across our street.
I acquired more satisfyingly independent work to gain from time to time at the Card
residence. Every several weeks, I scraped out the fetid stench of wood shavings containing
the droppings of the turkeys at the Card’s turkey farm. I also plucked turkey feathers for
them just before the Thanksgiving harvest. No complaints about that from me. Yes, that was
tough labor, but the money it brought in to me was well worth it. The good working-class
people from across the street, namely Mr. and Mrs. Card hired me. I always refused their
compensation for work I enjoyed –no matter what the task was. Nevertheless, they
consistently refused my repudiation of remuneration. Of course, the Gamaches took my
earnings for “safekeeping,” buying me a new item of clothing from time to time from that
cash. I never dared ask what my savings remained in that inventory. I had no cause to distrust
them. As for the kinder, gentler Cards across the street, I happily worked for them any time—
money notwithstanding. Every dollar I earned went into the Gamache bedroom coffers—
never to be seen again. I was too ignorant and trusting to pocket the money I earned.
I also painted the Card house and their barn. Not only was I handsomely paid, Mrs.
Card frequently interrupted my work detail in order to prepare banana splits for me, ice cream
sundaes, and may varieties of her legendary pastries. An inopportune circumstance presented
itself as I was foolishly transporting a long extension ladder containing a full gallon of white
oil-based paint on its top rung. The bucket escaped its hook and descended pell-mell over my
head. Yikes! What was I, a bumbling laborer, to do? If I were to return across street to the Gamaches to report this ignominy, I knew that I would become as dead as a regenerative sea
star. I was terrified at that prospect. Moments later, a characteristically jovial Mrs. Card
approached me as she uttered her favorite phrase, “Heavens to Betsy!” In a tone of
affectionate assurance, she beckoned me to come into her kitchen, “Let’s get you cleaned up.
We can’t let Babe [Gamache] see this. No way.” With her at my side came a gentle head
dunking in the sink with a cup of turpentine. Repeated massaging of Lestoil in my scalp and
neck followed that maneuver. Finally, I came clean. What next? A root beer float, of
course. Mr. Card next presented me with a new bucket of paint as I more cautiously and
vigilantly carried on with my post above the tall ladder. Despite my sincere insistence of
performing pro bono work, I remained generously paid. This incident was to be our covert
operation, one that the Gamaches would never know, but one that I would be razzed about for
many years of reflective laughter in the Card family. Mrs. Card was my very best ally.
Sometimes, Mr. Card, too.
Mrs. Card treated me generously at Christmas, where she took me to the department
stores of Lewiston to choose any clothes I wanted. Knowing that the Cards were a family of
limited disposable income, I sought to rebuff their generous overtures as well the money that
she and her husband were so openhandedly paying for the tasks I carried out at their request;
they insisted that I accept it. Whether it was for work or to socialize, I found that visiting the
Cards’ home to be my getaway, my Utopia. Save for my late Mom, Mrs. Card was the
surrogate mother anyone would have loved to have—a spartan existence and an eminent
yeoman whose heart no platonic valentine could ever emulate. Two years after my mothers’ death I was remarkably fortunate that this angel from heaven was to become my surrogate
mother. No one could raise my spirits higher than she.
During the summer of 1961, I met my best friend, Bob Lavertu, second only to Peter
Plowman, my convent buddy from St. Louis Home. two years earlier. Bob was nephew to the
Gamaches, whose parents traveled from Connecticut to Maine to vacation there every
summer. Nearly the same age, Bob and I hanged out together at the Gamache homestead as
his parents went elsewhere. Enjoying each others’ company, we went fishing at a fishless
brook, chatting about for hours—ignoring the need to include Danny Gamache in our
camaraderie. Our lapse in accommodating him was, on hindsight, reprehensible.
became a high school freshman. Evident was a appreciable increase in their drinking,
household disarray, and a raised level of annoyance not previously exposed. For my part, I
chose to mind my business and go about my routine without question. That is what I did. The
kennel had grown to accommodate more than sixty German Shepherds—puppies and other
dogs maintained for breeding. Witnessing the birth of pups a couple of times a year was
uniquely special; just their trusting mother, her pups, and me. The kennel business had
expanded to include the boarding of cats and dogs of customers.
The Lisbon kennel evolved to become 100% my responsibility—feeding, cleaning,
and exercising the Shepherds as well as its other canine and feline boarders. That also meant
keeping the barn’s kerosene stove functional during the winter with heat sufficient to keep the
water pipes from freezing. My chores also called for maintaining rat traps, where we killed up to three rats a day. These long-tailed vermin feasted on the animal grains and the feces they
accumulated. During winter, we maintained warmer spaces for the puppies in the house
basement—another haven for the plump and hoary rodents we could hear from our living
space above. Despite the distant and useless company of our occasional parasitic visitors, I
cherished my private time in the basement with the puppies. Whenever I tired of the animus
of Aunt Fern and Uncle Babe from the kitchen or living room overhead, I became spiritually
affianced in the harmony of hums among the weeks-old puppies in their cages. I regularly
crawled in the cage with their mother as I dozed off to their soothing chant. The mother
welcomed me against her warm shoulder as her faithful guest, given our bizarre and “cagey”
arrangement. My existence, however escapist, appeared quixotically healthy in the dog pen.
