by Dave Pelzer
“Remember that time when I was a kid and you let me walk with you that summer at the river . . . you said it was like heaven. You and I can live there . . . and go fishing, sit at Johnson’s Beach, or do anything we want. And in the summer . . . we can go to San Fran and catch a game at Candlestick—just like you always said we’d do. We can be like a real father and son. Just the two of us.
“We made it, Dad! We really made it! Everything’s gonna be fine. We can be together . . . and live at peace. We got a home, a real home. No more fighting, no more troubles, no one’s gonna kick us out. We got it made! It’s gonna be fine. You just relax and . . . I’ll take care of you . . . I’ll take care of everything. . . .”
I broke off when I felt Father’s trembling fingers clutch my hand. Never before in my entire life had both of us looked deep into each other. His dark eyes were perfectly clear as they bore into mine. I could somehow feel the immense shame, loneliness, sorrow, and pain in Father’s gaze. “I’ve always been proud of you. You’ve always been my hero. And as your son, I swear to God, one day I will, I will make you proud. I always have and always will love you, Father. Now you relax . . . and I’ll meet you at the river.”
With whatever strength Father had, he strained to lift his head to mine to kiss me on the mouth. With my free hand I held him from behind his neck as delicately as possible. The two of us had finally joined as father and son. I returned the gesture by smiling at him and kissing him on the forehead. Then, like so many years ago, as he had that summer when we strolled together at the Russian River, my father winked at me before he slipped away.
I held Father’s body as long as possible before I eased his head back onto the white pillow. Looking at Father’s face, I felt so utterly stupid for thinking that I could have somehow saved him. Time seemed to come to a halt as I gazed at the man I had so long wanted to be with. After closing Father’s eyes, I thanked God for allowing me to be with him during his last moments. With the tips of my fingers I rubbed my lips, thinking how Father had never kissed me before. No matter what void had existed between Father and me in the past, I now had the memory of being with him when it counted most. It was something I would forever cherish.
Stepping outside the room, I saw that Steve understood. With a piece of paper in his hand, he dialed the phone and gave it to me. “What?” I asked in a daze.
Not looking at me directly, Steve muttered, “Your mother . . . she wanted to know as soon as it happened . . . the moment he passed away.”
Closing my eyes, I could feel myself drift. At the lowest point of my life, Mother, in all her grandeur, had maintained control of the situation. As always, I wasn’t even worthy of the privilege of her majesty’s unlisted line, but was somehow good enough to do her dirty work. At the other end of the phone line, I could hear Mother’s heaving voice. I swallowed hard and performed my function. “This phone call is to inform you that your husband, Stephen Joseph Pelzer, has just passed away.”
I stopped for a second, surprised by my deadpan tone and lack of compassion. As much as I prided myself on manners, at that moment I didn’t give a damn about Mother or her dramatic, self-centered exploits. Mother didn’t even flinch. “Well . . . yes. It’s really better that way, isn’t it? Uhm . . .” A moment later the line went dead.
I stared at the phone, which seemed welded to my hand. From behind the nurses’ station, Steve pried the phone from my fingers. “We need to talk,” he said with a bright smile. “Remember, when I told you that he wouldn’t go until he was ready?”
With tears now freely running down my face, it was all I could do to nod my head yes.
“Your father wasn’t ready. He held on . . . he waited . . . he waited for you.”
“For me?” I repeated.
“Yes!” Steve said with conviction. “Out of all the people he’s met during his life, your father hung on so he could say good-bye to you.”
“But,” I babbled, “he, ah . . . he couldn’t even speak, not even with his eyes. He couldn’t—”
“Doesn’t matter,” Steve replied as he came from behind the counter. “He knew what he was doing. David, listen carefully, your father fought as long and as hard as anyone I’ve ever known under those conditions. He could have given up a long time ago. He knew the outcome; he knew he wasn’t going to walk out of here. He waited. He waited for you!
“You get what I’m saying?” Steve asked as he held my shoulders.
