The Chronicles of Cass: When It Began, Pt. 3

This is part 3 of a three part series. You can find Part 1 and Part 2 at their respective links.

Early April. A chilly, raw, early spring evening, several weeks before my birthday.

The TV was tuned to the Red Sox pre-game show. My sister C sat in the beanbag chair, our cat S curled up in her lap. My brother F sat in the wingback chair in the corner that my grandmother had given my parents as a first anniversary present. My father sat in his recliner, reading the Boston Evening Globe. My mother was stretched out on the couch, covered by her ever-present afghan. I was squeezed in at the end of the couch watching the TV while also perusing The Sporting News, poring obsessively over box scores from spring training games played several weeks prior.

The phone rang in the kitchen. C unfurled herself from the beanbag chair, much to the outrage of S.

"I'm not here," my father said, the ever-present edge to his voice present when the phone would ring on one of his days off.

"Mm-hmm," said C with a nod as she passed him.

"I said I'm not here," my father said again, the agitation in his voice rising.

"I know, Dad, I heard you the first time," C said, rolling her eyes.

"I said, 'I'm not here!'" he repeated even louder, shaking his head in apparent disbelief at having to reiterate this seemingly obvious fact to all of us yet again.

"She heard you the first time, B," said my mother gently, trying to at least mitigate the incoming storm of unearned grievance before it reached peak intensity.

"I'm simply saying-" he replied before my mother cut him off.

"We know, B," she said, her voice weary. "We all know."

Having reached the kitchen, C picked up the phone.

"Hello, M***** residence," she said. "Can I ask who's calling?"

A moment passed. 

"I'm sorry, who?" she said, her surprise evident. 

Another moment passed.

"Yes, he's here," she said. "One minute, please."

She walked to the doorway between the dining room and living room, placing the phone on the dining room table. 

"It's for L. It's a girl - Cl?" she said, uncertainty in her voice.

I nearly dropped the paper I was reading as fear - panic - set in. My heart was pounding, my breathing became shallow. I could feel myself beginning to perspire heavily. I didn't understand what was happening to me; I only knew I wanted to be anywhere but that living room, with these people.

No one in my family had any knowledge of the events of the previous fall with J at the dance. Remarkably, it seems to have escaped the attention of the chaperones and teachers, as no one ever mentioned it to me or to my father on his off days when he worked there as a part-time custodian or my mother on the days she volunteered at the school. I had learned not to give anything away to protect myself regarding my true feelings about anything. The potential negative consequences far outweighed any theoretical benefits I could think of about opening up. 

"I'm not here," I whispered, trying to prevent my voice from cracking.

"Huh?" asked C, confused. "Isn't she a girl in your class?"

"Oh, Cl," said my mother. "She's the one who wears glasses, isn't she? She's very sweet."

"I don't want to talk to her!" I said fiercely. I didn't understand what I was feeling, or why - only that this was a worst-case scenario, as I was caught unprepared, my unconscious monitoring for any potential cause of anxiety/discomfort had fallen short - and worse, falling short in front of my mother and father.

"What is wrong with you?" asked my mother, genuinely puzzled. "I don't understand this at all."

My father shot up out of his chair and stomped over to the doorway.

"YOU GET UP AND GET ON THAT GODDAMNED PHONE AND TALK TO THAT GIRL!" my father bellowed. "MY OLDEST SON ISN'T GOING TO BE SOME F****** FAGGOT!"

I heard my mother gasp. I leaned back from the force of his words. My vision turned purple around the edges as I stared at him, disbelieving. He stared back, nostrils flaring. For the briefest instant shame flickered across his face... then his eyes darted away. A line had been crossed, one from which there was no return.

I sat motionless, takins short, sharp breaths. An eerie, unearthly silence settled inside me as I slowly processed what had just happened.

After a seeming eternity, F spoke.

"Cl is still on the phone," he said in a small voice. 

I stood, staring at my father, daring him to look me in the eye. He did not.

I stared at him the entire way to the dining room. I have never to this day felt such pure, unadulterated hatred as I did in that moment. To this day I do not know at whom it was most directed - my father, myself, or both of us.

I picked up the phone.

"Cl," I said. "We'll go to the square. Next Friday."

Cl spoke, her voice shaky.

"L, I am so sorry. I never meant to cause you - "

"We can go to Papa Gino's," I said, cutting her off. "You like pizza, right?"

"Yes," she said. "But we don't have to go out. I'm so sorry, L."

"We'll pick you up at 7:00," I said. My voice sounded as if it were a million miles away.

"No, L, it's OK - "

"I'll see you on Friday," I said as I hung up, the sound of her protesting voice being cut off.

I hung up the phone in the kitchen, then turned, walked through the dining room and then the living room and kept walking, staring straight ahead.

"L, wait," said my mother, her voice gentle.

