Normal Family

By Don Trowden

Normal Family is a wildly funny coming-of-age novel about a young boy's four consecutive holidays with his eccentric family. Over the course of Thanksgiving, Christmas, Easter and Independence Day, our young hero, Henry Pendergast, comes to know his once-famous author (and now alcoholic) grandfather George, who sobers up long enough to help Henry come to terms with the mystery surrounding his mother's mental illness. Henry somehow perseveres through a landmine of dysfunctional relatives amidst a family in decline, including siblings, parents and step family, all set against the social chaos of late-1960s America. Funny, bittersweet and highly entertaining, Normal Family might be the first novel whose entire action takes place over the family holidays.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: May 1, 2012
• ISBN: 9780985050429

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Thanksgiving 1968

Chapter One

There are certain years over the course of one’s lifetime that stand out in hindsight not so much for their easy good fortune but rather for their difficult forced growth. 1968 was such a year for me. It was a year of rapid changes, when all one could do was ride the turbulent waves ashore, fighting and floating simultaneously. For my family, these waves came in the form of four consecutive holidays spent with my eccentric grandparents, holidays that eventually pulled us under, both personally and financially. I now realize the signposts were there for us all to see, but we humans are not particularly adept at understanding events until after they have surprised us. My mother’s descent into mental illness and the tragic details of her secretive past hung over those days like a brooding, persistent fog. Only the storms brought on by the inescapable family holidays were strong enough to clear the horizon and reveal the truth.

Why was my family so bizarre? Had I been secretly adopted? Was I being punished for the sins of some previous life? Surely I could not be genetically related to these people. All I ever wanted was a normal family—whatever that might be—free from the constant insanity and fighting, to be raised in a supportive environment along the lines of what I saw in other respectable homes.

My grandparents were holed up in a brick mansion in Greenwich, Connecticut, just a half hour from New York City. Grandpa had been an explorer in the 1920s and a foreign war correspondent during World War Two, and there was a mysterious bomb shelter on his property, a subterranean hideout where he frequently slipped away for solitude and gin. World War Two was a fresh memory, with Cold War tensions running high, and my grandfather was well prepared for the coming Russian invasion, his bomb shelter stocked with booze and tin cans of herring packed in oil. Knowing this, I decided when doomsday arrived I’d take my chances above ground armed with my favorite candy rather than retreat to Grandpa’s Armageddon palace.

In 1968, when I was a boy of ten, three generations of my batty clan gathered in Greenwich to celebrate Thanksgiving. I awoke at seven o’clock the morning before Thanksgiving Day to the sound of a loud thud coming from the hallway. I put on the casual clothes my mother had laid out the night before and departed the relative safety of my bedroom to see what had happened. My grandfather’s bathroom door was slightly ajar and I saw him standing in front of the toilet, rubbing his forehead. Damn that low door, he muttered to himself. He flushed the toilet and his hearing aid popped from his ear into the swirling water. Get back here! he shoved his hand into the toilet, too late. I dashed down the central stairway before he could see me. My family was seated at the formal dining room table waiting for Grandpa and me.

Good morning, Henry, my grandmother kissed me on the cheek. Did you see your grandfather?

I think he’ll be down soon, I pulled up a seat next to my father. Granny leaned back in her chair and hollered over her shoulder. Hurry up, George! Your pancakes are getting cold and the children are starting without you.

Grandpa, all two-hundred-and-eighty pounds of battered bulk perched upon a six-foot, six-inch frame, came lumbering down the portrait-lined stairway. He looked more distraught than usual, complaining about his throbbing forehead, the incessant chirping of the birds that woke him at dawn and a series of other mumblings concerning his impressions of the new day. Underneath his tweed blazer he wore the same plaid pajama top he had slept in last night. A yellow necktie was partially tucked underneath his collar. Suspenders stretched to the breaking point across his belly with one snap barely connected to red corduroys that completed his experimental ensemble. A shock of white hair rose from the top of his head looking oddly like a crucifix.

My brother and sister were seated across from me at the table. My sister Lucy, who was four years older than me, was wearing a dainty floral dress that belied her true bossy nature. My brother Albert, who was five years older than me and a boy genius largely incapable of dressing himself, looked remarkably well put together. He had refused to wear the loafers my mother had packed and instead wore his trademark white sneakers with black socks. A piece of electrical tape was wrapped around the bridge of his eyeglasses, barely holding the thick frame together.

We smiled when our grandfather entered the room. Good morning, Gramps! our singsong voices called out.

No response.

Grandpa pulled his seat away from the table, the heel of his size-15 shoe landing squarely on the tail of Sasha the cat. Sasha scrambled underneath the table, her cries unheard by Grandpa’s inoperative ears. Grandpa grabbed a waxed pear from the decorative centerpiece and took a bite, apparently unaware that he was eating wax.

