Pain Don't Hurt

by Mark Miller

  dedication

  to benjamin, ronan, patrick, justin, amy, chad, mikee, matty, rakaa, cory, and everyone else who makes up my very large and beautiful family

  contents

  dedication

  acknowledgments

  prologue

  chapter one

  chapter two

  chapter three

  chapter four

  chapter five

  chapter six

  chapter seven

  chapter eight

  chapter nine

  chapter ten

  chapter eleven

  chapter tweleve

  chapter thirteen

  chapter fourteen

  chapter fifteen

  chapter sixteen

  chapter seventeen

  chapter eighteen

  chapter nineteen

  chapter twenty

  about the author

  credits

  copyright

  about the publisher

  acknowledgments

  Tony B., for the opportunity to tell my story and for being a friend and mentor through this, I thank you.

  Dan Halpern, for all of the advice and encouragement, much love.

  Kim Witherspoon, William Callahan, and the rest of the team at Inkwell, thank you for everything.

  Libby Edelson, without you this wouldn’t be. I can’t thank you enough.

  Ottavia, for being awesome, that’s all.

  Bebe, for helping me remember and for being an anchor.

  Justin, for all the love and support and for the reminiscing.

  Matty, for guiding me to the shore.

  I thank you all and give my love.

  prologue

  Mom, Dad, there’s someone alive over there.

  —ME

  I am five years old, standing a few hundred feet from the devastated wreckage of a helicopter. Strewn around that wreckage are bloodied body parts, and people screaming. I wish I could tell you this is all fake, that I’ve stumbled onto the set of a horror movie. But it isn’t. I’m out in front of St. Joseph’s Catholic church, and the body parts belong to people who had been alive only minutes ago.

  The church had chartered the helicopter to drop a bunch of Ping-Pong balls onto the crowd as part of a big festival. The Ping-Pong balls were marked with numbers that matched prizes being raffled off. The church custodian had brought his twelve-year-old daughter, Mary-Beth Allison, with him up in the helicopter, as she had never even been inside so much as an airplane—he wanted her to see what it was like, to be up in the air, like a noisy, awkward bird. The two of them were to be the official Ping-Pong ball droppers.

  I had been watching the copter as it flew into view and came closer and closer to the crowd. Mary-Beth Allison, whom I knew only in passing, was leaning out of the side, happily dropping the tiny white balls onto the laughing crowd. Mary-Beth’s mother stood in the throng by the concession stand, watching her daughter giggling above her. Everyone was running to grab the Ping-Pong balls, and the crowd was getting thicker right below the hovering aircraft. Suddenly, the helicopter did this odd pitch forward and dove directly into the concession stand.

  Mary-Beth’s mother is one of the first crushed. Screaming fills the air. Everyone starts running every which way as the twitching blades of the helicopter twist around and around. My parents pull me farther from the wreckage, as bodies seem to be tossed into the air. My parents are desperate to prevent me from seeing what I am seeing. At least, this is what I want to believe. More likely, my father senses the impending traffic jam as people flee the scene and wants to leave before it starts, with no real consideration for the horror that I’m seeing. The small bodies of children lie in pieces like shattered dolls. There are bodies that have been dismembered by the helicopter’s blades. Arms, legs, and heads are torn from bodies; blood is everywhere, sloshing in the grass, turning the church lawn into a gory Pollock painting. I think about how Mary-Beth Allison must have been watching as her own mother was struck by the helicopter. Later I hear that the final body count is eight—but the number of people injured is much higher. . . .

  Up until now, I liked coming to this place. Big festivals are exciting to me. There’s always food and toys, and these outings are pretty much the only times my parents are nice to me, and to each other, mostly because they know others are watching. I like this aspect of being in crowds. I had hoped to catch a Ping-Pong ball; I had hoped to win a prize, something I could take home and play with for a long time, something special I wouldn’t get any other way, so I had been wandering closer to the crowd when the impact happened.

  “Oh, Harry, we should get out of here, this is horrible.” My mother only partially shields her eyes from the carnage. The parking lot is coming into view, and we see immediately where we won’t be walking. The parking lot looks like a battlefield, the asphalt coated with blood and bits of person. Later we learn that this is where emergency workers have temporarily moved both the dead and the injured. Both of my parents stand stock-still, and no one speaks as they mull over where to go next. Police and firemen begin showing up. Ambulances empty hordes of broad-shouldered men running in formation into the field, carrying large stretchers. People groan and scream, but all I can see is Mary-Beth and her father, writhing on the ground next to the helicopter. I’m sure it’s them.

