Soul Mosaic

If my parents didn’t have a fight on a Saturday, it would happen on Sunday, right after church. But then, right after church, I was fair game too. Especially the Sunday I declared my support for birth control, after the priest’s sermon that day demonized it. While my courage to stand up for my beliefs was admirable, you’d think I would have learned by then to just keep my mouth shut.

But it didn’t really matter what the trigger was. There would be a nasty fight on one of the weekend mornings, and after church was as good a time as any. He was miserable first thing in the morning on most days. Add to that having to dress up and go to Mass, and that only worsened his temperament.

Whatever the fight, it would end up with them in the bathroom and me at my bedroom wall listening to make sure he didn’t kill her this time. After the battle, he would storm out of the house, get in the car, and tear out of the driveway. That left our house in relative quiet while he was gone, except for the sounds of sobs or blowing noses. It was the stillness after a storm, like when the skies have unleashed their worst and now, energy depleted, they have nothing left to hurl at you.

On the bad Saturdays, there wasn’t usually much time for a respite. It was enough to just crawl into bed on Saturdays and try to get lost in daydreams under the covers until sleep overtook me.

There was no question that Dad was going to make me pay for “Doughnut morning rejections” and “Late movie avoidances.” Before Sunday Mass, he wouldn’t look at me or talk to me, the usual “silent treatment.” He would be personable with everyone we met there, but always avoided any eye contact with me.

Once we got home, he would start in with his barrage of questions — looking for something I did, or didn’t do, so he could start the fight. One time, it was the fact that I wore a sweater too short for me to church that morning. To him, that would be an affront and make him look bad to everyone else. It was like saying he wasn’t a good enough provider, and his family couldn’t dress properly.

That particular Sunday, we got in the house, and he literally ripped the sweater off my back and started yelling, and of course, coming at me. Mom ran interference, and I hid in my room. But eventually, once we had our big Sunday meal at noon, there would be no avoiding him.

He would fire questions at me. Glare at me across the table. I could barely eat, but I had to, or he would yell at me for that. I was so nervous, I could barely choke down my food. But the worst was yet to come.

TRIGGER ALERT – Depictions of abuse. Please be aware.

Saturdays – The mixed bag

Saturdays. They were all over the place in terms of what went on.

The “normal” ones

There were actually some relatively “normal” Saturdays, such as the ones where we headed out on one of those family day-trips, or out of town to do clothes shopping or bulk meat purchases. Some Saturdays, there were no fights, but this was rare. If it weren’t Saturday, then the fight would be on Sunday.

Sometimes we didn’t go anywhere but did chores. Or when we were young, the exciting thing was to accompany my dad and my grandfather to the dump…the 1960s name for a landfill. That was always exotic to drive out to the southern edge of town, get in line, and wind slowly up to the top of that hill, then be directed to back up into a wall of garbage, trash, and broken items. We weren’t allowed out of the car, and the place reeked, but still, it was fascinating to a young child.

Other times, Dad would decide it was a good day to try to teach our pet parakeet tricks. In a normal household, this might seem like a fun idea. It never was. First of all, our parakeet was terrified of Dad. Whenever he walked in the house, the bird would freak out, squawk, and fly into the sides of the cage. So Dad taking the bird into the bathroom to learn new tricks usually resulted in him getting more impatient and angry, and the bird screeching and flying into the walls

Afternoons could be calm on a “good-mood-day” for Dad. Especially in the summer, with the windows open and a breeze flowing through our apartment. He’d play his usual *Victory at Sea* or *Herb Alpert* record albums, and life would be relaxed. And the evenings sometimes included board or card games. Those days were the ones we lived for and savored. Those were the ones that made the others seem like a bad dream that would never come back.

Always, the weirdness…

But still, even on the good days, weirdness showed up.

TRIGGER ALERT – Reference to child sexual abuse

The back door closed, and the key turned in the lock. I bolted awake.

“God, no!” I’d overslept, and she was leaving.

It was Saturday morning. Mom would often go to a small local bakery — Baggish Bakery — to get fresh doughnuts for breakfast. Baggish was one of those old-time privately owned bakeries, not a chain, and they made the best poppy-seed rolls, crusty rye bread, sliced fresh, and…wonderful doughnuts.

I tried ALWAYS to be up in time to go with her. I risked his anger when I did this because he made it clear he wanted me available. But it was still better than the anger I encountered when I refused his approaches. The consequences for that were dangerous. So I tried desperately to wake up early and go with her. But sometimes, like this day, she was just too quiet.

Grabbing my clothes, I scrambled, but it was too late. The car pulled out of the driveway.

I froze. It would be a good twenty minutes before she’d get back with the doughnuts. I was an open target. My only hope was that he was still asleep.

On tiptoes, I stretched across the room toward my bed, almost in slow motion. Without a sound, I slipped under the covers.

