Chapter 12
The next morning I woke to hushed, far away, foreign voices; aliens from another planet. My eyes were pinned shut and at first I couldn’t remember where I was. What was happening to me? I thought of screaming for help but if I really was abducted what good would it do. Do I run? Where? Think. All this crazy stuff was racing through my head when I heard this tapping sound.
“Jo-Jo?” she whispered. “Jo-Jo, are you awake?”
It was Beth. What was she doing in my room? What was she doing in my nightmare? It was about degrees; the nightgown was glued to my skin. I hurt everywhere, even my scalp where Joe played his game of tug-of-war with my head. It was all starting to make sense; the craziness was beginning to make sense. I think that scared me more than being taken by aliens. This was Beth’s house and her parents were the aliens speaking that crazy Finnish language. I forced my eyes open and there she stood in her faded blue jean cut-offs, handembroidered cotton blouse tied in a knot in front, bare feet with freshly painted bright red toenails except for the big toes, which were white. It was such a Beth thing to do. “I am now,” I whispered. “What time is it? Where’s Danny?” “It’s eleven o’clock. Danny’s out back with Sam. She’s fine. She’s Danny. How are you feeling? Rough night huh?” “I had this dream or nightmare that my old man beat the crap out of me and then I was abducted by these aliens who spoke only Finnish and it was hot, real hot, so hot it felt like my blood was starting to boil and then my body hurt especially my head where someone, my old man I think, was trying to rip my hair out of my scalp and I tried to open my eyes, but it was like they were glued shut. Then I thought I was crazy and then there was this moment where it all made sense which really scared me you know ’cause craziness isn’t supposed to make sense. Is it?” That’s when I started to shake again; my teeth chattered; my body shivered like I was freezing only I wasn’t. I thought I was having a seizure or something until Beth crawled in the bed next to me and started singing A Hard Days Night like it was the most normal thing in the world.
There was just something about Beth singing that made everything seem okay. Maybe my life wasn’t so messed up. Maybe my father wasn’t this crazy man who terrorized his family. How could it be when just across the street there was this white house where everything was calm, where people spoke another language in whispers, no yelling, just peace and this beautiful girl who could sing A Hard Days Night almost as good as Paul McCartney. I started singing with her, and the next thing you know we’re standing on her bed dancing and gyrating like it was a stage and we were the Beatles. She was Paul McCartney and I was John Lennon. She played the air guitar while I held one of her hairbrushes to my mouth and sang into it like a microphone. We flopped back onto her bed, giggling so hard I could barely breathe and making such a commotion that Beth’s mother came to check on us, which just made us laugh even more.
“Beth that little girl with the dirty hands is at the door asking for you and her sister. I think she might be doing something to Sam,” she said. Her flawless English had just a hint of the Finnish lilt, unlike Mrs. K. with her thick accent even after thirty years in Canada.
“Mother please, her name is Danny and Sam loves her. Tell her we’ll be right down,” Beth said giving her mother ‘the look’ that I had seen many times whenever she was annoyed or displeased. “Is the coffee still on?”
“I made a fresh pot. I’m on my way out to the University. I’m already a half-hour late. And don’t forget your appointment with Dr. James this afternoon. Four o’clock. Don’t be late. I’ll meet you there,” she said, without giving even a sideways glance in my direction. “Is she always this friendly?” I whispered.
“Are you kidding? That was her being maternal. She was actually gushing, positively oozing with motherly love. She made fresh coffee.”
“What’s up with the doctor’s appointment?”
“Nothing.”
“Isn’t he a shrink?”
We had exactly two psychiatrists in our town at that time and everyone knew who they were. They were the butt of everyone’s tasteless jokes and Dr. James, in particular, had a big reputation. Rumors were always flying around about him and his patients and the things that took place on his couch. It was as famous as the man himself. Growing up we teased one another about going to see Dr. James or Dr. Ford, but the truth is I didn’t know anyone crazy enough to actually have to go see one of them.
“Isn’t it obvious?”
“What?”
“I’m nuts.”
“Certifiably,” I said and before I could say another word Beth and I were rolling around on the bed laughing our guts out again. Ten minutes later we dropped flat on our backs exhausted, too tired to move.
“Seriously,” I said staring up at the swirling pattern on the ceiling. “Do you really need to see a psychiatrist?”
“My parents think so.”
“Do you?”
“I don’t want to talk about it,” she snapped. It didn’t take a shrink to figure out she was pissed with me. “I need a cup of coffee.”
