Spectacular Faults
TW: domestic and sexual abuse
When I was four, I came out of the bedroom I shared with my brother, Greg, and set off to find Mom. She walked down the hallway toward me, and we met outside the bathroom door. A stocky man with salt-and-pepper hair stood at the sink, the lower half of his face covered in shaving cream. He wore only a sleeveless, white, ribbed undershirt and boxer shorts. His lack of clothing seemed odd; my father never went around the house barely dressed.
“Mommy, who’s that man?” He did not turn to acknowledge me, but continued shaving.
“That’s your new father. He’s come to live with us.”
Simple enough. The new man, Don, sat cross-legged on the floor with me that evening and made quarters appear from behind my ear. He held out his closed fists. “Pick one,” he said.
I’d point where the quarter surely was, having closely watched his moving hands. He’d open his fist and reveal…nothing. “Do it again. Do it again!” I’d squeal with delight.
No matter what choice I made, it was always wrong. Choose the left hand, it’s the right. Choose the right; no, it was in the left. This man was the coolest. No one else in my world had ever discovered quarters behind my ears. I gave no thought to what might have happened to Dad, who, sadly, lacked this rare talent.
Dad had been a Navy pilot stationed in England, assigned to fly the radar barrier during the Cold War with Russia. As I understand it, he flew back and forth and back and forth, in case Russia sent spy planes or bombers into Allied airspace. The last time he returned home for a leave, Mom said he spent much of his time seated at the large picture window in the living room of our house, where he stared out onto the street for hours and intermittently let out long, dramatic sighs. Mom said the staring and sighing went on for days.
When Dad pulled the car into the driveway one evening after they’d returned from a party, she turned to him and asked him point-blank. “Are you seeing someone?”
He confessed to an affair with an English woman named Audrey, whom he’d met while overseas. “I guess it means I don’t love you anymore,” he said.
Mom felt violently sick to her stomach, and every bit of feeling she had for him disappeared in an instant.
The transition between the two men felt seamless to me. Don floated into our home as unobtrusively as Dad floated out. Because we had rarely seen Dad anyway, I did not miss him. Besides, here was an entertaining new man sitting on the floor with me, pretending to pull my nose off and hold it (it being his thumb) between his bent index and third fingers. “Give it back!” I yelled. He touched the space above my mouth to return my nose to its rightful place. I reached up to verify that it was indeed back where it belonged. Not only could he do magic tricks, he’d bought a Native American headdress for my brother and a glittery baton for me. Things were looking up in my world.
* * *
Don ran a music store in a rather dumpy building near downtown Houston. He did well in the music business in the early sixties, an era in which a home wasn’t a home without a piano. And, by God, if there was a piano in a house, someone for sure took lessons.
Not only was my mother an accomplished musician on both the organ and piano, she was gorgeous too. A man had to be dead from the neck up and the waist down not to notice. Tiny, slender, and busty, with gray eyes and naturally caramel-colored hair, she always turned heads. While her divorce from my dad was still in process, she’d made a trip to Don’s store to buy sheet music. He’d struck up a conversation, and must have thought he’d hit the motherlode: musical, beautiful, and about to be divorced. He left his wife to marry Mom.
* * *
Don, Mom, Greg, and I started our new life together in an apartment on the other side of Houston while our house was being built. Our home life seemed to clip along nicely; I can remember no tension or raised voices between the newlyweds. They traveled often and played the organ and piano for numerous local events. Surely a match made in heaven.
While they were away on a trip, I cut pictures at random out of magazines, taped them to the wall by my bed, and then subjected our ancient, German babysitter—Mrs. Hugly—to a rambling, nonsensical story I’d made up based on the order in which the pictures appeared. “And, see, a plane saw an apple in a car and so a man rode a bicycle. And then, um, there was a dog. So people ate cereal.”
Mrs. Hugly sat on my brother’s bed and watched my performance, smiled throughout, and offered what I interpreted as rapt attention.
Mom and Don returned the next day. He appeared at the door of Greg’s and my bedroom, took one look at the taped-up pictures, and stripped his belt through the loops in one motion. “You’ll take the paint right off the walls!”
He grabbed me by the shoulder, twisted me around, and pushed me against the side of my bed. The pain from the belt was so horrific that it took my brain a few moments to fully register it before I started screaming. Don then started in on Greg, although he’d had nothing to do with my art project. Satisfied that he’d hit him enough times, Don turned back toward me. “Oh, you haven’t had enough?” he said, and again went at me with the belt.
Maybe the marriage dynamic suddenly changed while they were out of town, or maybe Mom gave him permission to handle our discipline. Maybe Don knew she was submissive enough to give him free rein in any regard whatsoever; I never once saw her stand up to him. Whatever the reason, the abrupt shift in the atmosphere at home caused my brother, who had always been sweet and engaging, from then on to spend his time holed up in our room.
