None of It Meant a Thing

I'm not exactly sure how many kids I've got. I admit to three, but it could be four. Y'see, a couple of months before I married Irene I got blamed for getting a kid in the neighborhood pregnant. Her name was Kathleen, and she came from one of those families that are so big you have to use the fingers on both hands to check off all the kids' names. Every Sunday morning you could see them all, trooping along to St. Luke's, rain or shine, Kathleen hand in hand with a couple of the younger ones. My mom knew them from St. Luke's, and I used that, in fact, to first get talking to Kathleen.

She was na•ve and pretty, and if I remember correctly, seventeen years old. I just couldn't help myself. I was twenty-four at the time, caught in the marriage trap, and bored as hell. Irene was driving me crazy. All she talked about was the goddamed wedding and her — our, big plans for the future. And worse, she still whined and struggled to keep me off her every time I tried anything. We'd been together for nearly two years, for Christ's sake, and she was still acting like the Virgin Mary. It was 1965, but the Women's Lib. thing sure hadn't made any impression on Irene. Nice girls didn't, bad girls did. And so I saw Kathleen, on the sly a few times, if you know what I mean.

Anyway, one day her old man turns up at our apartment looking for Ray O'Connor — that's me — and starts shooting off at the mouth about how he'd just found out that his daughter was pregnant, and that I was responsible. He was so fired up, and I was so taken aback, that I couldn't get a word in.

“You have no business taking up with my daughter,” he hollered, jabbing his index finger at me.”My wife is in a terrible state…we're a decent family you know! You took advantage of a young girl!” He was almost in tears, his voice failing him by the time he got to telling me how innocent his daughter was before I lay my filthy hands on her.

My mom and my younger brother, Donny, were hovering behind me in the hallway. I could tell that my mother was thunderstruck by the accusation — her first concern, without a doubt, would be what people would say. Mom's enjoyment in life came from worrying about what God, neighbors and relatives, in that order, thought about her and her family.

I looked at Kathleen's old man straight in the eye. “Listen buddy,” I said, “Your little princess has been with half the guys in the neighborhood. Anybody could be the father.” I was lying of course, but what else could I do? If lying saves your ass, go right ahead. I always believed that. And whoever said it was wrong to kick a man when he was down was an idiot.

“You dirty…” The old man went bug-eyed with rage, and the next thing I know he's lurching at me. This guy is at least sixty years old, seriously overweight and moves like an ox. And he wants to take me on! So, I just pop him one, right on the side of his fat head. He staggers sideways, a look of disbelief on his face, his legs buckling under him. I take the chance to give him a swift shove that knocks him right on his ass. That's something else I learned early on —make sure you always get the first punch in, if you want to come out on top.

My mother shrieked, and Donny, the ever-dutiful son, put his arm around her in a way that really pissed me off; as if I'm dangerous and he's some sort of big hero. Anyway, the last thing I heard as I slammed the door was the old man damning me to Hell and yacking on about how I had ruined his daughter's life.

In the end I had to give Irene an ultimatum. If she believed that I was the father of this kid then everything was off between us. No wedding, nothing. Or she could just let it go, and everything would be fine again. But she had wept and moaned until I couldn't stand it any longer.

“Everyone's saying it's true Ray,” she whined, crying into a balled up, snotty handkerchief. God, she looked terrible in that state — red-eyed and blotchy, her straight brown hair hung over her face as she sat, head-bent and sniveling, on the couch. A real mess.

“I don't give a shit what everyone is saying,” I told her,” Listen, if you want this wedding to go ahead just drop the subject.” So she did.

I'm not sure what became of Kathleen, whether her life was ruined or not. She just kinda disappeared; her old man had her shipped out, no doubt, before her belly started to show. Don't know what happened to her, or the kid — I wasn't exactly on the family Christmas card list, y'know? My mother, scandalized by the whole thing, took to attending a church that was a bus-ride away, where she could be no one in particular.

