Dancing with the Octopus

by Debora Harding

  The domestic violence I experienced at home, while it belongs to a different sphere than my kidnapping, was equal, if not more devastating, in its traumatic consequence on my life, coming at the hands of the woman who biologically has claim to being my mother. Child abuse is such a hard thing to process, because the criminal is the parent who shapes and constructs your inner self, and whom you are hardwired to love. And it is the twisting of this precious love that makes a parent’s violence different than any other.

  Like Goodwin, my mother claimed her mistreatment by the world as unique, viewed her inner rage as the fault of society, of a society that pushed her into a teen marriage because of an unwanted pregnancy, that denied her an identity, that oppressed her because she was a woman. She suffered from depression and psychotic episodes. But this did not preclude her from feeling empathy or concern for others, or from acknowledging her cruelty, or from seeking help to change her behavior. Just as the vast majority of victims of violent trauma do not go on to hurt others, a vast majority of those suffering from mental illness do not hurt others. There is no excuse for her actions.

  I have seen my mother since my father’s death. A few years ago, I flew out to spend time with my dear childhood friend Kate Shugrue, who was dying from cancer, and realized that Mom was living just an hour away. I had no interest in seeing her—the thought of it made me deeply anxious. But she had something which remained important to me, my father’s ashes, and she had made clear the only way to get them was to pay her a visit.

  So I called my sister Gayle and asked what she recommended I do. Gayle, braver than me, generously placed a call and laid the groundwork, telling my mother when and why I would be stopping by and asking her to prepare a container. I climbed in my car and drove the sixty miles to where she lived, in a fifty-five-and-older community on the outskirts of a major city. When the door opened, I was met by a stranger who barely resembled my mother, a frail, elderly, harmless woman whom I hardly recognized. It was clear that it pained her to share Dad’s ashes. Though she recognized me as her daughter, she seemed genuinely surprised to hear me talk about her husband as my father. The confusion may have been the result of early dementia, but more likely it was a reflection of the pathology I grew up with.

  And then there is the third act of violence, my father’s self-inflicted murder, which has brought with it anguish of a whole different kind.

  Dad had serious flaws, but he was a good and decent man. Anyone who had the privilege of knowing him knew his capacity to empathize with other people’s pain. And I know without a doubt he carried mine. When he took his own life, Dad proved that he lacked the self-worth necessary to survive. As a consequence, I have been hypervigilant in educating myself about suicide prevention. Tragically, the journey I had to take to free myself of mental anguish was one he couldn’t undergo.

  My sisters and I never understood why he wouldn’t leave my mother after we all left home. Knowing him as I do now, I believe that he felt not only complicit but guilty in his failure to protect us—in a way my mother will never feel. But my father’s crimes were in no way equal to my mother’s. His betrayal of me arose because he lacked the inner stamina to stand up to her will, and he had too much pride to leave her. As he slowly relinquished the health of his own soul, he increasingly turned to a conservative male movement that reinforced the belief that men are appointed by divine force to be kings of the domestic sphere, a script that reinforced his illusion of control. I strongly believe he would have been better served by recognizing that while the body has a biological gender, the human spirit has none. He was the natural nurturer in our family. The mystery of why good people remain in abusive relationships, harmful to their self-preservation, is not an easy one to resolve.

  And Dad and I shared similar pain. Both of us had wounds left from inadequate biological mothers. He tried to mend his hole by making sure his daughter, conceived out of wedlock, wasn’t given up for adoption. I mended my hole by not having children until I was in a secure position to do so. Both of us were child victims of sexual assaults. My father steered me through my aftermath in the way he survived his own—by never speaking of it. And for a long time that approach served me well, until my body took over for me and I was forced to acknowledge that trauma will work itself out, whether acknowledged or not.

  The truth is, Dad’s love did keep me alive on November 22, 1978, and our bond gave me the resiliency to cope with my mother’s cruelty. I left his house knowing without a doubt that I was deeply loved, and because of that, I had the self-esteem to be discerning about my choice in a life partner. The man I married is proof of that.

