Sometimes the Truth Hurts (Before It Sets You Free)

By Denise Gambone

Fortunes and misfortunes, experiences and adversity endured in life are sometimes the result of choices we make, sometimes due to events we have no control of.

My name is Denise. These are my stories.

It was a time of clashing values, the end of the freewheeling 60s, the beginning of the tumultuous 70s, and the evolving 80s. Told in her distinctive style, Sometimes the Truth Hurts are stories of loss, rebellious youth, stubborn independence, and determination to overcome adversity and achieve a secure and better place in life. Unexpected outcomes, irony and humor resonate throughout, reflecting perseverance of the human spirit. Some stories may be considered controversial, but are told openly and honestly without moral judgement, life lessons, contemporary and timeless, rendered unabashedly from the heart and soul.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: May 26, 2023
• ISBN: 9781685620882

Denise Gambone

Sometimes the Truth Hurts is the collaborative efforts reflecting Denise Gambone’s distinctive style of storytelling and James Cormier’s admiration of the written word. Denise resides in Central Massachusetts and James in Virginia.

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About the Authors

Sometimes the Truth Hurts is the collaborative efforts reflecting Denise Gambone’s distinctive style of storytelling and James Cormier’s admiration of the written word. Denise resides in Central Massachusetts and James in Virginia.

Dedication

I dedicate this work to my daughter, Nicole. I love you so much. God bless you and yours.

Linda, thank you for providing a sympathetic ear, constructive criticism, and non-judgmental friendship.

Copyright Information ©

Denise Gambone and James Cormier 2023

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, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher.

Any person who commits any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

All of the events in this memoir are true to the best of author’s memory. The views expressed in this memoir are solely those of the author.

Ordering Information

Quantity sales: Special discounts are available on quantity purchases by corporations, associations, and others. For details, contact the publisher at the address below.

Publisher’s Cataloging-in-Publication data

Gambone, Denise and Cormier, James

Sometimes the Truth Hurts (Before It Sets You Free)

ISBN 9781685620868 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781685620875 (Hardback)

ISBN 9781685620882 (ePub e-book)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2023905831

www.austinmacauley.com/us

First Published 2023

Austin Macauley Publishers LLC

40 Wall Street 33rd Floor, Suite 3302

New York, NY 10005

USA

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[phone]

Acknowledgment

To fellow aspiring writers Sandra, Paula, and Paul. Thank you for the many evenings spent sharing our works, the open criticism, the patients and good humor.

To James, participant from start to finish. Your dedication through nearly 25 years of shared laughs and tears, edits, and rewrites, I couldn’t have completed this work without you. I am eternally grateful to you. Thank you and God bless.

Prologue

It was August 1964. I was six years old. Mom was pregnant again.

My sister, five brothers, and I were looking forward to summer vacation. It was a new and exciting adventure. The family had been on camping trips before, but this was something different. My dad had reserved a site at a campground on the island of Martha’s Vineyard.

The faithful family car, a late model Ford Country Squire station wagon, was light blue with faded wood side trim. The car had a lot of miles on it, but Dad kept it in perfect running condition. It was big and old, but roomy enough to carry the family and everything needed for a week of camping.

My dad had a place for everything and everyone. He orchestrated the placement of luggage, everything strategically placed to make the most of space. Last to be loaded was the tent, tied firmly to the roof. Next was our turn. My dad assigned a spot to sit for each of us across the broad bench seats. It was a long drive with a car full of kids, but we all understood Dad’s expectations and the consequence of misbehaving.

* * *

My Dad

I watched towns, woods and meadows flow pass the windows. Every mile I felt my anticipation and excitement grow. We crossed the wide expanse of the Cape Cod Canal on the Sagamore Bridge, leaving mainland Massachusetts behind and continued on Route 6 to the town of Falmouth and the ferry terminal at Woods Hole.

