At the next week’s session, Vicki gave Dr. Earl a long, detailed description of her life growing up in the Landry household and how she came to be the “Boss” and why she was the one caring for her mother.
“I just cannot continue being there with her,” she finally told Dr. Earl.
“Have you ever told your mother how you feel?”
“You mean because of all the things she did? I don’t think she would listen.”
“Well, sometimes it can be therapeutic for you to write your feelings in a letter to your mother.”
Dr. Earl gave Vicki her homework: write a letter to Virginia telling her exactly how you feel about your childhood all the way to now and don’t hold back. And next time they would discuss the letter.
* * *
The evening dusk outside Vicki’s lovely home brought a chorus of background music from the critters’ zoo as she sat with pen in hand, absent the usual carafe of wine, and began to write:
Dear Mom,
Life should be happy but it seems you and I have been in a slump with each other for some time now.
The problem goes all the way back to childhood. I did not realize how conveniently the alcohol masked my agony until I recently lived upstairs in your house sober. The whole scenario of childhood played back to me on a daily basis.
I have spent thousands of dollars in therapy trying to resolve my inner mother-daughter conflict and feel I have made very little progress. I have prayed for a solution to our conflict. I have prayed for your welfare and wished good things for you. But my anger about helplessness to defend others and myself keeps creeping back into my mind.
Memories flooded Vicki’s mind, from the earliest times she could remember to the present. She saw and felt vivid reenactments of her mother’s wrath: Virginia dunking toddler Hap’s head in scalding water, beating little five-year old Hap with a dishtowel, grabbing his gonads when he was six, screaming at him to “find the biggest stick” to beat him with before he was old enough to fight back, and breaking all of his model planes and ships as a young teen. This was hard work, writing these horrible memories. She pushed herself to continue:
I carry tremendous guilt about being a silent witness to all the ridiculous and completely unnecessary discipline and harassment you laid upon my brothers and sisters, especially Hap and Jillian. I felt so helpless, so frustrated at not being able to remove them from your meanness. I also felt that frustration about your behavior towards Dad.
As Vicki wrote the word “Dad,” she had an instant recollection of the comforting scent of Juicy Fruit gum, VF’s favorite. She thought about many years past, when she and Hap were toddlers, before the other children were born, and she had her daddy all to herself. She could see her handsome hero walking up the steps to the house as she waited at the top, tilting his movie star face up to see her. She smiled as she remembered his wide grin with his perfect teeth closed, a piece of gum peaking out on the side. She felt his strong, capable arms as she heard him calling her his “little vixen,” lifting her high over his head and twirling her around.
Vicki’s mood grew cloudy when she thought about the things she saw her mother do to her father—flashbacks of Virginia throwing hot coffee on VF because she suspected an affair, screaming at him in front of the children because she wanted a more expensive car, hitting him in the face when he accepted a coveted professorship because “now you’ll find your floosy.” Vicki continued to write:
You seem to harbor the attitude that if you scream louder, pound your fists harder, slap faces, then you can get your way and no one will stand up to you. And it seems to have worked out that way. So you just keep doing it. You keep getting your way.
The angels are still crying at the way you wrecked your children’s lives. Jillian’s death still screams for justice.
You go around bragging that you had eight children—your big claim to fame, being a baby-making machine. What you fail to tell everyone is that out of those eight children, five became alcoholics or addicts. Do you ever stop to think that you may have contributed to their disease?
Vicki stopped writing, wondering if it was fair to blame her mother for the alcoholism in the family. She had read recently that DNA can be affected by trauma in early childhood and she pondered whether alcoholism is an inherited gene, and if the trauma inflicted by Virginia was what turned that gene on. Certainly her grandfather Williams, her mother’s father, was an alcoholic. And she wondered if it was one and the same gene for drug addiction. Why not? She asked herself. Alcohol is a drug; it alters behavior. She thought about the many conversations she and Virginia had had about Richard’s addiction:
You mentioned several times while I was with you that you wonder what made Richard turn to drugs. Well, it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure that one out. Don’t you remember that when you found something that looked like marijuana in one of Richard’s dresser drawers you called the police? This was your son and you call the police when you find an unidentifiable substance in his bedroom. You didn’t even bother to sit down with him and quietly discuss it. That alone would be enough to start him off on the wrong path for the rest of his life.
Aside from the police, I’m sure all the yelling and carrying on with Dad didn’t help. Children take those arguments to heart. With you it was a constant stream. One never knew when the volcano would blow.
Vicki stopped writing. Tears were streaming down her face as she thought about Richard, and how tender and thoughtful he had been to his father when he cared for him before his death. She wished she could change the past.
She looked up at the clock and then noticed the darkness outside the French doors of her study. Hours had passed. Time had ceased to exist while she wrote. She needed a break.
Stepping outside into her sunken patio with a glass of sparkling water, she felt better about herself. Yes, she told herself, this is a letter I’ve needed to write for a long time. I will send it. She sat on the chaise, lifted her head to the skies and felt grateful for the wide expanse of navy blue with the swath of the Milky Way. Please God, help me get through this, she prayed.