“Yeah,” I said, “I understand now. I really do.” Wiping away my tears, I said, “I appreciate everything you and everyone else did for him. At least”—I stopped to look at the small group of staff—“at least he wasn’t alone. For that I’m grateful. I truly am. Thank you. Thank you all.”
Shaking everyone’s hand, I saved my appreciation for Steve last. All I could do was nod my head, up and down. “It’s all right, man, I understand,” he said before embracing me. Reaching behind to my back pocket, I pulled out a faded piece of black leather. “It’s my father’s badge,” I announced triumphantly.
“He wanted you to have it. He told me so,” Steve said, taking my hand.
“It’s the only thing he had that was his . . . that no one could take away.” I paused to collect myself. Without warning I felt an overwhelming urge to crawl into bed, hide from everything and everyone, and sleep forever. “One day I’m gonna make my dad proud,” I adamantly stated. “I will!”
“David,” Steve said, shaking his head, “not to worry. You already have. He told me himself. He’s proud of you. He told me you made it . . . that you made it out of whatever situation you were in.
“Your father’s ‘up there’ right now. He can see you.” Steve stopped for a moment of introspection. “Maybe he was never physically with you. But up there, he’ll be with you . . . always.”
Four days later, on a foggy Monday morning, I parked Mr. Turnbough’s car in front of the same Catholic church Ron, Stan, and I had briefly attended with our aunt years ago as preschoolers. Upon entering, I thought I was late—the services were apparently under way. Trying to be as inconspicuous as possible, in my olive green air force fatigues, I stepped with Alice lightly yet quickly down the left side of the aisle before sliding into one of the front pews.
While praying on my knees, I couldn’t believe that I had dishonored my father by being late for his service. After thanking God for relieving Father’s pain, I concentrated on the service. In an odd sense, I was excited to hear the good things others would say about Father. Maybe, I thought, I could learn something about him. I had always wondered about my parents’ pasts, their ideas, their outlooks for the future, how they met, fell in love, why things turned sour, how as a couple they seemed to have it all but lost everything. I especially wondered about the love that I felt they had at one time for each other. But instead the priest began to hastily run down a list of announcements. “This Wednesday evening’s sermon will be canceled. But the potluck dinner will still be served at the regular time. . . .” I turned to Alice in disgust.
It was then that I noticed behind the pulpit there were no bouquets, wreaths, or even a casket for Father. “Look.” I elbowed Alice.
Mrs. Turnbough leaned over and whispered, “Your mother said your father’s wishes were to be cremated.”
“No way!” I erupted. “He was a fireman! Get it, a firefighter! They’re paranoid of getting burned. . . . No!” I said, trying to restrain my fury, “This is wrong. Totally wrong. Dad wouldn’t want this!”
“I know,” Alice gently replied, “but it’s too late. She already . . .”
Not wanting to hear my father’s fate, I turned away and caught a hateful glance from Mother, who sat directly across the aisle from Alice and me. By her look she seemed outraged that I was in the same building with her and her precious children, who for the most part appeared to be bored at the whole affair. My concentration returned to the priest, who cleared his throat before chanting his final blessing, “. . . of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. May the Lor
d be with you.”
“And also with you,” the congregation answered.
“Go in peace,” the priest concluded.
A surge of anger took over me. How could I have screwed up and missed Father’s service? On my knees I cursed myself for somehow misunderstanding the time of the funeral. Alice leaned over, saying, “I could swear that your mother said nine o’clock.” I nodded, checking my watch, which read a few minutes after the hour.
Turning from the crowd, the priest bowed before stepping away from the podium. But by the sudden change in his face, the priest must have looked at Mother. Without breaking stride, he returned to his pulpit and unfolded a paper. “Pardon me,” he said, “the church wishes to recognize the passing of Stephen Pelzer, who now rests in the hands of our Heavenly Father. A retired fireman of San Francisco, Stephen is survived by . . .” the priest paused to read his notes. “. . . Stephen is survived by his beloved wife, Catherine, and his four children: Ronald, Stan, Russell, and Kevin. Let us pray.”
