Back home that evening, Gregg's response to my attempts to get through to him were nonexistent. He didn't have the answers any more than I did.
After telling Dick about the conference with Gregg's principal, he searched Gregg's bedroom and found a bag of pot in his stereo speakers. When Dick asked him where he had gotten it, Gregg replied, "I found your stash."
The ‘Do As I Say, Not As I Do' philosophy did not work.
While I felt upset, Dick, as usual, took it with a grain of salt. "Look, Jen, I'm not going to turn my life around for Gregg. You really can't expect me to. He's the one with the problem, not me. I've been using pot most of my adult life. Since you don't seem to want it anymore, that's up to you. I no longer use it in front of the kid but I sure don't expect him to steal what's mine."
I frowned. "Dick, my son just turned sixteen years old."
"So? Does that give him a license to steal? There are things he has to learn concerning what a sixteen-year-old can and cannot do. It's not only pot that we're talking about. What about my liquor? I'm not blind. I can see when some is missing. Do I have to remove it from my home just so your son can't steal it? Somewhere along the line, Gregg has forgotten that he has to obey rules, that he has to finish school, that he has to do something with his life. If he wants to be a bum and get kicked out, well then that's his problem, not mine."
I didn't know what to say. He did have some valid points.
Soon New Year's Eve rolled around. Dick and I planned to welcome in the New Year in a relaxed way, having an early dinner with another couple and being safely back at home before all the craziness blanketed the city.
I checked with my son about his plans.
"I'm going to a party at my buddy Jeff's house. Don't worry, his parents will be there. He lives a couple of blocks away, so I'll walk."
"Okay, Hon. Since it's New Year's Eve, we'll extend your curfew to one or one-thirty at the latest. We'll be back by then if you want to be picked up. Leave Jeff's address and phone number on the hall table."
"Will do, Mom."
Gregg looked sporty in a new outfit Dick had bought him and Gregg had picked out. Now filled out, he was looking good. Already taller than his father by two inches at the age of sixteen, his evenly chiseled features, straight nose, square chin and large brown eyes reminded me of a young Cary Grant. With his thick dark brown hair completely filled in, Gregg made for a very good-looking young man.
"You look very handsome, Gregg," I said, walking him to the front door.
"Thanks, Mom. Happy New Year, Dick," he shouted , then gave me a big hug, smiled and lifted a hand in farewell.
Soon, Dick and I left to join our friends at a nearby Italian restaurant. We ushered in the New Year with a nice bottle of wine, and returned home shortly before one in the morning to find a note pinned to the front door. It read: "Gregg has overdosed and is being treated at Sarasota Memorial Hospital. Sarasota Sheriff's Department."
Shivers of fear ran through me. We rushed to the hospital. I told Dick to let me out at the emergency entrance.
"Okay. I'll park the car and be in the waiting room."
My heart pounding, I ran into the emergency room, dreading what I would find. Stripped of his shirt, my son lay colorless and very still on a cold steel table. Oh, God, no. He’s gone, I thought, hesitating to touch him for fear that he might be dead. A nurse came by, gave me a reassuring smile and nod, and bent over Gregg. "His stomach has just been pumped," she said. "He should come to shortly." I wrapped my arms around his icy body, then set about finding a blanket for my cold, gray son. Tears streaming down my face, I covered him.
In a few minutes Gregg slowly regained consciousness and moaned. That was the best sound I'd ever heard! He opened his eyes and wanly smiled up at me. Thank you, Lord, I silently prayed. "You're going to be okay, Honey,” I told my son. “You'll feel pretty sick for a little while and you'll have a sore throat because of the tube they inserted. Rest easy now. Don't worry about a thing. Everything will be alright."
He nodded his head and drifted off to sleep.
I held onto him, trying to transfer my body heat to his. In a few minutes, a nurse took hold of his bed and started wheeling him away. "He'll be in recovery, probably overnight."