She slid off the bed and headed downstairs while I removed the nightgown and took a moment to examine my bruises in front of her floor length mirror. It wasn’t so bad. My skin was so tanned that you could barely see where Joe grabbed my arm and squeezed it or hit my back with his belt, and the bruise on my leg was so faint you could hardly see it at all. I might have gotten that one on the beach anyway. This was the first time Joe had actually hit me— at least like that. He’d taken a few back hands to my head or shoulders once in a while when I really got him riled up but nothing like last night. I’d never seen him so nuts. At least not sober. He’d never hit me sober before. Joe was a different person when he drank. I hated that person. The sad thing was, for days and weeks after one of his binges I’d still hate him. And even though the distance between his drunks seemed to be getting longer, the time that I hated him was getting longer too. I kept thinking that pretty soon all I was going to feel for Joe was hatred. The more I saw of this other Joe, drunk Joe, the more I wished he’d die. Or maybe it was just drunk Joe that I wished dead. But sometimes I wanted showoff Joe dead too. And pain-in-the-ass Joe, the one who humiliated Ma and teased Danny until she cried and ran to the backyard and hid behind the raspberry bushes. Yeah, I hated all those Joes. I kept trying to think of a time when Joe didn’t drink. In my conscious memory he always did, not every day mind you, just these binges, these little episodes, every couple of months where he’d go into these tirades and terrorize Ma, me and Dan for hours until he puked his guts and passed out. He’d rant and rave about his childhood, about his poor mother and bastard father who used to hit her and treat her so bad that he wanted to kill him. Sometimes he’d throw things, food mostly, pastrami sandwiches at the ceiling light in the living room, spaghetti and meatballs on the wall in the kitchen; things like that. Other times he’d fall down or knock things over when he teetered through the house. Joe never actually did anything really bad to us, he just threatened to. That was all part of his thing, this little drunken dance, and this well choreographed play that went on between us. And it was scary. Dan and I would watch him carrying on with Ma through this foot square grated hole in the floor of my bedroom that was right above the living room. It was one of those weird little features of the wartime houses. It was through that vent that the upstairs of our house was heated which meant it got pretty cold up there in winter. Dan and I would hunker over the hole and watch this little nightmare unfold. It was always the same. We’d both be shaking but not making a sound. Some nights we’d be there for hours; it all depended on Joe and how much venom he had inside, how much anger and pain he had to relinquish before he’d pass out. But some nights that relief never came. Sometimes when it got too scary, to the point where we actually thought that Joe was going to do something bad, not to Dan and me, but to Ma, we’d run, run like hell down the street to the Korkala’s. We’d high-tail it down the stairs in our pajamas, our knapsacks filled with our books and clothes for the next day. Dan and I always packed our bags just in case. When we got to the door I’d scream for Ma to come and a few seconds later all three of us would be out the door and on the sidewalk. Joe would come to the front door, rant, but go no further. He always let us go. Dan and I always had our shoes on; like I said we were prepared but one time in the middle of January Ma ran to the Korkala’s in bare feet, twenty below freezing. Poor Ma. Joe would spend the next couple of hours phoning their house, threatening us, but Mrs. K. just ignored him, let it ring or sometimes she’d leave the phone off the hook; once and awhile she’d answer it and tell him to go to bed. She wasn’t the least bit afraid of Joe because she knew the truth about him. He was a bully and a coward.
On the nights when we didn’t end up at the Korkala’s he’d go on-and-on for hours, keep the three of us up all night so that the next morning Danny and I could barely see straight at school, but we went because it was better than staying in that house. At least at school we were safe and could forget about it for a few hours. The routine was always the same whether we fled or not. The next morning Ma would call the bakery to tell them Joe had come down with the twenty-four hour flu and wouldn’t be coming in. Or that he had one of his migraines and needed to rest. Then Ma would spend the day with Mrs. K. We’d have supper with them and wait for Joe to call and apologize and that’s when we knew it was safe to go back into that house.
By the time I got outside, Beth, Danny and Sam were gone. It was another glorious day. It had been an unusual summer weatherwise— very little rain since the end of April, a day here and there but for the most part the sunny days were strung together like the small yellow beads Beth wore around her neck. I thought about sticking around and waiting for them to come back but I wanted to see Ma, let her know I was okay, that Joe hadn’t hurt me bad enough to stay away, at least not from her.
The house was quiet and at first I thought Ma was out until I went into the darkened living room and saw her sitting in her knitting chair. Her hands that ordinarily moved at the speed of light, manipulating her needles so expertly that she could finish a pair of mittens in one sitting, were folded on her lap motionless. Her latest project was in the basket beside the chair. She was so still—like she was dead or one of those manikins in Eaton’s window downtown. When I knelt down beside her I realized her eyes were closed but I could tell that she wasn’t sleeping.
“Ma,” I whispered. “You okay?”
