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CHAPTER TWO efore leaving Clearfield
I
recall one last conversation with
Grandmother Naomi. We were standing outside just after a rain, a
rainbow arching across the sky in magnificent splendor. As we
gazed at the rainbow I spoke up, ``Someday I'm going to find
the
end of the rainbow Grandma, and maybe the pot of gold
too.''``Oh Lordy! Honey, there's no pot of gold at the end of the rainbow, that's just a fairytale. You can't chase a rainbow, it just keeps moving away from you,'' she responded, the warmth of her smile displaying the whiteness of her teeth. Her smile, always gentle and loving, confers warm fuzzy feelings to recall. ``Maybe so, but someday I'm going to find the end of the rainbow and see for myself. You wait and see Grandma, you wait and see,'' I answered with stern determination. ``Honey, if anyone can do it, you can. You go right ahead and try,'' she said encouraging me. Grandma believed that children should be encouraged in anything they wanted to do, even the impossible. How else could the impossible become the possible.
Buddy, Mom's brother, and his wife, Glenna, had moved from Clearfield to Akron, Ohio and had been there for nearly two years. The wage, plus benefits, Buddy earned working for Goodyear Tire and Rubber was impressive and, every time they visited Clearfield, Buddy endeavored to convince Dad he should move to the big city. Since he was a supervisor at the plant, he went so far as promising Dad a job. It was Buddy who was the motivating force behind Dad's decision. Visions of better pay, healthy fringe benefits, and a better life were a powerful incentive and finally broke through Dad's reluctance to change. Selling our house in Clearfield wasn't a problem. Dad put immense labor into improving the house. He had dynamited an addition to the cellar, built a new kitchen over the new cellar, and an extra bedroom over the new kitchen. In fact, he had converted a five room house into an eight room home. Not finished, shingling the outside, rebuilding the roof, erecting a new garage, and constructing an immense back porch complete with a two seater swing, he effectively doubled the value. My father was amazing. Neither carpenter, brickmason, plumber, nor electrician, he built all the additions well within standards and codes. In fact the inspector remarked on the fine quality of the work, expressing his opinion that contractors should build as well. When Dad blasted the hole for the cellar, I watched. When he made and poured the cement he had me help stir the mix. Of course, he had to finish it himself to get the consistency he wanted. I helped him set cement blocks for the wall. He even showed me how to use a level. Although, and wisely, he checked my efforts. When he started the kitchen floor I pounded a few nails, but I bent more than I hammered. He pulled them out and hammered new ones. Later, putting in fiberglass insulation I itched like crazy, but was more helpful than when hammering nails. Next, he was ready to build the upstairs bedroom. Since I wasn't great at hammering nails, Dad had me melt a pot of soap making sure lots of nails were sticking in it. Putting nails in a hardwood floor was no mean trick even for my Dad and, before he started putting the nails in soap, he had bent a few himself. However, with soapy nails and much practice, he started driving nails in with quick, deft blows. He was astounding and he was learning quickly. The roof was next and when it came time I carried shingles, two or three at a time, up the ladder. The time we shared was, perhaps, the closest Dad and I ever had together; even though I hadn't done much real work and Dad was trying to make a man of me. It didn't matter. We were spending time together. In my eyes, father was an uncommon man; capable, strong, a man with a gruff exterior and a tender heart. I knew he loved us. After all, he was constructing a home for us. For three years, after Dad finished, we lived, laughed, cried, and loved in that house. When Dad eventually sold the place not a penny was owed. Sad to say, houses in Akron were more expensive, but even so Dad deposited most of the asking price. When we arrived in the big city, Goodyear Tire and Rubber was in the middle of a cutback and Buddy couldn't keep his promise. He apologized to Dad telling him it was out of his hands until the company started hiring again. At first, Dad was livid. My father's attitude was, ``A man should damn well know whether he can keep a promise before making it.'' Buddy agreed, apologized again, and promised Dad the first opening in his department. Dad decided he couldn't wait. He needed a job and he was determined to work for Goodyear. Initiating a relentless campaign, hardly a day passed without father visiting or calling someone at the plant. He didn't ask for a job, he demanded one. Occasionally I overheard him on the phone. He'd say things like: ``Cutback don't matter a goddamn. There's always room for a good man and I'm a damn good man.'', or ``I've got a wife and kid to support. You know I'll work my ass off.'', or ``I know you're tired hearing from me. Hire me and I won't bother you anymore.'', or ``Damn bet I'm aggravating, you know how to shut me up.'' Dad was a hard man to refuse. Apparently Goodyear agreed, he was the only man hired during the cutback. His determination had been rewarded. The man who hired him said he just couldn't stand hearing from him anymore. With Buddy and Dad both employed at Goodyear and doing well, Uncle Louie resolved to follow their lead. Louie, a boilerman on a tramp steamer sailing the Great Lakes, had made serious money. But he rarely saw his family. A job at Goodyear meant less money, but a richer family life. Louie requested to stay at our house while checking out his prospects. Knowing the struggle Dad had getting hired, he decided against moving his family until a job was in hand. Dad acquiesced, but with the clear understanding it was an imposition. Louie would pay for his food and a little extra for the bother. Louie, a large, powerful, mountain giant, 6'5'', had a mean streak hidden behind a deceptive smile. Having grown strong feeding coal to boilers he was a brawling giant who liked nothing better than a bar fight. Oh, he pretended to be a quiet, happy-go-lucky guy who wouldn't hurt anyone. But it was a deceptive ploy to put the hounds off his scent. His cheeks, unnaturally rosy, were slightly dimpled on either side of an almost effete nose, particularly effete on such an immense man. His beady, intelligent, steel grey eyes peered from his oval head in a manner reminiscent of a beast of prey; always one eye wary for a victim or an enemy. His appearance, with his bald head and full lips, was similar to the genie from 1001 Arabian Nights. All he needed to complete the picture would have been a turban, billowing bloomers tied with a bright red sash, a gold earring, and a long wicked scimitar. During his stay with us, while smiling pleasantly, without warning he'd kick me in the shin, mash my head against the wall, or just reach out and cuff me; not lightly in jest, but spiteful and cruel. When I'd yelp he'd ask, ``Gee, did that hurt?'' I quickly learned to be cautious when he was around. I was particularly cautious when we were alone in the house. I made myself scarce. He abused Mom too; not physically, but verbally. Complaining about everything she did, it was obvious he wanted her to feel miserable. At times Mom would weep over his brutal comments. Finally, infuriated, she apprised Dad what was going on. She hadn't wanted to say anything, fearing a war, but his abuse had become intolerable. One morning when Louie was returning from his job search, Dad met him at the sidewalk. ``Fucking shame,'' growled Dad in a voice neighbors near and far could hear. ``A man helps you out and you abuse his wife.'' Louie didn't deny it. He knew he was had. ``Yeah, you're right George. I'm a bastard. But I got my job and I'll be moving out soon.'' ``Not soon, Louie, now. You're moving today,'' ordered Dad. ``Get your things and get out.'' Louie tried calming Dad down. ``George, I don't want to fight you. If we fight one of us is liable to end up dead.'' Dad was raging, ``Damn right! Wanna make book on which one?'' ``No George, I don't. I'll get my things and leave.'' After packing Louie stopped in the living room. ``Eleanor, I'm sorry. The things I've done were wrong. There's no excuse for my behavior, but for the last ten years I worked, played, and slept with nothing but men. Mean bastards, everyone of us. I don't know how to live with decent people anymore. I gotta learn all over again.'' ``George,'' he said, turning to face my father who was holding the door open for him. ``You're doing the right thing. I respect you and hope we can still be friends.'' Louie's brow was furrowed and his body was tense, attesting that his admission hadn't come easy. Dad, recognizing Louie's attempt at reconciliation, barked his assent, ``Sure we can be friends, but damned if you'll ever live in my house again.'' Louie smiled, ``Well spoke and fair enough, George. Thanks for the help.'' Neither one of these men were afraid of the other. Each was confident in his strength and ability. Louie was bigger, nastier, and possibly stronger; Dad, on the other hand, had a ferocious quality when he was angry, the presence of a beast of the jungle. Had they fought, blood would have been spilled. It was good everything was resolved peacefully. The men in my family were powerful, formed in the heroic tradition often vilified in the late 20th century. In their breasts, as in every man of significance, was a hero's heart. Embracing the knowledge that a man's life is expendable in the protection of his family, a strong man turns it to his advantage. Rather then being commissioned to protect his loved ones, he willingly, even eagerly, rushes forward. Not that they would call themselves heroes, nonetheless, they were. Today the need for heroes fades and man is left to face the horrifying prospect that his value has lessened. The appreciation once enjoyed and the subsequent privileges of misconduct that went with it, are being recalled. Everywhere he is directed to transform, to raise himself to greater heights. Confused by these directives, bewildered and a little lost, man only dimly perceives what it is that has cost him his status in the world. Perceiving himself as noble and courageous, he cringes when told that he has created a patriarchy to enhance his domination of women. In his mind, he was protecting his wife and children, willing to die for them. Looking within his heart he doesn't perceive the dark motives ascribed to him. Leastwise, the men in my family were of such mettle, and it was never more apparent than when two or more were in the same place at the same time, as the following narrative demonstrates. Louie having moved his wife, Judy, and their two kids, Weezy and Michael, to Akron, the three families were gathered together for a picnic at a local park. Weezy, Mikey, Buddy's boy, Duke, and I were playing together; the adults were playing cards. Mom was six months pregnant carrying my brother, Greg. While the adults played cards and the children played tag, two college-age guys were hitting a ball down a long field terminating at our table. One long hard hit ball landed close to our table. Louie unwound his massive frame from the table, picked up the ball and threw it back. ``Hey Guys,'' he yelled. ``We've got