Roman’s Story: Dark Days, Agent Johnson, and the NN
I
My father was the last of four generations of Swivels to farm the Iowa soil.
We weren’t rich by any means but he made a good living. The farm was sizable and dad employed three men that worked for him year-round. We had a two-story house with a full basement. There was more room than we needed, but I loved the space. The house sat about a hundred yards in front of the cornfields. A paved road ran in front of the house another two hundred yards further away.
My father’s one true passion was baseball. Before my mother and he met he played Triple-A ball with the Dodgers. He was a catcher and a good one until he had an accident. Evidently an opposing player plowed him over in a bang-bang play at the plate. The force of the impact separated his shoulder. He rehabilitated for about two months, but his arm was never the same. He met my mother during that summer and decided to give baseball up all together.
During the summer, fall, and spring—basically anytime it wasn’t freezing out—dad and I would play catch. I can remember throwing the ball up in the air to catch it myself thousands of times waiting for him to get back from the field so I could throw to a real person. He knew a lot about pitching, like most catchers do, and showed me the ropes from the time I was five. He would step off the distance and dig his boot into the ground, wearing away the spot where the rubber should be. The plate would always be the hat he was wearing that day.
It was late October, and the trees must have been a million different shades of orange and yellow. It was unseasonably warm, reaching into the mid-eighties. My dad and I went hunting.
I’ll never forget pulling into the driveway we when we got back. We came in the back door that led directly into the kitchen. My father unlaced his boots on the back porch and went in while I threw mine in the corner next to the back door.
Right away I knew something was wrong; there was no smell of meat loaf, nothing sizzling in a pan, very unlike my mom to not be at least starting dinner at that hour. I heard my father call out for Joann, but there was no answer. I went into the living room by myself and found everything was in order. The front door was open and the screen door stood in its place unlocked.
We’d never had a reason to lock the door.
I noticed there were muddy shoe prints on the carpet that led from the front door in the living room over to the dining room on the opposite side of the house from the kitchen. I began to walk, following the brown prints until I found myself at the top of the basement steps. The door was open. I could see the shoe prints went down the stairs, but I heard nothing. By this time my hands were sweating, and my heart felt like it was about to beat out of my chest. I walked down the steps despite my fear. There was blood on the right side of the wall. It looked like someone had dipped the tips of their fingers in ketchup and then dragged their hand down the entire length of the staircase. I made my way down. I could hear someone breathing heavily like they had a rope tied around their neck.
95
The first thing I saw when I stepped onto the basement floor was the color of the carpet. Once-white carpet was a damp pink sea of blood. My eyes started at the west side of the room observing the TV knocked down on the floor, the bookshelf overturned, the cushions on the couch hanging out, and my father standing in the corner with a stranger’s arm wrapped around his throat. There was a tattoo of a spider web with a naked woman in the middle of the arm that imprisoned my father. I still see that tattoo every time I shut my eyes.
The gasping I’d heard on my way down was now clear. The man had a knife, with the point pressed against my father’s chest. It was like a nightmare and just like a nightmare I was frozen. My feet were in concrete and my eyes super-glued open. The only sense that worked was my hearing; I could hear and almost feel the wheezing of my father’s breath.
After what seemed like an eternity, I glanced to the opposite end of the room. There in a heap of red carpet and flesh was what was left of my mother. He had slit her from the waist up. Her insides now took the place of what used to be a stomach and chest. I could not see her head because the dark side of the room shaded it out. I put my hand over my mouth to catch the vomit coming up, but nothing happened.
I could feel the adrenaline pour into my veins, turning my fear to rage.
Without even having a plan or second thought I took a step toward my father and the terrible strange arm that imprisoned him. Before I could take the second step, my father raised his arm up with his palm flat toward me, halting me in my tracks.
At that moment my anger gave way momentarily, long enough for me to think, and thinking was the only thing that would save my father and me.
Our pool table was about ten feet caddy-corner behind me. I walked backwards very slowly, never glancing away from the stranger’s eyes. They were wide and open, blue as the ocean. He began to walk, forcing my father toward the staircase. I got to the pool table but kept my back toward it, reaching backwards for a ball with my fingers. At first I was unsuccessful but after moving my hand further behind me I held one of the ceramic spheres nestled firmly against my palm. The stranger gave no indication that he knew of my plan. My father on the other hand looked at me and then at the balls on the pool table and then at me again. By this time the two of them were right at the staircase. My father tilted his head subtly to the right.