The entrance into the ferry terminal was bumper to bumper. The cars slowly inched forward toward the marked lanes of the departure area. As we zigzagged across the huge loading area of the Steamship Authority, I saw most of the cars in line were filled with families crammed between bundles of luggage, folded beach furniture, coolers, and camping gear.

I was thrilled when the ferryboat finally came into view. It bobbed on the water like grand white castle glistening in the morning sun. After the ferry docked, the front section split apart like a large mouth, swallowing cars whole as they drove across the bouncing, creaking bridge connecting the wharf to the ferry. One by one the cars in front of us vanished into the dark, mysterious interior. I could hardly wait for it to be our turn to get inside the wonderful floating castle. Inside, an attendant directed Dad to a parking spot. I was amazed to see so many cars and trucks squeezing into every possible space. Dad said we could leave the car and head to the upper decks. He gathered us together and we joined the long line of people climbing the narrow metal stairs to the upper decks.

The day was sunny with a bright blue sky and a cool ocean breeze. There was seating available inside the large interior sections of the ferry, but it seemed almost everyone wanted to be sitting outside or leaning against the railings. It was crowded, but all the passengers were having a great time, laughing, pointing at the sights and talking in fun, friendly voices. I loved the excitement of it all.

We found seats on the open top deck high above the rolling waters of the harbor. The ferry whistle fired a single, ear-splitting blast that made us cover our ears and laugh. The ferry shuttered as it backed away from the dock, churning the water into a white, frothy boil as it steamed out of the harbor and began the 45-minute voyage to Martha’s Vineyard. Sailboats and powerboats of every size and color glided pass, bobbing in the wake of the ferry. Friendly waves were exchanged between boaters and ferry passengers.

The engines vibrated through the decks as the ferry pushed through the swells of Nantucket Sound. The ocean breeze mussed hair and flapped loose clothing. I watched screeching sea gulls diving at bits of food people tossed into the air. Standing at the rail, I looked down at the sea slapping against the side of the ferry, sending sparkling droplets high into the air. What a blast, I thought.

As the ferry approached the island of Martha’s Vineyard, the loudspeakers announced that passengers were to return to their cars. Dad made sure we were gathered together and we moved with the tide of people returning to their cars, squeezing through the rows of tightly packed cars. The sound of opening and slamming car doors echoed against the metal hull. Climbing back into the station wagon, Dad oversaw the orderly return to our assigned places.

The ferry docked with a loud thud and was followed by the rumble of starting car motors. The wide exit doors spread apart and the attendants skillfully directed disembarking drivers out. Dad maneuvered the car through the narrow, congested streets of Vineyard Haven. The roads were less crowded once we were out of town.

Dad had reserved a campsite on a hill with a wonderful view of the ocean. As usual, Dad took charge, directing the unpacking and putting up the tent. Mom set up the Coleman stove and began boiling water to make coffee. Just as the water began to boil, my sister bumped into the stove, knocking over the coffee pot and spilling scalding water on her hand. She screamed! Dad kept a watchful eye on things as Mom applied cold water on Debbie’s hand and applied ointment from the first aid kit.

I felt so bad for her. When she calmed down, it seemed she was okay. Daddy glanced at me, then at mom to see she had the situation under control and then back at me. Denise, would you like to go for a walk with me down to the beach?

Okay, Daddy, I answered quickly. I was thrilled. It seemed I never got to spend time alone with Daddy.

He took my hands and we followed a path leading to the beach. The sand was a soft and warm cushion under my feet as we strolled near the waterline. My hand felt so small in his, making me feel his large hands could have wrapped me up completely. It was so nice. Everything seemed so right in the world.

Oh Denise, look, he said, pointing at the wet sand where the waves had receded. He knelt down and scooped up a handful of the moist sand. Carefully brushing away the sand with his fingers, he held up a starfish. It’s already partially dried out. He handed the starfish to me. Take this and let it dry out completely. You can save it to remember the trip by.

