CHAPTER 2: EXODUS

Content Note – Chapter 2: Exodus
This chapter includes descriptions of domestic violence, child abuse and neglect, addiction, and a graphic violent incident. Some scenes may be disturbing, especially for readers with similar experiences. Please care for your nervous system—read slowly, take breaks, or skip this chapter if you need to.

It was right about this time that the warm memories took a turn for the worse. To this day, I do not know the full extent of what happened. Our world was suddenly shattered, leaving behind mere splinters of memory: my sister being locked in the laundry room for what seemed an eternity. She had a bucket to pee in. I remember hearing her crying out for Daddy. Each sound she made pierced my soul. A scant inch of wooden door was all that separated us, yet she may as well have been in another dimension. I remember to this day how strongly my sister’s cries pulled at my heart. Muffled and painful. It seemed to go on forever. It was a nightmare of helplessness.

The days of carefree exploration ceased. I discovered a new venue of imagination, a darker realm, one of despair. At night, I would lie in the darkness exploring it while I wrestled my mind to sleep. Later, I found a message she had scratched on the wall—a plea for Daddy to help her. Tim and I held secret meetings about what to do to help Melanie. We were utterly confused, yet resolute in freeing our sister. We helped in the only ways we knew how. We talked to her through the door and smuggled her toys when we could. I don’t know what happened that caused this, or the events that led up to it, but inevitably the result was that my sister was torn from our lives.

Little did we know, Melanie was but the first to go. She was sent away to live with our grandmother, whom we affectionately call Nanny. We erroneously believed this would be temporary, that in short order our family would be whole again. The splintering of our family had begun.

Tim and I distracted ourselves from the devastating fracture that tore our family apart. We found solace in the outdoors. I don’t remember many conversations about what had happened, but there were surely many. I think it was the disruption to our family, more than the proximity of our ages, that ultimately bound Tim and me together. Either way, for the next couple of years, we were inseparable. We were told that Melanie had become too much of a handful and wouldn’t stay out of the medicine cabinet. Even at my young age, I knew better. Tim didn’t buy it either; at night, as we lay in bed, we tried to rationalize what had happened and why.

It is hard for me to place memories correctly in sequence, partly because of my age, and partly because I have surely suppressed a great deal. In the mind of one so young, complicated adult affairs can be difficult to grasp. My memories seem to jump from warm feet and Wheel of Fortune to drunken fights and hiding under the pool table with Tim. Memory as splintered as our family. My parents began drinking more and fighting even more than that. Dad stopped coming home after work. Sometimes, Tim and I would find him in the driveway, drinking in his truck.

One night, while on the lookout for our dad, we noticed the flickering light of a campfire coming from behind a bush at the end of our driveway. Dad sat drinking on the bank, fueling a small fire with motor oil. We were so excited to find him. I didn’t understand why he wouldn’t come inside. We sat on the bank with him for an hour or so, talking. Dad distracted us from the questions by bringing up the treehouse again. We had heard this one before. He had promised us an elaborate treehouse, complete with electricity, so that we could spend the night in it. At this point, we would have been happy to have a couple of boards nailed to a tree.

Dad was a master of promises. Fishing trips, drives to the river, afternoons that were going to be “just us boys”—they all sounded as real as the beer can in his hand. I clung to those words like a rope. But more and more, the plans dissolved at the bottom of the bottle. Somewhere in there, I started to learn that with Dad, “I promise” usually meant “maybe,” and “maybe” usually meant “no.”

One fateful night, the fighting reached a crescendo, resulting in Mom chasing Dad out of the house with a shotgun. It was not a bluff. In a fit of rage, Mom aimed and fired as Tim and I screamed. Luckily, she was too enraged for any accuracy. Dad took off out of the driveway, truck full of holes. His truck screamed louder than us kids. That, I believe, was the last time he would set foot back in our house.

From there, memory jumps to us kids riding around with Mom, searching for Dad. She was often drunk. I can remember the hunt. Seldom did we find him, but when we did, he was in his truck drinking beer. We drove up and down dirt roads, down narrow trails through the woods, to the rivers and creeks. The hunt became a daily staple.

One memory stands alone, because it hurt so profoundly. My dad had been gone for a while, and my mother loaded us up, and we went on the hunt. We found him on a gravel bar down by the river. He was sitting in his truck, drinking beer while blaring Hank Williams Jr. We jumped out of the car as soon as we saw him and ran toward his truck; Tim and I were both steeped in pure rapture. He looked at me for a moment, as if my face held the answer to the question he sought. I still feel the stinging betrayal as he sped off in his one-ton truck, throwing gravel just before we reached him. I am sure in Dad’s mind he was leaving Mom, but in fact, he was leaving us. I have yet to stop feeling the pain of that night; I am not sure I ever will.