  “Mom, Dad, there’s someone alive over there. . . . In the helicopter, or next to it.” I point at the wilted-looking bodies I see moving. Mary-Beth Allison is alive; so are her dad and the pilot. The throng of paramedics descends upon them and blocks them from view.

  “Mom, that is Mary-Beth Allison! She didn’t die!” In such an unbearably grim and horrible moment, I am amazed and moved that this girl is alive, and I try in my childish way to bring light into the darkness. Something had allowed her to survive. The world passes in a frenzy of uniforms, sirens, and screams, but all I can see is that little girl: confused, scared, but most definitely alive.

  “We have to go, Harry, seriously.” My mother quickens her step, dragging me along, past families and other kids who look as frightened as I feel. Mom is sweating, panicked, and I smell the familiar mix of perfume and alcohol coming through her pores.

  “Well Jesus, Helen, the parking lot looks like a morgue, where would you suggest we go?” My father is less horrified by it all and more irritated by what he perceives as an inconvenience. It’s possible he has seen worse. He was in World War II, and he was wounded there, though he never speaks in detail about what he experienced. He takes deep, annoyed breaths. We can’t cross to get to our car the usual way without having to walk through gore. Instead of serving as a comfort to me, my father’s towering countenance reminds me now to watch how I speak. I was well aware that as his lack of patience grew, so did the probability I would get my ass kicked before bedtime.

  “Dad, did you see? That little girl—”

  He cuts me off. “Mark, there is no way she survived that crash, kid, no way.” He is clearly irritated with me. He believes I’ve conjured this image of a living and uninjured Mary-Beth Allison just for fun, to tell a story, to garner attention, and he hates children who demand attention. He casts me a vexed look and points to a path that will loop us around to our car while enabling us to avoid the parking lot.

  We walk for what seems like a long time. By the time we get to the car there are men with plastic bags walking around the parking lot, bending and gathering . . . things. I ask what they are doing, but I ask quietly and without conviction. I’m not sure I want to know. By now my father is thoroughly rankled and my mother upset. They will go home and drink, their favorite hobby. I will go to my room and attempt to be absolutely silent, praying my father will forget I’m even there. Sooner or later there will be food placed on t
he table and we will eat in silence, if I’m lucky. I know I shouldn’t ask any more questions. I should stay quiet now.

  Once we get home, my mother turns on the TV to hear the news. Every channel, it seems, is reporting on the crash. The fourteen-year-old daughter of a family we know has been killed, her head cut clean off by the circling blades. Reporters talk about why it happened. Some say the helicopter may have struck a utility pole; others say the crash was a result of engine failure. Suddenly I hear it: Mary-Beth Allison and her father, along with the pilot, are survivors. I was right, and I had to stifle shouting out. Not only did they survive, but the news is saying that they are virtually unharmed.

  Much later and after dinner, my father falls asleep in front of the TV. My mother tidies up in the kitchen. I hear her calling my name in a whisper, calling me into the kitchen. I peek in and there she is, clutching a small plate with a slab of her German chocolate cake on it. I crack a smile and take a seat at the kitchen table as she places the cake in front of me. My mom makes the best German chocolate cake. She puts one hand on my back, and I smell her perfume on her wrist as I fork small pieces off the sharp corner of the sweet confection. I’m not usually allowed to have sweets, being a recently diagnosed diabetic. But once in a while my mother allows me to have them, at birthday parties and on Halloween, and sometimes when she feels some sort of apology is in order. But this isn’t a birthday party, and it isn’t Halloween.

  “Mark, you know all of those people that died today have gone to heaven, right? They are all in heaven, and there’s no pain in heaven, and they get to be with God.”

  I pause. Then I ask the one question I know I shouldn’t.

  “Why wasn’t God there today? I mean, why did he let that happen at his house? Why did he let those people die?”

  My mother looks shaky; my challenging her faith makes her uncomfortable. She reaches for her half-empty glass of vodka, amaretto, and orange juice, her signature drink, and tips it toward her small bow-shaped mouth before answering. The dimples in her face crinkle as she purses her lips around an ice cube.

  “God sometimes can’t help. God wishes he could, but he can’t. Now finish your cake.” She tries to put a definitive end to the conversation. But here I am, five years old, eating cake, having just witnessed a bunch of people get hacked up, so I have questions. Up until now I have believed that God is good, that good people who love God will be cared for, and that children especially will never be harmed while God is watching. I have believed God is always there, protecting people, at least keeping them from dying. But seeing a fourteen-year-old girl lose her head, literally, on the lawn of a church has immediately altered my perspective.

