I nodded to indicate I understood.
“I’ll let you sit in the passenger’s seat if you won’t do anything funny.”
“Okay.” It was almost as if the calmness in my voice came from somewhere outside me.
I slowly pulled myself into the passenger’s seat, looking for the knife as discreetly as I could.
“So what’s your name?” Mr. K asked, as if he were about to introduce himself.
“Debbie,” I said, as friendly as I could be. She surprised even me, this girl who was speaking.
“What’s yours?”
“Charles,” he said without hesitation, apparently eager to be friends. “Well, Debbie, I guess this is your lucky day. I’m not going to hurt you.”
“Oh,” I said with genuine gratitude, spotting the knife, now resting on his thigh.
In Which I Contemplate the Nature versus Nurture Question
Omaha, 1971—Behind us lived the Burnett kids. There were three of them, and they had a mother who liked being at home. I noticed that whenever I was over, their house smelled of French toast and freshly baked Nestlé Toll House chocolate chip cookies. Mrs. Burnett wasn’t the type to be overly concerned with her appearance. She was the size you’d expect a housewife to be who cooked three decent meals for her kids a day, and wore slippers rather than shoes. She was a happy person, but not too, and she didn’t dote on her children. She just provided safe warm space for her Michael, Bridgette, and Sue. Their hair was always brushed, their faces washed, their clothes were clean, and their socks matched. I just knew something was right because those kids liked being at home. They would play outside together quite happily on their own, with or without other kids. Then I’d observe Mrs. Burnett calling them back in for lunch. They would disappear for a good while. Then come back out. And when they felt bored, they could go inside, and she would hold the side screen door open for them. Because of this, I decided that I didn’t like those Burnett kids and I would get even.
So one day when they went inside for lunch, I snuck into their garden, where their Barbie camper sat, and stole all their Barbies—about five of them. I ran across the street to a neighbor who had a really mean dog, a dog so mean they had to keep it in a fenced-in yard. I ripped the Barbie dolls’ heads off and threw them over the fence. Then I came back and threw the Barbie bodies into the Burnetts’ yard. I was in such a fit of rage I didn’t know what I was doing. But then I sensed the enormity of the act and grew terrified. How could I fix this? Who could I tell? How could I possibly explain it?
A week went by before I saw Mrs. Burnett at our front door. I rabbited behind a bush, and it was clear, after my mother came out on the porch, that Mrs. Burnett had figured out the identity of the Barbie killer. This is how I knew Mom was angry: her lips. She had this habit of knitting them together before agitation took hold of her.
I realized that I was going to have to leg it. She’d kill me, and that wasn’t hyperbole. My father was out of town, so there was no chance of him lifting the mood. I bolted. Dashed as fast as I could with only one vision in mind—widening that gulf between Mom and me, slowing only to gulp air, until I reached the Old Mill Shopping Center where Mr. Octopus lived. I was thankful for the floodlights that lit up the water, since it was dark by then. I was seven years old and three miles from home.
But when I got there, there was no sign of Mr. Octopus. Frightened and exhausted, I sat next to the pond and watched the mill go round and round, water kerplunking down like pixie dust briquettes, and thought I might sleep on the grass in front of the pond, but realized I was tired and quite frankly terrified and that even if Mom was going to kill me, I didn’t want to be woken up by some stranger-creepy-guy, and then I became more scared of staying than I was of going home. I started making my way back, and as I crept up the hill toward our house, sprinting from bush to bush for cover, thinking I could at least fall asleep in one of the neighbors’ yards, I spotted two police cars in the drive.
One officer was speaking into a radio attached to his shoulder and the other scribbled down notes while talking to my mother. I figured the policemen were there because I had stolen the Barbies, so they were going to take me to prison. I considered surrendering but told myself to stop being ridiculous. Of course they weren’t there to arrest me—they were there to find me. I decided to slip in the house through the backdoor and sneak into my room and act like I had been sleeping all along.
