Star Shooting: A Novel

By David K. Dodd

Star Shooting is a coming-of-age novel that tells the story of Ronnie Cousins. A star of his small rural community, excelling in school and sports, Ronnie is universally popular - a true leader among his peers. Everyone predicts a very bright future for him. But there are turbulent times during his sixteenth year, and a series of misfortunes sends him spirally downward, ending in a shocking act that stuns his community.
The story concludes with an intense trial in which opposing attorneys battle for Ronnie's future. Readers, like jurors, will struggle to understand Ronnie's motive and to decide upon ultimate justice. A compelling story of youthful promise, friendship, and family, Star Shooting is a tragicomedy-at once heartbreaking and heartwarming-that will captivate readers of all ages.

• Language: English
• Publisher: David K. Dodd
• Release date: Dec 16, 2013
• ISBN: 9781311844491

David K. Dodd

A former psychologist, David K. Dodd writes books of true crime and fiction that focuses on personal conflict, relationships, and community. He has recently moved from Fish Creek, Wisconsin, to Saint Louis, Missouri.

Book preview

Star Shooting

by David K. Dodd

Copyright 2011 David K. Dodd

Smashwords Edition

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the

author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events,

locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Cover illustration by Julie Spoops Myrfors

Cover design by Renee Puccini

Table of Contents

Dedication

Part I – 4-5-6

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Part II – Sturm and Drang

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Part III – Judgment

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Epilogue

Acknowledgments

About David K. Dodd

Also by David K. Dodd

In memory of:

Keith and Jeanne

Fern, Ed, and Hazel

Paul and Iona

Part I

4-5-6

Chapter 1

Tell Me

EVERYONE IS ALWAYS ASKING: Tell me why you did it. It’s frustrating, like they want just a simple answer. If it were so simple, they could figure it out themselves. If I knew the answer, I’d tell them—I really would. But I don’t know why. There must be some reasons, serious reasons, because a person—especially just a kid like me—doesn’t do what I did for no reason at all.

A lot of my teachers thought I was really special. It was great to feel like one of their best students, and sometimes they even called me their star pupil. When my fourth grade teacher first called me that, we were studying parts of the eye in health and the galaxy in science, and I thought she meant my eye looked like it had a star for a pupil. Thinking back, she probably had a star in her own eye, and I was it! I bet she thought I had a great future and that someday I’d look back and thank her. Well, maybe I did have a great future, and I do think back on her and a lot of my other teachers. But it’s pretty hard to thank someone for what they did for you, when you’ve messed up as badly as I did.

A couple of my coaches thought I was a pretty good athlete with a great attitude. I used to pretend I was a major league baseball player—not a star like Mickey Mantle but one of those unsung guys like Charlie Neal, who everyone thinks must have a great attitude because their talent is just mediocre. Now, my coaches, just like my teachers, probably think they wasted their time on me. I really hate thinking they might feel that way.

I’m going to tell you all about myself. You’ll hear about my childhood, but don’t expect me to tell you it was horrible because it wasn’t. In fact, it was pretty great in most ways. Remembering that time relaxes me and gives me a lot of comfort. I had some great friends. I lost most of them—all of them, probably. And I had a really good family. I lost most of them, too.

Then you’ll hear about my adolescence, which was pretty rocky. Just don’t expect me to tell you why—or even when—everything fell apart. I can’t tell you. Maybe someday someone will figure it all out. If so, I hope they tell me.

Chapter 2

Beginnings

A five-year-old girl was at the post office with her grandfather, standing in front of the bank of mailboxes, each box with its own wee window and keyhole. The mailboxes defined the small town of Humble, Kansas, with its eight hundred families, each with its own little box. Town residents were drawn to the lobby of the post office not just to gather mail but also to dispense, and often distort, the village news.

