2.07 I Could Be Wrong

April 1954, Easter Vacation • San Francisco, California ~ I sat next to him on the #7 Haight bus as it wove through the city to the corner stop near his house. He lived just a block from the five-and-dime he managed on Haight Street, a red fronted Sprouse-Reitz. Together, we read every word in the advertisements above the window seats as the bus made its way through the streets of San Francisco. Then we pulled the wire over our heads to signal the driver that our stop was next. I was leapin’ and hoppin’ on the inside. With the sound of my father’s size twelves slapping in a long stride, the sound of my size fours tapping in triple-time alongside him, we trudged three doors up the incline to his rented lower flat at 14 Belvedere Street. He walked on the curbside of the mica-flecked sidewalk, my hand clutched in his the whole way. While trotting along and talking, I brought up Mom. He let go of my hand.

Carl Clemens 1954

My father, never speaking Mom’s name after the divorce, ordered me not to say it either. I was a five-year-old stranded between parents who couldn’t forgive each other. I used to hope things might change, hope maybe they could give each other another chance, but the rip was impossible to repair. He hadn’t been able to clear away the wreckage from their past, or perhaps he was simply following the stipulation of their divorce decree:

IT IS FURTHER HEREBY ORDERED, ADJUDGED AND DECREED that neither of the parties hereto shall in any manner attempt to influence or prejudice the minor children or either any of them against the other part hereto and that neither shall by act, word or conduct attempt in any way to influence or alienate the love and affection of said minor children or any of them from the other party hereto.
       Done in open Court this 7 day of May 1954.
       Signed by the JUDGE OF THE SUPERIOR COURT (Sonora)

We don’t carry memories in my family, we carry grudges, upholding a long-standing tradition of pretending as if we don’t exist. We are convinced of our rightness, even in our misery. We’d go to our grave, or send each other there, before we’d give up being right. I think it’s genetic, like our brown eyes, droopy eyelids, and dumpling recipes. I could be wrong about this, but I doubt it.

Clemens Divorce Decree, April 27, 1953

to be continued…

© 2018. Catherine Sevenau.
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