Devil’S Paintbrush: One’S Past Doesn’T Predetermine One’S Future

By K.L. Arthur

An epic fiction drenched in reality. Devils Paintbrush tells the life story a young boy who grows up in a violent and abusive home within the Projects of Brooklyn, Baltimore during the 1960s. Then, as a young man, he once again finds himself in another hostile environment South Vietnam. Somehow he survives both worlds.
Decades after receiving The Bronze Star in combat, Ken Callahans long suppressed memories and fractured emotions compel him to enter yet another threatening battlefield and engage a very different enemy a foe deadlier than any Viet Cong or bird-eating tarantula he ever confronted as a younger man.
This new battlefield is the private office of the Veteran Administrations top PTSD clinician.
His new enemy is himself.
Within the relative safety of this clinicians office, Ken is reluctantly dragged-back in time to unearth decades of buried memories of war. Thats when the PTSD professional community becomes stunned as they discover Kens combat experience was not as lethal as the domestic violence and sexual abuse he endured at the hands of a disturbed older brother and sinfully wicked mother long before he even went to war.
In short, Ken Callahans PTSD was deeply entrenched well before he stepped foot on the battlefields of South Vietnam.
Discovering the truth about his own past proves to be challenging enough, but in order to accept such truth, Ken must cross a line from which there is no return. The man who ultimately emerges is not the same Bronze Star recipient who reluctantly enters PTSD treatment; nor are the people he touches along the way. Only the qualities of a Devils Paintbrush can provide the caliber of personal resilience needed throughout every step of Ken Callahans life-long journey.
Readers of this fictionalized, true story will be either shocked and disgusted or enlightened and educated. There is no safe place between these two extremes.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Trafford Publishing
• Release date: Jun 12, 2013
• ISBN: 9781466977686

K.L. Arthur

K.L. Arthur was raised in the Projects of Brooklyn, Maryland. He served two tours in South Vietnam and was a recipient of the Bronze Star bestowed by the First Infantry Division. He received a direct officer commission to the rank of First Lieutenant while serving on active duty at the US Army Intelligence Command and Training School at Fort Devens, Massachusetts. Today, he is one of America’s top corporate trainers and an author of numerous books and articles on professional credibility, interpersonal communication skills, and occupational professionalism. K.L. has been formally diagnosed with PTSD and actively participates in the Massachusetts VA Healthcare System’s PTSD program. He and his wife, “Angel Dawn,” live in Massachusetts with their pet cockatiel, Lucky.

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Copyright 2013 K. L. Arthur.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the written prior permission of the author.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either

are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance

to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

ISBN: 978-1-4669-7767-9 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4669-7766-2 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4669-7768-6 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2013901781

Trafford rev. 03/29/2016

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toll-free: 1 888 232 4444 (USA & Canada)

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Contents

Chapter 1: Routines (Brooklyn, Maryland, 1961)

1 – The Projects

2 – Kenneth Callahan—Youngest Son

3 – Hilda Callahan—Mother

4 – Fathers, Husbands, Brothers and Sister

5 – Walter Callahan—Oldest Brother

6 – Sandy Callahan—Sister

7 – The Accidental Ashtray

8 – The Recreation Center (RC) and Mr. Williamson

9 – Getting into the Victory

10 – Surviving Mother

11 – Butch Callahan (Butch)—Older Brother

12 – Butcher-Bird—The Impaler

13 – A Wicked, Sinful Ride

14 – Inside the Pillowcase—a Fair Exchange

Chapter 2: High School and Army Induction (1965-1967)

1 – The Asphalts and Sparta High School

2 – Anne Arundel High School (AAHS)

3 – The Great Escape

4 – Déjà Mother / Déjà Pain

5 – Mr. Francis Jackson

6 – Caught

7 – Five Spaces Should Be Enough

8 – Great News—You’re 4F

Chapter 3: Phu Loi, Vietnam (1968)

1 – Phu Loi

2 – To Conquer Conceit

3 – Fitting In / Fitting Out

4 – Sandbags & Pillowcases

5 – Got Attitude?

6 – Darvon

7 – Dear John Letters—Weapon of Cowards

8 – Lasting Revenge

9 – Steam and Cream

10 – A Well-Deserved Sucker Punch

11 – Adorable Little Copy Machine

12 – A Quick Trip Back Home—(Maryland, 1954)

13 – Chaplain Butta

14 – The Turnaround

Chapter 4: Lai Khe, Vietnam (1968-1969)

1 – R&R

2 – Summer Breakaway Camp

3 – This Is a Toothbrush

4 – Abandoned Or Just Temporarily Misplaced?

5 – Mrs. Baumann

6 – Lai Khe

7 – Ha` Pronounced Wa’

8 – The Chocolate River

9 – The Smoke Tent

10 – Finally into the Fight

11 – The Bunker

12 – Mother’s Bedroom Revisited (1961)

13 – Back to Reality

14 – A Butcher-Bird Sighting

15 – Butcher-Bird’s R&R

16 – Home Sweet Home (Bird-Eating Spiders and All)

17 – Going Deep—Sigmund would be Proud

18 – Shakespeare & Officer Krupke

19 – Crabs-on-Crabs (1965)

20 – Butcher-Bird Takes Flight

21 – The Bronze Star

22 – Are You Going to San Francisco?

23 – Hippie Encounter

Chapter 5: All in the Family (1980-2010)

1 – A Mother’s Passing

2 – Walter

3 – Mighty Mighty

4 – Butcher-Bird’s Broken Wings

5 – Deadly Chewing Gum

6 – Angel Dawn to the Rescue

7 – The Breakout

8 – Butcher-Bird’s Letter

9 – Butcher-Bird’s First Burial

10 – Ken

11 – Good Friend / Good Family

12 – Not in Kansas Anymore—Lost Soldier

13 – A Wonderful Career

14 – 9/11

15 – Dawn and the Non-Date

16 – Bud and Lillian Brady

17 – A Visit from Lillian

18 – I Love You, But I Don’t Like It!