Can I make a wish on it? You know, like I would with the first star I see at night? I asked excitedly.

He smiled warmly, a smile that was all mine. I don’t know if it will work, Denise, but you can always try.

I will, Daddy.

* * *

Thinking about my dad, I wonder what was and how different things might have been. The fortunes and misfortunes we experience and endure in life are often a direct result of the choices we make, but some life-changing events can also happen that we have no control of.

Perceptions, words spoken and actions taken, especially when the memories are painful and unpleasant, can become distorted with the passage of time. I have written these stories as best as I can recall. I don’t doubt I’ll offend those who disagree with my rendition of events.

My name is Denise. These are my stories.

Part One

You Don’t Know What You’ve

Got Until It’s Gone

I am the fifth of eight children. My father relocated to Massachusetts due to a job opportunity. We moved to a quiet neighborhood on a tree-lined street joining other young families with lots of kids around. Our house, a split-level ranch with four bedrooms, one and a half baths and a carport, set on ½ acre of land.

Most of the houses in the neighborhood were the same design and built on similar sized plots. Unlike most of the other backyards, ours was clear of trees except for a large Weeping Willow tree, my dad’s favorite type of tree. The local elementary school was only a half-mile away and a small shopping plaza was located less than a mile away. All the neighbors got along. It was a great place to grow up.

My dad worked as a salesman. My mother didn’t work. She had her hands full taking care of seven kids with another on the way.

I can remember being around my mother and wanting to be just like her. It seemed she had it all together; cooking up meals, doing laundry, cleaning, running errands and making certain we got off to school. I would sit and watch her feed and change my brothers and get great pleasure seeing her bounce Joey on her knees, play peekaboo and patty cake. Joey would grin and giggle. It made me laugh. I was always asking if I could help around the house, my favorite was helping out with my younger brothers.

Things weren’t always perfect. My mother was at her best when my dad was around. When he was away, home would sometimes become chaotic. Looking back, I understand why my mother could become overwhelmed and frustrated. She had to deal with a house full of kids, struggling to maintain discipline on days when being unruly was a child’s prerogative. When she had had enough, she would lash out with a stern, Wait until your father gets home! Having her say this really bothered me.

When he came home from work, he would be informed of any bad behaviors at the dinner table. My mother would inform my dad everything we had been doing for that day. My dad would look at us individually as my mother recounted our activities. My dad would give praise for a good report and question anyone who had misbehaved. If my mother’s evaluations were good, my dad would always plan something special for us.

My dad was strict, but fair. When he was home, life was fun, secure, and full of promise, everything in control and balanced. It was the way he was and the way he wanted it to be.

His rules were simple. As long as we followed the rules, things were fine. Chores were to be done on time. At the dinner table, my mother and father sat across from each other and all the kids had assigned seats. We wouldn’t begin to eat until everyone was seated. All food on our plates had to be finished and we were expected to ask permission before leaving the table. We rinsed and stacked our plates to make it easier for my mother to fill the dishwasher. When Dad was around, there was no talking back and absolutely no arguing when it was time for bed. No one wanted to make my dad angry. Unspoken consequences were enough to keep us in line.

I recall a particular night at the dinner table. My mother had cooked cube steak. It was overdone and was like chewing rubber. I couldn’t force myself to swallow it. Everyone had finished, but the meat on my plate remained uneaten. I asked to be excused, but my dad insisted I finish the food on my plate. I can’t eat it, daddy. It tastes yucky! Everyone was excused from the table, but I stayed until I fell asleep, my head landing in the plate. Later, his point made, he gently told me it was time for bed.

My dad was energetic and outgoing. He was tall and thin with pitch-black straight hair and big hands that had allowed him to play semi-pro basketball. He enjoyed clowning around, making us laugh and loved pranks. On the days he got home early from work, he would play a few rounds of basketball on the court he had made out back. What fun that was. I wished it could’ve happen more often.

