Being Mean Page 4

  “Shut the door! What the hell are you doing?” He grabs my arm and yanks me back into my seat.

  What am I doing? I just want him to stop. I do not want to feel good like this with Daddy if he doesn’t love me. I don’t know how not to feel good when he touches me and moves me on his leg. I am beginning to think we are doing something wrong, and I don’t know how to make it stop. I feel afraid, like a bad girl craving a feeling that is nasty.

  I start crying.

  Daddy drives through the stop sign and pulls over.

  “Settle down and quit crying.” Now he is acting less angry, his voice lower, but he still sounds impatient. After a pause he adds more calmly, “If you are so worried, we won’t have our special times anymore. But you’ll miss it. I know you.”

  Daddy puts the semi in gear and we drive home in silence. We didn’t go wherever he had said he needed to go when he asked me out for this drive.

  I don’t ask why.

  ONE LAST TIME

  1965 (age 13)—Galveston, Texas

  Dad and I are going to the ocean. I think to Galveston. Dad just got this new VW camper—at least new to us—and he wants to take it on a trip. Mom doesn’t like camping or being outdoors, and my sisters are involved in their college or high school worlds, so it’s just Dad and me. I can’t remember ever being at the ocean, and I’m excited to be going. It’s a little easier to be around Dad now. I keep myself from thinking about what happened with him in the truck. And I am being mean less, too, which helps me not to think about those times with Dad. Mom, Pam, and I haven’t seen Dad much in the last year, and now we are all going to move soon. Dad will be leaving his job with the moving-van line company, and he is going to work at a different place—this time in a really big city, Dallas.

  We get to the ocean and the late afternoon sun is still shining. The breeze feels comforting. I have on my first two-piece bathing suit and am excited about wearing it, even though my figure doesn’t have any curves. I look at the other people on the beach and fantasize about meeting a cute boy. Dad parks, opens the van’s side door, and sets up some chairs. I run into the waves. I love to swim, but the deeper I get, the more worried I feel about how to swim in ocean waters. I can see Dad sitting near the camper, and I feel safe, believing he is keeping an eye on me.

  After walking along the beach and finding some shells, I return to the camper, and Dad and I make some sandwiches. We sit in some folding chairs, watching birds and boats far on the horizon. Seagulls squawk, and delicate little birds with long legs tiptoe in the shallow waters. Soon stars begin popping out. Dad gets up to figure out how to pull out his bed and pop up the top sleeping area in his new camper. I continue to sit and listen to the waves and watch crabs scamper here and there.

  Dad gets his bed made up and the pop-up bed on top where I’ll sleep. I am relieved we have two sleeping areas.

  “Let’s shut the door and head to bed,” he announces.

  I still have on my bathing suit, though it is dry. I’ll change once in my bed.

  “Lie here with me for a little while,” Dad insists.

  I lie down beside him without an objection. Dad is nice if I do what he wants, but I begin to feel uncomfortable as I stretch out beside him. When I remember those times of being in bed with Dad, what we did together doesn’t feel quite right, and I have been so relieved nothing has happened now for a long time. Whenever my mind goes to those times, I just shut it down. Over and over. It’s too confusing to think about that stuff. Plus, thinking about Dad in that way makes me feel like something is wrong with me, especially when I get wet between my legs when those thoughts come to mind.

  None of my friends ever talk about doing things with their dads like I have done with mine. Plus, I have a sort of boyfriend now, and we have kissed. My boyfriend has given me a silver necklace with my name engraved on it, just like many of my friends have. I want to be like everyone else. Once when my boyfriend and I were lightly kissing, I pressed myself against him and let my body begin to move against his leg until I started to get that feel-good feeling. It was like somebody had flipped a switch and this rush of sensation shot through my limbs straight to my crotch, like a faucet turned on, and my body started pressing and rubbing. My boyfriend liked it at first, then he seemed surprised and took a step back, looking at me in a puzzled way. Apparently, that didn’t happen for him. Kissing was new in my sexual world. Pressing, rubbing, and humping were where my experience lay, and I thought those behaviors went along with kissing.