Chapter 6: PTSD—Reluctant Husband, Reluctant Soldier (Massachusetts, 2009)

1 – VFW & VA

2 – Devil’s Paintbrush

3 – Reluctant Husband, Reluctant Soldier

Chapter 7: PTSD—But, I’m Normal, Right? (Massachusetts, 2010)

1 – Hilda Time

2 – The Renowned VA PTSD Clinic of Plainville, Massachusetts

3 – Son

4 – Kyle Armstrong

5 – But, I’m Normal, Right?

6 – Character Flaw

Chapter 8: PTSD—The Deep Dive (Massachusetts, 2011)

1 – Writing Therapy (WT)

2 – Cognitive Behavior Therapy (CBT)

and Big Time Avoidance

3 – The ABC Model

4 – Ken’s ABCs—his eternal home work

5 – Hyper-vigilance

6 – The Bunker Revisited

7 – Ancient Writings / Modern Perspectives

Chapter 9: PTSD—Order out of Disorder (Massachusetts, 2012)

1 – The Breakthrough—a long, long night

2 – A Mother’s Wicked Sinful Ride… Revisited (1961)

3 – Butcher-Bird’s Letter—Revisited

4 – Change—for the good

5 – The Projects of Brooklyn—Worse than Vietnam?

Epilogue: (Massachusetts, late in 2012)

1 – The Message

2 – Jonathan O’ Donald

3 – One’s Past Doesn’t Predetermine One’s Future

DEDICATION

To the following Vietnam War and Afghanistan War veterans—all brave and honorable men:

Timothy Lancaster, US Army

Dennis W. La Cerda, US Army

Ralph Lindsey, US Army

Everett Mattson, US Marines

David McCarthy, US Marines

James M. McGowan, US Army

James McParlin, US Navy (Seabees)

Gilbert L. Ouellette, US Army

Keith Watson, US Army (Afghanistan)

In memory of

Joseph F. Cook, US Marines

Mark W. Grigsby, US Army

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

I would like to extend my deepest appreciation and gratitude to all the professionals within the VA Healthcare System’s PTSD program, Veterans of Foreign War’s Legislative Representatives of Boston, Massachusetts, and the Veteran Services of North Attleboro, Massachusetts for their ongoing support of the men and women of our Armed Services.

And, to the founders and current staff members of the YMCA of America. Through their efforts and enormous generosity, a 12 year old boy growing up in poverty of 1960s Baltimore learned how to brush his teeth for the first time, swim for the first time, write a letter for the first time, and experience the joy of eating 3 meals a day for the first time.

K. L. Arthur

STORY SYNOPSIS

Devil’s Paintbrush

An epic fiction drenched in reality. Devil’s Paintbrush tells the life story a young boy who grows up in a violent and abusive home within the Projects of Brooklyn, Baltimore during the 1960s. Then, as a young man, he once again finds himself thrust in another hostile environment—South Vietnam. Somehow he survives both worlds.

Decades after receiving The Bronze Star in combat, Ken Callahan’s long suppressed memories and fractured emotions compel him to enter yet another threatening battlefield and engage a very different enemy—a foe deadlier than any Viet Cong or bird-eating tarantula he ever confronted as a younger man.

This new battlefield is the private office of the Veteran Administration’s top PTSD clinician. 

His new enemy is… himself.  

Within the relative safety of this clinician’s office, Ken is reluctantly dragged-back in time to unearth decades of buried memories of war. That’s when the PTSD professional community becomes stunned as they discover Ken’s combat experience was not as lethal as the domestic violence and sexual abuse he endured at the hands of a disturbed older brother and sinfully wicked mother long before he even went to war. 

In short, Ken Callahan’s PTSD was deeply entrenched well before he stepped foot on the battlefields of South Vietnam.

Discovering the truth about his own past proves to be challenging enough, but in order to accept such truth, Ken must cross a line from which there is no return. The man who ultimately emerges is not the same Bronze Star recipient who reluctantly enters PTSD treatment; nor are the people he touches along the way. Only the qualities of a Devil’s Paintbrush can provide the caliber of personal resilience needed throughout every step of Ken Callahan’s life-long journey.

Readers of this story will be either shocked and disgusted or enlightened and educated. There is no safe place between these two extremes.

Readers’ Alert:

Even though this story is a fiction, it reflects historical and social events spanning a fifty year period. As such, some era-based racial language, domestic conflict, and war-time situations may be too intense for non-adult readers.

(Pilosella Aurantiaca)

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Devil’s Paintbrush… a flowering plant found throughout the world. It is one of the most resilient and adaptive plants on earth—survives in highly hostile climates as well as within the safety of well-kept home gardens. It has a beautiful bloom, thrives best in isolation and can be dug-up and replanted often without causing much trauma or shock. This plant is extremely difficult to damage permanently or destroy totally.

So goes… Kenneth A. Callahan

Photo Attribution:

(Wikipedia, 2012, Creative Commons; CreativeCommons.ogr)

CHAPTER 1

Routines

(Brooklyn, Maryland, 1961)

T HE THREE O’CLOCK SCHOOL BELL screamed off the wall freeing the students of PS 239. Kids scampered onto yellow school buses that would soon take them to the safety and comfort of their loving homes scattered throughout Brooklyn, Maryland—one of Baltimore’s southern communities. Eager mothers would be impatiently waiting to welcome their kids back to the warmth of their home on this bitter cold, overcast afternoon in February 1961. Hugs, hot cocoa, and endless questions about their school day would undoubtedly be unleashed from very caring mothers as they wait for their fathers to arrive home around 5:30 p.m. Traditional Leave It to Beaver dinners would then be politely shared among all 4.5 members of the average suburban, nuclear family—consisting of one working father, one stay-at-home mom, and 2.5 children (one boy, one girl, and a half of one or the other). Very appropriate conversations about school, family, and neighborhood events would then be discussed at dinner as they continued bathing in each other’s love and security.

