I wish I could have known about her pain back then, because no one
ever needed to love another human being more than I needed to love
Beulah. And be loved in return. There is a place in me, a part that is
locked away. A place that no one can touch lest the pain come back. How I
longed to be able to just talk about things with her. I can only begin to
imagine what it was like for my sisters, but "seen and not heard" was her
motto; and "spare the rod and spoil the child" was not merely sage advice
- it was her marching orders.
Beulah despised my indomitable sense of humor, or "foolishness" as
she called it. She seemed to think laughter was devilish, and she saw a
lot of him in me. I'm certain I did have some faults as a child, and she
wouldn't be pleased to know I've improved on them since.
I went home for Beulah's funeral, only a few years after she had
finally driven me away. High blood pressure and obesity were the
physiological cause, but I believe that the demon rage just wore her out.
After the church service, I found a quiet place to cry. I left my hate
there in a small room in the basement of an old church, dusty boxes
stacked around me. I cried for the emptiness I felt, for also gone was
all hope of love from the woman who had dominated so much of my
life.
Beulah told me a thousand times that I would never amount to
anything, and she may yet be right. But there is something I have already
done. Today I write these homely words, and one day I will carry them to
those hills and rocks that listened so patiently to a small boy's pain.
It's the priceless gift I leave my children. The cycle of violence is
broken.
You see, I have a son and a daughter. They're grown now, and they
will never know the terror of a frantic, mindless beating, or cry
themselves to sleep convinced they are unloved a thousand nights before
their 16th birthday. Nor will they experience hours in a rat-infested
cellar, and be kicked in the head for lying over the top step and peeking
at the light under the door. And they will never feel that final searing
panic as a rug is used to close off the thin sliver of light that
anchored hope in darkness so black that one had to keep blinking to be
sure one's eyes were open.
My children will never know that dark terror, cringing at every
sound, crawling endlessly up and down, counting the musty wood steps,
still never certain where they are, until finally the door opens and they
feel compelled to be grateful to the person who caused them so much
pain.
I will never understand such rage or where it comes from; but I
know it comes. It came to me one evening when my son was about eight. It
doesn't matter why, only that it came...uncalled. Suddenly, it was just
there, huge and red, roaring in my head. I grabbed that precious creature
that meant more to me than life, and I raised him above my head. There
was no thought of what I would do; but then, through the red haze, I saw
his beautiful face frozen in terror, and it was my face 25 years earlier.
And I stopped. By the grace of God, the cycle was broken.
We cried together in his room, he and 1, and I told him about the
rage. I asked him to forgive me for showing him that unholy face, and he
did. I promised him he would never see it again, and he hasn't.
I haven't mentioned much about my adopted father, Harold, because
he had little to do with this story. It's enough to say he wasn't
equipped to deal with the life he found himself bound to. I loved him,
admired his gentleness, and miss him still. But I confess that if I could
have one of my parents back for a while, I'd choose that walking,
talking, fire-breathing dragon from Russia.
You see, Harold and I settled our debts before he died. I was with
him his last days and hours. He acknowledged that 'things hadn't been
easy for me as a child.' He spoke of his regret for not "doing more" for
me, and I heard him say he loved me for the first time in my life. Harold
also loved to feel the love of his grandchildren, and he died at peace
with his God.
But I'd like to tackle that demon that tugged at Beulah's soul for
most of her fife. There is something I need her to understand, and I
don't even know what it is. it's a little Re feeling a hunger for
something you can't identify, so you wander through the kitchen hoping it
will pop out-an unknown hand tugging at the soul rather than the
stomach.
I would sing and play my horn for her. It was the only thing I ever
did that she never criticized. And I'd try to love her...if she let me.
I'd like her to see and feel the love of her grandchildren...if she
would. But most of all I'd like her to know she was wrong about me, at
least in this - that the cycle is broken.
ILLUSTRATION: (DAVID LEVINSON)
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