Da-Da Part 2: There’s a Man Who Leads a Life of Danger
Part two of a series. In case you want to read it from the beginning, here’s part one.
Note: I had intended for this to be shorter, and happier. You may want to read it in pieces, with one eye closed, a good stiff drink close at hand.
I look like my father. I have his hair, his eyes, and unfortunately, his nose. As I grew older, there developed an unspoken bond between us, a fondness for which I’m eternally thankful. We cried at the same cornball movies. A look could pass between us, and we’d laugh like maniacs. Eventually, I came to understand his craziness, and the reasons for some of his behavior.
There was a brief period when we kind of hung out together as friends. This was after his third marriage ended. We sought spiritual solace together, and attended some Unitarian Church services. We’d go to dinner with some of my friends, and he’d flirt shamelessly with them. When he went to Hong Kong on a business trip, he lamented to me that he’d been rolled by a hooker who’d stolen his Rolex watch. And when his drinking got out of hand, he called me and told me that he was scared. I attended his first few AA meetings with him.
I loved him immeasurably. He was such a mess. Brilliantly intelligent, stubborn as a pack of mules, as wild and angry as a California forest fire.
It was weird, watching my parents grow up. They eloped young, hoping to escape their own tragic families, only to form a sicker, more horrendous household of their own.
My mother’s southern Catholic family was outraged by their union (”We can understand you marrying a cripple, but did he have to be a Jew?”). Soon, they developed a “you made your bed, now lie in it” attitude toward the whole situation.
But I like picturing my parents as newlyweds. Due to his polio, my father often had to have operations on his leg. He was scheduled for surgery immediately after their honeymoon. The night before the operation, he gave his sedatives to his hospital roommate, and when the man was soundly asleep, Dad phoned my mother. She pulled their car up beneath his window. He climbed down the fire escape in his hospital gown, and off they went to continue their honeymoon for a few more hours, Mom returning him to the hospital before daybreak. Back up the fire escape he went, and no one was the wiser.
Dad’s cruelty and selfishness became apparent when Mom became pregnant with me. She’d sometimes faint with hunger. Dad would take her to hamburger stands and feed himself while she watched. Gradually, she began to realize that something was horribly wrong with her new husband.
His mind was a hurricane, constantly churning with turbulence. He was seldom calm, frequently enraged, and often sadistic. He took a lifetime of frustration out on his young new wife, and his weapons of choice were his fists combined with a mixture of sick, cruel words. He was a madman.
Another baby came, then another. My mother was timid and terrified, fearful for all of our lives. She once escaped, hysterically driving down the road at 80 miles an hour in hopes that she’d get caught. A policeman stopped her, and she pleaded for help for her children and herself. He told her to be a “good girl” and go home.
Not long afterward, she stood in the bathroom with a lethal dose of pills in her hand, but when she realized that her children would never survive under her husband’s care, she reconsidered. I’m perpetually grateful to her that she opted to live.
We kids were witnesses to all of the insanity. It was like watching a guard at Guantanamo torturing a prisoner every night, then going to school the next day as though nothing had happened. At home, we walked that quiet, careful walk that children learn when meneuvering parental minefields.
Often, we ran away together, Mom somehow raising funds to transport us to Florida to see my grandmother, or to Boston to visit friends. Sometimes she’d go with us, other times she’d stay behind in an attempt to salvage her marriage.
~~~~~~~~~~
Not long ago, I’d been thinking about an acquaintance of mine, a college professor who loved to regale others with stories of his numerous sexual conquests.
I asked my mother, “Mom, have you ever known any men who were whores?”
She looked up from polishing her nails and said, “Yes, hon. Your father.”
It was true. Dad was shameless. He chased women constantly, unceasingly. He often deflected attention away from his infidelities by accusing my mother of cheating, and quizzed us kids about her behavior while he was away. How had she acted toward the TV repairman? What did she say to the grocery boy? Puh-lease.
We once returned from a Florida escape, and the neighbors came by and excitedly told Mom about how Dad had chased a naked woman through the neighborhood one night with a gun in his hand. I have this mental picture of Dad, limping surely and steadily down our little residential street, a determined Clint Eastwood chasing a nude outlaw.
