by S. Rose
“I’d love a coffee.”
“How do you take it?”
The last time we were together I wasn’t old enough to drink coffee. “Cream if you have it, no sugar, please.”
“Be back in a jiffy.”
We munched and sipped, now and again casting tentative social smiles across the table. The coffee really was bad, but I didn’t let on. “I was glad that Dandy Donuts hadn’t been swallowed up by some franchise,” I said.
“Mmmm.” He could only nod, having downed the cruller and taken a big bite out of a custard cream. “I’ve been following the antiwar movement,” he said after a moment, gesturing to his paper. “Madison sure has made the news a lot lately.”
“I know. I started at the university in the fall of ’69.”
“I thought you might be there. Ya know, I agree with the antiwar sentiment, but not with the violence. That bomb at Sterling Hall, for instance . . .” He shook his head disapprovingly.
“August 24th, 1970.” I recited the infamous date. “I was registering for classes and settling into my dorm. It was my sophomore year . . . I was feeling pretty grown up. Then the bomb went off—that poor physics professor was killed. Aunt Gudrun saw it on the news, and the next thing I knew, she phoned to tell me to turn around and come straight home, ‘just for a couple of days, until things settled down.’ I was mortified.”
“What did you do?”
“Whada ya think?” I smirked. “I got my keister on a bus and went back to Racine.”
“Ha. Sounds like Gudrun hasn’t changed a bit.”
“Same as ever. But thanks to her, I’ve kept my nose clean and my head on straight, when loads of kids dropped out . . . just threw away their education.”
“It’s a helluva tough time for anyone to grow up,” he commiserated. “This war is a crime. All those boys comin’ home in bags—and for what? It’s no wonder so many kids are rebellious, runnin’ off halfcocked—but those drugs destroy lives. I’ve thought about you every time I read the papers or watch the news, hoping you’d come through it all okay.”
My heart caught in my throat. You thought of me? But the words did not leave my lips. “I’ve come through okay, but at least a dozen of my high school classmates were killed overseas,” I said somberly.
“Anyone I knew?”
“I’m not sure . . . but Kitty Gunderson lost her husband last winter,” I ventured cautiously, recalling his opinion of the family. “They were newlyweds.”
“Oh,” he pressed his hand over his heart, “I’m so sorry to hear that. She was the sweetest little girl.”
“Kitty was always an angel,” I affirmed, “and she hasn’t changed. She’s living with her parents for the time being. I see her often.”
“It’s a damned shame,” he said, exhaling smoke forcefully through his teeth with a contemptuous hiss. “I sure hope that Nixon will live up to his promise.”
“God help us if he doesn’t. Sometimes it seems like there’s no end in sight.”
“I know . . . but there’s always a light at the end of the tunnel, even if you can’t see it.”
“Darkest before the dawn, I guess.”
Our philosophical profundity fizzled out. We sat in awkward silence, shrouded in smoke. George waved his hand to waft it away. “So what brings you to this hellhole?”
I smirked at what I hoped was humorous hyperbole. The dayroom looked like the lobby of a decent hotel, and the residents seemed content, or at least relaxed. “I came to see how you were doing,” I twittered, sounding absurdly cheerful for the circumstances.
“Could be worse,” he said.
I took another stab at it. “Da . . . uh . . .” I froze.
“It’s okay, Cassandra—call me George.” He flashed a charming smile and for an instant, I caught a glimpse of a happier George Parsons leaning casually against the outrageous Bel Air, still so young and full of promise.
“Okay, George.” I smiled. “Well, I’ve wanted to see you for a long time because, uh, for one thing, I wanted you to know I turned out pretty good, and . . .”
“A fair sight better than pretty good, going to college and all. Gosh, you’re even more beautiful than I imagined,” he added warmly. “You have the most gorgeous mop of curls I’ve ever seen.”
“Thanks, George.” In the style of the ’70s, I’d grown it past my waist. “Wanna know something funny? Aunt Gudrun thinks I should cut it—says it makes me look like a hippy.” I grinned at the irony.
