One evening, I arrive home twenty-five minutes late. Mother's waiting behind the front door and surprises me with a two by four she slams to my back. I fall to my knees. "You killed me," I cry out.
"Good," she screams.
I can hardly breathe as I make my way to the bathroom. Looking into the mirror, I tell my reflection I can't wait until after I'm eighteen years old to join the Navy. It must be now or never. She must sign for me, or else. So, during school lunch period the next day, instead of walking around several city blocks, smoking cigarettes with Harvey Patterson, I head to the school's parking lot and head the old 2-door sedan to Abel's Standard Station, which used to be Len Habeck's place, and fill it up with gasoline. I use the station's telephone to call Mother at the courthouse where she works.
"Just a sec," a lady who answers the phone, "I'll get her for you."
"Hello," Mother answers.
"Are you going to sign the papers, so I can join the Navy?"
"I am not."
"Then, I'm getting the hell out of here."
"Gordon, I—"
I slam the phone on its cradle. Shaking with anger and frustration, I peer outdoors through the fogged, sweat-beaded plate glass window with an electric fan aimed at it so employees can see through to the "islands" where the gas pumps stand. The warning bell doesn’t work in this kind of weather, which is Wisconsin miserable. It's cold, windy, and snowing. I don't know where I'm going. I should head south, but instead steer the car east on Baker Street, which is Highway 54, because eventually it'll lead me to Highway 41, our major north-south highway.
I don't want to come back to this place. Ever. The car slips and slides. I'm going too fast, I know. No matter, after I drive over the viaduct and pass the cemetery where Dad is buried, I impatiently pass a car. My car’s rear end starts to fishtail. I fight the steering wheel. I'm not in control. The ice is. Oh, oh. A moment later, I'm staring at the driver of the car I just passed. Unbelievably, I'm heading in reverse at fifty miles an hour. I turn my head to look back. I don't know why I because all I can do is hang on. As if it has a mind of its own, the car's rear end jerks sharply into the other lane, down a ditch, and up a snow-covered residential lawn. I think we're going to hit a house. We're heading straight for its front door. "Fumf." Just like that, the car stops. So, too, does the engine. Alive, and grateful I am, I exit the car to inspect the damage. Thank goodness, as far as I can see, there are no dents plus there’s no debris. The passenger's side rear wheel hit a concrete block and settled against it. It saved me.
I get back in the car, shut the door, start the engine, turn on windshield wipers, headlights, and a little fan that acts as the windshield’s defroster, make my way slowly to the driveway, and return to Highway 54, heading west. I drive sensibly. I don't want to die in a car accident. I'm too young for that. I want to get away from the Crazy House and the woman who claims she's my mother. That's all.
I turn south on Highway 51 and head to Wautoma, eventually to Highway 21 and finally the car and I are on 41. It's starting to get dark. "Ten Twelve Hayes Avenue," I say aloud as if I’m an old prospector who discovers a strip of gold in a cave I’ve prospected for years. The idea pops into my head from nowhere. "That's where I'm going: Ten Twelve Hayes Avenue," I sing and then happily whistle, adding another stanza to my ditty. "Ten Twelve Hayes Avenue: It's for me, yes sir-ee."
Racine, Wisconsin, is going to be the first stop on my way south. Aunt Marie, Uncle George, and three cousins live on 1012 Hayes Avenue. They include Mary Lee, Mike, and George, whose nickname is "Buddy.” It's been three years since I last visit them, but I'm certain Aunt Marie will let me stay one night at their place. I'm not so certain about Uncle George because I suspect he's never liked me.
On my earlier visits there, I discover quickly that Aunt Marie's extremely religious. Every night before the family goes to sleep, she calls the kids and me into her and Uncle George's bedroom. We get down on our knees and make the sign of the cross. The first night, after leading the recitation of an entire rosary, Aunt Marie says, "We will now pray for the repose of Uncle Jim's soul." Although I pray along with them, I wonder who Uncle Jim is.