The main reason so many marriages fail is very simple: There are just too many differences between men and women. Women remember stuff, right? Or, they never forget anything; depends how you look at it. Then they wait for the right moment to cast it all up, right in your face. Like Irene did with the Kathleen thing. “I should have left you with that little slut, Kathleen…I must have been crazy to want you…to cry over you,” she once screamed at me. Irene could crush me with words; I never showed it, but she could make me feel like a real loser. She would go on about how I didn't earn enough money, made me feel that she was too good for me. On and on she would go until…until, well I would just snap. I guess what I'm saying is that women have different defense mechanisms than men. Women use words. Men use actions. And Irene sure remembered to have the whole Kathleen thing brought up when we were getting divorced, fifteen years after it all happened. See what I mean?

Me and Irene tied the knot in sixty-five; June I think. I say “knot” because that's what it felt like from the start — as if a noose had been put round my neck and was being slowly tightened. I can remember standing in church looking at Irene, my bride, listening to the priest make it sound like I was volunteering for life imprisonment, with no hope of parole and a death sentence thrown in at the end.

I hated the whole marriage, happy families thing. It was a big disappointment. With Irene it just seemed I struggled all the time to be the man of the house, like my old man had been.

When I was growing up my old man's word was law in our house, which was kinda fitting I guess. No arguments, no whining. Or else you knew what was coming. And that went for everyone, including Mom sometimes. My dad, Morris O'Connor, ex-Marine Corps and infamous hard-assed cop, took shit from no one. The very sight of my old man striding along the sidewalk could scare the bejeezus out of anyone who had something to hide. And it was the same at home. We were scared of the old man — probably terrified, but, unlike Donny, I couldn't help but have a lot of respect for him. He didn't negotiate, he didn't compromise and I don't remember him ever kidding around with us. But to me my dad was a real man — a no bullshit kinda guy. Just like me.

Mom? Well, to be honest Mom bugged me a little. I know I shouldn't have felt like that but she just went around with this pathetic, defeated look on her face all the time. As if life was hell, and she was really suffering. O. K. so trying to second-guess the old man all the time got a little difficult, but she had a lot to be grateful for. She had a decent apartment in a decent neighborhood, a husband that put food on the table and took care of things, and two healthy boys — me and Donny.

Mom liked delving into other people's lives, and the more miserable they were the more she enjoyed it. She would read about all these famous people and their tragedies in books borrowed from the public library, and in magazines she bought at the corner newsstand. They had to be big on abandonment, neglect, infidelity and tragic death for her to feel satisfied. The Kennedy's became her favorites, as a matter of fact, after the president got his brains blown out in nineteen sixty-three. “Poor Jackie Kennedy and those beautiful kids, left with no daddy” became a fascination that lasted the rest of Mom's life. It was kinda strange because anyone writing about mom would have run out of stuff to say by about page twelve.

Donny always tried to make out that Mom was depressed or lonely or something. He said that was why she went to church. But what the hell was she praying for all the time? Perfect happiness and contentment? World peace? Forget it.

He used to do stuff for her all the time, Donny, which pissed me off. I would argue with her, like all kids do, if she tried to send me on an errand, but Saint Donny would actually offer. Sometimes he would go to the store with her and carry home the groceries, and she would give him extra pocket money. Which he would always save. Y'know me and Donny shared a room, and I used to go through his stuff all the time, but I never did find out where he stashed his savings. We were always different, Donny and me.

Mom had different ways with us. Often, in the evening her and Donny would sit in the kitchen together, talking and drinking tea. I would stay in the living room, trying to listen to the radio or watch T. V. , distracted by their low voices and the old man's snoring. What the hell did they get to talk about? The price of bread and potatoes? Sometimes I could even hear Mom laugh a little. But with me it was different. I could be in a room with Mom for hours and we would hardly exchange two words. And sometimes I'd get that weird feeling, y'know? when you sense someone is staring at you, and you turn round and catch them looking right at you. Mom used to do that to me — I would turn and she would be just staring at me — with this strange look on her face. It sounds crazy, but she just looked so…I don't know… sad. It used to annoy the fuck out of me.