Bare feet slapped against the linoleum floor in the other room and approached.

So many nights, especially in the summer, if it was Dad’s week to work 2nd shift, I loved to stare out of my bedroom window. I knew Mom was asleep on the couch as she watched TV. 

So, I would crawl out of bed, shut the door, and just curl up against my open bedroom window. Even on the hot days, there was usually a cool breeze at night. And often the smell of fresh-cut grass would waft inside.

The shaded living room windows of the house next door glowed a dim yellow. And through the darkness, I could see the various houses that backed up to our yard. A few windows here and there were lit up behind their curtains. But there was one house in particular I always looked for.

It was at the far end of our neighbor’s yard, sitting atop a retaining wall. The house faced the next street over, but I could see its back windows, and in particular, one small window on the second floor. It was probably a kitchen or pantry window, given its size. But the special thing about it was that it was always bathed in a soft purple light. I loved that window and would stare deeply into the peacefulness of that glow.

I think it was a plant light, as I could make out some racks and what looked like trays of plants in the window. It would make sense, then, that the light might glow at the same time every night for them. Whatever it was, I didn’t care. I only know that I would stare into that purple light for a long time, and just get lost in it.

I LOVED its tranquility. Soaking up its calming effect, I wondered who lived there and what they were like. I wondered about the world on the other side of that purple light, and dreamt up all kinds of ideas for what it would be like to live in that house.

On those nights, it was my respite. My moment of peace and escape to another world, far, far from my chaos. Even now, whenever I see one of those purple lights somewhere at night, it stops me in my tracks and floods me with a sense of calm, peace, and serenity.

And then, there were the second-shift nights. Dad’s work schedule was such that one week he worked the day shift and the next week he’d work the second shift. Frankly, I loved those weeks.

If it were summer, we just had to deal with Dad being around until 1:30. That’s when he left for work, and we wouldn’t see him until the next morning.

If it were the school year, he would be asleep when we left for school. We’d say a quick good-bye, and that would be it until the next morning. Basically, during those weeks, we really didn’t see much of him until the weekend because of our school schedule.

And I made sure that unless I was dying, I didn’t stay home sick on the weeks he was on second shift. I only made that mistake once. He would be grumpy as usual when he got up, and then would start asking why you stayed home, and what you were doing to get better. After all, this was the person who, after I’d just finished throwing up, would tell me to go eat so I could get better quicker.

What were some of the nice things about second-shift weeks?

I’m going to take a moment here to catch my breath. The last few entries have been intense. So it’s time for a Moment of Respite. Just as I would seek out back then.

One of my favorite discoveries was in our bathroom at night. During the day, the bathroom could be moments of fear with Dad and Mom’s fights. But at night, when everyone else was asleep, I would find peace in my own world.

Have you ever had one of those simple green night-lights? They’re nothing special and very inexpensive. You just plug them in and forget them. When the room is dark, they’ll emit a subtle, green glow, just enough to keep you from walking into a wall or stubbing your toe on a door. And I find myself deeply at peace in its presence.

So many times when I was young, especially after those rough days, I would lie awake, unable to sleep. Sometimes I would duck under my blankets with a flashlight to read. Other times, I would conjure up imaginary adventures, dreaming I was off in some faraway land on a heroic journey.

But eventually, when the house grew silent and I knew everyone was asleep, I would pad into the bathroom. Without a sound, I’d shut the door so no one would bother me.

TRIGGER ALERT – Please be aware that this post discusses violent outbursts.

Dirty-look duels

Supper could go in two directions, and neither was in my favor.

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When Dad came in the house, it was expected that we would be there ready to greet him. Lined up by the door, we were his adoring family, welcoming him back from the day’s battles, I guess. It was a small price to pay, though, if it meant a peaceful evening. But it wasn’t over yet.

Just like our summer days had their routine when Dad wasn’t around, school days did as well. I’ll talk more about school shortly. But for now, suffice it to say that while the days of the school year had a strict regimen, there was a brief respite period between the end of the school day and when Dad would get home.

The 2:30 bell would ring, and two by two we would exit school in an orderly manner. Then, once clear of the nun’s “jurisdiction,” we’d burst down the street, greedily sucking in the fresh air, literally and figuratively.

It was often the same group of us walking down the hill. My siblings and I, some of our friends from the neighborhood, and usually the two brothers who lived down by the corner of our road.

We were always careful to watch over the younger one. He had Cystic Fibrosis and was fragile, whereas his older brother had a robust loudness that couldn’t be easily contained. But still, he, too, had a gentle soul and worried about his brother.

On one walk home, the younger boy just passed out cold. I still remember the thud of his head against the ground, like a melon against asphalt. While we gathered around him, his brother ran full-speed down to his house, yelling for his Mom. I was grateful for his ability to scream on that day, because she came running up toward us before he’d even gotten all the way home. Fortunately, in spite of the fall, he was okay.