"Who's Uncle Jim?" I later ask in the boys' bedroom where a day bed is placed temporarily for me.
"That's your father, dumbbell," says Mike, laughing. "Didn't you know that?"
I say nothing. I certainly don't laugh.
It's Buddy who I come to trust implicitly. During the first week of my visit, he, Mike, and I go down the basement where I open some of Uncle George's scotch and wine bottles and sip from each. Both cousins laugh but neither join me in taste-testing their father's hooch. It doesn't take Aunt Marie long to discover the missing booze. She questions Buddy. He denies drinking the stuff. His mother asks him if he knows who the culprit is. "Yes," Buddy answers.
"Then, tell me who it is."
"I can't."
He could say it was I, but he doesn't. Aunt Marie drives Buddy to a church rectory to visit a priest. Maybe, she figures, the good Father wearing a Roman collar can scare some sense into the boy. I later learn Buddy tells the priest he didn't do the dirty deed but refuses to name the culprit. When my aunt and Buddy return home, Mike and I are on the front porch as Buddy, without a peep, passes us by—straight to his and Mike's upstairs bedroom, minus his evening meal. Mike and I giggle. I know I shouldn't have, but I don't want Aunt Marie to suspect I'm the perp. Buddy gives us a dirty look but still says nothing. Obviously, he's no snitch.
If, on the other hand, Aunt Marie questioned Mike and took him to see the priest, instead, I'm certain he would've named me besides embellishing the story, and calling for a speedy trial before a hanging judge. Mike would've supplied the rope and picked a tree with a branch strong enough for carrying out the judge's sentence. I'm also certain Aunt Marie eventually discovers I'm the guilty party. She never says a thing, though.
Interestingly, I hadn't wet the bed in the Crazy House since after Dad's death, but when I visit Racine, I wake up, soaking wet. I say nothing but make the bed as neat as can be. Finally, one morning after Aunt Marie hand-grinds coffee beans in the kitchen, I whisper, "I wet the bed." I begin to cry.
"No problem, Gordy" she says, bringing me to her, hugging me hard, backing up, and wearing a great big smile. "That's what washing machines are for.
"Good," she screams.
I can hardly breathe as I make my way to the bathroom. Looking into the mirror, I tell my reflection I can't wait until after I'm eighteen years old to join the Navy. It must be now or never. She must sign for me, or else. So, during school lunch period the next day, instead of walking around several city blocks, smoking cigarettes with Harvey Patterson, I head to the school's parking lot and head the old 2-door sedan to Abel's Standard Station, which used to be Len Habeck's place, and fill it up with gasoline. I use the station's telephone to call Mother at the courthouse where she works.
"Just a sec," a lady who answers the phone, "I'll get her for you."
"Hello," Mother answers.
"Are you going to sign the papers, so I can join the Navy?"
"I am not."
"Then, I'm getting the hell out of here."
"Gordon, I—"
I slam the phone on its cradle. Shaking with anger and frustration, I peer outdoors through the fogged, sweat-beaded plate glass window with an electric fan aimed at it so employees can see through to the "islands" where the gas pumps stand. The warning bell doesn’t work in this kind of weather, which is Wisconsin miserable. It's cold, windy, and snowing. I don't know where I'm going. I should head south, but instead steer the car east on Baker Street, which is Highway 54, because eventually it'll lead me to Highway 41, our major north-south highway.
I don't want to come back to this place. Ever. The car slips and slides. I'm going too fast, I know. No matter, after I drive over the viaduct and pass the cemetery where Dad is buried, I impatiently pass a car. My car’s rear end starts to fishtail. I fight the steering wheel. I'm not in control. The ice is. Oh, oh. A moment later, I'm staring at the driver of the car I just passed. Unbelievably, I'm heading in reverse at fifty miles an hour. I turn my head to look back. I don't know why I because all I can do is hang on. As if it has a mind of its own, the car's rear end jerks sharply into the other lane, down a ditch, and up a snow-covered residential lawn. I think we're going to hit a house. We're heading straight for its front door. "Fumf." Just like that, the car stops. So, too, does the engine. Alive, and grateful I am, I exit the car to inspect the damage. Thank goodness, as far as I can see, there are no dents plus there’s no debris. The passenger's side rear wheel hit a concrete block and settled against it. It saved me.
