He became more and more emaciated.
He was too exhausted to celebrate his birthday, which left friends and family frustrated. Everyone wanted to do something for him, but they were helpless to provide happiness.
Iris asked his wife, Karen, if it would be OK to could come see Hap when she was in town. “Frankly, Iris, he has his good days and his bad days. I need to prepare you for what you might see. And he may not be able to see you at all.”
“I’ll take my chances,” Iris replied. She had her tickets and she was coming to Texas.
“Well, Hap wants to talk with you.”
Iris was amazed that Hap could talk at all. Karen put him on the phone.
“Darlin’ if yer comin’ over to see me I want…. no tears. And if yew want to stay over I’ll have Karen put clean sheets on the bed in the guest room.”
“Well, Hap, you know I’m a crybaby and I will promise to try my best not to be. I’m just there to see you, so I’m flying back after our visit. I have something to tell you.”
“Yew know, yer my favorite lil’ sis. And yew look mawvelous.”
Karen took the phone, told Iris that Hap needed to lie down. She said she recently met with the hospice caretakers from Christopher House. She realized that she was unable to care for Hap at home, and it was only a matter of time.
* * *
Iris knew that a person with late stage cancer is just a shell of him/herself, but she was not prepared to see what had become of Hap. As Karen opened the front door to their lovely ranch-style home, Iris saw a small old man sitting in an oversized leather chair in their sunken living room. Could this be Hap?
Hap was 50 pounds lighter than his healthy, trim 165. His gorgeous blue eyes bulged from his face, his skin tight and burned. His clothes swallowed him. His hair, once so thick and blonde, was white and stringy. He winced with pain. He gave Iris a thin smile, staring sadly at her. She hugged his bony shoulders, and sat on the floor beside his chair.
“I brought you hydrangeas from my community garden in New York, and I have something else to give you for your birthday.”
Hap looked deeply at her.
“This is a birthday letter to you, my favorite big brother.”
Hap smiled. He was her only big brother.
“Here goes….” Iris glanced lovingly at him as she read, punching certain words for emphasis.
“How can you ever be sad if your name is Happy? Forget that you were named after General Harold (Hap) Arnold, the General of the Army and the General of the Air Forces during World War II, who was trained to be a pilot by the Wright Brothers. That’s part of your patriotic DNA, and probably drove you to be a pilot.”
Hap smiled wanly and she continued.
“Your fascination with the yin/yang and wordplay began early, maybe in the days of the ‘Annie, Annie Over’ ball toss over the house with your pal Rusty Weir ….
“Your brilliant pun of naming Vicki the ‘family hysterian’ still resonates, since she was both the family historian and pretty hysterical at times.
“Listening to you sing with that deep, rich voice (is that Elvis? Waylan? Johnny Cash? I’d try to guess) and hearing some of your favorite lyrics from the fantastic album that Karen put together ten years ago made me realize what a remarkable writer you are……e.g., ‘the good people tell all the bad stories’ ‘John McBride—a dream come true, for chosen few’ ‘Morning coffee with a kiss’ ‘And I believe in you.’”
Hap smiled and touched Iris’ hand. Iris looked into his dreamy light blue eyes and continued.
“From the time I watched you carefully put together model aircraft carriers, airplanes and automobiles of all intricacies and technical skill and then with the utmost patience paint them with your color-coded Testor model paint, aligned on your shelf like a horizontal color-wheel, I realized I was watching a genius of artistic calm.
“One day I peeked into your room and saw architectural drawings on your desk. What were these? I was too young to understand. I just gaped in awe at all the work the proper pencil could do in the hands of an artisan. It was love at first sight with Koh-I-Noor and Pentel.
“And of course you are never happy without your hilarious side. I can count on you to have a joke on hand when we talk, no matter what the color of that joke. And, with your remarkable ear for voices, you always end our conversation with this remark in an uncanny Fernando Lamas (or Billy Crystal, choose) baritone,
‘Darlin’, I got to tell you something
And I don’t say this to everybody
Yew look mawvelous
Absolutely mawvelous
It’s not how yew feel
It’s how yew look
And yew, darlin’
Yew look mawvelous
Absolutely mawvelous
And this is from my heart
Which is deep inside my body
It is better to look good
Than to feel good’…..”
Hap tried to laugh. Iris went on:
“And your sensitive side. A person can’t totally remodel an ’88 Dodge truck complete with original leather interior and trim or bring an ancient mottled and warped Victrola back to life with a sateen finish and not be sensitive and loving.
“And there’s your entrepreneurial side—remember those Sunday mornings after Mass when Mom drove to the fried pie factory to get bags of broken pies at twenty-five cents a bag? Who thought of jumping on his bike with the Fried Pies and reselling them to the neighbors for a 500% profit? It was just last week, after forty-five years, that I learned why we hardly ever had any coconut pies when we got home after buying them! What you didn’t sell, you ate!
Hap had tears in his eyes. Iris did not know that those tears were being shed for a different kind of memory about the pies.
“So, Happy… I am so grateful to know and be the sister of you--a man who is the embodiment of all these wonderful characteristics—artist, patriot, lover, singer, comedian, and entrepreneur. I love you! Happy Birthday!”