In sped a boy about the same age as the little girl. With the same dark brown eyes and long, delicate eyelashes, the children looked like they could be twins. The girl, though, had long brown hair, while the boy’s was so closely cropped, it was hard to identify its color. The girl, standing close to her grandfather, was reticent by nature, whereas the boy displayed a bold air of importance—or perhaps urgency. Rushing up to Box 546, he hurriedly tried thrusting a key into its lock, but it would not fit. As the little girl and her grandfather watched, the little boy’s determination quickly evolved into frustration and his confidence into self-consciousness. Finally, the grandfather chuckled, then laughed harder and said, Boy, if you’re Isaac Carpenter’s grandkid, then you better try Box 456, not 546!

With her dark eyes flashing, the little girl smirked at the boy and chanted: 4-5-6! 4-5-6! 4-5-6!

"If you want to know why the rabbit bites, study its life as a bunny." I remember when I first heard Mr. Pineapple say that. It didn’t sink in—most of what he said didn’t. There was always something corny about his advice: If a rabbit bit you, how could you find out about his days as a bunny? Let me tell you about Mr. Pineapple.

Of course, that wasn’t his real name. It was Mr. MacIntosh, and he was my seventh-grade science teacher. All us clowns, at least us boys, called him Mr. Apple, and I guess he learned over the years just to accept it. With a name like MacIntosh, what did he expect? Then one day, my best friend, Sammy Henrickson, brought a pineapple to art class. He wasn’t being smart; we were each supposed to bring some household object and then transform it into art. So, you about have to blame all of this on Miss English, our art teacher. Talk about a wacky idea!

Anyway, Sammy brings his pineapple and begins sculpting it into a face, like a giant Mr. Potato Head. Sammy was no artist, but I have to admit that his pineapple face looked real. Then he drew a bow tie on the pineapple, borrowed Stan Groke’s eyeglasses for the face, and made a tiny name tag that said Science Teacher. We all laughed so hard—Marvin Roberts even fell out of his chair! All the girls just stared at us, and, boy, was Miss English hot! Poor old Mr. Apple never could figure out why all the boys started calling him Mr. Pineapple. I bet he was glad when we all moved on to eighth grade and his next class of smart alecks went back to calling him Mr. Apple!

I better get back to my story. I’ve been seeing a psychiatrist since all of this happened, and he keeps trying to get me to recall my first memory. Well, my very first memory was of a very large dog mauling me, front paws pinning me at my shoulders, rear paws near my crotch, me on my back in my side yard. I don’t remember if the dog actually mauled me—my brother always said I was just being stupid, and it was the neighbor’s dog and it was only licking me. But this was a huge boxer dog, and I believed I was being mauled. When I told one shrink about this, he went nuts and thought this was such an important revelation. Excuse me for not playing along with the shrink, but I think that’s kind of loony. Needless to say, when I moved on to my next psychiatrist, I repressed that first memory and came up with a better one.

The next first memory I have is when I was four, and my family was vacationing in Wisconsin or Minnesota or someplace where everyone fished. I was too little to fish, but they let me stand on the dock and watch as they pulled the big ones out of the water. There was a huge one near my feet, and the fisherman was just looking at me—not his fish—and for some reason, I just began beating the heck out of that fish with the baseball bat I was holding. Don’t ask me what I was doing standing on a fishing dock holding a bat. All the fishermen got such a kick out of my bat work, every time they hauled up another fish, they'd swing it over my way for a good clubbing! My psychiatrist asked me if I enjoyed clubbing the fish, and I said, "Well, sure, I was some kind of four-year-old celebrity!"

My best first memory was when I was five or six. I was spending the afternoon at my friend’s house, and Sammy had all sorts of rabbits, cage after cage of them. I don’t know if his family sold them or ate them or what, but we spent a long time feeding them grass, trying to get them to eat carrots, and poking them with twigs. Sammy became my instant best friend, and rabbits became my instant best pet. A while later, Sammy actually gave me a bunny, and I played and played with Lonny, chasing him around our house and trying to tame him by feeding him Cheerios.

