Bullied (11 page)

Lawrence, my Grandfather, is a quiet, polite, courteous, but hard-working man, easy going and obedient to his wife, Nell, who walks to work every morning at 7:30 AM Monday through Friday and comes home at 5:30 PM. Just as many other men, when he walks in the front door, he expects dinner to be ready and on the table. This is one of the few demands and expectations that he seems to have. Nell is always eager to please him but she always has more demands of him than he has of her.

Lawrence is always working around the house and has a well-equipped wood shop in the basement complete with a workbench, electric saws, vices and tools. When he is not sitting in his comfortable chair in the first floor family room, you will find him at the workbench downstairs in the basement. The house he purchased in order to provide a home for us initially needed a lot of work. When he was home, Lawrence was always working around the house, painting, adjusting, or enhancing the woodwork, working on heating systems, siding, or landscaping. There was not one system or part of the house with which he was not intimately familiar. A devout Catholic, he insists on saying grace before every meal and praying on his knees before bed every night. He is a good man.

After moving into our big white house, my Mom started taking me to church with her on Sundays and holy days. The church name is Saint Ambrose and their Priests and Sisters of Charity run a kindergarten and elementary school on the same parish grounds. Mom told me that the Catholic Church was very holy and wonderful, and that the Sisters of Charity and the Priests at Saint Ambrose Parish were the best people there were. If I was lucky, she said, I might be able to go to school at Saint Ambrose, but Mom did not know if she could afford it.

Walking into Saint Ambrose Church, holding my Mom by one hand, I look up and see the arches that support the ceiling from the many columns. These arches run down into round columns about twenty feet before the building walls. The sides of the church have many colored windows and the marked Stations of the Cross. Everything focuses on the front Altar, which is front and center at the nave. The sparkle of the candlestick holders and colored lights coming in from the large, stained windows create an incredible feeling of awe. I feel very safe here in this holy place.

One day at our house on the weekend, Mom said,

“I have to go to a church service today; do you want to come with me?”

Thinking I would see that huge and wonderful building again, I said,

“Yes, Mommy.”

After walking about five blocks to the church, we walked up the long front stairs and through the large main doorway.

“Mom, what is the service we are going to today?”

“Patrick, it is called a funeral,” Mom replied.

“What is a funeral?” I said.

“A funeral is a service for people that just died and are ready to go to heaven,” she said.

I already thought I knew what heaven was, a holy place we would all go to someday, so I had no more questions. As we seated ourselves about halfway to the altar, we were just to the left of a long box sitting at the front of the main aisle, near the altar.

As the service went on, I began to get this feeling inside my head and chest telling me what was inside that box. I felt fear in my stomach as I stared at the box, and could not look away from it. In the middle of the ceremony, when the Priest was swinging a smoking pot on a long chain, those feelings were overwhelming. Suddenly, I screamed, “My Daddy is in there, My Daddy is in there!” Repeating this number of times, I could not stop saying it because I knew my Father was in that box and I wanted him back. My mother picked me up, carried me hurriedly out of the church and scolded me as we walked home.

“How could you do that to me? You embarrassed me so much,” She said.

“Your Father was not in that box. What got into you that made you think he was?”

“I want my Daddy!” I said.

“Your Daddy has been dead a long time and is already in heaven,” she said.

“Where is he?” I cried.

“I will take you to the cemetery where his body is buried and show you, OK?” Mom said.

That afternoon, Mom put me in the car and took me to see Dad’s grave at the local cemetery. I stared at the name, John Henry Connolly on the headstone for what seemed like a long time. The memory of that headstone showing his name and the recollection of my behavior at the funeral would be with me for the rest of my life.

I guess she was right that Daddy was not in that box at the church. However, I still had a high emotional memory over the event of discovering his body but remembered not to say or do anything like that again. Going forward, I was sure there were just some things in this temporary world that you could not share with your Mom, or other family members. If you did, they would just get mad at you.

