Both Sides of the Line

by Kelly, Kevin

  Hyde Park was a middle-to-lower class Irish-Italian neighborhood made up of hard-working, church-going, first-and second-generation Americans. My neighbors took pride in their families and in their properties. As kids, we all played seasonal sports—football in the fall, hockey and basketball in the winter, and baseball in the spring. All of us played together outside after school and on the weekends. Touch football, pick-up basketball, street hockey, street baseball, sledding, skating, hide-and-seek, and bike-riding—it was all part of our kid culture in Hyde Park during the ’60s and ’70s. To us, it was heaven. My friends were never allowed to mope and sit around the house. “Get outside and get some fresh air or I’ll find something for you to do,” was often heard from the parents on our street.

  Hyde Park was great to grow up in. It was a tough neighborhood, but not a violent one. Sure, there were plenty of fights, drinking, drugs, car thefts, and some minor street crime, but you never had to worry about being murdered or getting jumped for no reason. Most families in my section of Hyde Park never even locked their doors. No one carried guns, and drive-by shootings weren’t yet part of our cultural fabric. Neighbors looked out for one another and everyone knew each other’s kids. Being disrespectful or foul-mouthed to a neighbor was mostly unheard of, and you paid a heavy price if your parents found out you crossed that line.

  Our moral compass was set by the surrounding environment. My group, for instance, wouldn’t steal a car or take drugs, but with so many kids in the neighborhood stealing and using drugs, you just came to accept those things as a part of life. We even had a kid in our neighborhood called “Fop”—a great kid, funny, and a constant wheeler dealer. Fop looked like Frankie Valli, short, with a ’50s hairdo and a cocky smile, and always well-dressed. If Fop saw you walking down the street, he’d never say hi. He’d just point a finger in your direction and wink at you. Fop actually turned into a hell of a stage performer and sang in many of New England’s top clubs.

  But as he struggled his way up, he had to make ends meet however he could. So, one night, he and his buddies drove a truck through a store window and stole hundreds of leather jackets. Word got out that Fop was selling the jackets in Curry College’s kitchen for forty bucks a pop—and everyone flocked to Curry immediately. How he got away with it is anyone’s guess, but a large part of it was no doubt due to the neighborhood’s acceptance and tacit endorsement of the crime. After all, who could be that angry at a guy who sold premium leather jackets for only forty bucks apiece?

  One day, my father and Fop bumped into each other coming out of our local supermarket, The Stop and Shop. It was a cool, sunny fall day and it just so happened that Fop was wearing one of the stolen leather jackets. At 6’2”, my dad towered over Fop, but Fop never showed any signs of being intimidated. My dad always liked Fop; everyone did. He was one of those gifted kids no one could ever get mad at, no matter what he did. But still, my dad was a cop and everyone, everyone, knew that Fop was selling stolen leather jackets.

  So my dad sidled up to Fop, a full load of groceries in his cart. Fop had his six-pack of beer inside a brown paper bag neatly tucked under his right arm, as if he was protecting a delivery to the Brinks Company.

  “Hey, Fop, what’s up?” said my father, starting up the conversation.

  “Hi, Mr. Kelly. How’s it going?”

  “How’s your mother doing? I saw her but not you in church last Sunday.”

  “She’s doing fine. Thanks for asking. Geez, I think I wasn’t feeling very well that day.”

  “Word down at the precinct is you may know something about the leather coats that got stolen out of Zayres Leather Goods.”

  “Mr. Kelly, now what makes you think that?”

  “I’m also hearing that you’re selling the coats for forty dollars a whack out of Curry College’s kitchen.”

  “You don’t say.”

  “Of course, all of this would be speculation if I hadn’t seen Kevin wearing a brand new four hundred dollar leather jacket Friday night.”

  “Hey, Mr. Kelly, what size coat you wear?”

  “46-large. Why?”

  “I think I have a beautiful green one with your name on it.”

  “If asked, I’ll deny you ever said that, but I do like the color green. Brings out my Irish green eyes, don’t you think? Say hello to your mother for me, and don’t miss church next Sunday.”

