Tietam Brown

by Mick Foley

  I’m not sure what Vinnie did for a living, but he was out the door every morning at eight with a cheery “Better have supper waiting!” and back every evening at six with an equally chipper “Get me my dinner.” No, I’m not sure what he did to put that food he was so concerned about on the table, but if he could have thrown a baseball half as well as he threw plates and glasses around the house, he would have been a twenty-game winner for the Yankees for sure.

  Any little thing seemed to set him off. A toy in the kitchen? Yeah, that was reason enough. The monthly mortgage? Like clockwork. Even the faintest smell of poop drifting from one of our little baby butts could set off an eruption of rage that included not only the throwing of objects but the whipping of those little baby butts, extreme verbal abuse directed at anyone in his path, and the occasional stinging backhand that left Auntie M bruised and bleeding at intervals that became more frequent as time marched on.

  And always, she’d hold us. Against those breasts. Those warm, soft, safe breasts. Hold us until the fear was gone, until the anger was gone. Until it was just Big Vinnie sitting in front of the TV, a ball game on, wondering where the hell his beer was.

  I cried a lot back in those days, especially between the ages of two and three, when I realized there really were monsters in the world, the worst of which slept in the bedroom down the hall. God, I shed a lot of tears back then. Tears in the form of loud screams when he was hitting any one of us. Tears in the form of silent sobs when I’d hear his loud and drunken sexual escapades down the hall. Escapades that, by the sound of things, my Auntie M neither wanted nor enjoyed.

  And always, always, always, my tears were met with a big hug, even those silent sobs were soothed by a visit to the tiny bedroom that housed all three of us kids, where one by one she’d hold us close and kiss our tears away. “Andy, Andy, it’ll be okay,” she’d whisper as she rocked me in her bosom. “Don’t cry now, Andy, I’ll make everything okay.”

  It was Auntie M who took to calling me Andy, derived, I guess from my full name, Antietam Brown V, in honor of my great-great-great -grandfather Sean Brown, who died defending the Union on the battlefield of Antietam, in Sharpsburg, Maryland, in 1862. The battle, I was told, was the bloodiest single day of the Civil War, with the number of dead bodies far outpacing the army’s ability to bury them. So Sean Brown, nineteen, only a year off the boat from his native County Clare in Ireland, was rewarded for his heroic efforts by being torn to pieces by the wild boars who ravaged the blood-soaked fields that ran along each side of Antietam Creek. I would later find out that the wild boar incident was one that my father had never forgiven, a character trait of his that had already altered the course of my life and would continue to as well.

  Not to be outdone, Big Vinnie had his own nickname for me— little bastard. The name seemed to bring him joy, and as a result he used it often, to the point where for a while I thought it really was my name. It was a name for all seasons, a multipurpose phrase, I guess you could say, kind of like “aloha” is to Hawaiian people.

  School started in late August in Boyer, so on a cool summer’s eve, with big sheets of rain pouring down, Big Vinnie DelGratto packed his wife, two kids, and little bastard into his ’65 Cadillac and drove to the five-and-dime for a year’s worth of school supplies. I don’t think Big Vinnie gave a damn about his kids’ education, and I knew he couldn’t care less about mine, but he wasn’t about to let his wife drive his puke green pride and joy. Not out of any concern for her safety, but instead out of a firm belief that a woman’s place was not behind the wheel. He even drove her to the grocery store every Wednesday, where he passed the time with the newspaper’s sports section and a six-pack of Bud.

  “We’ll be right back,” said Maria in a cheerful tone that was met with a Big Vinnie grumble, a newspaper rustle, and a cracking of that first Bud. If a grocery trip meant a six-pack, then I guessed that Vinnie was probably good for three by the time we collected our black marble composition pads and number two pencils.

  I was wrong. For on our return, Vinnie DelGratto was already soaking his liver in Bud number five and cursing out loud at the fate of his beloved Atlanta Braves. “Goddamn, Aaron,” he yelled, “home-run king my guinea ass. Strikeout king is more like it.” When Auntie M finished squeezing her sizable frame into the Caddy, Big Vinnie took off, ran a red light at the edge of the parking lot, made a sharp left at the next stop sign, and passed by row after row of neat little 1930s-era houses en route to our eleven-hundred-square-foot home on the far end of town. The trip averaged about ten minutes, but even with the rain pouring down and visibility damn near nil, Big Vinnie seemed intent on making it in five.