  Dad reaches over and slips his fingers under my swimsuit bottoms. I am already wet. Why does that happen? I hate it, but that’s how it goes with me. He moves his fingers slowly until he finds that place that can make me feel really good. A finger slips into me. I try hard to distract myself.

  “One last time,” Dad whispers. When he gives me a nudge to move on top of him, I don’t. He grunts and pulls me to my side. On his side, he directs me to squeeze my legs together and starts sliding his penis in and out between my thighs. My face keeps hitting his chest, and hairs tickle my nose.

  I listen to the ocean waves. Soon they become predictable. One after another. I can imagine myself floating in them like I had that afternoon. With my eyes closed, I lose track of time and of what Dad is doing. I tune into the waves to keep from getting that feel-good feeling and notice a tiny hint of hope. But holding myself rigid and tight has left me feeling like a rubber band about to snap. My jaws ache. My head hurts. My back is sore.

  “Get up in your sleeping area,” Dad says, jolting me back to reality. He hands me a washcloth to wipe the sticky stuff off my legs. I don’t even know when it got there.

  I crawl up into my bed, so grateful for the netting that surrounds it, which allows for an incredible ocean view and the sounds of the waves to feel so close. I am exhausted, from the drive, the afternoon in the water, and the effort to not be mean with Dad.

  In the morning, Dad wakes first and opens the side door. There is water under the camper! It isn’t up to the bottom of the van, but still, water is all around us. He yells at me to get down from the pop-up. Panicked, he hops in the driver’s seat, and slowly maneuvers us from water-soaked sand to dry ground. Our chairs have toppled over and are floating in water, so I fetch and fold them, then put them away.

  “What else can I do, Dad?” I want to be helpful.

  “Apparently you don’t want to do anything. Just shut up and get in the van.” His face is stern and unforgiving. He is closing up the pop-up and pushing his bed into a back seat. I can tell he is ready to go. No breakfast with an ocean view like he mentioned having last night during our picnic dinner.

  I can’t believe something like this would happen to my dad. He always seems to know what to do and hadn’t seemed worried at all about camping close to the water so we could hear the waves. Now he is furious, and the way he is acting leaves me with the feeling that this is somehow my fault. I know I didn’t do what he wanted last night. It wasn’t like old times. And now this. The angry way he looks at me and snaps at me—it’s like I disgust him.

  Dad is silent on the long drive home. I am full of doubts about my decision to detach and not be mean with Dad. If I am not going to have special times with Dad anymore, he is not going to love me. If I can just forget Dad’s and my secrets, and my confused feelings, and put them all far behind me. Forget those times for good, forever. Never think again about how wrong and bad I’ve been to do those things with Dad.

  Maybe, with this move, I can have a new start in a new town.

  MY DREAM TEAM

  1967 (age 15)—Richardson, Texas

  Mom and Dad argued bitterly earlier this week about who knows what. The whole week has been filled with a stone-cold silence that makes our new house as frigid and uncomfortable as living on a glacier; it’s like I must navigate dangerous fissures, always aware how easily I could fall into those dark and fatal depths. I stay in my room, turn on my record player, and tune them out, while I rock and sing in my rocking chair. I
work hard at blocking out Mom and Dad, and especially some really weird things that come up about Dad. I push those sickening thoughts away, far away, and pull up a familiar fantasy love affair that feels good to focus on. These days that fantasy involves my new boyfriend, Dave, who is really fun and sweet.

  Right now, I am delighted to be spending the night with Carolyn. Carolyn’s house feels warm, fresh, and smells good. Kaki, her mom, is cooking, dressed in sneakers and comfy looking clothes, no make-up, her hair casually brushed back. She casts a welcoming smile my direction. “Would you like a bite to eat, Patty? A little snack?”

  Snacks are not available in our kitchen, a place I largely avoid since Dad occupies the tiny den that adjoins the kitchen in our new house, sending out irritated glares if anyone disturbs his reading space outside of official dinner preparation and eating times.