We had Lonny for about two weeks when, one day, my dad started yelling and swearing about how destructive the rabbit was and that he had to go. Sure, Lonny chewed through the cord to Dad’s electric razor, and he ate part of our good couch, too, but he was a good bunny and even used the litter box to poop in. Dad just kept ranting and said the bunny was going back to the woods where he belonged, but Mom stopped him and told him to just pipe down and build a cage. Dad did build a cage, but he did a really shabby job and I hated putting Lonny in it out in our backyard. The next morning, I ran out to see how Lonny liked his first night outdoors—and he was dead! We never did an autopsy or anything, but Dad said probably Lonny got pneumonia or an animal scared him to death. Mom never said her opinion.

I met a lot of good friends when I went to kindergarten. It was a funny thing. I got held back a year because Mom got sick, and I didn’t think I would have to go to that baby class at all, but when August rolled around, Mom said, Prepare yourself, Ronnie, you’re going to kindergarten in two weeks. I was pretty much mule-stubborn at that age, so I just corrected her, No, I’m not. Every time one of Mom’s friends would come over to our house, she would ask, Ronnie, when is the first day of kindergarten? I’d just say, I don’t know, ’cause I ain’t going. Of course, I don’t think they believed me, and I didn’t help my case any by using lousy grammar.

I loved kindergarten, starting the very minute my mom dropped me off! Good ol’ Sammy was there. I told him what happened to Lonny, and he just shrugged. Stan Groke, a round kid with glasses, started hanging around with Sammy and me, and Stan would later become one of my best friends. Then there was Gregory Winford.

Our old teacher, Miss Cuttingham—who was quite a witch, by the way—couldn’t figure out why so many of her crayons were missing. She was pretty hot because she must’ve busted most of her budget buying all new crayons for us. Each day, more crayons would be missing. One day, she caught Gregory eating them. Boy, did she lay into him! He said, Well, I ate only the red and black ones. I don’t like yellow flavor. He wasn’t being a smart or anything. Later, when Sammy and I looked over the crayons and saw mostly yellows and greens, we knew Gregory was being honest. Ol’ Miss Cuttingham really smacked Gregory with her ruler. It was the first whipping we ever saw at the school, and everybody’s eyes got as big as flying saucers! A couple of weeks later, Sammy got the ruler for clowning around during naptime, but he didn’t care. He said to Miss Cuttingham, So? My dad hits a lot harder. That stopped her in her tracks, and then she didn’t seem to have the heart to give it her all for the rest of the swats. I never got the ruler myself, but I had a couple of close calls.

You know, we had a really great time in kindergarten, always throwing mud balls at recess, muttering out all kinds of noises to frustrate Miss Cuttingham, and trying to come up with new ways of tormenting all the stupid girls. But one little girl sure caught my eye, even though I was little and didn’t know which way was up.

This little girl with straight brown hair and even browner eyes came up to me at the beginning of the year and said, "I know who you are!"

But I sure didn’t know who she was, so I was a little annoyed and said, Who?

You’re 4-5-6! She said.

No, I’m just six, and I know I’m a year older than everyone.

You’re 4-5-6! Remember at the post office, you couldn’t get your mailbox open because you thought your box was 5-4-6?

I really didn’t remember that too well, but she did look kind of familiar. As she was walking away, she turned back to me and said, I’m Joanie, and I’m six, too.

From then on, I never treated Joanie as mean as the other girls, and years later, she would become my first girlfriend. Too bad she didn’t exactly think of me as her boyfriend, but we were pretty close. I guess you could say she became one of the best things about my life—and one of the worst.

★ ★ ★ ★

Humble was a small town in central Kansas. To its twenty-five hundred residents, though, it had a big city feel because it was the largest town in the county. There were other towns in the area, important towns in the minds of those who were born and raised there. But size mattered, and not strictly the official census of each town.

Towns were judged by their schools, which served as centers not only of education but also social activity. Humble Grade School was home to roughly three hundred students, about the same number schooled in Ross and Pfister grade schools combined. Sports in the three schools were well supported, and fierce junior high rivalries had developed over the decades.