  I looked at Johnny to the immediate right of me in the Caddy’s backseat, fumbling with the bags, a frown on his face. Little Rachel peered in from the far right as if not to be shut out of some big secret, and said, “Whatcha looking for, Johnny?” in her cute, four-year-old way.

  “Get away, Rachel,” said Johnny, who turned his back to his sister and continued his search. “Mom, I can’t find my protractor.”

  I heard Vinnie grunt as he turned up the radio, which was broadcasting the tail end of an embarrassing Braves loss.

  Rachel persisted. “Whatcha looking for, Johnny?” she repeated, and attempted to reach into the bag.

  “Stop it, Rachel,” Johnny yelled, and called for his mom to get Rachel to end her reaching ways.

  Auntie M, as usual, was the voice of reason and attempted to stop their sibling quarrel. “Come on now, Johnny,” she said, “don’t talk to your sister like that.”

  “But Mom, I can’t find my protractor.”

  This time Big Vinnie spoke up as he gunned the car’s motor and made his voice rise above the rain, and the radio. “Goddammit,” he yelled, “I’m trying to listen to a ball game.”

  “But Dad, I don’t have my protractor.”

  “Shut up.”

  “I need one for school.”

  “Shut up.”

  If there ever was a time not to speak, it was then, for Big Vinnie was in full scumbag mode, and even though I was seated behind him and could not see his face, I could see the fat on the back of his neck twitching, a sure sign that he was about to prove his manhood by smacking a small child.

  Johnny leaned forward to plead his case, but before the one syllable of “Dad” was even finished, his father caught him in the face with a stiff backhand swat. For the first time since I’d known her, Maria DelGratto got mad. “How dare you?” she yelled, which caught Big Vinnie off guard, but before another word could be heard, Vinnie DelGratto, her husband, filled the air of the Caddy with the loud cracking sound of fist meeting nose. I saw Auntie M sag down from the force of the blow, and something happened inside of me.

  I heard Johnny scream, I heard Rachel cry. I heard Vinnie laugh. I said not a word, but that something inside me happened all the same. And for the first time in my life, I felt that rage take over.

  I stood up in that seat, and as Vinnie admired his wife-beating hand, I reached both my five-year-old arms over his head, felt them graze over the flesh of both his chins, clenched both hands together, and pulled back on that fat bastard’s larynx with everything I had.

  Johnny still screamed, Rachel still cried, and the radio still played, but now Auntie M joined in the cacophonous roar, but her pleading fell on ears that were deaf to all but Vinnie DelGratto’s fading gasps.

  I leaned over, intent on seeing life fade from his face, and when I did he grabbed hold of my head and, in a last desperate move, pulled my fifty-two-pound body over his shoulder and onto his lap.

  Then I felt a huge fist smash down on my jaw, and I saw Maria grab hold of her husband’s arm and make a plea for some sense.

  “Please stop the car! Just please stop the car. You’re going to kill us! Just please stop the car!”

  For a moment, just a moment, I thought Vinnie might just grant her wish, but that crucial moment only seemed to help him make a conscious decision. He could stop the
car and save his family, or he could continue to pummel. He chose the latter.

  “Die, you little bastard!” he screamed, and brought down that big fist with enough force to jolt me off his lap and down his knees, so that my legs waved awkwardly in the air and the right side of my face became wedged on the accelerator.

  I heard little Rachel’s voice cry out, “We’re all going to die!” and though that thought turned out to be not entirely true, it seemed a good bet, and with consciousness fading quickly, I reached up with my right hand and closed it real tight on Vinnie DelGratto’s balls.

  The green Caddy finally stopped, courtesy of a huge oak tree that was nearly ripped out, roots and all, from the impact of an automobile decelerating from ninety to zero in a fraction of a second. Just enough time to see Johnny’s body fly through the windshield like a sixty-pound missile, and I knew he was gone.

  Time seemed to stand still as I lay in that car, until Rachel’s small screams filled the Caddy’s steaming carcass with hope. “Mommy, Mommy,” she yelled over and over, her first word on this earth now the only one worth knowing. “Mommy,” she cried again, but Mommy was gone. Not gone in the way that Johnny was gone, but gone in the sense that she was no longer in the Caddy’s right front seat.