In winter, my dad would set up wooden planks and flood the backyard to form a skating rink. My dad would be on the phone, inviting neighbors to come over with ice skates in hand. Backyard floodlights turned night into day. A long table was set up and my mother and father would put out urns of hot chocolate and coffee. Skating at the Gambone arena was a seasonal tradition.

My dad spent a lot of time at the drafting table he had set up downstairs. He enjoyed designing things. I can envision his printing, neat and methodical, like the man.

Sunday outings visiting Auntie Millie and Uncle Al’s house were a treat. Whoever was fast enough would claim a spot on the tailgate of the station wagon and let legs dangle in the breeze as we drove the few miles to their house. Imagine doing that today!

On warm summer afternoons, my dad, Uncle Al, and local friends would gather to play bocce ball on the court Uncle Al had made. Aunt Millie and my mother would spend time in the kitchen preparing food.

The pond on the property was always a big attraction. We loved to lie down on the wooden dock and swish our hands in the cool water. It was so much fun trying to catch frogs and goldfish with my brothers and sister. If you were quick you could scoop up a gold fish, drop it into a jar and bring it home.

Aunt Millie and Uncle Al would always allow us to ride their horse Patches around the small corral behind the house. My aunt and uncle were always welcoming.

It was November 16th. I was six years old. My birthday was a few days away. I woke up, aware of movement outside my bedroom door. It was late at night, but the lights were on in the hallway. I could hear hushed, unfamiliar voices coming from my parents’ bedroom.

* * *

Dearly Departed

I sat up, hearing heavy footsteps outside my bedroom door. Two firemen in bulky gray raincoats, boots and wide brimmed black helmets walked passed the open bedroom door carrying a stretcher. My dad was laid out on the stretcher, his arms against his side, his face staring up at the ceiling. I knew something awful had happened.

I got out of bed and hurried to the large cardboard box I kept in the corner of the bedroom. I carefully dug through miscellaneous treasures until my fingers found and tightly gripped an earphone case. Inside, protected and isolated, was my special starfish.

I climbed back into bed, opened the case and carefully pulled out the starfish. I closed my eyes and held the starfish close to my chest, wishing with all my heart that Daddy was okay. My fingers squeezed a little too hard and one of the arms of the starfish broke off with a dry snap. I stared down at my broken memory. I gently laid the starfish on the night table, pushing the broken arm into place, making it whole. I hoped everything would be all right. I put my head on the pillow and eventually went to sleep.

I woke up and the house was silent. I wasn’t sure what to do. The image of my dad being carried by my room replayed in my mind.

Denise, could you come in here? my mother called out from her bedroom.

I hesitantly walked to my mother’s room. The door was open. My mother was sitting up in bed, staring down. Her head slowly came up.

Denise, she said softly, I want you to go wake up your brothers and sister and tell them to come in here.

I hurried to the different bedrooms and told everyone to get to ma’s room. We quickly gathered in my mother’s room.

My mother was sitting on the bed, her head down. I don’t think she had moved since I left. We waited in silence, all eyes fixed on her.

Jerry, my oldest brother, broke the silence. What’s wrong?

Daddy died last night. Tears streamed down her face.

How? I asked. What did he die of?

He had a heart attack.

I didn’t understand what a heart attack was. Everyone started to cry.

Is he gonna come back? I asked.

No, he won’t ever be back.

Daddy never coming home again! I ran out of the bedroom and downstairs to the desk daddy worked at. I wanted Daddy to be here. This was his place.

Oh my God, what’s going to happen to all of us? What about the baby in mommy’s stomach? Are we all gonna to have to go away? I buried my face in my hands and cried. Daddy, please come back, I whispered.

Auntie Millie and Uncle AL were first to arrive. They carried in several boxes of donuts and a coffee urn and set them down on the kitchen table. The only time I remember being offered treats was when things were good. People were in and out of the house all day. Everyone spoke in low voices, keeping their eyes lowered and looking sad. Everything seemed wrong.