Later on, their black and white TV set would be watched by the entire family. The kids would then set off to complete homework, enjoy a late snack of milk and cookies, and brush their teeth before heading off to bed. Peaceful sleep would come quickly after being gently tucked in bed by both parents. A series of soft kisses to foreheads along with the standard Sweet dreams… I love you would accompany each tuck.

Such routines provided ample nurturance and stability for the kids to meet the demands of the next day’s adventure growing up in South Baltimore. This caliber of interpersonal routines was repeated like clockwork every day for the majority of students attending PS 239—Ben Franklin Middle School. Healthy, normal children sprouted from the safety of these well-kept homes, and more importantly, personal values were subtly embedded into the self-identity of these trusting children. Entire generations of mature and caring adults would naturally evolve as a result of these routines yielding future senators, teachers and parents of America. They, in turn, would do the same with their own children.

After all, this was America in 1961—at least that was Little Ken Callahan’s view of the world around him. Of course, he was dreaming and wishing. When the three o’clock school bell screamed for him, he did not scramble aboard a yellow school bus nor was he safely hustled home by any other means. Instead, his personal journey was on foot through the back alleys of Brooklyn. His destination was the Projects—his home, his neighborhood, his world, and his only reality.

Little Ken was about twelve years old.

The Projects

This community was a complex of government-built, one and two-story row houses constructed for the GIs returning from World War II. It was a low-cost thank-you given by a grateful nation to the men who bravely defended their country on the battlefields of Europe, North Africa, and the Pacific; a well-deserved reward for those who gave so much, for so many, for so long.

This highly segregated (100 percent white) community consisted of approximately sixty separate buildings spread across a square mile in one of Baltimore’s most southern neighborhoods. Tenth Street ran through its center neatly dividing it into perfect halves. A management office, maintenance department, and recreation center were located in the heart of this social microcosm and served the needs of approximately four hundred low-income families. Each building consisted of eight side-by-side units, one family per unit. This meant eight families shared a single, flat-roofed redbrick building. Each unit had one rectangular window in the front and back on each floor, and identical white cement porches marked their front entrances in an attempt to replicate the look of Baltimore’s more affluent, historic neighborhoods. It was a noble, but futile attempt.

The rear side of each unit consisted of a small clump of grass with a single narrow asphalt path leading to its back door. Running parallel to the buildings were winding strips of asphalt called alleyways. Columns of sagging clotheslines also spaghettied their way along these backyards and alleyways and were accented by an endless array of dented garbage cans and random chain-linked fences (some erect, others not so erect). And countless telephone poles and power lines were defying the law of physics by magically leaning at different angles, except straight up. This unique combination of neighborhood characteristics brought a bizarre yet artistic quality to the Projects. Any well-educated person driving through this neighborhood after taking a wrong turn off Patapsco Avenue could easily conclude they were entering a surreal painting by Salvador Dali. Others could easily pinch themselves into believing one of Picasso’s postimpressionist designs was coming to life before their eyes. Of course, the residents of the Projects were just too close, too intimately involved, to truly appreciate the richness of their own backyard in such ways.

Because of astonishingly similar designs, the only way anyone could distinguish one building from another was by living there. To help locate people, the name of each building was solidly drilled on the front corner of the first and last units. Street numbers were never used to identify individual family residences; rather, one’s official mailing address assumed the name of their building (not their street). Buildings sharing a similar proximity were grouped together into collectives called courts. And because it would have been politically incorrect, even in 1961, to name such a special community—the Government Projects, the city of Baltimore instead gave it a special name—Brooklyn Homes. This identity just felt more humane to city officials.

Little Ken lived at 4139 Martin Court, Brooklyn Homes, Baltimore, Maryland. Zone Improvement Plan (ZIP) 21225.

Nevertheless, everyone in Baltimore still referred to this unique neighborhood as the Projects of Brooklyn. While not much could be done to humanize the design of the Projects, two positive things could be said about them. They were well constructed and very well insulated. Most important to Little Ken on this cold afternoon in 1961, his unit was also extremely warm. The Callahans living room at 4139 Martin Court was sparsely furnished with one long sofa stretching across the entire right wall; it was the only place to sit. There were no hanging pictures on any walls, actually there were no pictures anywhere in the house except a very special portrait hanging upstairs in the bedroom of Little Ken’s mother. A fourteen-inch Sylvania television sat on a small folding table two feet in front of the sofa, and a huge rectangular section of linoleum covered nearly two-thirds of the living room’s cement floor. A two-foot high, S-shaped ashtray stand towered in front of the sofa next to the TV, and a single shadeless bulb hung from the center of the ceiling throwing a bright, harsh light down upon everything in its view. The kitchen, even smaller than the living room, was as sparsely furnished. There was a card table in the center of the kitchen that served as a kitchen table. It had four folding chairs—two were opened next to the table and the others were folded and leaning against the wall. There was also a General Electric stove and a Schilling refrigerator in the kitchen. Several cabinets hung over the kitchen sink, and a small cupboard was adjacent to a fully exposed floor-to-ceiling furnace, where Little Ken usually applied his most important personal routine of the day after returning from school—getting warm fast. That is, if he was allowed back in his house.

