Alcoholocaust: In a Small, Southern Town

By Ph.D. LCSW Sherry Lewis Henry

Almost three decades later, following the demise of her strongest contender, her second exhumation petition was granted, and Truth was discovered: more eloquently than any courtroom could have rendered. All in a small, Southern town.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Rushmore Press LLC
• Release date: Jan 6, 2022
• ISBN: 9781956696059

Ph.D. LCSW Sherry Lewis Henry

Author, Sherry Lewis Henry, PhD, MSW earned her academic degrees, enroute to personal therapy, resulting from, 'Murder in the Family....her own mother, Olive Lewis.Having benefitted therapeutically, from their books, she sought out Drs. Viktor Frankl in Austria, Paul Tournier and Andra Weiss in Switzerland, who acquainted her with their personal experiences as Holocaust survivors, leading her into personal acquaintance with other Survivors throughout Israel. Their diagnoses of Survivor Syndrome, synonymous with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, became her specialty in clinical practice and presentations at various venues, designating the "Survivor's Mission: As one helps others in their healing process, one's own healing continues."Although the Justice System was closed to her murdered mother, she nevertheless trusted Jesus' promise, to "Ask, Seek and Knock and answers will be found" Matthew 7:7-8 & Luke 11:9-10.

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ISBN 978-1-956696-03-5 (paperback)

ISBN 978-1-956696-04-2 (hardcover)

ISBN 978-1-956696-05-9 (digital)

Copyright © 2021 by Sherry Lewis Henry, Ph.D., LCSW

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods without the prior written permission of the publisher. For permission requests, solicit the publisher via the address below.

Rushmore Press LLC

1 800 460 9188

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Printed in the United States of America

Endorsements

Dr. Henry’s quest for truth is a compelling account of children living in fear and a loving wife’s submission to the alcoholism of her husband, yet it is more than that. It shows the spiritual and intellectual growth of the author as she channels her own pain, fear, and oppression into a ministry to help others. This book clearly conveys how being a victim does not equate with victimizing others; rather, life can be rewarding and productive even after such a loss as, ‘murder in the family.’

Michael Latimer, Attorney, San Antonio, Texas

This is an excellent illustration of how one’s life course can be determined by the events that occurred in childhood. Childhood abuses leave lasting scars along with an implicit need to resolve and master overwhelming experiences. Dr. Henry’s work reads like a mystery novel weaved in social corruption, personal guilt, anguish, and intrigue.

Anne Courso-Johanson, Ph.D., Cerritos, California

Most of what is worthy and of value is either born of pain or strongly associated with it. Through her personal and profound pain, Dr. Henry has elucidated, distilled, and explained a syndrome—distinct and differentiated—that identifies the horrific experience of a particular category of victims. The term, survival syndrome, explains what for many sufferers has been wordless, captivating enslavement. With Dr. Henry’s seminal work, the victim and the treating clinician are given the conceptual tools, optimism, and a poignant and inspirational example of recovery. I highly recommend this book to those serious in their study of the devastations of trauma.

Robb Johanson, Ph.D., Cerritos, California

This book is a must for anyone who has experienced the trauma of an abusive father or searched for the truth after the sudden death of a loved one; a compelling story for those who are faced with pain, fear, anger, and frustration, but above all, it is a story of hope and healing—a tribute to the author’s courage.

Nancy Ruhe-Munch, Executive Director, Parents of Murdered Children, Inc., Cincinnati, Ohio

There is no greater existential struggle in life than the pulling free from the dysfunctionalities of one’s own family. Dr. Henry’s shocking autobiography is one such heroic struggle.