  “Thanks, Mrs. Bauer.” I place my overnight bag on the floor and reach for an unfamiliar looking creation of cheese and something else on a cracker. It tastes good, but everything tastes good at Carolyn’s house. I can eat here without my stomach bunching up in knots. A door opens and Mr. Bauer walks in, arriving home from work. Cal and Kaki smile as they greet and hug one another, and Kaki reminds him I am a friend of Carolyn’s from school.

  “Well, hello, Patty!” Cal says turning toward me. His kind, hearty, and welcoming tone seeps through me. Stepping over to the counter, he gently places a hand on my shoulder, while slipping one of the cracker concoctions into his mouth.

  As his hand rests so naturally and comfortably on my shoulder, I wonder what it would be like if these were my parents. Cal and Kaki look at me when they talk to me, and they smile, something they also easily do with each another. They sincerely like each other, and maybe even me.

  Carolyn ambles into the kitchen and over to her dad, who gives her a big, lovable hug. “What are you and Patty doing tonight while your mom and I entertain a few friends?”

  I try to remember a time when my dad ever hugged me, or asked what I was going to be doing, especially on nights when I stayed home.

  “Oh, just hang out, play with Otto. Maybe listen to some music,” Carolyn answers, smiling as she leans into her dad. Otto is the only Basset Hound I have ever known, and I could stroke his huge, long ears forever. I don’t really care what Carolyn and I do when I spend the night here; I am so relieved to just be around her, her family, and her dog.

  Cal nods while giving her a squeeze, then reminds us to come out back sometime during the evening to say hello to their friends. My parents don’t have friends, never go out, and have never had anyone over for dinner.

  Later, I hear laughter floating in from the patio. We step outside into a warm fall evening to friendly greetings from the Bauers’ friends, who ask my name and offer theirs with easy handshakes and gentle pats on my back, everyone warmly hugging Carolyn, who seems as genuinely delighted to see them as they are to see her. Wine goblets and other drink glasses are scattered across the table, but no one is acting the least bit strange. My parents never drink and lecture how alcohol leads to unhappy, awful behavior, but everyone out here is more civil, happy, and gracious than any behavior I have ever experienced from or between my non-drinking parents.

  I recognize most of the faces of people here from framed photos in the Bauers’ den. In the photos people are playing tennis, water skiing, or just lounging beside a court or the water somewhere. The only framed picture at my house is the large gold-framed oil-painted wedding portrait of Mom and Dad that hangs prominently in the living room. They had it done when we lived in Japan by a Japanese painter. It’s from a photo someone took on the day they married. In our hallway are Pamela’s somber wedding photo and a smiling studio portrait of me that Mom had made. Paula’s photos have been out of sight ever since Dad kicked her and her hippie husband out of the house on one of their rare visits. I think Mom was afraid Dad would break Paula’s wedding picture.

  Much later that night, lying in Carolyn’s bed, I hear her parents talking. Doors are rarely closed in this house. Kaki and Cal chat about the evening, more about their day, and what their friends were talking about over dinner. Then they touch on a few things about their own children. Their oldest son is away at college and, apparently, they disagree about something David is doing, and their discussion becomes crisper, although remaining totally civil.

  Unbeknownst to me, Carolyn has also been lying awake next to me in bed listening to the exchange, and she suddenly blurts out for them to stop arguing. Arguing? They haven’t even raised their voices, called each other names, or thrown something at each other. Cal apologizes to Carolyn for keeping her awake, assures her they love each other and her and, after a much softer conversation between Kaki and Cal, the house goes quiet. Carolyn shifts in bed and settles quickly into sleep.

  I am not exactly sure what just happened. It is as though a light is flashing in my brain letting me know I just overheard what could be a crucial life lesson for me, and my happiness about it is palpable. With my heart beating strong and steady, the entire evening leaves me feeling like I just opened a thousand Christmas presents containing some of the most important things I could ever want—glimpses of trust, love, friendships, and a healthy marriage and family. Like Carolyn, I turn over and float into a secure, blissful slumber, a smile on my face.