  I struggled to get out of the would-be green coffin, and found the going tough. Big Vinnie’s fists had done a number on my face, leaving my eyes swollen grotesquely, my mouth barely able to move. I eased my hand out of the area of Vinnie’s crotch and felt like the hand was going to explode. Literally. Then all feeling was gone, my nerves having shut down like a faulty fuse box.

  I kicked with both legs against Vinnie’s big gut, planning to exit the floorboard as I had entered it, through his lap. Not a chance. The steering wheel was embedded in his chest, and his lifeless head hung over the wheel, dripping blood onto my shoulder. I pushed off the left door and wriggled my way into Auntie M’s passenger side, hoping to exit the same way she had. I noticed that blood was cascading down the right side of my face, beating down on the rubber floor mat in a rhythm that blended with the falling rain. I felt the right side of my face with my functioning left hand, and felt only a stub where my right ear should have been. For a moment I panicked, not out of pain, but from the illogical fear that I might get in trouble for losing my ear. So my left hand darted out and searched the floorboard where my body had been, found the ear in question, and tucked it neatly in the right pocket of my shirt, which had turned from white to deep red over the past half a minute. It was only years later that I learned that my right ear had never been found. Apparently I had placed Vinnie DelGratto’s tongue in my shirt.

  “Mommy, Mommy,” Rachel cried on, and I tried my best to calm her. Maybe my words were wise, maybe not, but they were inaudible amid the sounds of that horrible night. Rachel’s cries, the sounds of the still-blaring radio, the whine of police sirens that now entered the night with their flashing blue strobes, shedding some semblance of light on the whole grisly scene.

  Then I saw her. Auntie M. Reaching out for me. Her face. Bruised but smiling. The blue lights danced off her big round frame, and I thought I’d never see anything more comforting in my life. God, I wanted her to hug me. In the rain, in the mud, with blood streaming out of the hole where my ear had been. One hug, and I’d be safe again. With the last of my strength I met her outstretched hand with mine, threw my body on top of hers, and held my sad, beaten face between the mounds of her warm, safe breasts. I looked up and saw her smile at me, the most peaceful smile I had ever seen. Then I put my head back into the safety of her bosom, and cried tears of joy until a man touched my shoulder and said “Son, you have to go.” I cried some more. “Son,” the man said again, this time a little louder, “it’s time to go.” I looked up and saw the last remnants of her peaceful smile being gently covered by a sheet. “It’s too late, son, it’s too late,” the voice said, and then I was being lifted off her body, my little face never to feel her safe breasts again. I looked again at the sheet, hoping for one last glimpse of her smile, and noticed that her severed head lay a good three feet from her body.

  October 30, 1985 / Afternoon

  A week had gone by since my first date with Terri, and I had yet to redeem myself for my wasted kissing opportunity. But I knew that when the time was right, I would be ready. I’d been practicing. Yeah, that’s right, practicing. By taking what I’d seen on Dallas and Dynasty, and applying those same physiological principles to my pillow, I had come up with a technique that was sure to please.

  At Conestoga, I saw kissing every day, but they were sloppy kisses, public kisses, kisses that almost shouted out, Look, we’re kissing! I didn’t want to be part of those. My kisses would be different. Smooth, precise, and downright SEXY! Despite the fact that not a single soul could vouch for me, I knew I’d be good when I got the chance.

  For her part, Terri looked at ease with her shy, one-eared, one-handed boyfriend, but I found myself feeling somewhat less so. Not that I wasn’t proud and in love and thanking my lucky stars on a nightly basis, but the smug smirks and snide comments were starting to get to me. And of all the smug smirks and snide comments, no smirks were smugger, and no comments snider, than those of Mr. Hanrahan, our seventh-period history teacher who doubled as the school’s legendary football coach.

