Jennifer Kerr
Author's Web Site
Excerpts
Middle Class Trash
I grew up in a culturally diverse, middle-class neighborhood in the mid-Hudson River Valley. The Winkelholtz family was German, the Culpeppers were black, Monteras were Italian, the Maldonados were Puerto Rican and we rounded it all out by being white trash. While the neighbor’s lawns sported neatly clipped hedges and politically incorrect lawn jockeys, our lawn ornaments were an upside-down VW Bug, a twenty-foot motor boat and a bona fide, card-carrying junkyard dog.
Mom grew up as a preacher’s daughter in a small town. After giving birth alone in a maternity home at 17, and being forced to surrender her baby for adoption, she was swiftly married off to the first man who would have her. But, as a descendent of John Adams, Mom always believed that she was destined for greater things.
Dad was called home from the Air Force to marry Mom and it was a decision he clearly regretted. He would sit up late at night, vodka in hand, listening to the US Air Force Marching Band at full volume and fantasizing about the life he could have had.
Jeff was the oldest of five children and the only boy. Dad was so fearful that Jeff would “turn out gay” that he enrolled him in every aggressively macho, male bonding, weapon-toting club in town. Jeff is the redneck in the family and is, at last report, living the communal life in a survivalist encampment in Upstate New York.
Deborah was the oldest of four girls and the only mother I have ever known. It was she who dressed me for school, made sure I had enough to eat and protected me from the rest of the family. When I was eleven, she changed her name and moved to Dallas. Twenty years later, I discovered that the move was part of her failed attempt to kidnap me and hide me in Mexico.
Lori, the cursed middle child, fell from a shopping cart when she was two years old and suffered a severe concussion. We all agree that it is a plausible explanation for her bizarre behavior. Lori moved to the back woods of North Carolina and now lives in a trailer with more than 30 cats and dogs, and talks to the fairies that visit during the full moon.
In an effort to wring order from chaos, Cathy assumed the role of The Perfect One. She was Daddy’s Pawn – I mean, Daddy’s Girl – as I was my mother’s. In the strategic game of chess my parents played with our lives, Cathy and I always ended up at checkmate.
Then, of course, there was me. The youngest of five, I was unplanned, unwanted and unwelcome. Hearing at age forty that I was conceived by my mother in a desperate attempt to tie Daddy to their doomed marriage was no less painful than when I first heard those words at age eight. I suppose I should be grateful that he “stayed and did his duty” but I have always been a truly ungrateful child – or so I am told.
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To Each His Own
One of my earliest memories is of Mom’s first nervous breakdown. I sat at the top of the stairs, feet dangling through the rail while Mom paced below, ranting and crying and screaming. She looked at me with that wild look in her eyes that I would later come to recognize as panic, and begged me not to come downstairs. Later that evening, she returned from the doctor, subdued and peaceful, with a bottle of pills in her hand. I soon discovered that the rare moments of peace she found came from the little brown bottles of pills she hoarded.
In our neighborhood, no one locked their front doors at night. All the locked doors were inside our home. Trying to unlock a bedroom door and steal whatever lay hidden within became a game we all learned to play well. There was a certain thrill in discovering a new way of getting into someone else’s space – or to keep them out of mine.
The only place I was welcome was in Debbie’s room. When I had a nightmare, she took me to her bed and rocked me back to sleep. When war broke out between my parents, she took me to her room and let me play dress-up until the storm passed. When a new school year started and I had no clothes to wear, Debbie laid out patterns and fabric, creating a new outfit for me so I wouldn’t be embarrassed on the first day of school.
The house was unfit for children. Dishes crusted with rancid food lay piled in the sink, under furniture and on the floors, unwashed for weeks. The “laundry room” was not a place where we washed dirty clothes; it was where we stored them. The mountain of filthy clothing sat, untouched, until someone became desperate enough to wash one or two items. Outside, we fared no better. The yard was a minefield of dog feces, and since Dad had decided it was simply too much effort to mow, more than half the grass grew chest high, and was choked with weeds.
Mom spent most of her days in bed or sleeping on the couch, rousing just long enough to swallow a few more pills or drink a beer. If she happened to notice that her children needed to be fed, Mom would stumble to the kitchen to boil hot dogs or cook a pot of spaghetti.
We children did the best we could to fend for ourselves. If we wanted to wear clean clothes, we washed them; if we were hungry, we scrounged for food and cooked our own meals. “To each his own” took on a whole new meaning in our house. It was survival of the fittest.
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Forbidden Fruit
At age five, I discovered the pornographic magazines my father “accidentally” left lying around. The pictures of bare-breasted women on skis wearing nothing but cashmere mittens are indelibly etched in my mind. Over corn flakes one morning, Dad asked if I had seen them, and if I liked looking at them.
“They must be awfully cold,” I responded. Why on Earth, I wondered out loud, would anyone want to stand naked in the snow?
“Women like doing that sort of thing,” he said, “and when you grow up, you’ll like it too.”
When I was a young child my mother warned me that men were susceptible to a particular physical ailment that caused them great pain and suffering.
“It’s called a hard-on,” she instructed me, “and it happens when a woman is too aggressive or if she acts like she wants to have sex with him. He can’t help it; it’s just a natural, physical urge.”
I should always be vigilant, she warned, not to do or say anything that might turn a man on or there would be grave consequences.