Without further hesitation, I flung the pool ball across the room. My father jerked the opposite way. The stranger ducked and the ball crashed into the wall.
Although the ball did not hit the intruder, it was still effective. He dropped the knife, freeing my father.
The stranger shot up the staircase and without a second’s notice my father was right behind him, me just behind my father. At the top of the stairs they turned right and went through the dining room—dad close behind him. I turned left and ran through the kitchen, knocking over the chairs pushed in beneath the table. I grabbed the shotgun from the closet and headed for the front room, and the front door.
When I got there I saw the man running toward the screen door with his back to me. I pointed the shotgun in his direction and squeezed the trigger at the 96
same time. My eyes blinked from the crash of the shot going off, and when I opened them I saw my father behind the man. The impact blew him, the intruder, and the screen door completely out of the doorway across the front porch and out onto the steps. By this time it was dark enough that I could not see out of the house. I wish it could have stayed that way. I heard nothing. I went through the doorway holding the shotgun close by my side. As my eyes adjusted to the darkness I could see the intruder running across our front yard to the street. I picked up the barrel and fired again, but the man kept running.
As I caught my breath, I looked down at my feet. There, laying face down with his arms reaching out was my father. The back of his skull was lying two steps down. I dropped the shotgun and picked up the back of my father’s head. I turned him over and pressed the back of his head to where it should have been. It fit so perfectly almost like a puzzle. I remember thinking that if I held his head together long enough that it would be all right—that he would somehow come back to life. There was no pulse. No breathing. No life.
That’s the way they found me the next morning.
The intruder stole twenty dollars out of my mom’s purse. While he was at it, he thought he might as well rape and murder her. I, on the other hand, had just killed my father, the man who made me who I am. They never caught the stranger. And my troubles, believe it or not, were just beginning.
II
After the funerals, the house and farm were auctioned off and put into a trust with the rest of my parents’ money. I was shipped to an orphanage in Davenport. The only feeling I had was numbness. The whole orphanage scene was gray and glum. I would go days without eating or speaking. My schoolwork was untouched. I was a zombie.
This went on for months I suppose, until one of the social workers in charge of the orphanage notified me that I was being taken into a foster home. The news didn’t excite me much. I just nodded and then was told to pack up my things. My belongings consisted of some clothes, my ball glove, and of course, several boxes of baseball cards.
A few days later Mr. and Mrs. Pentoch arrived in an old gray station wagon. I stood in front of the social worker with my life’s belongings at my side.
Ed Pentoch stepped out, went to the other side of the car, and opened the door for Gale. Ed was in his mid-forties, clean-shaven and wore jeans and a sport coat that must have been two sizes too small. The knot of his tie was huge and the end of it only came down to just above his belly. The brown and green stripes on it reeked of the seventies.
Gale was wearing a sundress patterned in an array of colors and flowers.
She was very pretty, brown hair and brown eyes, calves of perfection. Her smile lit up as she stepped from the car. She should have been modeling clothes in a magazine.
We exchanged pleasantries; Gale even hugged me. It was a bit awkward. I really didn’t understand how you could hug someone you didn’t even know. Ed 97
only said hello then started loading my stuff into the back of the station wagon.
Gale thanked the social worker and we were off to the Windy City.
I turned around in my seat and watched as Davenport got smaller and smaller on the horizon. Ed took off his tie and threw it in the back seat next to me.
He also pulled out a pint of Jim Beam and took a hard swig. Gale began to tell me how great my room was and that I could change anything I didn’t like. Although she was very sincere and doing her best to make me feel welcome, my mind wandered as she rambled. I kept thinking that this wasn’t my life. This wasn’t the way it was meant to be. It was all a bad dream.
A ways into the trip Ed’s whiskey ran dry, and the bottle went flying out the window. We came to some small town in Illinois and stopped at a gas station that just happened to sell liquor. I went to the bathroom or tried at least, but my stomach was a mess. As I walked out, Ed was getting his own kind of refill for the rest of the way. Gale bought me a coke. There was a semi in the parking lot still running. I thought about trying to get in the back or even underneath it. I thought maybe I should just take off and run until I couldn’t run anymore. Instead I got back into the station wagon. That was the biggest mistake I would ever make.
There were two things about the trip that amazed me. The first being that Gale never questioned or even acknowledged Ed’s drinking. The second being how well Ed drove while drinking. By the time we got to Chicago Ed was beyond drunk, but he stayed on the road, between the lines, better than some sober drivers.
