by David Lewis
I considered this for a moment. My father hadn’t even recognized Jim. I turned toward my dad again, this time taking a real hard look. Jim’s right, I realized.
But he’s wrong about me.
CHAPTER THREE
Your father’s behavior is incongruent with his words” is the closest Donna ever came to criticizing my dad. At the time, we were driving to see my folks in Frederick, a small town of barely three hundred, twenty miles north of our town, Aberdeen.
“You mean he’s a fake,” Alycia inserted from the backseat. I glanced in the rearview mirror. Alycia cast me an I’m-right-aren’t-I? look as if the truth was all that mattered.
“He’s still your grandfather, Alycia,” Donna said softly.
“Sor-r-ry. My grandfather is a fake,” Alycia corrected herself.
Donna caught my eye, probably expecting something more than the shrug I gave her. She shook her head with thinly concealed frustration and turned to the window.
Much to his obvious annoyance, my father had never found any psychological weakness in Alycia. By the time she was five years old, she’d already gotten him figured out.
“Did Grandpa really lock you in a closet?” she asked as if she wouldn’t have been surprised. We were sitting in the stuffy car at the end of that afternoon’s visit, waiting for Donna to say good-bye to my mother. Sometimes their good-byes took longer than their actual visits. Dad had long since retired to his garage where he pretended handyman proficiency.
I gave the rearview mirror a knowing wink. “Rarely overnight.”
Alycia made a face, then peppered me with follow-up questions. Were you scared of him? Did he spank you? Did you have lots of chores? Why did Grandpa and Grandma get married anyway? Which contained the hidden question: how could anyone marry Grandpa?
Then came the question that pierced my heart: “Were you poor then?”
I felt my face redden and sensed her unasked query: Have we always been poor?
“Yes,” I replied.
I glanced out the car window to watch Donna give another quick hug and break free from my mom, and when I again looked in the rearview mirror, Alycia cast me another raised eyebrow as if to say: To be continued, Dad. Don’t think you’re off the hook. In the meantime, please think about my questions, and consider offering more than oneword answers….
On the whole, Alycia’s inquiries carried a not-so-hidden agenda: secret scavenging. When her questions got too direct, I gave her the evil-eye-dare, which she only returned. “Duck all you want, Dad, but you can’t hide.”
Frankly, I was more than happy to oblige since, fortunately, she was barking up the wrong tree. At the very least, telling her about my childhood served as an effective distraction. Besides, there wasn’t anything inherently mysterious about my childhood. In spite of my father’s natural-born salesmanship and my mother’s housecleaning services, we were, as Alycia suspected, dirt poor. Over time, she heard the whole story.
We lived in a short, single-wide trailer on the good side of the tracks—if only by a few yards. Sometimes, after church, we’d eat out, which was the high point of my mother’s week, and then take the back way home. Just before reaching the railroad tracks, my dad would point toward the right—to a small row of dilapidated homes—and mutter, “Things could be worse, Maggie. We could be living in Uglyville.”
I came to believe that so-called Uglyville was the lowest rung on the ladder, much worse than a trailer, and yet it seemed so close to the rung we were already clinging to we seemed only inches away from its dismal destiny.
Although our financial situation was precarious, my mother did a pretty good job of pretending otherwise. She had a habit of finding the silver lining to every cloud, and if she struggled, she’d quote some Bible verse to make up the difference.
“There is no limit to God’s miraculous power,” she often said. “He’ll supply all our needs. He will never forsake us.” Even our living room pillows were stitched with biblical phrases: Miracles happen to those who believe, and so on.
The issue of whether or not to believe never even occurred to me, not then anyway, and there were times when I talked to God for hours, out in the ditch behind our trailer beneath the starry night. Usually I spent the time complaining, or asking for something, but in spite of my poor spiritual manners, the sense of God’s closeness sometimes took my breath away. There were moments when I thought I could have reached out and shook His hand, but I never tried because the feel of God’s hand in mine would have terrified me.