“Naw, don’t you dare—it’s perfect. But I’ve interrupted you—what’s on your mind?”
“Oh, uh . . . what I meant to say is . . . I’ve always wanted you to know that I never blamed you for what happened.”
“That’s overly generous of you,” he replied. “Ah, speaking of what happened . . . how’s Kristina doing?”
“She’s well.” I mustered a smile. “Her leg bothers her in our brutal winters—meaning most of the time. She’d like to go to Arizona but doesn’t want to leave us.”
“So . . . um . . . your mother never remarried?” His tone was deliberately offhand but his eyes gave him away. Even after all these years, he still loved my mother.
“No, not yet anyway.”
“I was glad to hear that Tina pulled through—at least I knew she had to be well enough to divorce me,” he said with a wry smirk.
“It must’ve been a terrible blow,” I said seriously. “You were very ill at the time.”
“Hmm . . . s’ppose it was, but I can’t say as I blame her.” He shrugged as if to dump the painful memory. “So, what’s new with you?”
“I just got early acceptance to the law school at Madison.” I’d rehearsed this part of the conversation on the drive up. “I double majored in psychology and prelaw, and stand to graduate next spring with highest honors.” I instinctively searched his face for approval.
“Hmmm . . . sounds like a lot of grief for such a pretty girl. How’re you going to find time to have a family?”
My heart sank. “This is the life I want. I haven’t ruled out marriage, but I’m not sure it would be fair to have children if I’m going to practice law.”
“What a shame,” he muttered. I was crushed. “But after the shining example I set, I can understand why. I expect you’re sour on men.”
“Not at all. I’ve been dating since I was sixteen, and . . . ah . . . I’m kinda serious with a guy I met at Madison.”
“Kinda?”
“We haven’t made any formal declarations . . . it’s more of an understanding. We’ve been friends since freshman year and just sort of grew together.”
“Blossomed on the vine,” George quipped with a grin. “What’s his name?”
“John—John Gundar Paulson.”
“Ha. A Norski, eh?”
“You betcha. Head of blond hair like a thatched roof and stoic as they come.”
“So, ah . . . he hasn’t popped the question?”
“No, thank God.”
“Why do you say that?”
“I’m just not ready, and I couldn’t bear to break his heart.”
“Not ready? But you’re twenty-one, and you’ve known him for years.”
“The thing is, John is a third generation dairy farmer and the first in his family to go to college . . .”
“An Ag science major?”
“Ya sure, and his parents sacrificed a lot to send him. After graduation next spring, he’ll go back to Waupaca County and take over the family farm. John’s an only child, and his father is sixty-two, so he got an agricultural draft deferment, thank God.”
“Amen.”
“The farm is three hundred acres and over a hundred head of Holsteins. Someday, it’ll all be his.”
“That sounds wonderful.”
“It is . . . for him.”
“What’s the matter—don’t they need lawyers out in Waupaca?”
“Probably got all the lawyers they need, but that’s not the point.”
“Then what is? Is he g
ood lookin’?”
“Six foot two and built like a Norse god.”
“That’s a plus. This fellow sounds like a real solid character—and he comes with property. You could do a lot worse,” George advised.
“I can’t imagine doing any better. John’s a wonderful man. Aunt Gudrun calls him the salt of the earth.”
“Hell, if Gudrun approves, he must be golden.”
“And John adores her—he raves about her cooking and talks to her in Norwegian.”
“Aha . . . so this man is crafty, too—knows which side his bread is buttered on.” After a moment his grin melted away. “Cassandra, what’s holding you back?” he asked gently.
I felt myself flush. “Well, ah . . . John doesn’t come out and say so, but I know he’s always expected to have a stay-at-home farmwife . . . the way he expects the cows to give milk and the sun to come up in the morning. And he wants a big family. He deserves a wife who’ll milk the cows and give him a houseful of kids.” I’d been pondering this dilemma with level-headed logic for some time, but talking it over with George stirred something deep inside. My eyes grew moist, and my nose began to tingle with damned-up tears. I swallowed hard to hold back. “I . . . I haven’t decided yet. It’s not an easy choice.”