The house, my new home, was like the rest in that South Side neighborhood. All of them looked alike, no side, front, or backyards. There were no porches, no room to play catch or run around, just house after house jammed in beside each other. The inside was clean but you could tell the green carpet and paint had been there for at least twenty years, much like Ed’s tie. There was a decent-sized kitchen with all the usual appliances. The living room had a couch and a recliner, both purchased in another era. A long coffee table ran in front of the couch and a small TV was positioned so you could see it from either seating arrangement. The two bedrooms were right next to each other off the hallway that led from the living room to the bathroom. The air smelled of stale smoke and old booze, like a tavern that had just opened up for the day. Even when the lights were turned on, the place was very dim. The drab green carpet and brown walls didn’t help.
The first thing Ed did when he entered my new home was light a cigarette and pour another drink. Only this time the whiskey came out of a half-gallon bottle stationed in the cabinet beside the sink. Gale surprisingly poured herself a drink as well, after reaching in the freezer and pulling out a bottle of Vodka.
“Why don’t you got get your things out of the car, honey?” she said while taking down a swallow from the glass.
When I got back in the house Ed was in his recliner with cigarette and whiskey in hand, watching a football game. He never spoke or looked up at me.
Gale showed me to my room, which was more of a cubicle than anything. The bed took up almost the entire room. There was just enough room to walk on both sides of it and a little more room at the foot. It reminded me instantly of the way my new 98
home was, jammed in between the two houses beside it. There was no dresser or any other furniture, only a closet that had no door at the foot of the bed r.
“What do you think honey?” she asked.
“It’s nice,” I responded
“You better get some sleep, you’ve got a big day at your new school tomorrow,” she said as she kissed me on the forehead and hugged me with one arm, making sure not to spill her drink.
The door closed behind me, and I was alone in the dark, alone in a house and city I did not know, a long way from home. I stood there for a minute hearing the football game in the background and the noise of the city in the distance. I flipped the light switch next to me but nothing happened. I flipped it again but still nothing. The light bulb wasn’t burned out; there just wasn’t any light bulb. I took my clothes off and lay on the bed. My eyes shut but I couldn’t sleep.
A couple hours later, while still staring at the ceiling, my wall started to shake, then my bed, and then the entire room. I thought for sure it was an earthquake until I heard Gale’s moans from their bedroom. I put my only pillow over my head and pressed as tight as I could over both ears. The noise dulled, but the bed was still thrashing. I switched to the other end of the bed so at least the headboard wouldn’t keep pounding my head. The moans stopped eventually and sleep finally came.
I awoke the next day to the smell of bacon and eggs. In the distance I could hear the crackling and snapping of the skillet. Doors were opening and closing, feet shuffled along the kitchen floor. It could have been home, but my eyes told a different story. The light fixture above still had no bulb, and the room was still as small as it had been the night before.
Ed was eating a heaping portion of eggs and bacon. What looked like a half a loaf of bread was toasted and sitting next to his plate. Gale poured his coffee and sat a bowl of cereal in front of me. It looked liked corn flakes but tasted like cardboard shavings. I ate anyway. Ed topped off his coffee with a splash of whiskey and finished what was left on his plate. Ed began to speak.
“We need to get a few things straight here. After school every day you’re going to come home and clean this house. That means vacuuming, mopping, dusting, and throwing away the trash. Me and Gale both work ten-hour days and if I’m going to put a roof over your head, you’re going to earn your keep. When I get home from work, I watch TV; so don’t get any ideas for your own shows. Gale wants you to call her ‘mom’, but ou can just call me Ed. And one last thing, when you turn seventeen and get all that money form your trust fund, I want half. Do you understand?”
“Yes sir, I understand.”
“Here’s two dollars for your lunch. You better get ready now, the bus’ll be here in about twenty minutes.”
That day I was very careful to memorize the route the bus took to school. It wasn’t far; maybe ten blocks from my new home, but there were several stores and shops on the way. A sign hung in the window of one of them that said “ Used Books 25 cents”. I spent a dollar at lunch. I used the other dollar at the bookstore on my way home. I wasn’t much of a TV guy anyway, but I could get lost in a 99
book. School was like any other I suppose. I did my work and kept to myself mostly, the same way I was when you met me.