“If a man gets a hard on and he doesn’t find relief, it can be excruciatingly painful for him. His balls my swell and turn blue and he might even suffer permanent damage.”
If I ever did anything that caused a man to have a hard-on, she continued, I must do something to relieve his pain, lest he be disabled for life.
The first time I remember feeling that fuzzy, uncertain fear in the pit of my stomach was while playing with a friend up the street. Though I have no clear recollection of what my friend’s father did to cause the discomfort, I knew I was not supposed to feel that way. Above all, I remember feeling guilty and ashamed of what I had done to him.
Every Sunday after church, when the family fell in for muster, I would wonder to myself if anyone knew my dark little secret. I had learned about the God of the pulpit from Grandpa but I learned about the God of lust from the men who paraded through my life, taking just a small taste of the forbidden fruit only a child could offer.
Grandpa said that only good girls went to Heaven, and I very badly wanted to go to Heaven, so I said nothing.
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Keeping Secrets
We would vacation every summer, just like regular folk. It was, in fact, the only time that we were a real family. A six bedroom house wasn’t big enough to keep peace among the warring factions, but stuff us into a 10’ x 8’ boat cabin and we got along famously. Perhaps it was the knowledge that one could just disappear and the Coast Guard would find no trace of one’s body that kept us on our best behavior. Perhaps it was the hush and lull of the water slapping rhythmically against the wooden hull that soothed us, but we were truly happy then. For a few weeks each year, we were a family of adventurers drawn together with a singleness of purpose.
All along the great Hudson River, from New York City to Montreal, there are a slew of nameless, faceless men whose fingers danced and toyed in places I had not yet learned to name. One year, it was the man at the bait shop on Lake Champlain and another at the pool in Mechanicsville. If I told, I knew the family would be upset with me for spoiling everything, so I said nothing.
When we weren’t boating on the Hudson, we were camping at Lake Sacandaga; the summer of my eleventh birthday was the last time we vacationed together. Jeff had gotten a job and an apartment. Debbie had changed her name to Danielle, and had finally coerced Daddy into paying for a stint at Miami International Fine Arts College. Dad said a woman didn’t need an education; she was supposed to cook and clean and take care of her husband’s “needs.” It was good enough for Mom, he said, and she was a high school dropout. Lori and Cathy spent most of their time together and I was left to wander alone.
One night near dusk, Dad told me to walk down to the beach and bring Lori back to camp. He had already drunk more than a few beers and Mom was well into her evening buzz. I remember skipping down the road to the beach, stopping now and then to collect the discarded pop-tops that I would trade for penny candy at the camp store. Except for a few of my sister’s friends sitting on an outcropping of rock, the beach was deserted.
“Do you know where Lori is?” I asked the five boys.
“She’s up at Dave’s, getting fucked,” one of them replied and the others laughed.
“Have you ever been fucked?” another asked, standing and walking toward me.
I turned to run but was grabbed from behind. Someone pulled my feet from under me, and for a moment I was suspended upside down by one leg, my hands clawing at the sand. I began screaming and a hand closed over my mouth and nose, suffocating me. I was pushed to the ground, and someone grabbed my arms, pulling them over my head. I was dragged on my stomach to a place behind the rocks; the sand scratched my belly and clogged my eyes and mouth, choking me. I felt someone pulling at my pants and I tried to kick the hands away, but there were too many. I was screaming again when I was flipped onto my back and someone knelt on my chest; the hand returned to cover my mouth. My pants were pulled down, binding my ankles, and my knees were forced apart.
I wasn’t expecting the searing, tearing pain when the first boy thrust his way in. The burning rush was so excruciating, I could not breathe. Wave after wave of nausea overtook me and I began to shake uncontrollably.
“Hold her! Hold her!” the one between my legs ordered and my knees were pulled wider.
I stopped fighting when I realized that, by lying very still and concentrating on just trying to get air to breathe, the pain was easier to handle. By the time the second boy crawled between my legs, I was lying very still, quietly sobbing.
Afterward, I stumbled back along the road in the dark, knowing that I would be in trouble for breaking curfew. I was welcome to run free all day but I was supposed to return to camp before dark.
“What took you so long?” Daddy demanded, “Where is Lori?”
I tried to stop crying, tried to speak. There were boys on the beach, I said, they held me upside down and . . .
Daddy cut me off. Couldn’t I do even one thing he asked me to do? Now he had to go find Lori himself and, boy, when he did…..
Grabbing a flashlight, he stormed from the camp while Mom sat quietly, sipping her beer, the little brown bottle of pills near at hand. I ran to the outhouse in the woods and locked myself inside. Curling up in a corner of the wooden seat, I sat in the dark and cried alone. I had lost all of the pop-tops I had gathered. There would be no candy for me.
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Liquid Magic
After that summer, the only vacations Mom and Dad took were trips to Craig House, the nineteenth-century mansion turned posh psychiatric hospital in Beacon, New York. Craig House was considered The Place to be for overworked IBM executives, major celebrities and doddering Vassar girls well past their prime but still qualified for the social register. I enjoyed visiting and thought it really wasn’t a bad place; private cottages, uniformed wait staff, stretch sedans and chauffeurs to take you wherever you wanted to go. Not a bad gig, I thought, if you could get it.
In 1977, my parents finally came to their senses and ended the twenty-two year rivalry they called a marriage. My mother, as if emerging from a long sleep, found a renewed interest the opposite sex. She started reading such classics as “The Sensuous Woman” and “The Joy of Sex” and began dating again; men I was instructed to call “Uncle” John and “Uncle” Scott.
