Family Portrait
The rising sun sparking on the watery plain, pine walls awash in golden light, windows open to the sounds of early morning; chickadees and blue jays singing in maple trees, crows crowing in the spruces and firs; a small outboard putting in the distance; dew on the lawn, air and water perfectly still; our aluminum skiff at the dock, floating in wait; the German shepherd curled up beside the sliding glass door.
My father began his day at dawn, while my mother and I still slept. He dressed in the slacks and button-down shirt hanging from the bedpost, then stepped into his Moccasins and headed for the kitchen, humming a merry tune and playfully rapping the fingernails of his right hand along the hallway wall. He plucked his fishing hat from atop the pool table and perched it on his bald head as he stepped out the door. He drove the Ford pickup into town.
Two or three minutes later, Dad pulled up in front of a not-yet-open Breton's Store where a stack of Bangor Daily newspapers stood guard at the entrance. He slid a newspaper from the bundle and tossed down his 35 cents, then looked across the road toward the Junction Wharf. If he spotted any early morning fishermen, he might drive over and ask how they're biting, or simply sit for a few moments and watch them cast.
Upon returning home, Dad reached beneath the kitchen counter for the half gallon of Popov, and into a tall glass sans ice poured enough of the vodka for two or three regular-size cocktails. He added orange juice--more or less for color, I think--and stirred the concoction with whatever proved handy; spoon, fork, knife, Bic pen—didn't matter. Satisfied, he tapped his stirrer on the rim of the glass and sucked it dry. Then, cocktail in one hand and newspaper in the other, he ambled over to the dining room table and took his seat beside the picture window. He lit a Chesterfield with a match, slipped on his reading glasses and commenced with working the crossword puzzle with a pen. Dad completed the crossword puzzle every morning of his life, and always in ink, pausing occasionally to sip his “vodka and orange juice” and gaze out at the lake.
My mother awoke at about 6:30. Dad greeted her with “Good morning, dear,” as she came down the hall. She answered in accordance with her mood as she turned the corner for the kitchen. Sometimes, she replied with a loving “Good morning” in her sweet voice, and sometimes she offered a gruff and guttural “Mornin'.” Listening from my bedroom, I knew from her tone how the next few minutes would unfold.
If my mother answered in her sweet voice, she’d turn on the radio to Q106.5, the only country station we received in Greenville. She’d fill a saucepan with water and place it on the stove. While waiting for the water to boil, she’d open cans of dog and cat food with the electric blender, both animals charging into the kitchen at the sound. My mother would look down at the cat nuzzling at her legs. “Good morning,” she’d say. “You're so pretty, yes you is.” She’d feed the dog first, bending down to spoon Alpo into its bowl. “There you go, old boy.” Then she’d tip the can of cat food upside down and shake it until its contents slid out with a slurp. The cat always took her meals on the kitchen table as a quasi-defense against the German Shepherd stealing its food. But the dog, having finished its meal in a series of quick chomps, now stared longingly at the cat’s breakfast as if eying its dessert. “You leave that kitty alone if you know what's good for ya,” my mother would warn. She then spooned her instant Maxwell House into a cup, added hot water from the pan, topped the mixture with a splash of milk from the gallon jug and took her seat at the kitchen counter. There she’d spend the next hour or so sipping coffee, smoking Pall Malls, listening to the radio, making small talk with my father and reading borrowed sections of The Bangor Daily News.
If she answered in her gruff voice, I’d pull the blanket over my head.
Anything could set her off. A hungry cat (“Get! Get before I fuckin’ shoot you.”); a low supply of milk (“Ain't that fuckin’ sweet, huh? Another fuckin’ gallon of milk, gone!”); a dog that won't come in from outside (“Fine! Stay out you fuckin’ bitch!”). And nothing raised her ire like my dirty dishes in the sink. “You son of a whore, you! You rotten little bastard! You ain't nothing but a fuckin’ pig. You’ll be wearing a fuckin’ bra pretty soon, your tits will be so fuckin’ big. I'll put a chain around that God damn refrigerator if I got to.” On and on she raged.
I hid beneath the covers, afraid to leave my room.
Dad lifted his eyes from the crossword, looked toward the lake, and sipped his vodka and orange juice.
My mother's rages shook my very sense of self. They felt like earthquakes, complete devastation without warning or means of prevention and no way of limiting the destruction. Now entering preadolescence and no longer possessing the cuteness of a toddler or the innocence of a young child, I transitioned from merely witnessing my mother's tirades to almost always being the target of them. Dad encouraged me to turn the other cheek. “Your mother likes to blow off steam,” he'd say, “It's best just to ignore her; she doesn't mean what she says.” But I couldn't ignore her because I couldn't distinguish between "meaning it" and "not meaning it,” and the reason I couldn't distinguish the difference is because there is no difference.
My mother grew increasingly hostile toward me as I grew older, and as I grew older, I began to talk back. This had the unfortunate side effect of intensifying her fury, and what had always been her tirades now became our wars. By the time I left for college at age eighteen, my mother and I likely fought hundreds, perhaps thousands of times. We fought more often than most people take out the trash, or buy milk, or do laundry. I'm not talking about petty, run-of-the-mill squabbles; my mother and I were incapable of mild disagreement. Our fights escalated into full-fledged nuclear confrontations—all of them. Yet, within minutes of an argument, no matter how traumatic or intense, I could never remember how a fight began. Our conflicts were so commonplace that I lived without awareness of their origins, like a person lives without awareness of his heartbeat. The only thing I knew for certain is that the fights were my fault. This I never doubted, not even for a second. To make sense of my life, I had a choice to make: View myself as bad or my mother as bad, and no child wants to view their parent as bad.
Fights between my mother and me always followed the same trajectory. She'd complain about something I'd done, or didn't do, or wanted to do, or asked to do. Unable to bear her anger, I'd talk back, and we were on our way to Armageddon, volleying verbal bombs at each other, both of us getting louder and louder until she threatened me with physical harm (“I oughtta fuckin’ cold-cock you, you son-of-a-bitch”) or the loss of a privilege (That's it! No minibike for you!”). At this point, the emptiness swallowed me up and all my anger turned to fear and shame. Crying and wailing, I begged forgiveness. I needed her to let me start over. “I'm sorry, Mommy!” I needed her to stop being angry with me. “Please, Mommy! I'm sorry!” I needed to know she still loved me. “Please! Mommy! I'm so sorry, Mommy! I'll be good! Please!” But it was always the same response: I didn't know how to be good, and it was too fuckin’ late for sorry. Hysterical with panic, I continued to sob and plead until she completed my rejection with “Get out of my fuckin’ sight if you know what's good for ya,” or “If I was you, I'd go to my fuckin’ room and stay there.” Wailing with pain and fury, I ran down the hall to my room and jumped onto my bed, kicking and punching the mattress, screaming and crying until I fell asleep.
My dad refilled his glass.