a pregnant woman down here and if that ball hits her it could kill her. I'd appreciate it if you'd hit it in the other direction.'' A short time passed and the ball bounced near our table a second time. Louie, tossing the ball back, repeated the same thoughts except now they were demanding instead of friendly, ``I asked you nice, now I'm telling you. We got a pregnant woman down here. Hit the damn ball in the other direction.'' A third time the ball bounced near the table. Louie once again unwound from the table. Picking up the ball he heaved it deep into the woods. Without a word he sat down and resumed the card game. ``You're getting visitors.'' said Buddy, nodding at the two angry young men approaching. Looking over his shoulder Louie smiled seeming to anticipate their arrival. Moving fluidly he rose to his feet. Louie wasn't a hero from a story book, he was a man, a big man, true, but two guys were coming and one had a bat. Dad smiled, chortled actually, then wrinkled his forehead and nodded in the direction of the young men. ``You gonna need any help with those yahoos?'' ``Shit, George, what the hell do you think?'' he answered just as the two of them arrived. ``Okay, Mister, now you're going to go get our ball,'' announced the one with the bat. Both were standing side by side for moral support. ``I tried to tell you fellows we had a pregnant woman here and you wouldn't listen. Now I think you best get your ass out of here before you get hurt.'' The one with the bat raised it as if to strike Louie. Louie's hand, not a fist, just the back of his hand, flicked out, striking the young man full in the face. The force of that single movement sent the first man sprawling into the second and both went tumbling to the ground. ``I told you, get your ass out of here. Now get!'' barked Louie. The two men jumped up and ran towards the parking lot, fear written on their faces. From the safety of their car they screamed, ``We're getting some friends and come back.'' Louie laughed and yelled, ``You better get a hell of a lot of 'em, 'cause there's three of us here and the other two are a lot meaner than I am.'' As they left they burnt rubber and that was the last we saw of them. Glenna felt sorry for the young men. ``Dammit Louie,'' she whined, ``they were just kids. Why'd you have to pick on them?'' ``Shut your mouth Glenna,'' growled Buddy. ``What was he supposed to do? Let 'em kill Eleanor?'' Mom also answered, ``Glenna, they had a bat. They were going to hit Louie with it.'' Mom was in an awkward position. She felt obligated to defend Louie from Glenna's verbal assault, but she didn't want a war with Glenna, her best friend, over the incident. My mom, the world's greatest vacillator, never wanted to offend anyone. ``I don't care. They were just kids,'' countered Glenna, reiterating her shaky postulation. ``He didn't have to hit 'em so hard.'' ``Bullshit!'' piped in my father. ``He only slapped 'em. Christ, Glenna, they were grown men. The only thing hurt was their pride.'' ``It still wasn't right,'' whined Glenna, looking around for someone who would support her position. No such support was forthcoming. Judy, the only one who hadn't commented, was beaming, conspicuously proud of her Tarzan. Quietly then, the card game resumed without further discussion of the event. Louie had been protecting my mother. The men knew it, and the men had been ready to protect her. Dad, asking Louie if he needed any help, and, Buddy snapping at his wife for ``lipping off'' at Louie, had shown it. Two of the women viewed it differently, Glenna and my mother. Glenna cried over the incident and later, in the car on the way home, Mother would comment to Dad, ``Louie was looking for a fight. Those boys weren't hurting anyone.'' Dad grumbled, low in his chest, ``Drop it, Eleanor. Louie did right and no more talk about it.'' The men in my family were powerful, prepared to be lethal if they felt the need. It was their nature to be harsh, and while they might unintentionally, or even deliberately, abuse their own, let no other dare the same. The women too, might complain of their men's indulgences, and their gruffness, but they spoke with pride as well, and allowed no one else to speak ill of their men. There are many ways people can come together in a family; our world will be ill served if this way is lost. It's a way suited to many people.
For some reason unknown to me, although I'm grateful, I only had one fight in grade school. It was ``kind of a fight'' at any rate, and except for my freshman year, I didn't have any in high school. The ``kind of a fight'' began when three kids, Mickey McDowell, Richard Herd, and Guy Wise, decided, on some boyish whim, to beat me up on our way home from school. All I remember is three of them mashing my head against the brick wall of a building and then I waking up to find them gone. My head was hurting and blood was on my hand when I reached up to touch the injury. Once I was home Mom tended the wound, after which father sent me back out with instructions to find each boy, one at a time, and make them pay. Fearfully, but more fearful of my father's displeasure, I first sought out Mickey. He was fattest, slowest, and would be the easiest to take out. It was easier than I had expected. Mickey was standing on the sidewalk with his back to me as I approached. Grabbing his shoulders from behind, putting my leg out behind his knees, I threw him to the ground. Swinging my body on top of him I mounted his belly, grabbed his hair, and repeatedly smashed his head into the cement, only stopping after he started to cry. Richard, skinny and short, was coming down his back steps when I caught him. Pushing him back onto his porch steps I grabbed his hair and started smashing his head against the steps. He screamed and momentarily his mother came rushing from the house and started hitting me with a broom. ``Let 'im alone. Go away,'' she screeched swinging the broom viciously at my head. I stood up and backed out of reach. ``I'll go away, but you tell Richey to leave me alone.'' Retreating from Richard's mom I searched out Guy Wise's house. He, I knew, wouldn't be so easy. He was bigger and stronger than the other two and I expected a real fight from him. However, he wasn't home and after waiting an hour or more I gave up. Tomorrow would be another day. The next day, coming home after school, Guy stopped me in the ally where the three boys had beat me up. I doubled my fists, ready to get it over with. Guy began bubbling over with apologies. ``I'm sorry! What we did was stupid and I want you to know, it wasn't my idea,'' he wailed. ``Did you know Mickey's in the hospital with a concussion?'' Guy had heard I was looking for him and seemed sincerely sorry for what had happened. ``Could we be friends, Skip? I always liked you.'' Oddly, all three boys wanted to be my friend, after all was said and done, but only Guy and I actually became friends. That was my only fight in grade school in my Clearfield years, and in my freshman year at Kenmore High School in Akron I was only involved in two disagreements, which I also hesitate to call fights. The first was with a senior, acclaimed as the toughest kid in the school. There was no reason for the fight. He walked up beside me and claimed I had called his mother names. I denied it of course; I didn't know him or his mother. He knew I was telling the truth, but that didn't matter. He demanded I meet him across the street after school. I didn't want to meet him, let alone fight him, but I didn't have any choice. Either I fought him or every kid in school would try to beat me up. When school ended for the day I went to the street where we were supposed to meet. He was ahead of me and a small crowd of his friends were too. Nervously I crossed the street and laid my books near the base of an old oak tree. Suddenly this powerful whirlwind descended on me, striking me over and over. Trying to raise my hands in self defense was useless. I couldn't lay a finger on him. Finally, he knocked me down and then stepped back to give me room to get up again. When I did get up he screamed at me, ``Why the hell don't you hit me back?'' ``Would if I could. You're too damn fast,'' I yelled back. ``You ever fought anyone before?'' ``No, not like this.'' ``Why'd you fight me?'' ``You wanted a fight. I'm not a coward,'' I answered truthfully. That was the end of it. Flashing a puzzled look in my direction he walked away leaving me standing alone and feeling rather foolish. My second fight, a few days later, was with a Junior. He had a marine haircut and a build to match. I suspect news of my earlier fight spread and he figured I'd be easy prey. Pushing my books off my desk, a brief discussion followed in which he called me a coward. Once again I wasn't given a choice. I agreed to meet him after school. When I arrived he was waiting and a large crowd was with him. It looked like the whole school had turned out to watch. On his third blow he knocked me down. I jumped up. He hit me a few more times. I stumbled backwards over a hedge and almost fell again. He hit me again and again, backing me up onto a large porch with a wooden rail around it. As I backed up the steps he swung at my stomach and the blow landed between my legs. The pain was spasmodic. I screamed, ``You rotten son-of- a-bitch!'' I'm not sure why I hadn't fought back until that moment. Perhaps because, when Dad was mad at me, I had taken harder punches than anything my two antagonists had thrown. Perhaps, not used to fighting, I was afraid to hit them back. But when his blow hit my groin I was seething. As his weight shifted onto the porch I stepped back and rolled a blow starting from below my knees. Twisting upward with the full weight of my body behind it I struck him full on the chin. The force of the blow hurled him backwards over the railing and into the yard. He had been rendered unconscious. I vaulted onto the bannister, paused a moment, and then leaped down landing with my feet on either side of him. ``You wanted a fight, bastard. Get up!'' He just laid there. I felt my father's presence coursing through my veins. In my mind appeared an image of my face appearing like my Dad's face, savage and menacing. I felt sick . . . this wasn't me. This was some feral animal. The blood drained from my body and with it my anger. I looked again at the young man laying prone at my feet. I wondered if I had killed him. The thought caused my stomach to do a flip. Meanwhile the crowd cheered. They didn't like me. They didn't even know me. But they were cheering the spectacle. They were cheering the victory of the underdog. I was getting the shit beat out of me and suddenly, with a single blow, I ended it. That had pleased the crowd. They had witnessed a production, an entertainment, and the players weren't any more real to them than those in a movie. The senior I fought with earlier came over and clasped a hand on my shoulder. ``Christ, Lansberry, takes a lot to piss you off, don't it?'' He was wearing a wide grin on his face and his tone was conciliatory. ``Fighting's stupid!'' I replied, shaking off his hand and picking up my books. ``What'd it prove? What if I had killed him?'' ``He ain't dead, just out cold.'' After that, I left. The next day when I saw my opponent up and around, I heaved a sigh of relief. I tried to catch his eye, to signal him how sorry I was, but when I looked his at him he turned away from me. I was a bigger dog in the pack. I felt like puking my guts out.
