CHAPTER 1
Family
This is how Priscilla, my mother, talks to me.
"Keep your hands to yourself, Susan."
"Stop your whining."
"Get over here!"
"Stand over there."
"What do you think you're doing? You haven't got the sense you wereborn with."
"Leave your sister alone. She doesn't need you getting after her everyminute of the day."
"I've told you over and over! I shouldn't have to tell you again! Pick upyour feet!"
"Serves you right! Haven't I told you time and time again to look whereyou're going?"
"Put that away."
"Close your mouth, Susan. You look like a moron."
"I'm fed up with you! Sit still!"
"Helpless, hopeless, useless."
"Leave that alone. You've no business with things that don't belong toyou."
"How many times do I have to tell you! Pick up your things! Put themwhere they belong!"
I am a toddler like every other toddler, except the person I have as amother acts more like the babysitter from hell. It starts when I get upin the morning and continues until I go to bed. It's there when we'realone and it's there when the whole family is together. My motheris always cross with me. The abrupt commands and sharp-tonguedscoldings go on day after day. Those are the only times she speaksto me, the only ways she addresses me. On a bus, at the beach, in astore, at a neighbor's house, Priscilla's displeasure with me is part ofthe experience.
A woman who projects competence and vigor, Priscilla is short, at justover 5 feet tall, with a wide back, substantial arms and legs, breaststhat fill her torso. Dark brown hair, curled loosely, falls to her shoulders.Sometimes she wears a ribbon to hold the hair back from her face;it softens her appearance, makes her look more feminine. Pale-as-arcticice blue eyes have barely a hint of eyebrows and eyelashes. Hernose seems little on a face that has broad, flat cheeks. Her hands alsolook small, almost delicate with their beautifully trimmed nails. She isgraceful with those hands, and dexterous.
Priscilla wears a dress or a skirt and a blouse, always with an apron tiedaround her waist; the apron stays there all day unless she leaves thehouse. I used see her in pants when she was doing some gardening, orshe'd put on a bathing suit when we went to the beach. Not anymore."I'm too fat. That stuff doesn't look good on me now," I heard her tellDaddy one day when he was trying to cajole her into wearing someshorts. "I've put it all away for good."
No matter how hot it is or how much floor scrubbing she is going to bedoing, she wears a girdle and nylons with the seams in a straight lineup the backs of her legs. "Scrwish-scrwish-scriwsh," the nylon-cladthighs say as her feet tap quick steps across the linoleum to the stove."Scrwish-scrwish-scrwish," as she steps back to the sink.
She goes about her chores in flat shoes, no jewelry or make up. Theexceptions are Sundays, or when visitors are coming, or when we aregoing visiting. Then she dresses up in what she calls her "good clothes"– usually a dress from the women's department at Jordan's or Filene's– gets out her heels, dons a brooch or a necklace, clips on earrings,pencils in her eyebrows and applies a little lipstick.
The signature feature of Priscilla's presence, however, is her ingrainedsense of power and superiority. She does not tolerate being challengedor denied, thinks little children should mind their mothers every minuteof the day. If she sees me pushing food around my plate without eatinganything, or climbing up on the couch, or putting my hand on a curtainas I look out a window, she will stare a hole through my eyeballs withoutflinching and break my will with a snap of her fingers. The scolding isunnecessary. Her countenance speaks loudly of her displeasures andher disapprovals. A repertoire of gestures – arms akimbo at the apron'swaist, the emphatic right toe tap against the floor, the dismissive flipof a hand – telegraph her impatience and her unwillingness to put upwith nonsense and distractions, especially from me. She wears herpreconceived notions about me the way she wears that apron: as a wallI'll have to penetrate before someone of my filth can have access to amother. Her demeanor leaves no uncertainty about my inferiority, mymewling weaknesses.
"What are you doing out of your seat? Did I tell you you could getdown?"
"How many times do I have to tell you to keep your feet off thefurniture?"
"You keep that sweater buttoned up, you hear me?"
"Get your fingers out of your mouth."
"Oh, for Pete's sake. Get a move on, Susan. I haven't got all day."
"Haven't I told you not to put your sticky hands on the chairs? Haven'tI? Get away from there!"
"I'd like to know how that dress got so wrinkled. You'd think I hadnothing better to do all day but wash and iron your clothes! When areyou going to learn?!"
If I do something that makes Daddy laugh, right away I look at Priscillato see if she is laughing, too. Usually she's staring at me with cold eyes,her lips in a straight line. One time I caught her off-guard with thegiggles – before she remembered that it was me who did a childishlyfunny thing and that she doesn't want to ever, ever, ever show that shefeels anything but animosity and scorn for me. The minute she saw melooking at her, she wiped all signs of enjoyment from her face. The maskof the anti-mother stared back at me. She needs to make everythingabout me appear foul.