Tiptoeing across the living room Pink Panther–style, I thought I was in the clear until Pat Maddox, another neighbor, opened the door and Zorro came running at me, body-slamming herself at my feet, thumping her tail, hardly able to sit. Pat didn’t say anything. She just waved her hand and signaled for me to join her in the bathroom.
Zorro followed us in as Pat shut the bathroom door. When she asked why I had run away and I told her it was because I was afraid my mother was going to kill me, she looked concerned. So did Zorro, who pricked up his ears.
She said, “No, Debbie, your mother won’t kill you, I promise you. She has been worried sick,” and when she said that, the door opened and there stood my mother. Pat went quiet. Mom flashed a curt smile and praised my dramatic talent. She called the police officers over and said that I had something to tell them. All eyes were on the prize. The officers made it as easy as they could for me to admit my shame.
It was one of those incidents that came up when I began to question my memory. Was it a good thing I ran with fear for my life, or was it the dramatic flourish of my pea-sized brain distorting guilt, self-pity, and fear of punishment into a threat that didn’t exist?
Mom wasn’t the only person who scared me that night. I didn’t know what made me act like that, and it made me feel sick. What kind of kid did that sort of thing?
In Which We Receive Good News
Omaha, 1972—Mom went out one night and came home with a solution, unwittingly, that was going to help my soul. By the time she pulled her car into the garage, Genie and Gayle had already made themselves scarce, but I felt confident because my extrasensory perception must have been working well that night. Zorro stopped barking and took a half-seated position next to me. After hearing the crunch of snow up the front steps, I opened the door for her and offered to take her bags.
After shaking the snow from her jacket and hanging it in the closet, Mom reached her arms out to me. “Oh, Debbie, I have such great news. Hug me!” I did my best to accommodate this unusual request while Zorro watched on full alert. “Come here,” Mom said, walking toward the living room. “I have something special for you.”
And that’s when I noticed the flared bell-bottom jeans. I had never seen her wearing anything but polyester slacks with elastic waist bands, so let me tell you these were worthy of real contemplation. The denim was printed with images of fans at a concert, flower children of all shapes and colors wound up and around her legs, through her crotch, and across the front and back panels right up her butt.
“Sit down,” she encouraged me. “This is a very important night in our lives.” Again—the smile of peace. Zorro lay down at my feet. Next she took a record album from her shopping bag, which solved the mystery of the artwork on her jeans. Pat Boone Sings the New Songs of the Jesus People.
We spent the next half an hour listening to songs that put me in a surprisingly groovy mood. They had lyrics that stuck in my head, like One book and it’s the Holy Bible that’ll take you to the promised land. After we had played the whole record, Mom shared the good news she was waiting to tell me.
“I’ve found Jesus,” she said, followed by a bliss-shaped smile. And then she reached into her bag and pulled out a little box. “And look, I bought you and each of your sisters a present.”
I took the box, one of those curious “why, thank you” looks on my face, and tried to match her eagerness. “Go ahead! Open it!” she encouraged me. I raised the lid, and there sat my gold-plated cross necklace, inserted into a plush cushion.
“Oh, Mom,” I said, not sure of the appropriate
response. “It’s so beautiful.”
I don’t remember ever having attended church, but even if we had, it wouldn’t have helped my confusion over the statement “I’ve found Jesus.” She continued, “I went to a Bible study tonight, and I was with a group of people, and they helped me ask Jesus into my heart.” She made it sound like she had invited him to dinner and was shocked when he walked in the door. After she explained it further, telling me something like it was insurance against going to hell, she sent me to bed.
I couldn’t remember ever seeing Mom as happy as she was that night, so lying there under my Snoopy-themed bed cover, I thought that if asking Jesus into her heart made Mom that happy, then maybe if I did it too—it might keep her that way.
I repeated the words she used. Then waited to see if the same transformation came over me. Sure enough, I felt a rush of happiness take over my whole body, a power not to be underestimated in a child with the most unhappiest Mom.