Kenneth Callahan—Youngest Son

He was about five or six years old when his family moved into the Projects of Brooklyn, and he would live around there with his mother, two older brothers, and younger sister for about ten years—1955-1965. On this specific overcast afternoon, Little Ken tried to run all the way home from PS 239; it was just too bitterly cold to walk. But the folded cardboard serving as the sole of his left shoe had prematurely worn through earlier that day, making his trip home even more difficult. Usually a single piece of cardboard lasted several days before it had to be replaced, but not this time; and he knew the longer it took for him to get home, the longer it would take to reduce the swelling and numbness in his left foot. Actually, Little Ken didn’t mind the touch of his sockless flesh hitting the frozen ground on every down step; he could handle that. What really got to him though, more than anything else, was how winter’s stabbing air seemed to always find a way underneath his open sole and consistently dart between his partially exposed toes during the up steps. That’s what he dreaded the most—the up steps, not the down steps.

The gray sky was beginning to darken as winter’s evening quickly approached. Little Ken nearly made it running all the way home, but his lungs gave out at the outskirts of the Projects. He decided to walk the remaining distance. Little Ken was the nickname the kids in the neighbor had given him. He had two older brothers, Butch and Walter; both were much bigger and taller than he; so the kids called him Little Ken. However, some adults around the Projects called him Little Ken too but for very different reasons.

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He possessed his mother’s British, northern-Euro complexion—light blonde hair, blue eyes, and strong cheekbones. Little Ken also had a blush of freckles running from cheek to cheek giving him that eternal youthful look even on this cold winter’s day.

Both of his older brothers were just the opposite—taking after their respective fathers. They both had much darker features and were much bigger in size and weight.

He was a good-looking kid who, more than anything, wanted to fit in with his schoolmates and neighbors, but instead, he always ended up keeping them at a distance somehow. To teachers and even his own mother, he appeared to have an eternal look of sadness on his face despite his natural good looks. To his classmates, he just seemed more serious about his schoolwork than they were. He was a quiet, easy to get along with kid who never caused trouble and never drew undue attention to himself. Even though Little Ken was always present in class (seldom missing a whole day of school), the other kids and teachers had to look hard to find him. He was an inconspicuous young boy.

It really wasn’t sadness that made him appear so forlorn; rather, Little Ken had just become unsure and suspicious of most people already in his short life. This concerned attitude seemed to etch an ever-present look of worry into his cute, boyish face. His mother, Hilda Callahan, always described him to her new boyfriends, strangers, and neighbors in the following way. Yeah, he’s a good-lookin’ kid alright, takes after his mother… dat’s for sure… but he always looks like he’s carryin’ the weight of the world on his shoulders… like he’s got somethin’ on his mind… always worryin’ . . . I don’t know, never figured it out ’bout him. He’s a gud’ kid, my quiet one… don’t give me much trouble… not much.

Even though she’d always described him in such a way, Hilda knew the exact weight Little Ken was actually carrying on his shoulders (as she put it), but she could never openly share that with anyone. Even though his classmates liked him, they still made fun of him because of his serious nature. The older kids liked him too, but for different reasons. Little Ken made a great punching bag and a fine target for perfecting their gang maneuvers. At first, he disliked being a target, but he gradually became used to it, even started enjoying the attention it brought. He was seldom invited to join pick-up teams in sports except for an occasional football scrimmage and only then just to provide some blocking for a smaller, speedier quarterback. Little Ken was never allowed the privilege of carrying the football. The routines associated with being a target came to suit him over time and even helped prepare him for many combative situations he was destined to face throughout the remainder of his life in the Projects, along the streets of South Baltimore, and later in Vietnam. And the kind of attention he got from his mother made him a target of a different kind—a very special target that June Cleaver certainly would never approve.

On this extremely cold afternoon, Little Ken finally arrived home from school. It was about 3:25 p.m. He tried opening the front door of 4139 Martin Court, but it was locked. He was just hoping for an unlocked door this time due to the extreme cold and because his exposed left foot already had numbed. So he backed off the front steps and looked up at the second-story window. His mother’s bedroom light was on, which meant she was home; it also meant she had company. After several minutes of continual knocking, which also achieved routine status in his mind, the upstairs window flew open. His mother then yelled down at him. Jesus Christ… cut da’ shit, will ya’? What da’ hell ya’ want, anyway? Her tone was demeaning and uncaring.

Hilda Callahan’s light brown hair was being held up on one side of her head by several bobby pins. A cigarette was dangling from her mouth as she yelled down to her son, who now was turning a deeper shade of blue. The cutting edge of the northeast wind was whipping through the Projects faster than a speeding train down a mountainside. It was relentlessly punishing Little Ken’s exposed left foot, gloveless hands, and hatless head. So he started another well-practiced routine—pleading. Little Ken knew he would get only one shot at convincing his mother to open the door, so he was direct. Mom, please… it’s real cold today. Let me come in, OK? I won’t bother you guys, I promise. I promise, he said, looking up from the sidewalk as his hands, arms, and legs continued moving in vain to keep his blood circulating. But the window closed as fast as it opened. She gave no reply.

A half hour later, the front door finally opened. Little Ken’s mother was wearing a thick red robe with a long flamingo design running from top to bottom on the right side. It was loosely tied around her waist, and one of her breast was nearly fully exposed.

This was not a new sight to him.

Hilda Callahan—Mother

Hilda Callahan was a tall, lean, muscular woman. In some circles, this thirty-eight year old mother of five would be considered quite attractive. However, in other circles, she would be viewed as cheap, a onetime fling, unworthy of even a second glance. Hilda also had a very hardened look about her. She was tough to catch, tougher to hold, and even tougher to escape especially if someone crossed her. People didn’t mess with Hilda Callahan. She had mileage.