Every August, throughout the county, an amazing transformation took place among the youngsters who had—just months earlier—graduated from their respective eighth-grade classes. Humble High was the only public high school in Maverick County. That meant all the new freshmen, whether from grade school in Humble, Ross, or Pfister, saw the size of their class double or triple in size. There was great competition among these new students, at once exciting and threatening. The sports-minded boys’ athletic reputations had been reinforced through the years by their coaches and fans alike. These young athletes faced a fresh start, with team tryouts, new coaches, and new cheerleaders. Girls also experienced competition from new rivals for the affections of the hometown boys, but they were excited by the potential of fresh love for new boys.

Candace Ames had once been one of these girls, eager for new experiences and ready to mature. Born just before the Great Depression, she was the child of Humble’s postmaster, who himself was the son of a postmaster. Candace’s only sibling, Karen, was older by seven years, so at times, Candace felt like an only child. A beauty, Karen was much admired by the boys and much envied by the girls. When Candace looked at herself in the mirror, she knew she was plain, and when friends told her what a pretty face she had, it was a hollow compliment. Strike two was her weight. Other girls could diet for three days, even a week, but Candace rarely made it past three hours.

What Candace lacked in physical beauty, though, was offset by personality. Never afraid of an insult or a slight, Candace rebuffed cruelty with kindness and hostility with friendliness. When her first-grade teacher began calling her Candy, a name that Candace’s mother despised, the nickname stuck and brought added attention to her. One Saturday, her grandmother gave her a two-pound bag of candy—a don’t-tell-your-Mother treat. Candace ate very little of it; instead, she saved it until Monday morning and then took it to school, hidden under her raincoat. At morning recess, she began passing it out to the children, and by the end of lunch break, everyone was abuzz about Candy! She became everyone’s best friend, initially because of the candy and her cute name but eventually due to her sweet disposition.

Shortly after graduating from high school, Candy married farmer John Counter and quickly fell into the vocational footsteps of her forefathers. She began working as a postal clerk alongside her father, and when he died seven years later, Candy naturally ascended to the pinnacle of her chosen profession. She felt honored to succeed her father and grandfather, proudly displaying her name via a nameplate on the main counter at the post office: Postmistress Candy Counter.

Candy loved every child she met. Childless, she often wondered what parental joys she was missing, but whenever she found herself wallowing in self-pity, she knew it was time to make a fresh batch of proverbial lemon Popsicles. Most children seemed attracted to her rosy demeanor. She kept assorted candies behind the counter at the post office, and when children approached, she gave them her biggest smile. Some children were polite, respectfully asking, Do you have candy today? She always did. Some just rudely stuck out their hands for the candy, and for them, there would be no candy. Instead, Candy would just grin broadly and hand-post their little hands with the day’s date and place, such as May 17, 1956—Humble, Kansas.

Candy’s favorite child was a sweet little girl with dark brown eyes, shy as could be. When little Joanie approached the counter, she kept her head low, peeking upward with her beautiful eyes and a tiny smile. Then the waiting game began. Joanie would slowly reach out her right hand, and Candy would slowly reach her left hand toward the hand-posting stamp. After withdrawing her hand, Joanie would pause again, and the hand dance would repeat. Eventually, the little girl would smile again and whisper her simple request, Candy, please, and the postmistress would offer the reward. This game always warmed Candy’s heart, and she’d look forward to the next time Joanie came in. She knew that the girl’s mother had health problems and that the girl spent a lot of time with her grandparents. Candy just couldn’t help wondering what it would be like to mother a child like Joanie.

★ ★ ★ ★

Candy didn’t have many close friends now, but when she and Carol Carpenter grew up together in Humble—entering first grade and eventually graduating high school together—every schoolgirl considered every other schoolgirl to be a friend. The age-mates shared the same classrooms and teachers, and they also experienced the same homogenous life in their small farming community. To an impartial observer, the life paths of Carol and Candy might have appeared practically identical until they met and married their husbands. From that point on, though, their life paths diverged dramatically.