Who the hell are you? interrupted my fork’s descent into the awaiting pancakes as his vacant eyes turned on me.

My mother came to my rescue. Honestly, George. You remember your own grandson. Remember? Henry? The third-born?

Well, I can’t stand fried eggs when we just had pancakes yesterday and those carping birds won’t stop screeching their atonal love calls and my hearing aid has vanished down the toilet! Gramps had lost more than his hearing aid. He undoubtedly knew what he wanted to say but the intricate wiring that had served him well for most of his life was now a tangled mess. The random substitution of nouns, verbs, people and places represented just a sampling of his latest linguistic devices. Certainly he realized those brown objects in front of him were pancakes and not eggs.

How in the world did you lose your hearing aid in the toilet? Granny stared in disbelief at her husband. He couldn’t hear her.

Olivia, I’ve told you a million times, pancakes give me terrible gas, Grandpa glowered at Granny.

My father, who unknown to me at the time had suffered through a lifetime’s worth of unpleasant holidays—involving numerous dysfunctional stepchildren from his father’s five previous marriages—tried to inject some goodwill into Grandpa’s failing world.

Cheer up, George. Let’s try and enjoy ourselves for a change, my father said.

Grandpa cast a mournful glance at the faces surrounding the table and shouted in a voice that startled us all, That’s easy for you to say, Ned! You still have full possession of your faculties. I was young once. I could hear, taste, smell and remember one damned day from the next!

Well dear, if you hadn’t spent so much time boozing it up with your decadent friends you’d be as lucid as I am, Granny self-righteously held herself up for comparison.

Oh, shut up, Olivia! Grandpa spat pieces of wax into his napkin. I’d have ceased living years ago if not for booze. Worse, I’d have become a total bore like you.

Dad tried again. I have an idea. Let’s take the kids fishing this afternoon. It’s a perfect Indian summer day.

Fishing! my grandfather’s eyes opened wide. Tangled lines…fish that stink to high heaven…family arguments. Christ, there’s no place like a cramped boat for an outpouring of one’s heartfelt emotions! I physically recoiled from the force of Grandpa’s bluster. Let’s not open Pandora’s box any more than we already have, his tone migrated from anger to resignation in the realization he was barking at an innocent child for no good reason.

Mom, what’s Pan Drawer’s box? I asked.

It’s where they kept dirty pots and pans in ancient Greece, my mother led me astray. She had stopped smoking recently but this visit to her in-laws was clearly going to test her anxiety-prone temperament. She lit a Pall Mall cigarette and took a long drag, her fingernails clicking nervously together.

What was Gramps doing with dirty pots and pans? I thought he was a writer? I was now permanently off course.

Never mind, my mother blew a cloud of smoke directly into my face. Her expression made it clear she was hunkering down and that she expected me to do the same. Her black hair framed intelligent grayish-blue eyes. She was pretty in an exotic way and I had heard adults compare her looks to Ava Gardner, the popular actress of the time.

Grandpa, please pass the butter, I dared to forge ahead.

No you may not go sailing today! Grandpa snapped in an odd, tyrannical tone. No sooner had these words escaped his lips than he sensed he had misspoken.

Please pass the butter, Granny, I tried another equally unpromising avenue.

No you may not leave the table until we’re all finished, Granny squawked from behind beady eyes that must have contributed to Grandpa’s bird fixation.

My sister Lucy reached across the table for the butter, leading me to think she was going to pass it to me. No such luck. She stuck her tongue out at me, slathering butter and ginger marmalade on her piece of white toast as I looked on in frustration, and then placed the butter back in front of Grandpa where she knew I’d never get it. My evil brother Albert was stuffing holiday mints into his pockets, guaranteeing there would be none left for me.

Pass the butter, Mommy!

It’s okay, dear, my mother had protectively withdrawn from the room. The moistened index finger of her right hand circled the brim of her crystal water glass, producing a hypnotic hum that matched the wistful look in her eyes.

Eve, hurry up and bid, Grandpa snapped at my mother, apparently relapsing into a recent bridge game where there could not have been any winners.

Granny stared at her husband as if he were a complete stranger. Her frail body looked lost in her baggy Pendleton suit. Too many years of exotic beach outings had left her skin badly wrinkled. Her eyes were a remarkable shade of blue that matched the color of her sapphire ring, a ring my brother desperately coveted. An antique gold watch hung loosely from her wrist and I was disappointed to see it wasn’t even eight o’clock. And this was just the first day of our three-day visit.

I’m going upstairs to my room, I don’t feel well, my mother played sick to escape, a pattern that wouldn’t serve her well in the months ahead.

