What Were You Thinking: Adult Chaos

Preface to Part 2

Writing Part 1 of WHAT WERE YOU THINKING, about a child molested from baby age in the bathtub to pre-puberty was surprisingly easy. I was then as innocent as a human being can be. Even as a manipulated teenager, entering an arranged marriage, I could find forgiveness in others’ eyes, even in my own.

In Part 2, the adult who is born of a terribly flawed childhood emerges, and causes damage and harm at almost every turn of the page. It is much more difficult to cling to honesty through this slippery footing. The temptation to pretty it up is very strong.

Most memoirs and autobiographies put me to sleep. My theory is that at some point the author is lying, trying to create a nicer view than the truth, or trying not to offend those loved ones who will read the story and be upset. The question is, at this time of our lives, do we worry about offending, or do we tell the best truth we can, for the benefit of those who are stumbling through the same journey? Do we lie to save others’ feelings, or do we give the following disclaimer:

I must caution the reader, including my own children: This is MY truth, skewed, self-absorbed, and frequently just plain wrong, that comes out of a damaged child become wounded adult. This book is meant to share MY truth, MY experiences, and MY errors in vision and in judgment. If I cleaned it up to please you, it would be just another lying memoir on a long list of them.

My myopic truth is, by definition seriously flawed. For those who have been through it, perhaps it will give some comfort in knowing they were not alone on their rock-filled path. For those who lived with the flawed ones, who were hurt by our inability to give you normal, maybe the insight will help you understand your own issues. I hope you will begin to understand the wounded, who did their best for you. It is, perhaps, too much to wish that it will bring forgiveness.

I have been told by those who have read the book before publishing that it is too angry, not nice enough. I have been told by another writer that there is not enough emotion and that I’m not bleeding on the page enough. This book was written by the product of the childhood in Book 1. The adult is damaged, not capable of nice or of bleeding as normal people do. I learned in the first ten years of my life that detachment is survival. This is apparently incomprehensible to those who did not live it.

Those of you who did live it may understand and feel a little less isolated in our lonely world.

The best gift I can leave with the children of such parents is that my final act is not to lie, to know that I go to my Creator with the best truth this soul can find.

ROAD KILL:

I’M STILL NOT IN CHARGE

But I’m not a puppet. I’m a real girl!

As soon as we returned to Mr. H.’s house from the honeymoon in the San Jacinto Mountains, boxes had arrived from my parents in Northern California filled with my clothes and some miscellaneous gifts that their friends had sent. I wondered what excuse they had given these friends for not attending their only child’s wedding. That must have set the tongues wagging. Though I suspected my parents had manipulated this marriage, they were so uninterested in attending that I had saved face by not inviting them. I didn’t realize how empty the ceremony would seem without my parents until it happened.

It was a lonely ceremony, involving Mr. H. and me, a minister, and two bored witnesses. He was 31, I was 18. The fairy tales always ended with Happily ever after. There was no handy guide for what happens after ever after in 1954. Never has any bride felt so alone, so ill equipped to deal with her new life. I was getting what I wanted, wasn’t I? What was wrong with me?

Being forced into a shot-gun marriage messed up my mother so thoroughly, I was damned if the rest of my life was going to be colored scarlet like the letter on Hester’s dress. I resolved to get to a gynecologist first thing Monday for a diaphragm. There was no way I was going to get pregnant until long after all the old biddies had run out of fingers to count on. Until then, I would walk around feeling guilty whenever I saw someone watching me. I had done nothing wrong, but would be unable to prove it for over a year.

I knew it was going to be lonely. But I had no idea how true that would be.

Mr. H. handed me his house key and was now digging around in the trunk of the car. I dragged my suitcase in the front door, and into the bedroom, wondering where to put my clothes, when Mr. H. appeared to dump his luggage on the double bed.

I’m sorry; I didn’t have time to empty some drawers for you. Just pile things on the carpet for now, and I’ll get to it. After that, would you hang up my clothes in the closet, please? Some of them may need ironing first.

He went back out to the carport before I could think of a response.