Late in the afternoon, after most people had gone, my mother pulled me aside. I’m sorry Denise, but we won’t be able to celebrate your birthday because we will be in mourning for seven days.

I was confused. What was mourning? I was going to turn seven in a few days, but I didn’t want to celebrate my birthday ever again if it was going to be like this. I went to bed afraid to go to sleep. What if this happens to someone else?

My mother woke us up early the next morning. I want everyone dressed up for the wake, she announced.

Wake? Am I going? I asked.

Yes, she answered.

What do we have to do?

My mother looked away. Auntie Millie, who had arrived early, spoke up after a long silence. That’s where we view your dad’s body at the funeral home.

Funeral home? I had never heard of such a place. And view daddy’s body? I wasn’t sure I was up for this.

A caravan of cars loaded with family and neighbors drove to the funeral home. It looked like a big house. It was painted all white with large black shutters, tall, round columns along the front and a huge double door at the top of the stairs leading in. I felt strange. We walked up the wide stairs together. Men in black suits stood at the doors. Inside, everyone’s expression was the same. It didn’t seem real.

We walked through a carpeted hall and into a large room where a lot of people were milling about or sitting in chairs arranged in rows facing the front of the room. People talked, but never quite loud enough to hear what was being said. Several approached us when we came in, repeating over and over how sorry they were. I didn’t know what to say. One of our neighbors approached my mother. She looked down at me, and turned to my mother with a puzzled expression.

You brought Denise here? she asked.

She’ll be fine, my mother assured.

I was unsure what to say or what to do. I stayed close to my mother.

My eyes wandered around the room. Rows of flowers were everywhere. My eyes stopped at the front of the room, fixing on my dad lying in a big fancy wooden box. The wood and brass handles were polished and shiny. I was suddenly scared.

My mother gathered my brothers and sister and I and lined us up, oldest to youngest. Go on up to your father, kneel on the bench and say an Our Father and Hail Mary. One by one they walked to the casket and knelt.

I was last, standing beside my mother, holding her hand. I hesitated. My mother waved her finger towards Daddy. Denise, go up to your father, kneel on the bench and say an Our Father and Hail Mary.

I slowly walked forward, alone. The room was quiet. I could feel everyone watching me. It was uncomfortable and scary. I knelt and said my prayers, never taking my eyes off my dad’s face. It was as if he was asleep. I wanted him to open his eyes.

I waited. Nothing happened. I stood and up and touched his folded hands. They were so cold. I pulled my hand back. I wasn’t feeling so good. I wanted to leave. I turned to look at my mother, wanting to catch her eye to let me know if I was done. She nodded.

You can go downstairs with the rest of the kids and get something to eat or drink if you want, she said.

I went downstairs where food had been set out on a long table. My stomach was in a knot. Returning upstairs didn’t help. Everything was strange and didn’t make me feel any better.

The rest of the day seemed endless. It was hard for me not to cry. It seemed wherever I stood I’d hear people talking about how hard it was going to be for my mother to care for all the kids. It just brought on more tears. I was so happy when my mother announced it was time to go home.

Once home, I ran up to my room and lay down on my bed and cried. I felt lost.

Denise, come down here, my mother called from downstairs.

Oh God, what now?

This just came for you and the family. She pointed to the dining room table and a large basket of fruit. She removed the card attached to the basket and handed it to me.

To the Gambone family. My deepest sympathy goes out to you. We were all sorry to hear such sad news. Mrs. Sherriff and class.

It was nice of my teacher and classmates to be thinking of me. I read the card again. It made me feel better.

I had trouble sleeping. So many things I didn’t understand. I didn’t know how to ask to find meaning to it all. I woke up dreading I’d have to return to the funeral home. When I came downstairs, I was told what I didn’t want to hear. We were all to get dressed and be prepared for another day at the funeral home.

Do I have to go? I asked quietly.

No, my mother answered. You don’t have to go if you don’t want to.