I’m going to read my new trigonometry book, my brother took a snort from his asthma inhaler and marched off.

Tears were streaming onto my butterless pancakes. Overcome by a rising tide of frustration, I stormed from the room and hurled myself through the sunporch screen window. Lying alone on the lawn for several minutes, I realized my desperate act for attention had failed as no one came to see what had happened. Across the river, the roar of a New-York-bound train transported my thoughts from the current loony situation to a world of independence and control. I looked back at my grandparents’ house and saw Louise, one of two servants, returning from the grocery store. She drove my grandfather’s green Rambler station wagon up the driveway and around the circle in front of the house, parking next to the servant’s side entryway. I dusted myself off and jogged around the house to greet her.

Hi, Louise, I caught up to her as she stepped from the car. She was dressed in a crisply pressed servant’s uniform, the black cotton fabric trimmed with white piping.

Henry, now look at you. You’re a filthy mess. Why aren’t you eatin’ breakfast with the other children? Don’t tell me Mary didn’t show up this mornin’.

No, Mary’s here and we’ve had breakfast. Well, sort of, I stared at the ground.

Are those tears on your cheeks? Get over here and give me a hug. Louise pulled me tight against her bosom, her warm body reminding me of my favorite teddy bear back home. She smelled of Ivory soap and her touch immediately cheered me up. Now let me see that smile I love so much, she stood back and puffed up her cheeks into a clowning expression designed to make me laugh. She clapped her hands against her cheeks releasing a sudden popping sound along the lines of what one heard when Grandpa was having a particularly tough time in the shitter, as he called it. My goodness, when was the last time you were here?

July, it was impossible not to smile as the whites of her widened eyes shone down on me from her friendly brown face.

"Has it really been that long? she swayed slightly, hands on hips. Well, help me with these groceries and tell me what’s new in your world."

I grabbed a bag of groceries from the back seat of the station wagon and followed her into the house, the screen door snapping closed behind us. We walked into the kitchen where there were long wooden workspaces and a central brick oven. Mary, the other servant who had been working for my grandparents for more than twenty years, sat thumbing through the pages of Harper’s magazine. She had the blackest skin I had ever seen, much darker than Louise’s.

Look who I found mopin’ outside, Louise wrestled two heavy grocery bags onto the counter next to the refrigerator. Mary stood up and took the bag I was carrying. She pinched my cheek, an unwelcome intrusion into my personal space, a common and inexplicable behavior among the various adults who crossed my path.

Why aren’t you eatin’ breakfast? Mary began unloading the groceries.

Don’t ask. Grandpa has lost his mind, I pouted.

What’d Granddaddy go and do now that’s got you so worked up? Mary looked amused. She walked over to the dumbwaiter and unloaded Grandpa’s late-night snack dishes.

I can’t get anyone to pass me the butter for my pancakes. Grandpa can’t hear a word I’m saying, my mother is totally bats and Albert and Lucy are teasing me to the point where I think I’ll explode.

Listen, little darlin’, you’re too young to understand, but your grandfather is gettin’ very old, Louise came over and wiped the tears from my cheek. He’s gonna be 79-years-old next month. It ain’t easy being old and he’s seen a whole lot in his life. Did you know he fought the Germans in World War One? And he’s discovered faraway places that have changed what we know about our world. He’s a good man with a big heart who’s done more for me and Mary than you could possibly understand at your age, Louise slid a plate of sugar cookies in front of me.

I don’t care who or what he was, I just want to go home, I folded my arms tightly across my chest. Why can’t I have a sane family like everyone else?

Mary guffawed. You show me a sane family and I’ll show you a bunch of lies just waitin’ to come bubblin’ out. There ain’t no such thing, trust me.

Louise shot Mary an amused wink. Look, Henry, try and be patient with your grandfather. He’s not gonna be around forever and we’ll be so sad when he’s gone, she wiped the cookie crumbs from my mouth with a cloth napkin. Now tell me, did you get enough to eat with those cookies or do you want me to fix you some eggs?

No, I’m fine. You two are the only normal people in this family. I stuffed a handful of cookies into my pocket when they weren’t looking.

That’s so sweet. Now run along as we’ve got work to do, Louise shooed me from the kitchen.

Chapter Two

I pushed open the swinging door separating the kitchen from the dining room and snuck past the table without anyone noticing. Upstairs I heard someone rummaging in my grandmother’s bedroom. It was Albert. Granny’s bedroom was strictly off limits and she had made it clear many times we were not allowed in her room under any condition. This was also true for Grandpa, who slept in a separate wing of the house far away from Granny. This arrangement seemed to work well given their independent natures. I’d noticed they typically only saw each other at meal times and to play bridge during the evenings.

Albert, I hissed at my brother. What are you doing in here?

