Did You Know The Devil Has A Thyroid Condition (Final Chapter)

It was early spring in 1982, and Mama was finally able to hold her head up.  This was an accomplishment given that it had been bouncing about like a bladder on a stick for three months.  In celebration, she made supper.  Previously, Mama only cooked on three occasions:  Thanksgiving because it was a family affair, and you wouldn't want to disappoint a pack of people you hate, and Christmas, because you wouldn't want to upset the Baby Jesus.  The third occasion was New Year's Day where we would eat Hoppin' John, which is a dish invented by a one-legged man named John.  I'm not making this up.  It contains black-eyed peas, ham hocks, and anything in your fridge that is soon to expire.  The dish is cooked in a Crock Pot until it looks like something that comes out of the backside of a mule.  Why do we consume such ugliness?  For good luck, of course.  Besides, it tastes great with cornbread. 

On this particular evening Mama was making her famous spaghetti.  Well, it's famous now because no one has seen it since.  This dish called for a pound of ground meat (lean of course, because my family is known for healthy living), overcooked pasta (because you wouldn't want to get bloated), and Prego pasta sauce (because Ragu tastes like candy).  You knew it was ready when the grease floated to the surface.  Mama also threw in some garlic bread just to get crazy.  Of course she didn't actually bake the bread, that would be ridiculous.  Who has that kind of time between fugue states?

I was enjoying this particular dining experience.  I never enjoyed any dining experience with my family; however, the mood was jovial, and Mama was able to eat without assistance.  It's really difficult to enjoy a meal when you have to remind your mother to chew. This was a good day.

As Mama began to clear the table, Daddy asked me about school.  The light in the room seemed to dim a bit.  I'm sure it was just a reflection of my soul.  I know now it was just Daddy making conversation.  He didn't expect me to answer with, "It's okay, I guess.  Mrs. Boyd hasn't thrown anything in a while."

Daddy was taking a sip of his beer, and nearly spit it out.  "What did you say?"  Realizing what I had said, I immediately regretted it.  Now, I would have to listen to all the reasons why I deserved what had happened.

I tried to weasel out of it, but there is no weaseling when your dad is a seasoned, high ranking military man who has served two tours in Vietnam, and one of them was because he volunteered.  He didn't miss a thing.

"No.  You said 'She hasn't thrown anything in a while.'  What do you mean she hasn't thrown anything in a while?"  Daddy always repeated statements whenever he was baffled.  In just eight more years we would be having a similar conversation when I call him to let him know that his beloved 1978 Le Car caught fire, "Daddy, the car is on fire."  and he will respond, "What do you mean the car is on fire?"  Like when the words car and fire are used together you need any further elaboration.

So, I just started talking.  I re-lived the entire horrible event for him.  Daddy didn't say a word, and Mama remained remarkably focused on doing the dishes.  Seeing her work at the kitchen sink was strange, disturbing, and inspiring.  I would later have a similar experience while watching Olivia Newton-John's Physical video.   When I finished telling the tale, Daddy asked if anything like this had happened before, and that's when I told him how Mrs. Boyd treated the other kids, and how she charged at me, sending me and my desk into a wall.

He then turned to Mama and asked, "Did you know about any of this?"
Mama lied, "He never mentioned it before."  I was stunned.  I couldn't speak.  She just lied to Daddy.  Who the hell has the balls to do that?  This was when I discovered that my Mama had a pair of low-hangers.  Big ones.  Military issued.

"When did she do this?" he asked.
"Last year."  I replied meekly.

He was obviously angry, and I was looking for the nearest exit.  My feet were nervously kicking the table legs.  The two shih tzu's (Muffin and Jeb) crept out of the kitchen.  Probably going to the dining room to eat their own poo again.  It was that kind of tense.

"Last year? Why didn't you tell us?" 
"Because I deserved it"
"You deserved it?  What the hell kind of nonsense is that?"
"Mama said I deserved it."
Mama quickly snapped around, and shouted, "I most certainly did not!"
I countered, "You did too!  I told you about Mrs. Boyd and you said I deserved it!"
She tried to protest, but Daddy interrupted, "Wait a damn minute!  Woman, you knew about this?"
"Oh, hell...how could I take him seriously?  He's got such a crazy imagination sometimes."
"Imagination or not, the kid is not a liar!"
"For Christ's sake, it's not like she broke his arm or somethin'.  He's fine."  She lit a cigarette and glared at me as if I was the one responsible for making her into a lousy mother. 

Daddy just stared at her.  His brow knotted up with deep furrows.  I used to wonder if I could get quarters in each of them, and if they would stick out.

He looked at me, and then back to her, and said, "What are you talkin' about? He's not fine.  This entire situation is not fine ."  Mama tried to scream over him as if sheer volume alone could get him to shut up, and finally understand that she didn't possess a soul, and should have never given birth in the first place.  This was a tactic she also used whenever the credit card bills would arrive, but Daddy shut her down, "No!  You do not get to talk! You do not get to deny this.  You laid up in that bed for months suckin' on your thumb, while our child went to that school everyday with a monster, and you didn't say a damn thing.  I don't wanna hear another word out of you."  However, no amount of military might can shut Mama up when her character is questioned.  The room erupted in screams, and they both left the kitchen to take the fight to their bedroom.  I proceeded to get very intimate with a half gallon of Breyer's chocolate mint ice cream.  I believe this was the moment that turned me into an emotional eater.

I have no memory of what else happened that evening.  Either Mama drugged me (a strong possibility) or it was simply a result of post-traumatic stress.  What I do know is that within a week of my confession,  a social worker arrived at school to assess the situation.  At the time I had no idea who this person was.  Had I known she was coming, I would have baked her some cupcakes, sat her down, and performed a dramatic interpretation of my journal entries chronicling the events of the last two school years.   

I remember that the social worker was an attractive woman who was annoyingly perky.  She reminded me of Julie, the cruise director from the Love Boat only with orthopedic shoes, and chronic halitosis.  She came into the classroom, introduced herself, (we'll call her Miss Sparkly) and then spent the next hour staring at us.  Eventually, she took a position by my desk, and stood just off to my left periodically asking me patronizing questions about my studies.  From what I could tell she was either drunk, or she honestly thought I was a ten year old girl with Down Syndrome.  

During Sparkly's assessment, Mrs.  Boyd was all sweaty, and her bull testicle eyes strained to stay in their sockets.  Her bulbous, tiny, little ponytail was frayed, and she kept pulling on her bra straps as if one of her breasts were about to leap free from her.  Every time Sparkly would ask a question, Mrs. Boyd would jump, blink nervously, and clumsily throw out an answer.  I had never seen the Boyd-ster act in such a way.  Once again, watching her was better than anything on television.  Well, except for that episode of Dukes of Hazzard when Bo and Luke went skinny dipping, and their clothes were miraculously stolen.  That was nice.  

With Virginia Christian Academy under investigation, and Daddy transferring to the Air War College in Alabama (apparently Alabama is bedeviled by air war) I finished out the remainder of my school year, but before I left V.C.A., Mrs Boyd suddenly became my best friend, and I was the star student.  I earned all A's, and somehow found the time to write, direct, and star in a stage version of Stephen King's Salem's Lot.  Supposedly, Mrs. Boyd was so impressed by my artistic endeavors that she insisted it be performed at the annual V.C.A. Spring Open House.  She would provide anything I needed in the way of costumes, sets, and even catering.  I even received a standing ovation for all my efforts.  Why?  Because I deserved it.