I get back in the car, shut the door, start the engine, turn on windshield wipers, headlights, and a little fan that acts as the windshield’s defroster, make my way slowly to the driveway, and return to Highway 54, heading west. I drive sensibly. I don't want to die in a car accident. I'm too young for that. I want to get away from the Crazy House and the woman who claims she's my mother. That's all.
I turn south on Highway 51 and head to Wautoma, eventually to Highway 21 and finally the car and I are on 41. It's starting to get dark. "Ten Twelve Hayes Avenue," I say aloud as if I’m an old prospector who discovers a strip of gold in a cave I’ve prospected for years. The idea pops into my head from nowhere. "That's where I'm going: Ten Twelve Hayes Avenue," I sing and then happily whistle, adding another stanza to my ditty. "Ten Twelve Hayes Avenue: It's for me, yes sir-ee."
Racine, Wisconsin, is going to be the first stop on my way south. Aunt Marie, Uncle George, and three cousins live on 1012 Hayes Avenue. They include Mary Lee, Mike, and George, whose nickname is "Buddy.” It's been three years since I last visit them, but I'm certain Aunt Marie will let me stay one night at their place. I'm not so certain about Uncle George because I suspect he's never liked me.
On my earlier visits there, I discover quickly that Aunt Marie's extremely religious. Every night before the family goes to sleep, she calls the kids and me into her and Uncle George's bedroom. We get down on our knees and make the sign of the cross. The first night, after leading the recitation of an entire rosary, Aunt Marie says, "We will now pray for the repose of Uncle Jim's soul." Although I pray along with them, I wonder who Uncle Jim is.
"Who's Uncle Jim?" I later ask in the boys' bedroom where a day bed is placed temporarily for me.
"That's your father, dumbbell," says Mike, laughing. "Didn't you know that?"
I say nothing. I certainly don't laugh.
It's Buddy who I come to trust implicitly. During the first week of my visit, he, Mike, and I go down the basement where I open some of Uncle George's scotch and wine bottles and sip from each. Both cousins laugh but neither join me in taste-testing their father's hooch. It doesn't take Aunt Marie long to discover the missing booze. She questions Buddy. He denies drinking the stuff. His mother asks him if he knows who the culprit is. "Yes," Buddy answers.
"Then, tell me who it is."
"I can't."
He could say it was I, but he doesn't. Aunt Marie drives Buddy to a church rectory to visit a priest. Maybe, she figures, the good Father wearing a Roman collar can scare some sense into the boy. I later learn Buddy tells the priest he didn't do the dirty deed but refuses to name the culprit. When my aunt and Buddy return home, Mike and I are on the front porch as Buddy, without a peep, passes us by—straight to his and Mike's upstairs bedroom, minus his evening meal. Mike and I giggle. I know I shouldn't have, but I don't want Aunt Marie to suspect I'm the perp. Buddy gives us a dirty look but still says nothing. Obviously, he's no snitch.
If, on the other hand, Aunt Marie questioned Mike and took him to see the priest, instead, I'm certain he would've named me besides embellishing the story, and calling for a speedy trial before a hanging judge. Mike would've supplied the rope and picked a tree with a branch strong enough for carrying out the judge's sentence. I'm also certain Aunt Marie eventually discovers I'm the guilty party. She never says a thing, though.
Interestingly, I hadn't wet the bed in the Crazy House since after Dad's death, but when I visit Racine, I wake up, soaking wet. I say nothing but make the bed as neat as can be. Finally, one morning after Aunt Marie hand-grinds coffee beans in the kitchen, I whisper, "I wet the bed." I begin to cry.
"No problem, Gordy" she says, bringing me to her, hugging me hard, backing up, and wearing a great big smile. "That's what washing machines are for.
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