Monday morning, his first day back at school, came around in a very few hours. He explained to me while he was shaving that he needed a freshly ironed shirt every morning. I had never ironed a shirt, only my own blouses sometimes. Mostly I didn’t iron. Do you have an iron and ironing board? I had to raise my voice, as his electric shaver was noisy. I had never seen one before.

I have an old iron my mother gave me, but I usually iron on a towel on the floor. I’m not very good at it. I leave in half an hour, so you had better get to it. The clean shirts are probably on the bed in the guest room.

I grabbed a clean towel, also off the guest room bed, and hurried to iron the parts that showed, and hoped he didn’t take off his suit jacket very often. I recalled from being in his class that Mr. H. only shed his jacket when he got hot while conducting. It was December, so I figured I might get lucky.

He grabbed the shirt, saying as he pushed his arms into it, Be sure to leave the buttons undone, and try to get the sleeves better tomorrow. Another one tomorrow? I wear my blouses more than once. What’s that about?

Oh, and I will need a bag lunch from tomorrow on. We don’t have time today. He kissed me on the forehead, saying, I will be home around 5, so plan dinner for 6. Have a pleasant day, dear. Oh, yes…You had better wash the sheets.

I watched him go out the door, in polished black shoes, black socks, navy blue suit, over a white shirt and red tie. His blonde hair was combed carefully, held down with some goo I had never seen before. His blue eyes were showing his mind was already at school. I was old news already. The Studebaker tore out of the driveway, leaving a trail of dust.

Whew! Alone at last. I had needed time and warmth from my new husband, but solitude seemed better than what he had gifted me with since we got home, including his reason for wanting the sheets washed.

I found some gravel-like cereal and some almost sour milk and ate breakfast. Do people really eat this crap? As I was searching for detergent to wash dishes with, there was a knock on the door. Good grief, NOW what? Can’t I have one day’s peace and quiet, until Mr. H gets home? I am an only child. I’m not used to being cheek by jowl with anyone for days and nights ad nauseam.

I was figuring it was a salesman as I walked out of the kitchen and through the living room to answer the door, preparing to be polite but firm. I opened the door, surprised to see a woman standing there. She had wavy dishwater blonde hair pulled back into a tight bun, no lipstick, permanent frown lines above her nose, and looked to be old, maybe Mr. H’s age. She and her clothes seemed very clean and pressed. Ironed white blouse (what is it with ironing in this town?), navy blue wool skirt, knee socks and polished oxfords (ditto about polished shoes). No jewelry anywhere I could see, except for a gold wedding band no thicker than a paperclip. She reminded me of a female German guard I once saw in a war movie. She did not look like anyone I wanted to talk to. I was beginning to think she was one of those religious people who want you to come to their church and give them money.

Are you Sharon?

Who else would I be, I thought.

Yes, I am. May I help you?

Mr. Hunter sent me to work with you on this song by Weber. She pronounced it Veeber. You are to work with me and learn it. You will be performing it at a function he is attending next month. She had pushed past me and gone to sit at the concert grand piano, looking at me expectantly. (You Veel follow orders!)

Uh, yes ma’m. I was out of clever things to say. What the hell was this all about anyway? Did he forget to mention this event?

She began to play the piece I was to learn. She played extremely well, and I didn’t play the piano, so of course I felt smaller and smaller. I stood behind her, looking over her shoulder trying to read the voice part. She smelled like Lifebuoy soap. I was not doing well, and she sighed, and started over repeatedly, saying each time, Begin again, please. It made me hurt to look at her perfectly straight back, never bending for an instant.

After an hour or so, she finally left the sheet music on the piano and said she would return in two days to check on my progress. I said, Thank you, quietly, shut the door after her, and burst into tears. Would I ever be in charge of my time and my own life? I was a toy in the grown-up world now.

I went to the kitchen, looking for chocolate (none) and settled for a paper towel to wipe the snot off my upper lip. I went to the phone and dialed the number in Berkeley my mother had given me. I needed to talk to someone, and had no friends in this town. Even if I found someone from four years ago when I was in school here, how could I tell them about life with my former teacher? I was in a different world from all of them now. Anything I said would be town gossip in ten minutes.