Though I was expecting it, I was still caught off guard the night “Uncle” Jim corralled me at the top of the stairs and slipped his tongue into my mouth – and his hand into my pants. When told of her latest beau’s indiscretions with her twelve-year-old daughter, my mother just laughed. I was making it up, she said. Jim would never do something like that. My first remembrance of taking “the long mental walk to nowhere” was the night Jim first visited my bed.
Following a rousing physical confrontation with Mom in which she vehemently insisted that I stop lying about Jim, I was “asked” to leave the house. I moved with Dad to a one-bedroom apartment above the Box Seat Pub, and it was there that I found the magic liquid bullet that Dad kept hidden in the coat closet. Soon, I was sneaking drinks at the bar, and when the boy across the hall introduced me to pot, a whole new world opened to me. It didn’t stop the pain, but it sure made it easier to pretend I didn’t care.
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On Having A Baby At 15
In the fall of 1980, when my belly was swollen and ripe with the baby I had already named Heather, Grandma and Grandpa came for a visit. Grandpa had had yet another minor stoke and Grandma had decided that he was dying. (If grandma said he was dying, it must be true. After all, when Grandma made up her mind about something, everyone fell into line.) They were making the rounds, putting his affairs in order, and saying whatever she thought needed to be said before he left this world.
Unbeknownst to anyone, I had written to Grandpa several weeks before. I had asked that he baptize my baby, but I expected that he would refuse to christen an illegitimate child.
Mom and Grandma set about, as usual, to discuss among themselves what I should do with my life - and my baby. Grandma had already decided that I would give birth and then give the baby up for adoption. It was the same decision she had made for my own mother decades before.
While Mom and Grandma argued, Grandpa turned to me, took my hand and quietly asked, “Will you walk down to the stream with me? I’d like to see that big old trout I’ve heard so much about.”
Silently, hand in hand, we walked to the creek and stood on the soft sand at the waters edge.
“There he is!” he said, pointing to where the overgrown fish rested among a clump of grass.
Then, with one smooth motion, he wrapped the same arm around my shoulders and pulled me into his embrace in an uncharacteristic show of affection. I stood silently, waiting.
“Do you want this baby?” he asked, never turning his eyes from the water.
I nodded, unable to form the words, afraid of the tears that threatened to fall.
Silence.
Then, “I’m not going anywhere until I baptize her.”
When I began to cry, he hugged me tighter.
We returned to the house where Grandma and Mom were still in the throes of their heated discussion. Grandpa waited for a pause in the conversation and quietly interjected, “I’m going to baptize the baby.”
Grandma turned on him with stunned disapproval. “What? Oh, Howard, you don’t mean it. You can’t!” she said.
“Yes, I do mean it. And, yes, I can,” Grandpa replied. “She wants to keep the baby and I’m going to baptize her. Now, what’s for lunch?”
He turned and walked from the room.
In the midst of the silence, it was understood - Grandpa had had the last word. I would be allowed to keep my baby.
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Love Hurts
There was something about mothering a child that made me stronger, bolder. I began to feel like I was more in control of my life – and my body. I began to understand that there was power in sex; she who had one could get the other, and I learned how to use them both. It became easier to “date” – running from one “boyfriend” to the next, seducing anyone in my path. There were the twin brothers of a Cincinnati Bengals’ football player, an evangelist’s son, and a Spanish teacher with a penchant for risky scenarios. But I was never able to quench the true longing in my soul. No matter how hard I tried, I could not make sex equal the rare and fleeting glimpse of love I had once had – and lost.
When Heather was six months old, I “dated” David, a 19-year-old virgin who was faithful to his church, devoted to his unbroken family and horny as Hell. Every Sunday I would dress up and let David’s mother drag me to church where all the good ladies of the Methodist Women’s Club would try to scrub my dirty soul and create in me a clean heart. Then David and I would race back to his house and scamper up to his room, where we would screw like bunnies until his mother came home for lunch.
Most of my relationship with David was based on the fact that he was legally able to purchase alcohol. One night, in search of the ultimate high, we found ourselves at the home of a friend of a friend who, it was mistakenly reported, had a rather large stash of cocaine. Though the cocaine never materialized, when the homeowner’s brothers appeared with some rather potent marijuana, an impromptu party of sorts broke out. Before the evening was over I was informed that I was no longer “David’s Girl” but was, instead, the property of one Paul Ricco, a 24-year-old ex-con with a taste for violence. It really made no difference to me. “One bed,” I thought, “is as good as another.” I was wrong. I was very wrong.
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Hello, Goodbye
When my son was born on July 8, 1982, I refused to look at him. I had made the heart-wrenching decision to place my baby for adoption, and though I loved and desperately wanted him, keeping him meant living with danger on a daily basis. Paulie had meant what he said; if he found us, he would kill us.
I knew that, if I looked at my baby, I would never be able to let him go; but the nurses at St. Peter’s Hospital knew better than anyone what happens when young mothers are separated from their babies too soon.
"Jen, this baby needs you," they said. "He doesn't have anyone else in this world."
The nurses refused to move me out of the delivery room until I looked at him, but how could I look at him, then walk away?
"You need to say goodbye."
Finally, I relented, stealing nothing more than a glance at the small bundle they presented to me.