An only child, Carol Carpenter loved her parents, who, in turn, adored her and supported her in every way they could. Her father, Isaac, worked hard to provide for his family. He owned and ran a Sinclair gas station on the edge of Humble.

Like her husband, Louise Carpenter was also a real worker. She worked full time at Baker’s Mill and Elevator as a bookkeeper, and occasionally she helped weigh the trucks as they came in with their grain. She was raised on a farm and enjoyed being around these farmers—enjoyed their banter, even their complaints about prices or moisture penalties. Of course, the farmers always talked about the weather and were never satisfied: If conditions weren’t too wet, they were too dry. The constant Kansas wind they could live with—had to live with. Louise liked to joke that if the wind ever suddenly stopped, everyone in Humble would tumble over!

Louise’s real passion, though, was not her work at the mill but her work at church. She was president of the Lady’s Guild, active in the quilting group, and sang in the choir. There was choir practice on Thursday evenings and singing for real at Sunday morning service. All her close friends were from church, and she felt that this social circle—along with her husband and daughter—was all she needed in life.

Unfortunately, Isaac didn’t share her love of the church. He had little faith of his own and little respect for those who did. God helps those who help themselves, Isaac insisted. This angered Louise. Of course, the phrase was anything but original, and she felt Isaac was just lazy for not even trying to believe.

★ ★ ★ ★

I don’t want you to think that all of my early experiences had to do with dogs, fish, and rabbits. I’m a lot deeper than that. At least, I think I am.

That vacation when I beat the heck out of the fish? Well, some things about that trip that I remember clear as day, and other things I don’t. I know my brother was there, because I remember that he and some other older kids poured salt on some bloodsuckers to see them writhe. I didn’t say anything—I didn’t want them to notice me and make me torment the bloodsuckers! And I can’t remember anything about my sister being there, or even Mom. But I remember Dad!

Carrying a large duffle bag, Dad took me out to this small open space surrounded by trees and began tossing a baseball underhanded to me. I got pretty good at trapping the ball against my chest and then actually catching it two-handed. After that, he produced a glove, maybe my brother’s, way too big for a small kid like me but still quite a thrill. Soon we were actually playing catch for real! I caught some of them, blocked some of them with my body, and heard some of them buzz by my ear, but I felt like I was playing catch with Dad!

Next, Dad reached into the bag and out came more equipment. My fishbeater! I yelled. Dad corrected me and told me to just call it a baseball bat. He showed me how to hold the bat and how to stand, and then he started pitching me the ball, underhanded. I would swing wildly, missing or just nicking the ball. But then I hit one! It one-hopped and caught Dad in the left knee. After that, he moved back and started pitching overhand. The better I hit, the farther back he moved and the harder he threw. Baseball was great, and I loved it.

So, you see, I do have a pretty good memory, and I know my love for baseball began that day and led to a pretty successful career. Not bragging or anything.

Dad loved baseball, but my grandfather really, really loved baseball. The same summer that Dad taught me how to hit and catch a baseball, Grandpa taught me about the major leagues, and Grandma taught me how to read. I spent a lot of time with my grandparents, and one day Grandpa brought home four packs of baseball cards from his gas station. Each pack had a large square of gum and six cards. Grandpa chewed one square from one pack while I chewed the other three, all at once! Grandpa showed me how to hold the gum wad in my cheek, like the big shots hold their chewin’ tobaccy!

Of course, I couldn’t read, but Grandpa had me sort those twenty-four baseball cards into two piles: Cardinals and everybody else. It was pretty easy, ’cause there were only four Cardinals in the whole bunch. Grandpa told me to show Grandma the Cardinal cards and see if she could get me to read the names. That was kind of a fiasco because I couldn’t read too good, and Grandma couldn’t say the names to Grandpa’s satisfaction. The first one was Wally Moon, and that’s about the only one Grandma got right. Next, she said, Stanley Musical and Grandpa hit the roof, "That’s ‘Musial,’ and ‘Stan.’ Don’t cha know, Louise, it’s Stan the Man Musial. Then she said Joe Cunningham and kind of held her breath, and, sure enough, Grandpa just exploded: Jumpin’ Joe Cunningham." By that time, Grandma was pretty shell-shocked.