I watched her, an earthbound angel doing her job as the gurney pushed open the set of double doors and disappeared on the other side. The emergency room doctor who had treated Gregg appeared at my elbow. "Your son is lucky," he murmured. "If he had gotten here thirty minutes later he wouldn't have made it. His heart stopped beating for almost five minutes."
My mouth went dry. Finally, I managed to say, "Thank you doctor. Thank you for saving my son's life. God bless you.”
The following afternoon, Dick and I brought a weak and dispirited Gregg home from the hospital. While Dick ran an errand, my son forced down the chicken soup I usually made when my children were ill. Jewish penicillin, I referred to it fondly.
After he finished eating, I sat down next to him. "How did this happen, Gregg?"
"I did something really dumb, Mom," he admitted , looking ashamed. "Jeff had about a dozen kids at his house for New Year's Eve. His folks wanted the party to break up right after midnight so they could go to bed. So, that's what we did. Everybody cleared out about a quarter after twelve. One of the guys had a car and he asked me and two of his buddies if we'd like some booze and pot. We all said, 'sure thing' and piled in his car, and he drove to a nearby canal. We sat down, leaned against some trees and started drinking straight rum. He had a breath mint tin box filled with joints and he passed them around. That's the last thing I remember. I guess one of the guys called 911 when I passed out."
I shook my head. "Gregg dear, I don't think you realize the seriousness of what happened. There's something you need to know. What you did to yourself is much more than a mere teen-age prank. At the hospital, after your stomach had been pumped out and you were wheeled into recovery, the doctor told me that if you had been brought in thirty minutes later, he wouldn't have been able to save your life. Your heart stopped beating for five whole minutes. So this sort of misbehavior has to stop...now. Do you understand, Gregg? You almost killed yourself."
Gregg uttered an audible gasp.
While he regained his strength, my long-standing friends, Harry and Fran, recommended a newly formed drug rehabilitation program located here in town. With the enthusiastic approval of Gregg's principal, I withdrew my son from high school and, notwithstanding his objections, enrolled him in the program.
The Straight program was a five-phase, tough-love agenda that called for the full participation of parents and their youngsters. Similar to Alcoholic Anonymous in principle, it incorporated the same prayer: "God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference."
Gregg, in Phase One, was removed from our home and sent to live with parents who had a child on a higher phase of the program. We were not allowed to see or communicate with him during this time. Familiarity was at a distance. During the days, at the Straight offices, from 8:00 A.M. to 5:00 P.M., each enrolled youngster was encouraged to candidly speak of their rebellious behavior, lies told, money stolen. Denial was unacceptable by his peers. The child was to identify his problem through confessional therapy.
When ready, Phase Two was entered. The child would rise from his chair in the meeting hall, with all the parents in attendance, and happily announces, "I'm coming home." All the parents would then stand and clap in a show of support. The responsibilities of the parents would deepen during the remaining four phases. They must now take their turn at housing other youngsters who are in Phase One. Aside from one's own child, parents had no idea how many other children would be coming home with them each evening. We were to provide dinner, launder their clothes, time their showers to three minutes, lock all the doors and windows, instruct them in wholesome behavior, give them a hearty breakfast and return t
hem to the Straight building at eight in the morning. Seven days a week.
Two months into the program, Gregg proudly stood up, grinned at us from across the room and loudly announced, "I'm coming home." Tears sprang to my eyes. I leaped to my feet and wildly clapped, joined by Dick and about two hundred other parents. We all had the same purpose and the same set of problems.
In our bedroom, I pleaded with Dick. "Now that Gregg's home again, we must make sure there are no temptations here. And soon we can expect to house other youngsters. I know this is going to be tough and we'll have some grueling months ahead. If we stick it out, I believe it will help him immensely. I'll try to pick up most of the slack, but please Dick, no pot in the house. And the liquor should be kept in our bedroom under lock and key. He's not strong enough.…"
Dick interrupted me. "It's Gregg's problem, not mine. Why should I change my lifestyle? After all, I'm not even his stepfather because you won't marry me. Why should I sacrifice any more than I already have? I'm supporting him, that's enough."