Robert M. Anthony, Ph.D., California State Corrections

Contents

Acknowledgments

Dedications

Missing You

Foreword

Chapter One

Poem: People Are Disappointments

Chapter Two

Poem: People Have Troubles

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Poem: My Old Rocking Chair

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Poem: Even Me

Chapter Nine

Poem: Judgment

Chapter Ten

Poem: My Mother Lives

Chapter Eleven

Poem: Bestow Thy Peace

Chapter Twelve

Poem: Thou Knowest All

Chapter Thirteen

Poem: Lonely

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Poem: I Can’t Complain

Chapter Sixteen

Poem: True Happiness

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Poem: All Things

Chapter Nineteen

Poem: Invisible

Chapter Twenty

Poem: Silence

Chapter Twenty-One

Poem: Tribute Two: Roy and Dale

Chapter Twenty-Two

Poem: Olive’s Poem

Chapter Twenty-Three

Poem: Alone

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Poem: Time Flows Freely

Chapter Twenty-Six

Poem: ’Tis Why

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Poem: My Child

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Poem: Captivity Turned

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Poem: So Many Choices

Chapter Thirty

Poem: Uncle Stan’s Poem

Poem: Worthwhile

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Poem: Each Day

Chapter Thirty-Four

Poem: Life Is

Chapter Thirty-Five

Poem: Special Friend

Chapter Thirty-Six

Poem: This Ache

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Poem: Joy Is Full

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Poem: One Question Yet

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Poem: Till Truth and Love

Chapter Forty

Epilogue

A Tribute to Roy Rogers and Dale Evans

Survivor Syndrome

Pastor, Dr. Robert Schuller greeting Author at Sunday morning Church Service

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I am grateful to my children, Cecelia and Aubrey, for their assistance in writing this book. Cecelia’s editing and consultation contributed enormously and Aubrey’s artwork and book cover are lovely enhancements. They helped me to survive the events and to record them. They are the most quintessential people I know and have been the joy of my life.

Further gratitude goes to the National Organization of Parents of Murdered Children and Other Survivors of Homicide Victims for their support and the Second Opinion Service Autopsy Review by Harry Bonnell, M.D.

I sincerely appreciate the integrity of the gracious ladies who shared their testimonies with me—testimonies they expected to share at the Coroner’s Hearing, which never occurred. Also, thanks to the other individuals who contributed valuable information on my mother’s behalf, assisting me in my investigative efforts.

I also want to thank these individuals who assisted in my personal and professional quest, which ultimately resulted in this book’s completion:

Robert M. Anthony, Ph.D.

Viktor Frankl, M.D.,

Robert Merkle, Ph.D.,

Rex Rook, M.D.,

Rev. Robert Schuller, Ph.D.,

Stan Terman, Ph.D., M.D.,

Andre Weiss, M.D.

Paul Tournier, M.D.

DEDICATIONS

This work is first and foremost dedicated to my mother, Olive Lewis. Secondly, to both my parents who did a remarkable job with their lives despite their circumstances, and to my sister and brother whom I hope read this book and know I have a special place in my heart for them. Also, to their children, my niece and nephews who, as my own children, inherited the task of surviving unjust trauma before they could, go on with their own lives.—This trauma was indeed, created and passed down, from the sins of our fathers to the second and third generations.

Further dedication goes to all humans who, try to help somebody, as Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. wisely stated and demonstrated.

To Jackie Kennedy Onassis, who preceded me by one year in combining two opposites—nightmares of a loved one executed and the successful rearing of two small children, never losing sight of which was the higher priority—her strength strengthened me and her example gave me hope that it could be done.

And to all the other healthy adults who serve as responsible role models helping kids grow and develop strength of their characters. A special tribute I give to Roy Rogers and Dale Evans who demonstrated the power of Christian priorities in family life.

MISSING YOU

I think of you Mama so often each day,

Of things I would show you and things you would say.

Oh, how you should see the kids growing so fast

Who speak of you daily, remembering the past.

The places we go, the people we meet,

We want you to know and good times to repeat.

My heart bleeds inside from need of your love—Tears fall I can’t hide.

Do you see from above? Do you know of the heartache,

The agony felt with each passing daybreak,

From the deed that was dealt?

So often I forget you’re gone and see you waiting there,

For us to come, hurrying home, in answer to your prayer.

I ache to write you letters; ache more for yours to me.

But the ones that lie in my bureau drawer

Are all there’ll ever be. I want to buy you dresses when I see the kind you wore,

But the ones you had, boxed beneath my bed,

Tell me you’ll need no more.

It’s so empty now without you; I can hardly find the way.

But oh Mama, do remember that we’ll meet again someday,

And because you were so good to me,

This prayer will e’er be mine,

That like you were, I’ll learn to be,

And they who silenced you will see

That you live on and on in me,

And pray my God that you too, see

Our love is still entwined.

Mrs. Olive Lewis

FOREWORD

By Aubrey Harness

The silence was deafening. The dog outside was trying to bark, the wind was blowing the tree branches, and the people outside were moving their lips but no sounds came.

