The Start of It All
The first time he drove the ten of us in the red ford station wagon to the house, the front yard was a mess. Overgrown weeds of browns and yellow, with prickly green stickers, the kind you can’t touch, were stretching their way to the sky and sun. It had been a long time since the lawn had been mowed. It needed water, but there was no hose on the outdoor faucet. I figured they didn’t have a lawn mower either. A small leafless tree stood lonely, facing the street, unable to shelter the house. The house looked abandoned and embarrassed. It sighed of poorness, of too much neglect, a place no ghost would be caught dead in. The pale gray stucco exterior had white painted strips of trim wood crossed into two white X’s on the garage door. A common track house design. There were color crayon scribbles drawn all over the garage door, and left there like kid grafitti. One of the X’s was detached and dangling near the bottom of the door. The thin trim wood parched and warped from too much sun and too little paint.
He was doing all the talking as I watched my mom. She didn’t say a word. When she tried, he would interrupt and finish the story. I could tell he liked to talk. Everything was a lesson and he knew everything. It was exactly like being in school. The rest of the kids and I were allowed to ask questions politely and respectfully. We had to be respectful of him. He demanded this even of my mom. Although she got to sit in the front seat, she was just one of us now. Something wasn’t right. I felt protective of my mom, but I kept quiet. I was only eleven and shy. I didn’t know what else to do.
Arnie, my mom’s new husband unlocked the front door, still talking. He made a big deal out of having her go in first. Like the front seat, I think this made her feel special. I had many questions, but each time I asked my mom, he would answer. So I nodded and listened politely, but secretly ignore him. Other thoughts would enter my head while he droned on. Abandoned like this house, I had no allies. No one to turn too. My real dad lived too far away, and my mom just wasn’t my mom anymore.
After all the kids entered the house, he closed the door. I watched as he went from room to room. Always talking. Commenting on this and that. I stopped listening and watched my mom. I looked for signs. Facial expressions that would give me clues that everything would be ok. A smile from her that she was still my mom. She seemed to avoid my stare. My heart was breaking for the first time in my life.
Our new family walked into the kitchen after we were given permission from Arnie. Will, the oldest of the stepbrothers, opened the door to the garage. My eyes strained to see into the vast darkened war-zone of the garage. It seemed a defenseless battlefield occupied solely by a huge stockpile of dirty wounded laundry. A mountain of forgotten clothes lying in a helpless scattered heap on the dusty cement floor. Pleading for the attention and mercy of the deserted washing brigade.
Back in the kitchen, the cupboards with the copper handles were empty. There was nothing in them but a half empty jar of peanut butter and a can of Campbell’s chicken noodle soup. I didn’t see any bread. The root beer brown appliances were scratched and coated with grease. The linoleum floor with the little flower design had nicks and stains. There was no bowl of fruit. I wanted to keep looking, but we had to move on.
Down the narrow hall there were four bedrooms, but there was nothing in the rooms. The house had six kids living in it...and a mom. Their mom was gone, like the food. Maybe she was in the garage, lying wounded, like the laundry. There were no clothes hanging in the closets and there were no shoes neatly lined up. No shoes at all. There were no lamps in the rooms. I then noticed the broken bits of Christmas tree ornaments on the hardwood floors in several of the rooms. This was Valentine’s Day.
There were no toys.
There were 6 kids but no toys.
They had no toys and no food.
I held my breath and did not want this.
But that was a long, long time ago.
