Five Mrs. Harrison
five f
Mrs. Harrison
W e lived in a rundown apartment in Plainfield until Tom’s parents gave us money for a down payment on a house. Tom took the train into Manhattan for work, leaving me to clean and repair a place that should have been condemned.
Nothing I did made Tom happy. He promised to be home at six but rarely got in before nine or ten, drunk on his ass.
“Where’s my dinna?” he’d scream.
I’d reheat what had been ready at six. It was never good enough. I’d put the plate of food in front of him; he’d take a bite, stand up, and slap me across the face. Sometimes he’d grab my upper arms and shake me. Despite the warm weather, I wore long sleeves to hide the bruises.
Everything changed after our son, Tommy, was born in November 1963. Fatherhood calmed Tom and brought me more joy than I ever thought possible. I’d stare at my beautiful baby boy for hours. Every new mom believes hers is the most beautiful baby ever born. I knew mine was.
“I promise to love you forever. I’ll always be there for you.” Tommy may not have understood the exact meaning of my words, but his smiles and giggles told me he felt their message.
Tom came home sober and on time and played with Tommy before I put him down. After dinner, he’d have a few drinks and relax with me in front of the TV.
Had we become the perfect American family?
Each evening I bundled up Tommy and drove to the train station to wait for my husband. For three months he stepped off the six o’clock train, gave us a huge daddy smile, and kissed us hello.
One frigid Friday in February, it all changed. No Tom. Had he missed the train? Maybe he called after I had left the house. In the days before answering machines and cell phones, I had no way of knowing.
“Should we stay here or go home?” I asked my baby.
Tommy had no answer. We waited for the seven o’clock train. No Tom.
Eight o’clock. No Tom.
I drove back home and waited. Sometime after ten o’clock, Tom stumbled in. Scotch seeped from his pores. Instinctively I stood in front of Tommy’s door. He’d never seen his father drunk.
“Missed th’ train. Boss an’ me worked late,” he mumbled.
“Next time call, okay?” I kept my voice soft and level. “Did you have dinner?”
“Had a piss-a.”
Half the pizza had dripped down his white shirt.
“Come to bed, honey,” I said.
He followed me complacently into the bedroom. I steeled myself for the first slap, for the rape I knew was coming. Nothing. He collapsed on the bed.
The next day it was as though nothing had happened.
Fridays became Tom’s night out. I didn’t mind. It gave me more time with Tommy. Within a month he added Thursdays. By April, Tom spent three or four nights away from me.
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“Happy Anniversary!” I kissed Tom awake on Monday morning, April 27, 1964.
From his expression I knew he’d forgotten.
“I’ll make prime rib for us. Can you be home at six?”
“Sure, hon,” he promised.
A bouquet of spring flowers sat on the kitchen table while prime rib roasted in the oven. I strapped Tommy in his car seat and made the five-minute drive to the train station. No Tom.
We drove home. I turned off the oven, covered the meat, and waited for a phone call.
No call, no Tom, no anniversary dinner.
A little after ten o’clock, I heard a pounding on the door. Tom lurched into the living room.
I couldn’t help myself. “You missed our anniversary dinner.”
“Iss still time to eat.”
I knew the food was ruined, but I had no choice. He took one look at the plate of cold meat and congealed gravy and shoved it off the table.
“You call this dinner?” he screamed.
“Please, Tom, you’ll wake the baby,” I pleaded.
“He needs to see what a first-class bitch I married.”
I ducked to avoid Tom’s slap. His arm slammed into the sink.
“Now look what you’ve done!”
Tommy’s wails sounded from the bedroom and brought me to tears. Why did I bring an innocent baby into the nightmare of my life?
I picked up Tommy and held him close.
I’ll always be here for you. I’ll do my very best to love you. I promise someday I’ll get us into a stable home.
w
The 1960s were a time of change, social unrest, and women’s liberation. All of that was slow to reach me. Tom had friends on the police force. Even if he hadn’t, I couldn’t file a complaint. Women were always at fault. Our bruises were self-inflicted or justified. I didn’t know how to find a women’s shelter, even if one existed. I was too humiliated to tell my friends about the abuse. I doubted anyone would believe me. All they saw was charming Tom. Maybe he drank too much, but didn’t all guys?
Before Tommy was born, I had written to my mother, asking her to reconsider taking me back. I received no reply. When I called, she hung up without a word. I sent a birth announcement to my parents, hoping a grandchild would soften their hearts. I received nothing in return.
One afternoon, when Tommy was about six months old, I called home. My brother answered.
“Please don’t hang up, Henry.”
“Where’ve you been? I miss you,” Henry said.
I couldn’t drag my brother into the horror of my life. Instead, I said, “Would you and Mom come see my baby?”
“You bet!” Henry said. “Let me get Mom.”
“Wait—” Henry didn’t hear me.
“Mom! Ava’s on the phone. Let’s go see her baby.”
The next afternoon my mother and brother met Tommy. I straightened the house, hoping to make my mother proud. I watched her harsh eyes judge our secondhand furniture, the crumbling plaster walls, the cracked tile, and corroded plumbing. But her face softened when she met her grandson.
“He’s beautiful, Ava,” my mother said as she bent over the crib. “He looks so much like you when you were a baby.”
I wouldn’t know. She’d destroyed every photo from her first marriage. I suspected she destroyed the rest of my photos after I married Tom.
That afternoon, I felt as though I were outside myself looking at a tender family scene. Did my mother want to be back in my life? How could she waltz into my life after a year and claim ownership of Tommy? She had hurt me more times than I could remember. I refused to bring my baby into her world of silence and hatred.
My mother knew about the abuse I suffered and did nothing. Now I would do nothing for her. She called several times after our visit. I hung up on her.
The phone calls stopped, but I didn’t stop thinking about my mother. She was a woman trapped in her past, in a culture that provided few tools for self-growth. She was born to immigrant parents whose struggle for survival and success took center stage. By the time I entered my grandparents’ lives, they had the time and money to give me love and attention, providing my mother with another reason to resent me.
Would my life have been different if I’d forgiven her? Would she have taken me back and provided a home for Tommy? Would I have been able to finish college, find a decent husband, a career? I’ve asked myself these pointless questions countless times.
I remembered my mother’s words, “You made your bed. Now go lie in it.”
My bed was made, and there I lay.