I liked being alone, but not at the moment. I needed comfort. I needed my mother. I didn’t know what I was going to say to her as I dialed the big black telephone. I noticed it was old, and the black around some of the numbers was so worn I could see the metal underneath. They had prettier phones now, and I was wondering why Mr. H. didn’t have one, as the line rang in Northern California, somewhere in Berkeley I had never been.

A click on the line, and I was preparing to sound cheery, when a recorded voice said, The number you have dialed is no longer in service…… I slammed the receiver down hard, wondering where my parents had vanished to. Thanks a whole hell of a lot for letting me know where you are, mumsie and daddy. Really! Thanks ever so.

I did the minimal amount of tidying up and sank into daytime TV. I couldn’t put my clothes away, and I didn’t wash the sheets.

Hunter came home right on time, and asked What’s for dinner?

I informed him that a lot of what was in the refrigerator had gone off, and we needed to go to the store. He said fine, and sighed. A lot of sighing seems to go on around me.

Driving to the store, he informed me he was forming a night chorale, and needed me as a soloist. He informed me politely, if firmly, that there would be no pregnancy for five years. If he had to hire a soloist, he had to pay her. I was free.

There was no opportunity to respond, as we were pulling into the local store parking lot. I thought, Oh, goodie. Singing. It’s going to get interesting.

How had the subject of pregnancy crossed his mind? We had never discussed children before. Apparently he had conducted a meeting with himself, taken a vote, and decided No, on the subject. One more thing I don’t get to decide.

This store is only for emergencies. We shop the specials in the newspaper on Saturday mornings. Their prices here are too high. All this discussion was done at top voice level, as if he were addressing a classroom. The other shoppers glanced at him, looking unfriendly. He tossed things into the basket, not asking me what I wanted. The clerk at the cash register barely looked at him; neither did the pimply bag boy, who looked vaguely familiar. We were out of there in ten minutes.

In ten more minutes we pulled into the carport, and I carried the one bag of groceries into the kitchen, dumping them onto the pukey green Formica counter.

He was suddenly all smiles and cheery, announcing he was going to make his best recipe for me for dinner. I sighed in relief, joining the town sighing club. It was hamburger, onions, potatoes fried up with a can of tomato sauce dumped on at the end. I had only had my mother’s or father’s cooking for years, and once in a while, my aunt’s cooking. If this was great food, you could fool me. It was like what you get at summer camp, not so good that you want seconds, which was the whole idea. Cheaper. Was he trying to limit how much I ate, or was he just a crappy cook?

While searching for his clean shirts in the guest room I had found boxes with military medals in them. I recognized the Purple Heart for being wounded, but did not recognize a bronze star. I asked him about it as we sat drinking his usual Manischewitz sacramental wine after dinner. He was going over the supermarket ads in Saturday’s newspaper with a heavy black grease pencil.

Oh, that’s nothing special; lots of people have them. He explained.

But what did you have to do to get one? I persisted.

Well, he began, putting aside the pencil and newspaper, "I was lead bombardier, in the lead plane, on a bombing run over the Ploesti oil fields one day. We had been trying to cut off the oil supply from this area in Italy for weeks. As we approach the target, the bombardier takes over control of the plane, and the pilots have to wait for him to get finished and drop the bombs. There were two kinds of bomb sites; one of them was the Sperry, which is the one I was using. I was finishing my calculations and coming in on the target when the plane was hit, and metal slivers flashed into my face, including my eyes.

He seemed to be warming up to the subject. I could still see a little out of one eye, but the blood was covering my eyes pretty fast, and I had to guess when it was time and let the bombs go. If I didn’t complete my drop, then all the other bombardiers could not drop their bombs, and the mission would be a failure. If the plane had gone down, I had a pistol with which I had to destroy the bomb site. These sites were highly prized by the enemy. But the plane did not have any damage except for the bubble I rode in. The enemy would target that area where the lead bombardier sat. He seemed to rush through all that, out of breath, still a bit embarrassed; it was obvious this wasn’t the first recital.