  FALSE ALARM

  1968 (age 15)—Richardson, Texas

  My period is late. I started menstruating less than a year ago and already I’m in trouble. Dave promised me he would pull out in time, right before having an orgasm. Sticky sperm was spread over my abdomen, so I believed nothing could happen. It was my first time to actually “make love.” We have had sex, touching each other between our legs, masturbating, humping, things I feel familiar with and crave doing. But we had not yet done the “penis in the hole”—the words I learned when younger—or “making love,” as Dave calls it. Making love sounds so much better. Just like masturbating sounds better than “being mean.”

  When I first met Dave, a year and a half ago in the eighth grade, he was the most wonderful guy I had ever known—funny, cute, really sweet, and so sensitive. When we started dating, he shared how when he was six years old his dad killed himself, and he even took me to his dad’s grave. I wondered what that would feel like, both for a dad to want to kill himself, and for a child to have a dad do that. Surely this would be so much worse than having parents who fight all the time.

  Dave always has a peppermint stick handy to give away. Who does that? It’s so cute when he whips one out of his back pocket. After the very first time we talked to each other, I came home from church choir practice and told my sister Pamela I had just met the guy I was going to marry. But he didn’t become my boyfriend until the tenth grade, when we started going to the same high school.

  A little over a month ago, we crawled into some bushes at the park, lying on a towel Dave had brought. Safer, he assured me, than in his really cool ’57 Ford in the open parking lot. I trust him. I want him to love me so much; I’m willing to try whatever he wants. Having sex with Dave makes me feel safe, although I don’t understand from what. It just feels right, and the way sex should be, with a boyfriend. Plus, I get aroused easily, and yearn for that release like I have when I masturbate.

  After we made love, Dave was affectionate, for days. He told me how incredibly beautiful I was. He told me he loved me. I believed him then, and I still do, sort of. Our relationship improved after that night, meaning Dave hasn’t been flirting as much with other girls. He always flirts a little, the candy cane charmer, giving girls a red swirled stick right out of that back pocket. But he has been treating me like someone really special, writing me amazing love notes and walking me to my classes. This feels so good. We may only be fifteen, but we really are in love.

  “Patty, what’s wrong? Did Dave break up with you?” Carolyn asks, sitting next to me on a bench in the pep squad locker room with her slender hand on my leg. I have never had a friend like Carolyn, and I want her in my lif
e with the same determination I want Dave in my life, though for different reasons.

  When I tell her I think I’m pregnant, her jaw drops and her eye twitches. All Carolyn has ever done at this point is barely kiss a boy.

  The bell rings and we head on to class, promising to talk later. The day is a blur; I hardly hear a word any of my teachers say. Oddly, Dave is nowhere to be found all day. I hang out in my last class, stalling until the halls empty, before I finally leave the classroom. Dazed, I stand with my head in my locker wondering when Dave got the note I wrote that my friend John promised to deliver, telling Dave that I’m almost a month late with my period.

  Mrs. Ellard, my French teacher, steps out of her nearby room and watches me. I stare at my books as if trying to decide if I should take any home. Will I feel like doing any homework knowing my life is cratering?

  “Patty, are you okay?” she asks softly.

  That’s just it. I’m not okay. I feel scared, confused, alone. I break into tears, sobbing uncontrollably. She gently guides me into her room. After I stop crying, Mrs. Ellard suggests we take a drive to help me settle down. She quickly gathers her things.

  She walks me by the pay phone, so I can call my mom to tell her I’m talking with Mrs. Ellard and that I’ll be late. Soon we’re climbing into Mrs. Ellard’s sun-warmed car and driving off.

  “Would you like to talk?” she encourages, looking over at me with a huge amount of kindness in her eyes. She’s such a vibrant, beautiful woman, and was my favorite teacher even before this.