That night, she had a beautiful, comforting dream. She was kneeling at the foot of a statue of the Virgin Mary, in the most gorgeous chapel of Tiffany stained glass and Carrera marble. She could feel the cool marble under her knees. As she prayed, the Virgin Mary, surrounded by warm light, came to life, lifting her up. She began to weep. “Dry your tears, my child,” the Virgin Mary said. “I am with you always. You are safe.” Suddenly, Vicki felt a tenderness and warmth throughout her body, something akin to bliss. She awoke with one goal: finish this letter.
First thing in the morning after her walk, she continued:
And Hap. On my God! Why were you so cruel to him? I’m surprised he ever talked to you as an adult. The way you made him dress up like a girl so everyone could make fun of him at the lunch table in the summer. “Since he was acting like a girl, he might as well look like one,” you said. That was your rationale. The pain of throwing up after being made to drink a quart of milk that was rancid. The pain of having all his model planes, ships and cars so painstakingly made smashed by YOU. The pain of having his head put under scalding water after getting his finger burned on a firecracker. The pain of having his head dunked in a commode. The list goes on and on and on.
And why did Hap look different than everyone else? Is there a deep, dark secret?
Vicki stopped writing. This would be the hot button.
She remembered the lunch meeting with Faye soon after VF’s death, way back in 1995.
Faye was the sister of VF’s best friend, Fred. At VF’s funeral, she invited Vicki to meet and talk about Hap.
Within a couple of months of the invitation, Vicki drove the 200 miles to Dallas to meet with Faye. She wanted to be far, far away from the ranch.
La Madeleine was a favorite of Faye’s. They served nourishing lun
ches, close to her home on Mockingbird Lane. Faye was dressed beautifully in a baby blue cashmere sweater and matching skirt, with low blue suede heels. Vicki wore her favorite white long-sleeve blouse, white lace sweater and black slacks, with black flats. She couldn’t help think upon seeing Faye, why in the world do I always dress like a nun?
They ordered—Faye the quiche and Vicki a wholesome salad.
Faye began the difficult conversation. “Vicki, I’m so sorry I brought up this terrible story. I shouldn’t have, especially at such a delicate time.”
“I’m so curious about this far more serious secret you mentioned at Dad’s funeral.”
“I shouldn’t have.”
“You’ve said that. Faye, I’ve driven two hundred miles to see you. I would really like to know what you know.”
“I don’t know how to say this.”
“Just begin at the beginning,” Vicki gently offered.
“I think this information will help you see why Virginia was so cruel to Hap.”
“Faye, we’ve all wondered about Hap. He never looked like the rest of us, and he was different. He loved singing, and performing. That’s not much like us, either. He thought being some kind of singer was his destiny, either that or being an artist. He was always getting into trouble as a kid, or maybe it was just Mom beating on him that caused the trouble.”
Faye delicately put her hand on Vicki’s arm and leaned in, “Dear, my husband and I were so upset about Hap being abused that we offered to adopt him. After all, we had no children, and we had the means to send him to the best schools.”
“Who refused to let you adopt him?”
“Mainly Virginia. She was livid when we suggested that this would relieve the burden of ‘mothering’ so many children. He was only seven at the time and your mother and father had five children by then.”
“Five minus Jillian. Four children,” Vicki interrupted.
“Yes. God bless little Jillian. I think VF warmed up to the idea of adoption because he hoped Hap would have a better future.”
“So,” Vicki looked at Faye’s dark eyes, “who is his father?” Vicki knew that Faye knew.
Faye shifted uncomfortably in her chair. She asked for more tea.
Minutes passed.
“Faye?” Vicki asked.
Faye looked at Vicki, and cleared her throat.
“We’re not sure—no one tested the DNA, but we think his father was a friend of your mom’s from before she met VF, and then she continued to see him.”
“So this was when Dad was in law school?”
“Yes, probably even before that—when he was a senior at UT.”
Vicki tried to think if she had ever heard her mother talk about another man.
“Was he from Austin?”
“No. He was from a wealthy family from Ohio.”
Faye paused. She could see that Vicki was trying to absorb the news.
“Wow. Ohio. You know that Mom’s dad and stepmother Ada lived in Ohio, don’t you?” Vicki asked.
“Yes, we believe he and your mom met in Ohio when Virginia visited your grandfather Williams and Ada there as a teenager. Virginia also had a stepsister the same age, married to a multi-millionaire, and they would have grand parties. I think they met at one of the parties and were attracted to each other.
“I met Virginia—my mom’s stepsister—when we went to Ohio to visit granddad once. She had a beautiful mansion and her husband was crazy about cars. He had two barns of these gleaming cards in popsicle colors—he had Ferraris and Maseratis and Lamborghinis and other cars whose names I couldn’t pronounce.”
Vicki thought back to that time, and wondered if this guy was around when she and her sisters and brothers visited Ohio.
“So, how old was he?” Vicki asked.
“Oh, he was the same age as your mother, we think.”
“Did you ever meet him?”
“No.”
“Did Dad ever meet him?”
