Sunlight on My Shadow (2 page)

Before anyone knew about my trouble, my dad was the person I most feared facing. I was scared of how it would disgrace our family, but mostly I was scared of his anger and what he would think of me because it crushed me when I got on the wrong side of Dad.

By the time I was a teen, I didn’t particularly like hanging around home. Most kids are like that, but our house gradually took on an air of gloom after Mom got sick. She was in and out of the hospital with side effects from the drugs she took for her rheumatoid arthritis, and my brother Jeff had gone away to college. Sometimes it was just me and Dad at the dinner table. There was a code of acceptable conversation; if I had a good score on a test or got some kind of an award, that brought nods of enthusiastic approval, but if I was worried about a big paper coming up, or didn’t feel so hot, or was sad, I would hold that to myself. I don’t think Dad’s radar picked up on emotional needs. If I accidentally steered the conversation in the direction of negative feelings, Dad’s lips would get thin and I knew I had struck a wrong note.

Dad’s emotional makeup had two extremes. On the one end, he was jovial and excited—the life of the party. If friends dropped by he would spurt with genuine exuberance and make a fuss, asking Mom to set an extra place at the table, saying how good it was to see you. He had a way of swelling you up like a puff bird.

On the other end, he had a fiery temper. When something set him off, his body stiffened and his face got red and rigid. His voice could shatter glass. I never knew what was coming when his anger flared, but to me, it had the ominous potential of a hairline crack in a river dam. When I was very small he took me over his knee and spanked my bareness. I don’t know what nasty thing I did to invoke this treatment, but it might have been the time I pocketed some candy from the drugstore. He didn’t hit me after I was school-aged, even though it was the “spare the rod, spoil the child era,” and parents thought they should give us whippings to keep us in line. I tried fervently to refrain from invoking Dad’s anger. The best way to do that was to do what I was told. During most of my young years I succeeded, but as a teen I veered off into combustible territory.

Mom and Dad had some explosive fights that shook the marrow in my bones. I still quiver inside when someone around me yells or spouts anger directed at me. My words get stuck in my throat. If I talk the tears flow, so I hold it in. Then my silence makes me feel invisible, insignificant. This happens infrequently nowadays because most of the people around me control their anger—or maybe it’s because I’ve become less annoying.

My dad was over six feet tall and although he had a potbelly, his legs were quite thin, but you didn’t see that because he wore khaki pants that hung tight at the waist and then loose from there on down. Also, the commonly seen rounded derriere that serves as a trouser stabilizer was absent in Dad. His body shape proved to be a hazard. I remember him working in the garage with both hands occupied when the pants would go. Like a roller coaster rounding the top, there was no turning back. He’d puff out, “Sonofabitch,” stop what he was doing, and with disgust, yank the khakis back up to cover his exposed boxers and beanpole legs. In his later life, suspenders saved Dad from this pesky embarrassment.

The pants falling was a rare sign of Dad’s vulnerability, because in most areas Dad dripped with dignity and charisma. He could light up any party with his joke telling: he was a Pied Piper of sorts. His charismatic skills led the way for his success in business, at social events, and on the lake. He could charm a northern pike right onto his hook while others in the same boat were just swatting flies.

Dad didn’t like to leave the development of his prodigy to chance. His values were aptly conveyed: we should strive to be business owners because, if you work for somebody else, you’ll never make any money; it’s our duty as a family to stick together because if one is down, the others can help him back up; high grades in school are expected and praiseworthy.

Then there were the unwritten rules that I learned by example: Questioning laws or authority is commendable as long as you aren’t hurting someone else; don’t wait in a line if you can avoid it; and don’t sit in a traffic jam if you can weasel your way around it. Thinking up ways to be efficient and save time are indications that you have a brain on your shoulders.

One time, shortly after I got my driver’s license, Dad made an arrangement through his network. When I appeared in front of Judge So N So, I would be let off the hook for my recent speeding ticket. This scared me: would I have to lie? I stood in the courtroom and told the judge that I didn’t
think
I was speeding. He ruled in the cop’s favor and I got my deserved penalty. When I returned home and gave Dad the verdict, he spouted with disgust and said he’d have to talk to his contact to find out what went wrong. I could tell, though, that Dad thought I was the one who blew it.

Mom and Dad hosted Sunday Dinner for his five brothers at our house when I was young. It was a festive affair, with lots of business talk, gut-busting jokes, and booze flowing from the bottle to the glasses. The wives usually listened or talked amongst themselves while I sat unnoticed as I poked at my food, pretending I was still eating. No one said much to me except for the occasional comment from Uncle Phil, “You oughtta eat more ‘cause if a big wind came up, you’d blow away.” Hardy-har, they thought that was funny, but it made me cry inside because I hated being skinny and took it like a defect.