Raised in the same church, Mom and Dad had grown up in mutual poverty in Bowdle, about forty-five minutes to the west of Aberdeen. They’d married just out of high school, after which my father passed his brokerage test and hung a shingle in the “big city” of Aberdeen. My mother, positioned by my father’s loud personality, existed in the mere background of our lives. Most people described her in terms of what she wasn’t: She wasn’t like my father—loud, boisterous, and opinionated, who had no end of compliments … for strangers.
I always wondered why people took him at face value, but later I realized they hadn’t. Sure, there was a group of people who trusted him—the ever-present P. T. Barnum constituency, my father’s bread and butter. But on the whole, most people had figured him out pretty quickly. Those who hadn’t lost their savings, as I had first learned when I met Jim.
Larry Marshall and Paul Thompson were my best friends in elementary school. They were, and still are, the yin and yang of my life. After school, Larry, my “action” friend, would prevail upon me to race miniature gas cars and sometimes, on the weekends, fire model rockets.
For years Paul, my “thinking” friend, and I discussed stories from various editions of Ripley’s Believe It or Not: stories such as the bearded lady, the man who’d been shot in the head and lived to tell about it, or the man who suddenly appeared out of the blue on the streets of London, confused and speaking a long-dead language.
Even then, Paul was interested in fringe physics—quantum mechanics, wormholes, super strings, multiple dimensions—the kind of extreme science that satisfied his attraction to the unexplainable.
As for me, the idea that the universe was not as it appeared held great appeal as well, and our discussions only increased my fascination with the idea of miracles—that on behalf of His creation, God sometimes exercised the power to act outside of time and space, and that sometimes He acted mysteriously.
In spite of Paul’s interest in the unusual, he wearied of what he called my “increasing and disturbing religiosity.”
“It’s like oil and water,” he told me, sounding like a pint-sized MIT professor. “Physics and religion don’t mix.”
I shouldn’t have been surprised. His own family had never darkened the steps of church, and Paul’s father reminded me of Jim, who spent most days and nights at the bar. In polite terms, he was an alcoholic, but in common vernacular, he was a mean drunk. Sometimes, late at night, Paul would show up on our doorstep, shivering. My mother would welcome him in as if receiving royalty, feed him a hearty meal, and get him settled on the couch for the night.
Briefly, my father and Paul’s father had been friends, and although my father never drank, he frequented the bars for “sitting ducks.” He liked that “sweet spot,” the moment after the prospect had begun drinking, but long before he was too drunk to sign on the dotted line.
Although Larry’s father, a deacon at the church, didn’t drink either, he wasn’t much nicer. Regardless of what Larry did, his father regarded him as a fat, lazy slouch whose backside needed the belt on a regular basis. For years Larry and I had a standing appointment. On report card day, I walked home with him, serving as a punishment buffer. That is unless his report card was full of A’s—as in all A’s, in which case his father expressed welcome lack of interest.
By the time we got to high school, however, my support wasn’t needed—Larry never received less than an A. Unfortunately, his father kept raising the bar until even stellar work wasn�
�t good enough. Finally, in his sophomore year, when Larry had reached six-two, he pushed his father, belt and all, through their flimsy living room wall.
Alycia frowned and sat up suddenly. She’d been lying on her side on the living room floor, picking at the strands of carpet. “Did Larry hurt him?”
I shook my head. “No, but his father never beat him again.”
“I should say not!” Alycia exclaimed, obviously surprised at the notion of Larry’s blatant disobedience. “Is that why he’s so…”
“Intense?”
“Yeah,” she agreed. “Serious.”
I shrugged. “That’s the only Larry I know.”
She fixed me with a mischievous grin. “So, Dad, tell me. Who was your first date?”
I sighed.
“C’mon, no fudging.”
“Your mother,” I replied.
“Da-a-ad…”
Actually, it was true. Unbelievable perhaps… but true. However, since that wasn’t going to fly, I told her about Cynthia Reiser, my junior high crush.
“Are there any secrets in this part?”