As I bowed my head, I realized: That was my father’s entire eulogy. Ten, twenty words. A lifespan said in a single breath. My father wasn’t even worth a single flower, a prayer offering, anything. How empty, I thought, his entire life spoken within a blink of an eye. Then I recalled the words: his four children. “Oh, my God!” I swore to myself. “She did it again!”
I fired a glance at Mother, who wiped her swollen red eyes with a clean white handkerchief. As always, she didn’t miss the opportunity to make herself the center of attention. Surrounded by her children for others to behold, the beloved Mrs. Pelzer played the role of the grieving widow to the hilt.
The priest broke my trance. “Peace be with you.”
“And also with you,” the congregation again answered.
“This mass is ended. Go in peace.”
While standing, I maintained my hard stare at Mother, who lost her footing as she struggled to get up. I could hear a series of muffled gasps from the crowd. Per her dramatic display, all eyes turned to Mother. From behind me, I could hear people rushing toward the widow. I shook my head in disgust.
“Dah-veed?” someone called. “Dah-veed, do you remember? You remember us?”
I turned toward an elderly couple standing before me. It took me a moment to realize that they were my old next-door neighbors, Tony and Alice. “You remember us, yah?” Tony asked in broken English. I could remember him smoking his pipe while he pushed his wooden lawn mower across the grass when I was a preschooler. But when I was older, I also recalled that winter when Mother’s game was having me skate up and down the block, nonstop in near-freezing weather, wearing only a worn-out T-shirt and a pair of shorts. Once Tony stepped outside, bundled in a thick jacket, to pick up his evening paper. All we could do was nod at each other. Somehow we both understood. The last time I had seen him was days before I was rescued. Because of the closeness of the houses, you could walk up the stairs that led to the front door and easily see into the small kitchen window of the neighbor’s house, which was just a few feet away. Late in the afternoon, Mother drove her foot into my face as I laid sprawled on the kitchen floor. For a second Tony’s eyes had met mine. Blood was pouring from my mouth and nose. As always, he understood, but was unable to do anything. Times were different back then.
“You be okay now. I see you in the army air corps. You be fine,” Tony said with pride as he held my shoulders. With his wife, Alice, standing beside him, he stated, “We proud of you. Everyone knows. You a goot boy. We all, de whole neighborhood, know about you and Ronald, joining the service. You goot boys. Always goot boys.”
Out of embarrassment, all I could do was nod. “You come to see Tony and Alice when army gives you time to come home.”
Before I could reply, a band of men in dark blue uniforms stepped forward. I swallowed in awe as the group of firemen from Father’s station stopped in front of me. For a moment I thought they had mistaken me for a member of Mother’s party. A man, who I assumed by his commanding presence was the captain of the station, took my hand and whispered into my ear, “Your father was a good man and one hell of a firefighter. Don’t you ever forget that, son.”
“Yes, sir, I’ll remember, Captain,” I promised.
“And do you remember your favorite uncle?” a voice from the past asked.
Among the group Uncle Lee, my father’s longtime partner, emerged, giving me a hug. One by one the men from the station paid their respects, in the process seeming to form a protective shield from Mother.
“Thanks, Lee,” I blurted.
“For what?”
“You know . . . for acknowledging me. I was there when . . . he passed away. But you guys shouldn’t be with me. I don’t want to do anything that may set her off,” I said, glancing over at Mother.
“ ‘Acknowledge,’ my ass. Ain’t nothin’ can pry us away. He loved you boys. You, David, need to know that. Maybe he didn’t say it, and maybe he wasn’t there for ya, but he always thought about you kids. Things just . . . well, they didn’t work out. And if Ronald was here, I’d tell him the same thing. You boys need to know. No one’s perfect. Your father did things I didn’t approve of, but,” Uncle Lee adamantly asserted, “your father wasn’t evil. Whatever his shortcomings, it was never intentional. Get my meaning?”
I nodded my head. “I understand. Thanks, Lee.”
“Listen,” Lee knelt down, “your father gave his helmet to Ron. Do you have his badge?”