I may have been skinny, but I was strong. When I was in kindergarten, Dad held Poker Club at our house once a month. I remember when he’d give a yell upstairs to fetch me. The air was thick with cigar smoke and martini vapors; the men were gathered around green-felt-covered tables. They were usually sipping drinks, laughing and joking, with cards fanned out in their hefty hands when Dad would say, “Fellas, you have to take a look at Judy’s muscles. Go ahead, Judy, show ‘em what you got.”

On cue, with pride, I pulled up my shirt sleeve and bent my arm in a tight vee. Each time—it amazed even me—a golf-ball-shaped muscle popped up from under my skin. It was like a magic trick because it wasn’t something you would expect on a tender, string-bean arm. I thought I was akin to Popeye, the cartoon character who gulped cans of spinach, causing muscles to erupt on both arms. Dad didn’t like the dainty, helpless, or weak type of woman, but admired strength and independence. My right bicep was unnaturally large from frequent flexing, but I was glad Dad never asked me to show the one on the left. It didn’t seem to pop up properly.

I learned at an early age that my body shape, hair style, or clothes were an instigator of admiration or displeasure based on Dad’s keen eye. I fell in line, brushing my teeth daily and washing behind my ears. When I started kindergarten, I’d have my school bag strapped over my shoulder, ready to walk out the door, when Dad would say, “Judy, wait just a minute. Come over here.” Then he’d sit down on the couch and say, “Did you wash up? Lemme take a look.” I’d put my book bag down and walk over to him.

Then he would pin me between his legs and squint. “Smile. Let me see your teeth.”

I’d bare my teeth. “Now open up.”

He’d put his hands on the sides of my cheeks, tilt my head back, and look inside—up, down, and all around. Then he would bend my ears back and look in the crease behind. He might say, “Very good, go on to school.” Or, “There’s sleep in your eyes, give it another once over. I want to see that face of yours shine.” This was the routine, done in a matter-of-fact manner, like he was doing quality control on the assembly line at his factory.

When I was very little, Dad’s compliments felt like fairy dust, swirling through me and lightening my spirit. A fond memory is the day I came home from first grade with straight A’s: I thought Dad would take flight as he peered at my perfect report. I longed to repeat the performance, but the next year I got checkmarks for “lacks self-control”; I was prone to conversing with my neighbor.

Once I became a teen, the compliments from Dad were hard to come by and unpredictable, like a slot machine. I never quite knew when I would get the payoff, but I kept pulling the handle. I realize now that predicting how I could please Dad was a useless aspiration. He was like a sports coach, pointing out your weaknesses so you could improve. That was just his way of loving you and showing he cared about how you turned out. Sometimes he liked my outfit or new haircut, but I was often timid to show myself, especially when I had on my first pair of nylons or tiny high heels.

Dad was a master storyteller. My cousins and I would gather around for his stories of
The Snoose and the Snocker
(“POW,” he’d yell as he pounded his fist into his other hand) or
The Three Billy Goats Gruff
, when Dad would sometimes stand up to impersonate the troll under the bridge who wanted to eat the tender little billy goats in one bite. I shook with fright and delight at these stories.

There was an obvious gap in the subject matter of Dad’s stories, which was anything pertaining to family history. When I’d ask about our roots he’d say, “Better watch out, you might find out something you don’t wanna know.” I wondered if my great-grandpa was a thief or murderer.

As adults, we discovered Dad’s family secret. My sister, Jackie, had told Dad about her desire to visit New Orleans to work on our genealogy. “Don’t bother,” he said. “The courthouse burned down years ago with all the records.” Regardless of Dad’s warning, Jackie visited the Big Easy and uncovered my grandfather’s birth certificate with the race labeled “c,” for colored. We, the Liautauds, thought we were Forever White, but this revelation necessitated a closer look. Could it be true? After all, we had full lips, curly hair, and darker skin that tanned and didn’t burn.

Jackie came home, eager to see what Dad had to say about this discovery. Dad went off like a steam engine, sputtering and pointing his finger at the door. “Get out of my house,” he said, “and don’t you ever bring that subject up again.” Months later, my brother Jim supplied Jackie with copies of family certificates, many stamped with the “c,” confirming our black roots.