Inside, the smells of cornbread and gunpowder mixed, made a nauseating odor. The heartbeat started slowly and then increased its tempo as different parts of the living room came into focus. Was it my heartbeat that was racing? The kitchen table had a plate of cornbread, a butter knife, and a bullet beside the glass of iced tea. The sound of the heartbeat was like an internal drum now. Somehow, the Christmas tree looked ugly and gross in the new room. It had a tilted appearance.

I got up to steady the tree and slipped. The floor was covered with red, red blood. Something, everything, was wrong.

Mama! Mama! Mama! I heard myself shout. The heartbeat stopped. Mama!

Sound unexpectedly broke through the silence. I could hear my voice, my steps, the wind, the dog, and a siren.

Sherry, it’s okay, it’s okay. Let’s go, was repeated by dozens of voices. But the tree was wrong. It had to be fixed, and Mama should be here. I saw Daddy in Mama’s room, sitting on the bed.

Daddy, where’s Mama? He looked through me, with a tear slowly edging its way down his cheekbone. His shoes had blood on them as though he had walked through a river of blood. They were soaked. Tearing through the house, panic and dread caused my head to pound. l screamed for Mama. There was the Christmas tree, a shiny red now. The carpet was speckled with spots of blood. There was one of her shoes.

Mama! Mama! No! No, Mama, no!

Grotesquely lying on presents and pushing the bloody tree against the wall, was my Mama. Bruised and broken, she looked small.

Mama, Mama, I heard myself shout and sob.

Sherry, let’s go. It’s okay, it’s okay, echoed voices through the house. Bloody arms pulled me from Mama. How small she looked, the size of a small child, then a baby. Mama, don’t go! Mama!

Let’s go, Sherry. It’s okay, it’s okay.

I turned and tore from the grip around my arms and ran to the tree. She was the size of an infant now, a sweet but destroyed doll—the size of my toy teacup. My heart was ready to explode. The shouts magnified, Let’s go, Sherry. It’s okay, it’s okay.

Mama! No! I shouted as I hit the floor. All their shoes were covered in blood.

Mama . . . Mama . . . Mama . . . Mama . . . Mama . . .

CHAPTER ONE

An ominous presence seemed to surround me as I walked up the front sidewalk to my parents’ home. Placing my key in the lock, I swung the door open wide. There on the living room floor was my mother, lying dead in a pool of blood. A large revolver lay a few inches away. I screamed and woke up, realizing that it was only a nightmare.

The first thing the next morning, I called Mama on the telephone. I wanted to tell her about the silly dream and rid myself of the gloom it had cast on me. Yet, when I heard her voice on the line, I knew I couldn’t speak of my dream and that I’d have to wait until we were together. I couldn’t bear the thought of losing Mama.

Oh, Sherry, I’m so glad you called. I’m looking forward to having you and my babies come home for the holidays. I can hardly wait for their eyes to light up when they see the surprises I’m making for them.

You really spoil Aubrey and Cecelia, Mama. I sure hope we can make it for Christmas, but you know construction work. We’re not told yet if Nat will be off for Christmas or New Year’s.

My mother’s sweet voice consoled me, Now, don’t you worry, honey. Whether we have our Christmas on December 25 or on January 1, the babies won’t know the difference—just whenever you all get here.

I smiled, hearing her excitement and her love. How is everything, Mama?

There was a pause. You know, Sherry. It’s not easy with your daddy. Every day, it seems he’s filled with more venom. She sighed. He doesn’t want me to talk to anyone or go anywhere.

You can’t do that, Mama, I said.

Oh, I won’t. I told him so too. I told him that he could live like a hermit if he chose to, but that I wasn’t going to. No, I won’t do that.

I worry for you, Mama, I told her.

Don’t, Honey. You know, with you kids being older, I won’t be putting up with him much longer. Robbie’s a senior now and even engaged. And isn’t that something! She was so happy for Robbie.

How are Robbie and her beau doing? I asked.

Oh, just fine. They’re both so cute and bashful. He’s a good boy from a good home. I’m real proud of Robbie. I still like to baby her, though, while I can, so I have her a hamburger cooked when she gets off the school bus each day. She seems to like a little spoiling. You and Ellis had it better in some ways than she has. Daddy doesn’t give her much spending money or car privileges. He’s a lot tighter than he was with you both, but she doesn’t fuss. She’s a good little gal.