I really took to those baseball cards, and every week Grandpa had more cards for me. Once he brought a plastic case of twenty cards! Soon I was sorting the players by league and by team, and then Grandpa bought me a magazine that showed the emblems for every team, with pictures of all the All-Star players. He explained that the fans of the Redlegs cheated by stuffing the balloting box so that almost all their players got selected to the National League’s All-Star team. He said the Commissioner hit the roof, yelled at all the fans, and took away some of their choices. Not counting the cheating Redlegs, the Braves had six All-Stars—the most of any team—and the Cardinals the next most. Grandpa had all of them memorized: Moon, Musial, Smith, and Jackson.

That same year, the Milwaukee Braves beat the New York Yankees in the World Series. Hardly anyone in Humble had a television back then, so I got to watch only part of one game. Grandpa made a new friend during the World Series and, coincidentally, the friend had a TV! After the World Series, Grandpa went into baseball withdrawal. He said he did that every October. Well, I was his baseball buddy, and he fought withdrawal by telling me all about the highlights of that 1957 season. He railed a little more about the cheatin’ Redlegs fans, and then he told me about Gil McDougal cracking a line drive off Herb Score’s face. Everyone thought Score was blinded, and McDougal said he’d never play baseball again unless Score recovered. Score did recover, partly, but he was never quite the same and neither was McDougal. The biggest news, according to Grandpa, was that the Dodgers and Giants were deserting New York City and moving to California! After Grandpa explained to me on a map where New York and California were, and where Kansas was, I asked, Will they be going right through Humble? I didn’t really know that I had cracked a joke, but Grandpa got a big kick out of it.

Well, now you know why I like baseball so much. I really gotta thank Grandpa for getting me hooked. When I got older and began playing on teams, I have to believe that I gave him a lot of enjoyment and maybe some pride. He came to nearly every single game—and, sometimes, like when it was rainy or really windy, he was the only one in the stands.

Like about every other boy in Humble, I wanted to become a major league player. Unlike most of those other dreamers, though, I had real desire and talent and a grandpa who could help make it happen. Or so I thought.

★ ★ ★ ★

In the spring of 1952, Carol Cousins found herself in the same hospital room as Marilyn McCarthy, who gave birth to her first and only child on May 9. Marilyn’s delivery was very traumatic, even life-threatening. Her doctor saved the baby, a beautiful little girl, but he could not save Marilyn’s uterus or any chance for Marilyn to have any more children.

Marilyn remained in the hospital until May 15. Carol entered the same hospital on May 12 and delivered her third child that day. Roommates for two days, Carol had enjoyed Marilyn’s company and, now a mother of three, she especially enjoyed giving advice to the first-time mother. Marilyn shared some very personal information with Carol, who felt both pleased and a little uncomfortable with the disclosures. Marilyn revealed that husband Ken was a very kind man, but their relationship was strained. She also revealed that having a baby had been mostly Ken’s idea. Marilyn wasn’t quite ready for the commitment: She wasn’t all that keen about raising a newborn, and she wasn’t sure she wanted to remain hitched indefinitely to her husband.

Even though Humble was a small community, Carol and Marilyn did not socialize much with each other or become friends. They seemed to have different social circles. Actually, Carol had few close friends; mostly she was satisfied just to socialize with the women that she worked with. Carol did not really know who Marilyn’s friends were, and she suspected that perhaps Marilyn was a real loner. Whenever their paths crossed, at the market or the gas station, Marilyn always seemed distracted and usually cut short their small talk.

Five years later, by late summer of 1957, things were spiraling quickly downward for Carol Cousins. Husband George was spending longer and longer hours on the road as a cross-country truck driver. It was not uncommon for him to leave on Sunday evening and not return until the following Friday. Instead of being happy to see Carol and the children, eager to do things as a family, George spent the majority of his time on his own activities.