A couple of weeks later, Mom broke her normal practice of not allowing any of the kids from the neighborhood in the house (she said four kids were more than enough for her nerves), and hired a Bible teacher whose name was Mr. Good. We all took it for granted that this was his real name. He was like a Tupperware party hostess, but instead of plastic food containers he sold Jesus, wore a cardigan sweater, and had short hair parted to the side and plastered with Brylcreem. He was slim and trim, spoke quietly, and had a permanent ever-so-slight smile on his face, like he’d been well dosed at an outpatient clinic.
The best thing about the Good News Club, however, was that whoever memorized the most Bible verses would receive little gifts—like a laminated bookmark that featured a picture of Jesus with a lamb in his arms, or little plastic figurines of prophets in the Old Testament. I set my aim on the whole collection.
My relationship with God never became one I feared. His personality was in line with the character depicted in the Broadway musicals Godspell and Jesus Christ Superstar—generous with the gift of life, the world, and all its beauty. My relationship with Jesus was a different thing though, closer. He was hip, like the Hummel Park summer camp counselor I once had a crush on named Maurice.
My grandmother Vivian, when she heard how I felt about Jesus, sent me a five-by-seven portrait of him, the Head of Christ painted by Warner Sallman of Chicago in 1940. The artist used sepia oil colors and depicted Jesus with long waves of brown hair, a trim beard, olive skin, a long delicate nose, high cheekbones, and eyes that radiated calm benevolent love—in short, a humble yet handsome presentation. I put it by my bedside so I could talk to him every night.
From then on, I worked hard to adhere to Christ’s directive of “do unto others as you would want them to do unto you” through a regular spiritual practice. It consisted of a good-morning check-in and a good-night review, when I would consider my behavior for the day. I would imagine it seen through the eyes of the Lord and, if laden with particularly heavy shame, would get down on my knees alongside the bed and lower my head.
More often than not, I’d carry out an informal chat while I looked up at the ceiling, or out the window, or at the large poster I had of a male lion. Sometimes I spoke out loud, but more often the conversation took place inside my head, as I looked at that picture of Jesus.
I often wondered later if that’s why I took to therapy so naturally. There are remarkable similarities to the practice: the process of self-examination and confession, the running self-monologue. The same ritual, really, but with a plug-and-play human.
Mom found a liberal Protestant church to attend soon after, and my parents became youth group leaders, which meant we had a bunch of hippie teenyboppers at our house who wore things like bell-bottom jeans and go-go boots. It was by far the most peaceful two years of our family life. But after a fallout with the minister’s wife, whom Mom felt had become jealous, Mom said she didn’t need to go to church to be near God, and Sundays became her “me time,” so Dad took us to church on his own.
I loved standing next to him during service. He’d put his arm around my shoulder as we sang. His favorite hymn was “Onward Christian Soldiers.” I can still hear his gentle, deep voice. And even though he hadn’t been able to become a minister, because he snuck through that girls’ dorm window with a six-pack, he got to enjoy teaching Sunday school. And he’d always plan for a stop at Dunkin’ Donuts. He’d say, “Let’s go get us a dozen before we go home,” like he was a cowboy tipping his hat.
When Dad went on the road, my passion for Christ would grow. I no longer felt alone when I went to sleep at night. Mom didn’t show any interest in my faith after that special first night, for which I was thankful.
Another year went by, another summer rolled up. My sisters and I were allowed to choose which camp we wanted to attend. I decided on Calvin Crest, a weeklong coed outfit run by the Protestant church. It wasn’t much different than my usual choice of Hummel Park, managed by the Omaha City Parks and Rec—except it was a proper overnight camp, and we’d gather around the campfire for a pastoral service every evening, where we’d get to sing songs with acoustic guitar accompaniment like “Day by Day” and “Michael, Row the Boat Ashore.” I liked the way it connected my body with my heart.