"Oh, Dick, one thing has nothing to do with the other. Would you offer a cigarette to a lung cancer patient? Offer a Martini to an alcoholic? Surround an arsonist with matches?" He shrugged his shoulders.
Two weeks after Gregg's return home, the director of Straight escorted Dick and I into his office. "I'm afraid we can't allow Gregg to remain at home during Phase Two. An unwholesome home situation exists. I understand you two are not married."
Gregg found himself withdrawn from our home, again living with another family. The edict threw me into a tailspin. I wanted my son in the program and had spoken with enough parents and staff members to know that it had a high rate of success. However, I could not, up until this point, marry Dick.
Dick and I returned to an empty house after attending a semi-weekly meeting at Straight. Dick turned on soft, romantic music and poured two glasses of wine. He passed me one of the goblets and settled in his favorite easy chair. "I love you, Jen,” he said softly. “I want to take care of you and Gregg...as a husband and father. If you refuse to marry me now, I'll have to leave. How would you manage a full time job and be home to handle a kid just off drugs? Not to mention picking up, delivering and housing other kids for a year or more while Gregg finishes the program."
Then Dick brought another concession to the matrimonial bid. "I promise there’ll be no pot in the house, no drinking except in our bedroom after the kids are down for the night."
I sipped the wine, glanced at him while an unspoken panic gripped me. I do love him, I thought. And yet...do I dare take the chance that he can and will become the man I admire and like? My wants, needs and hopes factored on one side--dreaded reluctance on the other.
Dick gave me an engaging smile and waited for a response.
I had to make a decision. The administrator of the Straight program could not legally hold my son. Still, to disregard their edict would mean withdrawing Gregg from the Straight program. I could already see the improvement in my son's behavior and attitude.
Against all logic, against all reason, I convinced myself that marrying Dick would act as a stabilizer for him, and therefore he would become a finer person. And Gregg would have a better chance at life coming from a unified set of parents. My son appeared to be delighted about the possibility of our marriage. Through sheer will power and because I wanted it, I would make our marriage work. Those were the lies I told myself.
Dick sipped his wine and waited.
"My answer is yes. We'll be married as soon as you wish."
We blended in a long lingering kiss.
"How about next week, Pussycat? You won't be sorry. I promise."
Dick and I took out a marriage license while Gregg and one of his friends from Straight gained permission to attend our simple wedding ceremony. We married the last day of April 1981, on the beach in front of a Justice of the Peace.
What I should have realized, but didn't accept, was that while living with Dick, I had been subjected to his 'best side'. After our marriage his 'dark side' quickly surfaced.
Soon my asking any questions of him aroused instant fury--and I found myself biting my tongue to stay quiet. One of my concerns was the fact that Dick brought home towels, decorator items, brass figurines, and ashtrays from work at U.S. Homes, explaining that they were throwaways. That nobody cared about them.
A former real estate professional, I knew better.
Four months after Dick joined U.S. Homes, I heard the front door slam and his footsteps coming into the kitchen hours before he usualy arrived home. He clenched his fists, fuming. "If you're wondering what I'm doing home so early, it's because those bastards just fired me. Damn them! I did one heck of a job. They wouldn't even give me a reason for letting me go. I think the sales manager fired me because I outsold everybody. He must have been afraid I'd get his job. Shit! What a world." He retrieved a bottle of Jack Daniels from our bedroom and poured a hefty one. "The only good thing about being fired is that I can grow my beard back. I never felt the same without it."
"I'm so sorry, Dick." I pretended that I didn't know why he had been fired. I backed off for the sole reason of pacifying him, never realizing that with each step taken backward, I lost a little more of myself.
While Dick considered what to do next, his temper outpaced his beard re-growth. One afternoon I sat on the bed as he busied himself organizing his bureau drawers. A slight difference of opinion of little importance threw him into a rage. Dick dashed to his bureau drawer and pulled out his .357 Magnum. He pitched the loaded gun on the bed inches from where I sat. His words spat out like bullets. "Go for the gun! You can probably reach it before I can get to you."