I kept walking. When I reached the front door I pulled it open and stepped out onto the front porch, leaving the door wide open, one of the innumerable triggers that would set off my father. For a moment I turned back to close the door, then thought for a moment more.

"F*** you," I thought, and turned back to one of the deck chairs and sat down. The Boston skyline glittered in the chilly, raw early April air. I realized I had been holding my breath - for how long? I exhaled, still feeling shaky.

Minutes passed. I had no watch, so I had no idea how much time had passed. I was wearing a New England Patriots three-quarter sleeve jersey but no jacket. Shivering, I could see my breath in the chill early-evening air.

The screen door opened. I stared straight ahead.

"L?" I heard my mother's voice. I said nothing.

"L?" she said, her voice quiet. "Your father didn't mean what he said, and he's sorry. Come back inside."

"No," I said in a tone I had never heard myself use before.

"What did you just say?" my mother said, shocked.

"I said no. If he was really sorry, he would come out here and said so himself."

"I don't know who you think you're talking to, but you had better get inside. This instant." I heard the steel in her voice.

"No," I replied, staring. She heard the steel in my voice, matching hers.

"Fine," she said after an interminable moment. "You can stay out here and freeze to death then." 

She turned, surely expecting me to be standing beside her momentarily. But my mind was made up. I would indeed freeze to death before I would go back inside with her in that moment. 

She reached the door, opened it, and went inside. I heard the door close behind her.

I sat on the porch, shivering, watching the city lights flicker as time passed - how much I lost track. Eventually I could see the downstairs lights go off, one by one. When the last light flickered off I waited some more, then walked out to the street to check the upstairs light in my parents bedroom. Those, too, eventually went dark. 

I sat for another 15 minutes to be reasonably sure everyone was asleep. As I counted the minutes, I thought about the events of the evening and came to one inescapable conclusion:

"You are on your own," I thought. And I knew it was true. I could no longer afford to let anyone in. Ever.

I went to the door and reached for the doorknob. I wasn't sure what to expect, a fact which spoke volumes.

The screen door was unlocked. I wasn't sure what I would have done had it been locked. I probably would have walked to Bm's house. Tc's parents, while good people, would have insisted on calling my parents and brining me back home. I knew instinctively (and correctly) that Bm's mother was different; she would understand and would never do that.

I turned the inside door's knob. It, too, was open. I slowly pushed the door open. The downstairs had that silence that only comes in the absence of others. The lights were all extinguished, save for the night lights in the kitchen and the upstairs hallway. 

I climbed the stairs as carefully as I could, doing my best to avoid the sections that creaked. The bedroom doors we're all closed. I reached mine and opened it as quietly as I could. I could hear F's rhythmic breathing in his bedroom adjacent to mine.

I undressed, still shivering from the cold. I pulled my covers down, doing my best not to disturb our cat S, who was stretched out across the end of my bed in his usual spot. He looked up momentarily, then settled back to sleep. 

As I lay down on my pillows I felt something soft beneath my head. I pulled it out and, unable to see it in the darkness, draped a hand towel from the laundry basket next to my bed over the bedside lamp so as not to disturb F. I flicked the light on:

It was Brownie.

I felt my eyes well up for a split-second. I willed them away. There was no time for that any longer.

Clutching Brownie I eventually drifted off to a fitful sleep, devoid of dreams.

***

I did go out with Cl the following Friday. I remember almost nothing of that evening beyond a few stray images. Poor Cl was undoubtedly guilt-ridden - unnecessarily so, of course; the awkwardness was entirely of my own making, in conjunction with my father. I resolved in the week before the "date" that I would do my best to make Cl feel as comfortable as I could. But I was only twelve; I had no idea how to actually accomplish that.

My predominant memory is of awkwardness. How could it be anything else? I'm sure both Cl and myself were walking on eggshells the entire evening. We did go to Papa Gino's; I remember that much, but almost nothing else, no much how hard I search my memory.

Apparently I walked Cl to her door when the evening was mercifully over - and shook her hand, a story my father and mother delighted in telling (and re-telling) in subsequent years. I had finally done something that pleased them.

I have no doubt the events described here have played a large part in my difficulty with relationships, and with letting people get close. Fear, anger, humiliation, resentment... they make up a toxic stew that would have wreaked havoc on anyone during those enormously important years. 

Again... I was twelve.

I don't think I ever stood a chance. I certainly tried in the following months, years, and decades. But I think I lacked the necessary grounding of positive experiences that would make it possible. 

This is not to engage in parent-bashing. I genuinely believe they both did the best they could. I've long speculated on why they acted the way they did, and from putting bits and pieces I've learned about over the years I think they both had difficult childhoods of their own. But the damage has been done, the price has been paid countless times, and in countless ways that I am still trying to understand.