Shortly after my first experience with the belt, Don sat in the living room listening to an album through headphones. The cord, which stretched a foot or so off the ground from his head to the stereo about ten feet away, looked like a good jump rope. I jumped back and forth over it a few times. Then, of course, I caught my toe and yanked the headphones off Don’s head. “Wait for me in your bedroom,” he said. When he came in, not a word was spoken. He pulled his belt out of his pant loops, turned me around, and went at my tiny target of a butt. The severity of the lashes always took my breath away, causing me to feel choked. But at the moment when it seemed impossible to bear anymore, he delivered two or three more strikes, then stopped. He seemed to have an uncanny sense of the point at which Greg or I had been sufficiently subdued.
* * *
For a while, it seemed Don ignored Greg, who avoided full detection by riding his bike, playing at the bayou, remaining silent at the dinner table, or staying in his room reading science fiction. Around the time Greg was in second grade, Don implemented the requirement that he bring a certain spiral notebook to school so his teachers could note any incidents of misbehavior. Don reviewed the comments when he came home from work at night. If the teachers reported nothing, Don placed a star on a poster-board calendar maintained in the upstairs office. If a teacher listed any infractions, such as speaking without raising his hand, or getting up to go to the bathroom without permission, Greg got the belt. He never told his teachers what happened as a result of their daily notations, and they were generous with their entries. Some even expressed what a joy it was to see a parent taking such an active role in their child’s education.
During Greg’s beatings, I hid on the floor between my bed and the wall, hoping to muffle the sound of Greg’s wails and the crack of the belt as it hit his skin. He then sat at the dinner table with swollen eyes and a puffy face. No one dared to pay this much mind.
* * *
Don didn’t want me to reach adolescence viewing alcohol as something to be experimented with behind his back, so he offered me tastes of the drinks he concocted at his home bar. What elementary school child could resist Crème de Cacao in ice cream, or something as fascinating as a minty green Grasshopper? Or the beautiful gold color and sweetness of the tall, ornate glass bottle of Galliano. Whenever he and Mom entertained, which was almost every weekend, he served alcohol to the guests and always allowed me a taste.
That same year, he enlisted my Aunt Louise to introduce me to cigarettes. Like the frequent offerings of alcohol, letting me try cigarettes was part of Don’s plan to remove the attraction to vices before my teen years hit. It would be 35 years before I stopped smoking for good.
* * *
One rule was absolutely inviolable in our home. We were to say, “Yes, sir” or “No, sir” to any question. I tried to get around this once by saying, “I think so” in response to a question he asked, but Don was on to me. As he saw it, a child either knew something or they didn’t. “I don’t know” or “I’m not sure” wasn’t going to fly. He saw the world in black or white, and this was especially true when dealing with my brother, for whom quality of life revolved around whether or not notations appeared in a spiral notebook. Greg lived in constant fear of inevitable punishment, endured horrific pain, and lived with ongoing emotional damage. He had only a few days a month, mostly on weekends, during which he could just be a little boy. And yet, Don never once took a belt to one of us with Mom as a witness, nor did he ever hit us in public. Whichever one of us had misbehaved spent the rest of the day knowing what awaited when we got home. Within minutes of arriving back at the house, he was ready with a belt. He never forgot. He never changed his mind. I assumed that however he treated me, it was probably how my friends’ fathers treated them. He said he loved me; therefore, his actions where I was concerned registered within me as justifiable. Neither Don nor Mom ever apologized or admitted to being at fault. I interpreted this to mean they never were. Appearances. Image. It meant the world to them.
The only certainties about Don were the contradictions. He stole towels and ashtrays from Holiday Inns but never outright cheated someone. He treated us to weekend fishing trips and unforgettable vacations but beat us with belts. He went to church but never mentioned God. I never saw him be cruel to an animal, nor did I ever see him help one. He asked for what he wanted and seemed to always get it, not only from us, but from strangers. In public he portrayed calm, confidence, and amiability. His stock answer to how he was doing, how business was going, or how life was treating him was always the same. “Faaaaaaaaaaantastic,” he’d say, his Texan accent making it a four-syllable word. “Couldn’t be better. No complaints at all.”
Our family drew admiration: a successful businessman, a beautiful and talented wife, a stylish and immaculate home in a desirable neighborhood. And look at those children, so happy and well-adjusted—not a single one in juvenile detention. And that little girl—the apple of her stepfather’s eye. Being Don’s favorite gave me a certain amount of protection. It also became a curse.
After he and Mom came home from an evening out, he took an Instamatic camera shot of me sleeping with my gigantic, hot pink, stuffed poodle at my side. My head was turned toward the camera, my mouth hung open, and my arms and legs were splayed out toward all corners of the bed. My nightgown had ridden up, exposing much of my underwear. Don presented the photo to me the next morning. My bedroom light was on when he’d taken the shot, and seeing this version of myself stirred a sense of violation I wasn’t able to name or verbalize.