It was Uncle Phil who eventually filled us in on the details. In 1911, the social climate had changed for free men of color and their rights were being taken away. As Uncle Phil said, “They were pinning crimes on us and hanging our friends.” So, when Dad was seven years old, his family bought a one-way ticket north. On Friday they left their home in New Orleans, colored folk, unable to vote, ride the bus, or drink from a public fountain. On Saturday they stopped over in St. Louis, and boarded the front of the train. When they got off in Chicago, they were white and free with all the privileges of society’s favored race. We were “passing” for white.

The Liautaud family made a pact to never speak of it again. Uncle Phil told a story of Dad working as a bellboy at the same hotel as his mother, who worked as a maid. They pretended they didn’t know each other because association with Mama might have compromised Dad’s employment. You had to be white to work as a bellboy.

So when I got pregnant out of wedlock, it made perfect sense that Dad would first react with a burst of anger and then concoct a new story to protect our name. Judy would not bring shame to the Liautaud family when we had fought so hard for the rights of the privileged.

Where Dad was hard to please, Mom was just the opposite and tossed compliments at every step and turn as I spun through life. When Mom heard about my teen pregnancy, she was painfully distraught and blamed herself for not being there to “mother” me. I felt horrible that I had let her down; I didn’t think it was her fault that she was in and out of the hospital.

As a little girl, I could do no wrong and was often the center of attention. At first I didn’t know what Mom meant when she called me her blessing in disguise, but I came to realize that the disguise was the unwanted pregnancy and the blessing was the baby she couldn’t help loving. No one said it out loud to me, but I don’t think Mom and Dad really wanted a fifth child. Everyone knows how

life gets easier as the kids grow and become more independent. I remember Mom using a tone of exasperation when she talked about my birth, saying things like, “starting over at
my
age.” Mom called me the baby of the family, which insulted me from the age of four clear on up to adulthood.

I know I slid in there under the wire, just before Mom hit menopause. Jeff, next up from me, was already seven and Jim and John were sprouting facial hair and liked girls. Jackie, the oldest of the family, would turn nineteen just before I was born and was in love with her soon-to-be husband. I was hitched on as the caboose after the family train had been chugging along for almost twenty years.

Mom was a good Catholic and used the only method of birth control the church allowed, the rhythm method. I guess she lost the beat.

Mom told this story about my birth:

“I was lying in the hospital bed with you nestled in my arms—you were just a few minutes old. I looked up at the ceiling of the hospital room and rose petals began to fall from above. The Virgin Mary stood by you as big as life. She put her hands out over you like they do in church to bless someone. When I looked down, there were crimson petals lying softly near your little body. As fast as the Virgin Mary came, she was gone, evaporating into thin air. It was like she came to visit you, to bless you with a greater purpose. I got the message. I would only be here to guide and nourish you, but your life would have some greater significance.”

I always loved that story because it made me feel like I was a welcome and special addition to the family. I sometimes wondered if Mom took it to mean I was supposed to be a nun … Well, at any rate, that didn’t happen.

In my early years, we lived in the city of Chicago in a neighbourhood of mixed ethnicity on Fairfield Avenue. Mom used to flit around like a hummingbird: cleaning, rearranging furniture, and entertaining her bridge club ladies. She had lots of friends from the club and was also friends with the wives of Dad’s fishermen friends. Mom was a loyal comrade, but if you ever said something derogatory about her kids or committed some other odious offense, she would drop you like a flash in the night.

People said Mom was a nice-looking woman. It wasn’t so much that she was a natural beauty, but that she attended to the details of her appearance. Her ocean-blue eyes were her best physical asset, often twinkling with love diamonds when she cast her eyes upon her children.

Early on, Mom looked forward to her weekly visits to the beauty parlor and came home with cherry-red fingernails and a freshly curled hairdo she called a bustle. It was flat on the sides and held in place with two comb fasteners. The top and back of her head were full of puff, following the shape of a curly Mohawk. The bustle always looked best on the first day after the parlor visit, but it gradually flattened and frizzed out as the week wore on. Later on, when the arthritis had a grip on her, she couldn’t lift her arms high enough to maintain the do, so she had it cut short. She said it was easier to get a comb through it.

Mom often held a rosary to her chest, fingering the beads and moving her lips: she found a respite from pain through prayer.

She cherished the Virgin Mary statue that sat on the dining room shelf and the Sacred Heart of Jesus plaque that hung over the front door. Virgin Mary wore a powder-blue hood with white tassels that framed her porcelain face and a cape that draped over her shoulders. Her fingers were delicate and graceful, about to be clasped in prayer. The statue of the Virgin was only from the waist up.