This woman became his second wife. I believe that, although Karen was Marilyn Monroe gorgeous, her brain cells had spontaneously combusted at some point in her childhood and left her seriously stupid. Maybe it was peroxide poisoning. Theirs was a marriage doomed to failure, but it was fascinating to watch her in action.
Their dog used to bark whenever the coffee maker would start perking.
“See? I told you he was allergic to coffee.” She triumphantly told my dad.
Another time, she became angry at him and slashed his tires. She was always doing these things to stir the pot, too insipid to realize that each time, she was putting herself at risk of being seriously dead.
Dad had expensive hobbies, and at one point, his passion was bass fishing. He bought a
boat and a trailer, and invited me to go to the lake with Karen and him. I have no idea why he thought that this would be fun. It frustrated him to no end, having to wrestle with the boat, the gear and the long drive. But he loved proving to himself that he could do the things that other men did, and so off we went.
We were out on the lake, the sun beating down mercilessly while we pretended to have fun. Dad cast his line, and ended up with a hook in his hand.
“What are you gonna do now, Igmo?” Karen said tauntingly.
Oh God. Igmo? Had she really just called my father Igmo? Immediately, I started saying a silent prayer. I could see my father imploding, and I knew that had I not been there, this woman would have been beaten senseless with a fishing rod, and thrown over the side of the boat.
The marriage lasted less than six months. I think Dad magnanimously ended it to keep from strangling her in her sleep. I remember him visiting our apartment, sitting on the edge of my bed to tell me good night. “Oh by the way, Karen and I are getting divorced,” he mentioned casually. I never saw her again.
Visitation-wise, this freed my father up for a while. He’d pick us up in his Corvette convertible, and drive us around the park at terrifyingly high speeds. I’d sit next to him, my younger brother and sister in the back, holding on to whatever we could grab to stay in the car.
This was Dad at his finest. Defying death, jacked up on pills, scaring the urine out of whoever was near. Then he’d start singing his theme song, and we’d join in on the chorus.
There’s a man who leads a life of danger,
To everyone he meets he stays a stranger,
With every move he makes, another chance he takes
Odds are he won’t live to see tomorrow.
Secret AGENT MAN!
Secret AGENT MAN!
They’ve given you a number,
and taken away your name.
~~~~~~~~~~
A few months later, he was in marriage mode again. He began trying to calm down, reading Rod McKuen poems, dressing hipper, and listening to nauseatingly corny music. He took us to a jewelry store, and asked me to help him pick out the prettiest watch I could find. It was close to my twelfth birthday, and he pretended that it was going to be a gift for me, but actually it was for his newest love interest, a former homecoming queen from a very wealthy family.
We finally met her, and I liked her a lot. She was young and pretty and proper, and she loved my father. They married, moved to a big house in an upscale neighborhood, and for a while, dad pretended to be normal. Sort of.
Although “Cassie” was pampered and spoiled, she was good to us. Life at my mother’s house was crumbling, and it was odd to realize that my father’s home was now the safest haven we had. Cassie was a calming influence, and she filled in my father’s gaps, making excuses for his crazy behavior and trying her best to be a good stepmother to three hurt, confused children. She always reminded us how much Dad loved us. “He just has a hard time showing it.”
She made me realize that there was a side of my father that he kept hidden. A gentler side, one that he had learned in his childhood to conceal, because his own father preyed upon such weakness.
One day, Dad became angry about something, screamed at Cassie, and threw a plate full of food against the wall. I was more furious than afraid of him at that moment. “DON’T TALK TO HER THAT WAY!” I yelled. I left the table, and went to the guest room where I stayed when I visited. Now seventeen, I was fed up with his craziness, his selfishness, the way he treated others. I was crying and shaking, wondering how I was going to face him after my outburst.
Cassie came into the room and sat next to me on the bed.
Your father doesn’t mean these things,” she told me. “He’s just never learned how to express himself.”
“I don’t care,” I told her. “There’s no excuse for the way he acts. “And I don’t know how you put up with it.”
“I understand him,” she explained. “If you knew more about him, you’d understand too.”
