The longer I sat by myself on my Dad's dented WWII trunk, the more desperately I wanted to disappear. All the other girls at camp had pretty, new brass rimmed navy or forest green trunks with light pink, script monograms on top. Although I was proud of its history, my trunk had Dad's name, rank and serial number stamped in regimented ink on top.
As always, every August 8th, the camp bus dropped us off promptly at Noon in the gravel parking lot of St. Simon's School. Stepping off the bus into the hellaciously hot Virginia air was like climbing into the inside of a dryer. Hazy and 99 degrees already, with 77% humidity. Sticky yuck.
Anxiously, I sat onto of my rusty old trunk, longingly watching the steady stream of station wagons, parading by as my friends, family by family, were picked up by their hugging and happy parents. After 6 weeks away in the mountains, they were on their way home foe a celebratory Sunday brunch or sweet tea on the screened in porch.
Nervous, I tried to relax, and quietly plastered a pleasant smile on my face, as I had seen my Mother do many times when she was unhappy, which was most of the time. Many of the other mothers, as well, had similar smiles. The fathers, however, seemed to have only slight, closed lipped smiles on their faces as they were busy loading heavy trunks into the back of their station wagons.
Yes, the FFV's (First Families of Virginia) taught their children to always look and speak pleasantly to others. Never talk about oneself. Always ask about another's mother. Lovely social manners in public, but underneath, a different story. If you were what was considered someone from somewhere, as opposed to no-one from nowhere, you had social cart blanche. If you were not a consistent part of this 400 year old society, or a transplant, all it took was one social mishap, and you and your family were whispered about underneath everyone's hot Virginia breath.
Slowly, as I sat there by myself, I was surpassing embarrassment, heading into mortification. I knew if something bad had happened to either parent, someone would have told me. Great. Whatever was up, word was going to get around. Again. After suffering through bankruptcy, just what my ridiculously small family did not need.
I recognized my best friend's Kingswood Estate Station Wagon, the kind with the wooden paneling on the side, rounding the parking lot. Carter Fairfax's entire family would be loading both their trunks into the back. Cute and tall, Randolph Fairfax, mu childhood crush with his irresistible dimples and dark eyes, would be in the car too. Great. So, there I sat, helpless to do anything, hopeless without any of my own family present, knowing there would be no room for my trunk in the back.
Mrs. Fairfax kindly asked me in her high pitched old Virginia accented voice: "How are you Carolyn? Did you enjoy camp? How is your Mother? Please tell her 'Hello' for me. Embarrassed, all I could muster up with a nervous stammer was: "Hi Mrs. Fairfax. Yes, Carter and I had such fun. I guess my Mom's a bit late. I'll tell her 'hello' for you. Thank you." After Mr. Fairfax placed Carter and Taylor's trunk into the back of their wagon, he told me he would drive back and buzz through the parking lot just to make sure I was not still waiting. I chocked out: "Thank you so much, Mr. Fairfax." After they all drove off, I was totally alone sitting on my trunk in the parking lot. Even the camp bus was gone.
As i sat there silently with a sunken heart, and the taste of gravel dust in my mouth, I thought about how to get home without help. I could try dragging my trunk the 1/4 mile home, but even as buckled and cracked as the old sidewalks were, the neighbors, including my doctor and piano teacher, would probably neither appreciate the sound it would make nor me scratching up their sidewalk. With its broken lock, I could try to carry home some of the 6 weeks of clothing I could carry, but would risk losing what would be left, and I could not rick losing any cloths, I had so little.
Sitting alone, so very hot and sweaty, I got thinking about how fortunate our family was to still have the Fairfax family as true friends. So many had ostracized our entire family then quietly pencilled us off of the cocktail party list after the bankruptcy. Realizing this reality at 12 years old was quite the momentous moment. Right about then, just in my moment of despair, I heard the crack of gravel under car tires. It was Mr. Fairfax, coming back to collect me and take me back to my house.
I stood up, out of respect, and gratitude, trying not to be embarrassed. While walking toward me, he said so nicely: "So, let's get you home, Carolyn." With out words, we loaded the trunk into the back of the station wagon. There was no radio, or chatting, or even small talk. I was too timid to say anything. The 1/2 mile home seemed like many miles. As Mr. Fairfax pulled up to the front walk, we both silently unloaded the trunk and carried it up to the front porch. As cheerfully as I could muster, I thanked Mr. Fairfax as he quickly headed back to his car, waved and drove off. I guess he was not going to knock on the door and speak to either of my parents. What was wrong? There I stood alone, on the "poor house" t'aint blue front porch of the falling down Victorian house we had to rent after the bankruptcy.
My kid sister called it "the poor house" but i thought it had good bones. It had no air conditioning, oil heat from a grate in the front hall, falling down plaster from the walls & ceilings, burned out fireplaces, and no dishwasher. Fallen from my childhood of privilege with trips to my Dad's office in New York City on weekends, ballet, tap, tennis, piano and horse riding lessons, my left handed Mother did the best she knew how to do. She taught me how to hammer, plaster, wallpaper, paint, and spakle.
I had spent the last year, after school, trying to help around the house: cleaning, laundry, ironing, yard work, grocery shopping, cooking dinner, washing & drying the dishes by hand. In cleaning out a closet, I found my grandmother's antique linen tablecloths and dinner napkins. Cleaned them all up. That was cool!
With the trunk safely on the porch, I opened the always open front door and called out: "Mom?" No answer. Walked back to the Kitchen. No one there. Went into the Den. No one there either, however, my Dad's desk, chair, the couch and the television set were gone. Only my Mother's red Persian rug remained. rounding the top of the stairs, into my parents' bedroom, I was stunned at only seeing my Mother's dressing table and a turned up rug pad. Something was going on. I ventured into my little Sister's room. She was out. Probably playing at a friend's house.
Out of the side of one ear, I heard the radio. Mom carried her 1961 GM peach leather AM travel "Seven" transistor radio everywhere. A Barry Manilow song was playing: "...and I'm ready to take a chance again..." Peaking into the guest room, there was my Mom, laying on one of my grandmother's antique pineapple topped twin beds, singing along to the song. Her radio was by her side. A butter knife was in her left hand and her right wrist was splotched with blood. I could smell the alcohol. It was 2:15 in the afternoon. What was happening? Mom always took three fingers deep in her bourbon drink as compared to my Dad's 2 fingers depth.
Gently, I coaxed the butter knife out of my Mother's hand and dressed the surface wound on her wrist. She was still singing along to the radio. "I'm home Mom," I quietly said. She smiled and said: "Your Father and I filed for divorce." I replied: "When?" "Three weeks ago," she answered. Then, she smiled and closed her eyes.
While Mom slept, I began unpacking my clothes, arm full by arm full from the old trunk on the front porch, and began the gargantuan task of washing my camp clothes, and an entire laundry room packed to the ceiling from weeks and weeks full of clothes. As Mom slept into the evening, I fixed my little Sister and myself a spaghetti dinner, and turned on the evening nightly news. President Nixon was resigning, but I was not. I decided right then and there to grow up.
Posts
