Sputterpub's Blog

When Ruby was little, her father was her sun, her moon, the stars. He was a big, capable, educated man, principled about his conduct and devoted to his family, and he doted on her.

She was his oldest child, his only child till she was five, and forever his one daughter. He loved her mother too, so he spent much happy time at home.

He wasn’t a hippie, but he wasn’t overly modest either. Until Ruby was six or seven, she occasionally saw him unclothed. Briefly she eyed his penis a few times. I only mention that for general consciousness-raising – for goodness sakes, Dads, if you’re going to let your little girl see your dick when she’s young, permit continuing glimpses later, or the child will grow up with unrealistic expectations about the size and pendulousness of the generative organ. But that’s not what this narrative is about. Let me proceed.

Ruby’s father-appreciation dimmed a little as she aged. She continued to love him, and he continued to be her dominant parent and life guide, but she learned in junior high that he could be wrong about pronunciation and philosophy. When she was in high school, he thought he had control over what she wore, and in college over what she did with her body. These flaws helped Ruby define herself as an individual completely separate from her beloved dad.

She’ll never forget the day she discovered his vulnerability and envisioned his debility. She was commuting home after a day of work in San Francisco. She sat as usual on the starboard side of the trolley, next to a window, and she gazed at the pedestrians on the sidewalk. Among them was her father. That coincidence had never occurred before.

He was not in distress. He moved jauntily along with the other south-facing walkers, his posture good and his stride impressive, his briefcase swinging at the end of his right arm. He might have been whistling – he looked so well and happy.

But Ruby was struck like a stone hit her chest. She almost choked with sudden grief. She was clobbered by the certainty that her father was aging, that he was alone but surrounded by possible threats, that someday in the not unforeseeable future he’d be infirm, tender, unable to stand tall or speak firmly or take care of anyone.

Ruby was 18 when she rode that trolley. Her father was 45.

If she’s old enough to bleed, she’s old enough to breed. The words repulsed her. They were such an animal assessment of an acquaintance. How could a boy who had been a cohort turn so suddenly into an assessor, a predator? Mag is much older now, and she sees news frequently about cyber-bullying among teenagers, and she thinks: Wow, if that innocuous garage party phrase so affected me, a relatively resilient individual, how devastating and damaging must the current cruelties be? Words can harm. Words are worse than sticks and stones.

Mag’s primary tormentor was her mother. Her mom fed her false judgments along with the solid food she pushed too early, the toilet training she forced prematurely, the cuddling she declared Mag outgrew by age three. Her mother taught her that she was lazy, and unsensible, and not good looking or feminine enough. These were not true assessments, but what did Mag know then? She was a bright child and a little suspicious after awhile. She began resisting and that fueled her mother’s impatience with her imperfections. By the time Mag was six, mother and daughter were fully engaged in nonverbal competition.

But of course they had to keep getting along. Mag was clearly too young then to leave, and except for the tension between her and her mother, the family was well-adjusted and happy enough. So the child endured the mother and all the attempts to improve her. Without those attempts and the name-calling, Mag might have thought herself okay. But at eight her mom began describing the merits of rhinoplasty, to the extent of promising/threatening an adolescent nose job. By the time Mag was ten she knew about the contact lenses she might acquire in high school; soon after that she was thoroughly trained in how to minimize the look of feet she never realized were growing too big. And at 14, right before she (finally) had that first period, Mag’s mom was “this close” to taking her to a doctor, to find out what was wrong.

(So was it cultural pervasion or was it her mother? Mag’s diary reveals that she commenced her very first diet just two weeks before that period flowed.)

Mag laughed. She’d reached the point in her mom meditations where they went from quasi-tragic to glad. She’d come to understand that one can’t grow up without experiencing hurt. No one gets through childhood unscathed. And usually it’s the parents who do the most or the earliest damage; they’re there, and they get no breather. Parents need time-outs more than kids do.

The truth is, Mag was hurt but not so much that she can’t remember. Why, she has friends who lost a sibling or a parent in childhood and were “protected” from the event or otherwise not allowed to exhibit their feelings, and those friends, now rule-following adults, have no clear memories of their youth. Mag knows grownups who were so deprived as children, of material goods but also of affection from their overworked and over-anxious parents, that their world view now is hyper-rational and without room for emotions or creativity or spirituality, and their memories are absent or warped. And Mag understands there to be other categories of childhood-survivors who credit nothing but fundamental religion, and have no truck with science or accurate recollection.