A few weeks passed. Buddy and Glenna with Mom and Dad were playing Pinochle in our breezeway. A breezeway is a screened passage, porch-like, between the house and the garage. Duke, their son, and I were playing out in the yard. Suddenly Aunt Judy pulled into the driveway. As she was getting out of the car I noticed her face was bruised and bloody, her hair disheveled and her blouse ripped. I rushed over to her but the adults, coming from the breezeway, were on the scene. ``What happened to you?'' asked my mother. ``The bastard beat me up again. Do you have any ice?'' answered my aunt. ``Sure, come in. I'll wrap some in a wash cloth,'' replied my mother, gripping Judy's arm in support. ``Jesus, why don'tcha leave the bastard?'' growled her brother, my Uncle Buddy. My aunt had always wanted a strong man. Tarzan, by Edgar Rice Burroughs, was her childhood idol and apparently she was willing to tolerate Louie's abuse because he fulfilled her fantasy. No doubt about it, Louie was a strong man. He didn't beat on her because he was a drunk, or because he felt inadequate. He beat on her for the same reason he beat on everyone, he was a mean bastard with a nasty temper. No one noticed as I slipped into the garage to get my bike, and in the commotion, no one noticed me speed off as fast and as furious as my legs would take me. Rationality had left me; my head felt hot and there was an almost painful pressure in my ears. At fourteen I had gone stark raving mad, completely berserk. ``No one hurts my aunt,'' I screamed, once out of earshot. ``No one,'' I screamed over and over accelerating across the five miles separating our two houses. Arriving at my aunt's house I leaped off my bike letting it fall in the front yard. The sound of water running in the backyard alerted me to Louie's location. I charged around the house to discover him, his back to me, standing at the top of their hilly backyard watering the grass. Hurtling myself at him I caught him around the knees. Surprised, his knees buckled and we went tumbling and rolling down the incline. As we came to a stop I came up swinging. Louie was already on his feet. One massive hand was on my head, holding me at bay. My swings failed to connect. Louie was laughing. ``What's this all about, Skip?'' asked Louie, infuriating me with his mocking laughter. ``You hurt Judy. You hurt her bad.'' I screamed, still trying to connect with one of my wild swings. Louie, twisting his hand in my hair, forced me to one side and then landed a solid smack on my ass that sent me sprawling on the grass. ``Settle down, before I get pissed off,'' he directed in a matter-of-fact voice, ``What happens between Judy and me is our business. Now, get your ass on home.'' Louie's smack on the ass didn't take all of the fight out of me, but it had the effect of bringing me back to reality. This man could cripple me, or worse. ``You hurt her Louie. You hurt her real bad.'' ``I know I did. I'm not proud. But it's no concern of yours, now get,'' he ordered, lifting me by an arm and shoving me toward the front yard. ``I'm going,'' I answered, walking slowly away. ``I'm going.'' I felt mortified, humiliated, and ashamed. I had failed in my mission, been brushed off as easily as if I were an annoying insect. Worse, I had experienced a savageness in myself I would rather have not discovered.
Still fourteen, but going on fifteen, I made the mistake of being on the wrong side of my father's brutal temper. It began quietly enough. It was a Saturday, Dad and Mom were once again playing pinochle with Buddy and Glenna, this time at Buddy and Glenna's house. Duke, Buddy's ten year old son, was visiting with a friend across town. Accordingly my amusement was left to my own devising. Snooping, I wandered around and finally drifted into the basement, which served both as a furnace and laundry room. The furnace, big, grey, and ugly, sat in the middle of the cellar and was the first thing you noticed as you came down the stairs. Off to the right was a storage area with stacks of old newspapers, magazines, and pop bottles. Sometimes Buddy allowed Duke and me to cash in the empties for can- dy. To the left were the washing machine, the rinse tubs, and a pile of mixed laundry. On top of the pile was a beautiful, black and white dress, Glenna's. It had cute straps that tied behind the neck, leaving the shoulders bare, and a full flared skirt. Glenna's choice in clothes was more than attractive. It was sexy. What would it look like on me? The full skirt would surely flare wonderfully if I twirled. I wondered, did I dare try it on? My parents and Duke's parents usually ignored us kids when they were involved in their card games. Looking at the dress once more I knew I couldn't resist. It was simply gorgeous. Stripping off my clothes I piled them behind the furnace. If anyone came down the stairs, it would give me extra time to dress if I was hidden behind the furnace. Rummaging through the laundry I found a bra, panties, and a slip. The bra was strapless and would go perfectly with the tie straps on the dress. I put on the underclothes, padded the bra cups with two washrags, and then I lifted the dress and for a moment just admired it. Finally I slipped it on. It was delicious and it fit me perfectly. The feel as I waltzed around the basement was absolutely heavenly. I strolled, swirled, and danced, thoroughly enjoying myself, lost in another world, my own private world. ``SKIP!'' bellowed my father from upstairs. Fear gripped me, twisting my stomach into knots. I began yanking clothes off and throwing them back on the pile of laundry. ``I know you're down there,'' he shouted. Naked, except for a bra, I burrowed into the clothes even as his first footfalls sounded on the cellar steps. Making a peek hole I watched and waited for my father to come down the stairs. Stopping at the foot of the stairs, he paused a moment and then moved around the furnace to the right. Silently, aided by my bare feet, I slipped from the pile of clothes and crept up the stairs. At the head of the stairs were two doors. One led to the kitchen where I could smell fresh-brewed coffee, and the other, a screen door, led outside. Taking a moment to undo the bra, I looked out the screen door. The street was deserted. ``Damn it, Larry! I found your clothes. Where in hell are you?'' My father's voice was thunderous, dripping venom. Panicking I bolted through the screen door, wincing as it slammed shut behind me. ``God, stupid, stupid,'' I thought. ``I heard that!'' screamed Dad, his booming feet beating on the stairs. Looking around for a place to hide, the open garage door beckoned to me. I ran inside tossing the bra at the rafters. Wonder of wonders it caught on the first toss. Frantically, I searched for a hiding place. Nothing! Hearing my father rushing in be- hind me, I turned to face him. My heart was thumping against my chest like a jack- hammer against a concrete sidewalk. I turned left, right, left again. There was no place to run. Trapped, I stared at my father. He stared back. Seeing me naked, he froze in mid-stride. His mouth fell open. For a long terrifying moment nothing happened; the lull before the tempest. Time stretched, the moment was interminable. Dad's neck turned red, then his face and ears. His lips tightened and grimaced. It was like watching the first signs of a volcano about to erupt. Finally I had to break the tableau. ``Uh, I'm really in for it, huh?'' I asked. ``What in hell did you think you were doing?'' he rumbled, his voice reverberating so loud it seemed to shake the garage walls. ``I was just playing,'' I offered timidly. ``Playing! Playing what?'' he roared. ``I was pretending to be Tarzan,'' I improvised, not expecting to be believed. The fury growing in my father's face is something I'll never forget. ``And I suppose that was your loincloth?'' he snapped pointing at the bra hanging from the rafter and slowly swinging back and forth. Screaming, he launched himself at me. This was it. I was going to die. Dad's wrinkled forehead, eyebrows pinched and drawn, an agonizing twist to his mouth, all showed his torment. Torment that had turned to rage. At that moment, however, I wasn't empathetic with Dad's anguish. I was concerned with my survival. I didn't think I had a chance. Grabbing my shoulder, his features savage, almost unrecognizable, he smashed his fist into my face. I staggered back. He hit me once, twice, then, a couple more times. Each time I staggered, stumbled, almost falling. My ears were ringing, my throat was raspy, tears were filling my eyes. Oh, good God, he was going to kill me. He was going to kill me for wearing a brassiere. It didn't make sense. Dad had beat me before, sometimes with a belt, a couple times with a belt buckle, but this time he wasn't holding anything back. My death was written in his eyes. The agony had been too much; he snapped, homicidally insane. Consciousness was slipping from me, a gray haze shadowed the periphery of my vision. Soon it would be over. I began to welcome the darkness. Let it come. Get it over with. I couldn't stand much more. ``Stop it, George!'' yelled Buddy, entering the garage. ``You're killing him.'' His voice sounded muffled and distant. I was so dazed it didn't matter whether Buddy saved my life or not. ``Damn betcha' I'll kill the fucking little pervert,'' came the angry reply, although he did stop hitting me. I could scarcely stand, but my uncle's voice restored hope. Still unsteady on my feet, weaving dizzily, I remained conscious as my father's grip loosened and the world grew solid under my feet. ``You don't mean that, George. You're angry. Hell, I'd be angry, too. But he's just a kid. He's your son. Now calm down.'' Picking up a burlap sack, Buddy threw it at me. ``Wrap this around you and go put your clothes on.'' ``Come on, George,'' he said, taking Dad's arm, ``let's go in the house.'' Waves of self-loathing, like surf breaking on a rocky shore: dread, horror, shame, remorse, disgust, revulsion, perversion, humiliation, disgrace. Shuddering and trembling