III
Ed wasn’t the cleanest man alive by any means. I found this out by picking up cigarette butts that had overflowed from his ashtray onto the floor. There were napkins and cigarette boxes strung out all over the living room. His empty glass sat on the arm of the recliner, bone dry. Ed worked for a local waste management company—in other words he was a garbage man. His gray shirt had the name Ed stitched in red on it and his boots looked as if they had been actually purchased at the dump. The last time he shaved must have been the day they came to Iowa.
When he came home from work he stunk like nothing you would ever smell on a human. Instead of getting in the shower or even changing clothes for that matter, Ed would pour his drink and sit down in the recliner.
Gale was very clean. Even in the morning she was dressed very nice, make-up done, and had a refreshing smell that seemed to combat Ed’s odor. Gale worked at the social security office in front of a computer all day. Not exactly challenging work but she was good at her job. She took a cab to work everyday, unlike Ed who was picked up by one of his fellow garbage men.
I was thirteen at the time and in eighth grade. I made sure every day to spend the least amount of my two dollars as possible. I knew the route from school to home and instead of taking the bus home I walked. I stopped at the shops to look, and to escape. I bought some light bulbs. I visited the used bookstore. I tried to read a book a night and usually did. I came home from school, did my chores which were dirty but not hard, ate my supper, and then it was off to a book and to salvation. Ed was content with me not interrupting his beloved TV, and Gale would be happy if I just talked to her during dinner. There was your occasional earthquake against my headboard. Ed’s stench still filled the house. My birthday came and went with no acknowledgment even though they knew. I survived that first year and graduated from eighth grade.
IV
My freshman year things began to get worse. Ed was drinking even more if that was possible and losing his hard-earned money to the local bookies. He lost his entire paycheck the second week of football season but that didn’t stop him from continuing his gambling. Gale bought some new shoes for work one Saturday. Ed went ballistic. He degraded her verbally at first and then from my room I could hear the beating begin. I ran out and jumped on his back begging him to quit. He rushed backward with me still hanging on and slammed me into the kitchen wall. The air flew out of my lungs. I gasped but nothing would come in. I panicked because the wind was knocked out of me, fearing I would never breathe again. When I finally caught my breath a fist came at me.
I woke up the next morning still on the kitchen floor. Ed was already gone to work and Gale helped me to my feet. It was the first time I had been in a fight and with, of all people, the man who was supposed to take the place of my father.
My nose was probably broken although Gale never took me to the hospital. I 100
didn’t go back to school until my black eyes and the gash on the back of my head healed.
Several weeks went by. I went to school. Did my chores. Read my books.
The earthquakes happened from time to time. I wondered how she could bring herself to do it, but then remembered it was probably better for her to take it that way than another.
The beatings continued from time to time for both Gale and me. Sometimes it was over a little thing like I missed a crumb when cleaning the floor; sometimes there was no reason at all. About half way through that year Ed got what he thought was a wonderful idea. He gave me the choice between the beatings and being his drinking partner. It sounded like a great idea to me at first also. The only alcohol that I ever had was a few sips of my father’s beer on trips back from the refrigerator to the barn. I didn’t really like the taste back then but imagined it couldn’t be all that bad.
Whiskey I soon found out was an entirely different animal. I drank the first glass Ed gave me, gulping it down like it was tea. I about vomited but held it down somehow. Then there was another glass. I drank it slower which might have been worse, tasting every drop on the way down. By the end of that glass I was intoxicated, falling asleep on the couch next to Ed’s chair. I woke up vomiting all over the couch and myself. Some of it splattered on Ed. He took me to the bathroom, removed my shirt, and stuck my head in the toilet. I remember thinking that him worrying about my shirt was a nice gesture, but he actually did that so he could whip my bare skin with his belt as I threw up. I had to sleep on my stomach for the next three weeks, and couldn’t even let my back hit the back of a chair.
Putting on clothing was excruciating.
I eventually got used to the whiskey. It seemed to be better than the beatings. I wanted to try out for the baseball team but Ed wouldn’t let me. Instead he made me get a job at Giant Burgers as a grill boy. I didn’t mind the work but Ed made me hand over half my check every week. It probably went straight to the bookies.
I worked as much as I could, trying to protect my body from my home life.
Ed would still make me drink as often as he could and throw in an occasional beating. Not even when my parents died had I ever felt as low as I did then. I remember getting out of bed in the mornings trying to think of one good reason to put on my clothes and go to school. I wasn’t reading. I wasn’t eating. I just wanted it to end. And then one Saturday morning there was a knock at the door. A knock that pounded out salvation. A knock from Agent Johnson.