I can never anticipate what will set Priscilla off. It could be scuff markson my white toddler shoes, or losing a bow she's put in my hair, orgetting crumbs on the floor. One minute she's laughing with Penny orwhistling the tune to a song being played on the radio, and out of theblue she catches sight of me, whips around to face me squarely with apitiless stare and says in the voice of an army training officer barkingat new recruits, "I've got better things to do with my time than pick upafter you all day. Now get out of the kitchen. I don't need to have youunderfoot while I'm trying to get things done."
She is always trying to get things done – on the move, energetic,industrious, the epitome of a suburban homemaker in her early thirties.Priscilla organizes her chores into daily and weekly plans for gettingit all done: vacuuming, dusting, washing the kitchen floor, cleaningthe bathroom, hanging clothes on the line, cooking, baking, ironing. Atalented seamstress, she makes many outfits for my sister and me aswell as dresses and aprons for herself. Everything is done to such a highstandard a machine could not do better. Her desserts are so beautifullyexecuted they look just like the photographs on the covers of BetterHomes and Gardens. She turns out dinners that make Daddy sigh withsatisfaction as he sits back in his chair, splays both hands across histummy and says, "Mummy's a good cook."
Priscilla is indomitable, formidable in every regard. She is so smart andself-disciplined that she completed a two-year course of secretarialstudies at Burdett College in 6 months. Before she married, she hadbeen an executive secretary for several years. She is driven to achieveeverything to perfection and devotes herself to taking care of herhousehold and her family. Except for me, that is. She wishes I didn'texist.
* * *
We live on Hobart Street in Braintree, a suburban neighborhood ofmodest new 2-bedroom homes for young families, located in Boston'sSouth Shore. My parents, Priscilla and Ed, grew up in the area andhave many relatives living nearby. Visits back and forth among ourgrandparents, in-laws, neighbors and friends are an important part ofthe family culture.
Today finds Priscilla getting Penny and me dressed in pretty dresses,brushing our hair and taking us on the bus to neighboring Squantumto see her mother, my Grammie. We do this once or twice a week. It'sa beautiful day, and as soon as Priscilla gets me out of the stroller atGrammie's house, I run to the steps of the porch, crawl up there withmy hands pulling on the next step above, race over to the screen doorthat Grammie is holding open and run into the house chortling withpleasure at my stair-climbing success.
"Where do you think you're going, young lady?" Grammie says crossly."Get right back here. Did you wipe your feet? And haven't I told you notto run in my house?" I look up at her as she scolds me for not thinkingabout her furniture, her polished floor and the grit on my shoes. She isa short, heavyset woman with huge sagging breasts and sagging bagsof arm fat, clacking false teeth and a frizzy cloud of sparse gray hair thathalos around a bald spot on the back of her head. Her taffeta dress goespractically down to her ankles.
She picks me up and bangs me down on a dark chair in a dark cornerof her dining room. "You can stay there until I'm good and ready to letyou get down," she says. "You sit still. Do you hear me? Not a move."She takes Priscilla and darling Penny into the kitchen for lemonade andthen out to the sunny back yard to admire her many formal gardensoverlooking Boston Harbor. A grandfather clock ticks loudly in thesilence inside the house. I sit on that chair, alone and quiet, until it'stime for Priscilla to put me back in the stroller and head home.
Lucky for me, Grammie and Priscilla are the only meanies in my life. I'vegot lots of aunts, uncles and neighbors who talk to me with smiles ontheir faces. They give me hugs and cuddle me on their laps.
* * *
Daddy's father takes the bus over on Saturdays from his house inQuincy so that he can visit with Penny and me. Grandpa Daniel hashad his share of difficulties in life; now he takes special delight in beinga grandfather, spending time with his older son's two little girls whilePriscilla feeds him fresh-baked scones and a cuppa tea. However, hedoesn't care at all for the way Priscilla shows her fondness for Pennywhile giving me the cold shoulder. Each time Priscilla packs me off tomy crib for things all toddlers do, like touching a magazine on the coffeetable after she told me not to touch anything, he voices his dismay."Bring the bairn back oot noo so I can have ma visit wi' her," he says inhis Scottish brogue. "It's been long enow. She's ma wee granddaughter,noo." Grandpa's not afraid to give Priscilla a piece of his mind; he alsolectures Daddy regularly.
"It's history repeating itself," he warns my father time after time,referring to the way Grammie dotes on Priscilla, her firstborn daughter,while constantly criticizing and putting down her younger daughter, myAuntie Belle. This practice started in their childhood and continues tothis day, in the presence of friends and strangers alike. Grandpa hasseen it for himself and heard stories about it from Auntie Belle; theyhappen to take the same bus into the city every morning.
Grandpa wants Daddy to assert his manly authority and flat out tellPriscilla he will not allow her to be mean to me. Every time they meetfor lunch during the work week Grandpa tries to get through to Daddy."Talk to your wifie," he says. "Put your foot doon. You've got to put astop to this right noo. Talk to her, Son."