racked my body. ``Stop shaking, calm down,'' I ordered. ``Block it out. Don't think about it. Try harder to be a good boy,'' I mumbled to myself. ``Try harder.'' More than ever, I wanted to please my father. What was wrong with me? I tried to be everything my family wanted. I tried to be their good boy. Why did I like pretty things? Why was the impulse to wear pretty things something I couldn't resist? What was wrong with wearing female clothes? Why did it cause my father to go into a rage? Why had he tried to kill me? What was it about a boy wearing female clothes that drove him insane? If I could stop, didn't he think I would? I'd do anything to please him. Everything was confusing, complicated, like a Gordian Knot, one that couldn't be cut with a sword. I started going to church on Sundays, and I began daily readings from the Bible, mostly the New Testament. This sudden conviction mystified my parents. Not that they weren't religious; they were. They were Methodist, but church, when they attended, was an Easter affair. It wasn't that Dad didn't like church, he did, but he resented the continual appeals for money, his money. My studies and regular church attendance led to a deep conviction in the Lord Jesus Christ as my personal Savior, and an acceptance of myself as a sinner. Inviting Christ into my heart I accepted Him as my personal Savior. Jesus filled me, and I could sense his presence in my life. Through His sacrifice I had been saved from sin. I didn't have any idea what sin was, but I was certainly glad I was saved from it. Church attendance also helped me in more practical ways. Sunday mornings I was free from my parents' authority, a morning of autonomy. I knew instinctively that Mom and Dad couldn't help me discover my identity. I'd have to discover it myself and to do that I needed time alone. Sunday mornings were mine and, after church, I didn't hurry home. I dawdled and dawdling led to long talks with the minister. These talks helped direct and intensify my bible studies. If my folks had been mystified at my sudden transformation to religion, they were astounded when I announced I wanted to be baptized with immersion. God had commanded it, was my response to their questions. It took a few weeks to find a church with the proper facilities, but eventually we found one, a baptist church and a minister. It was to be a private baptism, just the pastor, the trinity, and me. Upon entering the church I noticed it seemed unusually dark. Stained glass windows emitted but meager light, lending a moody ambience to the church. A galvanized tub like the kind used to feed livestock was on a stage at the front of the auditorium. It was nearly full. The pastor, Reverend Jacobs, was a tall, thin man with a sincere smile and he greeted me with a warm handshake. He showed me to a small room and gave me a pair of coveralls instructing me to change and then come out to be baptized. A few minutes later I was standing in front of the ladder leading into the tub. With the reverend's assistance I climbed up the outside ladder and then down the inside ladder. Reverend Jacobs followed me into the chilly water. The water level was higher than I had expected, reaching almost to my armpits. The reverend stepped forward and directed me to hold my nose, then, with one hand behind my head and the other on my chest he submerged me three times. ``I baptize this sinner, Larry Lansberry, in the name of the Father.'' Submerge. ``I baptize this sinner, Larry Lansberry, in the name of the Son, Jesus the Christ.'' Submerge. ``I baptize this sinner, Larry Lansberry, in the name of the Holy Ghost.'' Submerge. ``Congratulations,'' he said bringing me up for the last time. ``Welcome to the family of Christ.'' An electric tingling flowed through my body; the living presence of my Lord, Jesus Christ. That presence seemed as real to me as the Reverend Jacobs standing before me. Tears played at the corners of my eyes. Alleluia! I was saved! Alleluia! Jesus was alive in my heart. Like a fog lifting, an epiphany burst upon me, an awareness of purpose. God was calling me to the ministry. I had just turned 15 and the direction of my life was set before me. I would preach the Gospel of Jesus Christ and with His help I would bring His Salvation to other wretched sinners. If my parents had been mystified with my previous behavior, they were flabbergasted now. However, my announcement had an unexpected result. It explained my strange behavior. Mom thought preachers were all a little strange anyway. Touched by God, to her way of thinking, suggested a little touched. Dad also seemed to accept my pronouncement as something with relief, an explanation for the bizarre behavior of his flesh and blood. After all, holy men were all a bit crazy. Of course, when I was alone, I still enjoyed dressing up in Mom's wardrobe and I enjoyed doing chores around the house. I didn't understand it, but it was a solitary pleasure and I figured no one needed to know. I was under the impression that I was the only person who ever did such a thing. To be sure, some males liked to wear women's panties and jack off, but that wasn't the same. I dressed entirely in women's clothes and rarely had any desire to masturbate. Rude awakenings! One evening, browsing through the Old Testament, I stumbled on the following passage. Deuteronomy Chapter 22 Verse 5: ``The woman shall not wear that which pertaineth unto a man, neither shall a man put on a woman's garment: for all that do are abomination unto the Lord thy God.'' I read it again, but the words didn't change. Again, I read the passage. My mind was reeling. Not just a sinner, I was an abomination to God, the God I loved with all my heart. My Lord and Savior detested me. My stomach churned. I wanted to scream. I read the passage one more time, tears filling my eyes until I could scarcely see. Now I knew why my father had tried to kill me. I was an abomination, something despicable, something horrible. Repeatedly chills radiated down my neck, my spine, and spread across my back. ``Fine, I'm an abomination,'' I acquiesced, ``With Jesus at my side, I'll stop. Dear Sweet Jesus understands. I didn't know it was wrong. Now I do and He'll help me.'' I prayed. I repented the sin that made me an abomination to God. I prayed for forgiveness and asked for the strength to overcome the evil within. God promised to answer all who called on Him. Whatever we asked for He promised to provide. Each night I prayed and I prayed when the urge to dress came on me. Loving God with all my heart and soul I knew He'd answer my prayers. I believed it. Conviction, sincerity, trust, faith of a mustard seed. God wouldn't fail me and with God, I couldn't falter. Over a year I fought the yearning that grew steadily stronger. Some times I'd break out in sweats, and there'd be tears in my eyes. Drowning in emotional conflict; I was like a fish caught up in a tornado only to be dropped on sizzling desert sands. Each passing day the desire became harder to put away. Each day my prayers became more intense, more impassioned. ``God was testing me, but He wouldn't fail me. He wouldn't test me beyond my limits. He just wouldn't.'' Then, one day when my parents were expected to be away for many hours, my praying was shattered. Helplessly I was drawn to my mother's room, to her closet, and to her wardrobe. Looking at her clothes hanging in the closet was like looking at old friends, friends waiting to welcome me back. My insides were leaping as if in a cement mixer. My heart was throbbing, and my hands trembling. ``NO!'' I screamed in a loud voice, throwing myself to my knees, ``Jesus! Lord! Help me! Please! Please help me.'' Perplexity, mystification, disorientation, incredulity. This couldn't be happening, my Lord and God wouldn't have me be an abomination. He loved me. Where was the strength He promised? I had called on Him. Where was He? Had He rejected me? Was I that bad? I knew the answer. I was an abomination, despicable and disgusting. God wanted nothing to do with me. Tears running down my face, I got up. Moving to Mom's dresser I opened the lingerie drawer. I reached in gingerly touching those items on top. There was no fight left in me. Clothing myself in bra, panties, and a half slip, I sat down on the edge of the bed. Taking a moment to wipe the tears from my eyes, I continued dressing. A few moments passed and then I was wearing a white lace blouse with a grey, flared, flannel skirt. I loved flared skirts. Wrapping my short hair in a head scarf, I slipped into a pair of flats and then inspected myself in the bedroom mirror. My appearance was that of a young girl, slim and willowy. It had a reality beyond choice, beyond any power to put away. Falling back on the bed, hurt and confused, I sobbed and sobbed, great wracking sobs that shook my body and the bed. Then, for a little while, I slept. When I awoke I laid still, staring at the ceiling. I felt alone and deserted. I had been betrayed. Everything I had read in the Bible was a lie. God didn't answer prayers. He didn't forgive sinners. He didn't even exist. He was a fairy tale, a grown-up version of Santa Claus. As God slithered from my life, I ached for the solace believing had given me. I stood up, looked at myself in the mirror, ran my hands down my body in sensuous delight, and then I straightened the bed. A quick check revealed the chores were all done, so I sat down in an armchair in the living room. I felt right wearing female clothing, comfortable, as if I were itching a part of myself that couldn't be reached any other way. The afternoon passed too swiftly. My parents would be home soon. Returning to the bedroom I took everything off, carefully refolding each garment and putting them away. Carefully, lest it be detected that someone had been in them. Afterwards, I went back to my room and dressed in my male clothing. I decided against telling my parents that I wasn't going to be a preacher, let alone that I no longer believed in God. Confessing my ``sins'' under the circumstances seemed inappropriate.