Little Ken loved his mother very much; he feared her even more. When the front door finally opened wide enough, he tried to swiftly race by her to the warmth of the kitchen, but his stiffness slowed him down just long enough for her fist to land squarely on the back of his head. He was momentarily stunned but recovered quickly. Little Ken had this specific routine down pat too. He then made a beeline directly to the kitchen and began virtually hugging the steel furnace without really touching it. It was located in the far corner of the kitchen next to the back door. In a loving response, the furnace returned his embrace by starting to spread its magical warmth throughout his entire body. He dropped to the floor and ripped off his shoes. He then placed the bottoms of both feet less than an inch from the front of the blazing hot furnace. Simultaneously, he placed the palms of both hands as close to the furnace as possible without burning himself. This was always an awkward and vulnerable position for him—it was as if his feet and hands were seized by four huge furnace magnets holding him motionless in mid-air. The only part of his body actually touching anything was his butt on the floor. He usually stayed in this magnet position as long as it took to get warm, that is, as long as she would allow. He was just wishing his mother would give him a little extra thaw time on this especially cold afternoon.

His wish did not come true.

She entered the kitchen after a minute or two and walked directly toward him. Still magnetically connected in his mind to his loving furnace, he felt totally defenseless as she approached. Hilda Callahan knew it too. So Little Ken braced himself for the next inevitable blow; he was just too good of a target right now for her to willingly pass up such an opportunity. But to his surprised (and delight) a blow did not come this time. Instead, her words, not fists, landed hard. Towering high above her magnet boy, she said, What da’ hell ya’ doin’ home so early, anyway? I told ya’ d’er wasn’t gonna’ be nutten’ here ta’ eat today. Why didn’t ya’ just head over to the Jacksons or Johnsons or Baumanns… bet d’ey feed ya’ ‘somethin.’

Hilda’s voice had become deep and raspy over the years. Thousands of Lucky Strike and Camel cigarettes had taken their rightful share of this woman’s throat. To some men, she had a very deep, sexy voice. To others, she sounded like a worn-out contralto singing underwater. Hilda also spoke with contractions. That is, she always dropped the g’s off words or ran words together resulting in the creation of her own language. She felt English should be changed to her style of talking, not the other way around. For example, she would say cookin’ versus cooking, gonna’ versus going to, and ya’ versus you. Also, her th sounds were usually conveyed as d’at . . . for that, d’ose . . . for those, or d’ere . . . for there.

If ya’ don’t like da’ way I speak, d’en just shove it where da’ sun don’t fuckin’ shine, she would proclaim loudly and proudly to anyone who corrected her. If Hilda Callahan could have had her way, the entire English language would have been overhauled to suit her unique style. The entire world, for that matter, would also have to change and get in step with her way of thinking and behaving.

Looking up at her from his furnace seat on the floor, Little Ken tried to answer without being perceived as challenging; she hated to be contradicted, challenged or ignored. So he chose his words carefully. Ah, Ma, I hate going over to the Johnsons anymore. It’s as if I’m begging or something after so many times, you know. And besides, I think they’re on to me… showing up exactly when dinner is about to start, leaving afterwards, and all. I know they really don’t want me there… they’re just being kind, that’s all. Why, just the other day I overheard Bernadette talking about me and she said I was… But, Little Ken wasn’t allowed to finish his plea; her fist landed on the left side of his head this time, stopping him in mid-sentence. Her blow drove him to the other side of the kitchen, ten feet away from his loving friend, the furnace. Listen ya’ little terd… when I squat ya’ out twelve years ago, I didn’t make ya’ no promises, did I? D’ere’s da’ door right over d’ere… swings both ways. Anytime ya’ get tired of livin’ here, just head west like d’at dam older brother, Walter, did. Guess ya’ and yur’ udder’ brother, Butch, are next… right? she said with as much condescension as possible.

Hilda Callahan was an angry, bitter woman. She hated anyone whose skin was darker than her own, anyone who didn’t speak English and anyone who was smaller or weaker than she was. Most important, she needed a bottle, a cigarette, a dollar, and a man nearby at all times—in that precise order. She also needed to have control of everything and everyone—kids, husbands, relatives, and neighbors. She was a manipulative, selfish, mean woman who had no real close friends, only temporary male friends who never seemed to last long enough to become real friends—only brief enough to be physically friendly. Hilda Callahan either destroyed men swiftly, or she married them and then damaged them slowly over time. Either way seemed fine with her. It also seemed to depend more on her mood than on the quality of the man. However, all the smart men she met learned who she was very quickly and never returned after their first embrace. She certainly would be willing at times to relinquish a little control over the short term in order to maintain control over the longer term. Her manipulative talents were only surpassed by her selfishness and her well refined self-survival skills. As such, she was relentless getting what she wanted. Hilda was a very dangerous disturbed woman, especially regarding people and relationships. At this age, Little Ken didn’t fully understand the inner workings of his mother’s mind, but he clearly understood everything he saw her do, everything he heard her say, and most important, everything he experienced firsthand, up close and personal. That’s all he really needed to understand and survive her many moods, seething temper, and relentless wrath from day to day.

Meanwhile, back in the kitchen…

Little Ken had been violently separated from his furnace friend as a result of his mother’s accurate head blow, and was now scrambling back to his warm magnet position. Her blow had landed effectively, but it didn’t really hurt him. He was strong and resilient enough to withstand most of her body blows if he was prepared; it was her surprise blows that took the greatest toll on him, lingering long after the actual impact. However, her fists were one thing, but there was another weapon far more terrifying to him—her extension cord. Getting hit by her fists or kicked by her was something he came to tolerate, but he couldn’t handle the searing pain inflected by her extension cord—a ten-foot insulated wire with a hard-rubber, double-pronged plug at the end. It was originally manufactured to help connect appliances, like irons or radios, to wall sockets beyond the reach of the appliance’s standard length.

But Hilda had found another application for this cord.