It turned out that I was lucky and my bombs hit the target, so the bombs from the other bombardiers did also. I got a star because I did it with blood in my eyes. It wasn’t that important, really. He was trying to sound matter of fact, as it had been no big deal, but his eyes kept flicking to mine to see what my reaction was. I was satisfactorily fascinated. This was his first real exposure to having a captive audience in his own kitchen.

Were you hospitalized? I asked.

Well, sort of, he explained. I was in a special hospital for eye damage. I had to be taught Braille because they thought I would be blind, but eventually it turned out I was fine and I quit studying Braille. I’m sorry to say I don’t remember how to read it any more. So that’s the unimportant story of a useless bronze star. He sought my eyes again, and I reached out to touch his hand, shocked at the idea of his being blind for a while.

I was still trying to imagine how one deals with the announcement, You are blind, when I realized he was plunging ahead into the subject of food and my duties.

I got some tuna and noodles and cream of chicken soup for tomorrow. See if you can make the casserole your mother knows how to make. He had gone over the market newspaper ads, his weekly ritual, and gone off and bought everything that was on special. I had already found three cases of tomato sauce, and two of mushrooms. If it wasn’t in the ad, he didn’t get it. I’m going to grow really tired of spaghetti with tomato/mushroom sauce on it.

He poured more of the revered sacramental wine into juice glasses. I gulped mine down as if it really were juice. He didn’t seem to notice, his face turned to a music score of the Faure Requiem he had brought to the chrome and Formica kitchen table.

We will be working on this for the church choir, he announced. "Study the solo on page 37 tomorrow. Choir practice is on Thursday nights. He was pointing to the solo page, but my fuzzy mind was panicking; I had no clue how to make tuna casserole.

I saw my chance to annihilate the Nazi woman out of my life. Emboldened by the sacred grape wine, I told him I needed to spend my time on this new work. I didn’t want to spend time working with Mrs. Volkmann. (Can you believe that name?) I managed to not call her Your Pet Nazi. I smiled sweetly, reached out and touched his hand, and asked, Can you please tell her I don’t have time to work with her right now? Please? Call OFF this bitch, huh?

He squeezed my hand (I knew what that meant would happen later), smiled, looking into my eyes too long, to be sure I got the message, and said, Sure dearest, I will call her tomorrow. I’m sure she was relieved at the news. I thought she was a Nazi, and she thought I was a dumb-as-dirt kid. We understood each other, and I was rid of her.

I learned that paying the price for what I wanted would be a regular thing. Wifely duty, huh? I had only seen and heard my parents screaming as an example of wedded bliss in the bedroom. I guess this was an improvement. The jury was still out on that, friends.

I was still not a hot commodity in bed, but my performances were improving rapidly. I believe he really married me for my voice. My young, flat-chested body came in last.

I wished for the early days, when gorgeous music filled the house all night, and he just held me. Now the romance had been tossed in the trash; he spent little time on what is called foreplay in books. I had timed it; it’s really two-play, before he climbs on and begins the exercise. I usually let my mind go somewhere else for the duration, like wondering where I had left my latest book. I had misplaced it. I will look outside tomorrow. He gave his final grunt and rolled off me to face away toward the wall. I got up to clean up. I remembered the first time in my bedroom on my 18th birthday, when he had washed me with a warm washcloth so tenderly after my de-flowering, which had felt like rape. There was no repeat of that solicitous behavior. I’m beginning to think he was only looking for virgin’s blood that time, and of course he found it.

Another reason he married me was that I looked good on his arm at concerts and other public appearances. I was young, wore clothes well. I knew I had to start sewing clothes fast. My high school wardrobe was not appropriate for concerts and faculty events he was warning me to be ready for.

I found I was more literate than his fellow faculty members. How people who teach our children could call themselves educated when they hadn’t read the classics was more than I could forgive. I never realized when I went to this school that those who teach might