Chapter 5
The house was illuminated just enough to see the dark forms of furniture, the jagged outline of the Christmas tree and presents in a corner near the red velvet wingchair.
At the age of five, I knew Santa wasn’t responsible for what awaited.
He hadn’t landed on the roof with his reindeer. Nothing about him made any sense.
Mom had taken us to a department store days earlier, hurrying my brothers and me past mannequins with painted cheeks and rigid poses.
At a counter with mirrors and fancy bottles, Mom paused to pick up a black and gold tester of Jeanne Anvin’s “My Sin,” her favorite fragrance.
She sprayed her wrists, dabbing the cologne on my nose, and I smelled jasmine and roses.
Christmas music filled the air, bustling shoppers loaded down with big boxes and bags. Mom kept a worried eye on my brothers as they were distracted by baseball equipment, then fishing gear, a myriad of gaudy lures displayed on pegboards.
“Just around the corner. We’re almost there,” Mom encouraged.
Santa was in a roped-off square of green carpet, sitting in a blue-and-silver throne beside a Christmas tree, wrapped packages beneath.
He smiled while red lights twinkled and glass balls glittered.
Now and then he bellowed “HO! HO! HO!” Parents and impatient children waited in line, and I was excited but not in a good way.
Better put, I was nervous and filled with dread.
I’d had my photograph taken several times on Santa’s lap and never enjoyed it or believed in him.
For one thing, it was never the same bearded man in red from one year to the next.
Also, he appeared in other places at the same time.
How many Santas were there? How could he be in multiple places at once? I found him scary.
When we reached the front of the line, Mom handed the photographer a dollar, and he smiled, patting my head.
The red velvet rope was unhooked, and Mom fussed with my hair, smoothing the red dress she’d made me wear.
My turn now, and Santa wrapped his arms around me, lifting me into lap, his white beard scratching my face and neck.
“HO! HO! HO! What’s your name, little doll?”
“Patsy,” I said quietly.
“Well, Kathy, what would you like me to give you for Christmas?”
I felt like hiding because everyone watching just learned that Santa didn’t know my name.
He had no idea who I was even when I told him.
How unimportant could I be? Obviously, I wasn’t on his nice or naughty list, either one.
I wasn’t on any list at all. His beard was itching me something awful, and I couldn’t think of a single thing I wanted.
“Kathy, cutie, what would you like Santa to give you?” In the same cheery voice.
I was becoming frantic, tears threatening as he continued to ask while I didn’t answer, the line getting longer, everybody staring. The plastic reindeer next to his chair watched my humiliation, and I wanted to leave. Digging my fingernails into Santa’s bright red knee, I pulled his beard.
“HEY! Sugar pie, now be nice to Santa!” Then he repeated his question about what I wanted, his fakey tone not as friendly.
I had no answer, the photographer’s flashbulb blinding.
Santa sighed, lifting me off his lap a bit too abruptly.
I was presented with a candy cane while my brothers took their turns, not hesitating in the least to ask for boats, B.B.
guns, Hershey bars. Moments later, Mom guided us back through the store, my brothers chattering up a storm while my cheeks burned.
When I got up that Christmas morning in 1961, I could see that someone had been busy while my brothers and I were sleeping.
The pink Schwinn bicycle with training wheels must be for me, but I would have preferred a different color.
Maybe blue or green, best of all red. The black Schwinn bike was for Jim, the tricycle for John.
I took an inventory of wrapped packages, excited by the ones with Patsy on gift tags in my mother’s handwriting. I couldn’t wait to tear into them. Lying on my back under the tree, I entertained myself by staring up through the artificial green branches, the lights and ornaments a colorful galaxy.
I pretended I was in outer space, happy and peaceful, until I heard Mom crying in the hallway.
She was saying something to my father while he strode into the living room, a brown suitcase in hand.
I jumped up in a panic, somehow knowing the worst. As he reached the front door, I wrapped myself around one of his legs, screaming.
“Daddy, don’t go!”
“Daddy, don’t go!”
He shook me off. The shutting of the door was the most final sound I ever heard. For a while, the house was shocked silent. It was a bleak affair when my brothers and I turned our attention to presents. I remember John opening a box with a pair of cowboy boots inside.
Jim had little to say about the black paper pirate kite with a skull-and-crossbones on it.