She proceeded to tell me about my father’s childhood. The gruesome details of his father’s behavior, a man who was rendered insane by untreated diabetes.
She explained to me about the polio that Dad contracted when he was thirteen. About how he almost died, and was transported to Warm Springs, Georgia (the polio treatment center that FDR founded), where he was told he’d never walk again. His determination and fight had kept him alive. Eventually, it had pulled him up from a wheelchair, out of leg braces, and back on his own two feet.
“It’s no excuse,” I repeated. “He was a kid. Now he’s an adult, and he has to act like an adult.”
She thought for a moment, and then she told me this story:
When my father was at Warm Springs, soldiers would come by and visit the polio patients. This was in the late 1940’s, and they were the heroes of the day. I imagine that it was the equivalent of having Shaquille O’Neal visit a dying child’s bedside nowadays. Some of them actually gave kids guns- real guns- as souvenirs. And they gave one to my father.
When he came home, he sat in his wheelchair, endlessly playing with that gun. He learned how to make blanks, emptying the gunpowder from the cartridges and filling them with water, which made a loud noise, but did nothing else. Without gunpowder, bullets can’t travel.
Dad’s best friend was a boy named Gerald. They’d been compatriots for years, and I
havephotos of them playing together, two laughing little boys wearing cowboy hats, toy pistols in holsters at their sides.
Gerald was finishing his paper route, coming up the walkway to see my father. Dad had been excitedly waiting for him for hours. As a joke, he was going to shoot a blank at him and give him a fright with the loud noise. He reached into the box of blanks, and accidentally grabbed a live bullet.
Gerald came up the walk, and Dad greeted him from the doorway, pointing the gun at his heart. “You’re a dead man,” he said, in his best John Wayne voice. And then he fired. And he killed Gerald.
“No one knew what to do,” Cassie said. “No one could help him through it all. They sent him away to military school.”
I went to the library and looked the story up. As I browsed the microfiche, I was startled to see a large picture of my father staring at me from the front page of the newspaper, a grief-stricken little boy in a striped shirt, sitting in a wheelchair. His eyes were swollen and ringed with black from crying.
The story was on the front page of the Memphis Press Scimitar for weeks. The victim had been a newspaper boy for them, and it made for some sensational headlines.
An abusive father couldn’t break my own father’s spirit. Polio couldn’t do it. But killing Gerald did him in. He was irreparably wounded, and he spent the rest of his life trying to fight the demons. His heart was splintered, and he could never pick up the pieces. He was loved by many, but he felt so undeserving that he was unable to accept it. He raged and cursed and fought his way through his life, trying to find a happiness that continually eluded him. He never realized that he was chasing it away at every opportunity. He despised the people who cared about him, because really, how could a decent person love someone like him?
But we all did. And we all still do.
Brian said,
January 16, 2008 at 11:08 am
Wow, Moonbeam. I’m speechless.
My heart goes out to you, your father, and your entire family. You personify the meaning of “survivor.”
Little Miss said,
January 16, 2008 at 11:08 am
OMG. That is an amazing, remarkable, extremely gripping, captivating story, MB. I had tears in my eyes when I read this. Thank you so much for sharing such intimate details of your father and life. It is amazing to me how we learn so much from our fathers, no matter how they deal with what life presents them.
Little Miss said,
January 16, 2008 at 11:09 am
PS – I firmly believe that your father now knows how much you all still love him.
Alyson said,
January 16, 2008 at 11:42 am
Wow.
That’s all I can say.
moonbeammcqueen said,
January 16, 2008 at 11:50 am
@ Brian: No, no. Your heart should be kept firmly in place! My family is SO great, and in my opinion, happy and well-adjusted. This all happened long ago. My father’s struggle has ended, and I’m just sorry that he couldn’t make it through. In my ideal world, he would have come to grips with his past, and been able to find some peace while he was alive.
He would have been more of a survivor.
@ LM: Thank you. My brother and I were talking about Dad this morning. He really was such a character.
I agree. He does know how much he was loved. I’ve always hoped that when we die, we gain some enlightenment and understanding. I truly hope he did.