I was surprised and happy not having to go back there.

Father Gately will be coming over to talk to you later, my mother informed me as she put on her coat.

Why?

In case you need someone to talk to about all this.

Okay. I had lots of questions, but I was afraid to ask my mother. She didn’t seem to be doing so well and I didn’t want to make her cry. Auntie Millie and my mother gathered my brothers and sister and herded them out the door.

My Godfather stayed home with me and I spent the morning waiting for Father Gately, wondering if he’d have answers to my questions. He arrived in the early afternoon. He was large and burly with thick white hair and glasses. He bent at the knees in front of me, becoming less imposing. The lines around his eyes crinkled in a warm, comforting way. How are you feeling, Denise? he asked gently, his voice soft for such a big man.

I don’t understand what’s going on, Father Gately. I’m a little bit scared.

Father Gately stood, expanding upward. He was a big man and as he stood over me, I felt he could somehow fix things. He looked away from me for a moment, his fingers rubbing his chin. How would you like to take a ride with me? Go someplace where we can talk.

Yes, I answered immediately. Everywhere I had been in the last few days had been filled with sadness. The thought of getting away from all the sad people and places sounded like such a great idea.

Where are we going? I asked as I put on my coat.

To a seminary. It’s a place where it’ll be quiet and peaceful. We can talk about life and death and maybe it will help you to understand.

I don’t like death, Father Gately, I said meekly as we walked toward the door. Why did my dad have to die?

He stopped, looking down at me. I’m not certain I have an answer for you, Denise, he said gently. Sometimes things happen for reasons we just can’t understand. I do feel keeping your faith in God and praying for your family will help you though this. He reached into the inner pocket of his coat and pulled out a small book. I want you to have this.

I took it and leafed through the pages. There were pictures of angels, blue skies with golden ribbons and holy places. Under the pictures were words printed in fancy letters.

It has all different prayers, Father Gately explained. Try to read at least one a day.

I will, I said, sliding my new book into my coat pocket.

We drove for what seemed like a long time. It was nice to sit back, watch the trees go by and enjoy the ride. Father Gately turned the car up a long, tree-lined driveway. We pulled up in front of a large white building. It had a wide, sloping roof with tall peaks on the corners.

Okay, let’s go inside. Father Gately said with a comforting smile and took my hand.

The seminary was big and beautiful. Soft light and flickering candles reflected off polished wood, brass and gold. Statues in alcoves lined the walls and sculpted reliefs were set between them. Father Gately explained the Stations of the Cross as we walked, the shiny stone floor softly echoing our footsteps. I really didn’t understand everything he was saying, but his words made me feel good. It felt like someone was watching over me.

When I got home, I was feeling better.

I’ll be checking up on you now in case you need someone to talk to, Father Gately promised. I’ll always be just a phone call away.

I gave him a big hug and kissed him on the cheek before saying goodbye. I watched him drive off, waving until the car was out of sight. I went up to my room, sat on the edge of my bed and explored the pages of my new book.

It’s time to get dressed for the funeral, Aunt Millie announced when I got up the next morning and came downstairs. Aunt Millie was around a lot and had taken charge. My mother was still upstairs in her bedroom. I could hear her crying. Aunt Millie put out bowls for cereal.

What will we do there? I asked.

Father Gately will be doing a Mass for your father at the church. He will talk about your dad and the family. It’s a way of saying goodbye with prayer. After, we will all go to the cemetery where he’ll be buried.

It was just more things I didn’t understand, but I was happy Father Gately would be there. Before we left for the church, I went upstairs and read a prayer from the book he had given me.

We entered the church as a family, huddled close together. I blessed myself with holy water just as my dad had taught me to do before walking to the front of the church. Everyone was looking at us as we walked by. It made me feel uncomfortable. We all knelt and said a prayer. It was so quiet.

My dad’s casket was wheeled in and I began to cry. During the Mass, a priest walked down