She chuckled a little more as she got up from her upholstered chair and went to the kitchen. Earlier in the day she had acquired a fresh bag of apricots, not yet opened or refrigerated. But she still harbored the damn Life. She had liked Life cereal forever. When she was a teenager and fully resistant about breakfast, Life was the only food her mother could get her to eat before school. She still liked the cereal, with milk because that was the way to unlock the sugar in it. But she still didn’t want breakfast, so Life was a sometime late night treat, and she seldom stocked the stuff in her pantry. A few weeks earlier she had grabbed a box off the grocery store shelves, registered shock at what it now cost, and impulsively purchased it anyway. That night she poured a bowl with nice anticipation, anointed it with just the correct level of cold skim milk, carried it to her chair, and dug in.

It didn’t taste right. Not spoiled, but lacking that slightly sweetened crisp oat taste she craved. She finished it, but without any satisfaction. The next morning she examined the box.

Maple and Brown Sugar Flavor? Good grief, why? The original is near-perfect. The newer cinnamon flavor is understandable. But there’s no need for any other variation under the same name. And the packaging! Now that Mag was looking closely she could detect the slight color variation between the printing on the bad box compared to the good, but there was no way she wanted to pay more attention to packaging. The situation reminded her of those times when she purchased a book she already owned, either because of a change in cover art or, sneakier yet, a new title. Yeesh.

And then she laughed a third time, louder and most sincerely. With a sweet smile on her face, Mag removed the cereal in its waxy bag and dumped it into the compost bin. She folded the box flat and placed it on top of the paper recycle pile. Then she opened the new bag of dried apricots, carried them with her to her favorite chair, and ingested them one by one.

Mag had a little epiphany as she reached for the apricots.

She’d been a selfish child and she continued the behavior into adulthood. She became more subtle about it, but the truth is that she always wanted the best cookie on the plate. She was pretty sure everyone wanted the best cookie but that most of her fellows forgot that, after years of polite habits.

Mag angled for the best cookie and she noted who got it when she didn’t.

Dried apricots come in several forms. In addition to the obvious differences between the uncut Turkish variety and the halves Mag preferred, beyond the brown of dehydrated purity or the lovely preserved orange that comes with sulphur dioxide, dried apricots vary in size and dryness. Mag was among those who preferred her aps gooey. She liked to unfold a half and rake her bottom teeth through the flesh, removing the soft inside and leaving the skin for a second swallow.

She was into some excellent apricots lately. They were grown and packaged in Hollister, they were pricey, and they were consistently fine. Even so, a bag would contain a few small ones and a smattering of torn pieces among its prime occupants. Mag always had to decide as she reached into the bag, between going for the gold first, or wending her way through the few inferiors and saving the beauties for last.

The night before last she went to the refrigerator for a serving of apricots. The bag was there because, as she noted when she first bought the brand half a year ago, it had “best if kept refrigerated” printed on it. Mag remembers being surprised when she read that. After all, the fruit was already preserved. Then again it was gooey. She followed the package suggestion. A month ago she mentioned her surprise to her brother. He argued with her. He had just bought a package of the same brand of apricots and he showed her the bag; there was no recommendation about refrigeration. Then Mag was confused. She knows she has a good memory, and there’s no way she dreamed the advice. Recently she purchased the apricots again, and the recommendation was back on the bag, immediately below the company name. She and her brother concluded that the printing on the bag must change now and then.

She reached for the refrigerated bag the night before last and her question recurred: go for the good? get through the mediocre? close my eyes and see what I get? And as the question popped up, her brain slap-answered that it didn’t matter, because they were all hers. Suddenly it slammed into her consciousness that the choosing had always been about getting the best for herself: if she was about to offer the bag to guests then she’d angle for the beauties first; otherwise her preference was always to save the best for later.

It was a little epiphany but her own. I am selfish, Mag said to herself. My mother was right about that. I never got good grades for working with others, and I like to live alone. It works for me. Is there something wrong with me?

Her mother would say yes. But Mag never really agreed with her mom. Her mother accused her of laziness, and Mag is one of the busiest people in the world. Her mom said Mag had smarts but no common sense, and Mag is as sensible as an old witch. Then again, her mother hadn’t used those hard adjectives since Mag was a child 50 years ago. But Mag couldn’t forget the words.