At the end of the week, they gave us a little booklet asking who we thought God hired to be his personal messenger. I opened the next page and found myself looking at my own reflection in a small mirror. My heart grew happy with the idea of it, so I decided right there to devote myself to winning the best sales kid award for number of saved souls per year. And I knew I was blessed in this department with the best salesman in the world to teach me. Dad.
From that summer forward, I vowed to be on the job 24/7. Anytime I met a friend who was sad, I made sure they knew they weren’t alone. I’d just tell them Jesus loved them and he’d be their friend. Little did I know who my most important customer would be.
In Which I Make a Sales Pitch
Omaha, 1978—“You’re wearing a cross,” Mr. K said in a way that faintly suggested it was a fashion accessory he might himself wear.
“Yes,” I said, in as encouraging a tone as I could.
“You’re a Christian?” he asked.
“Yes.” It was getting darker, which wasn’t making it any easier to act friendly, especially since he wasn’t taking that face mask off. “Are you?” The question slid so genuinely out of my mouth, it shocked even me. And then the idea struck me that I’d pretend Mr. K was just an octopus—like Dad’s Mr. Octopus.
“Well”—he paused, thinking it over—“I guess I’m not if I’m doing this.”
I jumped on that immediately. “God still loves you,” I said, wanting him to believe this. Not many people asked about my cross, and given the circumstances it was hard not to get too enthusiastic.
This seemed to prompt him to open up. “You think so?” He apologized again for scaring me. Said he had just run away from home, which he added was in California, because he was having problems with his parents. He told me he moved to Omaha to be with his grandmother, but he just found out she was dying of cancer. “She doesn’t have the money to see doctors, and I hardly have enough money to pay for gas.”
I felt bad for him and started sensing this might be the reason for our situation. “You know, I’m certain God will understand you’re trying to help your grandmother.”
“I hope you’re right,” he said.
“Well, if I had some money I’d sure help you out.”
“You’d do that?”
“You betcha.” We were silent for a moment. I could tell he was feeling better. He then came out with his next question.
“Do you think your dad might help me out?”
I told him I knew it wouldn’t hurt to ask, starting to feel like we might have struck on something that might help both our situations. “How much do you think you’d need?”
“Well, I think my grandmother will need close to ten thousand dollars for her medical bills.”
“Wow,” I said,
feeling less safe. “I’m pretty sure he won’t be able to give you that much money.”
“Hmmm.” He put the blinker on and made a right turn. I had felt earlier I might be able to find my way back to my school, but now I no longer had any sense of where we were. Octopus, Octopus, Octopus. He’s an octopus.
“Grandparents?” he asked. “Maybe they could help?” The falling rain froze as soon as it hit the windshield. There were few drivers on the road. I told him my grandparents lived in Des Moines and Washington, D.C. That seemed to disappoint him.
“Well, how much money do you think your Dad could give me?”
“I really don’t know—maybe one hundred dollars, but we won’t find out until we ask. I don’t know what I would do if my grandparents were dying of cancer. My aunt died of cancer. I didn’t know her that well . . .” I thought a little longer. “Can I tell you something?” I said, with a sort of laugh of disbelief.
“Sure.”
“You really scared me back there . . . I definitely thought you were going to hurt me.”
Mr. K puzzled over this for a second, before he decided he liked this game. He kind of laughed. “Yeah, we had a narrow escape, didn’t we?”
When I recounted this story years later to my psychiatrist, he told me I was a natural-born hostage negotiator and the FBI would be lucky to have me.
In Which I Witness Tragic Grief
Maine, 1971—Life can be so damn brutal. My thirty-three-year-old aunt Alice died of brain cancer, six months after receiving her diagnosis. Her three young boys not only lost their mother but were effectively orphaned after her grief-stricken dysfunctional husband refused to accept help from his in-laws to take care of them.
Though I didn’t know what tragedy was at that age, I was aware my father’s attention took a dramatic swing toward Katherine and Arlo, who were already carrying grief for two young sons. The loss of their daughter, with the additional cruelty of her being a young parent, was annihilating.
Dancing with the Octopus Page 5
