Family Matters: A Memoir Novel in Stories

By Vicki Allen Hitt

A violent grandfather, a stoic grandmother, a narcissistic aunt, a juvenile delinquent, an alcoholic father--Damaged people exist in every family. Surviving them is the goal.

• Language: English
• Publisher: JV Books
• Release date: Dec 14, 2019
• ISBN: 9780960017331

Book preview

We can always begin again.

—Jack Kornfield

"When there’s a disappointment, I don’t know if it’s the end of

the story. But it may be just the beginning of a great adventure."

—Pema Chodron

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A FEW WEEKS AFTER MY dad died, I received a phone call from Mom. Although my parents’ marriage was rotten, Mom was still having trouble adjusting to his death. Could you come and help me sort through Ed’s things? It’s difficult. I don’t think I could do it by myself.

I have plenty of sick days, so it’s not a problem. I’ll need time to prepare my classes for a sub. I can fly into Portland and rent a car.

Two days later, Jim, my husband, drove me to Burbank Airport.

If you need me, let me know, he said, I’ll be on the next plane.

I know you would, but I’ll be fine.

As I boarded the plane, I looked up at the clear blue sky. Once I reached Oregon, the sky had turned grey, and it was raining. The roads glistened, and I knew I needed to be careful. I rarely drove in the rain.

I reached Mom’s at dusk. Bare rose bushes lined the front of the house, and the lawn had turned brown.

As I walked up the narrow steps to the door, I hoped I didn’t look as bad as I felt. My throat was scratchy, which was often a sign of a cold coming on, and I was exhausted.  I knocked, and Mom opened the door and greeted me with a weak smile. I’m so glad you came. You must be tired and hungry from your trip. Let me fix you something.

Later that same evening I went into the garage with a broom to knock down the spider webs to get to the far corner where I found three boxes in a cupboard. One by one, I took them into the living room so Mom and I could separate what she wanted to keep or discard. For the rest of the night and into the early morning hours we shuffled through stacks of letters and papers. In the last and smallest box, I found a large manila envelope. When I opened it, dozens of old photos spilled out. I spread them across the floor and my grandmother, my aunt, my father, and so many others stared back at me from the past.

I touched each, memories flooded over me.

PART I:

THE JONESES

THE BEGINNING: CHARLIE AND GRACE

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The local diner’s hand -painted sign read, ‘MAMA’S.’ Inside, the walls were covered with advertisements for Nehi sodas and coffee for a nickel. Charlie tucked in his shirt, slid onto a stool at the counter and grabbed a menu.

The waitress wiped her hands on her apron. What can I get you?

He ordered a cup of coffee and asked, Do you know anyone who could use a handyman?

They’re always hiring locals to do repairs up at the mayor’s estate. It’s the big house on the hill. You can’t miss it.

I’ll give it a try.

Carrying his toolbox, Charlie climbed the dirt road to the colonial-style mansion with a porch and support pillars that ran the width of the house. He thought the people living here were no better than him, but he knew if he wanted work, he’d better go to the rear of the house. Humidity was high, which was normal for July in Kansas, and his sweaty shirt clung to his back. He mopped his face with his handkerchief.

When he rapped on the door, a petite young woman answered. She wore her dark hair twisted in a bun. Her brown eyes and bronze skin only added to her loveliness. Such a pretty thing, he thought. Maybe this is going to be my lucky day.

Could you ask the lady of the house if there’s any repairs needed? I’d appreciate the work.

A moment later she returned. The missus said the outside stairs needs fixin’.

She glanced at him and then dropped her eyes to the dishrag in her hand. If you’d like a drink while you’re workin’ just knock.

Tell her I’ll get right to it, he said. I’ll take that drink now, if that’s okay. I’m parched. It’s a long walk from town.

She went to the sink, filled a glass with water, and handed it to him.

Charlie began his work, and every so often, he’d peek through the screen door to get another look at her.

After finishing his job, he returned to the back door. He watched as the young woman took fresh baked biscuits out of the oven. The aroma made his stomach growl. She was pretty, and she could cook, too, a rare combination.

That night when he returned to the boarding house, he couldn’t stop thinking about the young woman. He lay in bed, his mind conjuring up images of her quiet beauty. Even in his dreams, she haunted him. Charlie’s experiences with women were limited, and he wondered what chance he’d have with her. He saw himself as an average-looking man with thinning hair and slender build, but people told him he had a pleasant smile. Maybe that was enough. He hoped so.

The following day, he again knocked on the back door and waited until she answered. I don’t believe I introduced myself. I’m Charlie.

I’m Grace. She wiped her hands on her apron and avoided making eye contact.

I’m here to finish the stairs, he said. I’ll wrap up around noon. Can you ask the lady of the house if there’s any more jobs that need to be done?

Let me check.

As Charlie waited, he wondered if he had the nerve to ask her out.