I was moved to the recovery room where the nurse drew the curtain around the bed and handed me the call bell. I tried to sleep, but the sounds of a baby fussing on the other side of the curtain kept me awake. When the fussing baby began to cry, I pressed the button for the nurse.
"There's a baby in here, crying," I called out to no one in particular.
A tinny voice replied over the intercom, "I'm busy right now. I'll be there in a few minutes."
Moments that seemed like hours passed. The baby's cries became louder and more insistent. I couldn’t see who was in the other bed but I sure wished they'd get up and do something about that baby. I pressed the button again.
"Someone really needs to come take care of this baby."
The tin voice replied again, "Jen, honey, that's your baby. Go ahead and pick him up.”
I don't know if it was the sound of the baby crying or the knowledge that it was my baby crying that made my breasts tingle with longing; but, having nursed Heather, I recognized the sensation in my nipples just before the milk let down. This baby was hungry and my body wanted to nurse him. When I could stand no more, I crawled from the bed and pulled back the curtain. There, in the little plastic bassinette, was my soft, round, beautiful baby. My son. My warrior. My Jason.
An hour later, the nurse found me sleeping peacefully, with Jason tucked beneath my chin. In an effort to quiet his cries, I had nursed him until, sated, he drifted off to sleep with my breast between his lips.
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Little Pink Houses
Shortly after Frank and Tabby left, Damian and I decided to make our relationship permanent. We moved to a pink house just across the river in Highland where we had three acres with a pond, and the girls had plenty of room to run and play. I spent my days sewing curtains, baking cookies and watching soap operas. After the girls went to bed, we’d crack a six pack of beer and smoke a joint or two. Then we’d sneak into the bedroom, close the door, and fall in love with each other, over and over again.
Damian took a union job as a laborer and his first paycheck included a large signing bonus. We paid the rent, bought a stereo, and an eight ball of cocaine. It was the last time we paid the rent, and we soon sold the stereo to buy groceries.
Having sworn that no man would ever raise a hand to me again, I thought I was strong enough to walk away when the relationship became abusive. More and more often, if finances or circumstances forced him to remain straight, the gentle giant I fell love with turned mean; when he was stoned, he was even meaner. Finally, with the help of several New York State troopers, I made a break.
It was deja vu when the officer said to me, "Ma'am, take only what you need for a few days. You can come back for the rest later."
But this time, as Damian paced the living room begging me to stay and swearing he would never do anything to hurt me, the officer helped me carry my belongings to a waiting squad car and drove me to safety.
I left Damian just after Easter. Shortly before Father's Day I heard from friends that he was in drug rehab and voluntarily attending a program for abusive men. He loved me, they said, and was a mess without me. Wouldn't I just call him? I thought long and hard before I picked up the phone, and I promised myself that, no matter what he said, I wasn't going back; by August, I was pregnant again.
Though Damian swore he was clean and sober, I suspected otherwise. He left early one evening, and I called a friend. After a few minutes of small talk I casually asked, "Did Damian hook up with you? I know he was looking to score."
"Sure," came the reply, "Matter of fact, you just missed him. He just left with an eight ball.”
It was far easier to walk away the second time, but when I told him that I was ending our relationship – for good this time – he asked about the baby.
“Don’t worry about it. It’s not yours.” I was surprised at how easily the lie rolled off my tongue.
The girls and I moved to a small basement apartment in Poughkeepsie and I renewed my acquaintance with Kim, a friend I hadn’t talked to in years. Our friendship was torn apart when I was involved with Paulie, and she unwittingly became a victim of his abuse.
For the baby’s sake, Kim encouraged me to mend the relationship with Damian and be honest with him about the pregnancy. She offered to call him on my behalf, and then arranged for us to meet and talk things through. She kept the girls for the weekend and I met Damian over dinner. He lied and told me he was clean and sober. I lied and said I believed him. We spent the rest of the weekend in bed.
Within a few weeks, we fell apart again. It was obvious that, between the drugs and drinking and the lies we had told each other, neither of us could remember what the truth was anymore. And neither of us could muster enough energy to really care.
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Life Support
“Jennifer?” I heard my mother’s voice, calling me from far away. “Jeni?”
Slowly, the darkness receded and I remembered.
“Where’s my baby?” I mumbled.
“Jennifer, we have to talk to you. Can you open your eyes?”
I tried, but the darkness was too heavy. I didn’t want to hear what they were going to tell me.
“Is he dead?”
“No, but he’s very sick.” Mom was holding my hand, talking slowly and carefully.
He was in the special care nursery, she said, on life support. They were going to send him to an intensive care unit at a hospital in Connecticut.
“No!” I cried, “You can’t take him away! I have to nurse him.”
It was just for a little while, they assured me. He would be home soon and I could nurse him then. What they didn’t tell me was that he wasn’t expected to live; if he did, he would be permanently disabled.
Lee was transferred to Yale New Haven Hospital where he remained on life support for six months. It was determined that he was strangulated by his own umbilical cord; while the doctor took the wait and see approach, Lee slowly suffocated. When labor was induced, the cord tightened further until all hope of survival was nearly lost. He had suffered brain damage and his vocal cords were paralyzed. After six months on a ventilator, Lee underwent surgery to place a tracheostomy tube and was transferred back to the local hospital, but it would be nearly three years before he was medically stable enough to leave the hospital and live at home.
