been such a good girl.
Good girl. Sit. Stay. Fetch.
Bristles rose up along my
spine. “Define good.”
I don’t appreciate your attitude,
Pattyn. Fast and pray. Search your
soul for the inequities in your life.
“Any inequity in my life
began when I was born
female. Can you fix that?”
You’ll have to fix that yourself,
by concentrating on the things
God expects of you.
His two-faced rhetoric
was pissing me off. “You
mean like kissing your ass?”
He slammed his hand on the table.
I will not listen to that sort
of language. Apologize!
Behind me, I heard Mom
gasp. But I was on a roll.
“I’m sorry, Bishop.
I’m sorry I ever believed
you might have something
worthwhile to say.”
Journal Entry, May 18
I kind of blew it. Again.
Told Bishop Crandall
to put his advice where
his toilet paper sticks.
Bad move. I knew it
when I said it, but oh well.
I just don’t care anymore.
About anything.
Mom actually cried
and sent me to my
room. I left the door
open so I could hear.
Bishop Crandall said
I should be punished.
Severely. “My children
get the belt,” he hinted.
I don’t know what kind
of bomb Mom and Dad
will drop, or when they’ll
drop it. But I do know
if Dad comes at me
with a belt,
I’m gone.
For good.
That is, if there’s
any of me left.
Dad Dropped the Bomb
Five days later.
Three bombs, actually.
Being so self-absorbed
for so many weeks,
I guess I never noticed
the too familiar signs.
Mom had been tired lately.
Throwing up a lot.
Your mother is pregnant.
Ultrasound says it’s a boy.
Boom! Boom! A baby.
And a son. Finally, a son.
Too much stress could
hurt your mother or Samuel.
They’d already picked a name?
Too much stress, meaning me?
We’ve decided to send you
away for the summer.
Ka-boom! Away? Where
could they send me?
You’ll be staying out on
your Aunt Jeanette’s ranch.
Aunt Jeanette? The sister he’d barely
spoken to in over thirty years?
No trouble out there but snakes
and empty mine shafts.
“I thought you couldn’t
stand Aunt Jeanette.”
She and I don’t see eye to
eye on every little thing….
Why then? Why exile me
to the wilds of eastern Nevada?
But your mother and I want you out
of here, and Jeanette was the only
one who would take you.
I Didn’t Want to Go
But they played the guilt card,
which gave me no choice. I did feel
guilty
about lying to get my way,
guilty
about almost giving my virginity away
to someone who didn’t deserve it,
guilty
about the things we’d done instead,
guiltier
about broken windows, broken noses.
And should I somehow make Mom
lose
her baby, I would forever
lose
every inch of self-respect,
lose
that I wasn’t born to be a
loser.
So I agreed to a road trip across Foreverland.
With my dad at the wheel.
East from Carson City
The road stretched long and longer toward
yesterday, sculpted in distant granite hills
and splintered ghost town boardwalks.
The Subaru’s tires whined along the asphalt,
a stray gray thread in the khaki weave—sage
and hardpan, cheatgrass and bitterbrush.
Mirage puddles emptied, one into the next,
and I wanted to dissolve, pour myself
on the pavement and ride along. Somewhere.
Anywhere but where I was going.
Across salt flats, we picked up speed, past
giant knolls of shifting sand and travel-trailer tenements,
where rusting semis cohabited with Silver Stream
wannabes and a couple of lone tepees.
I wanted Dad to slow down, so I might
catch a glimpse of what might live there,
where civilization ended
and my new life was about to begin.
Beneath a sag of barbed wire was a stiff
bluetick hound. A ratty black Lab mourned him,
from far enough to weather flies, but close
enough to chase away bone pickers,
flying lazy eights in the blue desert sky,
searching for the carcass du jour.
Did anyone miss those dogs?
Would anyone miss me?
So I Ventured
“Will you miss me, Dad?”
Now, you have to remember
that my dad and I hardly shared
fifty words in any given day.