“Hmmm. Sorta.”
“Real secrets?”
“You bet. Enigmas wrapped in riddles.”
Alycia looked skeptical. “C’mon, Dad. You’re supposed to throw the audience a bone once in a while just to keep ’em interested.”
Cynthia Reiser was the prettiest, most popular girl in the seventh grade. Her father was a bank president, and they occupied the biggest house on Elm Avenue, where all the homes were large.
Cynthia reminded me of the “before” version of Sandy from the movie Grease, with straight blond locks and blue eyes. She also wore glasses, which seemed entirely appropriate, since something was needed to filter her beauty from common mortals.
For the longest time, I admired her from afar until, at age fourteen, I finally made my move during the dance at Holgate Junior High. It was a Saturday night, and since neither Paul nor Larry were into dances, I walked to school alone. Dusk slowly melted into dark as I prepared my battle plan and prayed for a miracle.
For two hours I lurked at the edges of the dance floor, enduring warbled high school renditions of “Smoke on the Water,” and “Stairway to Heaven,” squinting through the flashing strobe lights as a hundred junior high kids jived, thrashed, and flailed on the dance floor.
From across the gym floor, I watched Cynthia giggle with her friends and flirt with other boys. Miracles happen to those who believe, I reminded myself as I slowly worked up my courage. Since she was surrounded by an entourage, I had to plan my infiltration for just the right moment. Either that or the Almighty would have to part the rivers of junior high humanity.
Unfortunately, I planned wrong, or my faith was weak, because I was intercepted at the edges of the outer circle—but not before Cynthia’s eyes met mine and not before she must surely have deduced my intentions.
“Her dance card is full,” Mindy said in my ear with a humorous drawl, loud enough so several of the girls joined in a chorus of incredulous laughter. Who did I think I was? Cynthia’s own grimace of disbelief settled it for me. I shrugged as if it were no big deal, then bid a nonchalant but hasty retreat to the side gym door, where the stoners and slackers were hanging out and sneaking cigarettes. Susan blocked my exit.
“I’ll dance with you, Stephen,” she offered, having witnessed the entire pitiful affair. Susan lived just north of the trailer court, in a neighborhood of two-bedroom, one-garage homes—a mere two rungs up from Uglyville. My father also had sold some stock to her father, a man who seemed to be everywhere but home.
She was wearing tight jeans with an even tighter sweater—probably hand-me-downs. Platinum blond and prematurely developed physically, Susan was a cheerleader for the football team. Word in the school was Susan would kiss any boy once and probably do other stuff if you asked nicely. Later in high school, we would refer to her as the “Queen of Hearts.”
I glanced at my watch as if I had an appointment. “Thanks anyway, but … I gotta get home.”
“We could make her jealous,” Susan persisted, batting her eyelashes. I considered her offer, but it was the genuine pity in Susan’s eyes that settled it for me.
I thanked her for the dubious invitation and walked home with newfound determination. Who cares how pretty Cynthia Reiser is? I thought. There were better-looking girls out there, nicer girls who didn’t have to wear glasses. Besides, if I married Cynthia, I’d probably be stuck in Aberdeen for life. No thanks.
Soon after this, on a Sunday following church, my father took us out to Western Sizzler and my mother giggled like a schoolgirl, which is what she often did when nervous. Mom was a saint, but she wasn’t perfect, and the tension of our poverty loomed over us like an everpresent cloud.
“We can afford it,” my father announced, clearing his throat. “Because we’re moving.”
His reply didn’t make sense.
“Where?” Mom asked, looking bewildered.
Grinning slyly, he didn’t answer, but on the way home, we took the back way again, Roosevelt, and I felt a growing panic in my gut. Just before we reached the railroad tracks, he slowed the car—my heart skipped a beat—and thumbed toward our new house.
Uglyville?
“It’s a rental. Already put a deposit on it. What do you think?”