“But . . . do you love ’im?” George asked, searching my eyes.
“Yes,” I croaked with emotion, fishing through my pocket for a Kleenex. “Loving John is the easiest thing I’ve ever done.” I fell into his confidence, deftly gathering up the frayed threads of a relationship long torn asunder.
“May I?” He held out his arms. I slipped into his embrace like a comfortable old chair and let the tears fall. I knew then that an adoption certificate hadn’t made this man my father, nor could its negation take fatherhood away. The commitment was etched in his heart.
“Aw, what is it, Puddin’?”
“Oh, Dad . . . it’s just that I’m afraid sometimes love . . .” I choked on the word. “Love just isn’t enough to make a whole life with someone. Ya know?”
“No . . . no, I don’t suppose it is,” he said. “I’m sorry if I struck a raw nerve.”
“I’m kinda glad you did.” I sniffed. “I’ve got a decision to make and I’d better not put it off much longer.”
“And you’re sure you’re not just determined to stay single . . . on account of me?”
“No, that’s not it at all,” I insisted. “I’m determined to pass the bar and become a good lawyer. I’ve had this dream since I was a kid, and I’ve come so far. Believe me, I’m not going to all this trouble just to avoid getting married.”
“Okay, fair enough. I believe you.” He patted me on the back. “You always were a headstrong gal, smart as a whip, too.”
I sat up and pulled myself together, smoothing my hair behind my ears. He shook a fresh cigarette from the box, fumbled with the lighter, and inhaled with gusto, then turned his head sharply to blow smoke like a dragon. I took the opportunity to blurt out what was on my mind.
“Dad, for the past ten years, I’ve wanted to hear your story . . . your side of the story.”
“I’m in the nuthouse because I drowned my mother.” My mouth dropped open. He grinned mischievously.
“You know that’s not what I meant,” I said in mock indignation.
“Ah . . . So you want to know what really happened up there, up in the backwoods of Blackstone?”
“YOUR MOTHER SWIPED you with that pitchfork? God. Somehow I knew there was more to it than flapping chickens. I knew you weren’t telling us something, but I couldn’t figure out what.”
“She’d go off like a powder keg without warning. It was terrifying. I remember Ma always chasing me around the house . . . hollering about something or other I’d supposedly done wrong. She’d light into me with a switch if she caught me. Sometimes, she’d fling a shoe or a frying pan . . . whatever she could lay her hands on. If I made it out the door into the woods, I could outrun her. But that time in the henhouse when I was eight years old, Ma had me cornered. I dodged around, scooted past, and ran for the trees hell-bent for leather with Ma hot on my heels. I don’t think she actually meant to get me with that pitchfork. It was a half-hearted swipe . . . I was almost out of range . . . the wound wasn’t very deep. Ma was real sorry afterwards.”
I was appalled, not only by what Vera had done to her little boy, but because he still tried to excuse her for it. All I could say was, “What in blue-blind blazes was she so mad about?”
“I’d tripped and dropped some eggs.”
“Jesus.”
“But it was never about the eggs, or anything else, for that matter. Dad thought it was a drunken rampage because she was always drunk those times she turned violent. Now, I understand that my mother inherited the curse of the Schimschacks. She had manic-depression and drank heavily to quell the mania—which only made it worse. After all, if every person who got drunk attacked family members with a pitchfork or a shovel . . .”
“A shovel?”
“Yeah, old Vera managed to clockDad over the head with the little coal shovel . . . twice. Like my mother, I inherited manic-depression, though not nearly as bad—most mentally ill people aren’t violent. I always tended toward the depressive side. I was first stricken after the war, so the doctors at the VA attributed it to trauma, which was true, but not the whole story. They didn’t explain that it was a lifelong condition; I don’t think they knew so much about it back then. When they let me go home, I thought I was cured, but I relapsed after we lost our baby son. Uh, I assume you know about all that by now?”
“Ya. Losing a child has got to be the worst thing on earth,” I sympathized.