Kim and her husband, Tony, introduced me to Bobby C., a cocaine dealer. As I started spending more time with Bobby, I spent less time at home with the girls or at the hospital with Lee. Eventually, I moved in with Bobby and left the girls with Mom.
Bobby insisted that I get a job – not to fill up my endless days, but to pay for the endless quantities of cocaine I was snorting. I found a training class for home health aides, and somehow managed to stay straight long enough each day to attend class and visit Lee at the hospital, but by mid-afternoon I was looking for the next line. It wasn’t long before my entire existence became the pursuit of cocaine…finding it, affording it, snorting it. I was too frightened to be near the children while I was stoned, but justified my use of drugs by the desolation I felt without them. Before long, Mom refused to allow me to see the girls and locked me out of the house.
One day after class, I was sitting on a bench, enjoying the warmth of the late afternoon sunshine and the warm tingling in my throat from the lines of cocaine I had just snorted. A car passed by, then tuned and passed again, more slowly. On the third pass, the car slowed and stopped.
“Hey, gorgeous, do you need a ride?” Damian called from the open window of a new Camaro.
I stared at him for a moment, considering
“Oh, why the Hell not?” I muttered to myself as I sashayed up to the car and slithered in.
My first day with Damian – my first day without cocaine - wasn’t too bad. I felt the desperate longing for just one more line, but I made it through. But the craving continued to intensify until, on the second day, I was pacing restlessly with Damian by my side, and jumping at every sound.
“Fuck this!” I screamed on the third day. “I’ve got to get out of here!”
It took every inch of Damian’s six foot, two-hundred pound hulk to block the door.
“Let me go!” I screamed as my fists pummeled his chest.
He wound his arms around me, embracing me in a bear hug, refusing to relinquish his hold on me.
“Get your hands off me, you Bastard!”
In a torrent of rage I unleashed all my fury and desperation on him. He looked wounded and scared, but he held his ground, refusing to let me go.
I just need air, I told him. I just need to walk, to get out of the apartment.
He knew exactly where I planned to walk to and insisted that, if I left the apartment, he would go with me. He poured me into his car and started driving. And as he drove, I vented my anguish in tears and words until my soul lay bleeding in my lap. I blamed him for Lee’s injuries and for being separated from the babies I loved so much. We were supposed to be together, I screamed at him. We were supposed to be a family. I blamed him for not loving me enough, for not healing the pain, for not …..well, just for not.
Suddenly, I felt an overwhelming need to get away from him; an overwhelming need to get away from all the pain and loneliness and anger and emptiness and desperation and loss and longing. As the car rounded the corner into the park I flung open the door and tried to jump.
What day it was or how long it took before I began to live again, I don’t know. I have moments of memory but no clear picture of the devastation I passed through. I remember thinking that Damian should be at work and being overcome by a rush of love and gratitude when I realized that he had called out to stay with me. I remember clinging to the toilet and crying – sobbing – as I purged my soul of all the blackness that had stained it. And I remember walking; endlessly, restlessly walking with Damian always at my side. Eventually, time tamed the craving and I began to function again. But, without the blessed oblivion, I couldn’t tame the aching in my heart.
One day began to fade into the next as the weeks passed. Every morning I went to work caring for an elderly couple in their home, and then to the hospital to be with Lee. If possible, I stopped to see the girls, but Mom wouldn’t always let me in. Clean and straight or not, she wouldn’t let me see my girls.
In the evenings, I wandered down to the waterfront to start drinking at River Station, and eventually made my way up the hill to Spanky’s. My goal was to find a cold beer, a warm bed and a willing pair of arms to sleep in. In my drunken haze, I imagined that the pick of the night was my knight in shining armor. Every night I dreamed I had fallen deeply in love; we’d get married, move into a white clapboard house with a picket fence, and bring my babies home to be with me forever.
Every morning, I awoke in strange places with strange people and the same painful aching in my chest. I began to hate myself.
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Life, As I Know It
Exactly when I started sleeping at the park, I'm not entirely sure. It just happened one night when I was too drunk to make my way back to the apartment and I couldn't find anyone to take me home. Either way, I found my spot at the river and, eventually, began to call it home. Every night I would climb up the hill, over the boulders and duck under the trees to a little clearing. It was perfect for my needs; there was just enough grass to make the ground soft enough to sleep on and the trees hid me from view. Tucking my little tote bag under my head, I would drift off to sleep feeling very lucky to have found such a nice, safe place to sleep.
The days turned into weeks and the nights got shorter as the summer crept by. June turned to July and I found myself sinking deeper into despair. Rick, the bartender at Spanky's, was beginning to suspect that I had a story to tell, but he didn't pry. Every night, he would sweep some of his tips into my pile of bills, all the while keeping my glass filled for free. Night after night I put a few dollars on the bar for drinks and stumbled out, hours later, a few dollars richer.
One night, he offered to drive me home after the bar closed but I refused, telling him that “home” was only a few steps away. Usually, when I told someone I lived by the river, they assumed I meant Rip Van Winkle Estates, the high rise welfare towers, but when Rick looked at me with a sad understanding in his eyes, I knew he had discovered the truth.
I hadn't been back to the apartment for a while. I couldn't - or didn't want to - face Damian. I felt I owed him something and the thought of staying with him another day made me feel trapped. My nights became nothing more than restless wanderings through memory; even if I were able to drink enough to eventually pass out, I was awakened by terrifying dreams.