He loved bowling, and his goal was to practice at least once a week and then bowl with his friends once or twice a week. Basically, that meant bowling almost every day he was not driving his truck. George was frustrated that his job interfered with the opportunity to join a bowling league—the leagues were only on weekday evenings—but he got on the substitute list and often got called if he wasn’t on the road.

George’s second love was umpiring and refereeing, and there was no shortage of games to officiate. In a small school like Humble High, most of the boys tried out for one team or another, and most—even those with only marginal ability—were selected. There were no girls’ athletic teams, but large numbers of girls, talented and untalented alike, tried out for the cheerleading squads. Those turned down for cheerleading flooded into the completely female pep club. Games were well attended by students as well as parents, especially the parents of the players.

Summer was a time of even greater sports activity, with a full schedule of Little League baseball for the grade-schoolers and Pony League baseball for the older students. All in all, there were lots of games to be umpired, and George Cousins easily immersed himself in officiating. The pay was minimal but offered a good excuse to keep Carol at bay. In fact, George magnanimously decided that all of his earnings from umpiring would go into the family fund to cover simple outings such as trips for ice cream, go-cart riding, and so on.

Carol resented the bowling, the umpiring—and especially the pretense that George was interested in family fun. She felt increasingly isolated and alone, and more and more, she found herself crying for no reason. It was becoming harder for her to keep up with the demands of parenting. When she cried, she often found her tears turning quickly into anger that she could not explain, and sometimes she felt on the verge of rage. Eventually, she reached the point of desperation and went to her doctor for help.

Doctor Callahan had practiced in Humble for many years. In fact, he had been her family doctor ever since Carol was a child, and he felt that he knew her well. But seeing Carol so sad and full of despair caught him completely off guard. She was reluctant to talk about her feelings, but as he pressed her with questions, she gradually revealed how angry she was—at her husband and at herself—and how guilty she felt about not being a good mother to her children. Alarmed, the doctor was at a loss for advice. He realized that Carol needed much than even his best pep talk, so he excused himself and called a colleague who understood mental health much better than he did.

When he returned to the examining room, Doctor Callahan delivered, with some difficulty, his recommendation.

Carol, you need a rest. I know how seriously you take your duties, but I don’t want you to resist me on this. I want you to go to the public hospital in Topeka and get some good rest and relaxation.

He paused, as Carol dropped her head and cried silently, tears slowly streaking her face. Then he continued:

The experts in Topeka really know about this kind of thing, and they can evaluate you thoroughly. Maybe they’ll recommend a good medication, or maybe the therapists can get to the bottom of all of this. What do you think?

He expected Carol to burst into tears and protest, but she surprised him: I know you’re right, Doctor. It’s probably a good idea, and I’ll just have to do it.

As Carol left the office and drove home, she mostly felt a sense of relief—maybe even hope, and this feeling perplexed her. What kind of a mother wants to leave her kids and husband behind to seek relief? She had two big practical reservations about this plan: First, would George give his approval? For all of his shortcomings as a companion, Carol recognized that he was a hardworking man who took his financial responsibilities toward his family seriously. Carol guessed that he would resist taking a leave from work and staying with the children. Second, this was a special time for young Ronnie, who’d soon be entering kindergarten. She hated the idea of being hospitalized in Topeka on Ronnie’s first day of school. She remembered so fondly those first days of kindergarten, first for Greg and, three years later, for Linda—their excited anticipation and their bubbly renditions of the day’s events. But Ronnie was not eager to go to school. In fact, he hated the idea and told everyone he just wasn’t going.

Before Carol arrived home from the doctor’s, she remembered that she had left Ronnie at her mother’s house and needed to pick him up. This was the kind of thing that worried her—actually scared her. Sometimes she got so preoccupied that she would forget where Greg or Linda were and what time they’d be coming home, and now she was forgetting where little Ronnie was. She knew Dr. Callahan’s advice was good, but she had to sound it out with her mother before discussing it with George.

Where’s Ronnie? Carol asked her mother.

