3.22 “You Writin’ a Book?”

1960s • La Habra ~ The women in my family are not victims, however, we do come from a long line of martyrs, and our mother learned from the best. With her bromides she nagged my oldest sister like a scolding fishwife. “You’ve made your bed… ,” Mom’s voice withered, then she’d snidely remind Carleen that that’s just the way the cookie crumbles or the mop flops.

Chuck, high school grad

Now it was Chuck who constantly wore on Carleen. Her handsome high school sweetheart had once stolen her heart; she didn’t realize that ten years later this is what it would look like. Their constant bickering wore her down. His drinking worsened, his cutting sarcasm bit deeper, and the hours he kept her waiting lengthened.

Chuck was stingy—stingy with his time, his love, and his money—except on Christmas Eve. Then he spent a fortune on foolishness, frantically splurging that one night trying to buy himself back into the family. He worked nights so my sister had use of the Mercury during the day, but she had to ask for gas money to go grocery shopping, the Brea Library, or to spend the day swimming at Wayne and Joan’s. Gas was thirteen cents a gallon, so two bucks a week was enough to get us anywhere and back, with quick side trips to the A&W or the Tastee Freeze, and two bucks was the length of her leash.

Yes, Chuck was generous in supporting the unending stream of relatives that stayed with them over the years, and I never heard him complain, not once. Yes, he took the family to Chinese food or fish and chips once a month which was a big deal, and yes, he brought Carleen weekly bouquets from the roadside flower-stand (except the one Friday when he made the mistake of taking advantage of a deal on a huge gladiola and lily arrangement meant for a funeral that threw her into a complete snit and which she whacked him with across his chest so he knew enough not to be stupid enough to do that again), but those things didn’t outweigh the binges, the bullying, and the way he basically treated her.

Carleen, June 1959

That man wore on my sister enough to give her migraines. Some days she wouldn’t get out of bed, other days she couldn’t get off the couch. There were days she’d lock the kids out to get some peace and smoke a pack of Kents until the wracking pain passed. After a final straw, the details escape me now because it probably didn’t seem like that big a deal at the time, she snapped. “If you pull this again, I’m gonna spread eagle you, duct tape your hairy wrists and skinny ankles to the four corners of our bed frame, and burn your eyes to the sockets with my lit cigarette—and if that doesn’t put an end to your goddamsonofabitchin’ meanness, the next time you pull this crap I’ll wait until you’re passed out and then I’m going set your sorry white ass on fire.”

Then one day she simply said, “That’s it.” And with her “that’s it,” her migraines stopped.

Cathy, August 1960

I could tell she was still unhappy and felt trapped. And I could tell she wasn’t going to do anything about it. She quit fighting. She quit bitching. She quit worrying. The fact was, she simply no longer cared. Chuck tiptoed some after she got her titties in a twist—was a little nicer, tried a little harder—but it was too late. We may be martyrs, but only to a point. When we reach that threshold, we turn our backs, and you can never get to us again. She turned hers, and with that turn, she shut him out of the last tiny soft space in the center of her chest.

I kept quiet but paid close attention. I wondered about things, so sometimes I asked Carleen questions, questions about “why or when or how” questions about “who and what.” She seldom answered me with anything other than, “What, you writin’ a book?”

I wasn’t trying to be nosy. I purely wanted to know. I wasn’t about to make the same mistake.

to be continued…

© 2018. Catherine Sevenau.
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