Grace returned. The missus says there’s no more work for you, but you might check back in a month.

Charlie believed if he didn’t take advantage of this opportunity, he might never get another. He blurted out, Can I take you to supper after work?

Grace twisted the hem of her apron, I guess so. I live here. You’ll need to come to the back door and knock.

See you around seven.

That evening Charlie dressed in a starched white shirt and chino pants. He slicked back his fine hair, splashed on Bay Rum, and looked at his image in the mirror. A nervous and unsure man stared back at him.

Once more he climbed the hill to the mansion. At the back door, he slapped at his pants, attempting to get the dust off, and pulled his handkerchief from his pocket to wipe his shoes.

He knocked, and she opened the door. She wore a white gauze dress with lace trimming. He thought she looked lovely but didn’t have the courage to tell her.

He extended his arm, she linked hers with his, and they walked into town. He could only afford Mama’s, which specialized in home cooking—fried chicken, meatloaf and pies. Tables were draped with red and white-checkered tablecloths and decorated with chrome napkin holders. Charlie chose an empty table in a corner.

Handing her a menu, he smiled and asked, Where are you from?

In almost a whisper, she said, I was raised right here in Topeka.

Does your family still live here?

My parents are dead.

So you’re on your own. That must be tough.

I’ve been taking care of myself, and I’ve got a good job.

I’m looking for a better one, he said. A relative told me that the Wilson Packing Company in Oklahoma City is hiring. They pay top wages.

Charlie continued to do most of the talking, which was all right with him.

My dad is Welsh, and my mother is German, he said. Mom ran the show. I didn’t get to go to school much. She needed me to help around the house and take care of my asthmatic brother.

He pried a few facts out of Grace. On her first Sunday after she arrived at the mayor’s house, the regular cook took ill and quit her job. Thrown in as a last-minute replacement, Grace prepared a meal she was sure they’d like—creamy mashed potatoes, savory pot roast, homemade biscuits, all of which she topped off with fresh apple pie. That meal earned her a full-time position.

They provided her with living quarters, which consisted of a small room with a single bed, a straight-back chair and a two-drawer dresser. On the dresser was her only memento, a picture of her French father and Indian mother.

After six months of courting, Charlie proposed to Grace.

How about we go to the Justice of the Peace on Saturday and get hitched? We’ll need to move to Oklahoma. Remember that job I told you about at the Wilson Packing Company? I received a letter. They hired me.

I guess I could wear my white dress, Grace said. I’ll need to give the mayor notice. How soon do you need to be in Oklahoma?

In a month. Can you be ready by then? If so, I’ll get reservations for the bus.

I’ve got a good job here. I hate to give it up.

You won’t need to work. I’ll be making enough money to take care of us.

Are you sure, Charlie?

Sure, I’m sure.

Soon after arriving in Oklahoma City, Charlie started his new job, and they settled in a run-down one-bedroom house. Charlie told Grace, This place is only temporary.

Within two months of their move, Grace discovered she was pregnant with their first child, but she broke the news indirectly. Charlie, I need to go shopping for groceries and some maternity clothes.

What the hell you talkin’ about? he asked.

I’m having a baby, Charlie.

He scowled. Tell me what you need, and I’ll get it. I don’t want you wandering around town in your condition.

Once she delivered, Grace learned her role was to clean, cook, and take care of the baby. Charlie controlled everything—the money, the shopping and all decision-making.

The second baby came two years later.

Charlie didn’t want any more kids after Lyle and Stella. That’s it, Grace. No more kids. We’ve got too many mouths to feed as it is.

Three years passed before Grace once again found herself expecting, and she dreaded facing Charlie with the news.

One evening, as he relaxed with the newspaper, he appeared almost content. She felt this might be her best opportunity

I’m pregnant again, Charlie, she said.

He crumpled the newspaper. Goddamnit, we can’t afford another kid.

She dropped her eyes to her lap. We’ll make do, I promise.

How the hell could you let this happen?

Once the new baby boy was born, Charlie’s attitude toward him didn’t improve. He was an unwelcome addition, just another mouth to feed.

One afternoon as they sat at the dinner table, Charlie said to Grace, We need to find some ways to cut back. Financially we’re in trouble.

You do all the shopping. I have no idea where we can save money.

All our problems started with this kid. We were doing fine until he came along. And he’s not even a good baby. He cries all the time.

I think he has colic. I’ve fed and diapered him. I’m not sure what else to do.

You better find a way to shut that baby up or I’ll give him something to cry about. Charlie‘s jaw tightened, and a frown darkened his face. Your job is to keep him quiet when I get home. I’ve had a hard day, and I need to relax.

I’ll rock him. Maybe that’ll settle him down.

She picked up the baby and sat in the rocker, hoping he would stop crying but to no avail. She laid him back down, but he continued to cry. Grace became more and more concerned about Charlie’s temper.