  This does not excuse my father’s failure to accept responsibility for the level of violence in his own home, for closing his eyes to it rather than addressing it. But when I view my parents together, and then imagine them apart, I see the relationships in his life much healthier and happier without her, but I cannot imagine the relationships in her life healthier and happier without him. The fact that she’s estranged from all four of her children speaks louder than words. And that, to me, puts my father deservedly in a separate category.

  Where Dad’s and my paths really separated was around the issue of truth and reconciliation. He mistook the act of forgiveness for a willingness to forget, to deny that the violence ever took place. While he was correct in asserting there must be a willingness to move beyond acts of violence, it must be accompanied by an acknowledgement of the truth of the offence, of remembering and honoring the victim’s emotional reality, as well as a recognition of both the short- and long-term costs of trauma. When the emotions following the wake of a crime are dealt with honestly, they don’t have to be denied—they can be healed. Despite the Hollywood expectations and fantasies of forgiveness, there is a large group of us who don’t get the happy endings. My mother has never acknowledged her abuse. Charles Goodwin’s display of remorse was false. But I can only wonder how things might have been different had Dad been with me on that trip to Lincoln. I wish he had seen me face Charles Goodwin, claim my strength, and walk away with a redefined sense of self. Might that have led him to take a different path?

  I still wish, with all my heart, that we could have reached resolution—that my children would have enjoyed their grandfather, that Thomas would have enjoyed his father-in-law, that Dad and I would be free to enjoy life without the pain that wracked both our inner worlds. I’ll never know. This book is a way of reconciling myself with that. Even writing this closing chapter, I’m still wanting to save him.

  On his visit to England all those years ago, Dad, Thomas, and I took a road trip to the Lake District. On our last afternoon, we stood at the base of the rugged peaks overlooking a lush glaciated blue-green valley: distant waterfalls cut white lines into the rocks, clouds sailed overhead as the sun intermittently shed brilliant light on Lake Buttermere and Crummock Water. Dad wrapped his arm around me and said, “This is truly heaven.” And he made me promise that one day, after his death, I’d return and spread his ashes on that spot.

  Shortly after my last visit to my mother, Thomas and I returned to the Lake District. As we were walking to find the perfect spot, we passed a small parish church where we met a pastor in the garden. After chatting, he gave us a tour of the church, shared its history. And when I told him what we were there to do, he gave us his blessing. Five minutes later, I released Dad’s ashes in a stream and watched as they bloomed into the water and slowly faded away.

  In writing the scenes in this book, I was reminded of how terrifying we humans can be when empathy ceases to exist. That we are only as strong as the human connections we build. Fate doesn’t arrive with a personal name, but we make our fates personal by our response to life’s most challenging events. I have my own beautiful family now, my extended family, as well as a huge loving tribe of friends around me. And I have become fierce in my love of life.

  In reaching the end of this story, I can’t help but remember the octopus Dad conjured up all those years ago. H
ow he had taught me the skill of pretending, real pretending, the kind of pretending that can turn a scary monster into an imaginary game.

  There is no need now to pretend.

  Acknowledgments

  I would first like to thank the people who not only were involved in saving my life, but who brought Charles Goodwin to justice for the crimes he perpetrated against me and my family. In particular, Jeanette Hansen, who was working at the South Omaha Fruit Market on November 22, 1978, and brought me out of the cold and into safety. Lieutenant Robert Olson, who immediately galvanized the Omaha police department, Sergeant Dennis K. Howard, Officers Farmer, Greg Thompson, and Edward Hale, who staked out the area and protected my father. The staff at St. Joseph Hospital, who treated me with such sensitivity. Officers Bovasso, Tostenson, and Wryaxz. The Omaha World Herald, for their extensive coverage before Charles Good-win’s apprehension. And Judge John Murphy and Judge Elizabeth Pittman, who administered justice.

  Enormous thanks to all those who provided support to me in Omaha, Nebraska. The Lewis and Clark Junior High School Parent Teacher Association and those companies and individuals who contributed to the reward fund that led to the arrest of Charles Goodwin. The members of First United Methodist Church who supported me in the days and weeks after the crime, in particular Floyd and Bonnie Morehead, Mel and Harriet Olson, and Amy Kuehl. Also, my neighbors George and Carolyn Ireland and Fran and Jo Bushey. The friends and staff whose support at Lewis and Clark Junior High School proved critical to my mental health and recovery, in particular: Todd Cushing, Sheila Tobin-Anderson, and David Van Meter.