***

A month later, last class of the day. We were in by far my least favorite subject: gym. I loved sports, and was becoming a decent tennis player and runner, but I was awful at baseball, football, floor hockey... the standard activities of gym class. I particularly disliked the instructor, who apparently failed in his ambition to be a drill instructor and chose to retaliate by bullying the most vulnerable students in each class. I was the target on multiple occasions of his bile, and grew to dread the weekly 45 minute torture sessions.

On this day we were engaged in the "sport" I detested the most: dodge ball, which was seemingly designed by some deranged bullying by committee. As one of the smallest students in my class, and also forced to participate without my glasses, I was almost always one of the first to be eliminated - not necessarily the worst outcome, granted.

For whatever reason, in this match the would-be alpha males chose to go after one another, sparing civilians such as myself. They were so busy assaulting one another that I was actually able to target and knock out several members of the other team.

Before long I was the only person left standing from my team, facing four opponents - including D. We hadn't really spoken since D and J's kiss. We weren't enemies; things were just... awkward, and neither of us knew what to say or do as the days and weeks passed.

On this day, that would change.

Somehow, they all wound up neutralizing each other by all attacking at once. I was a small target, and I could move quickly. I realized the trick was to focus on one person and target them just as they let loose with their ball. Amazingly, I eliminated first one opponent, then another, then another, using this method, until only one person was left standing: 

D. 

Our eyes met for a moment, then we both looked away. It was very warm and humid in the gym, and we were both panting and near exhaustion. We each took our best shot at each other for several rounds but weren't able to take out the other. 

I missed my attempt, D snatching the ball out of the air. As he let loose he slipped on the slick floor. The ball flew up in a lazy arc as he fell to the ground and landed in my arms.

D tried to get to get to his feet only to slip again. I cocked my arm back, ready to end the match. I fleetingly thought of D and J's embrace, then of our encounter with the librarian months before...

...And let the ball bounce to the floor.

A groan arose from the other members of my team. D sat on the floor, looking at me in surprise.

The gym teacher walked over to me, disgust etched on his face.

"I do not believe you," he spat, glaring.

"I know," I said, returning his gaze with a barely contained smirk.

He turned, shaking his head, and headed for the locker room.

D walked up, looking bemused.

"That's not how they recommend winning these things, you know," he said.

I shrugged. "Easy come, easy go."

D regarded me for a moment, then laughed.

"You're crazy, you know that?"

"Takes one to know one," I said, grinning.

"Wanna hit McDonald's?" he said. "I could really go for a chocolate shake."

"That's understandable," I said. "Losing uses a lot of energy."

"Losing?!?" he scoffed as we headed to the locker room. "I wasn't the one who couldn't aim straight..."

***

It was a steamy Sunday morning in June, several months after the events described above. My father had worked his customary midnight to 8:00 AM shift, eaten his breakfast, and gone to bed before he would have to get up for his 4:00 PM to midnight shift. My mother was just finishing with the breakfast dishes when I came downstairs, still half-asleep.

I said good morning and poured myself a glass of orange juice, the glass instantly mottled with perspiration from the sultry early-summer air.

My mother didn't reply. She seemed distracted.

"Is everything OK, Mom?" I asked.

She hesitated, then reached into her apron pocket and withdrew a folded-up sheet of paper. She held it out to me. 

"Why didn't you ask your father to go to this?" she asked. Her tone was neither angry nor disappointed. It was... baffled.

I unfolded the paper and read the heading at the top of of the page:

"Annual Father-Son Breakfast"

The event date was that day.

I was not entirely awake, and I was caught off guard. Perhaps that explains why I answered with the unvarnished truth:

"I didn't think he would want to go with me."

She took a step back, shocked. She opened her mouth, then closed it. I said nothing. There was nothing to say. I tried to articulate what I was feeling, eventually realizing I felt... nothing.

Finally I spoke.

"I"m still really tired," I said. "Is it OK if I go back upstairs and put the air conditioner on?"

"Yes," she said, not really listening. "Go ahead."

I finished my orange juice, rinsed out the glass, and went upstairs to my room. I closed the door, then turned on the air conditioner and the fan pointed into Fr's room.

I closed the windows, one by one, making sure to close them tightly. I knew the importance of not letting anything in.

***

As you can imagine, these were not the easiest posts to write. Any typos or other errors are the result of simply wanting to finish this once and for all. At some point I'm sure I'll take a look with a critical eye to fix those any any other errors. In the meantime, thank you for your understanding. 🙂 

I wasn't going to include any music links, but anyone who slogged through these deserved some kind of reward. The Replacements certainly qualify.

First, "When It Began," from their final album, 1990's All Shook Down:

Next is one of my favorite Mats songs: "The Last," the final song from All Shook Down. It seems appropriate, as this is the last post of the three in this series. Paul Westerberg wrote this while he was giving up drinking; always found it moving the way the piano part never resolves itself.

Finally, thank you for those of you who stuck with this series to the end. I know it wasn't easy reading, and I promise future posts will be much less intense. I already have the next one written and ready to go, in fact, so watch this space. 🙂