can’t lie. I look at the picture and see all the love and joy I felt. My chubby cheeks are filled with happiness, and I’m sure they were kissed often. It’s almost like I remember it, and I can cling to the memory and feel it. But of course, I was only six months old. I’m just guessing.

During those years, in the early 1970s we lived in Cedar Rapids, Iowa. My mom loved being a mother. She carried me with her everywhere. I was bald except for a white-blond ring right on the top of my head. She’d brush it up and keep me in a kewpie curl, always. She gave up only when at age one I finally grew golden hair. It flew away from my head in soft, opinionated wisps. In one picture of me at eight months or so, she looks like she’s dancing with me in our house in Iowa. My momma smiled wide as she carried me with her left arm, her right hand holding mine. Her long, straight blond hair matched the strands in my kewpie curl. The shade of our skin—pale and golden all at once—was exactly the same. Our smiles were similar, but the corners of my mouth turned down just slightly—a trait I inherited from Grandma Lannert. Our clothes also matched. She wore a blue dress with red and white dots. My pressed cotton outfit was patchwork-blue with white dots and yellow trim. She used to sew many of my clothes herself, and probably these outfits, too.

Maybe taken on the same day, there’s another picture of me in that same patchwork dress. My dad looked so young and gentle as he held me out in front of him by my armpits. My hands waved out in the air, flapping in giggles. My smile, once again, was so much like my mom’s. His expression was soft, and he looked like he might be melting. He had brown hair that was parted on the right side and combed neatly. His skin was perfect—smooth and healthy. His eyes were as blue as the ocean; they were clean and calm like a quiet lagoon. I can tell he was sober. I loved him when he looked like that—when he was so crystal clear.

My father hadn’t been big on having kids, but he changed his mind once I came home from the hospital. He was proud of his baby. As far back as I can remember, he could hardly put me down when he got home from work.

I was his Little Kewpie. That’s what they called me for my first few years.

Grandma Lannert also doted on me. I was her first grandchild, and she bought me more baby clothes than one kid could wear. She made a lot of them, too; she loved to sew. Mee Maw and Paw Paw meant the world to me then. They constantly fussed over me, more than the Paulson side of the family did. My mother had four siblings who started having kids at about the same time. The Paulsons helped Mom as much as they could, but they had other grandkids. The Lannerts had a lot more money to spoil us with. They helped us with down payments on our houses. My parents were just starting out, but when we lived in Iowa, Missouri, and Kansas, we always had nice places. I remember big one- or two-story homes, usually four or five bedrooms, always with basements.

Grandma and Grandpa’s most important purchase, to me at least, was a Winnie-the-Pooh play set I loved—and eventually shared with my baby sister. The set included a vinyl chair, tiny table, and toy chest. It was white with gold and red checked Winnie-the-Pooh bears. I still dream about that play set, maybe because I’m next to it in so many of these old photographs.

From everything my mother says, all my needs were met and then some. Babies want to be dry, fed, and hugged, and I know that I was. I know for sure because I remember my mom taking such good care of my sister, and I remember how warm and close we all felt.

Life was wonderful then, and I still get lost in the thoughts of that time. As a very young child, I could mentally hold on to comfort. I could reach for my parents. I could soothe myself with the blankies and stuffed animals they gave me. If they fought when I was a toddler, I don’t remember it. That stuff happened later. My babyhood was about bonding. We were a family there for a minute, through thick and thin. If my dad had a dark side, if he drank too much, I didn’t know. My mother shielded me from his moods—she did this for years, while she was still around. She would send me off somewhere or give me something special to play with. Ignorance is bliss. I even like to think that my dad didn’t drink much at that time. In my mind, he was a dad who was into his kids and wife—instead of alcohol.

A New Baby

was two years old when Christy came along, and I was a proud big sister. We’d sit in our momma’s lap together, and I’d hold her hand. I’d hold her hand as often as she’d let me, and my photo album is proof. In one picture, we’re standing in front of the wood-paneled door to our house in Kansas—we had moved—and I’m leading her somewhere in my green and red polyester shirt with matching pants. She’s wearing a purple polyester pant-suit, both sewn by either Mom or Grandma Lannert. She has chubby little cheeks just like mine. We both have the exact same little mole on the right side of our faces. I loved Christy with all my heart.

As she grew into a toddler, I’d hug her all the time. Christy was just so cute. Her blond hair was whiter than mine, and it matched her lightning personality. She never had a kewpie curl because she was born with thick hair all over her head. I had been kind of bald. She looked vibrant and healthy and perfect, even then. She smiled all the time, like nothing ever bothered her. She was so pretty that I called her my little doll. I’d just hold her and kiss her. That is, until she stopped letting me. She started shrugging and pushing me off. I was smothering her and making her feel like a little baby.

As much as I tried, we didn’t always play together. We were two years apart, and some things—like our matching dolly carriages—were fun to play with as a team. But I didn’t want to play with the toy xylophone with her; I had outgrown it. And she wasn’t interested in my big-girl books. We played together half the time, and then we’d go our separate ways. I needed to be outside with other kids; Christy was more independent and often preferred to play alone. When we were together, one of our favorite things to do was make up games. For instance, we would put blankets on the floor and drive each other around on them for hours.

Sometimes, we could just be around each other doing nothing. Being sisters was fun, and it was enough—usually.

We’d also get on each other’s nerves. When we fought, it was usually because I was bugging her. I was older, so I could grab a toy from her easily. I’d childishly slap her sometimes, like when she took my crayons. She could get even, though. She’d swipe my toys and zip down the hallway with them just for fun. I’d have to chase her to get my necklace or finger puppet back. She did that to me a lot.

Then, she got big enough to fend for herself and fight back. And it hurt. I decided I wasn’t going to bug Christy anymore. Besides, she was my sister, and I didn’t want us to hurt each other.