She didn’t answer me at first—at least not with words. One single tear worked its way out of the corner of her eye and trickled down her cheek. I watched as it clung to the bottom of her chin for a few seconds like it didn’t want to let go and then dropped onto the collar of her dress. That’s when she started to shake. Her hands were clenched into fists and her jaw was set tight like she was doing everything she could to keep from erupting like one of the volcanoes in Hawaii or someplace. I was afraid. Not for me but for her. I’d never seen her like this before.
Ma squeezed the words out—a torrent of anguish bottled up inside her, for God only knows how long, a lifetime maybe, was finally released.
“God, I’m sorry Jo Frances. So, so sorry. I should have taken you girls away years ago. This has been a crazy life, a crazy, crazy life. I just didn’t know what to do. I kept thinking it’d get better. He promised. Every single time he’d promise me. Beg me. Beg me to forgive him. He’d cry. Carry on. Full of remorse. Never again, he’d say. What was I supposed to do? I didn’t know where to go. I had no money. No family. No friends. Except for Mrs. K. She’s got problems of her own. What could she do anyway?”
Ma went on and on like that. I didn’t try to stop her. I just lay there with my head on her lap and cried as she stroked my hair. Her voice grew soft and hypnotic as she whispered, “I’m so sorry, so sorry,” over and over like a mantra.
We must have stayed like that for quite awhile. I think I might have even fallen asleep because I hadn’t noticed Danny standing beside us.
“What is it sweetheart?” Ma asked.
“Beth’s going over to the plaza. She’s gotta get somethin’ from Sears and then she’s going to the A and Dub for a teen burger. She asked me to go with her. That okay Ma?” she asked, shifting her weight from side-to-side like she always did when she had to pee. “Just me. Just me and Beth are going,” she said again, in this boastful little voice like she had just won the Irish Sweepstakes. “Uh-huh,” Ma said. “Get my purse Dan I’ll give you some money for your burger.”
“Don’t need it Ma. Beth said it was her treat,” she said, scratching the side of her head and speeding up her pee dance.
“Get my purse Danny. I’ll give you some money. Just in case.”
“No Ma. I don’t need it. She said it was her treat.” Danny was starting to whine, which was the one thing that she was masterful at that drove Ma nuts. “It’s okay Ma. Beth will take care of her.” “Alright then Danny but take a pee before you go.” “I don’t gotta Ma. She’s leaving. I gotta go,” she cried as she flew out the door. We could hear her calling excitedly to Beth. Some things were such a big deal to Dan. Something as simple as a burger and a trip to Sears could get her all fired up. You’d think she was going to the moon.
“She’s going to pee her pants,” Ma sighed.
“Don’t worry Ma. Beth will watch out for her.” Danny was the nervous type and whenever she got real upset or worked up over something even if it was a good thing she’d have an accident. The doctor said she had an immature bladder and that she’d eventually outgrow it. I think Ma was worried that Dan would have to wear diapers to her wedding. Joe didn’t know that Danny had this problem. He’d hit the roof if he found out so Ma and I were careful about keeping this from him.
“Ma are you hungry? Cuz I’m starved.”
“I’ll make you a sandwich,” she answered, trying to move but my arms were still wrapped around her knees pinning her to the chair.
“No Ma. You sit. I’ll make us both sandwiches. And iced tea. We can go out back and have lunch together. Finish our talk. How’s that?”
“Sounds nice.” She closed her eyes and rested her head against the back of her chair. Her hands were folded on her lap again and she looked like she was lost somewhere between sheer exhaustion and utter peace.
I made us lunch and brought it out to the backyard where I spread a blanket out on the grass under one of the Manitoba maples. Ma hated sitting in the sun. Her olive toned skin naturally had a hint of color but she never deliberately sun tanned. The other thing about my mother was that she was always doing something. It was unusual to see her still. The only time was when she was asleep and then she never moved at all like she was dead or in a coma. Otherwise she was always moving, even if it was just her hands knitting while she watched The Lawrence Welk Show or I Love Lucy, her favorite. I think in some way she identified with Lucy and Ethel like they were the TV version of her and Mrs. K. Ma and I never did finish our talk. I knew we wouldn’t. We had said more than either of us cared to for one day. That was our pattern, our family’s way of dealing with painful issues. We only said so much; most of the important things were stuck hanging in the air between us. Our family also had an unspoken agreement to maintain the silence, to keep family business “within the four walls of our house” as Joe always said and to keep our secrets even the ones between us like Joe not knowing that Dan still peed her pants. I think all the pressure not to talk was the reason my mother kept to herself most of the time and didn’t make friends easily. She was afraid that if she got too close to people that sooner or later our secrets would be exposed and that was far too great a risk to take.