The Sacred Heart of Jesus hung over the arched doorway. If Mary was only from the waist up to save on raw materials, the Sacred Heart of Jesus was super economical because it was just a heart and no body. Thorns that looked like barbed wire, wrapped around the bulging heart, and tears of blood dripped from the wounds. I thought it was a little creepy, just a heart and no Jesus, but Mom treated it like it was a sacred relic. She said it showed how Jesus suffered for our sins and blessed everyone who entered our home.

When I was nine we moved from our city bungalow on Fairfield Avenue out to the fresh air of the suburbs. Glenview had some older homes with stately trees and expansive yards, but we were in a newer area with saplings and freshly laid sod struggling to take hold. It was a trilevel house with three bedrooms upstairs: one for Jeff, Mom and Dad in the middle, and one for me. We had all the new conveniences, including a garbage disposal, push-button telephones, and a garage door that opened with a remote control.

In our freshly built house, I was enamored with the French Provincial decor. The sheer height of my headboard caused it to wiggle whenever I plunked down. It was made of wrought iron filled with cream-colored curlicues speckled with gold. The pink curtains slid on gold rings that chimed when the wind blew in. When I pressed the button in the middle of the dresser, the skirted arms popped open to expose the drawers. It was fun when I was nine, but by the time I was thirteen, I didn’t bother closing the thing anymore. I just left it with the arms splayed out and stuff hanging out of the drawers like a cornucopia. The messy room was a bone of contention between Mom and me. She was forever nagging me to clean up after myself.

The best feature of my bedroom was the window that opened over the garage. On daring, starlit nights, if I had a friend sleep over, we’d stand on a chair and climb out the window, dragging our pillows and blankets behind. We had to be careful because there was a good pitch to the roof, but if we kept our legs bent and the soles of our feet on the shingles, we could keep from sliding. Once situated, we’d lie back, listen to the crickets, smell the freshly cut grass, and count the falling stars. We made sure to tiptoe and whisper so we didn’t get busted. I thought it would be fun to smoke cigarettes up there, but since Mom quit smoking it was too risky. She was irritated by smoke and I was sure she would have been able to smell it right through the brick walls.

Around the time I was in fifth grade, Mom became incapacitated and we started having strangers live with us. Housekeepers, we called them. First it was an elderly, light-boned woman named Helen. She was from Hungary, cooked homemade spaetzle, and taught me how to knit. She brought her companion to live with us, a gentle but imposing black lab. The house took on a funny smell.

I had begged for a puppy when I was little, but Mom said she raised five kids and five dogs and that was enough. By the time I was born, canine number five was off to dog heaven. Jay Jay was a springer spaniel aptly named because the rest of the family were Jackie, Johnny, Jimmy, Jeffy, and Judy. My dad was John, so we joked that we should call Mom “J-Ethel.”

The next housekeeper was Hugren, the Barbie-doll babe from Iceland. She had a cleavage that could dwarf the Grand Canyon, ice-blue eyes, and a white-blonde bouffant. She had an unsympathetic and cool style about her, maybe because her English was sketchy.

I didn’t really interact with Hugren, just offered a polite hello and good-bye as I came and went. When I was a teenager, I spent most of the time in my room lying on the bed, talking on my pink Princess telephone. When Hugren heard about my “secret pregnancy,” she said she wasn’t surprised because she had noticed, while doing the laundry, that my panties were suspiciously unsoiled. What the heck? Who would notice such a thing?

When I was ten, Mom contracted the illness that changed her life. She was helping Dad skin a deer in our bunkhouse cabin up at Bond Lake, and the next day she came down with shooting pains in her shoulders, hands, and legs. Six months later she was diagnosed with rheumatoid arthritis. She tried everything for pain relief, including aspirin, narcotics, and steroids.

At first Mom made incessant trips to the doctor for cortisone shots. When those quit working, she tried a “specialist” who worked out of his home in Mount Prospect. It was a long ride out there and the treatments took about an hour. Mr. Quigley plunked her into a straight-backed “miracle chair” and strapped electrode-studded cuffs to her wrists and ankles. The chair was attached to what looked like a car battery. Although Mom said she didn’t feel anything after Mr. Quigley flipped the switch, he assured her that the treatment usually took a while to start working and it was the cumulative effect that would make the difference. Mom paid him a healthy sum, set up another appointment, and left feeling hopeful.