She took me back home, and, later that evening, I could hear her talking to Grandma and Grandpa in the kitchen about what I had done. They acted shocked about me embarrassing my Mother. They all agreed that it was difficult to understand how I could have imagined that my father was in that casket. According to them, I was too young at the time to remember anything at all about the incident of my Father’s death. Little did they know that the vision of my Fathers grimacing dark face and tightly closed eyes would be with me for all my days.

Listening to them as they talked, I thought it was very interesting about how the adults always whispered comments about children to each other. We, as children, could always hear them if we tried hard enough and got just a little closer. It seemed very funny the way they all pretended to be such calm, quiet, educated and professional people when they were out in public. However, when they got home, without any other adults watching them, they would act much differently. I did not understand this. Why do people pretend to be one way when they are another? I would ponder this question for the rest of my life.

As time moved on, being home at Grandma’s house began to be a predictable routine. Mommy would get up in the morning with us, help get us dressed, make us some breakfast and go off to work. When Mom went to work, she brought us downstairs to Grandmothers house. Grandma was always good to us. Nell is very caring, always smiling and paid close attention to us.

Grandma’s day starts about 6 AM, when she arose each morning with Lawrence, makes him breakfast and gets him off to work. Next, she gets Mary off to school by 8 AM. If our timing is right, coming down from upstairs with Mom, we could say hello to Mary before she goes off to high school.

Mary took me out for a walk one day and we ran into three boys, about her age that lived in the neighborhood. She told them that I was her nephew, but the boys noticed, that I, like Mary, also had red hair. They started to tease Mary about the fact that since we both had red hair, I must be her child. Mary's face got red and I did not understand why. Later she told me I could not go out with her too much anymore, but I love her anyway even though I am not her baby.

Time is moving very quickly because, most of the time, we had the same daily schedule for years until I was old enough to attend school. My family is planning to put me in something called kindergarten. Because I am only four years old, this is a little early because they could also put me in school when I was five. Starting me in school this year meant I would be out of the house so Grandma did not have to watch both Lauren and I every day. Lauren would start school the next year. School sounded like fun because there would be many other kids my age there. I always wondered what it would be like to be away from our house during the day.

For about a year now, after my father left us, our home is that big two-story white house with a long front porch on the bottom and smaller front porch on the second floor. Finally, September arrives and now I am beginning the first days of my schooling at the kindergarten at Saint Ambrose elementary school. These past months have been a peaceful period, with a lot of time spent with my loving family. However, I still miss my Daddy and many of the things about life are still a mystery. I did not know that there were many more terrifying mysteries ahead.

I am now four and a half years old and just barely old enough to go to school. I do not know what it will be like but the thought of going to kindergarten is very exciting. Today is my first day at Saint Ambrose Catholic elementary school.

“Are you excited about your first day of school, Pat?” asked Mom.

“Yes,” I said. Will there be other kids there too?

“Of course,” Mom replied.

“My age?”

“Of course they will be all about your age, Pat,” Mom said.

“Are they all Catholic, too?” I asked.

“Kids can’t go there unless they are Catholic. That’s why they call it a Catholic School,” Mom replied while looking for her car keys in the kitchen.

“Are the teachers going to be those big ladies in the white hats?” I asked.

“Yes, they are called Sisters of Charity, Pat,” Mom said with a grin.

“Why are they called Sisters?” I asked.

“Because they are all in the same Order.” Mom said.

“What’s an Order?” I asked.

“It just means they are all in the same group together”, Mom replied and went on, “Boy, you sure have a lot of questions. You are not scared of going to kindergarten, are you?” she asked while looking at me with a steady look into my eyes.

“A little,” I replied.

“Don’t worry, the Sisters and the priests will all take very good care of you,” Mom exclaimed, grinning and rolling her eyes.

“Are the priests going to teach me too?” I asked.