When I was 16, my father bought an acre on the outskirts of Akron. Baseball was my father's first love, but farming was a close second. He delighted in growing things, practical things: corn, tomatoes, lettuce, carrots, peas, and string beans. Although reluctantly, at my mother's request, Dad planted a small patch of strawberries. Using a hand plow we turned the earth and began planting the land. A hand plow has two handles, a big iron wheel, and a blade for making furrows. It was hard work to push and harder yet keeping the rows straight. One afternoon, in the field plowing furrows for my father, the sun unusually hot, I had a strange lethargy come over me. Each row I plowed became more difficult, each plodding step I took more languid than the one before. Slower and slower I went until finally I drew the my father's wrath. ``Get your ass in a move on,'' he grumbled. ``We ain't on no picnic.'' I nodded and started to push faster. I was so weary, so exhausted, but I knew if I crapped out my father would be furious. Not more than a dozen steps later my world started spinning and suddenly I was falling. That was the last thing I remembered until I was at home again. I awoke, on the sofa. Dad was raging, ``He's not sick. He's just a lazy bastard.'' ``What if you're wrong?'' Mom screamed back. ``We're taking him to the hospital.'' While they argued, I faded out again. However, before losing consciousness, a wash of guilt came over me for failing my father. I wanted to get up, to go back to the field with him. But I didn't have the strength to speak, let alone to stand up. I knew I was a disappointment. As it turned out I really was ill, seriously. I had nephrosis, a kidney disease that attacks mostly teenagers. The mortality rate of nephrosis was high, less than even odds if they catch it early. My chances were less than that because they hadn't caught it early. When Dad learned I could die, it was his turn to feel guilty. To compensate he employed Dr. Banks, one of the finest kidney specialists in the world. Over the next four days my condition deteriorated. My kidneys ceased to function and I gained 200 pounds of water weight, weighing a grand total of 350 pounds. I looked like a bloated elephant, tiny eyes peering from heavy folds of flesh. My body was so large it threatened to overflow the hospital bed. Dr. Banks, concerned my appearance could depress me, ordered the mirrors removed from my room. Naturally this aroused my curiosity and one night, rolling my IV rack beside me, I slipped down the hall and into the public restroom. I couldn't believe my image. That monstrosity couldn't be me. It was scarcely human. The thing in the mirror was grotesque, bloated, a distorted parody of a human being well on the way to becoming a float in the Macy's parade. I knew I wouldn't be back for a second look. My appearance, horrible as it was, didn't bother me as much as the IV in my wrist. I begged Dr. Banks to take me off of it. He insisted the IV was necessary, that I needed more fluids, although he promised to think about it. On the fifth day of my hospitalization Mom and Dad seemed disturbed. Their facial expressions were carefully disguised, but their body language was tense, distant. I knew something was going on. They knew something they didn't want me to know. During their visit Dr. Banks dropped in and, after a moment with me, he asked them to step out in the hall. They complied, shutting the door behind them. Immediately I slipped from bed. As I stood up a slight feeling of vertigo came and went. Making my way over to the door I placed an ear against it. Clearly, I could make out their conversation. ``How long does he have, doctor?''
asked my mother.
``At most, two weeks. I'm sorry.
We've done all we can.''
``My God,'' I thought, ``they're
talking about me. They think I'm going to
die. It wasn't true. I was only sixteen. I
couldn't be dying.''
A large spiked ball was grinding my
insides to shreds as I dragged myself back to
my bed. Unbidden tears brimmed my eyes
threatening to overflow. Panic choked in my
throat. My mouth filled with bitter gall. Oh
shit, I didn't want to die.
When Dr. Banks and my parents
returned Dr. Banks removed the IV,
warning me to drink as much liquid as
possible if I didn't want it put back. Then he
left. My spirits brightened considerably.
``The doctor's wrong,'' I announced
to my parents. ``I'm not gonna die.''
A moment passed in silence and then
Mom guessed, ``You listened at the door?''
I nodded.
Dad, his face ashen, turned his back
and walked to the corner of the room. A
slight shudder suggested he was crying.
Tears were creeping into my eyes, too. I
blinked them back. I had to be strong. If I
wasn't, the fear would consume me.
Mom looked at me, our eyes touched
for a moment. ``Doctors can be wrong.
They don't know everything.''
``He is wrong,'' I said out loud and
with false bravado. Inside I was in turmoil.
``My God,'' I thought, ``less than two
weeks. That was what the doctor said.''
A fluke saved my life, that and my
dread of the IV needle. I would have done
anything to keep that needle out of my arm,
accordingly I did what the doctor ordered
and with a vengeance. I drank quarts of
chocolate milk, quarts of orange juice,
quarts of root beer, and quarts of water. I
drank and drank and then I drank some
more. I drank 5 gallons of liquid in a single
day. My stomach ached and that made the
rest of me ache. If you can poison yourself
drinking too much liquid dribble at first, then a small trickle
followed
by a stream, next a steady flow and finally,
it poured from me. All night, every few
minutes, I peed. The nurses were kept busy
emptying my constantly refilling urinal.
Next morning Dr. Banks was incredulous. ``I can't believe
it,'' he
remarked, smiling and shaking his head.
``You're urinating pure water. You could
drink this stuff,'' he said, examining my
most recent contribution.
Water continued to flow from me and
over the next two weeks my weight returned
to normal. Instead of going to the cemetery,
I'd soon be going home. Although the
danger wasn't passed; my weakened immune
system wouldn't tolerate the flu, or even a
serious cold. Home tutoring was authorized
to minimize the possibility for opportunistic
infections that swarm in public high schools.
Which is how I came to meet Mary Ann
Flower.
Mrs. Fenny, an independent high
school teacher, tutored both Mary and
myself. Mrs. Fenny gave me Mary's phone
number and suggested I call. At first I was
disinclined, but after assurances from Mrs.
Fenny that I'd be welcome, I finally broke
down and called. On the morning of March
29th, 1956, nervously, I dialed her number.
Mary, also out of school that year, answered
the phone. We struck up a conversation
easily, as if we had known each other for a
long time. Two people, each having our
injuries, reaching out, hoping to find
someone to listen, someone to understand.
Life, and men, had not been kind to
Mary. One rainy night Mary was babysitting
four children. When the parents returned
from their outing the father offered Mary a
ride home. On the way, after Mary had
gratefully accepted, he forcibly raped her. A
few days passed before she was able to
relate the incident to her mother. Her
mother casually dismissing the whole thing
as Mary's fault, said, ``What did you do to
get him started, Mary Ann? You have to be
more careful around men.''
Later, when her first boyfriend,
John, date raped her, she knew better than
to say anything to anyone. It happened at a
drive-in movie. John suggested the back seat
would be more comfortable and, innocently,
Mary agreed. Of course, with hindsight,
Mary should have known it was her fault for
enticing him. After all, she had climbed in
the back seat with him, hadn't she? Wasn't
it always the fault of the woman?
After ``scoring,'' John never called
her again. But Chuck, a friend of John's,
began dating her. After all, word was out,
Mary Ann was easy. Chuck was a bruiser,
macho in the full sense of the word. Mary,
her experiences having ripped her self-
esteem to shreds, submitted to everything
Chuck asked. What Chuck liked was oral
sex; long, often, and violent. Grabbing her
hair, or ears, he would hammer his immense
cock into her mouth until her throat was
bruised. Mary was breaking off her
relationship with Chuck when I made my
first phone call.
If Mary hadn't told her injuries I
could have sensed them. Her voice, her
soulful eyes, her quiet demeanor, her
submissive nature, all bespoke a woman who
had endured immense heartache. Mary was
seventeen, vulnerable, and although these
men had left her wounded, she wasn't
without hope. She still believed a knight in
shining armor riding a white charger would
rescue her. I knew what Mary needed. I
knew, if I wanted her, I could have her. I
could be her knight in shining armor. The
question remained, would she give me what
I needed? Someone to understand my desire
to be a woman.
Mary was pleased to discover I was
virgin and, as the conversation developed,
our initial nervousness disappeared. We
experienced an eerie, although pleasant,
sense of belonging together. Soon we started
talking marriage and children. Mary said she
wanted twelve kids, six boys and six girls.
Whimsically, but seriously, I advised her I
could see our children's images in my mind.
I saw four sons and I described each to her.
I also described a young woman who would
enter our lives after the children were grown
for some purpose I was not able to discern.
I also mentioned that the woman would be
slightly older than our oldest son.
