The Boots My Mother Gave Me (4 page)

Nearing my parents’ house, I could see Gram’s car in the drive. Mom, Gram, and Kat raked leaves in the front yard, Dad walked across the road to the barn. With Gram there, I figured he would be on his best behavior.

Dad’s mother was mean to him coming up. She told him she wished he was never born, she pushed and kicked him around, told him she didn’t love him, and made him do all the household chores, “woman’s work,” as she called it. He hated her deeply, remaining estranged from her over the years.

Gram, Mom’s mother, was the coolest woman, tough, witty, and capable. Kat and I spent a lot of time with her, as much as we could. She was our hero, the love of our lives. Dad often declared how she was more a mother to him than his biological mother. And Gram loved Dad. She treated him like one of her own. How ironic. He claimed to respect Gram and said he owed her and Gramps for all their support when he and Mom first started out. Then I’d think of all the things he said and did to my mother over the years. It didn’t make any sense to me. Sometimes I wondered if he had a conscience at all.

I slowed Charlene’s pace, hoping Dad would make it inside the barn before I pulled in. He did not. He stood in the driveway watching as I approached. I coaxed Charlene gently off the road, so as not to stir up any dust or do anything that might annoy him.

“Is this one you’re fixing up for Benny?” I heard the words escape in his deep tone as I stepped out of the car.

“It’s mine,” I said quietly.

“What kind of car is this?” Kat grinned, as she came to me. I hugged her tightly.

“This, little sister, is a classic.”

“A classic? Maybe an old relic!” Kat was a bit more sophisticated than I. Even though we grew up poor to modest, she had an affinity for brand names and designer labels. Kat’s idea of a nice car would be a Mercedes, a Lexus, maybe a Jag.

“Quit now, you’re going to hurt Charlene’s feelings. You just wait until I get her fixed up.”

“A Chevelle SS. Four-speed 396?” my father asked, walking around the car, examining it.

“You named your car?” Kat seemed more incredulous at that, than the fact I owned one.

“It’s a 4-speed, but someone must have replaced the original engine. It’s got a big block 454 in it now,” I answered my father. “Yes, I named my car, Kat.”

“Marilyn, remember that Buick we used to have, with the 454?” Mom nodded at him, giving me a hug. “You have to respect an engine like that.”

“Everybody should name their first car,” Gram said, wrapping me in a tight embrace.

“What did you name your first car, Gram?” Kat asked.

“Old Son-of-a-Bitch.”

“That’s quite the name, Mother.” Mom rolled her eyes.

“Well, it seemed like I was always saying, ‘Start, you old son-of-a-bitch,’” Gram said, making us laugh.

“Where did you get it?” Mom asked.

“Benny.”

“Benny gave you this car?”

“He gave me a loan. I’m going to pay him back.”

“How much of a loan?”

“Can’t be much, Ma, look at this thing.” Kat giggled.

“$1500,” I said, playfully shoving at Kat.

“Benny gave you $1500?” I heard my father’s voice.
Oh, great, here we go.

“This guy brought it in this morning. I asked him what he wanted for it. I had no intentions of buying the thing. I was just curious. I blinked and Benny bought it. He said it was mine. I’m going to pay him back, though,” I nervously explained.

He looked at me, a bit of surprise showing on his face. “That was awful nice of Benny. Says a lot about you, too, that he would think enough of you to do that.” I couldn’t believe the words as they flowed out of his mouth. Was he complimenting me or setting me up? I couldn’t tell. My gaze met his, and for a moment I thought I saw what might be a hint of acceptance, maybe a little guilt, too.

Dad, always uncomfortable with eye contact, diverted his gaze back to the car. Tapping on it, he commented as he walked into the barn, “You got your work cut out for ya. But that’ll be a nice car when you get it fixed up, kid.”

Gram broke my train of thought as I stood speechless, watching him walk into the barn, “Here, now you take this, and put it toward your car.” She shoved a wad of money into my hand.

“Gram, you don’t have to do that, you’ve already helped me enough. You bring me food all the time.”

“I don’t have to do anything except what I want, and I want you to take this two hundred dollars and put it toward your car. You’ve got a birthday coming up next month, your eighteenth birthday, and I want you to have this.” She held my hand with the money in it.

“Yeah, Harley, you don’t want to end up like Baldy, do you?” Kat joked.

Baldy, an old fuddy-dud, lived across the road from Gram. Everyone called him Baldy due to an unfortunate genetic trait, a complete lack of hair. I often wondered if that’s what made him so ornery. He always wore a white t-shirt, bib overalls, and an intimidating, permanent scowl.

One day, he picked up rocks out of his driveway and threw them across the road into Gram’s lawn. She came out in her apron; she always had her apron on because she was always cooking or baking. She confronted him and demanded to know why he was throwing rocks in her yard. He said he didn’t want them in his driveway, to which Gram replied she didn’t want them in her yard either. She picked up the rocks and threw them back.

Baldy came across the road and stopped at the outer edge of her lawn, shaking his fist and threatening, “If you weren’t an old woman, I’d cold-cock you like a man.”

Gram stepped up to him toe-to-toe. “Don’t let that stop ya,” she said.

“You old bitch!”