Checking behind me to ensure I was safe from prying eyes, I confided, “Yeah, but I’m not so sure I’m supposed to have it. Am I supposed to give it to you guys? What do I do?” I swallowed hard. “Give it to her?”
“Not on your life!” Uncle Lee cried. “Listen up. It’s your father’s way of saying how much you meant to him. He wanted so much to give you kids something, instead of all the hell you boys were put through. David, you got shortchanged quite a bit and”—Lee paused to look in the direction of the pulpit—“and I expect you’re going to get the shaft before this matter is through. You keep it. To your father . . . well, that badge represents the kind of man he longed to be—on and off the job. To him it’s worth more than any amount of money. Do we have an understanding? What your mother doesn’t know won’t hurt her. So, keep your mouth shut and keep that badge. Do your namesake proud.”
I felt as if I were ten feet tall. For a shining moment, I was a real person.
Outside the church, I shivered from the morning chill. A thick gray blanket of fog swirled above. “Excuse me!” Mother interrupted in her best sarcastic, pompous tone, “Mrs. Trewn-bow, I require a moment alone to speak with The Boy.”
Alice—who had suffered years of Mother’s psychotic “disciplinary instructions” on what a burden I was to society in general during late-night drunken ramblings—had had her fill of Mother. Before Mrs. Turnbough could give Mother a piece of her mind, I intervened and led Mother to the side of the church. Alone in the empty parking lot, Mother grabbed my shoulder and spun me around. “Just who in the hell do you think you are? What gives you the right to show up at a function like this?”
With my resistance completely drained, I returned to my former position of address—with my head down and my arms locked to my sides. “You called,” I interjected.
“I don’t ever remember placing a call to you. . . . I can’t keep track of everything . . . and don’t . . . don’t you of all people contradict me . . . not today . . . you little shit! I’m not saying I called or didn’t call, and if I did, I did so out of courtesy. You should’ve had enough sense to understand that you weren’t welcome. But you were never that bright, were you?
“And what in hell’s bells do you mean by having all those men fondle you as if you were something special?” Stealing a glance at her, I could tell that Mother was truly upset.
“You listen up! I only brought you out here, from your measly air force base, out of the kindness of my heart. I didn’t have to do that, you know. So you stay the hell away from me and my boys! Yo
u know who you are and what you are. You don’t belong. Don’t you ever, ever, step foot in my house again!” Mother hissed. This time she didn’t use her finger to lift my chin, as she had when I was her prisoner. I looked up on my own and into Mother’s firey-red eyes. Not backing down, Mother leaned closer to me. “Don’t you have something for me? Didn’t he give you anything before he passed away?”
Ever so slightly, I uncoiled my fingers on my right hand and ran them across my back pocket. I became less tense when I felt the outline of Father’s prized badge. Without batting an eye, I returned Mother’s cold stare. “No,” I said. “Father did not give me a thing.”
“You’re lying!” Mother shrieked. In the same instant I felt the sting of her hand slapping my face. Maintaining my stance, I let the blood from my bitten lip trickle to the pavement. Her physical assaults no longer hurt me. Mother’s act of aggression was the final nail to her coffin—she had absolutely no control over me, and the only way to dominate me was to beat me. It never really worked when I was a child, and it certainly wouldn’t work now. It also meant that Mother must be desperate to resort to this form of treatment, especially in public.
“I called the hospital . . . and they checked his belongings. They said he had the papers when he checked in, so don’t stand here and tell me those papers just up and disappeared! And what in the hell gives you the right to dispose of his clothes at his motel? I called and they said you had come by and simply gave them away. So, tell me, tell me just who in the hell gave you the right to march in and—”
“You did!” I interrupted. “When you didn’t visit him. When you deliberately went out of your way not to lift a finger. When you let the father of your children, your husband, someone you’ve known for years, rot away in a deathbed for months. You did nothing to help, but everything you could do to make him feel unworthy and isolated,” I fired back, venting my anguish over Father’s treatment. “Whatever I did, I did my best. At least I would have had the decency to give Father a proper burial service. I don’t know why you . . . you hate everybody and everything so much!