“Yes, sometimes the priests help the Sisters and teach a class or two,’ Mom replied.

“Oh,” I replied, thinking it would be something if the holy people that I saw giving Mass in Latin every Sunday also taught me in school.

“Ok, let’s go down to the car and I will take you to school today. I cannot do this after today because I have to be at work before you start school. You will just have to walk, “OK?” Mom said.

“OK, Mom”, I replied. Making that four and a half block walk alone every day sounded like a real adventure to me because, up until this point, I do not walk anywhere alone. Lucky for me, Mom and I had made this same walk every Sunday whenever we went to the St. Ambrose Church, which was the next building on the corner just past the St. Ambrose Elementary School.

We rode in her car from our house on Main Street to the school. The school, in a giant red brick building two stories high, has two large entryways on each side of the rectangular building. Each of these entry doors have two large split arched doors, so when both are open children can walk through the doors in a line two or more students wide. Inside the school, there are hard dark tile floors and lighter walls with many windows on each end of the hallway. A stairway on each end of the building provides easy access to the classrooms on the second floor. A long hallway on both floors provides access to the gymnasium bleachers on the first floor with many classrooms easily accessible to the right on the first floor and on both sides of the hall on the second floor.

Mom parked her car on the street and led me through the entry door on the right. Kindergarten is located on the first floor. After entering the building, we just walked a few feet, turned to the left into the hall, and went into the first classroom on the right. Walking toward the front and center of the classroom with Mom, I see a large desk with a tall Sister of Charity standing behind it watching some children seated in their desks. This Sister is taller than my Mom is and wears a giant white starched hat that looks like a bird in flight. I can only see her face because the dark blue dress, starched white vest and hat concealed her hair and most of her neck. A very long rosary hung from her waist with big beads and a black cross. This was a very unusual creature to me, but Mom and everyone in my family told me that they were very nice, good and holy people.

“Hello Sister, I am Marguerite Connolly and this is my Son, Patrick,” Mom said as she introduced us to the Sister.

“Nice to meet you, Mrs. Connolly and you too, Patrick. I am Sister Donna and I will be Patrick’s teacher for Kindergarten this year.

Mom looked at her watch and said, “Sister, I am on my way to work but I wanted to stop by with Patrick on his first day of school”.

Sister looked at me again with a kind look and replied, “I am glad you did, Mrs. Connolly, can I show him to his desk and then speak with you briefly?”

“Ok”, Mom said, “but I have to be going”.

“It will only take a minute,” Sister said.

Sister Donna then took my hand and bent over as she walked with me to one of the desks in the fourth row from the door and about three desks from the front of the room.

“Here is your desk, Patrick, try to remember where it is because you will be sitting here every day, OK?”

I nodded, and she showed me how to sit down in the desk. I could tell, at once, that Sister Donna was a very nice and loving person and she liked me.

Walking back a few feet to the front of the room, she spoke quietly to Mom,

“Can you tell me if he is toilet trained or has any special issues I should know about?”

Mom looked thoughtful for a few seconds and replied,

“Yes, he is toilet trained and, no, there are no other issues.”

“Will someone be picking him up after school?” Sister asked.

“No, we only live a few blocks from here and he knows the way”, Mom replied.

Sister Donna seemed a little surprised at this remark, glanced back at me and said,

“Are you sure he will be OK walking home?”

“Yes, there is no one that can pick him up and my Mother does not drive”, Mom said.

“How old is he?” Sister Donna asked.

“Patrick is four and a half, but he knows the way because we walk to the church next door every Sunday,” Mom said.

“Well, nice meeting you, Mrs. Connolly; we will take good care of little Patrick,” Sister Donna replied.

Mom gave me a careful glance and quickly walked out of the room. I knew she was already late for work and had to go. I sat in my desk in the middle of what would turn out to be a class of almost 50 kindergarten kids. It looked like it might be fun but initially; the gathering of so many youngsters around me was confusing and overwhelming.