Little Ken feared the extension cord simply because it not only stung and slashed his skin immediately upon impact, leaving lasting welts and rips, but it also could reach him in tight-squeeze areas within the house; his emergency escape hatches in time of need. In such safe places, blows from her fists, arms and feet just could not land squarely because of the confined space he was in, but her extension cord could. For example, sometimes Little Ken just wasn’t fast enough to make it completely out of the house when being attacked by her (or by his brother Butch, who also enjoyed playing with his little brother in such ways). If he couldn’t make it out of the house, his backup strategy was to always try for one of his safe places in the house, including the tight area between the back of the kitchen furnace and the wall. Or, he’d try to make his way upstairs and dart under the big bed in his mother’s bedroom or between the bedroom’s door and closet space. Either place would be out of the direct-impact range of her fists but not out of reach of the extension cord’s cutting teeth. Her wrath would be reduced somewhat, but not completely eliminated. The extension cord proved to be a viable, lethal substitute for her fists in such tight places.

Hilda Callahan had been standing next to the kitchen window just looking at Little Ken who was once again in his magnet position near the furnace. She lit a cigarette and drew deeply, swallowing as much of its loving poison into her lungs as possible. He’d always watch her as she smoked and was curious why his mother seemed to enjoy watching the fire eat away the cigarette’s paper with each deep inhale. He noticed how much she savored each puff, seemingly sucking the life out of cigarettes and transferring it into her body. Somehow she was able to hold each puff in her mouth for a very long time then swallow it effortlessly. The leftover smoke that didn’t make it all the way into her lungs just seemed to leisurely crawl out of her nostrils, dance up the front of her face, and then magically disappear into nothingness. He never once saw her blow smoke out of her mouth after inhaling like her boyfriends did. However, each time she inhaled, Little Ken sensed she was savoring something much more than just the taste of smoke, but he didn’t know what it was. Her mind seemed to go somewhere else during such private moments—a place that was comforting or concerning to her. He didn’t know where, but he did know she really seemed to enjoy her smokes.

So it was only natural that Little Ken couldn’t wait until he was old enough to smoke himself. If it made his mother feel so good, he wanted to do it, too. So one Saturday morning when his mother was sleeping off another hangover, he took a cigarette and a pack of matches out of her purse. He went outside and ran to the far end of Martin Court to try it himself. He looked around first to see if anyone was nearby. It was all clear. He then placed the cigarette between his nervous lips, just as he saw his mother do so many times before. He removed a single match from the match pack. Once he dragged the match across the striker area, the flame came alive much faster and was much bigger than he expected. His finger was immediately burned because he wasn’t holding the match properly, and that’s when he also felt for the first time (the last time), sulfuric fumes darting into his raw, virgin nostrils. He wasn’t ready for all this happening so fast and so close. He panicked, dropped the match pack on the ground, spit out the cigarette, and tried to clear the fumes from his nose all at the same time. This happened in a split second and caused him to fall to the ground in the midst of a sensory overload and immediate disorientation.

Before getting up, Little Ken looked around to see if anyone saw what just happened. No one was nearby. He was glad but also embarrassed. So he stomped on the cigarette and the whole match pack. Once he was satisfied it would never rise up or try to burn or suffocate him again, he ran back to his house. Without having tasted true cigarette smoke, that which his mother obviously enjoyed so much, he decided never to try it again. Little Ken stayed tobacco-free that day, and he would remain a non-smoker for the rest of his life.

Fathers, Husbands, Brothers and Sister

There was a long silence as Hilda, once again, drew deeply from her cigarette while standing next to the window in the kitchen. She continued staring at Little Ken who was still sitting next to the furnace in his magnet position. That’s when her mind usually went to an unknowable place. During such faraway moments, Little Ken sensed she was thinking about her first three husbands or her elder son, Walter, who ran away from home just two years before. To Ken, her husbands and Walter may have gotten away at different times, but at least each made it out in one piece. But, at this moment anything Little Ken would have said in his brother’s defense would have fallen on deaf ears anyway, even worse, it could have agitated her even more. So he didn’t reply to her comment about Walter. Instead, he just continued embracing the furnace, keeping his eyes on her.

Little Ken was still trying to get warm for the first time since leaving school at 3:00 p.m. when she eventually walked out of the kitchen, and headed back upstairs. She was in one of her restless, unpredictable moods, and he didn’t know which one was going to resurface next, but he knew he would find out soon. Hilda didn’t make any ex-husband references to Little Ken this time either, not on this occasion. She always seemed to reserve her most elegant language, most colorful expressions, about her ex-husbands for very, very special times. Her most favorite adjectives used to describe them included scum suckers, chicken shits, wimp bastards, weak, good-for-nothin’ cowards, and, of course her most favorite description—

hemorrhoid husbands. Hilda’s creative vocabulary could rival even the most erudite psychology professor when it came to classifying various types of human personalities. No one could ever deny her that distinction. Hilda’s tongue and mind were as quick and lethal as her fists and feet.

All in all, Hilda M. Callahan had been married five times from about 1942 to about 1969. During that time she gave birth to five children that Little Ken knew about. He could have been wrong.

Her first husband was Connors Lang and she had two sons by him—Randall Stanley (1941) and Walter Jake (1943). He divorced Hilda in the mid-1940s and took his son Randall with him; Hilda kept their younger son, Walter, for herself.

Her second husband was Jamieson Archer. He and Hilda also produced two more boys in the late 1940s—Butch Errol in 1947, and Kenneth Allan in 1949. Jamieson Archer, was also able to successfully escaped Hilda’s grasp in time to save his life as well as his soul. In the wake of Archer’s great escape, he also abandoned all three boys, leaving Walter, Butch and Ken behind, alone with Hilda.

Her third husband, Milton A. Callahan, managed to survive in Hilda’s war zone for three full years (an Olympic record when measured in Hilda time). In the early stages of their marriage, Milton did an honorable thing. He legally adopted all three boys—giving each of them his last name. That’s when Walter, Butch and Ken officially became a Callahan. This occurred around 1953. But eventually even Milton Callahan, like his predecessors, successfully fled leaving all three boys alone with Hilda once again.