  I would watch him as he taught his class in his own unique style: reading directly out of the textbook, head down, no eye contact, with his hulking physique stretching mightily at his two-sizes too-small silk shirts. He sported a mullet-style hairdo that looked ridiculous even by the standards of 1985; a look that did nothing to conceal a Frankenstein forehead that seemed to grow larger every day. One day, just for kicks, I went down to the library (this was before Terri showcased her nose-and-ear wiggling abilities) and thumbed through the archives of past yearbooks just to get a look at Hanrahan’s ever-expanding brow. Sure he taught history, but he would have made a wonderful guest speaker for astronomy class, pulling down his pants and showing off his own unique galaxy of constellations that his hypodermic plunges were sure to have left.

  Not that he would have been embarrassed. On the contrary, anabolic steroids were like a rite of passage for Hanrahan’s dedicated gridiron warriors, their usage encouraged by parents concerned more with visions of glory than with livers that functioned. Size and strength were the prize, but even the side effects of an expanded brow and a deep boil-like back acne was a symbol of status among the football elite, and the girls that adored them.

  Two things were a given in every single lecture he gave: (1) he would mention his five years in the NFL, (2) he would hurt someone’s feelings in a way that teachers who had never played in the NFL wouldn’t dare.

  He was like a big cat in that way, searching his class for weaknesses using whatever tools were at his disposal before pouncing, the more damage the better, as long as it got a laugh out of his players, who made up about half the class.

  But in an odd way, I had Mr. Hanrahan to thank for meeting Terri. My very first day in school, as Hanrahan called off the roll.

  “Anderson, Jung, where is Jung Anderson?” he called. A tiny Oriental girl raised a meek hand and said, “Here.”

  “Anderson?” Hanrahan said again, this time in loud sarcastic disbelief. “Anderson? How did a Chink like you get a name like Anderson?” A couple of uncomfortable chuckles from the class, but uproarious laughter from the steroid studs. Then a pause before Hanrahan smiled and went for the kill. “What, did your mother bang a GI in ’Nam?” I bit my lip in anger as the football team turned the classroom into their own little end-zone celebration and Hanrahan shot both arms into the air and yelled “Touchdown!” I looked at Jung Anderson as she put her head on her desk, but the coach wasn’t through yet. “Pow, pow, boys, I got her there!” he said, and then in the lamest and most stereotypical of Asian accents said, “Me so horny, GI, me love you long time.” I looked at Clem Baskin, Conestoga’s all-conference fullback, and thought his head might explode. His face, always red from
the chemicals he shot into his buttocks, was now purple and getting darker by the second as he roared his approval to Hanrahan’s delight and Jung Anderson’s dismay.

  I knew I was next, my last name starting with B. “Brown, Antietam,” the football god said, and I looked at his eyes as he contemplated the best way to strike. “Antietam,” he said again, clearly pondering the odd name. “I know that name from somewhere.” I let forth a small laugh that I knew right away was a mistake, but the idea that a teacher of history couldn’t place the word “Antietam” was ludicrous to me. I saw a quick blank expression in his eyes, as I guessed he was not used to being laughed at, then he recovered and said, “What’s so funny Ann Tietam, ha ha, how’s that, Annnnnn Tietam, how ‘bout I just call you Annie for short.” Then “How’s that sound, boys?” The boys were clearly in favor, and from that moment on I was just plain Annie.

  Hanrahan smiled, clearly pleased with himself, and was about to stab into another fragile adolescent psyche when Clem Baskin stood up. “That’s him, coach,” he said, “the kid from wood shop, the one I told you about.” And with that helpful hint, Hanrahan glared at me once more, clearly intending to have himself another heaping helping of Annie Brown.

  I was indeed the kid from wood shop, second-period wood shop to be exact. The kid who couldn’t wear safety glasses because they kept sliding down the right side of his face, there being, of course, no ear there to support them. The incident might have gone unnoticed had Baskin not heard me explaining my unique auditory circumstances to the shop teacher, at which point Baskin, like a beacon in the sawdust, yelled out, “Oh gross, this kid’s got no ear.”

  So there I was, the new kid in a new town, on the first day of class with a 270-pound behemoth in my face, thirsting for blood. “So . . . Annie,” he said, so close to my face that I could almost taste the Anavar he’d eaten for breakfast, “Mr. Baskin here tells me that you’re missing an ear.” There was a gasp from the general student population, and an anticipatory hum from the team as they took note of the verbal noose that Hanrahan had slipped around my neck, awaiting the hanging that my answer would bring.