I’d just used up one tenth of my allotment.
Miss you? I don’t even
know you, Pattyn.
His admission stung. Enough
to stick a big ol’ lump in my throat.
Enough to give me the courage
to ask, around the lump,
“Whose fault is that?”
His hands tensed on the wheel
and I could see the little veins
at his temples swell and pump faster.
Too much to think about?
Enough blame to go
around, I guess.
He wanted to let it drop.
I wasn’t about to give him his way.
He could blame me for many things.
But not for the closeness we’d lost.
So I Argued
“No way, Dad. I’m not taking
the blame here. Yes, I’ve done
some things lately I’m not exactly
proud of. But the distance between us?
Don’t you dare point your finger at me.
“You work, eat dinner, watch TV.
Sometimes you’ll play with the little
ones, but you never talk to me.
All I’ve ever wanted is your respect.
But you don’t even know I exist.”
There! A quality dialogue.
Only it was mostly a monologue.
Dad mulled it over. Nodded once
or twice at the conversation going on
inside his head. Then he said,
Respect is a two-way street.
Do you respect me?
My house?
My rules?
I loved Dad, despite everything,
wanted more than anything
for him to love me back.
I respected him once.
But what about now?
“How can I respect a house
where women are no more than
servants? How can I respect rules
laid down by a phantom father?
How can I respect a ma
n who…”
I didn’t dare say it, did I?
Who what?
“Who spends all day…”
Go ahead.
“Who h…”
Spit it out.
“Oh, never mind.”
End of conversation.
Halfway
Across the wide state of Nevada,
the country changed from sage flats
to piñon-and juniper-covered mountains.
Some two hundred north-south ranges
dissect this arid land, making Nevada
the most mountainous state in the Union.
One after one, they rose and fell,
and as I watched, the horizon
seemed to breathe. It was eerie.
And beautiful. A perfect backdrop
for silence.
We stopped for lunch in Ely (Ee-lee,
not Ee-lie—better pronounce
things right in eastern Nevada).
Ely isn’t a whole lot different
than in the cowboy days except
for fast food, faster cars, and espresso bars.
Dad had grown up on a ranch,
some fifteen miles south of town.
“Do you ever miss it?” I asked.
Around bites of Burger King,
he admitted, I miss the quiet.
I miss seeing from here to forever.
I miss how people mind their own
business, but still can be counted on.
That Was the Closest to Human
I’d seen Dad in a real long time.
A bolt of pain seared my heart.
Why couldn’t I know my dad
as this almost vulnerable man?
Was this the person Mom fell for?
We turned south out of Ely,
drove parallel to the most gorgeous
mountain range east of the Sierra.
I pictured Dad, as a boy, bouncing
along in a pickup on his way to school.
Grandma Jane had to drive him
into town. Grandpa Paul couldn’t
work a clutch with only one leg.
I remembered these stories from
that distant time when Dad still spoke.
He didn’t speak much on the two-hour
drive to Caliente. I wondered
if he was lost in some childhood
reverie, or had simply closed up
again, like an oyster around its pearl.
We Hit Caliente Around Four
As towns went, it wasn’t much—
a trailer park, a couple of motels,
a restaurant or two, a tavern,
and a hardware store, which carried
shoes and a few stitches of clothing.
Smallish houses sat in neat little rows,
defending a little park, two churches,
and the Mormon stake house—
the fanciest building in town.
On the outskirts was a roping arena.
Dad made me sit in the car
while he ran into a little market.
He bought flowers for Aunt Jeanette,
a soda for me and, I’m pretty
sure, a bottle of Johnnie WB.
As I waited, a Union Pacific roared
by. The tracks in Caliente are a major
thoroughfare for freight trains,
moving goods north to south
and, of course, back again.
The windows rattled till I thought
they just might shatter. I considered
catching a lapful of glass,
as a shiny blue pickup parked
in the adjoining space.
A guy climbed out, and he was to die
for. Who knew they made them
so killer cute, out there in the sticks?