  “Mom, if he can’t help with something at his house, then when can he? I thought God could do anything.” I ask these questions less to get answers but more to solidify what is already dawning on me. I’m realizing that these are stories. The kinds of stories your parents tell you to comfort you, to keep you in line, etc., etc. This blunt realization doesn’t make me feel bad, though. I mean, I’ve already figured out that Santa Claus is actually my father. I appreciate the effort adults make to ensure I feel safe and cared for. I also know that there are good things in the world and that there are bad things. Colin, my older brother, is already educating me on these matters. He wasn’t there this morning (he had been with his biological mother), but we told him about it when he came home after his visit. His response had been to say, “Wow, that’s gross! Did you see it all happen?” To which I told him that I had seen some.

  My mother blinks very fast and finally says, “Well, I don’t know, Mark, I just don’t. Sometimes bad things happen to good people. Life is very cruel and you just have to survive it any way possible.” With that, she yanks my plate away and places it in the dishwasher. She has failed. Her effort at covering the cracks of my already challenging existence with a polished religious veneer has not worked, and the veneer has crinkled and flaked away. I’m not sure that I don’t believe in God. . . . But I do know that everything I’ve been told about him up until now is a lie.

  The next day I’m playing in my front yard when a neighbor coasts down the street in his car and comes to a stop in front of our house, rolling down his window as he does so. He smiles at me and asks if I’m okay. He heard what happened at St. Joseph’s the day before. He is a nice man, a good man. I often wish he was my father.

  “Yes, sir. Do you know that Mary-Beth Allison survived?” I share my one nugget of sunshine with him.

  He smiles very wide and says, “Yes, and that’s very good news. Sometimes the people closest to a crash like that are spared. It’s very good news that she is all right.” Then he drives off.

  I keep thinking about Mary-Beth Allison. How her mother was killed, but she and her dad were spared. I decide it wasn’t God who saved them, but that because they had known before anyone that the helicopter was going to crash, they had had time to act in a way that would help them survive. They were able to “wish” that they would live. To will themselves to live. You can’t will yourself to survive if you don’t know you are about to die. But if you see the danger coming, you can close your eyes and pray, or wish, or demand of the world that it not let you leave, and then you have the ability to take action. I know that it’s a flawed idea, but it seems to make the most sense, and it gives credit to the survivors, which makes it seem less arbitrary that they survived.

  After I deduce this, every night before bed I wish with all my might that I will one day be a great athlete. That my heart will somehow mend itself. That I won’t need surgery. That my diabetes will go away. I do this every night for years.

  Something begins to bloom inside of me then, some comfort in a dark place that says survival is possible even when things seem most bleak. And with that, I find new faith, in the power of a strong will. I have no idea how important this will be for me.

  I know now that the universe hears everything you ask of it. And oftentimes what you will is what you manifest. But it only takes requests in the order they are received, and it doesn’t always give you what you want, though you do get a version of exactly what you ask for.

  chapter one

  And we shall draw from the heart of suffering itself the means of inspiration and survival.

  —WINSTON CHURCHILL

  At this moment, right now, all I knew was I was just trying to survive. I had already bitten through my lip, and the salty iron taste of blood was coating my dry tongue, wreathing it in some sort of gore sweater. It was making me feel sick. It was 95 degrees outside, hot even for a Pennsylvania summer, and the air felt like the unclean and speckled inside of a skinned animal steaming across my shoulders. The crappy rotating fan was doing nothing but moving the heat around the room in sticky waves. The sweat collecting around my hairline was starting to run into my eyes. I was just a few minutes away from getting my first belt beating. I was six years old.

  “Don’t cry, oh for God’s sake. You look like a stupid baby when you cry, and you aren’t a baby, are you? You’re a man.” The heavy New York accent came volleying out of my father, propelled on a cumulus puff of twenty-four-hour-a-day whiskey/beer breath. His black eyes burned with a sickening mix of compulsion and fury. I flinched against the inevitable. Time for the nightly rampage . . .