Mom got a Michelangelo art book from her sister Dolores, a Wedgwood candy dish from my grandmother G.G.
, and nothing from Dad. As soon as we crumpled up the gift paper, Mom stuffed it into grocery bags, carrying them outside to the garbage can.
She wasted no time taking down the tree, ornaments bouncing on the floor and breaking.
She wanted every hint of Christmas gone, and that would be the same from then on.
Only it would be me removing the tinsel and angel hair, saving it for next time.
I’d pack up the ornaments, many of them sentimental.
The gold-painted skeleton was from a flounder Jim caught.
Styrofoam balls decorated with glitter were my creation, the elegant blown glass and hand-painted balls from G.G.
The chiffon angel was a gift to me from Mom.
I’d disassemble the tree, returning the glossy plastic branches to their long, narrow cardboard box that was stored in the attic.
After Dad left, my brothers and I came down with a “bug.” It seems we got sick instantly, all of us at once. Most likely, that was our emotional response.
I don’t know how much time passed before we saw him again, possibly several weeks. One Saturday morning, I was sitting at the kitchen table as Mom scrubbed the countertop with Ajax. Dad had called the night before, and they talked briefly behind her shut bedroom door.
He said he was coming for my brothers and me so he could spend some time with us. Since daylight I’d been sitting at the kitchen table. I was busy with my crayons and a coloring book while peeking out the screen door, on the lookout for my father’s Karmann Ghia.
When he pulled up, I scrambled out of my chair, a crayon rolling across the floor.
I left my coloring book open to a half-purple cow jumping over a white moon.
I raced outside, the screen door slamming.
The first to reach the car, I claimed the front seat, hugging Dad’s neck, getting tangled in the stick shift and emergency brake.
His cheek was smooth, and I detected his lime shaving cream. Once I squirted some in my hand to see if it tasted the way it smelled. It didn’t.
“Daddy, I knew you’d come back!”
But he hadn’t really, and I began to sense it as he drove my brothers and me to Royal Castle for a breakfast of chocolate-covered donuts.
From there it was on to a Howard Johnson’s, and I was baffled.
Prior to this I’d never been there except for meals, most of all ice cream, my favorite flavor peppermint stick that I’d stir until it melted in the silver dish.
I loved Howard Johnson hot dogs that Mom called pigs in a blanket, the tops of the buns cut off and grilled in butter.
Sometimes I got fried shrimp, onion rings, and chocolate milk.
That couldn’t be why we were here now. We’d just eaten.
But Dad didn’t stop at the restaurant. Through plate glass windows I saw people having breakfast, drinking coffee, watching cars go by.
Slowing down, he passed rows of orange motel room doors with silver numbers on them, and he parked in front of one. We climbed out as he reached into a pocket for a key connected to a green diamond-shaped fob. He unlocked the room door and pushed it open to a waft of chilled air.
“Sam, is that you?” A woman’s sultry voice sounded from inside.
“It’s Sitting Bull and his wild Indians, and we’re coming to steal you away!” Dad laughed, happy to see whoever it was as my uneasiness grew.
We followed him into the brightly colored room, nothing much to it but a double bed, a bathroom, a TV on a stand. The air conditioner rattled as a woman stood in front of the dresser mirror, a hairbrush in her hand.
“Well, I do hope you don’t scalp me because I just fixed my hair!” She smiled with bright red lips and set down the brush next to a bottle of perfume.
“This is Jimmy, Johnny, and Patsy.” Dad introduced us to his secretary, Shirley.
“I’ve heard so much about each of you. Your father brags about you all the time,” she said, walking across the room. “Aren’t you a little angel!” She petted my head.
I smelled gardenias, reminded of the white-spangled bushes growing close to the house. Mom would place the fragrant blossoms in a dish of water, and to this day they’re my favorite flower.
“I have a late Christmas present for you, Angel,” Shirley said to me.
She picked up a shopping bag, reaching inside it. Paper crackled, and she pulled out a neatly folded pink sweater with white pearl buttons.
“Here, honey. Let’s see if it fits.”
She helped me work my arms through the sleeves, then stepped back to appraise my appearance, seeming pleased.
“Well, don’t you look pretty!”