@ Alyson: I think being with Dad was all kind of one big “Wow!”
loopyloo350 said,
January 16, 2008 at 11:53 am
Do you ever forgive them? Him for who and what he was and did, and her for staying? I have lived with memories for a long time and they still hurt, even though both of mine are finally dead. Peace is sometimes hard to obtain even though I know they had their own demons.
moonbeammcqueen said,
January 16, 2008 at 12:04 pm
@ loopyloo350: Yes, I forgive them completely. In fact, I’m grateful to them. My mother stayed for as long as she did because A: She loved him, and hoped that he would change, and B: There just weren’t many options or resources for women in her position back then. I think her love is what gave us balance through all of this.
My parents were just people, muddling through as best they could. I’m very at peace with my past, and I truly hope that you find peace too.
Thank you soooo much for stopping by, and for your comments.
Renee said,
January 16, 2008 at 12:54 pm
I have a confession to make: I was actually feeling just a little hard-hearted toward your father at the beginning of this story. “How could he make my e-friend Moonbeam suffer so?” says I. Then I got to the part about Gerald and I dissolved into a great big puddle of tears, feeling bad for him.
I’m so grateful that Cassie came into your life at that moment – when you were able to hear what she said – and explain just what had happend to make your father the way he was. She was a very kind and perceptive woman. Just think, you might have gone your entire life without ever really understanding that about him.
Here’s the icing on the cake, for me: my iTunes was playing Tears in Heaven by Eric Clapton while I was reading (and crying over) your story.
Would you know my name
If I saw you in heaven
Will it be the same
If I saw you in heaven
I must be strong, and carry on
Cause I know I don’t belong
Here in heaven
Would you hold my hand
If I saw you in heaven
Would you help me stand
If I saw you in heaven
I’ll find my way, through night and day
Cause I know I just can’t stay
Here in heaven
Time can bring you down
Time can bend your knee
Time can break your heart
Have you begging please
Begging please
Beyond the door
There’s peace I’m sure.
And I know there’ll be no more…
Tears in heaven
Would you know my name
If I saw you in heaven
Will it be the same
If I saw you in heaven
I must be strong, and carry on
Cause I know I don’t belong
Here in heaven
Cause I know I don’t belong
Here in heaven
moonbeammcqueen said,
January 16, 2008 at 2:23 pm
@ Renee: I’m grateful for Cassie too. Imagine a woman from such an incredibly sheltered background walking into that situation. She was incredible.
Reading these song lyrics made me cry!
wgfxkmf said,
January 16, 2008 at 2:35 pm
This is some incredible, transparent, and honest blogging. I feel as if I am sharing in your life and experiences. You are quite the storyteller. This was my first visit. I will certainly return. With your permission I would like to add you to my blogroll.
Thanks so much for your comments. I’d be honored to be added. Just keep in mind that I’m not always serious, and plan to return to some goofier stuff next week!
boundandgags said,
January 16, 2008 at 3:45 pm
Wonderful story, Moon! I loved the Secret Agent Man tie in.
Thanks, b&g. That song defines my dad’s view of himself. I absolutely love the memory of singing it with him.
Wendy said,
January 16, 2008 at 3:51 pm
I’m with Little Miss, this story is remarkable and gripping, and captivating. Wow. This story was fascinating. Like you, my heart goes out to the child inside every bitter (and sometimes dangerous and deranged) adult. I can see how you would continue to love your dad, even though he tried to make it impossible. Maybe it’s because you’re of a higher intelligence, or because as difficult as he made you childhood it was still better than the one he experienced? But I think your ability to make peace about him is such a credit to who you are. You put an end to the chain of sickness, you’re the weakest link so to speak, and for that your story is in some ways even more amazing than his.
I keep worrying that I’m going to make you fling yourself off a bridge with this stuff, Wendy. I’m writing like a woman possessed though, and I just need to get this out. It’s not confessional, so much as I think Dad had a story that needs telling.
I’m always amazed at the resilience of my family, how well everyone turned out, and what wonderful people they all are. Even my mother became a force to be reckoned with. I guess he made us stronger, huh?