I’ll go get his bottle that he didn’t finish. She went to the kitchen and grabbed the bottle as he began to cry louder than ever. She hurried back into the living room and found Charlie charging the crib.

She jumped in front of him, trying to block his way. I’ve got his milk. He’ll be fine in a minute.

Charlie shoved her aside, reached into the crib, grabbed the infant by his ankles and held him upside down. He began beating the baby’s butt with his open hand.

Charlie, you’re going to kill him! She collapsed in the chair sobbing. You’re going to kill him!

Freckled-face Lyle and sister Stella who resembled her mother huddled in the corner, trembling with fear.

The screaming continued as Charlie whipped the baby for a full two minutes until his arms grew tired.

Later, when the house calmed and the baby stopped crying, Grace spoke with the children. Your daddy just had a bad day, and everything is going to be fine. Remember Lyle, you’re the oldest. Your job is to watch out for your sister and little brother.

Lyle wiped the tears from his eyes. I know Mommy. I will.

One hot summer night when the baby was three, Charlie came home from work, slammed the front door and stomped into the house. Why isn’t dinner on the table? I’m starving.

It’ll be ready in just a minute, Grace said from the kitchen. Why don’t you read the paper?

Are you telling me what to do? What’s all that noise?

He walked into the kitchen and found Grace on her hands and knees, gathering pieces of a broken mug. Charlie bent down, picked up a shard and turned it over in his hand. That’s my favorite mug. Who the hell broke it?

It’s all cleaned up. Go sit down. I’ll have supper right there.

I asked you who did it.

He didn’t mean to. He’s only three.

Where’s the little brat?

The child hid under the kitchen table, but his father’s voice frightened him, and he bumped against a chair. He crawled behind Grace, trying to disappear behind her full skirt. 

Charlie pulled off his belt and slapped it against his open palm. With a sudden move, he reached around his wife and seized the child. Holding his son at arm’s length, he swung the belt, and it cracked against his back. The toddler screamed trying to pull away, which infuriated Charlie all the more. He swung the belt, and it snapped against his tiny legs and back, over and over again.

Grace leapt at her husband. Stop, Charlie! You’re gonna kill him this time. You’re gonna kill him!

Charlie pushed his wife aside, and Grace hit the wall and crumpled to the floor. That’s enough! You’ve got to stop! You’ve got to stop!

Up to this point, Lyle, only eight, and his sister Stella, barely six, huddled in the living room behind the couch, but the little boy’s screams frighten his brother. He jumped up and charged into the kitchen. He had seen his father’s anger too many times.

Raising his hand, Charlie brought the belt down across the baby’s face, and a red welt immediately began to swell.

Lyle leapt on his father and began to pound his back. Stop Daddy! Stop Daddy! he screamed.

Charlie let go of the toddler, who slipped to the floor. He wasn’t crying now. Instead, he was half-conscious, and the only sound he made was a whimper. Charlie hands were shaking. Slowly he slipped his belt back around his waist. 

He glared at Lyle and Stella standing in the middle of the kitchen crying. You kids go wash up. Let’s have dinner.

Grace climbed to her feet and picked up her youngest off the floor and carried him to his bed. When she returned, she laid the food on the table and went back to see about him. After that day, she never again ate a meal with Charlie. 

CHARLIE WAS MY GRANDPA, and the baby was my father. After that day, he never again hit my father. I think he realized how far he had gone, and if he had continued, he might have killed his son. But while he never laid a hand on him again, he treated my father with total indifference, as if he weren’t alive.

Years later, when my mom told me these stories, I began to understand my father. Every night before bed, he walked through the house checking every window and every door to reassure himself the house was secure. Only then did he feel safe.

THE HELMS BAKERY TRUCK

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When I was eight, I spent much of my summer with my father’s parents, Grandpa Charlie and Grandma Grace. Each morning Mom dressed me in a freshly starched blouse, pinafore and Mary Jane shoes. She also braided my hair in the popular Margaret O’Brien style. In addition, she forced me to take responsibility for watching my three-year-old brother, Philip, who was an albatross around my neck. I took comfort in the fact that Mom forced him to wear his sailor suit and polished white oxfords.

When Mom dropped us off, she warned me: Don’t get your pretty dress dirty and keep your brother out of trouble.

I already knew the consequences if I screwed up. I’d get my legs switched.

My grandparents lived in East Los Angeles in a small stucco house, the front lined with hydrangea bushes we called snowballs. I loved Grandma’s house, especially the built-in buffet in the dining room where I could pretend it was a café counter. In the living room, we could knock out the screen on front window and pretend to sell tickets to make-believe moviegoers.

On those days Mom dropped us off, Grandpa was at work, and we were stuck with silent Grandma. My brother and I knew not to expect any sort of greeting.

You know your Grandma is half-Indian, and by nature, they just don’t say much, Mom told me.

Every time we entered the