My dad left Mom in a very desperate situation. We were quite a way from the nearest actual town; she had no job, the cabinets were running bare, and she had three kids to care for. My mother hit rock bottom the day they came to repossess the car. I sat beside her as she broke. My young mind was barely capable of understanding the feelings of despair, hopelessness, and fear that tore at her. Even at this early age, I was quite empathetic. It was obvious she had slid into a depression. It was this period of her life that I believe fueled her battle with alcoholism. I can remember comforting my mom as she fought her way through the depression and heartache.

Somewhere in the midst of all of this, Melanie got to come home for a visit. It was wintertime, and bitterly cold. Tim and I were beside ourselves with excitement. Melanie had always been there with us, through all of our crazy adventures. She was one of the crew; we explored together; we told stories together. It had not been the same without her there. I remember she looked different when I saw her. She no longer looked the part of the tomboy who ran through the fields with us; she was beautiful in her finest Sunday dress. Even her mannerisms were different; more refined. Yet, she was still my sister.

That day we played behind the house. We all stood on the banks of the cesspool, maybe seventy-five feet from the house. It had frozen over. We threw rocks and sticks at the ice, attempting to break through. A stick bigger than my arm glanced off the surface of the ice harmlessly and slid. Melanie decided to go out onto the ice to recover the stick and fell through. Our carefree exuberance vanished in a wave of panic. After several attempts, we managed to get her out. We stood frozen by the panic of her Sunday dress, so soiled. When we told her, even my mother seemed frozen with fear, as if called back to her childhood.

My mom and Raymond together marked a much different period in my early development. Raymond had gone to school with both of my parents. He was a big man, with an even bigger presence. He stood about 6’2″ and easily weighed 240 pounds; all muscle, adorned with tattoos, the bulk of which attested his loyalty to the Aryan Brotherhood.

One of my first memories of Raymond was when Tim and I, the explorers that we were, discovered a bunch of stolen goods in a hayloft of our neighbor’s barn. The main thing I remember was old accordion-style cameras. Being little kids, of course, we played with them and undoubtedly broke them. We discovered that they had been stolen and placed there by Raymond. I was sure that this fiasco would be our doom. I cannot recall the result, but we are both alive.

My mother had become a devoted alcoholic. I have too many memories to count of my mother intoxicated. In fact, it is much more difficult for me to recall a memory of her sober during this time. I remember being in a car with her, drunk on a dirt road, and getting in a wreck. The car skidded on gravel, ramped the ditch, and rolled several times. It was sudden and terrifying, but fortunately, nobody was seriously hurt.

On one particularly educational occasion, my brothers and I accompanied Mom and Raymond to a keg party. I don’t know how many people were there, but it seemed well over a hundred to my developing mind. I tried beer for the first time at that keg party. Years later, I discovered that my mom and Raymond had dropped acid at the party and, while hallucinating, forgot we were there and headed home. Later, they realized the mistake and came back for us.

Cruising the dirt roads and drinking beer became a staple. On one such excursion, my mother was drunk, and we stopped so that everyone could get out to go pee. Tim convinced me to stay outside and hang on to the bumper when they took off. I would fly like Superman, he told me. When Mom asked if everyone was in, Tim assured her we were, and she took off. I ran as fast as I could. I may have flown, but it sure didn’t feel very super. I was dragged behind the car for a bit before I lost my grip. I panicked as the car sped away, leaving me vulnerable and alone in the darkness. My desperate “COME BACK!” echoed in the growing silence. It seemed an eternity before Tim had them come back for me, but I am sure it was only a minute or so. I was more worried about explaining my injuries at school than the injuries themselves.

A series of events occurred, resulting in us boys going to live with Nanny for the summer. The school year was not yet finished, and we began riding the bus with Melanie again. Life at Nanny’s was a completely different world. Everything was neat, tidy, and structured. You didn’t touch the wallpaper. She lived in the country and had a nice farm; plenty of territory to explore. That first night, Tim and I slept on the floor in Melanie’s room, up a narrow set of stairs so steep they were more of a ladder. I scanned her room slowly, imagining the life she had lived since she was taken from us. I quickly forgot about the alien structure and rigidity at the familiar feeling of our gang restored. That night I snuck quietly into Melanie’s bed and slept like I hadn’t in a long time.