Our first date was gentle, like the caress of a warm summer
breeze. When I
knocked on her door and she answered, she
was all eyes; two immense, tender,
vulnerable, timorous, dark sienna eyes
locked with mine. 5'4'', she had straight
ebony hair, Indian hair, framing a thin,
almost drawn face. Her lips were thin, the
upper lip almost non-existent, and the rest of
her matched the delicacy of her lips. She
was a pale, fragile, flower; a girl yearning
to be loved. Her almost ethereal features,
dainty hands, her youthful appearance, her
long beautiful black hair, and those
incredible eyes were a mesmerizing image.
It seemed for a moment, contrary to my
born again skepticism, that we shared some
special destiny, that fate or God had brought
us together. However, having been fooled
by such emotions before, I dismissed the
thought as nonsense. There was no God.
Still, here was this beguiling young
woman, vulnerable, filled with longing.
Shyly we exchanged greetings and, after a
few awkward moments on the porch, she
suggested we walk over to her church. The
idea of church initiated a momentary
apprehension, but it passed. We visited at
her church briefly then, preferring to be
alone, we went walking in a modest little
woods that somehow managed to survive the
onslaught of big city growth. An unassuming
rock-strewn rivulet gurgled pleasantly as it
wound through sparse trees and under an
aging weather-worn footbridge. The nectar
of trees and green scrub filled the air with
romantic fragrance. Near the bridge we sat
on a convenient log whispering soft
assurances to one another. I slipped my arm
around her, my fingers accidentally resting
on the lower portion of her breast. Once
there I bade them stay. To remove them
would have acknowledged error and it
seemed not error. I liked the touch and
hoped she might not notice, or noticing not
mind, that slight boldness of my fingers.
Years later I would learn she had noticed
and, while it made my intentions momentarily suspect, she
recognized my shyness
and that I wasn't like the men she had
known. My fingers, scarcely brushing the
lower flesh of her breast were tentative and
innocent, as I was tentative and innocent.
Through April, May, and June we
managed to see each other four times. That
was a lot considering we lived across the
city from each other and both were
supposedly confined to bed rest. We also
talked on the phone for hours. My father
actively disliked Mary Ann and called her a
whore. It was the first and only time I
doubled my fist to my father. As my fist
shook hesitantly at my side, his fist landed
squarely on my jaw. I flew backwards
across the living room only stopping as I
slammed up against the far wall.
My father was on top of me, his
huge massive fist shaking in my face looked
as large as a watermelon. ``Next time you
double a fist at me I'll break your face,'' he
snarled.
I retorted, ``I love Mary Ann. You
insulted her. What'd you expect me to do?''
Denouncing my protestations of love, he
offered money to pay a whore. I loathed his
coarseness. I loved Mary and she loved me.
It was in the way our eyes met, in our
tender embrace, and in sharing our hopes
and dreams. My father was
being an ass.
``Fuck a whore,'' he ordered.
Bastard. I'd never fuck anyone. I didn't do
fuck. Mary and I hadn't made love yet
anyway, not the way he was suggesting. Our
love was virginal, resplendent, not base
appetite. Nothing Dad could say could make
it something dirty.
July 5th, in the summer, I was
released from bed rest. I seized every
opportunity to visit Mary Ann. Many happy
hours were spent at the bridge in what had
become our woods. Cuddling, talking,
holding hands, and sweet kisses filled our
time. Our sense of belonging grew day by
day.
At the beginning of August Mary decided it was time we made
love. I was a
willing, if not knowledgeable, victim. Although, for me, the
manner in which it came
about was quite unexpected. I had taken an
early morning bus to Mary's house. When I
arrived she was laying on the sofa in light
blue baby doll pajamas. A fluffy robin's egg
blue blanket decorated with petite pink roses
draped her legs, an eager smile on her lips.
We were alone, she assured. Her father was
at work, her sister at school, and her mother
was visiting a neighbor. Throwing back the
cover she invited me to join her. I accepted.
For a time we lay together cuddling and
talking. We enjoyed cuddling and talking.
Then, laying there, she took my hand
and pulled it toward the plush warmth of her
pubic hair. Soft, it was, and pleasant to my
touch. I stroked gently. She pushed my hand
lower and suggested I put a finger inside.
My finger, surrounded with the moist
warmth of her vagina, slid in easily. It
seemed natural to move my hand back and
forth, so I did. She moaned pleasantly. As I
continued ministrations she chattered on
about oral sex, and how she used to go
down on her previous lover. Suddenly she
blurted out, ``You wanna do it?''
Mary and I had discussed sex a few
times. I told her I was content to wait until
after our marriage. It seemed important she
know I wasn't out to use her. Truth be told,
sex didn't matter. Never having had a sexual
encounter, I wasn't in a hurry. Now,
however, since she wanted to do it,
everything changed. She had come to trust
me and sex became acceptable, even
desirable.
Getting off the sofa I was under the
impression Mary wanted to go down on me.
She led me up the stairs leading to her
bedroom. Her bed, her dresser, and her
floor was covered with books, comic books,
papers, and dust an inch thick. This was the
first time I had been to her room. It was a
disaster area. A momentary apprehension
entered my mind, she couldn't want to make
out in that chaotic mess. My foreboding
eased as we went on down the hall and into
her parent's room.
``It'll be better here,'' she promised,
slipping out of her panties and bounding on
to the unmade bed. It was then I realized
that she wasn't offering oral sex; she wanted
more from me. Anticipation yielded to
nature and, unzipping my trousers, I
mounted her. It was my first time and it felt
good. I rather liked it. The earth didn't
move, or anything, but it was definitely
pleasant.
``You're getting my cherry,'' I
informed her.
``You're really a virgin?'' she asked.
``I told you I was,'' I answered,
although a bit winded from the exertion.
``You're not doing it like a virgin.''
``What do you mean? Am I doing it
wrong?'' I asked in alarm.
``No, it feels good, better'n I've ever
had,'' she offered.
``Feels good to me too,'' I
confessed, and it was getting better and
better.
``You aren't like the others,''she
continued.
``What do you mean?'' I asked, the
breathlessness becoming more pronounced.
``They didn't talk while they were
doing it,'' she responded, followed by a
pleasant little sigh.
``Should I stop talking?''
``Maybe, for a little while. We have
to hurry, my mother could come home any
minute.''
Erupting, I giggled. ``You know
what?''
``What?'' she asked, contentment in
her eyes.
``Maybe, baby,'' I teased. I kept
repeating it, ``Maybe, baby. Maybe, baby.''
I was delighted at the prospect. I liked the
sound of the words together. I liked the idea
of a baby. Fortunately, for some foolish
young people, fate takes pity. Mary didn't
get pregnant. We made love many times
over the next few weeks, never using
protection, and ... no baby. We were
extraordinarily lucky.
During our first phone conversation
I had told Mary about sometimes wearing
my mother's clothes. It didn't seem to
bother her. In fact, she informed me she
sometimes wore her brother's clothes.
``I pretend to be a hunter, or
sometimes a cowboy. It's fun. Sometimes I
imagine I'm a great black stallion and I have
a herd of mares to service. It's a fantasy,
but I enjoy it,'' she declared, greatly
relieving my anxiety concerning my own
needs.
``That's wonderful,'' I answered,
``With me it's not like pretending, not
exactly. It's more than a fantasy. You've
said I'm not like guys you've known,
right?'' I asked, hoping to clarify my
feelings.
``You're gentle with me,'' she
assured me, ``and you care about my
feelings.''
``I don't get off on stuff guys get off
on. I get off on things girls get off on. It's
confusing, but it's the way I am,'' I
explained as best I could.
``It's no problem for me,'' she
replied. ``If that's what makes you different
then all guys should be like you. You're
everything I want.''
I was in shock: pleasing, enchanting,
delirious shock. I had found someone who
accepted my feelings and needs. The feeling
of destiny intensified.
We decided to choose a feminine
name for me for those times when I dressed
up. We chose Darlene because if anyone
overheard Mary call me Darlene, we could
cover it saying she had said, Darling.
Darlene became Mary's best girlfriend,
while Larry remained her husband and one
true love.
When lovemaking, whichever persona she
perceived me to be, Mary took the initiative.
I submitted joyfully. Her experience and
assertiveness overcame my innocence.
Knowing that I was desired, needed even, I
had no difficulty responding. However, it
wasn't in me to play the bear. Sniffling and
shuffling around a female hoping to get
pussy didn't attract me. With Mary I didn't
have to, she came sniffling and shuffling
after me. Now that, I loved.
Germane to our early coming
together was our feelings about gender. She
liked to portray a root-a-tooting cowboy and
I enjoyed keeping the house, making a nest.
How could either have guessed that she
believed what I felt was pretense, imagination, creative play,
and I thought what she
felt was real, something tangible, a thing she
could no more put away than I could. There
was trouble brewing in that combination,
had we but known.
Just before Spring ended Mary told
me she had been seeing a psychiatrist, Dr.
Bills, and that he had asked to talk to me. I
agreed to talk to him. Dr. Bills explained
that Mary was manic-depressive and, until
recently, had been suicidal. Since meeting
me her suicidal tendencies had disappeared.