Is Ellis coming home for Christmas? I hadn’t seen him much since I had married and moved away from Clinton, four years ago.

Oh, you know Ellis. He does whatever he feels like at the time. He’ll probably open presents with us, then be off on his way. He’s still mad at me about his diabetes, but I don’t take any lip from him. It’s in our family, and he has to deal with it the same as I do. At least, he seems to like this new college he’s in. Maybe he’ll make a go of it this time.

We chatted a little longer, both of us growing more and more excited to see each other in the next couple of weeks. Then, with the dream still vivid in my thoughts and memory, I made a point of ending the conversation with words I never spoke nearly enough, I love you, Mama. At the time, I didn’t realize that telephone call would be my last conversation with her and that my dream would soon become a gruesome reality.

Over the next few days, the dream still wouldn’t leave me. It had such an effect that I began to systematically collect all of Mama’s letters. I didn’t want anything of hers accidentally thrown away. Yet every morning, I woke up with the same image in my mind of Mama lying on the living room floor. Get over it, I told myself. You’ve got a lot to do. It was only a dream. Mama’s fine.

I knew I wouldn’t be telling Nat about my phone call to Mama because he had given me explicit orders not to make any long-distance phone calls. We would soon be disconnecting the phone and all utilities, preparing to move once again. I didn’t like moving so often and particularly dreaded moving from this town where my friends and church were. But in construction work, we had to move often, and I tried to accept that.

Nat liked having his own truck so that he could unhook the utilities himself and move his trailer whenever he wished. I recalled some occasions when I regretted it was so easy for him to do. One Saturday morning, we had just finished eating breakfast—dishes were still on the table—when Nat said this would be a good time for me to go buy groceries, early. He had other things to do later and would need the car. So, I left immediately, remembering we were out of milk and other necessities for the kids. To my horror, when I returned to our trailer space, it was vacant! Nat had unhooked the utilities and moved the trailer immediately after sending me away. I didn’t even know where our home had gone! I wondered whether he had taken the time to pack appropriately and somehow doubted that he had. Quite a simple chore, yet it made an awesome difference in securing belongings. A few pillows stuffed in the cabinets, and tape on the doors, closets, bathroom medicine chest, etc. tended to protect most things sufficiently. After a number of phone calls, I learned that he had moved the trailer to another town not a terribly long distance away. When I eventually arrived there with my groceries still in the car, Nat enjoyed my reaction. Inside were breakfast dishes strewn across the floor, coffee spilled, glass dishes broken, and food smeared into the carpet. No doors had been secured, so the refrigerator door had swung open, food had toppled out, and dishes had been thrown from the cabinets.

This’ll teach you to leave without washing the dishes first, he had scoffed, watching me as I was bewildered by the trashy mess.

I left because you told me to go right away. You were still at the table. I knew my words were useless in defense, but they seemed important, nevertheless, because they were simply true. I always valued the simple truth, whether it changed the situation or not. I would still be blamed, but I needed to hear those words myself.

Mama was so happy that we were all in church, certain that we would be a happy family now. I hoped she was right, and I geared my letters toward that impression, which wasn’t difficult to do. We were in church, and I was happy about that. Yet there were many uncertainties, which even my pastor and other couples pondered as we interacted with them. Nat demanded a leadership role, yet wasn’t willing to humbly invest himself in preparation for leadership. He wanted to be seen as an expert in every class discussion, yet he seldom had his facts straight. Everyone was aware of it but him. He was still dictatorial to me, and it seemed important to him to deny me anything that he knew I valued. Cecelia and Aubrey had emulated their dad once in play, saying, Sherry, you see that little bug? You like that little bug? You want that pretty little bug? Then, with their feet, scrunched it, symbolizing his enjoyment of destroying my interest and also of enjoying my reaction. I knew that Nat had been given his nickname in childhood for being so vulnerable to input from others. He had been seen as a gnat, eager to be an associate with other older boys. They, of course, had recognized and taken advantage of it, advising him in various silly ways, amusing themselves with his blind faith in them.