They hugged. Iris felt Hap’s tears on her face. Hap stood up and excused himself. She looked around the living room at the books in the built-in bookcases. There, neatly lined up were all the books VF had written—from the early hardback copy of the biography Davy Crockett, which Hap had illustrated, to the most recent paperback series VF wrote before he died. She was struck how they stood at attention, so neat and clean. Everything in the room had a precision to it, a soldierly presence.
* * *
Hap died peacefully on August 12, 2004 at Christopher House in Austin, with Karen caressing his hand while his favorite Patsy Cline album played in the background. Karen decided to have him cremated and part of his ashes flown out to Silvercreek Ranch in his plane, scattered to the winds.
Virginia was having lunch with Bits at their favorite little bistro in south Austin when Bits’ flip phone rang that fateful summer day.
“Yes, Vicki, it’s Bits…What?” Bits said loudly, as she looked at Virginia.
“When?...OK. Bye.” She closed the phone.
“What was that about?” Virginia asked.
“Oh, Mom! I’m afraid Hap is gone.”
“What do you mean gone?” Virginia gasped.
“I mean he died an hour ago. Karen has already decided to cremate him.”
Virginia excused herself and got up from the table. Bits waited, sipping her wine and thinking about how she and Hap had promised each other to send a signal from the afterlife.
Twenty minutes passed. Bits asked the waitress to check the restroom. Suddenly there was an outburst and someone called for a doctor. Virginia had collapsed in the ladies’ room.
It was a heart attack. No one knew if there was a casual relationship between her faith and the Church’s distaste for cremation, or if it was just time for her heart to give out. Virginia was rushed to
the Hillcountry hospital, where she was put on life support and given expert attention.
“What a drama queen! Anything not to attend Hap’s memorial service,” Vicki said.
* * *
In September, Karen created a unique and beautiful service with musicians playing Hap’s original country western music, a color guard, and a local cowboy preacher, complete with cowboy boots. She had a large marble headstone carved for the family cemetery:
Lt. Hap Arnold Landry, 1944-2004
Served his Country, his Family, and his Lord
Long Live Love, Art, and Humor
After the service, all were invited to The Dive In, the bar Hap purchased with some of the proceeds of the sale of his land. A lavish Tex Mex dinner, margaritas, and coconut cream pie, Hap’s favorite desert, was served. There were tequila shots for anyone so inclined and an engraved souvenir shot glass as a parting gift.
Karen was dressed in an emerald green sheath. She greeted Mary with a big hug. “Hap loved you Mary. He said you were the smartest and sweetest of all of ‘em. Where’s your better half?”
“Oh, Todd’s over at the dessert table. You’d think a dentist would stay away from sweets.”
“Mary, let me ask you something.” Karen was a wee bit drunk, and Mary was trying to act as if she didn’t notice.
“Sure, Karen.”
“You and Todd have been married—what—twenty years?”
“Seventeen. Seventeen years,” Mary replied.
“You still have romance in your love life?”
“You mean, do we still make love?” Mary asked.
Karen nodded.
“Well, yes. Is this some kind of psychological study you’re doing? Couples counseling?”
“No, just wondered. Hap and I were married for twenty years and the last few years were pretty loveless.”
“Oh, Karen, not for lack of love, I’m sure. Hap loved you to the ends of the earth.”
Mary could not help wonder if that conversation had some greater meaning. She knew Hap seemed preoccupied with jokes that had sexual connotations, and that he always loved mimicking Fernando Llamas with his “yew look mawvelous” speech to all the women in his life. Perhaps Hap just didn’t need sex after a certain time in life. Or perhaps the lack of libido was due to his cancer. It was clear to Mary that Karen had a lot of love to give, and perhaps she was seeking permission.
“Look, Karen. I know I may be out of bounds in saying this, because you’re the psychologist. But when you’re ready for a relationship again, please don’t think I’m going to judge you. You should feel free to find love. Hap would want that for you.”
Chapter Nine:
My Sweet Virginia
March, 2005
The March 15, 2005 Austin American Statesman morning paper hit the front door of the fortress with a bang, waking Virginia up. She rolled out of bed and slowly shuffled to the front door to pick it up. It was her connection with her former life. The life of politics and gab.
Headlines included an article titled “Ellis Seeks Legal Help For Counties” and stated that Texas “should boost funding to help counties pay for legal representation for poor defendants.” Virginia read this with resignation, thinking of Richard and the money she had spent trying to defend him.
She couldn’t help thinking of all three sons, especially Hap. She hoped God would forgive her for not attending Hap’s memorial service. She had her own problems to attend to.
After her heart attack, she was unable to drive, became weaker, incapable of walking up stairs. She had to depend more and more on Vicki’s help. She worried about herself. She couldn’t complete a crossword puzzle and she felt angrier about everything.
You would think that her favorite daughter, Bits, would have cared for her. Bits did not have that capacity.
Vicki realized her mother needed 24-hour care, so she moved into the fortress at the beginning of 2005. She re-arranged the bedrooms to accommodate Virginia’s inability to master the stairs, and wound down her massage practice to part-time.
