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CHAPTER SIX

“Why can’t I go?” I asked. My tone of voice stepped outside the boundaries of respect that I used with Dad. His stern, stiff response made it clear that he wasn’t going to budge. Besides, he said, I was already grounded for the fight at the hospital.

            I called Tommy to let him know.

            “That’s a drag,” he said. “You can’t sneak out?”

            “He’d know.”

            “Go in your room, lock the door, sneak out the window. That’s what I do.”

            “I share my room with my brother. What can I say?”

            “Say, ‘Have fun, Tommy,’ ‘cause that’s what I’m going to do.”

            “Have fun...I guess.”

            “We’ll be at the Granada. Starts at eight, if you change your mind.”

            We signed off. I called Debbie, and her Dad answered and wanted to know who I was, so I told him. He said, “Oh, the pastor’s son,” and called her to the phone. Being a P.K. had its advantages.

            “Hi,” she said.

            I got to the point. “I’m leaving Thursday.”

            Long pause. Then, softly, she said: “I knew your Dad wouldn’t lie. A preacher in Hell’s like...like a cop in prison.”

            Boy, she was smart. I wouldn’t’ve ever thought of that. It was something to remember. I wondered how it applied to P.K.s.

            “What’re you doing tonight?”

            “Movies.”

            My brain screeched to a halt. Did I hear her right?

            “With who?”

            “Girls.”

            “No guys?”

            “No guys.”

            “What’re you going to see?”

            “I don’t know. Spend more time hanging out in the bathroom than watching the movie.”

            “Where you going?”

            “Granada.”

            Hearts aren’t supposed to stop for very long, are they? My did. Time stood still. Her breathing brought me back to Earth.

            “Matt? You there?”

            “Yeah. Yeah, I’m here. Sort of.”

            “Something wrong?”

            “Tommy Gillette invited me to the movies at the Granada tonight. My Dad won’t let me go.”

            “Tommy Gillette’s going to be there?”

            I didn’t like the way she said that. “I said he was.”

            “Guy, don’t get mad. Not my fault you can’t go.”

            “You’re glad Tommy’s going to be there, aren’t you?”

            “Sorta. I mean, what’s it to you anyway? You’re going to be gone. What am I supposed to do? Join a convent?”

            Boy, was she smart-aleck. Never saw this side of a girl before. Wasn’t pretty. I’d heard about girls being like this. Until then, I’d been, well, sort of in awe of girls in general. I instantly understood every joke about women I’d ever heard. Sugar and spice and everything nice, my foot.

            “What if I came, too,” I said.

            “To the show? Yeah, that’d be great. Maybe I’d even watch the movie.” She giggled.

            Something egged me on. My independence was at stake here. I was tired of being told what to do. I was tired of not participating in things that all the other kids were doing. It wasn’t fair. Everything I wanted was being taken away from me. I deserved better.

            “Want my Dad to pick you up?”

            “No, that’s okay. I’ll get there.”

            “Bitchin’. See you in an hour then.”

            I sat by the phone in Mom and Dad’s room. I smelled Mom’s perfume sitting on the vanity. Kind of minty, kind of fruity. Never forget that smell as long as I live. Which may not be long if I sneaked out to the movies.

            The longer I sat there, the more I realized that there wasn’t a whole lot that Dad could do. What was the worst thing that could happen? I couldn’t think of anything. And if I was missing something, well, I didn’t care anymore. All that mattered was that I was going to the movies with my girlfriend.

* * *

            We kissed all through the movie. Her girlfriends sat a couple rows back, threw popcorn at us. We didn’t mind. Tommy sat with his buddies. He was mad at first because I wouldn’t sneak out to go with him but I would with Debbie. Before the movie, in the bathroom, I told him that I was going to get in deep trouble and that if he looked half as good as Debbie, I would’ve sneaked out for him, too. He cracked up about that. Socked me in the arm. His way of forgiving me. Friendship is painful sometimes.

            The movie was exciting—the little I saw of it. It was weird sitting in a dark auditorium with a whole bunch of people. The closest I’d come to it was sitting in church during a thunderstorm that blacked out the whole Valley.

            We’d kissed so much through the first half of the movie that my lips were numb. We held hands and watched James Bond do a little necking himself. Boy, he had it down.

            I bought Debbie some Hot Tamales and a large Coke. 

            “Thanks,” she whispered. “I love these.”

            “I know. Something about the hot with the sweet.”

            She whispered in my ear: “Like us. You’re hot. I’m sweet.”

            I put my feet up on the seat in front of me, smiling, and wrapped my arm around my girl. If this was love, then I’d gone to Heaven.

            The flicker of the movie changed. A silhouette moved in front of the picture. Before I realized what was happening, a shadow loomed in the darkness.

            “Excuse me, you’re in our way,” Debbie said.

            The face leaned over the seats in front of us. “Am I?” said the face.

            I became very educated. I learned that there was more than one way down the Road of Consequence. That spankings and groundings were nothing compared to the complete humiliation of being caught in a movie with your arm around your girlfriend and being physically yanked out of your seat and escorted out by a pissed off preacher.