  “Will do. As always, nice seeing you, Mr. Kelly.”

  No one ever asked my father how he came to have his own four hundred dollar leather coat; they didn’t have to.

  But, for Tom and me, Hyde Park would be much more than just our neighborhood. The Hyde Park community would not only rally around us, but save us both.

  It was June 29, 1964. I was seven and Tom was ten. Our mother, Christine, was thirty-four, beautiful, and well-respected in the neighborhood. She was also intelligent, reflective, and, it seemed to us, trouble-free. Having graduated second in her nursing class, she worked at the Peter Bent Brigham Hospital in Boston. I knew she loved us, though, curiously, I don’t have any memories of feeling all that close to her.

  Before dinner that summer evening, she came into Tom’s and my shared bedroom and kissed us both on the head, saying, “I love you and always will.” I thought it was strange to hear my mother declare those words out of the clear blue. I looked at my brother with an uneasy smile, unsure what was going on. I remember her saying that she was going downstairs to do some laundry, then would pick up my father at the five o’clock train arriving in Cleary Square.

  Soon thereafter, Tom and I began fighting. He accused me of stealing his Carl Yastrzemski baseball card, and so I went bounding down the stairs shouting, “Mom, he’s lying!” As I turned the corner into the basement, the scene in front of me took away my ability to breathe, and what I saw next has been permanently burned into my memory: the cut rope tossed on the ground, the cutlery knife, the empty chair. If there was a hidden gift to this unimaginable moment, it was not being able to see my mother’s face. I had a backside view of her bare feet hovering inches off the ground. At that moment, I knew two things for certain: My mother was dead and she had taken her own life.

  Tom, still chasing me, ran around the corner and stumbled into me. Before he said a word, I turned and ran, bursting through the cellar door and sprinting onto the front lawn where, gasping for air, tears filled my eyes and blurred my vision. I felt as if someone had knocked the wind out of me.

  Watering his tulips, Joe Hoffman, our neighbor, saw me as I raced, sobbing, across the street.

  “Kevin! Are you okay?” he called, dropping the gardening hose as he ran toward me.

  “My mother,” I said in shock. “She’s dead in the basement.”

  Mr. Hoffman looked at me in disbelief. He grabbed my hand to walk me back home.

  “No!” I screamed, fighting like a tiger, trying to release myself from his grip. I couldn’t go back to that house. But he picked me up and carried me. We approached the basement door cautiously. He peeked inside, holding me to his chest so I faced the yard. I felt his heart pound and heard him say, “Oh, my dear God!”

  I have no memory of what he said to my brother and me as he took us to the Golden family a few houses up the street.

  My dad, having waited half an hour at the train station for my mother to pick him up, walked home. He turned the corner onto Tyler Street and discovered policemen, firemen, ambulance drivers, and a street overflowing with neighbors. All of the neighbors kept their distance from our house, standing outside the caution line, but they packed in, getting as close as they could to the drama.

  Three of my neighbors—men I admired and would grow to love—were waiting for my father in our living room. My father tried to remain calm, but he was crazed and confused, wondering what disaster had befallen his family that required policemen and ambulances. Was it one of his boys? Had something happened to his wife?


  Bob Johnson sat my father down and said, “Tom, before I talk to you, I want you to take off your gun.” As my father placed his gun on the fireplace mantle, Bob looked my father straight in the eye. “You’re in trouble. Chris is downstairs and . . . Tom, she—she’s dead.”

  My father flew downstairs and cut the rope from which my mother hung. She came down into his arms, and he laid her on the cellar floor and desperately tried to revive her. He held her, begging her to come back, crying into her chest. But she was gone.

  My father finally let her go, knowing he had to find his boys. The local priest, Father Johnson, questioned us. I was a wreck; I couldn’t stop crying. Tom sat quietly in the living room, stunned, trying to make sense of what had happened. When my father finally came into the Goldens’ house, I couldn’t stop staring at him—I couldn’t believe it; he was wailing uncontrollably. Grief-stricken, he grabbed my brother and me and held us tight.