Not much time passed before Tim and I learned the hard way that actions have consequences. We got into a squabble, and Tim pushed me through Nanny’s screen glass door. We both knew immediately that this spelled disaster. We feared the dreaded ceremony of picking our own “switches.” I had already discovered that smaller and thinner did not necessarily mean less painful. The switches were not enough; not for this type of tomfoolery. We were to pick dandelions every single day after school, and then throughout the summer. Tim and I almost laughed when the sentence was handed down. Pick flowers. Little did we know, we would’ve preferred the switches ten to one. A coffee can’s worth apiece, each day. That was the price we paid. Each day, we picked the yard clean of the golden-yellow beauties I came to despise. The next day, we discovered they had multiplied. It was a nightmare for boys of our feral variety.

Melanie showed us the lay of the land, and Tim and I tried to get used to the new rules. It did not take long to learn Nanny meant what she said. We ventured through the woods around the property and fancied ourselves explorers. We got a hard-earned education in gardening, which, for Nanny, was more about survival than a hobby. Our step-grandpa, Mike, was a military man. He exposed us to more routine and discipline than we knew existed. Our mom’s dad, whom we called “Pa’pa,” had passed away when I was two years old. Just as the discipline was beginning to take root, we went back home to live with Mom and Raymond.

Around this time, I felt depressed for the first time. We had moved from Terisita and were living in Mountain View, beside the park. We were staying with the parents of my mother’s new boyfriend, Raymond Smith. Everyone was inside having a good time, but it seemed Tim had forgotten Dad was gone. Mom had certainly moved on. I wandered outside the house, swimming in a sea of torment. I missed my dad. I looked up into the night sky through watery eyes and prayed for God to bring my dad back to me. I waited for a response; for assurance. Nothing came, but silence. It wasn’t fair. I missed him so intensely. My heart broke that night, as surely as my wails broke the stillness of the night. I am not capable of articulating the profound effect this had on me, but suffice it to say, I have only felt pain that compares one time since.

A short time later, we were woken up shortly before dawn by a terrible commotion. The house was surrounded by police officers brandishing firearms. Raymond dove frantically out of the bedroom window to find a gun in his face.

I heard, “Hold your fire! There are children in the house.” Flashing red and blue lights cast an eerie glow into the dark house. The quiet home was invaded by a swarm of police officers, all too eager to shine a flashlight in your face.

Raymond was taken into custody, and we learned he had attempted to rob the home of an elderly man the night before. He decided to take Derrick, still in diapers, along with him. Apparently, the man was home and shot at Raymond, chasing him away. The man called the police, which resulted in a high-speed chase. My younger brother was an accessory to robbery and involved in a high-speed police chase, all before being potty-trained.

One good thing resulted from the recent move into town; we now had a new landscape to explore. Tim and I rode our bikes all over town. We played in the park until boredom set in, then we would venture about town. Up and down streets we rode. Mom gave us an allowance of food stamps; they were a form of paper currency at the time. We rode all about town, even the highways. On the weekends, the small town would explode to life with “Music in the Park.” Live bands sang their hearts out on the bandstand, vendors served food and drinks, and there were games. The typical quiet of the park was nowhere to be found among the throngs of people gathered together. It was quite thrilling for a country boy. There was a discovery to be made each day; never-ending opportunity for mischief, living in town.

These thrilling new experiences were punctuated by drunken parties, violence, and police. Perhaps one of the most traumatic experiences was being at a party house watching a poker game between some drunk friends of my mother and Raymond, when suddenly the man across the table from me got his throat slit from ear to ear. I don’t know for sure, but I believe the man was being accused of being a snitch. The grisly scene was forever burned into my mind. I was shocked later to learn the man had lived.

Another time, Mom was riding with her friend Chesnee in a 1950s truck; both were drunk. There was a bad wreck. My mother’s head went through the windshield; she had to put her feet on the dashboard to pull her head back through the glass. Chesnee was not a good influence on my mom. At one point, we were grocery shopping at the local Town & Country grocery store with Mom and Chesnee, far too drunk to be in public. At the checkout, Chesnee picked Mom up, placing her on the conveyor belt with the food and said, through drunken slurs, “How much does this bitch cost?” She was so loud, I am sure the people at the back of the store heard.