  Special thanks to: Kim Haller, who generously provided her journals and endless hours of interviews, for the years she spent working in the criminal justice system, and her continual support. Kate Shugrue, for her amazing work in child protection services, providing access to the legal system, her wisdom during the parole hearing, and lifelong friendship. Kent Friesen, a national hero whose mentoring at a crucial time in my life helped steer my course.

  To those who helped me during the Victim-Offender Dialogue journey: Sara Nelson, Kris, David Doerfler, Jon Wilson, Esther Casmer, Judge Ken Vampola, and Mike Kelly.

  To my creative partners, readers, and supporters while writing this book: Jim Auxer, Tom Avery, Marina Bailey, Lucy and Zam Baring, Niall and Kate Barton and family, Jez Butterworth, Sarah Chalfant, Trevor Cornwall, Dr. H, Amanda Harding, Angela Harding, Belinda Harding, Elsie Harding, Frank Harding, James Harding, Michael Harding, Kate Harrod, Andrea Hart, Jane Hill, Rob Hyde, Arjan Keshavarz, Greg Kent, Ella Leya, David Levine, Kani Marceau, Sipan Marceau, Lynn Medford, Ben Morris, Cait Morrison, Morgan Oppenheimer, Hella Pick, Laura Quinn, Gail Rebuck, Gabrielle Rifkind, Anita Roddick, Marysue Rucci, Julia Samuel, Philip Selway, Charles Sweeney, Ellie Thackeray, Nick Viner, Patrick Walsh, Kate Weinberg, Doug Wilson, Adrian Wooldridge, Amelia Wooldridge, Loretta Wurtenberger, and Sasha Yevtushenko.

  To Super Agent Anna Stein, who gave me the courage to write this story, for her fierce emotional wisdom and compassion, and her enduring faith in my strength when it wasn’t there. A writer could not have a better advocate or protector. To Clare Conville, my UK agent extraordinaire, who got me on my way and who keeps this fun. And to my dream team of editors: in particular, Liese Mayer at Bloomsbury USA, for her unbelievable stewardship and empathetic grace through this colossal process; Helen Conford at Profile Books UK, for her razor-sharp insight, and Andrew Franklin, publisher, for his steadfast care. To those who have worked with me at Bloomsbury USA: Marie Coolman, Nicole Jarvis, Laura Keefe, Tara Kennedy, Grace McNamee, Laura Phillips, and Valentina Rice; with special thanks to Barbara Darko for her patience, and to Ellis Levine for his discerning eye and legal expertise. And to those at Profile Books: Elizabeth Hitti, Nathaniel McKenzie, Niamh Murray, Hannah Ross, and Valentina Zanca. Thanks to Darren Biabowe Barnes and Dorcas Rogers at C&W Literary Agency, and a very special thanks to the most excellent John DeLaney at ICM Literary Agency.

  To my sister Gayle, who carefully read the manuscript numerous times and kept me authentic to my true self and who is basically just a heroine of epic proportions. To my nephew Taylor Robinson, whose deep insight, intelligence, and connection has shaped this material. To my sister Jenifer; her Amazonian strength has always helped me keep perspective (whether it be rolling east or west).

  My daughter, Sam, whose grace, trust, wit, and humor have helped me survive the writing of this book. What you can do with Post-its and your magic quill is a thing of beauty. I love you.

  My son, Kadian, whose unquenchable thirst for life, and cheerful and charming ways, not to mention profound intelligence, continue to light up my days. It sucks you aren’t here. You know how ridiculously much I love you.

  And to my husband, Thomas, it was in the inner universe of our marriage that this whole project happened; I love living life with you. Thank you for your unwavering faith and strength, you are very very funny.

  A conversation with Debora Harding, author of Dancing with the Octopus

  What inspired you to write the book?

