Our house was in the city, but we often went to the country and stayed at another house that belonged to our grandparents.  We didn’t stay in the country big house; but we did stay in the house that was behind it.  Down below was a Pecan Tree Orchard by the River Bottom, and those pecans paid for extras in our life.  There was wealth in the family, but not like the Vanderbilts; simply that the family had a lot of material things, and although my dad and mom did not have the same benefits, we did get to enjoy things on the fringes.

During those times, mother and my small sibling stayed at home, and I lived at a Catholic Boarding School most of the week.   Dad had a good job in the city, and mom was a homemaker, so although it made sense to them for me to live at school, it did not make sense to me.  I wanted to be home, and boarding school was not a nice place for me.  The nuns did not treat me well; although they were strict with all the girls, it was just that perhaps I was more needy, and there was never anyone to hug me or help me with my demons.  As I look back over the years, I’ve always known that I never had a childhood; I was a grown up at birth, and God just gave me the strength, although not always the courage…to live day by day. 

Dad drank a lot, and he was very abusive when he drank; so the arguments and beatings at home were a constant.  One would think that I’d be happy to be away from home and living in a big school under the safety of Catholic nuns, with other children my own age; but I didn’t like living there either.  The rationalization for all of this was that often dad would get off work, go drinking, and completely forget about picking me up at school.  Eventually, the arrangements were made that they would pay tuition for me to be a boarder as well as a student, and if dad did not arrive by 6:00 p.m., then I would be fed in the Cafeteria (although the other children had already eaten and had begun to settle into their rooms).  This boarding school was special, and children from all over the country were student boarders, and many considered it a privilege to attend.  When you are four years old in the first grade, the word “privilege” means little to nothing.  After dinner, I was marched to my room, removed my school uniform, folded and hung it up, and then had a bath.  My clothes were in the wardrobe closet in my assigned room, and after 8:00 p.m. lights out we were checked on in our rooms several times by the nuns.  The upside to staying at school overnight was that it was quiet and there was no arguing at the boarding school, but the kids made fun of me because my parents were neglectful, and the nuns would scold me for things I didn’t understand.  They treated me as if it were my fault that daddy was drunk and had forgotten me, or that my uniforms were not properly cleaned, or because I’d get sick to my stomach in the evenings and upchuck. 

On the days that dad did remember to pick me up, it was always a guess as to where we would be going after that.  Sometimes we went straight home, and mom would have a nice dinner ready for us, and it would be almost normal; like other kids I would think to myself.  Dad would watch the 9” Philco television and brag about being the only ones on the block to own one.  Our yard was the nicest on the block, because dad had a “green thumb” he called it.   Inside our modern tract house it was neat and clean and you could eat off the floors.  Those were the good times, the peaceful, normal times.  Sometimes those normal times would last for weeks or even a month or two, but always….somewhere in the back of my mind…I knew…

  Unfortunately, normal was not a constant in our lives….so when dad would decide not to go home after picking me up at school, we would generally head out to the grandparents place out in the country.  I dreaded those trips too, because he stopped every few miles to drink at one bar or another.  My navy blue skirt and white cotton blouse would be dripping with sweat because he’d leave me in the car while he went into the bar to drink.  I never knew how long he’d be drinking, sometimes just a few minutes, and other times it would be hours.  On those days, I’d fall asleep in the back seat, without water or food, and eventually, he would wake me when we reached the country house.   Sometimes we never made it to the country house either. 

Dad chased women as hard as he drank….and because he was tall and handsome with green flashing eyes, the ladies just seemed to swoon after him.  There were many times that he would drag me into the bars with him, and I’d be told to sit in a chair, and not allowed to move much.  The chips and cookies and soda pop would appear out of nowhere it seemed, and I’d stuff myself until I’d get sick and have to vomit.  That was when I’d get dragged back out to the car, slapped around and told to get to sleep.  Sleeping was the best of all, because I could pretend that I was somewhere else, and tell myself that the backseat was a beautiful bed fit for a Princess, and I’d make up Cinderella type stories until I fell asleep.   Many times, he’d bring out a woman to the car, and she’d lift her skirt or dress, not caring if I were sitting in the car watching, and soon they’d be fondling each other and having sex openly.  I’d turn around and crawl into the floor as low as possible and pretend that I couldn’t see or hear anything.  Sometimes they went to a motel and they’d forget that I was still in the car, and eventually, but not always, come out and bring me inside to sleep on the floor or wherever they could find a place for me. 

Actually, I preferred that he have women, because that kept me safe for awhile.  I always knew that if he didn’t happen to get a woman for the evening, I would have to be the one he would abuse.  Most of the time, I didn’t speak, didn’t look, and for the most part, simply pretended to slip into the cracks, unnoticed.   There were lots of times that he’d take me into the bar, and dance with the women, and order food for them to eat, and not take notice that I had not eaten, or that I was laying on the floor under the table, often sleeping.  It was those times however, when he would drag me to the car, and off we’d go….bar hopping over the next 50 miles.  If I was lucky, he would forget that I was there; if I wasn’t so lucky, I would be his prime target for the evening.  He would find an old abandoned road, and park in the middle of nowhere, and the part that I begged for most would happen….He would ball up his strong hands into a fist, and hit me in the face so hard that it would be like, “lights out”! 

There were those times when I would do my magic, and lift myself up higher and higher until I could escape the pain and although I couldn’t shut my eyes off from what was occurring below; I didn’t have to go through it personally.  There were many times that I wanted to help that gangly, skinny little girl below, but I knew I wasn’t strong enough, and mostly….I was a coward.   It was amazing to me though that she could lay there stiff and always with her eyes squinched tightly shut, she would ball up her little hands into fists and pound the ground below her.  There were many times that the blood would roll down her face from where he’d hit her nose, or split her lip, but she never screamed….she seemed as if she were dead, and often I wondered if she really was dead because there would be no movement whatsoever.

After he had done with her what he wanted, he would throw her something to wipe her face with, often it would be her little blue uniform skirt, or a sweater, or even her blouse.  He’d put spittle in his hand and wipe her face off, and hand her his comb and tell her, “fix your hair, we gotta go.”  She always seemed in a daze to me as I watched her from up here, and I’d pray that God would let her find the magic that I had found….and be able to lift herself up like I did.  Her eyes were sunken into her head, and there was no sparkle to the green in them; she looked as if she had seen a ghost, but she never let on that she was afraid, at least not in front of him.  I suppose she figured it was no use….how could she protect herself anyway? 

He had told her often of how he would make her mom and baby sister suffer if she ever did tell, so she never did.  He told her she was “saving them” from being killed by being quiet, and keeping the secret.  By now, she had so many secrets inside her four year old mind that it felt that there would soon be no more room to hold anymore secrets.  It didn’t really matter, because when they did arrive back home, regardless of the hour, mom never made a fuss, or asked her any questions other than, “did your dad spend the night with a woman?  Or…was there another woman dancing and kissing your dad?”  That seemed to be the most important thing on moms mind.  I would bathe and dress for bed, and go to sleep, always praying that God would answer my prayers…that He would bring forth a miracle…and let my daddy die.  He didn’t answer prayers back then, so I figured I wasn’t praying hard enough.