In a shocking turn of events, later that year, Dad reappeared to take us boys for the summer. There was somebody he wanted us to meet. We piled into his 1970 Chevy Monte Carlo and, wasting no time, set out for Denver, Colorado. Dad did not stop. We made the trip in one night. I rode in the front passenger seat; my job was to slap Dad hard if he started to doze off. I was beside myself with joy. Not only was Dad back, but we were going on a road trip. We had never left Howell County before. I was not prepared for city life. For me, the tiny town of Mountain View was “The City.” Places like Denver only existed on television screens.

The grandness of the mountains had my jaw on the floor in awe. There were so many vehicles, and the highways were enormous, in places looping about in the sky. I did not know buildings could get so tall; it was dizzying. There was so much going on; people coming and going. Everyone was in such a hurry. The noise and chaos were as overpowering as the mountains looming in the background. We finally came to a stop at a high-rise apartment building that grew taller as we approached it. We were introduced to a kind-looking lady named Linda. She had two children, both older than Tim and me.

Linda and her children were obviously from a different world. Their speech and accents were different, and there was a sense that they had not known poverty the same as we had. I learned new words like davenport, chifforobe, and armoire. Dinners were eaten together at a dining room table instead of in front of a television, and soda was called “pop.” I did not know that silverware was supposed to be set on a certain side, and I couldn’t understand why we needed more than one fork. The summer was rather peaceful, and Tim and I helped Linda renovate one of the apartment bathrooms. She ordered us takeout pizza as a thank you. I believe this was my first experience with such a thing.

Before we knew it, the summer passed, and it was time for us to go back home to the Ozarks. Mom and Raymond had moved to a house on the outskirts of Mountain View, conveniently located directly behind Butch’s bar. They had a child together and gave us another brother, Eldrid. We called him E.L. for short. He was born with asthma, a heart condition, and the brightest red hair you’ve ever seen. He spent the first few months of his life hooked up to a heart monitor.

When Raymond entered our lives, violence entered with him. Somewhere around this time, I remember Raymond getting in trouble with the police several times. Raymond had a terrible temper. He was extremely confrontational and domineering. He was not exactly a small man either. He had been in so many physical altercations with the local police department that they would not confront him without basically the entire police force. I saw him get into several fights, all of which were extremely frightening and graphic.

One specific incident that is burned into my memory was shortly after he was released from prison. The cops were called to our house—I cannot recall why—and two police cruisers with four police officers got out in our driveway. Raymond charged them in a fit of rage; he would outstretch his massive tattooed arms as wide as they would go in a display of dominance while taunting them. He would beat his chest painfully while charging them and daring them to fight. He punched the roof of his car on the crease of the door frame and bent it.

“Why do you have to fuck with me?!” he screamed.

This time, the police left without a fight. We were not usually so lucky. Raymond had such a terrible rage that once, while trying to replace a headlight on his really nice antique truck, he lost his temper and beat the truck frantically with a hammer, finally throwing the hammer all the way through the rear glass.

Raymond was a bit of a conundrum. He was very violent and frightening, but he genuinely cared for us kids. He had a big heart and did a lot for us. I am sure that his violence, rage, and abuse were handed down to him from his upbringing. Of all my siblings, I got along the least with Raymond. Tim took to him quite naturally. In some ways, they are a lot alike. I, on the other hand, was nothing like Raymond. He ridiculed me for having book smarts but no common sense. I was often on the receiving end of “extra attention.” I was a strange child, more interested in science, invention, and the way things worked than in watching cartoons. I remember my third-grade teacher being surprised by my interest in creating a perpetual motion machine. It was around this time that Tim and I drifted apart a bit.

Things took a turn for the worse one morning when Tim and I woke up to an empty house. Naturally, we capitalized on the freedom and immediately set out on another adventure. Derrick woke up alone and wandered down our dirt road to Highway 60, wearing only a diaper, in search of Mom. Being a main thoroughfare for southern Missouri, there was plenty of traffic. Derrick made it quite a way down Highway 60 before a concerned passerby alerted the police and DFS.

By the time the police showed up to take us into state custody, we were so accustomed to seeing them that a conditioned fear and anxiety automatically kicked in. I can only speak for myself, but I can still recall the fear that engulfed me. My stomach was in knots, my hands were shaking, and I couldn’t breathe. I thought they were taking us to prison. We were placed in the backseat of the caseworker’s car. It was clean and smelled foreign. Tim and I exchanged a nervous look and watched our home shrink and then disappear behind the hill in the distance.