  A few weeks later, my father sat us down and asked us if we should move. Despite our initial shock and fears of the house, we said no—we wanted to stay. Hyde Park was our home and friends and neighbors were part of our lives. I had already lost my mother. I couldn’t imagine losing my friends too. For my father’s well-being, moving made perfect sense. To come home every day and be reminded of the tragedy that’d taken place must have been hell for him. But he was our rock. He understood what we needed, and stay we did. I attribute my recovery and sense of well-being to my father, my friends, and all our neighbors in Hyde Park. Their generosity and support meant the world to my family.

  Tom and I had long ago bonded as brothers but, by experiencing this trauma together, we grew even closer, though we handled it in our own unique way. Tom, as quiet as our mother, refused to talk about her life or death. I, on the other hand, have always been outgoing, and so I never stopped wanting to know why she did it. Hungry for an answer, I constantly asked my neighbors for their opinion about what could have caused her to take her own life.

  Bob Johnson lived directly across the street from us. A tough WWII veteran (and a Navy guy like my dad), he was short and slim with a no-nonsense directness that demanded respect. I got a kick out of watching him speak without ever removing his unfiltered Camel cigarette from his lips; it was a constant fixture. Bob and my father were close. There was a tremendous level of respect between the two of them. His wife, Kathryn, was also tough, but extremely kind, especially to Tom and me. Whenever I had questions about my mother’s death, Bob made himself available to me. But Kathryn would often become overwhelmed and leave us alone with a plate of Oreo cookies and glass of milk, her only contribution to the conversation being, “The whole street was worried about you poor kids. We just didn’t know how you would turn out.”

  Bob told me, “I spoke to your mother that morning and was taken aback by how chatty she was. Your mother was very private— pleasant but private—almost regal. After I said hello to her, she chattered away for the next five minutes like we were old friends. Your mother had lived on Tyler Street for eleven years and never shared anything more than a polite hello or a wave with me. She asked me about my kids and any plans we had for the summer. She laughed, talking about you and Tommy and how you, especially, were a handful. ‘Tommy is a Baker, but that Kevin is a true Kelly. Uncontrollable,’ she said, puffing on a Parliament Menthol. Looking back, I’m convinced your mother had made up her mind that this was the day she was going to end her life and that she was actually at peace with her decision.”

  It wasn’t enough.

  I continued to search for answers about my mother. None of my aunts or uncles believed that my mom had indicated anything was amiss in her life. She hadn’t spoken with any of them privately about being unhappy with her marriage or anything else. Dad, also, was at a loss as to why. His theory was that she had received some new vaccine months earlier, and perhaps there was a neurological side effect that had caused her to become depressed. I could only conclude that she found herself in impossible pain—a pain she’d hidden well.

  Many surviving family members of suicide victims say that they feel anger at the people who take their own lives, that they believe the person who commits suicide is selfish, a coward taking the easy way out. And though my father and brother acknowledged having these feelings toward Mom, I never experienced them myself. I felt it took a lot of courage for her to take her own life. I don’t think everyone is capable of such an act. Yet, I remained mystified. Growing up, I missed her dearly, and often wondered what my life would have been had she lived.

  The hole inside me from my mother’s suicide had a direct effect on my self-confidence. I was always aware that my family wasn’t intact anymore. The newest emotion introduced into my life was fear. Before my mother’s death, I had never felt any level of fear. I had a nonstop motor, and life amounted to an endless exploration of discoveries: playing, biking, swimming, running, climbing trees, sports. Everything in my life was great.

  But the jolt of my mother’s death struck me deeply, and fear, doubt, and uncertainty took over much of my life for years to come. I was constantly seeking approval, acceptance, and attention—things healthy parents give their children as building blocks for a successful adulthood. Half of my foundation was gone.

  But what my mother’s death also gave me was a renewed appreciation for life, a thirst to prove myself, and a new sense of what is right and wrong. For better or worse, I, like my father, began to view the world in absolutes.