This just added to her long list of failed attempts at a cure for her pain. By the time I was in fifth grade, she spent most of her time in a motorized wheelchair, clipping corners and shaving the paint off the dining room wall. Dad hired house helpers to be Mom’s kitchen hand. She’d direct the cook like a robot, giving explicit directions on the action of the knife, the size the pieces should be, or the consistency of the concoction. She didn’t follow recipes but was a fabulous cook and had everything in her head, so it was particularly frustrating for her to communicate these artistic directives. She was crippled with aching stiffness that would flare up whenever a storm was looming. During high-pressure weather, her achy joints stayed at a constant painful hum. She used to say to me with a wistful look in her eye, “Oh, if only I could sweep the floor, or chop up some onions.”

It was my job to answer the buzzer at night and take her to the bathroom. By day, I was often kept busy fetching this or that for her, opening jars, or handing her the telephone. When I brought her a drink of Squirt soda or emptied her piss pot, she would sigh and say, “You’re my little blessing in disguise. I’m so thankful for you.” It was sweet that she was appreciative, but oftentimes I resented being on call. Just when I was talking on the phone about some boy or doing homework, she would give a yell from her mechanical bed in the living room.

“Jooooooody, come here, please.”

The shrill sound grated on my nerves. Her retrieval voice had a falsetto tone that carried far and beyond. If I was in the middle of something, I might say, “What now?” Then, after the task was done, I’d feel remorse because I was thoughtless and selfish. I reminded myself that Mom couldn’t help herself, but I was preoccupied with managing my adolescent social life. I prayed that there would be some miracle cure that would bring Mom back to the active, joyful homemaker she used to be.

I was proud of my mom when she was healthy and I was little, but as a teen, I am sad to say, I was embarrassed to bring friends over to my house. Besides for living in a motorized wheelchair or in bed, Mom had large bruises up and down her arms and legs from bumping into things. This bruising was a side effect of the prednisone, a steroid drug that she took for the pain. Her hands were swollen and her hair was now frizzy on the sides and flat in back from lying in bed and sweating. Despite my dread at the thought of introducing my mom, I still had friends over. But if they said something later, like “What’s wrong with your mom’s arms?” I’d cringe and feel protective of her, and get angry inside because it wasn’t something I wanted to talk about. A lot of the time Mom wasn’t home at all, because she had one illness after another that landed her in the hospital for weeks at a time.

The times I remember most are not when she got angry at me for not cleaning my room or when I disappointed her with my monster teen-pregnancy slipup; the memories I cherish are when she would joke and we would laugh together. One time, in the middle of the night, she grunted before I had the pot slid into the commode, pretending she was pooping on the bare carpet. I was horrified and didn’t think it was particularly funny because I would have been the one to clean it up, but she thought it was hilarious.

Sometimes, when I would go see her in the hospital, she would pat the bed next to her and say, “Come and lay down next to me.” So I’d crawl up there and have to lie on my side so I’d fit. Then she would clunk her arm on top of me and pat me and say with a sigh, “My little blessing.” I could physically feel her love swirling around me in a warm glow.

Mom had good days and bad days. If it was a bad day and the phone rang, she’d lean over to grab it, wince with pain, and cry out at the sudden movement. She’d lift the receiver from the cradle and say calmly, “Oh, hello, Edith. I’m fine, just fine, how are you?”

Her cheery tone never faltered.

One time I asked, “Mom, why don’t you tell people how you really feel?”

“People don’t want to hear about your aches and pains. What can they do about it, anyway? Besides, I hate sympathy.”

When Mom was in her mid-forties she accidentally got pregnant with me. Then, when I was a teen, I accidentally got pregnant. I regret to think that a baby in the womb might be able to sense how welcome they are. Perhaps I could feel the level of anticipation for my arrival by the way Mom rubbed her belly. And maybe I could feel the retching and discomfort of the nausea that filled our space. Maybe the haunting feeling I get now and again of “not belonging” is an echo from my time in utero.

When I think about how the mom and baby are connected in such an intimate way, I feel a profound sadness at how I acted when I was sixteen. I never thought of it as a real baby. I knew it intellectually, but I never touched my belly with any love or care. It was just a horrible growth attached to my insides, sucking the life out of me. All I could do was pray for a miscarriage. I heard that one in five pregnancies self-terminate because it is nature’s way of taking care of imperfections. I never thought in terms of the precious life I was sheltering and nourishing within my womb. I hated everything about it. I was nauseated and then I was getting fat. It was an embodiment of my sinful nature and flagged my lack of self-control. It was a shame generator, spewing ugliness and self-loathing.