Balancing my high school studies with work at the Gamaches was sometimes taxing,
though almost always manageable. As long as there was little or no recreation no after-school
stuff, I could manage my responsibilities for the dogs as well as maintenance of the
Gamaches’ two buildings and several acres of fields, apple trees, and maples This meant
many full weekends dedicated to hours and hours of solo leaf-raking. Care in landscaping the
property was mine as was painting the main house, the barn, including the interior of both
(Yes, I painted the barn’s interior, too.). Aunt Fern assigned to me the task of washing all the
windows of the homestead each month and washing the floors throughout the seven-room
house . Each Saturday, she assigned me to dusting those rooms, including the individual slats
of the Venetian blinds among each of their fourteen windows. Washing the dishes for each
meal was my chore as was hanging out the laundry and tending to the ironing of the clothes of our four-member household. At day’s end, Uncle Babe instructed me to me drive
his station wagon backwards into the barn. Mind you, I had not yet learned how to drive a
car. He only taught me how to place t
he car in Drive mode or Reverse mode for the purpose
of getting it into the barn each night. That minor routine was a pleasant duty to end an
otherwise protracted day with this atypical family unit.
Whenever I was seen by myself reading or otherwise left to my own devices, Aunt
Fern instructed me to drop whatever I was doing in order to accompany Danny on the swing
set or the hanging tire that he briskly enjoyed After supper, I managed my homework and the
Gamaches permitted me about an hour of TV time each day What a treat it was to watch The
BeverlyHillbilliesand Bonanza.shows! Danny, however, did not watch television. He
would prefer that I entertain him outdoors, however dull that was for me each day, given that I
was an advancing adolescent versus this pre-adolescent who was developmentally and
intellectually comparable to a six-year old.
The Gamaches reminded me of the fine role model I was for Danny when he and I
were back at the convent. I understood that to be why they were prepared to take
responsibility for my care. Some may tritely insist that nothing is free in this world. Yet, I
felt somewhat free, limited only in that I was bound in servitude to my owners: the Gamaches.
Except during my first year with them, they rarely gave me money—no allowance, no pocket
change. My contribution to their care of me was, as I was frequently reminded, miniscule in
comparison to what I was costing them to have me with them. I never did the math. They
also reminded me that what I was doing for them was my duty as an honorable Catholic, reared by the dubiously good nuns at St. Louis Home. Besides the Gamaches took me in, rags
enhanced by my nothings, from the sidewalks of Lewiston. Surely, I ought to have been more
grateful. Indeed, I never openly questioned them, though their sanctimonious sentiments
eluded me—especially on Sundays, as I walked alone to and from St. Anne’s Catholic Church
to attend Mass as they all slept in.
Uncle Babe often stopped at the local bar before coming home to dinner. That was his
little secret. Aunt Fern, meanwhile, sipped a bit of whiskey while she was awaiting his arrival
for dinner. That was her little secret. My duty was to keep Danny company while these pesky
events were going on. Later, after dinner, he returned to the beer joint to guzzle two or three
or four beers after a couple of brews at home; that left Aunt Fern and me alone with Danny.
The two of us were the sole sober creatures in the house, plus the two dogs.
I knew when Aunt Fern’s whiskey had taken full effect once she reminded me
repeatedly of how lucky I was to be living with them. Her endless chant was that the
Gamache family was my only hope ever to become an respectable adult one day. They
repeatedly reminded me that my parents failed to own up to their responsibilities as parents of
us eight offspring. Aunt Fern also expressed confidence that, sans Mary Ann, my sisters
Flora and Florence and Connie would become honorable contributors to society—thanks to
their convent upbringing. They dubbed our oldest sister ,Mary Ann, a hopeless sailor-chasing
harlot. They judged brothers Bobby and Junior as shameful because each sported a tattoo, and
that Bobby stole a b-b gun from Gamache’s store. Surely, I would not want to descend to a
the sort of righteous lifestyle of the sort that the Gamaches thought I had left behind. Yet, I knew better than to think of Uncle Babe as a model parent. or as caregiver. A drunken Aunt
Fern commanded me to utter to her husband the following: “ Disezà Babequetului
apprecié.”[“Tell Babe how much you appreciate him.”] I respectfully remained silent.