I gasped and raised my hands to my chest. He laughed at seeing my shock. Pacing the room in a kind of hyperactive kinetic dance, he waved his arms in the air and hissed. "Other people have tried to kill me before. Maybe you can do it? Go on...go for it Pussycat, if you think you're faster than I am. Please...I'd love to be able to tear your face off."
I pressed my lips together. A mental picture of Dick ramming punji sticks in men's eyes replayed like a film in slow motion. Along with the fear, intense sadness invaded my soul. Whatever challenge had to be met, I would have been better off alone than being married to this raving lunatic threatening to tear the flesh from my bones.
His face, a study in fury, prompted me to remain sitting motionless on the edge of the bed. Barely above a whisper, I said, "No, Dick. I have no intention of going for the gun. I'm going to stand up and leave the room while you put the gun away." With my arms folded across my body, I rose and stepped away from the bed and slowly left the bedroom, quietly closing the door behind me. I left the house and took a long walk in the cool night air. Upon my return, the squall had passed. Again, the waters stilled. I had been taught another lesson in submissiveness.
The next afternoon a bouquet of pink roses arrived.
Gregg, Dick and I continued with the Straight program. Parents and their youngsters became prisoners of a sort. Our lives centered on the agenda. We had instructions to drive directly to and from the building while we had the young people in the car. A stop for gasoline or milk was prohibited. Once home, at least one parent had to remain inside the bolted house at all times. Over the next few months, we heard stories of the many marriages that had taken a nosedive because of the stress.
After being in the Straight program for six months, Dick declared, "I'm sick and tired of this. Gregg's had enough time to get his act together. If he hasn't by now, he never will."
"I understand the strain you're under. It's hard to bear the pressure. And yet, Gregg's on Phase Three now and has only two more to go. He's advancing rapidly now, and it won't be long now. Surely we can both hold out a little longer."
"No way...I've had it! End of the line!" said Dick.
Gregg, also wearied of the grueling routine, jumped at the chance this gave him to quit the program. I found myself outvoted by the strength of their united des
ires. In my heart, I knew it to be a mistake and feared the consequences.
Still, Gregg's re-enrollment in high school went smoothly and he appeared happy and healthy. Dick found another job, selling new cars again. A rhythmical peace took hold, a peace that should have been a salve. Instead, a recurring nightmare plagued me. When I told Dick of it, he wanted me to repeat each little detail repeatedly.
"I'd never hurt you, Jen," he soothed. "I love you dearly."
My nightmare always began the same: Fully dressed, I lay diagonally across the bed watching Dick as he paced our bedroom in a furious rage, bitterly complaining about the way I filleted the fish that we had for dinner. Dressed in black slacks and shirt, his dual image was reflected in tall mirrors on either side of my massive dresser. Suddenly I felt a presence behind me. At first, I couldn't see anyone. Then two strong hands clamped down on my wrists and violently yanked my arms above my head. My eyes tore upward in terror. Holding me down with a look of pure hatred on his face stood Dick. How could that be, when I could still see him on the other side of the room?
Two Dicks?
Panic gripped me as I struggled helplessly against the demonic strength that held me so effortlessly. The Dick who held me captive was larger and stronger than the one standing across the room. This Dick had the face of the devil: Black pointed beard, arched black eyebrows above the familiar laser-blue eyes. The devil-like Dick that held me down grinned wickedly and whispered, "I'll show you how to use a knife to fillet a fish." The nightmare always ended with my knowing that he intended to carve me into long narrow strips.
"Oh God," I silently prayed, "Grant me the serenity to...Please, dear God!"
CHAPTER SIX
Clark and Jackson
"He thinks things through very clearly before going off half-cocked."
-- General Carl Spaatz
"Hell!" Dick swore on a lazy Sunday morning over breakfast. "I think I'll sue U.S. Homes for the $9,500 they shafted me out of."
Tyranny of a Lover...Diary of the Wife of an Undercover informant Page 6