Grandpa's not the only one. Priscilla's overt animosity towards meupsets aunts and uncles on both sides of the family, who try in theirown ways to have a word with Daddy about it when they witness herbehavior. But they all run into the same brick wall.
Daddy is a devout Christian Scientist.
* * *
To the casual acquaintance, Ed appears to be a serene man, given toquietude. He's six feet tall and beefy. His long eyelashes, the ever-presenthint of a smile and the deep dimple in his chin give him a sweetface. I've seen him frown once in a while, but he never, ever glowers theway Priscilla does. Once thick and curly dark brown hair is rapidly givingway to baldness; thinning strands cover the top of his head. He looksstrong, but when Ed was drafted by the army during WWII he couldn'tpass the physical. The idea of flying overseas and fighting in the warso unnerved him he kept hyperventilating and passing out while thedoctors were examining him.
Daddy's Christian Science faith is a survival kit for him. His mother,Margaret, died of diabetes when he was thirteen. He got through thattrauma by clinging to Christian Science, the church Margaret had joinedout of desperation to stay alive in a time when there was no cure for herdisease. Grandpa Daniel and my Uncle Ralph, Daddy's brother, continueto experience a great anger at Christian Science for failing Margaret.But Daddy is by nature such a gentle soul he cannot cope with fierceand tangled emotions. His faith calms those stormy seas.
He's also a natural-born stoic. Even when his mother died, he did not,would not cry as a boy. His father has told him all his life that it's notgood to hold everything in the way he does. He does not engage inarguments, never raises his voice. However, his mind is rarely at rest.When pushed by his father, his brother or any member of the extendedfamily to confront Priscilla's behavior towards me, he is so busy fixingthe facts until they fit his framework of spiritual beliefs he seems to bealmost mute, incapable of expressing his thoughts. He's focusing on allthe goodness about Priscilla. At most he may utter, "Well. We'll see."
Daddy could no more admit to a flaw in his wife than he could sproutwings and fly. Every day he disciplines his mind to behold everythingin life as all perfect. He sees no illness, no mistakes, no harm, noinjury. Those things have no reality in a world created by a perfectGod who made people in His image and likeness. This is hard work– this having to think your way through to pure good every time youexperience something not quite right. He's not so much reticent as heis mentally preoccupied with using Christian Science dogma to perfecthis perceptions.
Furthermore, he believes he has chosen the ideal mother for hischildren. Having experienced childhood with a sickly mother, he hasmarried a woman who is sturdily built, physically strong, emotionallystolid and proficient with the full range of housewife duties. Everyoneelse calls her Pete, a nickname she's had since childhood. Daddy callsher Honey or Dear, without fail. He starts telling us from an early agewhat a terrific mother we have.
CHAPTER 2
Three Days in Family Life
A friend of Daddy's was in a parachute troop during the war. Nowstationed at nearby Fort Devens, he and his wife have invited us to anair show. His plane is not one of those that will be open to the publicfor tours, but he will be able to give us special access to it. As we getready to go, Priscilla tends to Penny while Daddy stands me up on achair, helps me put on my jacket, and zips it up. Then he carries me anda pillow out to the car, and puts the pillow on the back seat for me tosit on so I can see out the window. All during the ride, Priscilla keepsturning around from the front seat and picking on me.
"Get the hair out of your eyes!"
"I shouldn't have to tell you again! Sit up straight!"
"What's your dress doing up around your waist? Pull it down!"
"Put your legs together!"
"Leave your sister alone! Just keep to yourself the way you've been toldtime after time."
"Get that hang dog expression off your face!"
"Fold your hands in your lap and sit still for once in your life!"
"Don't bother your father while he's driving!"
We arrive to find Daddy's friend living in air force base housing that isstark and small, like a motel room with a kitchenette. This couple hasno children, so adding our family of four to the barren space creates acrowd no matter where we stand. Daddy wants to go out to the tarmacto look at the planes, but Priscilla feels she should stay with our hostess,who is fixing some snacks. "Take her with you," Priscilla says crossly,referring to me without looking at me, her arms folded under herbreasts. "She'll just get underfoot anyway." Penny stays with Priscillawhile I go to the air show with Daddy and his friend.
The planes look monstrous. The cargo planes are immense, of course,but even the sleek fighter jets seem like something out of a bookabout monsters, with their windowed canopy roofs perched way overour heads, their noses resembling the beaks of giant herons. Daddyholds me tightly in his arms as we navigate around the planes, throughthe crowds and then over to a section of the airfield that is roped offto prevent the public from wandering around. Grass grows in tuftsbetween cracks in the tarmac. A few metallic behemoths stand there,heads drooping over nose wheels like weary mastodons resting on theirtusks. We stop at one that has an open hatch in its underbelly with aladder positioned down to the tarmac. "Come on," our friend the pilotsays, scrambling up the ladder. "I'll give you a private tour inside thisold thing."
(Continues...)