I couldn’t breathe. Mom was speechless. The rancher had been painted white once, perhaps sixty years ago. The clapboards were chipped and crooked, and the roof was a confusing mixture of wood and gray shingles. The yard contained approximately three green blades of grass, with the rest covered in dandelions and weeds. The crumbling cement sidewalk had experienced something akin to an earthquake. Even the earth is ashamed, I thought.
“It’s just for a while,” he added.
Later I would learn the truth: We’d lost the trailer. How on earth do you lose a trailer?
My mother found her voice. “Well … it needs a paint job.”
It needs a bulldozer.
My father turned to me in the backseat. “Stephen’s good at painting, aren’t ya?”
I didn’t reply. I felt my eyes watering but refused to sniffle. I was numb when we got out of the car, my legs tingly and weak, but Mom marched right up to the house and tested the screen door. Even from the street, I could see the torn screen mesh flapping in the breeze. She went inside anyway. I leaned against the car, crossed my arms across my chest.
“Wanna see your new room?” my father asked.
I wanna go home, I thought, recalling with a new fondness our sheet-metal trailer just a few blocks away—on the right side of the tracks.
Mom emerged from the shack and said, “Wonderful possibilities. Let’s go meet the neighbors.”
My father chuckled. “Now you’re talking.”
Later that night, my mother tiptoed into my room, her face shadowed in the dark. She sat at the edge of the bed. “Won’t be for long,” she whispered.
“That’s what he always says.”
She stroked my hair. “As soon as we can scrape up a down payment, we’ll buy our own house.”
How? I thought. We can’t even afford a trailer!
“Let’s pray about it,” she said, leaning over and kissing my nose. She was putting on a brave face, but in the darkness I felt a tear on my cheek that wasn’t mine.
“Sorry,” she whispered and gently dried my face with her fingertips.
When she left, I censured myself for my foolish self-pity. My father had finally reduced my mother. That settled it for me. Poor or not, I was going to go to college, and someday I’d be rich enough to rescue my mother from her dismal life.
I knelt beside my bed. I whispered Scripture verses, reminding God of His promises: All things are possible to him who believes. And then I struck a deal with the Almighty. Get me out of here and I’ll help everyone I know….
The next day, I went to Larry and offered to take over his paper route. According to plan, the route would stay in his name, bu
t since I’d be doing the work, I would keep the collection money. I didn’t tell him that I’d already talked Kevin into his route just to the west of the trailer route. In order to complete two routes every afternoon, I’d have to be Super Boy.
No problem.
A few weeks later, Mom and I headed to the First National Bank and opened a bank account in my name. Since I was a minor, I needed her signature. My plan was to sock half my loot into the bank and give the other half to Mom.
She refused. “That’s yours,” she said firmly. “I won’t steal my son’s future.”
Reluctantly, I agreed, but sometimes I would slip extra bucks into her purse when she wasn’t looking—not so much that she could tell, but not so little that it wouldn’t make a difference.
Not content with two paper routes, I made up flyers and passed them around the neighborhood, selling my services as a handy-boy. I offered to do anything: wash windows, mow lawns, rake leaves, shovel snow, detail cars—you name it, and before long I was busy from dawn until dusk. After sneaking a few bucks to Mom, and giving God ten percent, I put everything I made into that bank account.
By now, proving Jim wrong had become the obsession of my life, and I was determined to succeed in precisely the way my father had failed. When not working or studying, I read his stock-trading books, the ones he kept buying but didn’t have the inclination to read. By the time I was fifteen, I’d already decided to make my millions as a world-class trader. The deck was stacked against me, but I had God on my side.
Convinced I had no time for dating, I never attended another dance. I could not imagine, not in my wildest fantasy, bringing a girl home to Uglyville, much less to meet my father.
As it was, I came home after dark and left before sunup, and never gave out our address. If asked, I gave out the area of town instead. “The northeast,” I would say, which was bad enough, then quickly change the subject.
During this time, I read God’s Smuggler by Brother Andrew and was impressed, not only with the amazing stories of missionary work in Russia, but with how God miraculously provided financial assistance for Brother Andrew during his schooling.