The day-to-day care of Virginia with her undiagnosed bi-polar behavior began to take a toll on Vicki. Her mother criticized everything she did whether it was her hairstyle, her inability to clean the toilet properly, the way she prepared a sandwich, or her voice.
“Daddy used to say that my sister Dorothy had a shrill voice. Well, guess what? You inherited it!”
There were other days when Virginia would want to give Vicki things. “Now when I’m gone, Vicki, this Grandma Moses painting is yours. Put your name on it.”
The morning of March 15, Vicki finished her shower while Virginia sat in the kitchen drinking her coffee and reading her newspaper. Vicki was looking in the bathroom mirror and plucking her eyebrows, towel around her wet body. Virginia walked up behind her.
“Vanity is insanity,” she yelled, surprising Vicki.
“Jesus Christ, Mom! You scared the sheep out of me. What’s wrong with you?”
“Why are you plucking your eyebrows? Have a hot date? No one wants to see you.”
“Why are you so angry Mom?”
“Why are you so ugly?” Virginia replied.
“What kind of answer is that?”
“The truth—and YOU can’t take it.”
Vicki was puzzled. What brought this on? She feared she would be prodded to escalate this “fight about nothing.” She pushed Virginia out of the doorway and closed the door, pledging to see a psychologist to help her get through this horrible nightmare.
She called Iris, just wanting to talk through the impossible situation.
“Gosh, Vicki, I wish I could help you. I really mean that, I’m not being facetious.”
“I think talking about it helps,” Vicki said.
“Yes, you need to see an objective party for that. I know too much. It helps to just see the abuse for what it is. That’s what I’ve done and that’s why I try to stay as far away from Mom as possible. I can’t imagine why you haven’t killed her.”
“To be honest, I have fantasized. I see myself using arsenic in her coffee. She loooooves her coffee.” Vicki paused. “Have you been to a shrink?”
“I’ve been to psychologists. Yes. And I went to a workshop once on the psychology of dysfunctional families.”
“Did you learn anything?”
“I did. I learned that some people find it ‘comforting’ to stay in a dysfunctional situation rather than leave,” Iris said.
“Comforting?”
“Sure. It’s difficult to divorce yourself from anything—a bad marriage, an abusive mother, etc. Changing your life is hard. It takes courage. It takes a lot of discomfort to move on, to put yourself in new situations.”
“Do you have dreams about our abuse?” Vicki asked.
“Not anymore. Used to. Let me tell you about this funny dream I had just last night. I dreamed I saw this crustacean that everyone said was Mom and thought—wow! How strange for Mom to die in this form since she always loved eating shellfish. Someone was holding her and as I looked at ‘the thing,’ wondering if we were going to cremate it and spread the ashes, it came to life. It was a lobster! Wasn’t that appropriate? Mom came back to life as something to eat. I think Dad was also in the dream, smiling.”
“So, are you saying Mom is dead to you?”
“That’s an interesting interpretation.”
“Listen,” Iris said. “Hire a night nurse. Get the hell out of that frickin’ fortress at night. Go back to your home down the street. That should provide some semblance of sanity, at least for ten hours or so.”
“That’s good advice.” Vicki was appreciative.
* * *
Vicki hired a night nurse and then got an appointment with a shrink specializing in PTSD.
On a lovely spring afternoon, Vicki found herself sitting on Dr. Helen Earl’s erg
onomic Scandinavian chair. “Tell me, dear, about yourself and what you hope to accomplish here,” Dr. Earl began.
“I’d like to stop hating my mom.”
“What is it you hate about her?”
“Where do I begin? She and my dad were married for 52 years, yet most of that time was miserable because she was so cruel to him. She had eight children, yet they all, well, except one, they all hate or hated her. Three are gone. She is diabolical one day and cheerful and happy and trying to give you things the next. Then the next day she’ll turn around and try to take those things from you and call you a liar and a thief. She’s crude at times, and then other times she’s all prim and proper. She’s absolutely insane.”
“Has she been diagnosed?”
“Not officially.”
“Would you like to slap her?”
“I don’t know about slapping her. Sometimes I’d like to kill her. More than anything, though, I just want her to be a normal, loving mother.”
“She’s how old?”
“84.”
“I’m afraid it’s too late.”
Vicki and Dr. Earl looked at each other. Vicki was agitated. She didn’t like Dr. Earl’s sympathetic eyes. She didn’t need sympathy. She wanted resolution. She forgot what hard work psychotherapy was. Many years had passed since her last encounter with psychotherapy. None of the many psychologists and social workers had relieved her anxiety over this mother/daughter relationship.
These questions make me tired.
The psychologist got up from her straight-backed chair, grabbed a pillow from the couch and handed it to Vicki.
Vicki stared at the pillow. “For my back?”
“No, it’s your punching bag.”
“I’m not into that.”
“Try it…..Just punch it. Punch out that anger. That frustration. That disappointment.”
Vicki held it with one hand and punched it with the other, trying to comply with Dr. Earl’s suggestion. It felt silly.
“I’m afraid this doesn’t work for me.”
“Try again.”
Vicki tried, over and over again until the session ended.
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