“It was such a helpless feeling. I was supposed to be strong, supposed to be the man. But it just laid me flat out. They gave me medicine at the hospital and sent me home after a month. You were just a baby. Your poor mother—thank God Gudrun was there. Looking back, I realized that the year we left Racine, I’d fallen into another depression that wrecked my job and wreaked havoc on my marriage. Up in Blackstone it switched to mania, but it didn’t feel bad—it felt great. I was alive again . . . had such big plans.”
“You were unstoppable,” I affirmed.
“Now I know that wasn’t healthy either. Mania is a touchy thing, and the condition worsens with age. The shock of that terrible accident caused a major breakdown. It took a long time to put Humpty Dumpty together again. My first couple of years here were rough, but I’ve been on a regimen of mood stabilizers for the past eight years. The medicine keeps me healthy—along with a very quiet life.”
“I’m glad you’re well, but why didn’t your mother get medical treatment?”
“Because that would’ve necessitated an admission that something was wrong with her mind,” he articulated. “Alcoholic and mean-tempered was tolerable—crazy wasn’t. Mental illness scares people—it’s fear that keeps them from getting help.”
“I don’t see how Reuben put up with it all those years. Vera was a danger to you both.”
“But she wasn’t like that all the time. Sometimes, my mother would be fine for months on end. When I was twelve, she was okay for the better part of the year. And as awful as she could be, Dad loved her. He didn’t want to lose her to this place, like her sister Greta—who’s long passed, by the way. My father had a deep-seated pity for my poor mother . . . the things she suffered growing up. Ernst Schimschack was a heinous man.”
“What exactly did he do?” I asked in trepidation.
“Well, I never expected to take it up with a young lady but since you plan to practice law, you might as well get used to the underbelly of family life. To put it bluntly,” he lowered his voice, leaning closer so as not to be overheard, “he treated his daughters as if the family homestead was his own private brothel.”
“No!” I gasped.
“I heard it straight from Uncle Lyle’s lips.” Dad confirmed the story. “Vera was much younger, so she was spared, but she saw and heard it going on, just about e
very night. Ernst Schimschack finally went to jail when his wife just couldn’t stand it any longer.”
“What? Once she found out, how could any mother let such things go on for a single minute?”
“Because the same sick bastard that raped his daughters, fed them all. Ernst Schimschack worked his land and kept a roof over their heads. When the momma . . . I forget her name, rounded up her daughters and went to the police to swear a statement against him, he got carted off to jail—and they lost their provider. Vera and the boys went into an orphanage. Dad finally told me about it after she was gone—my mother was left untouched by her father, but she didn’t fare so well in the orphanage. The director brutally assaulted the children, both girls and boys. Dad was sure that’s what made Vera sick.”
“Ohhh,” I groaned. That news struck closer to my heart than he could ever know. “Did my mother know anything about this?”
“No, neither she nor Gudrun had any inkling. People just didn’t divulge such shameful things back then.”
“I’m so sorry. I don’t know what else to say.”
He stubbed out his cigarette and lit another. After a few fortifying drags, he continued. “I might as well wind up the story. That night on Lake Gibwanaabaawe, the three of us were hammered. I really did step outside the fishing shanty to take a pee—staggered out’s more like it. I stood under the stars, breathing the cold night air and trying to sober up. Next thing I knew, there was an altercation behind me. From the sounds of it, Ma thought she’d hooked a big fish and wanted to bring it up. I guess she was holding the line with one hand and chopping at the hole with the other in an attempt to widen it, all the while hollering at Dad to come help her. But he didn’t want to budge from his cozy spot—told her she’d likely snagged on an old tire, so just cut the line and let it go. I didn’t want to get in the middle of it. I was ready to call it a night and didn’t feel like chopping ice, so I stood outside, hoping things would die down. Then I heard Dad howl like a wounded dog, followed by a big splash. I ducked back inside—what a sight. Ma had fallen through the ice and was trying to claw her way out of the frigid water. Dad was down, writhing and gripping his crotch. The blood was already soaked through his pants and oozing onto the dirty snow . . . so much blood I couldn’t believe it. She stuck me, was all he could say.”