Every morning I would walk to the hospital to visit Lee, and sometimes take a shower. Barbara had been giving me vouchers to eat free meals in the hospital cafeteria, but she now insisted that I come to see her every time I wanted one. It became my daily routine to stop in her office so she could see how badly I was deteriorating before handing me the little white slip of paper.
Eventually, I couldn't face even her. I chose hunger over seeing the look of pity and disgust on her face when I entered her office; thin, tired and ragged. My regular meals became a handful of pretzels or chips at the bar during happy hour, and Rick started insisting that I eat a plateful of wings or mini burgers before he poured the first drink. I suspect he knew it was the only food I would eat for days.
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The Foolish Things of This World
The rain cleared and the day dawned bright blue. I spent the morning at the hospital with Lee then walked back to the park. As I neared the river, I noticed that a crowd had gathered at the train station, and though I wondered briefly what was happening, I didn’t pay much attention. I wandered along the path to the river and sat beneath a large tree, gazing in awe at the bright blue sky and the sun gleaming on the still water of the Hudson.
Several young men in orange vests meandered through the park, picking up trash, and one came near and started talking to me. He stood above me, looking down at me where I sat on the lawn. It was obvious from the start that he was retarded.
"I've been watching you," he said, nervously shifting his weight from foot to foot.
I looked up, nodded to acknowledge him, then turned away. Setting down his trash bag and propping one hand on his hip, he settled in for a chat.
"You sleep here,” he said, “I see you sometimes."
Little prickles of fear began an uncomfortable journey up my spine.
"It's not safe here," he continued. "Don't you have anyplace to sleep?"
"No, I don't."
He seemed puzzled and disturbed by the revelation. "Don't you have a mom and dad?"
"Yes, I do. And I have children."
"Where are they?" He looked around as if expecting to see them.
"They live with my mother."
His face lit up as if he had discovered the solution to my problem. "Then you should go live with your mother."
I shook my head. How could I make it simple enough for him to understand? And why did I want to try? "No, honey,” I said gently, “I can't go back there. I'm not welcome."
"Well, that’s not right!" He exclaimed indignantly. "Mommies and babies should be together!"
"Yes, they should." I felt the tears threatening again.
"You should tell the governor. The governor will help you. I know he will!"
I laughed, wishing that my view of life could be so simple. "Oh sweetie, I don't think the governor really cares where I live. Besides," I stood up, brushed the dirt from the seat of my borrowed pants and prepared to walk away, "I can't walk all the way up to Albany and just knock on the door of the Governor's Mansion."
This, he seemed to find hysterical.
"No silly!" He laughed in that "special" way. "The governor's at the train station!" He pointed, laughing, bobbing back and forth, faster and faster. "The governor's at the train station right now and you should go talk to him. He'll help you. I know he will."
He paused, searching my face for some sign that I understood. His eyes became serious; the smile fell from his face. He shifted from foot to foot, looked at his feet and repeated to no one in particular, "Mommies and babies should be together."
I felt a quiet urging beginning to build inside me.
Mommies and babies should be together.
I looked toward the train station, then turned back.
"You're right,” I told him, “Mommies and babies should be together."
Placing my hand on his arm, I gently squeezed. "Thank you," I said as I turned and made my way up the hill to the train station.
CLOSE
Payback's A Bitch
When I arrived at the hospital to visit Lee the day after meeting Mario Cuomo, I wasn’t expecting the whirlwind that my life had suddenly become. I had considered those few moments at the train station nothing more than a political one-night stand. It played well for the cameras; an election year photo-op this good could never have been scripted. But, once the train left the station, I was certain I would never be thought of again. I was making my way across the hospital parking lot when the social worker, Barbara, came rushing at me, demanding to know where I’d been.
“The Governor’s office has been calling,” she grabbed me by the arm, dragging me toward the sliding double doors, “and the State Police have been here looking for you.”
She pushed me into the elevator and furiously punched the button for the third floor. Waiting until the elevator doors had closed behind us, she spun on me and demanded again, “Jennifer, what have you done?”
I was shocked into silence. The Governor's office had called and they were looking for me.
Haltingly, I began to tell the story. I told Barbara about living at the river, and I recanted all the lies and half-truths I had told her about staying with friends and having enough to eat. Surely, she must have guessed that the little white vouchers she gave me for a meal at the hospital cafeteria provided the only food I had eaten for weeks? I told her the story of approaching the governor, of speaking to Matilda and receiving the twenty dollar bill, about Mario's promise that he would help me. When I finished, she shook her head and smiled.
"You brave, brave, girl."
She hustled me into her office, picked up the phone and waved the receiver at me. "You have to call them back. Right now!"
She punched in a number and I waited while she spoke to someone on the other end, assuring them that I was safe, then handed the phone to me.
I hesitated, frightened. What would I say? Again, she thrust the phone in my direction and mouthed, "Talk to her."
The sound of the blood rushing in my ears, the pounding of my heart in my chest, was so loud I could barely hear, but I took the phone.
"Hello?"
"Jennifer? It's Matilda Cuomo."
"Hello,” I stammered again.
"We've been worried about you. We looked for you at the river and the hospital. We sent the police to your mother's house but she didn't know where you were. Are you okay?"
"I stayed with a friend last night."
This is real. This is really happening.
"We'd like to help you, Jennifer. I've arranged for you to go to Gannet House. It's a brand-new shelter we've opened in Poughkeepsie."