  Tom, on the other hand, spent his teenage life hanging out at the park, experimenting with drugs, often coming home high or drunk. He even got arrested a few times. That was his way of dealing with our mother’s death.

  Two years after Mom died, our father remarried. Kathleen Shields became our new mother. She was kind, caring, and emotionally available to us. She and my father would have four children together: Kathy, John, Patricia, and Ann. Tom and I went from an unimaginable tragedy to hitting the family lottery. Katie, as we called her, would become our true mother. We never referred to her or our new brother and sisters as “steps.”

  We were one family, and she raised and loved us as her own. Eventually, for me, it became natural to call her Mom. She would become my closest and dearest friend. I could go to her with anything. She was always straight and honest with me. When we deserved a tongue-lashing or a whack across the head, we got it, but we knew she was always there for us. She was the perfect mother. Step-parents often have a difficult time winning acceptance in a new household. For us, the adjustment was natural, untainted by resentments, scuffles for control, territory, or love. She was a gift from God, and we all knew it. She saved us.

  After the babies were born, Tom and I moved into the basement (that way Kathy and John could be closer to our parents’ room). Our new bedroom was eight feet away from where our mother had died. When my parents went out for an evening, I would be the one elected to stay at home to babysit. Tommy was old enough to go out at night and hang out with his friends. My parents would insist, however, that I go to bed at ten.

  As Kathy and John fell asleep, the house would settle and I would hear squeaking noises, like footsteps—noises that only grew louder in the silence. As I lay in bed, I felt a terrible sense that someone was in the basement moving about. I have no memory of consciously thinking that it was my mother’s spirit. Instead, I remember it more as a fear of a stranger. I would freeze up in bed for hours at a time, lying stiffly awake, waiting for the intruder to leave. When at last I heard my brother stumble in hours later, I raced up the stairs in a panic.

  “Tom, I think someone might be in the house! I’ve been hearing footsteps all night!”

  “Okay, calm down,” Tom said, gripping my shoulder. “We’ll walk through the basement together.” He grabbed a flashlight as I followed closely behind.

  Not once during these episodes did my brother laugh at me, mock me, or ignore me.

  “Alright, no one’s in the house. Are yo
u okay now?” I nodded, trying to be brave. “Listen, I’m gonna be here the rest of the night. I’ll be in the den watching TV. Go back to bed. I’ll be down when Dad and Kate get home.” Every time I babysat, I felt a giant burden lift off my shoulders as soon as Tom came home, and only then could I fall asleep.

  I’ve always been grateful to him for that, for tuning into my feelings and worrying about me being alone in the house so soon after our mother’s death. I loved Tommy.

  And though he may have buried his feelings about our mother’s death while I wore mine on my sleeve, I know he found relief in the same place I always have—on the football field. Football was the perfect escape for him. It gave him the opportunity to direct his emotions and release his pain. He was a different kid during football season, calm and at ease. But even with football as his therapy, he struggled because he was easily led astray. When he started coming home drunk, he paid a heavy price with our father, who would not tolerate any of his sons drinking.

  “Where the hell were you?” my father demanded one Friday night as Tom staggered drunkenly through the door.

  “Dad, I was over at Jackie Gillfoy’s house. We were watching the Celtics.” My father must have smelled the booze on him—Tom was close enough to his face to kiss him. “Hey, Dad, they’re winning by twenty-one points—”

  SMACK!

  I stood in a humming silence until our father managed to aim a hard finger at Tom and say, “Well, let me tell you something, Mister. You’re setting a bad example for Kevin!”

  I watched and listened. It wasn’t as entertaining as I hoped, although it was amusing to see my father try to lay a good smack across his face as Tom reeled around, unable to stand up straight. All I could think was, Bullshit! Tom’s setting a great example! But I had no desire to be on the receiving end of my father’s right hand or to disappoint the man who’d been there for me during those difficult years, so I kept quiet and knew I wouldn’t be following Tom’s lead. I loved my father, respected my father, and feared my father. For me, challenging him wasn’t an option.