3.20 Simon Legree

Dad w/his sister Mary in front of store, Feb 1960

1960 • La Habra ~ A letter to my father:
Dear Daddy,
I don’t want to live with Carleen any more. I am taking the bus to come stay with you. Please pick me up at the Greyhound station this Saturday. Please. Carleen is mean, and she doesn’t really love me. She just wants me here to be her slave. All I ever do is clean the toilet and scrub the tub. She makes me iron all the pillowcases and Randy’s stupid little button-down collared shirts. I have to peel all the potatoes, slice all the onions, wash all the dishes, and fold all the clothes. All she does is sit on the couch and read and smoke and boss me around. I won’t be any problem and I can work in the store and earn my keep. Please pick me up. I’ll be waiting for you.
Love, Cathy

I had no stamps, so I asked Carleen to mail my letter.

Saturday morning, all my two-dollar bills in my pocket for bus money, my suitcase packed with Peter Pan blouses, crop tops, peddle pushers, seven pairs of underpants embroidered with the days of the week on the backside that Carleen gave me for Christmas, along with my toothbrush, Johnny Tremain, two coin collections, and Meg and Jo dolls, I slipped out the front door and headed down the driveway.

Leaning against the doorjamb and waving my opened letter over her head, she called me back.

“Cathy, am I this mean?” Taking a drag on her cigarette, she continued, “Do you really think I don’t care about you? Am I really Simon Legree? Do you really feel like you’re just a char girl?”

“No,” I lied.

Cathy, June 1960, age 11

She’s mad at me. What if she doesn’t love me anymore? What if she sends me away? I broke out in a sweat, feeling like I’d been punched in the stomach and unable to breathe. I wanted to disappear and hide. I could tell her feelings were hurt. I felt like I’d been caught doing something really bad, that I’d betrayed her, even though what I wrote was true. But I was mad too. It wasn’t her business, opening my letter.

To my surprise, she apologized. I unpacked. I still had to help around the house. I still scrubbed and ironed and peeled and washed and folded, except she thanked me now. I don’t know why, but it made a difference. But never again did I write private notes on pale blue lines, never again did I put anything in writing that could be used against me. Never again. Not ever.

to be continued…

© 2018. Catherine Sevenau.
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