Dr. Bills wanted to know if I understood
what was ahead. It seemed to me that
nothing was wrong with Mary. Certainly
nothing that love hadn't repaired. Dr. Bills
acquiesced, but admonished that I was taking
on a life time project. If I let Mary down
she would revert to suicidal depressions. I
assured him I loved her and that, however
important I was in her life, she was just as
significant in mine.
Summer was a grand time for both
Mary and me. With neither of us restricted
to bed rest, Mary visited every weekend.
There was a wooded area down from where
I lived. Much larger and more private than
the one near her house. We spent many
hours there, alone, doing what young people
in love do when alone. Forgetting the time,
lost in each other, Dad often had to track us
down before we would return to my home.
Once, in a rush to jump each other's
bones, we stopped on the hillside leading
down into the deeper woods. We were deep
into it when we heard giggling from the
hilltop. Looking up four boy scouts were
getting a great deal of pleasure watching us.
Leaping up, clutching at our clothes, we
took off for deeper woods. Sheepishly,
laughing at ourselves, we finished what we
had started.
We made love every chance that
came along. One midsummer day Dad and
Mom asked Mary and I if we'd like to go to
Parkers Recreational Park with them. It was
the first time they had invited Mary to go
anywhere. I was delighted and so was Mary.
Parkers Recreational Park was on the
other side of Lake Erie; a long drive from
Akron. It was a grand trip. There was a zoo
at Parkers, a ferris wheel, train ride, game
booths, and a clockwork town with animated
wooden figures moving in a most mysterious
fashion. We ate cotton candy, hot dogs,
french fries, and ice cream bars. However,
our entertainment was cut short by sudden
storm warnings. Everyone at the park went
scurrying for the dock after a warning came
over the loudspeaker system. The
announcement directed all visitors to leave
on the next boat. At the dock gusting winds,
darkening clouds, and a fine drizzle
encouraged Mary and I to hold each other
with full body contact. Not that we ever
needed much encouragement. The rain
poured down. We were soaking wet,
windblown, and comfortably nestled in each
others arms. It was one of our most
romantic moments.
Returning to the far shore before the
storm hit in full fury, we clambered into the
car and headed home. Mary, unusually
excited after our adventure, spread her skirt
over my lap to cloak furtive activities.
Surreptitiously she played with her favorite
toy. Before long the toy sat up and took
notice. Then, with impish brazenness, she
slid over and onto my erection. That was
how we stayed on the return trip, just
enough bounces and jiggles in the road to
make it enticing and not enough to allow
ejaculation. Finally, as we approached
Akron, Mary slid off, keeping her skirt
spread over me as she forced my erection
down between my legs and zippered my fly.
At home, after dropping Mary off,
my father began to read screaming. ``You
two,'' he said referring to Mary and me,
``embarrassed the shit out of me.'' I
cringed, thinking he knew what had
transpired in the back seat.
``Haven't you any shame? Letting
her dry fuck you in front of everyone,'' he
continued.
``Sorry, Dad,'' I said breathing a
sigh of relief. ``We were cold and just
holding each other for warmth. It won't
happen again.'' Boy, was I relieved. Had he
known what had actually gone on, right
behind his back, he'd have killed us.
``Damn right,'' he said, puzzled at
my quiet acquiescence. It just wasn't like
me.
After our pleasurable experience
coming back from Parker's, Mary often
wore full skirts and on more than one
occasion we spent time dangerously hooked
together. Sometimes in her parents living
room while her parents watched television,
sometimes in my living room while my parents watched television,
and once on a bus
full of people. It wasn't that we were sex-
crazed, in fact, as sex went, this was pretty
tame. Orgasm was impossible. Still it was
wild, dangerous, and it built a powerful
bond, an ``us'n is smarter then them'n''
attitude that made us feel extraordinary.
Sometime early in 1953, my father,
plagued with self-doubt and disappointment
with me, started putting pinholes in the
condoms. Mother steadfastly refused to have
any more children, and this was his only
recourse. Greg, the result of these pinholes,
would be grown, married, and have two
children before Dad would reveal, in the
midst of a nervous breakdown, how he
manipulated Mom into having another child.
Greg, my brother, was born August
13th, 1954. There were sixteen years separating us. It was
marvelous having a baby
brother, and I was devoted to him. I fed
him, changed his diapers, rocked him, sang
songs to him, told him stories, and played
games with him. It often seemed as if he
were my baby as much as my mother's.
Brightening my life, Greg allowed for a
socially acceptable expression of my
feminine nature. As he grew, the multiple
levels of involvement between us became
extremely complex, tightening the bond
between us. Early on I was sister/mother, he
my brother/son, later we would be brothers,
comrades in arms, and later still, he would
be brother/defender for his sister. A fuller
relationship between siblings and a better
brother, has yet to be born.
In October, despite all efforts to keep
me healthy, I came down with the flu. Each
day I grew weaker. Finally Dr. Banks
advised my folks they would have to
relocate to a warmer climate. He suggested
Arizona. My parents, taking the warning to
heart, decided to move to Phoenix, Arizona,
the warmest driest climate where work was
readily available.
February 2nd, 1957. I was still trying
to recover from the flu. It was slow going.
My chest hurt when I coughed and thinking
was even difficult. Thankfully, we were
packed and ready to leave the cold dampness
of Akron. We would soon be in the
sunbaked climate of Arizona.
Dad had gone hunting earlier that
winter and brought down an eight point
buck. We gave some meat to Buddy and
Glenna and some to Louie and Judy, but
Mom had canned a goodly amount as well.
Eight jars of tender succulent meat was in
the back with me, along with some salt free
confectionery candy Mom had made
expressly for me. A jug of water sat on the
floor beside the foodstuff. On the back seat
was a pillow, a wool cover and a few books,
including some comics Aunt Judy had given
me. Up front, Dad was driving, as always,
and Mom had the baby.
Before leaving town my father was
considerate and stopped at Mary's house.
Much as he didn't like her, he knew I did.
Mary was waiting out front when we drove
up. She was crying, convinced my leaving
was the end of our love affair. She hugged
me and kissed me over and over. I tried to
ease her fears and promised, ``Somehow,
someday, we'll be together again.''
That day is a vivid memory. Once
again, in my mind's eye, I saw Mary and I together, and I saw
four sons. ``Mary, we'll be together someday. I'm sure of
it,'' I promised, and then
Dad, impatient to leave, ordered me into the
car. I continued to wave at her through the
back window. Even after we were out of
sight I kept waving. Tears trickled down my
face and my heart ached. I fervently hoped
we would get back together, but I wasn't
nearly as sure as I pretended to be.
Sleeping in the back seat most of the
trip, I awoke only to pig out on venison,
gobble some candy, or to read an occasional
comic. Part of the time I looked out the
window, watching the snow disappear as we
drew closer to our destination. The heat
from the sun felt wonderful and it baked the
last of the flu from my body. It was a lazy,
lethargic, thoroughly enjoyable four days.
When we arrived the sun was shining
intensely and the air was warm and clean.
The buildings looked scrubbed clean, bright
and shiny in a way I had never seen any
building look before. I felt better
immediately. For our first week we rented
an apartment in Phoenix, but early in the
second week we moved to Goodyear, twenty
five miles west of Phoenix. The only
Goodyear plant in Arizona was there and
Dad expected to transfer. He still had his
seniority from the Akron plant and that
would work to his advantage.
I enrolled as a senior in Agua Fria
Union High School. The other students
thought me odd. My skin was snow white,
I spoke with an eastern accent and, because
the school work was what I had learned in
my junior year back east, I was considered
an egghead. Still, I made a few friends, all
girls. Robin was my best friend at Agua Fria
but there were others. Robin and I, and
sometimes other girls, sat together at the
cafeteria and talked about problems with
their boyfriends, with teachers, their parents,
and life in general. There was a bond
between us more sensed than spoken, as if
we shared a common insight.
The guys were jealous and wanted to
know why all the girls talked to me. I tried
to explain it wasn't what they thought, that
we were only friends. But, how could I tell
them that a boy can sometimes be one of the
girls? At least, how could I have told them
and not set them against me?
Fortunately, early in the year I pulled
a stunt that, if not endearing me to the other
students, at least shook the mantle of
egghead off my shoulders.
Drama class!
Miss Strickland, the drama teacher,
assigned the students into several groups.
Each group was to create and perform skits
in front of the class. There were three in my
group: Robin, attractive and intelligent,
Paul, punk and lazy, and me. Both Robin
and Paul wanted me to come up with something quick and easy, but
something that
would get us a good grade. I was always
expected to come up with ideas. Which
made me feel a little used, but was
nonetheless flattering.
The day for the skits arrived. When
the curtain opened for our skit Robin was on
stage and directly behind her were two
drafting stools, each a yard tall.
``Ladies and Gentlemen,'' announced
Robin in a loud voice, sounding like a ringmaster in the circus.
``Your attention please.
The feat you're about to witness is the most
incredible, astounding, mind boggling feat
human eyes have been privileged to see.