None of Nat’s ideas seemed to originate with him, and he always prefaced them with Bill says or John says, which to Nat, was unquestionable. I was never allowed input into any decisions, but I hoped that now, in the church, he would learn humility that would put our family on solid ground. I was also glad that Mama felt so happy about us, and I thought that just perhaps, time would prove her correct. I would have to answer to Nat later about defying him and phoning Mama, but oh, how that phone call helped!

But now I had a great deal to do, as we were moving again, this time to a new state. My days were spent packing and taking care of the children—Aubrey, now a three-and-a-half year-old and Cecelia, one year younger. Although Mama called them her babies, I knew they were growing quickly, and I valued every day and every experience with them. So much happened in so short a time. We made the move, and immediately in came a heavy snowstorm. We were exhausted. I barely found time to get out to the Green Stamp store to purchase a Christmas purse for Mama. Five days after we had talked on the phone, I was wrapping the purse when someone knocked on the door.

Yes? I said, looking out to an elderly woman I’d never seen before.

Your mother is dead.

What? I asked in disbelief. My next reaction was anger—anger at this stranger who had the audacity to deliver such a message.

You can use my phone, she said, pointing to her mobile home across the street.

You must be mistaken. I just spoke to her on the phone a few days ago. I held up the purse I was wrapping for my mother’s Christmas present.

The woman sadly shook her head and motioned to her house. Please watch my kids, I whispered, hurrying out into the falling snow. My footsteps crushing the newly fallen flakes. I felt numb, but my hands were shaking when I dialed my parents’ number.

Who’s this? I asked when a man answered. Daddy never answered the phone.

It’s me, Sherry, Arther Lewis, replied my father’s cousin.

What are you doing answering Mama’s phone, Arther?

Sherry, something’s happened here.

Put Mama on! I shouted. I want to talk to Mama.

That’s impossible, Sherry. Your mama’s passed—

I hung up the phone. I didn’t want to hear the end of that statement or that word. I didn’t go back to my trailer right away. I ran out of my neighbor’s home and wandered around in the snow. I walked and let the cold air press against me, cooling my body that was fired so terribly by inner rage and the sudden onset of deep grief.

Nat and I bundled up the kids and left that night for home. The trip was long and difficult. The driving snow made the roads slippery and made it hard to see. My husband and I didn’t talk along the way. I was left to my own painful thoughts.

I thought of many questions I could have asked instead of just hanging up the phone. I knew so little—only that my mother was gone, dead. I couldn’t get the feeling of the word, but I knew it would be more than a word in a few hours when we got home. I wish I knew what she died from, I said to him several times, wishing that he would telephone home and inquire. I knew better than to ask, however, and couldn’t bear to have him refuse that, too.

You had Arther Lewis on the phone. All you had to do was ask him what she died from. But what did you do? Hung up the phone! That sure makes a lot of sense now, don’t it? You always do the stupidest thing possible. I really think you have some kind of special talent; you’re always so stupid. His laugh that followed would have been unnerving, except that it reminded me of another scene just one year earlier when his laugh had totally repulsed me. When President Kennedy had just been shot and pronounced dead, and the nation—even the world—mourned (if not for America’s loss of its president, for a young widow and two little children), Nat had laughed heartily, primarily because the men he happened to be near at the time had laughed. Like a gnat, he buzzed similarly. Then, it had mattered. Now it was Mama, and Nat just didn’t matter one way or another.

I wondered how she’d died, assuming it had been from a heart attack. I was so glad I’d said I love you on the phone. I wondered whether she’d heard it or had already hung up. And my dream. I remembered the dream and my friend’s words, You’ll never have more than you can bear. (I Cor. 10:13)

When the children were awake, we sang Sunday-school songs. Some of the action ones were the most comforting for the kids. They could get so engrossed in songs such as, Peter, James, and John in the Sailboat, Deep and Wide, and Little Robin Red Breast. But they also knew some words to some strengthening choruses such as I Know the Lord Will Make a Way for Me, At Calvary, and others. I was glad that Nat didn’t know how much our singing meant to me as we drove or he would have stopped us. When they grew sleepy, I pretended to sleep too while continuing to sing the words over and over, silently.

We arrived home at three in the morning to find hordes of people milling around the house. They looked like zombies with their blank stares and expressionless faces.

What are they doing here? I wondered. Why are they in my mother’s house at three in the morning, and why are they staring at me?

I asked several people, Where’s Roberta? But no one seemed to know. Someone mumbled that she was spending the night with some friends, but not sure with whom or where.