  His gargantuan hands rose above my cringing head. Years later Sporting News would run a story on legendary wide receiver Jerry Rice. In the center of the paper they included a life-size outline of Jerry’s famed enormous hands. As men at the local bar sat marveling, placing their own hands over the outline and laughing at how dwarfed theirs looked by comparison, my father leaned over their shoulders and slapped his hand down over the outline, utterly eclipsing it. I remember feeling a sick sort of pride, the old “My dad really could beat up your dad.” Those mitts were his moneymakers. Their massive size is what made it possible for him to grip a basketball in his palm with the effortlessness with which most children can palm a yo-yo and garnered him a spot as the po
ster boy for the first-ever NBA game. He only played pro for a few years, but his image is still used today. His hands earned him a level of uneasy respect from neighbors and the other men who would spend time frequenting the same local bars, tolerating his raucous and often caustic storytelling, watching him boss me around, forcing me to entertain the other drunks by recalling baseball or basketball player statistics, or to recite Lou Gehrig’s retirement speech from memory with faultless accuracy. “You know, I was there when he gave that speech,” he would say, over and over again. No one ever dared to tell him that they’d heard it before. No one ever dared to tell him much. When “Moose” spoke, it was listening time. That’s what they called him, “Moose,” because he was just so fucking imposing. . . . He wasn’t much for conversation or dialogue; he liked to entertain, and often at the expense of others. If he was interrupted, the interrupter became his subject of choice; he would mock them until they either left whatever dingy Latrobe bar he was at that day or engaged his barbarism, which always ended badly for them. He used to take pride in the fact that he “rarely hit anyone with a closed fist.” Truthfully, it made little difference. Getting swatted by a leathery palm the size of a tennis racket launched by a man standing at six foot five and weighing over three hundred pounds, regardless of the age or size of the receiver, generally resulted in damage one was not likely to soon forget.

  I could hear my mother, my small-featured, passive mother, puttering around in her room, trying to busy herself. Trying to pretend she had an excuse for “not hearing” and therefore not intervening in what was going on. My father was born Harry David Miller in the Bronx in 1923. He was born the son of Benjamin Miller, a bastard of whose heritage no one is really sure (we suspect Russian Jew) and who upon being adopted took on the surname “Miller.” Ben served as a superintendent in a big apartment building and was married to a six-ways-from-Sunday mentally fucked Czech woman, my dad’s mom. My father learned to take and dish out the onslaught early on from her. My mother, on the other hand, grew up one of seven brothers and sisters in a family of Ukrainian and Mongolian descendants. Everyone on both sides of their families drank, and I mean drank in the way of the tragic Eastern Europeans. They made careers, hobbies, and commitments of their drinking. My father drank to become a storyteller. My mother drank to believe the stories. God only knows what about him captured her attention first. What about him caused her to think, This is the one? When she met him he was, after all, still married. Only on his third wife at the time, and consequently third family. When he met my mother, then Helen Rose Lechman, a secretary with tiny, slight features, born and raised in New Derry, Pennsylvania, he made the decision to move on once again, as he had twice before. He abandoned the previous family and moved in with her. Perhaps it was the fact that my father had played in the NBA, had been a big-time athlete, and had fought in the war and been wounded. He was more worldly and had, in her small-town eyes, prestige. She longed for a bigger life, a better, fancier life. She longed to be a part of the upper class instead of just watching them go by with their designer handbags and brunches. Maybe she saw him as a way out. He later appealed to the Catholic church to annul his first marriage (because as we all know, having children doesn’t necessarily mean the marriage has been consummated in the eyes of the Catholics, and the church doesn’t acknowledge or care about other marriages following the first, so only the first one needed to be dealt with) and proceeded to marry my mother in Virginia before I was born. I didn’t find out until I was sixteen that I had potentially dozens of other brothers and sisters I had not known existed until that day. I still have never met any of them, other than my brother Colin, who was, in truth, my half brother and the product of the wife previous to my mother. Colin and I were never given the opportunity to be very close other than early on. Oh, but when we were young . . . I looked up to him when I was young, his wild taste in music, his charm, and what seemed like an ability to know and/or understand everything. He always had an answer, an explanation. He seemed so cool. Later, when that answer became drugs and that wily personality became a dishonest one, we drifted apart. Or rather, he drifted, leaving me to take the brunt of my father’s brutality all on my own. It isn’t surprising that he ended up in the world of drugs, as we all were looking for escape from the ghosts of where we came from. My mother and father chose alcohol. Colin just went with the pattern laid before him, though his selections of substances tended toward the . . . exotic. I don’t know if he chose to live part-time with my dad as a child or if his mother sent him to be with him, but he was there, his childhood split between the two houses. I know that whoever made the decision for him to be raised in that house with my father, even part-time, did him a great disservice.