One could surmise that I was Uncle Babe’s evening caregiver. The evidence would
suggest that to be true. After completing my evening homework, Aunt frequently asked me to
take a walk to the local tavern in order to retrieve Uncle Babe—to have him return home
immediately, saying , “ Disezàluiderétournericitoutesuite.”[“Tell him to return home
right now.”]. After realizing that I was an ineffective courier in instantaneously rescuing her
Budweiser-bruised husband, Aunt Fern scolded me as useless. I really hated to serve as
messenger; there was nothing to gain by obeying her command. Besides, I knew that a return
home from the bar meant that awaiting him would be his whiskey-wasted wife. What’s a kid
to do? As always, I sauntered in to the pub as Uncle Babe bought me a Coke on tap along
with a bag of potato chips. Not a bad deal. To my contentment, he and the bartender
exchanged favorable comments about my character. Mind you, Babe was drunk; I did not
believe his kind words about me to be genuine. When we returned home from the pub, Aunt
Fern had long given up waiting for us as she went to bed. Not once did she ever interrogate
me about my misguided visits to Uncle Babe’s watering hole. After a time, my intervention
on her behalf ended only to be eventually replaced with a witness to his infidelity. Alas,
Uncle Babe had a lady friend. What was I to do next?
Aunt Fern’s fury over Uncle Babe’s betrayal of his marital vows added to their
customary dysfunctionality that I had come to know well. Their mood swings grew worse as I entered my sophomore year. In addition, it was becoming increasingly evident to me that I
was unwelcome in their home. I also understood that I had nowhere else to go, though I
faithfully executed the chores I had been given. My assigned work schedule remained intense
at probably five hours each day after school and perhaps seven hours on the weekends. No
friends to visit; no calls to make friends. As far as I was concerned, I was living in captivity.
Once again, my quixotic alternative was to either bide time with the Cards across the street or
to curl up with our caged dogs of Lisbon Kennels, or if only I could just live forever at school.
I was, for the most part, contented with those escape venues.
My fifth year with the Gamaches was also the time when my brother Bobby and sister
Connie, finally confronted my father about his unrelenting irresponsibility to their care. While
I was miserable as a domestic to the Gamache ingrates, they did provide me with three squares
a day as I did for the dogs, too, at two squares a day. Dad was determined to discontinue
supporting them. Bobby and Connie, by contrast, went frequently hungry, though they had no
chores or other responsibilities to manage other than their schooling. There was no parental
supervision at home. When they ultimately confronted Dad about the empty refrigerator and
cabinets, he told them to go to work to provide their own food. Connie and Bob felt that they
had no alternative other than to take their father to court. When the judge asked Dad what he
expected of his children, given their ages as minors, he lectured the judge about his free
loading children—just enough to anger the judge in forcing Dad to allocate dollars from his
wages to each of his children under age eighteen. For me, that meant three dollars each month
for my use in any way I wished. Of course, the Gamaches placed my newfound resources in their “good hands,” not too differently from Soeur Boulé’s style of managing my account.
Like most people, I have long cherished caring, positive human relationships. To that
end, I sincerely labored at home and at school to please the Gamaches during my first two
years at high school. However delusional my intentions, I th
ought I could make them proud.
I did not enjoy the loneliness that life among the Gamaches had foisted on me. There were
others I needed to enlist as friends. There were two: each quite different. One was my high
school soul mate, Al, with whom I shared the sordid details of my past as well as my pathetic
status as a charity case. I knew that he was fascinated by the events in my history. Until this
time, I discussed my past with no one else other than to Peter, my childhood friend at St Louis
Home. Al was very much middle class, bright, and personable, though, like me, he had few
friends. I also befriended one Robert Roy, a loner with a serious spinal condition, causing him
to remain hunchbacked. We both shared our disadvantaged status as wards of the state,
though Robert’s life at a state-approved private residence seemed so far better than mine. I
also flirted a bit with a few girls, but the Gamaches placed limits on my socializing after
school, permitting me to attend very few weekend functions at school where guys and gals
would party under the close auspices of school personnel. No matter, Danny, the dogs, and
doing the domestics were always the top priority.
deliverance
As a state ward under the care of “Uncle” Babe and “Aunt” Fern, I was well aware that
they pocketed the state’s money for my food and shelter> I was well aware of their
unscrupulous squeazing any of my small change, arguing that my income from Mrs. Card or
from the print shop was theirs. Babe was remarkably well skilled in exploiting my talents as a
defenseless teenage laborer. My aptitude as an aspiring handyman served Babe and Fern well.
I provided them with free labor such as painting interior and exterior floors, ceilings,
makeshift carpentry, landscaping, and kennel care. Since, I was also capable of managing
domestic chores, Fern directed me to oversee all aspects of their homestead. Unpaid
drudgery involved tending to gardening, laundering, ironing, house-cleaning, dishwashing,
short order cooking, childcare. and factotum plus. My eventual covert mission was to do the
Gamaches proud, to maintain an intrepid smile when they boasted to their friends (however
trifling) and relatives of my happy enslavemet unto them. The time had come. I was poised