When I asked about my mother, they looked at each other and back at me saying nothing. All through the years, Mama and I had gone together to visit families in which a loved one had died. We talked about the loved one; we talked about how fine they were; and we touched, hugged, and even cried with the mourners. Where were those people? What was different here when I needed to talk about Mama and to be touched and hugged? And I needed to cry. Didn’t anyone remember how fine she was and so recently? Suddenly Ellis appeared, and I asked him, Where’s Robbie? I wanted to see her so badly. She and I were close, and I wanted to be with her now so terribly.

She’s okay. She’s okay. But we need to talk, Sherry.

Ellis, what happened to Mama? And why are all these people here acting so awful? Nobody will talk to me, and I’m hungry, Ellis. I never saw Mama’s refrigerator so empty! I’m hungry and I want to see Robbie and I want to see Mama. Where is Mama? Why isn’t she here? I remembered how our other relatives had been placed in their coffins in a nice room of someone’s home, and they were still a part of the family as people came to visit with the family, and viewed, talked about, and touched them. I had never come home before when Mama wasn’t here and this was agonizing, excruciating!

Now, Sherry, you’ve got to calm down, and we’ll tell you everything. But let’s go in the back where we can talk, okay? Come on.

Ellis and an aunt, my dad’s sister, ushered me into the back room. This didn’t seem like Ellis, but Daddy had watched me go from person to person with my questions, and he just stared. He saw Ellis motion me to the back, so I knew I was expected to go through this ritual back in my old room. It had been so pretty, and it still looked much like I’d left it only four years ago. I sat down on my own bed, which had become Mama’s in my absence. I wasn’t sure why Aunt Jewel was here, but I’d put up with anything to get some answers to this grisly riddle.

People are disappointments

They’re cruel at times and hard

Some things they do we can’t

Overlook or disregard.

It seems they’re out to get us

And, sometimes they are,

That’s when it’s important

To know what we stand for

It doesn’t matter, good or bad

What we get from attention,

But the more important things

We often fail to mention.

—age 12

Chapter Two

I marveled at how such a pleasant room, frequently the site for unwelcome news long ago, again seemed uncomfortably familiar. Seeing Ellis standing there, I easily remembered him years earlier, running into this room in terror, yet with a manly protectiveness, taking charge in the roles we knew so well.

He’s home! Ellis would announce as he pulled open the window while sometimes managing to grab a blanket or pillow as he jumped out first, then waited with arms outstretched for me to hand Robbie to him.

I’d hear Daddy’s string of cuss words as he kicked the front door open, and we were soon scurrying through the open window into the darkness. I’d hesitate just long enough to help Mama with my little sister; then I’d followed Ellis and Robbie into the warmth and safety of the night. There we huddled, the three of us, crouched low in the weeds. We could hear the screaming, and we could see the beating our mama was taking, backlit against the windows.

My little sister, Robbie, clung to me, burying her face in my shoulder. Ellis turned away from the house, pressing his hands against his ears. I watched, never taking my eyes from the lighted window and the silhouette of my daddy beating my mama. I didn’t cry. I felt her pain, but I didn’t cry. Time was too valuable to waste with senseless tears. Once I asked Mama why he beat her, she sighed deeply and said, It’s because he drinks.

Then why does he drink so much?

She shrugged her heavy shoulders and frowned, I don’t know, Honey, I don’t know. I hugged her and asked why he had to kick the door so hard when he came in. She brought her arm around me and hugged me tighter.

It’s a good thing he does that, she said simply. That gives you three enough time to get out of the house. She could always see a bright side in the midst of gloom, and I admired her for that.

In time, I stopped asking so many questions. I was old enough to understand something I could not yet explain; there was a logic to their existence that was none of my business. I decided not to trouble Mama by questioning, by complaining, or by hoping for anything better. I just accepted what was.

These episodes had become almost routine. After a beating was over, the three of us would slink back into the house. I went to comfort Mama. I’d soothe her bruised skin, wash away the blood, and begin combing her hair back into place.

It’s okay now. Now he’s gone, I’d tell her when she winced. My brother soothed himself in his upstairs retreat. He and I never once spoke to each other about our father’s tirades.