I could picture Matilda Cuomo on the other end of the line, brow furrowed with concern, speaking gently so as not to frighten me. She was exactly what I envisioned a mother should be. I trusted her.
"What about my children?" Oh, God!! Please bring my babies back to me!
"We'll send someone to get them. They can stay with you at the shelter."
I began to cry, softly, trying not to let her hear.
"Jennifer? Are you there?"
I nodded but could not form the words through the tears. Thank you, thank you, thank you!
"Jennifer?” She sounded worried. “Everything will be okay, I promise"
After I hung up, Barbara pressed me into the shower, and pulled clean clothes from the welfare closet. "Dressing for Success" she called it. A cab was called and I found myself whisked away, like Cinderella going to the ball. But, instead of a mansion on a hill, I was going to a homeless shelter.
The ride from the hospital to the shelter wasn’t a long one but it seemed to drag on forever. My mind was whirling with a million different thoughts, a million different memories, all clamoring for my attention. I hadn’t had much time to think about everything that was happening, and these few moments in the back of the taxi were the only ones I’d had to myself in the last twenty-four hours.
Watching the scenery rushing by and wondering what it was like to live in a homeless shelter (It certainly couldn't be any worse than the battered women's shelter, could it?), I thought of Frank and Tabby.
Two years before, I was living in the apartment on Hamilton Street when I learned about Blind Frank and his wife, Tabby. By one stroke of fate or another, Frank had lost his job, then his home. I was asked if I could spare some room for a few days while they tried to get back on their feet. I brought the girls into the living room to sleep with me and gave the bedroom to Frank, his wife Tabby and the doddering, toothless Chihuahua named T.K. they laughingly passed off as frank's Seeing Eye dog.
A few days turned into a few months as Frank struggled to find work and Tabby and I became fast friends. When at last it was time to say goodbye, Tabby swore she'd find a way to repay me.
"You really saved our lives."
As I wrapped my arms around her, it occurred to me that it may be the last time I would ever see my friend.
"Don't bother," I answered. "You know what they say...payback's a bitch."
I wondered if this is what it had felt like for them; the uncertainty, the fear. Did they feel the same shame and loss that I was feeling now, having to beg for a bed to sleep in? Silently, I hoped they'd be okay, wherever they were.
When the cab turned off Route 9 and into the circular drive at the shelter, I got my first look at Gannet House. Three long, low buildings sat in a U around a central courtyard; row after row of doors and windows opened to the parking lot. In a former life, this had been one of the cheap Route 9 motels favored by drunks and prostitutes. Now, it was Poughkeepsie's first shelter for homeless families.
The taxi stopped in front of one of the buildings and I stepped out, reaching back for the small satchel of clothes I had brought. It wasn't much. Barbara had put together a bag of belongings for me from the welfare closet - a pair of pants, a few clean tops, a toothbrush, some shampoo.
"You can get everything else you need when you get there," she’d said as she handed me the tote that now contained my entire life.
I followed the signs to the office and, stepping inside, set my bag beside the door. Across the room, bent over the filing cabinet with her back to me, was the receptionist.
"I'm Jennifer," I said.
"I know," said the faceless voice from across the room, "the Governor's office called and told us to expect you."
She rose, slammed the filing drawer shut with her foot and turned to me. Then, spreading her arms wide, she beckoned me in. "I've been waiting for you."
"Tabby?!"
I began to cry as I rushed into her outstretched arms.
As she wrapped herself around me, she began to laugh.
"Payback's a bitch, honey. Welcome home."
CLOSE
Back Where We Belong
At Gannet House, each family was given a private room with a bath and phone. In typical motel style, every room had one or two double beds, a large dresser and a small desk and lamp; the brown carpet and dun colored drapes were clean, but worn. Communal meals were served in a small dining hall at the rear of the complex, and there was a play area with a jungle gym for the kids.
One Monday morning, I was called to the shelter office to take a phone call.
“This is Ms. Johnson from the Department of Social Services,” the voice on the line said. I recognized it as that of the woman who refused to accept my application for welfare benefits just weeks before. She was calling, she said, to tell me that I was expected at a ten o’clock appointment the following day.
When I arrived in her office, she made it very clear that she believed the children would be better off with my Mother, and that she wanted no part of helping me get them back. The only reason she was even going through the process with me was because she had been instructed by the Governor’s office to do so, and she valued her job. I left that afternoon with a welfare check in my hand.
A few days later, a State Trooper arrived at the door of my room and told me that he had been instructed by The Governor’s Office to take me to my mother’s house to collect the girls. We arrived just in time to find Mom, key in hand, locking the door to the empty house. The U-haul was loaded, the girls were strapped into the front seat, and she had just returned to get her pocketbook and lock the door before leaving the state with my babies.
“You cannot take these children!” Mom told the officer.
“Ma’am,” the officer said, “not only are we going to take the children, but I will arrest you if you try to interfere.”
She argued with him, trying to convince him to leave the girls with her. Finally, in desperation, she turned and started walking toward the truck.
“I’m taking my grandchildren,” she insisted, as she pushed past me.
The officer, in his best “Don’t Fuck with Me” voice, informed her that if she made any attempt to remove the girls from the premises, he would consider it an act of kidnapping, and he would not hesitate to take whatever action he felt necessary to prevent it. As he spoke, he reached around for the handcuffs that dangled from his belt.
“Ma’am,” he said, “I received my orders directly from the Governor of New York. If you’d like to discuss it with him, feel free to do so. In the meantime these children are going to be returned to their mother.”