None of your business, he was startled to see me as Granny’s jewelry box stood open on the marble-top bureau behind him. He dashed from the room down the hallway to our shared bedroom and I followed after him; the sinister way he closed the door revealed he was up to no good.

Listen, Henry. How’d you like to have these mints? Albert pulled three mints from his pocket. I’ve got lemon, peppermint and your favorite spearmint.

C’mon, don’t be a jerk, I didn’t like the way he was always manipulating me to his advantage.

I’m not a jerk, Albert feigned innocence. I just thought you might like these last few mints, that’s all.

Yeah, right. He knew these mints were one of the main reasons I looked forward to visiting my grandparents for the holidays. I don’t know where they got them but we certainly never had them back home. I think they came from England. The mints dissolved in the mouth in a creamy texture that seized complete control of the brain. Albert and I had played out similar scenarios time after time, with him bribing me to perform one of his dirty deeds, and I despised him for this but couldn’t figure how to change the situation. Okay. What do you want from me now?

I’ll give you these mints if you go into Granny’s bedroom and fetch her opal ring from the jewelry box, my brother waved the mints in front of me.

No way! Do your own dirty work.

Okay, be that way, he grinned as he popped the lemon mint into his mouth.

You creep!

Look, no one’s going to mith the ring, Albert sucked his sticky mint. They’ve got so muth stuff they’ll never even notith. I just want to play with it for awhile and then put it back later, I promith.

Sure, I knew better than to trust my brother.

Theriouthly, I just want it for a few hourth.

God, you’re weird. The tone of my voice indicated I was giving in as usual. Sensing this, Albert upped the ante, thankfully managing to swallow the lisp-inflicting mint.

Tell you what. If you get me the ring, not only will I give you these last two mints but I’ll also show you the secret way into the bomb shelter, a mischievous smile overspread his face.

This got my attention. Albert had found a way into Grandpa’s bomb shelter using a hidden indoor entryway. There was a main entrance to the shelter outside the house but it was impossible to get in without the key. I had been in the bomb shelter just once before, two years ago, and that was with Grandpa leading the way, which didn’t leave much time for snooping.

This offer was too enticing. Okay, I’ll do it but you have to put the ring back today. Which one do you want me to take?

The opal ring in the gold setting, Albert sounded annoyed. It’s the only piece of jewelry in the top right compartment of her jewelry box. You can’t miss it. I followed after my brother to Granny’s bedroom, where he guarded the front doorway while I tiptoed inside. Sunlight streamed through the lace curtains, carved into perfect little squares by the multi-paned windows, accenting the blond tones of the wide-pine floors. I paused to run my palm along the bumpy surface of my grandmother’s Bates bedspread, and leaned down to press my cheek against her cool cotton pillow, the intoxicating scent of Chanel perfume overwhelming my senses, and then got on with the job. I opened the jewelry box and quickly spotted the opal ring along with several other pieces of jewelry, including a ruby-and-diamond studded necklace with matching bracelet, which looked like something the Queen Mother herself might wear to a gala. I snatched the opal and hurried off for my bedroom, Albert close behind.

Give me the ring, he demanded.

Not until you give me the mints, I had learned the hard way he could not be trusted.

Here, Albert handed me the mints, which were sticky from being in his palm.

Take the ring, I passed him the loot and popped a mint into my mouth, my senses melting under the power of the delectable creamy flavor.

The door opened and our sister Lucy stuck her unwelcome head inside. What are you two doing?

Nothing, we responded in unison.

You’re up to something, I can tell.

We’re just sitting here talking, that’s all, I realized I didn’t sound very convincing.

Look, if you don’t tell me what’s going on this instant I’ll pummel you both.

If Albert was the brains of our brood and I was the obedient lackey, then Lucy was most definitely the thug. My sister had always been tough but now at age fourteen she was really bulking up and could flex her biceps to twice the size of Albert’s. Albert was smart but physically weak and Lucy had come to his aid more than once when he had been confronted by hooligans back home. This meant Albert was unlikely to target her with his many schemes and offered me false hope that Lucy might occasionally protect me from my brother. In truth, Lucy only added to my woes.

C’mon, Lucy. Leave us alone, we’re discussing something private, I stood up to confront my sister.

What did you say? she crammed me down into my seat like a Jack-in-the-Box.

Leave him alone, Albert sounded disgusted. Shouldn’t you be helping Granny clean her dentures or something important like that?

Watch it wimp, Lucy punched Albert hard in the upper arm.

Frick-it…why’d you do that? he recoiled in pain.

Here kitty, kitty, Lucy turned her attention to Sasha the cat, who limped out meekly from behind the desk, the impression mark from Grandpa’s foot still evident on her matted fur. I’ve got my eyes on you guys, Lucy scooped