Mama and I seemed to share a silent communion of pain as I tended to her. What I never knew then was that I was also absorbing a lot of guilt. I began to believe that it was our fault—my fault—that Mama suffered like this. I love you, she told me over and over. She loved me and she loved my brother and sister. She loved us terribly. And it had to be this love that kept her with my daddy, kept her taking the beatings, the agony, the misery. I soothed her and tended to her bruises and wounds. Yet, I believed inside that there had to be a better way and that we would find it someday. There had to be a way for love to exist without fear, pain, or guilt. There had to be.

Our good times were the times Daddy was away when he was out of town with a load of lumber. Then, the house was quiet and safe. Then, the neighborhood kids would join my brother and me on the hillside behind our house. We’d take a case of beer from under the staircase, and once on the hill, we would have contests, shaking the hot cans and popping them open to see whose beer sprayed highest into the air or farthest down the hill. Sometimes, we’d devise targets and try to hit them with the fierce spit of beer bursting from the cans.

We never feared taking the beer. No inventory was ever taken, and it was never missed. When the supply diminished, it was replenished. No questions were asked.

But besides the cases of beer, there were the gallon jars of whiskey. These gallon jars were often poured down the drain in a never-ending and futile cycle. Mama knew she was fighting a losing battle. The problem was not with the whiskey; it was with the man. No matter how many gallons she emptied into the drain, there was always more by the weekend.

Then came the beatings. What was it that drove him to work so hard all week long to provide a good life for his family, only to have him retreat into the horror of alcohol on the weekends? How could he care so deeply for us Monday through Thursday, only to torment us so horribly Friday through Sunday?

Once, when I supposed the problem was the liquor and not the man, I tasted the whiskey. Instead of the luscious nectar I’d expected to discover, I found that I could not even swallow the burning, foul liquid. For a time, I felt sorry for him and believed I understood why he cried so much after he drank. I’d have cried too if I had to drink that. But he didn’t have to drink it, did he? And if he were really sorry about the way he broke all Mama’s dishes and things or about the way he threw liquor all over the walls and floors, why did he keep drinking over and over again? I wondered if maybe it was just so that he could sleep. He always slept as sound as a tiny baby when he’d finally fall asleep in total exhaustion. I remember coming into the house one time with Mama, and we’d found him lying on the floor, stark naked. He was sleeping so peacefully that Mama just covered him up, rather than wake him.

And one night when we were a few miles from home and my sister was just a baby, she started crying because she needed milk. I’ll pull over and get her some milk, Daddy had said. He stopped the car and went into the restaurant. We waited and waited. Mama tried to calm little Roberta, but with every passing minute, Robbie was growing more and more agitated. Finally, when the baby was frantic, I climbed out of the car and went hunting for Daddy. I walked into the restaurant but didn’t find him anyplace. When I came out, I saw him sitting in a car full of people. I watched him for a minute, and then I tapped on the window. Daddy, the baby’s crying a lot now and we don’t have any milk.

Daddy just got mad. He snapped, Dammit, go back to the car, as he got out and came with me. We got the milk and we went home.

People have troubles, all of us do

Some are imagined, but some are true.

You’ll see it often hurts within

It seems almost to be a sin

To always have to stand aside

And watch their troubles go in stride.

Yes, people have troubles, all of us do

We can’t all help, but we can Be True.

—age 9

Chapter Three

Daddy was destructive when he was drunk. He’d get violent and wreck anything and everything in his way—radios, bicycles, even the house itself. We learned early not to cherish possessions too much. Even so, there was a red table-and-chair set that I loved. It was mine, and I used it when I played with my dolls in my own room. One night, in a drunken rage, he took that set piece by piece and threw it down the long flight of stairs into the basement.

No! No! I screamed, pulling frantically on each piece, trying to wrestle them from him as he made return trips to my room—first for the table, then for each of the four chairs.

But my strength was no match for his, and I watched with horror as each piece went hurtling down the staircase, smashing to smithereens on the concrete basement floor. No amount of screaming or pleading could turn him away from his violent destructiveness.

Once my table-and-chair set was gone, I went to my room and sat on my bed, screaming at my dolls. They lay helpless on the floor where they’d fallen from their chairs. I hated helplessness, and I hated that the peaceful confinement of my room had been brutally invaded by the anger of the outside world. I understood that love was painful, that attachments were too easily torn away, and that peacefulness was only a fantasy that gave way quickly