I smiled and stared down at the carpet, deciding not to take off the sweater even though I wasn’t cold. I didn’t want to make her dislike me because I could tell she was important to Dad. Placing his folded sunglasses on the dresser, he sat with Shirley on the bed smoking, sharing an ashtray.
I remember she had on shiny silver slippers, and snug pink slacks that hiked above her ankles as she leaned against a pillow with her knees up.
Her dark red sweater reminded me of the candy left in the bottom of the bowl when my peppermint ice cream melted.
Eyeliner tapered half an inch beyond her lids like the tips of butterfly wings, her dark hair teased into a helmet.
I thought she looked like my pictures when I pressed down too hard with the crayons, and Mom would tell me it looked unnatural.
I knew to press lightly and stay inside the lines, wondering why Shirley’s mother never taught her that.
It seemed we were in that room for hours while she and Dad leaned against pillows, lounging on the bed as my brothers fought over the TV.
John wanted to watch the Three Stooges, and Jim kept switching the channel back to a Tarzan movie. Soon enough the two of them were on the carpet pulling hair and punching each other. I sat in a chair by the window sucking my thumb while Tarzan swung on a hairy vine across the TV screen.
I watched Shirley reach for the heavy glass ashtray, tilting it over, emptying cigarette butts into the wastepaper basket, a fine gray dust floating in lamplight, the room reeking of smoke.
By now, it was lunchtime, my brothers and I hungry.
Dad picked up his wallet from the bedside table, pulling out six one-dollar bills.
Shirley took the money, tucking it inside her black patent leather purse. Dad handed her his car keys and she left for Royal Castle. The instant she was gone, I jumped up on the bed next to Dad while Tarzan bounced through the jungle on the back of an elephant.
When Shirley returned, she carried in two paper bags, one white, one brown, and Cokes in a cardboard holder that she secured with her chin before setting everything down.
The hamburgers were soft and warm. I tore open ketchup and got it on my new sweater, smearing it with a napkin, hoping Shirley wouldn’t notice.
She was busy digging in the ice bucket, clinking cubes into water glasses. Then she took two bottles out of the brown bag, mixing gin and vermouth, handing one of the drinks to Dad.
“I forgot to get olives,” she said, an unlit cigarette wagging in her mouth.
She leaned close to Dad, and he flicked on his lighter as she puffed. My brothers and I devoured our food as my anxiety grew. I watched Coke travel up the plastic straw as I sucked, and my stomach began to ache. Suddenly, my lunch was rushing back up my throat to escape.
“UH-OH.” Dad crushed out his cigarette and scooted off the bed.
He led me into the bathroom while my brothers held their noses. I cried even though my stomach no longer ached. I’d made a mess on the carpet, then Dad started laughing.
“Uh-oh. Patsy Boo lost her lunch!”
His smile blurred through my tears, and I squeezed my eyes shut while he wiped my face with a wet washcloth.
Shirley was there too, trying to make me feel better.
Afterward, she took me outside for a stroll, stopping under the spreading branches of a pin oak tree draped in Spanish moss that looked like dirty dead hair.
She tried to engage me in a coaxing voice.
I suspected she wanted me to like her better than Mom. No doubt, Dad had passed on that his mentally ill wife called Shirley a tramp, and he was never to bring her to our house. I don’t know what happened to the pink sweater. Most likely, Mom threw it out.
Not long after this, I was in the kitchen while she talked to my grandmother over the phone. I could hear only Mom’s side of the conversation.
“I know, G.G. I know all about her. But what can I do…?”
I overheard Mom say this as I colored Snow White’s hair with a yellow crayon.
“Yes, I know she’s disgusting.”
I decided to color Snow White’s gown blue instead of pink.
“…I don’t know how long Sam will stay in that motel. I don’t know anything…” Mom’s voice was tragic.
I found the peach crayon for Snow White’s hands.
“Oh, G.G., what am I going to do? What am I going to do? How could he love her? How could he leave me for her? How could he…?”
I picked out the silver and gold crayons for Snow White’s slippers. Not sure which to use. Deciding on gold, I bore down too hard, going over the lines. I scribbled all over the ruined picture, frustrated and angry as reality settled over me like darkness when the sun dips below the horizon.
My father had replaced my mother with Shirley. He wasn’t going to live with us ever again.