* * *

             My brothers saw a good show. They saw Dad drag me out of the movies. They saw my bike bump out of Dad’s trunk and bounce and tumble down Rinaldi. They saw me stuff it back in the trunk, choking on exhaust. They got to hear Dad yell at me, and Dad never yelled. At least we didn’t know that he could. More education. When he was done telling me I was irresponsible, disrespectful, and a whole bunch of other things with too many syllables, he sat down on his bed, grabbed me by the arm and leg like a calf-roper, slung me across his legs and spanked my butt until his hand hurt. But the show wasn’t over, no sir. He informed me, loud enough for the deaf in Montana to hear, that if I had anything planned in the next few days that even resembled fun, I could forget about it. And that Saturday I was going to do every dirty job he could find, including cleaning the toilets, the grungy rim in particular. Finally, he said I had to apologize to God. I thought he meant in private. He meant public. In church. In front of everybody.

            Lying on my bed, still sore from the hand whipping, I couldn’t believe it. This was worse than my wildest nightmares. What would he do if I did something really terrible? Like rob a Christian book store? A picture ran through my mind. Rugged streets. A hill. Me, wearing a goat skin. Bloody feet. Dragging a heavy cross over my shoulder. Nails in my feet and hands. Pain, thirst, thunder, cold. And Dad, arms folded, standing at the foot of the crucifixion, shaking his head, mumbling, “And don’t think I’m done with you.”

            The humiliation I felt, the disappointment I caused my Dad, my anger towards my mother—and Mark, for squealing—was more than I could take. For my encore, my brothers heard their older brother cry like a baby. If they applauded, I never heard it.  I fell asleep in tears.

* * *

            On Sunday, Dad’s sermon was one I had never heard before. I knew why. He’d trashed whatever he’d planned on talking about and wrote a new one. He titled it, “Teach Me To Do Thy Will.” It was a reference to Psalms 143:10 about obedience. His sermon was heated, passionate and full of passages that talked about the ravages and consequences of sin.

            Dad worked up a sweat. When he was done, he took out his hanky, wiped his face and instructed me to come to the platform. He told the congregation that his son, the one he had so proudly heard testify the Sunday before, had something to say.

            I stepped behind the pulpit.

            “I disobeyed my father,” I began. “I disobeyed the church, went to a James Bond movie.” Someone gasped. “I disobeyed God.” Their faces were forgiving. “I’m sorry.”

            Sitting in the second row, Tommy Gillette shook his head. He was embarrassed for me. I was embarrassed for me.

            So before I left the platform, I said:      

            “But the movie was good and Debbie’s a great kisser.”

            There was a mixture of gasps and chuckles. I turned, looked at Dad. Dad had his hand over his mouth, but his eyes gave him away. He was smiling. I stepped down and sat with Tommy.  

            Tommy whispered: “Nice finish.”

            Even Mark gave me a thumbs-up from down at the end of the pew. It had its bad points, but I was getting to like this independence stuff.

* * *

            The heavily chlorinated pool at the hospital was crowded when we got there about two that afternoon. Mom wore a black one-piece and laid in a chaise lounge, reading a paperback book, held up to block the sun from her eyes, and a plastic mug of iced tea sat beside her on a tiny glass table.

            Lukey kissed her. Surprised, she jumped, dropped her book and the book knocked over her tea.

            “My Lord, Lukey, don’t scare me like that.”

            “Sorry, Mom,” he said, disappointed. He stepped away from her.

            I picked up her paperback. Valley of the Dolls. Some lady named Jacqueline Susanne wrote it. Mom snatched it out of my hands, sat up in her lounge and looked towards the main building.

            “Where’s your Dad?”

            “Office, paying.”

            Mark said: “Hi, Mom.”

            Frustrated, Mom twisted her mouth up, biting her lip. Then she said: “Why can’t he pay on the way out?”

            “He wants to get it over with, so he doesn’t forget,” I said. I kissed Mom on the cheek. Still felt bad about the phone call on Friday. I kissed her again; she didn’t notice.

            Mom just stared at the pool, thinking. Mark looked at me. Lukey did too. We stood around her like servants waiting for an order. She was mad because Dad canceled on her for Saturday.

            Then Lukey’s eyes got big. It was the fat lady. Wearing a red and yellow-polka-dot, two-piece bathing suit. Her fat spewed from every opening like Tapioca pudding. Her breasts were more out of it than in it. She saw us from the other side of the pool. A wide smile opened her round face and put a big knot in my stomach. I hated this place. The fat lady came around the deep end. Lukey hid behind me. Mark tried to stand his ground, but the closer she came, the closer he got to Mom, keeping the chaise lounge between him and the fat lady.

            “Your boys are here!” she said, patting her hands together. “I love boys!”

            “Yes, Frieda,” Mom said absently.

            Frieda leaned down and rubbed my shoulder. I tensed. If her hand moved one inch closer to my privates, I was out of there.