Red said,
January 16, 2008 at 4:00 pm
I saw your father in this post. A male figure, faceless, but I saw him. The words you chose to describe him and his world are just .. wow, you painted a picture that was so captivating. Im still a bit speechless . . .
Thanks so much, Red. I love it that you saw him.
Heather said,
January 16, 2008 at 4:33 pm
OMG! Really that is so beyond tragic. Your poor dad was so broken and wounded.
I really think you need to write this in book form, it would truly help so many. This story screams out to be in a book in rich detail. If you could stand to do it.
What happened to Cassie?
I always say that “my father gave me fodder.” He was like a ready-made book character.
He and Cassie eventually divorced, and she remarried.
gypsy-heart said,
January 16, 2008 at 5:17 pm
Bitterness and hatred is such poison , and forgiveness the nectar of life.
We just never know what makes a person destructive to themselves or others do we? Exposed secrets …..unearthed pain.
As my Grandmother used to say:
“I think he loved you ‘best he could.”
You already know that though.
I’ll say it again..Moonbeam you have a gift with pen.
You write as your Father lived”
…raw passion tinged with sadness.
Oh..”Rod McKuen” I had forgotten about him. I have two of his books in my library from long ago.
Namaste’ Moonbeam because I SO honor your inner light.!
Thank you so much gypsy-heart. I realize that you know of what you speak when it comes to forgiveness (and many other things).
Your grandmother said it well. I like to believe that everyone on this planet’s doing the best they can, at any given moment, my father included.
iondanu said,
January 16, 2008 at 5:48 pm
Why is it that so sad and tragic facts of life make so great a story? Of course, it is your skills and talent as a writer, moonbeam, but I think that, maybe, it’s more than that… I mean, there are some great writers (take Proust, for instance) who can do a big thing out of a cookie… but then really good literature has strata of pain and suffering and tragedy behind it… Shakespeare (yes, Shakespeare! I do compare you to him…why not?) didn’t wrote about cookies, did he?
And, in a very small way, believe me if I told you I can understand you, I know what living with a person of your own blood (AND with his daemons!) could be… How stressful, how tiring (tired?) that could be. How it can suck up all your energy, all (or almost) your desire to live and to continue living…
By the way, I cannot think of another country where polio victims are given GUNS to play… I love America for some great writers (like you, moonbeam) and some good people and great other things, but there are also so many (unfortunatelly) reasons to not like it a lot… I’ve just seen “300″, the movie about Leonidas and his 300 spartans and man! I thought I was looking some Marines movies! They even Hu-a! like marines! But then, everybody has his demons and who am I to complain? Da(Yes)- Nu (no)?
I love your comments. You’re always so thoughtful. And yes, Shakespeare and I are like this
It does wear you out, living with such a person, but kids really are smart. They figure out ways to strengthen themselves to get through.
Dad grew up in that era of soldiers and cowboys and tough guys. It shaped who he was. He fancied himself a real tough guy. At the time, I don’t think anyone thought that it would be strange to give a kid a souvenir gun, because really, who could imagine that anyone would buy bullets for it? I’m amazed that he knew how to make blanks at that age, or that his parents lacked the judgment to not give them to him. He was an only child, and extremely indulged in some ways.
And 300 was a great movie! “Tonight, we dine in HELL!!!!”
micey said,
January 17, 2008 at 6:20 pm
it’s amazing the stuff we live through. you are a gifted writer!
We’re tougher than we realize! Thanks, micey!
A Must Read « In Repair said,
January 17, 2008 at 6:51 pm
[...] Part 1 Da-Da Part 2 Da-Da Part 3 Da-Da Part 4 This entry was written by Brian, posted on January 17, 2008 at 5:50 [...]
David said,
January 17, 2008 at 7:29 pm
I too am totally speechless. Thanks for this beautifully written and moving post and for the photos too. I very nearly shot my best friend as a teenager playing around with a .22 rifle so that ending really pushed me over the edge.
Oh, God. Guns and rifles have always (understandably) scared me to death. I’m an expert shot (my brothers call me Annie Oakley), but I hate going near them. I’m glad you didn’t shoot your friend, and sorry if this hit too close to home.