Only two men have ever attempted this
dangerous feat before. Gargo the
Magnificent, who will perform before you
this very day, and . . . well, the name of the
other one doesn't matter, he's dead. Ladies
and Gentleman, Gargo the Magnificent,
before your amazed and bewildered gaze,
will stand on one finger.''
Everyone laughed as they envisioned
me coming on stage, placing a finger on the
stage and then stepping on it. I knew they
expected a joke . . . no one could really
stand on one finger. It was the attitude I had
hoped to create. It would make what I had
in mind that much more dramatic. ``And
now, I give you, Gargo The Magnificent,''
she announced, waving me on stage with a
dramatic sweep of her arm. I came running
on to the stage wearing tight pants, a buccaneer blouse, a long,
black, flowing cape,
and red slippers. While Paul adjusted the
stools and took the slippers from my feet,
Robin took the cape, and then they exited
stage right.
I approached the stools. I had
practiced my part for two weeks and with a
quick nimble move, I flipped up onto two
hands. I paused a moment, then with a
second practiced move, pushing one stool
out and away, I balanced on one hand. My
body slightly arched and legs above my
head, I hung poised for the next move,
convincing proof, I hoped, that I did indeed
intend to proceed onto one finger. I
maintained this pose for as long as I was
able.
Deliberately shifting my weight, I
toppled the stool plunging headfirst toward
the stage floor. At the last instant I tucked
my head and absorbed the shock with my
shoulder, then, rolling to face the audience,
I let the blood (red food coloring mixed with
water) ooze from my mouth, down my
cheek, and onto the stage.
The girls screamed, everyone leaped
up and rushed forward. Miss Strickland in
the vanguard cradled my head in her arms
and demanded, ``Larry! Larry! Are you
alright? Are you alright?''
I opened my eyes and looked up at
her. Suddenly smiling I asked, ``Pretty
good, huh? Do we get an A?''
Momentarily stunned by this turn of
events she started to utter, ``Oh, you little
son-of-a . . . '' and then caught herself.
Smiling in relief she asked, ``You
nearly scared us to death. Where'd you get
the blood?''
I reached into my pocket and pulled
out an empty bottle of food coloring. ``Half
and half with water.''
``Where'd you learn to fall like
that?'' she asked.
``I took tumbling my freshman year
in high school.''
I was full of myself that day. I had
taken an audience expecting a show, knowing we were supposed to
entertain them, and
sucked them into the drama, made them part
of the drama. There was a side benefit too.
As word got around school, the other
students thawed a bit. They weren't effusive
or overly friendly, but the hard edge of
``new kid'' was dulled. Some kids even
smiled at me in passing, or would nod and
say hello; many knew my name, although I
didn't know theirs. It was a felt good.
A year passed in Arizona and, as
each new day found me stronger and
healthier my need to express my feminine
feelings flourished. I was constantly vigilant
for any opportunity to express my unique
yearnings.
It was evening! Dad and Mom had
left the house to play Scrabble with friends.
Mom was holding my brother in her arms.
I suspect the incident in the garage had been
largely forgotten, perhaps thought to be a
phase I had outgrown. I think that was their
hope, that I had outgrown my peculiar
behavior. Not that I had! Two or three times
a month I found a way to dress as a woman,
each time spending longer and longer at it.
This evening I felt secure. My parents would
be away for hours. I would have ample time
to enjoy myself, time to kick back and just
relax. I'd do a little dusting, vacuuming,
wash the dishes, and maybe watch a little
television. Waiting for my parents to leave
I simmered with anticipation. On the surface
I maintained a reserve, but my stomach
churned like nuts and bolts thrown in a
garbage disposal.
Ultimately, they left. Standing back
from the window so as not to be seen, I
waited until their car pulled out of sight.
Dropping my clothes on the sofa I raced to
my parent's bedroom and quickly selected
some favorite items. Dashing to the
bathroom, not wanting to waste a precious
moment, I began the process of putting
myself together.
Full dark had arrived by the time I
finished putting on the last item and was
forced to switch on the bathroom light. As I
moved I reveled in the electric feel of the
skirt dancing against my nylon covered legs.
Stepping back to view myself in the full-
length mirror the welcome sight of an
ordinary looking teenage girl greeted me.
Not gorgeous, not beautiful, but convincing.
I turned to the bathroom mirror and contemplated the application
of makeup. As I did I
ran trembling fingers lovingly over my bodice and down my thighs.
I felt wonderful
. . .
Suddenly, a loud rapping crackled on
the bathroom window, petrifying!
``God Damn You! I See You In
There,'' resounded the bloodcurdling voice
of my father from outside. My heart
pounded, skipping beats, blood drained from
my body, and terror gripped my soul like
the icy cold fingers of death. There is no
way to portray the sheer panic that over-
whelmed me. I had been so careful since the
last time my father had caught me. This
time, if he wanted to kill me, no timely
intervention by Uncle Bud would save me.
I tore the clothing from my body and
bolted for the living room, faint hope of
putting my pants back on before Dad entered. I had only managed
to pick up my
trousers when a massive hand gripped my
shoulder and whirled me around. A second
massive hand crashed into my face. It was
folded into a fist. My head snapped back
and my eyes blinked as I winced from the
pain. Somehow I managed to keep from
crying out, although I wondered if my jaw
had been broken.
I looked directly into my father's
eyes . . . I saw the anger, and I saw the
hurt. His face was, if anything, more
anguished than that day when I was naked in
the garage. But no death sentence was
written there. I shut my eyes for a moment
to blot out his pain. When I opened them
again it was still there. Again his fist
crashed into my face. I hardly noticed. How
could fists, even such imposing fists, punish
me more than the suffering I could see in
my father's eyes? He was enraged and I
knew, at that moment, he wanted to strike
back at me, to hurt me as he felt I had hurt
him. Dabbing blood from the corner of my
mouth, I waited. He shook in rage, his fists
trembling. He wanted to hit me again, but
he didn't. Again he swung, but only striking
my shoulder. Again! Again! Again he struck
at my shoulder. Over and over he pounded
on my shoulder, spending his anger.
Stoically I stood, taking the blows, knowing
the restraint he was under. Tears were
rolling down his face, a face distorted with
agony and wrath. I knew he was hurt worse
than he was hurting me. My arm became
numb, the pain a distant abstraction, almost
pleasant after awhile.
What was happening between my
father and me was of greater magnitude than
a physical beating. After awhile Dad
collapsed on the sofa, his anger exhausted.
Holding his head in his hands, he sobbed.
My father rarely cried, but he was crying
now. ``My God! My God,'' he sobbed, tears
glistening through his fingers. ``I'm sorry!
I'm sorry! I couldn't help myself. Forgive
me!'' That was the only time my father ever
said he was sorry to me for anything. The
only time he ever asked me to forgive him.
I wanted to run to him, to put my
arms around him, to hold him, to tell him
that it was all right, that I understood. I
wanted to tell him that I loved him, but I
knew it would be misunderstood. ``Dad,'' I
said, ``I understand. Do you think I want to
hurt you? I can't help myself either.''
``You're queer, aren't you? How can
you be queer and take a beating like that?''
``Dad, stop it! I'm not queer. I don't
know what I am, but I don't love boys. I
love Mary.''
``Does she know about you?'' he
asked.
``I've told her. She doesn't mind.
She loves me anyway.''
``Get dressed. I can't leave you home
alone, now. I'll wait for you in the car.''
Picking up my clothes I watched as
Dad walked over to the cabinet in the living
room, opened it, and took out the Scrabble
set. I shook my head in disbelief. They had
forgotten the God damned Scrabble set. I
sighed as he went out the door and then
started dressing. When I reached the car I
saw Dad sitting quietly in the gloom. He
was blowing his nose. He had been crying
again. I wished I could be the son he wanted
me to be, but I knew I couldn't. Whatever
was in me, it was stronger than I could
control. I couldn't put it away, hard as I
might try. I climbed in the car and we drove
in silence.
That night, while my folks played
Scrabble, I tended Greg. I let him pull my
hair, nose, and ears, and when he didn't
grab my hair quick enough I would shake it
at him, making him laugh, and then he
would grab at it again. His laugh was the
most delightful sound in the world, and I
thrilled every time I heard it. I rocked him,
sang to him, and when he went to sleep I
laid him down and covered him with a light
flannel blanket. He was my brother, but he
was also like my own child. I taught him,
protected him, attended to his needs, and
most of all, I loved him. My parents'
friends, watching how I tended him,
commented on how wonderful it must be to
have a son so devoted to his brother.
The dichotomy of condemnation for
wearing something feminine and then,
immediately after, praise for discharging an
essentially feminine trust, escaped my
notice. It was a trust I accepted
enthusiastically.
The incident that night was never
mentioned, never talked about. No questions
were asked, no admonitions were made . . .
nothing. It was as if it had never happened,
except the next day a padlock appeared, as
if by magic, on my mother's door and red
nail polish had been used to cover the
screws on the latch. An interesting, if not
clever, attempt to keep me out of their room
and Mom's wardrobe. The following day I
purchased matching nail polish and,
afterwards, taking the lock off and putting it
back, I was careful to fill in the scratches
the screwdriver made on the screw heads;
even leaving the slots on the screws angled
precisely as I had found them.
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