            “Good boy,” she said. “Good boy.” She turned to Mark. “Handsome boy.” She spun around, peeked around me at Lukey. “And a shy boy!” she said, reaching for him. Wrong thing to do. When her hand latched onto Lukey’s arm, he bit her. She screamed, yanked back her arm. Her face contorted in pain and anger.

            “He bit me!  He bit me!”

            Mom turned on him. “Luke Michael Banning!”   She threw aside her paperback and came to her feet. “That was mean.”

            “You’re a mean little son-of-a-bitch!” Frieda said, rubbing the bite-mark with her fingers.

            Mom’s face went scary. It sort of dropped its expression. She slowly turned to Frieda.

            “What did you call my son?”

            “Mean little son-of-a-bitch. Mean little—”

            Mom slapped her face so hard, people on the other side of the pool looked up from their books. Mom’s hand-print stayed on her cheek. Frieda was stunned. Her hand flew to her face. Her mouth opened. She stared at Mom like a scared little girl. Then tears came. Her face screwed up, folded, twisted and turned into Silly Putty.

            “You go away. Leave my boys alone.”

            Frieda left crying. People on the other side of the pool whispered and pointed. When Mom wasn’t looking, I stuck my thumbs in my ears, waved my hands at them, giving them a Bullwinkle. They were all crazy anyway, what did I care? Not about them, that’s for sure.

            “What’re you doing?”

            It was Dad. He caught me doing the Bullwinkle.

            “Nothing.”

            He gazed across the pool at a dozen patients staring back at us.

            “They won’t mind their own business,” I said.

            “What business are you talking about?”

            Mark said: “The fat lady called Lukey a mean little...you know, a son of a female dog.”

            Mom waved her hand in the air. “Forget about it. You weren’t here to handle things, so I took care of it. Forget about it. It’s over with, for cryin’ out loud. Let’s don’t make a big deal out of it. I have to live with these people, you know, and you boys aren’t making it any easier.”

            That did it.

            “You have to live with us, too!” I screamed at her. “We’re your kids!  They’re just a bunch of whackos!”

            “Matthew!” Dad scolded me. “You’re talking to your mother!”

            I looked at her standing there, arms folded, hurt. I didn’t care. Couldn’t believe I didn’t care. I didn’t believe it so much that I said: “Could’ve fooled me.”

            Angrily, Dad said: “Go to the car.”

            I didn’t take my eyes off my mother. We stared each other down for a few seconds.

            “Matthew,” Dad warned.

            Eyes locked. Mom’s teared up. She swallowed, looked away. I won.

            “I’m not telling you again,” Dad said evenly. “I’ll give you a spanking right here in front of everyone if you don’t mind me.”

            Hands on my hips, adrenalin rushing through me, I felt like I was standing on the edge of a cliff, my toes wiggling while I tried to keep my balance. It was like a draft of air from behind me. Something let loose in the back of my brain. I wanted to be punished. I wanted to fall. When we whined, Mom called us poor little martyrs. I didn’t know exactly what a martyr was, but I knew what she meant.

            So I said: “Pound away, Dad. I’m not moving. Martyr me if you want.”

            Mom screeched. We boys jumped out of our skin. She was laughing. And then Dad laughed. We stood there for a moment, stunned, and then we three boys laughed. We didn’t know why, but it beat the heck out of yelling.

            The whackos around the pool thought we’d gone nuts or something. They gawked and jabbered, but they wouldn’t come near us. I gave them all another Bullwinkle. Mom said it wasn’t nice, but she was still laughing. So Lukey and Mark gave them a Bullwinkle. Then Mom gave them one. Couldn’t believe it when Dad did, too. There we were, the Banning family, thumbs in our ears, making antlers out of our hands, lined up on one side of the pool, and the whackos trying to figure us out.

            It was the only time I had any fun at the funny farm.

* * *

            After the Bullwinkle quintet played pool side, the director of the hospital, some old biddy wearing a blond wig and glasses hanging around her neck, informed Dad that his family was distressing the patients. Dad gently reminded her that if they weren’t distressed they wouldn’t be there in the first place. It was great. The director requested that we come back another day when we weren’t so disruptive.

            We kissed Mom, got long hard hugs. She said she’d miss us. As soon as she was ready to come home in a few weeks, she’d send for us. But she had an extra word for me.

            “Matty,” she said when my brothers were gone, “you’re my number one son. You’re very special to me.” She sat down on the chaise lounge, pulled me to her, looked up at me. “Your father has told me everything. I know about your girlfriend. I’m happy for you. You’re growing up and I feel like I’m missing a good part of it. So by going away with your father, maybe some of the things I would miss won’t have to happen until you get back. Doesn’t mean they won’t happen, I’m sure they will, Matty. I’m being selfish. Moms are like that—sometimes.” She hugged me, pressing her cheek against my chest. “You don’t mind if your Mom’s a little selfish, do you?”

            What could I say? I wasn’t exactly Mr. Charity. I hugged her.

            Dad watched us from a few feet away. When we’d said everything we had to say, I left the pool area, smelling the overwhelming odor of chlorine in the air. Walking through the foyer of the hospital, I wondered: when I smelled chlorine from then on, would I think of Mom? Or Bullwinkle?