He noticed me noticing him
and flashed a smile that could melt lead.
Furnace Lips strutted toward the store,
turned at the door, and gave me another
solid once-over. It was my first hint
that life out there in Nowhereville
might not be so bad after all.
Aunt Jeanette Lived
Several miles
out of town,
way back
up a wide ravine.
We paralleled the train
tracks past lush
pastureland,
verdant meadows,
shady ranches,
and the most
awesome rock
formations
I’d ever seen.
The farther
we drove,
the more
I fell in love
with rural Nevada’s
raw beauty.
No neon.
No walls.
No traffic.
No row after row
of identical cracker-box
houses.
This wasn’t punishment.
It was freedom.
I’m Not Sure Why
I knew that then.
Call it
intuition.
Whatever it was,
my mind
swayed
from fear and
uncertainty;
my heart
veered from hurt
and bitterness
toward
the unlikely idea
that, away from
home, my
future
might
blossom with
hope.
Aunt Jeanette’s Ranch
Was 160 water-fed acres—lush, untamed.
We pulled into her cottonwood-shaded
driveway. A mule brayed and two tricolored
dogs came to greet us, tail stumps wagging.
Next came a parade of cats, all colors,
all sizes. Strangers demanded investigation.
Even the geese had to check us out.
A nasty gander approached, hissing.
Aunt Jeanette appeared suddenly.
You scat on outta here, Grady Goose!
The gander scrambled out of sight,
protesting loudly the entire way.
Aunt Jeanette gave me a once-over.
Damn, girl, you have grown.
We’d last seen each other six
Christmases ago, at Grandpa Paul’s.
It’s about time you came for a visit.
This ol’ place can get pretty lonely.
No doubt, with no company but animals.
“How have you been, Aunt Jeanette?”
Call me Aunt J. Keep saying “Aunt
Jeanette,” we’ll be here all day.
I smiled. “Okay, then, Aunt J.”
Dad grunted something like hello.
Welcome, Stephen. Let’s all go inside.
Supper will be ready ’fore you know it.
I really can’t stay, Dad tried
to say. Janice is expecting me.
Too late to start back now. Call your wife,
tell her you’ll be home tomorrow.
A woman who took no crap from Dad?
She and I would get along just fine.
We Followed Her Inside
Dad carried my single suitcase,
stuffed to the brim with homemade clothes.
I carried my backpack, stuffed to the brim
with begged and borrowed books.
Aunt J kept a clipped, measured
pace. I watched the hitch of her narrow
hips, the swish of her single, long braid,
bronze shot through with silver.
In her day, she must have been very
beautiful. She had married once,
but I’d never heard details, only
that her husband, Stan, had died.
The outside of the long, low house
wore a fresh coat of white, with a pale
blue colonnade and shutters to add
a bit of c
olor to the tidy porch.
Inside, simple antique furniture graced
polished hardwood floors. Wreaths and quilts
and afghans brightened every room.
I saw no photographs at all.
One wall of the living room housed
a gun cabinet, filled with deadly treasures.
Aunt Jeanette was a cross between
Annie Oakley and Martha Stewart!
At Dinner
Dad was outnumbered
gender-wise, and
hurting
for a snort. It was easy
to see Aunt J made him
uncomfortable
but I had no clear idea why.
I only knew some past
upset
had kept them from speaking
for a good long while.
Insane,
I thought, not talking to your
sibling for decades. So,
crazy
me, I asked, “Are you two
still mad at each other?”
Incensed,
Dad answered, Who said we
were mad at each other?
Incredulous,
Aunt J contradicted,
Best let water passed
under the bridge keep
on trickling downstream.
Journal Entry, May 27
I’m supposed to be asleep, but
Dad and Aunt J are talking,
and I’m eavesdropping bigtime.
Dad’s slurring, so he
must have stepped outside
for a good ol’ dose of Johnnie.
Wonder what Aunt J thinks