My knees were shaking as I walked to the U-haul and lifted the girls down. In the back of the patrol car, with Heather tucked under one arm and Sarah under the other, I hugged them closely and began to cry. For the first time in months, my girls were back in my arms where they belonged.
CLOSE
One Last Favor
In September of 1986, Lee was transferred to St. Margaret’s Children’s Hospital in Albany. Every weekend, I packed a small bag and boarded a Greyhound Bus for the two-hour trip. Damian’s mother lived in Albany and, despite everything that had transpired between us, she agreed to let us stay with her during our visits. Then, late in the fall, I decided to make the move to Albany to be nearer to Lee, and we moved into the Laboure Family Shelter.
During our first day at the shelter, two young men came to the door and introduced themselves as members of a local church. They would be glad, they said, to pick up the family and take us, by bus, to the main church in Lenox, Massachusetts for dinner and church services every Wednesday night.
Almost instantly, The Bible Speaks became my new family. Every Saturday there were visits from bible college students; on Wednesdays, we boarded an old school bus for the ride to Lenox. I met the pastor of the local branch church and became a regular at Sunday morning services. When I moved to an apartment in the South End, my new friends visited or called almost daily. Soon, every waking moment was consumed with church relationships and church activities.
There were rumors circulating about the ministry - suggestions that it was more ‘cult’ than ‘church.’ News stories portrayed the leader, Carl Stevens, as a charismatic manipulator that used undue influence, fear and twisted biblical doctrine to control his followers. Members of the church discounted the stories as evil reports and lies told by disgruntled ex-members. Either way, I didn’t care. For the first time in my life I was surrounded by people who I believed truly cared for and loved me.
In the spring of 1987, The Bible Speaks entered bankruptcy and closed its doors. Elizabeth Dayton Doveydenas, heiress to the Dayton-Hudson department store fortune, had given more than six million dollars to The Bible Speaks, then demanded its return. A Massachusetts judge found Carl Stevens guilty of undue influence and manipulation. “Pastor” Stevens fled to Baltimore and hundreds followed, including many of my new friends.
By chance, in the fall of 1987, I discovered a fledgling educational program for welfare recipients and started attending Hudson Valley Community College. Every day on my way to school I walked by the Governor’s mansion, and every day I silently renewed my promise to him that I would wrest something of value from my life. I promised myself that I would never give Mario Cuomo cause to regret the kindness he had shown me.
In December, I was told that Lee had made significant progress at the children’s hospital and was ready to be transferred to a rehabilitation center; the administrators were exploring options for the transfer. With my friends insisting that I join them in Baltimore, the decision seemed rather simple.
As a Medicaid recipient, Lee’s options for treatment were limited to what the State of New York agreed to pay; transfer to another state would only be considered if the requested services were not available in New York. Even then, transfer would only be made to an adjoining state. We met none of the criteria to request an out-of-state transfer. In desperation, I called the Governor’s office and asked for one more favor.
A few days later, the social worker at St. Margaret’s called. “Jennifer, you are amazing. I don’t know how you did it, but we just found out that Lee’s transfer to Johns Hopkins has been arranged. Not only will they pay for an ambulance, he is being escorted by a doctor and a nurse!”
That call to the Governor’s office was the last contact I had with Mario Cuomo for twenty years.
CLOSE
Jesus Take the Wheel
With the plans to move to Baltimore underway, all I had to do was find a way to get there. I bought a beat up old Chevy Monte Carlo for $200 and drove to the Department of Motor Vehicles to get my learner’s permit. Just a few days before striking out for Baltimore, I passed the road test and received my driver’s license.
The licensing examiner and I hit it off immediately. We started chatting and discovered that we had both arrived in Albany via Poughkeepsie.
“So,” he asked as I attempted to execute a three point turn, “what brought you here?”
I explained about Lee’s illness and my plans to transfer him to Johns Hopkins, while I flawlessly performed the turn.
“Now, pull up next to this car,” he instructed, “and signal a right turn.”
“You want me to parallel park don’t you?” I asked with trepidation. It was a maneuver I hadn’t mastered.
Slowly, shakily, I turned the wheel and began backing to the curb.
“You’re doing fine,” he said, startling me.
Intending to apply the brake, I stepped on the gas pedal instead; the engine revved, the car leapt backward - narrowly missing the parked car - and jumped the curb.
Sheepishly, I looked at the examiner. “Oops!”
I explained that, in Highland, where Damian had taught me to drive, there were no curbs so I had never learned to park.
“Do I need a license to park?” I joked.
Grinning, he shook his head, then instructed me to try again, “Carefully, please.”
“You lived in Highland?” he asked,
“Yeah, we lived in the pink house on the right, just after the bridge.”
He knew that house, he said, and we continued to chat about familiar places and mutual friends as he tried to put me at ease. Twice more I attempted to parallel park; twice more I jumped the curb.
We returned to the Department of Motor Vehicles and, convinced that I had failed the test, I sat in abject silence while he completed the paperwork.
He finished writing and turned to me. “This is really important to you, isn’t it?” he asked.
I nodded.
“Then promise me that you’ll go to Baltimore,” he said as he grinned and handed me the paperwork, “because I don’t want you driving in my town.” He shook his head. “I shouldn’t have let you pass, but I did.”
“Good luck,” he said as he stepped from the car, “I hope it all works out for your little boy.”