Her fourth husband, Ryan O. Mytus, was the smartest of all Hilda’s husbands. They were married around 1963 or 1964 and apparently he was a very fast learner, quickly discovering the essence of Hilda’s true character. He safely bolted after only a few months of marriage. It’s highly likely that Mr. Mytus never looked at another woman the rest of his life.

Hilda finally seemed to settle down a little around 1965 or so, but only after unleashing nearly thirty years of endless havoc on the male population of Brooklyn and South Baltimore. That’s when she met a good man named Joseph Smith. She married him in the late 1960s and stayed married until his death in the mid-1990s. Little Ken would come to remember this man very fondly, but never really understood how he lasted so long in the same environment with his mother. But he did. He felt Joseph Smith should have been nominated for sainthood.

During her life, Hilda’s name would change at least six times: Hilda Harrington (maiden name) changed to Hilda Lang (first husband); to Hilda Archer (second husband); to Hilda Callahan (third husband); to Hilda Mytus (fourth husband); to Hilda Smith (fifth and final husband).

Hilda Harrington, Lang, Archer, Callahan, Mytus, Smith certainly loved men, and she loved marriage, unfortunately she never mastered the art of keeping either for very long.

Walter Callahan—Oldest Brother

Little Ken didn’t reply to his mother’s comments about Walter running away from home either. Walter was a good big brother, someone Little Ken trusted; someone who never harmed him, not once. He wasn’t at all like Butch, his other older brother, who loved to bring pain into Little Ken’s life. At fifteen, Walter was a kind boy, very tall with thick black hair—a mix between a young Elvis Presley and a younger Frank Sinatra. He also was very protective of Little Ken as well as with other kids in the neighborhood and those at school. Whenever school bullies were picking on smaller, defenseless students, the kids would run to Walter for help and protection. He was also much bigger and taller than most kids at school, and the little kids came to trust him over the years, just as Little Ken trusted him at home. When Walter graduated from the ninth grade, he was awarded the Gladys Mitchel Humanitarian Award by his school principal. It was bestowed upon him at his graduation ceremony in 1958 or so. Little Ken, Butch and Hilda attended that graduation; and when his name was announced as the winner of that award, the entire assembly of kids and parents stood to cheer for him. Little Ken was never more proud of his brother, Walter.

This seemed to be the last good thing to happen to Walter Jake Callahan growing up in the Projects. Something happened to him later that year that would be forever unknown to Little Ken—something so impactful that compelled Walter to drop out of school, evacuate 4139 Martin Court, leave the Projects altogether, and strike out on his own. Consequently, he never had a chance to make it through the tenth grade or further his education. Little Ken ran into him by accident from time to time in different places throughout Brooklyn. Walter had gotten a job working on a traveling vegetable truck delivering fresh veggies to various neighborhoods across South Baltimore, including Brooklyn.

However, he never saw Walter Callahan set foot inside 4139 Martin Court ever again.

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Meanwhile, back at the furnace…

Little Ken normally could keep track of his mother pretty well when she was in the house. But somehow his attention on thawing out and warming up at the furnace distracted him this day. That’s when he turned his head from facing the furnace to see her standing right behind and above him—like a storm cloud just waiting to burst open. Listen, I want ya’ ta’ go to Giles Food Market and get me some cigarettes… and get back with ’em right away. Someone is upstairs that I want ya’ ta’ meet, she directed. It wasn’t a request. Ah, Mom, I still haven’t warmed up yet. I promise to go in a few minutes after I… , But before he could finish his sentence, he saw the back of her fist coming up from below her waist once again, and it was coming directly toward his face this time. He swayed at the last moment and avoided the full impact of her blow. Don’t give me any crap, ya’ hear. I’m goin’ out later ta’ night, and I don’t need any of ya’ bullshit… understand? Just do it.

With that, she threw a quarter on the table and departed as quickly as she appeared. She wasn’t waiting for Little Ken to say Okay. It was not an option; she knew he would comply. So Little Ken put on his shoes and coat then headed out the back door. But first, he checked to see if the other door was unlocked. Then he unlatched the kitchen window just to ensure at least one way was available for him to get back in, if needed. He didn’t want to go through another after-school beg-to-get-in routine, not on this bitter day. About thirty minutes later, he returned with her cigarettes and yelled upstairs to her that he was home. Little Ken threw his coat on the sofa and began re-embracing the furnace. Once his thawing was well underway, he headed to the refrigerator to see if there was anything to eat. Only the usual suspects were there:

• one container of Carnation’s canned milk

• several bottles of beer

• a small bowl of leftover pancake batter with a thin film on it

• half a jar of mayonnaise, and

• one untouched bag of M&Ms

Not a great selection but at least it was something. He knew the M&Ms were off-limits, way off-limits. To even touch them would unleash the full wrath of Hilda Callahan’s fury. M&Ms were hers, only hers, and always hers. So he took out the pancake batter and canned milk, got the frying pan from the cabinet, and started making his dinner—an exact replication of the previous night’s dinner and the night’s before. It was the same frying pan his mother used on Walter’s head numerous times. There never was any syrup or jelly in the house for the pancakes, but even naked pancakes (as he called them) were filling and hot. And that’s all he needed right now, anyway.

After several minutes passed, he heard his mother calling again. However, her tone was much different now. She was using her most contrived, most loving voice—the one usually reserved for only special occasions. Little Ken knew every one of his mother’s many moods and voice tones; this was her most maternal voice: Ken, won’t ya’ please come up here for a moment, darlin’? I want ya’ ta’ meet someone. And please bring up da’ cigarettes too, OK, sweetheart? Whenever he heard that specific tone of voice coming from upstairs, filled with words such as darlin’ or sweetheart, he knew the nature of the next routine and what was about to happen. So Little Ken replied to her immediately in his most submissive voice to ensure she would not misinterpret his reply as disobeying. Mom, I can’t right now… got pancakes going on the stove. I’ll throw the cigarettes up the stairs to you, though. Here they come, OK?