Where do you think? answered Louise. Next door at Grandpa’s station. What did Dr. Callahan say is wrong?

Although Carol and Louise had a good enough relationship, it had never been a very open one. Growing up, Carol often felt she couldn’t disclose personal things to her mother—that she would either disapprove or dispense her pious, sometimes infuriating, advice. She could never remember her mother just saying I understand. But Carol knew, in her current state, that she had little choice but to talk frankly with her mother and hope for her support. She decided right then on her strategy: Talk fast and don’t pause for disapproval.

She did talk fast and revealed more to her mother about herself and her family than she had ever revealed to anyone. She avoided embarrassing details but addressed the strain in her marriage with George—how she felt about George always putting himself first, his children second, and his wife last. Then she divulged how sad and upset and forgetful she was feeling, almost every day, even immediately after waking in the morning, how it had been months since she had a restful night’s sleep. Finally, she got to the hardest part. She was feeling like a bad mother who couldn’t even show her children the interest they deserved, and now Dr. Callahan advised her to leave them while she got treatment in Topeka. Carol stopped talking and waited for her mother’s judgment.

Honey, you need help, and I think you know it. You are going to have to take Dr. Callahan’s advice. Then Louise took Carol in her arms and gave her a long hug.

Carol was shocked by her mother’s warmth and kindness, and she felt closer to her mother than she could ever remember. Mother and daughter then became problem-solvers, discussing the logistics of Carol’s hospitalization. They decided that the children would stay full-time with Louise and Isaac and see their father when he was home on weekends. If Carol were still gone when school began in August, Louise would make sure the older two got to school on time and did their homework every night.

Carol was very grateful for her mother’s understanding and willingness to help. It allowed her to make the difficult decision about Ronnie: She would hold him back from kindergarten, at least for the beginning few weeks. Ronnie hated the idea of going to school anyway, and he would love spending days at the gas station with his grandpa and evenings at his grandparent’s house. Maybe holding him back, in the long run, would even be good for Ronnie. But she also realized that this decision had a selfish element: It offered her the hope of taking Ronnie to school for his first day the following fall. Taking Greg and then Linda to their first day of school had been one of those magical highlights of parenting. Now she wanted to be there for Ronnie, too. He could wait for her.

Carol felt good about making all of these decisions. She felt so good that she wondered if Dr. Callahan might be wrong: Maybe she wasn’t really in as bad of shape as he thought! Upon further reflection, though, she realized that she was feeling hope—not happiness—and the hope had to do with getting help. What a day this had been! Really, it had been only two-and-a-half hours since she had walked into Dr. Callahan’s office, and now she had planned a new direction in her life. She hoped desperately that it would all be for the better.

There was only one big matter to work out: telling, or asking, George. She feared his reaction, expecting anger and hurtful, guilt-inflicting words. She also thought he might veto the whole idea, and she didn’t know where that might leave her. That night, after Ronnie was in bed and Greg and Linda were in their rooms, Carol began. Once she started, she realized that her presentation to her mother that afternoon had been a dress rehearsal for the real performance. It had been a good rehearsal, she reminded herself, and she presented to her husband everything she had said earlier to her mother—but with even more conviction. When she was finished, she held her breath, expecting the worst from George.

Fine. Do whatever you want. What’s it going to cost?

This was neither the reaction she had feared nor the one she wanted. She had worried that George might explode—minimizing her feelings and belittling her decision. She had wanted him to be supportive and loving, probably an unrealistic expectation, she realized. At least if he had gotten mad, it would’ve meant he felt something. But George’s actual reaction devastated her, making her feel like a servant who had just asked for two weeks off, unpaid. When she went to bed that night, she thought long into the night about her husband. In one way, she felt that the relationship she had once wished for would never be. In another way, she felt, amid the hot Kansas night, a cool air of hope.

Chapter 3

1959

That was the kind of grandfather he was . . . small on talk and big on heart. And he could fix anything. The boy and his grandfather met to place their annual bet. The tradition had begun five years