“No.”
“So how could he possibly get Mom pregnant?”
“Well, it’s a little bit complicated,” Faye answered.
Vicki was annoyed that her mother, who always accused her father of affairs, had carried on such a damaging affair during the war.
“What was his name?” Vicki asked.
“Dan. We only know his first name. Dan graduated from the University of Washington soon after VF and Virginia married, then joined the Navy during the height of the war.”
“But, why wouldn’t Dad have known about him?”
“Your dad—VF—was on a secret classified mission in Czechoslovakia during the time Hap was conceived.”
“I’ve heard bits and pieces about this mission. Do you know more? Is it declassified now that the War has been over for fifty years?”
“I’ve just surmised what it was about, from hints from my brother Fred. I think this was a test mission for the US to learn all they could about an SS General Reinhard Heydrich who had become the Nazi’s Reich Protector of Bohemia and Moravia. The Czechs called him the Butcher. The Allies wanted him dead, and VF and his fellow soldiers who all spoke Czech were parachuted into a village close to Heydrich’s headquarters. They were supposed to gather intelligence on his movements—his activities. But something went wrong. They were only there for a week or so when someone leaked to the Nazi commander that some American soldiers were there. The Nazis captured five of them, tortured them, and finally killed them. VF and another trooper barely made it out of Czechoslovakia. It was considered a failed mission. According to Fred, though, it helped set up a future mission of the Brits that killed Heydrich. Although, I think all those soldiers were killed.”
“Wow. Dad never mentioned this.”
“As I said this was classified. These were the horrors of the War, Vicki.”
They ate quietly for a few minutes, and their drinks were refreshed.
Faye continued, “Virginia lived in Florida alone with you at that time. Soon after VF left on his secret mission, Virginia and Dan renewed their relationship. Within a few months, Dan was shipped off from a Florida base to the Pacific front. Virginia never saw him again.”
“How do you know all of this?”
Faye looked down. “VF found a stash of letters from Dan to Virginia when he returned to the States after nearly a year abroad. He was furious. Beside himself. She was nine months pregnant by then. He called Fred and confided in him. VF decided to do the right thing, to keep the baby, and keep the marriage intact.”
“Did Mom ever acknowledge that Hap was Dan’s baby?”
“Not to VF. She just wouldn’t talk about it,” Faye said.
Vicki’s ruminations felt rejuvenating. She continued writing:
She said she and her husband at one point offered to adopt Hap since they were childless and it was obvious he was being mistreated, but YOU refused. I suppose that would be admitting the lie. Obviously, your false pride ruled out over Hap’s well being. His life would definitely have been more stable if he had loving parents.
Vicki knew that when she wrote about Hap’s parentage she was delving into buried history, and she wanted to confront it before Virginia passed away. Shouldn’t the rest of the family know who Hap’s real dad was?
She stopped writing and thought about what she was doing. Did she really want to send this to everyone in the family? Hap included? Why would I want to hurt Hap even more?
She deleted the sentence And why did Hap look different than everyone else? She deleted the next paragraph about Faye wanting to adopt Hap.
As she ruminated about the abuse meted out to Hap, she couldn’t help but think about Jillian, and the torture she suffered at such a young age. “Little puppy dog needs to learn,” Virginia would smirk when Jillian wet the bed as a toddler, as she smashed her little face into the wet bed sheets over and ov
er again.
Vicki remembered waking up in the wee hours of the morning with little Iris weeping beside her. Vicki would soothe Iris by gently tickling her back until she went back to sleep and then she would tiptoe to Jillian and do the same for her. The girls’ dorm was set up so that Vicki’s single bed was at the far corner of the room, just far enough to hear the rumblings of her mother’s wrath and to pretend she didn’t. For the rest of her life, she would pay dearly in psychic income for not defending her sister and brother.
Vicki wrote about Virginia’s transgressions to Jillian and others including Iris and Mary, her erratic behavior during the final moments of VF’s life and the time during which the funeral home employees arrived to prepare the body.
Then when Dad died, you and I were in the room. You sat there completely without emotion. Like you had planned it all along and were just waiting for the outcome. You said, “I just wanted him in the ground and out of the way and then YOU come along and change everything.” You were referring to me explaining to the funeral director that we need a later date for the funeral since people needed time to get here from out of town.
You were actually joking with the two men from the funeral home when they were putting Dad’s body into the body bag.
We showed you Dad’s papers that requested what he wanted engraved on his tombstone. You refused. What shocked me the most is what little respect you had for Dad. I realized you were jealous of him and really hated him.
After you had been so cruel to me during Dad’s illness, trying to ban me from the ranch because I needed to be with my daughter in Colorado for a brief time, you were then overly generous—like deeding me a pasture and rental property.
Vicki took a yoga break for half an hour and prepared a cup of herbal tea afterward. She looked over what she had written. Here comes the hard part she told herself. She pushed herself to finish what seemed like a thesis, but what would become a catharsis.
I still feel like a child around you because you are so intimidating.
How do you defend your erratic behavior?
Rich White Trash Page 14