Funny how harsh words stay with people. When Mag was 13 she went to a party in an acquaintance’s garage. One of the things she remembers about that night, dancing to 45s on a concrete floor, was shocking. The recordplayer (this was before folks called them turntables, and upscaled them with diamond styluses, and then outgrew them for tape decks and cassette players and MP3’s and iTunes and then reverted nostalgically to good old vinyl) had a short somewhere, and there was a puddle of water around the legs of the table on which it sat, and one had to step lively around it to avoid getting a shock if one touched near its needle. But the other thing she remembers is a comment one boy made to another in her hearing. About her. She cannot recall who the boys were, and the speaker, while cute, was never one of her crushes. But they’d been considering her, and the cute one said with a young leer “if she’s old enough to bleed she’s old enough to breed (heh heh)” and Mag was at once grossed out and embarrassed. It was such a harsh phrase. But worse: Mag hadn’t yet had her first period, a retardation (in her opinion) that required a coverup (she used to fake it in PE rollcall, adding “sponge” to her call-off number when attendance was taken, for a few days each month, which word signified to all hearers that she would not be showering at the end of the class time.)

Wayne got stuck being Mom’s main assistant. Junior mom. That’s probably why he never had kids, why he married a bitch who only wants to be served. I remember when he made his one strike for survival. I was 8 and he was 17. That’s when he began using his middle name. I never understood how my parents could name a boy Leslie. He switched to Wayne and said he wanted to join the Army. And Mom threw a fit. He got the name but not the career.

Bruce is the only one of us who has a real life. That’s because he was the emotional runt of the litter. He used to say Mom loved Wayne more, and Matt, and of course me. We all acted like it was a family joke but we knew he was right. Mom relied on Wayne. She totally babied Matt; he was the best-looking of us and she had some kind of Hollywood dreams about him. And then there was me. Bruce was awkward, kind of ugly, different. Mom paid him much less attention. Lucky boy.

I guess he had a sad go of it as a child, but then he escaped. He went to college. He stayed away. He married Nancy. They had their son and their house and their lives without us.

Okay, if I’m honest, Matt got away too. First into meth and then crack and then death. And now there are 3. Two really, since we never see Bruce.

Near the end of his visit, I tried to talk to Wayne about Mom. He was helping me prepare all her nighttime meds, so we had plenty of time. But he was as usual deaf/dumb/blind. I read somewhere that when there’s more than one son and a dominant mom, the first son never really leaves. Shit, maybe that’s my problem with Bobby.

Anyway, Wayne was useless. Just like when Dad was dying; he listened to the doctors as if they were gods, and he never listened to me. I know Dad would have lived longer if I’d been in full charge; that’s part of the reason I shut out Uncle David and Aunt Ruth. I don’t think Uncle David ever forgave me for that time I stood outside the hospital room door and wouldn’t let him in. Ruth sure hasn’t.

“I think part of Mom’s problem is she’s overmedicated,” I told Wayne. “Every time I take her in they add a new prescription.” But he wasn’t paying attention. Instead he told me how I have to be careful now that her regimen is so complex. Then he went back into Mom’s room, for 5 more minutes of adoration. He must have told her he loved her a dozen times. She loved him back, with her smug grin and pats from her gnarly old hands, and then started whining for me to bring her fresh juice.

Tomorrow

I know the shape of tomorrow. Every tomorrow, unless I do something about it. I’ll have to be here to answer Mom’s demands, to take care of 32-year old Bobby, to respond or not to Aunt Ruth’s bids for attention. I know I can’t count on Wayne for support. Bruce is gone. And Freddy, wherever he is, is as lost to us as Matthew was and probably just as terminal. It’s been over a quarter century since I had sex, and more than that since I had love. I don’t know whether I’m more sad or angry.

I have to get out. I have to escape this sorry life.

I could follow Matt and Freddy. I squirreled away Freddy’s last stash – I didn’t intend to use it or sell it but I remember feeling like I needed a secret, some sort of privacy, and I hid his drugs in the false drawer-back that Matt created when he was still living here. I could learn to use, and leave. It’s Mom’s house anyway; Wayne can move in and see how much he really loves her.

For that matter I could use Mom’s morphine. I’ve cut back on administering it to her lately anyway – she doesn’t seem to be in that much pain, or maybe I’m turning into a sadist – but I’ve been careful to refill the prescription when expected, so there’s a comfortable quantity here.