  I began writing the book several years after the catastrophic loss of my fourteen-year-old son, Kadian, in a sudden bicycle accident. You might say it became imperative to my survival that I separate the existential questions left from the trauma of my childhood—from the task of learning to cope with the sudden tragedy of having lost my gorgeous son. I barely survived being murdered at the age of fourteen. On top of my grief at Kadian being suddenly taken from us, the paradox of losing him at the same age seemed cruel.

  When I started writing again, my brain, my emotional compass—none of it worked the way it once had. I literally had to learn how to put sentences together again. Additionally, after spending two years in heavy grief I found myself reemerging into the world at a time when the political landscape was rapidly changing, when a network of social safety, which had been established in a progressive political era when decency and care and concern for your fellow citizen was a kind of presumed starting point, was being destroyed. It felt familiar, like the dysfunctional and threatening environment I had grown up in. Donald Trump and my mother are very similar in personality. And watching his dismissal of assaults on women as irrelevant was mortifying.

  I returned to thinking about the issues of mental illness and violence that complicated the long-term aftermath of the crime. This wasn’t my first attempt at writing about this subject. But I was compelled to look at the forces that came into play with a wider lens. I had to arrive at place of total irreverence for my past pain to find my true voice and what I felt to be a storytelling structure that could encompass the social and political conflicts that acted themselves out, not only in my journey but in my parents’ journey, and in that of my attacker, Mr. K (Mr. K for kidnapper). Today, the question of what enables a person to inflict savage acts of violence on others seems as pertinent as ever. And the devastating increase of domestic violence cases we’ve seen during the coronavirus lockdown only makes it more urgent.

  What literary role models did you look to in writing this book?

  It was on my journey back to the world, after I hadn’t been able to pick up a book for several years, that I came across the Essays of Michel de Montaigne. A sixteenth-century French aristocrat might seem odd company to choose, but his material was a perfect match for my mood. He combined wit with erudition, while maintaining intimacy with his reader, and wrote about philosophical themes of his day. As I continued to read it occurred to me that I recognized something familiar in the special perspective from which he viewed life, and I discovered that he had written his first draft while suffering serious grief after multiple losses of key relationships in his life.

  While there lay great contrast in our social and political backgrounds—he a sixteenth-century aristocrat, a man of letters with an extraordinary intellect; and me, a twenty-first-century woman with my humble background—we shared the task of finding our way home. So that was the initial inspiration and the reason for
the title structure: “In Which I . . .” It helped me focus on the theme at hand. His humor also gave me permission to adopt an irreverent attitude to my material.

  Toni Morrison—Beloved is a genius of a novel, especially in her treatment of the legacy of human cruelty and trauma and the way it can revisit and terrify its victims. But it’s Morrison’s essays and lectures that served as my moral compass in helping to make choices about how to deal with the issues of racial identity in the book.

  Vivian Gornick also helped influence choices I made about structure. Her memoir Fierce Attachments works as much on the level of essay as it does an incredible portrait of a challenging mother-daughter relationship and a 1940s immigrant neighborhood in the Bronx.

  I also looked to Truman Capote’s In Cold Blood, but for different reasons. I’ve always identified with Nancy Clutter, the sixteen-year-old who was murdered. As a victim of a severe crime myself, I have often wondered how she might have told her story. Part of my motivation for stepping into Mr. K’s point of view was to demonstrate what a recalibrated scale of empathy for a violent offender in a true crime story might look like. And I suppose I hope that in doing so, people might think a little harder about the victims missing from these stories.

  In the telling of the story, you have written episodes leading up to the crime and episodes after the crime from your kidnapper’s point of view. This had to have been difficult as a victim. Can you speak about this decision?

  This book, for me, is an interrogation of violence and mental illness. More specifically, how we reconcile ourselves to the complexity of relationship issues that follow acts of human cruelty.

  There’s an unspoken assumption if you are a victim, writing a memoir about a crime, that it must come from some therapeutic need to share; that you are offering your subjective experience in the case it may be helpful for others on the same journey. There’s a sort of pressure for victims to stay in our lane, and I wasn’t interested in that. I’ve endeavored to tell the story of four characters and their relationships to one another, from a detached objective viewpoint.