She wound up with her right hand and pummeled him, knocking him flat on his back in the middle of the road. Baldy grabbed at his bloody nose. “You broke my nose. I ought to sue you, old woman.”

“Don’t bite off your nose to spite your face.” She smiled sarcastically.

Baldy picked himself up out of the road, holding pressure to his face. “You’re a crazy old bat.”

“And don’t you forget it.” Gram shook her fist at him. He never did throw rocks in her yard again.

“No, I surely don’t want to end up like Baldy,” I said, laughing with the memory. “Thanks, Gram.” I tucked the money into my coveralls, hugging her with gratitude.

“Come on now, I brought some of my molasses cookies and cake doughnuts. You better have a few, you’re looking awful thin.” Gram inspected my waistline.

“And then you have to take me for a ride in this contraption, but nowhere in public, maybe on the back roads. I do have a reputation to uphold, you know,” Kat popped off.

“I’m taking you to school Monday, and I’m going to drive circles around the building, honking my horn with a big sign that reads ‘Kat LeBeau’s Chariot,’” I said.

“Mom...” Kat beckoned, looking for backup.

“Beats your bicycle, Katrina. I just wish Benny wouldn’t have done that. That’s an awful lot of money to be paid back, Harley.”

“Yeah, about that. Mom, do you think you could co-sign with me at the bank for a loan? That way I could pay Benny back and maybe have a little extra in my pocket when I leave after graduation.”

“It’s a little too soon for that right now. Let’s wait and see what happens. You’ve got half a school year left, and you don’t even know if you’re going.”

“I’m leaving, Mom.”

She took my hand as we walked toward the house. “Let’s cross that bridge when we get there.”

T
he vibrant autumn leaves had long since changed colors, and the northeastern trees now stood empty after the first snowfall of the year. I loved the holiday season. I’m not quite sure why, seeing as how Christmas at our house was extreme, extremely good or extremely bad.

My father always made a big deal out of the Christmas tree. The living room at our house had a tall, peaked ceiling and every year he would go out and swipe a tree tall enough to touch the peak. As kids we thought that was the coolest thing. He would come dragging a humungous blue spruce into the living room, fresh snow dripping off of it onto Mom’s fastidiously clean carpet as it reacted to the heat of the wood-burning stove.

How I loved that smell. It never ceased to amaze me, how enchanting our Christmas tree was year after year. Mom took such care with its decoration. Kat and I slept on the living room floor as often as we were allowed, just to be near it. It filled my
almond
with peace and serenity.

One of my favorite holiday pictures is of Dad and me, in front of the
o tannenbaum.
He had his arms around me, and we looked happy, like a real father and daughter. Ironically, that picture came from the same Christmas that turned out to be one of the worst ever.

Christmas Eve 1986, I was seven years old and Kat was four. The stand-up record player blasted Gene Autry’s
Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer.
We munched on all sorts of goodies Mom laid out on the table. My cousin Paul stayed with us at the time to help out on the farm. He and Dad downed several mixed drinks and seemed jovial.

Kat and I opened our gifts that evening. We always did Christmas on Christmas Eve. It was a tradition. I got an Optimus Prime Transformer action-figure and Kat got a Care Bear. We danced our gifts around the living room, keeping time with the music, settling into a delightfully wonderful Christmas.

All of the sudden we heard voices from the kitchen, in particular our father’s. He ranted and raved, I had no idea over what. I grabbed Kat and ran to the record player, pulling the needle off the spinning record with a nervous hand. It scratched the entire way across, distorting the music.

I finally got it stopped as Mom ran through the living room. Directly behind came Dad, running his mouth the entire way. Cousin Paul followed, a look of disbelief on his face. There we stood, Kat and me in the doorway, holding each other’s hands as Dad grabbed Mom, jerking her around and yelling into her face.

Paul stepped between them, at which my father grabbed hold of him. There they went, tumbling across the floor. After what seemed like an eternity, Paul held Dad down, sitting on top of him. He didn’t try to hurt him. He just wanted to keep him from hurting Mom.

By this time Kat was crying. I tried not to cry, having no idea what to do. Mom begged Paul to let Dad up. Dad laughed that crazy, wicked laugh. What a freaking spectacle! Why my mother begged Paul to let him up, I will never know. No matter how awful he treated her, she consistently took his side and tried to protect him.

With reservations, Paul did as she asked, letting him up. Of course, Dad demanded Paul get the hell out of his house. Paul wouldn’t budge until Mom pleaded with him to leave and take us kids. Kat and I, barely able to walk, our little bodies shaking from the unfolding events, followed Paul to the driveway and got in the truck.

All of a sudden our father’s voice grew louder still. I couldn’t leave Mom. I ran back to the house as fast as my legs would take me, Kat following closely behind.

“Go back to the truck,” I ordered. She never did listen very well, a child born with a mind of her own.

When I got to the front door, I pulled on the handle. It was locked. I could hear Kat approaching. “Let me in! Please let me in,” I yelled, banging on the door. I stood on tiptoes looking in through the glass. Dad stood over Mom as she sat crying in the chair beside the wood stove. He pointed his finger at her, running off at the mouth, treating her like something less than human, her face buried in her hands. He grabbed a handful of hair and yanked her out of the chair, dragging her across the living room floor on her hands and knees.