Or I could stop withholding it from Mom. Make it up to her by letting her have what I’ve denied her these last several weeks. It wouldn’t take that much. I’m sure even if it were discovered there’d be no doubt it was accidental. I’ve been so unhappy lately I think they all think I’m confused.

Then I could call Aunt Ruth. Give her the sad news. Let her know that Mom’s been sicker than we all thought. If I act sorrowful enough she’ll come around. Probably visit and start telling me what to do. Then I’ll rise up and show my anger. Finally. Maybe I’ll visit the medicine cabinet: make someone a special cocktail. Bitch.

Yesterday

I got another email from Aunt Ruth last week. I intended to answer it immediately but I couldn’t figure out what to say. So I gave it some time and as usual my intention faded. Now six days have passed – I’m sure she’s angry and it won’t matter what I say – so why bother? It’s not like I have nothing else to do.

She’s not really my aunt anyway. She’s been in my life all my life, but Ruth isn’t blood. She’s my aunt because she married my mother’s brother. But she and Uncle David were close to my parents till after Dad died, and I try to be respectful. She’s such a pest…

No matter what I say or write, Aunt Ruth won’t be satisfied. She’ll think she knows how to fix whatever, and she’ll fill me with “shouldas.” I think I’ve had enough of those.

My name is Barbara and I’m finally in charge. I’ve earned it.

I was the last born of my parents’ 4 kids, and the only girl. I’ll admit I enjoyed the early attention; for all of my childhood I was the family treasure. I was my parents’ princess, the sister my brothers all protected, the angel with the strawberry blonde curls and the pretty clothes and the smarts they all bragged about. Until I was 25 I don’t think they had any complaints about me. And since then: although I’ve seen some iffy looks sometimes, I think the criticisms I’ve heard have come from Aunt Ruth and Uncle David. Even my ex is less judgmental about me than they were and Ruth still is.

Wow. 25. I was 25 almost 30 years ago. The most surprising thing I’ve learned about life is how fast it goes.

Even then the complaints were totally unfair. After all, I picked Craig because of how well he’d fit with my family. If it weren’t for my parents and my brothers too, I would have gone away to college, met someone who rang my bells, had a separate life. But I was doing what they all wanted. I was staying close to home. Daughtering. Marrying to please them all. Then they decide they don’t like Craig and they start blaming me.

Too late. I was pregnant then with Freddy and Bobby was almost 3. I didn’t have a diploma or a job and my folks sure couldn’t support us. Shit: Mom never worked and Dad’s foundry job wasn’t exactly lucrative. Wayne worked at a gas station, Bruce was on the way to leaving us, and Matt had already dedicated his life to his drugs. Craig was my only option and I hung onto him till he couldn’t hold onto a job. When he took the last position, that construction gig in Arizona, it looked for awhile like we might make it. Enough money came in and he was away so much we started to get along again. But then he lost that and moved back in here … and well, looking back now, I see it was just a matter of time. The man drove me nuts with his cockamamie schemes and his slowness.

So for the last 25 years I’ve had no one but me. I’ve been taking care of my sons and my parents and sometimes even my brothers. Wayne and Matt anyway – Bruce became the property of Nancy as soon as they married. He never comes around. I’m in charge of this domain.

Now I’m tired. I figured I’d learn stuff once I started actually writing this journal, but I had no idea it would happen so fast. A page ago all I felt was anger, and now that’s been overrun with weariness. Mom’s asleep. Bobby’s asleep. Freddy is God knows where. I can continue this tomorrow.

Today

Wayne came by today and tried to take Mom out for a drive, but she was having none of it. She only wants to be here, in her chair all day and the bed all night, whining at me for what she thinks she needs. I know that sounds disloyal but the older we both get, the more I realize how long it’s been since I actually loved her.

Better not let Wayne read this. Fuckin’ Mama’s boy. Nearly eligible for Medicare now, and he still won’t challenge her. I’m a fine one to talk (write); I don’t either.

I guess he never had a chance. Mom was always demanding and overprotective and Dad, sweet Dad, worked so much he was only around nights and weekends. Besides, back then the men all trusted the moms to know what they were doing. Like girls are born mother-wise or something. Really: the only thing Dad did wrong was let Mom run the show at home.