One evening, he entered my room to tuck me in. As always, he bent over, kissed me on the mouth, and told me he loved me. But this time, instead of immediately turning around and leaving, he lowered himself on top of me, stretched his legs out between mine, and laid his head on my chest. I stared at the ceiling, unsure of what to do, and waited for him to leave. Then his hands were up under my nightgown, moving toward my chest. He took my nipples between his fingers and squeezed them. The sensation was new and disturbing. Irritating. My body went rigid. I didn’t pull away, not only because of his weight pressing me down, but because I couldn’t tell him to stop.
My nipples felt reduced to the size of pinheads, clamped between his short, stocky fingers. I looked toward the flickers of light and shadow that turned my turquoise and purple room into odd shades of gray and black. Someone was in the den, only a few steps away from my bedroom, watching television with the volume silenced. I hoped it was Mom. I didn’t take my eyes off the door, and willed her to please, please, please come help me.
Don and I lay there together, his head turned to the side and resting on my chest. Perhaps he, too, was watching the door. He wanted something from me that night; I could feel myself fulfilling a need I did not understand. He seemed sad and wanting, gentle and lost.
I don’t know how long he remained on top of me. He removed his hands from under my gown, got up, and walked out of the room. He didn’t have to warn or threaten me not to tell—I didn’t know how to tell. I couldn’t have explained why I didn’t call out for Mom. Or why I lay there and let his touching continue, even though my hands were free, resting on the pillow, on either side of my head. Who would possibly understand why I did not, could not, ask him to stop?
It’s uncertain if Don recognized the signs of pent-up, simmering anger. My newly disrespectful and hostile attitude at school landed me in the principal’s office more than once, and my report cards at the time showed failing grades, even in reading and spelling, two subjects I could have only failed with intention. One day at my friend Betsy’s house across the street, I sneaked into her parents’ bedroom and stole a ring from the top of the chest of drawers. Greg and a friend vandalized a construction site and caused over $100,000 of damage. If Don knew, he did nothing. This was not surprising, however, as it wasn’t the glaring infractions or outright crimes we may have committed that drove him to physical abuse. He majored in the minor, and the small annoyances in life drove him to distraction, especially in child-rearing. His children were to be obedient, and robotically so. The idea that he might seek our opinion was ludicrous. Feelings didn’t matter; doing what he told us to do mattered. Even if we toed the line to the best of our ability, there loomed the risk that we’d err accidentally. We were watchful and vigilant, and learned to tune in to the changing moods and energy around us. Our spirits were subdued and our voices were silenced by the belt.
* * *
I often developed tonsillitis, resulting in frequent appointments with our new doctor, Vincent, a tall, olive-skinned man with large, slightly bulbous gray eyes. He’d given me no cause to either like or dislike him – he was just my doctor. Don and Mom had become friends with him and his wife, and they often socialized and traveled together. Soon, I started going to the doctor much more than usual, and didn’t always know the reason until Mom declared it in the exam room. “What seems to be the problem?” Vincent asked.
“I want them tested for worms,” Mom said.
A few weeks later, Mom and I met him for lunch after one of my summer ballet lessons. Our family had a preference for where we sat at the cafeteria—up front and near a window—but Mom and Vincent chose the crowded area, far in the back. They sat across from me, chatting about this and that, and the angle of their arms told me they were holding hands under the table.
Mom was always home at night, unless she and Don were out with their friends or away on a trip. That night, however, her absence went unexplained. As I lay in bed, I heard Don rummaging around in the closet at the top of the stairs. There were only two things in that closet: air-conditioning equipment and luggage. “Daddy? What are you doing?” I called out.
“I’m leaving,” he said.
“Why are you leaving?”
He came downstairs and appeared as a dark shadow at my bedroom door. “You know who you had lunch with today?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said, my voice weak and whiny.
“That’s why I’m leaving.” He didn’t come in to say good-bye or give me a wet kiss on the mouth. I listened to his footsteps going back and forth above me in the master bedroom as he packed. He came downstairs again, then was gone.
Mom and I had been followed by a private detective. The marriage was over.
Vincent left his wife and four children to marry Mom. Once again, she’d married an angry, alpha male; my brother and I deeply resented him. After three years, my mother filed for divorce.
Sondra R. Brooks graduated from Interlochen Arts Academy as a ballet major, studied musical theatre at Carnegie Mellon University, and earned a Bachelor of Business Administration from University of Phoenix. She is a three-time award winner in the International Writers’ Digest Competition for her memoir/essays “Vincent,” “The Magic Tumor Theory,” and “Jimmy.” Brooks lives in a log cabin in the woods of North Carolina with three cats, eight rescue dogs, and her husband of 15 years. She enjoys cycling, beekeeping, forest farming, organic gardening, and caring for her botanical sanctuary. This essay is an excerpt from Brooks’ unpublished memoir, Spectacular Faults.