With that he threw the pack up the stairs. They landed in the second-floor hallway. There was no reply—not a good sign. So he went back into the kitchen to keep his pancakes cooking. There was a long period of silence. Then he heard the weight of her footsteps making their way across her bedroom, then along the short narrow hallway between the other two bedrooms and the bathroom, then down the stairs. Each step became louder and louder in his mind, vibrating the whole house. Subconsciously, his grip on the frying pan handle tightened with every step, every vibration. By the time she entered the kitchen, his senses were on heightened alert and he had to be ready for, not only the impact of her words, but also her fists. He sensed both would be arriving shortly.

He was wrong.

Rather, she very sweetly said the following to her son: Ken… please turn-off da’ burner now and come upstairs w’it me, darlin’. I’ll give ya’ some money later on so ya’ can go and get somethin’ ta’ eat down at Central’s Restaurant, Okay? So com’on now. Hilda Callahan didn’t wait for a reply. She reached over and turned off the stove’s burner herself and then took Little Ken by the hand and led him upstairs to her bedroom—to what he knew to be high times. This was the name she gave to such special moments in her bedroom. It was nothing new to him, just another routine about to unfold in 4139 Martin Court in 1961.

They then walked down the short hallway to her bedroom. They entered together, hand-in-hand.

Sandy Callahan—Sister

After giving birth to her four boys, Hilda then had a little girl. Her name was Sandy. She was born in 1960 during a seemingly downtime between Hilda’s many marriages. Before her birth, Hilda had been dating a man named Leonard Flint, who worked at Baltimore city’s waste incinerators facilities. He would come to 4139 Martin Court on a regular basis around 1959 and early 1960 to see Hilda and always bring along boxes of expired cookies and candies. Instead of burning such expired, discarded foods as required by law, he brought some of it to Hilda and her boys. Butch and Little Ken called him the Tang Man because he would also bring a case of Tang on every visit.

Tang was a fruit-flavored, powdery mixture that exploded with a strong orange taste when water was added. The drink was not popular during the early years of production in the 1950s, therefore Flint would find lots of it showing up at the city’s incinerators being dropped off by store owners who no longer wanted to carry the stuff on their shelves. However, Tang became quite popular and famous when it was used on John Glenn’s Mercury flight and subsequent Gemini spaceflights conducted by NASA in the early to mid-1960s.

To the Callahan boys, Leonard Flint was just another man at the house, coming and going; his only distinction was Tang, nothing more. Little Ken sensed, didn’t know for sure, that Flint was Sandy’s real father. It didn’t seem to matter because when Sandy was about three or so, she was adopted to another family. And, Hilda Callahan was paid $200 in the transaction. Yea… it was a gud’ deal, alright. I got $200, and Sandy now gets ta’ eat regular… like… whatever and whenever she wants… and she even gets a bedroom of her own ta’ grow up in… and has a real backyard ta’ play in too… I dun’ seen it myself. Hilda said this in a very proud and boisterous way as if she had just successfully negotiated the car sale of the century. At least that’s how it came across to Butch and Little Ken after they both returned from Camp Canoe (a two-week, free summer camp for a few of Brooklyn’s underprivileged kids). It happened in the summer of 1963 when Sandy was about three years old and was also the first time they learned their little sister had been adopted to another family—gone forever.

Yet, Little Ken knew his mother failed to mention another tangible benefit for his sister—Sandy would also be much safer physically, emotionally, and socially in another home. He didn’t really know how many times his sister was abused by his mother in her first three years or so, but he sensed it occurred more than once. The one incident he recalled involved his little sister, his mother and two of her new boyfriends. The incident happened a couple months before Little Ken and Butch went off together at Camp Canoe.

The Accidental Ashtray

Sandy’s accident occurred late one afternoon on a weekday when Little Ken was working with Mr. Williamson, the director of the Projects’ recreation center (RC). Ken was helping Mr. Williamson prepare for the kickoff of a brand-new athletic program—the John F. Kennedy’s Physical Fitness Program. This was a special, popular program sponsored by the US government. It was not just for the Projects people; it was also a nationwide initiative. This program was designed to help Soft America (as JFK put it) shape up, work out, and get healthy. After winning World War II, many Americans apparently were becoming fat, dumb, and happy—severely out of shape. This national program, implemented via state recreation departments across America, was designed to turn this trend around. All the residents of the Projects and surrounding communities were encouraged to participate—kids, parents, relatives, neighbors and even local business community members. Mr. Williamson was just about set to kick-off the program when an ambulance came screaming up Tenth Street and headed straight to the Projects. It made a sharp left turn into Martin Court, right across from the RC. That’s when a kid from the neighborhood came running over and told Little Ken the ambulance went to his house—4139 Martin Court. So he told Mr. Williamson he had to leave to see what was happening, but he would return as soon as he could. Ken then ran across Tenth Street, went around the back of the first building in Martin Court, and darted toward his unit in the middle of the next building. There he saw his mother and two strange men standing near his back door. They were huddled, smoking cigarettes, and whispering. The ambulance was idling, the siren had been turned off, and several neighbors had come out of their units and were watching everything.

His sister, Sandy, was being placed into the ambulance when his mother saw Little Ken coming. She yelled at him to go back to the RC, and then she slid into the ambulance alongside her daughter who was covered with a white sheet pulled up to her neck. Little Ken disregarded his mother’s direction and approached the ambulance anyway. He could see Sandy’s scared face and bulging eyes. She called out to him, even though her mother was at her side. The sheet around her had several red stains around her