Mark was born less than a year after me and Irene were married; that would have been March, no April, of sixty-six. A couple of years later came Perry, and then in seventy-two Stephanie was born. The sex thing between me and Irene was all over by the time she had Stephie. It had been a letdown from the beginning, to be honest. Whatever she thought she had that was worth waiting for sure turned out to be a disappointment. I had got bored with Irene real quick, and I felt cheated.

I guess I kinda loved the kids, but not in that twenty-four hours a day way that Irene seemed to think was necessary. Women love all that house and kids thing, but the average guyÉwell he needs to have a little freedom. Unless you're Donny that is. I had tried my hand at a lot of different jobs — everything from bar work to car sales, while good old Donny went through college and became a high-school teacher. He ended up married with two perfect kids, and a house in the suburbs. The wife, Grace — way too pushy for my liking — acted like the daughter Mom never had, and Mom would treat going for a visit like she was going on vacation. I haven't seen Donny for a while Ð Mom died in ninety-seven, so I guess the funeral was the last time. I remember that day. When it was to time to go home and we were saying goodbye, he almost put his arm around me. Then, he just shook my hand instead. “You must come by sometime,” he said, “Stay over.” I said that would be great, but we both knew it would never happen.

Things were never good between me and Irene, and they got a lot worse when the kids came along. The repetition, the boredom, the disappointment of every day life drove me crazy. Everybody seemed to know what was going on between us, thanks to her. She would leave, and come back; then I would walk out and she'd beg me to come home. And I always made her beg too. Bad enough when a guy gets the better of you, but it's ten times worse when it's a woman. But I'm an expert at the old mind-games thing. Just play up the deadpan indifference, and you've got them in the palm of your hand. Make them feel you're the best thing that could ever happen to them. “You need me a lot more than I need you,” I would tell Irene, in the same low, mean voice I used when some ass-hole tried to get smart with me. You gotta show people you mean business. “You want to be alone with three kids? Fine with me. You want this to work, stop being a pain in the ass.” And Irene would always end up crying, promising things would get better and that it wasn't my fault. It's all about self-esteem y'know?

Things really started getting bad when I decided to take Perry in hand. I had never come across a kid — a boy — like him before. He clung to Irene from the day he was born, cried when she left the room, couldn't be left with anyone. I blame Irene. She went along with it; she loved being the only one that Perry wanted, as if being unable to escape his grasp gave her a mission in life.

Mark and Perry never played together that much. Mark was a normal kid, and now and again he would tell his little brother stories, or let him be his sidekick in some adventure he had dreamed up. It seemed to me, though, that Perry liked playing with his little sister a bit too much. He was too familiar with her little girl games for my liking.

When Perry was around ten — Mark must have been about twelve — I called the boys into the back yard one summer's evening. I just wanted to throw the football around a little, check out if they were any good. Mark was fine — a little subdued, but he could lob the ball and catch it any which way. But Perry…he kept dropping it like it was a hot potato, and somehow made it spin back over his shoulder every time he tried to throw it. I was getting impatient, and it showed. “Jesus Perry, what's the matter with you?” I snapped. “Grab the goddamed ball hard with both hands.” I could see he was scared — of the ball and of me. He couldn't take his eyes off me, watching my reaction every time he screwed up. That made me angry, and I started shouting at him to try harder. I got even madder when Mark started making these pathetic little passes to him, passes that a two year old could have done something with.

In the end I sent Mark inside. I told Perry to stand at the farthest end of the yard and I started throwing the ball at him. He missed every catch. Every one. I turned and saw Mark standing at the kitchen window, Irene behind him, trying to look inconspicuous. Perry, his chest heaving, his mouth trembling, knew they were watching. I went crazy – I really lost it. I shouted at Perry, right into his face. Bunching and unbunching my hands, I told him he was a little sissy, a mama's boy who couldn't even catch a football. I remember my spittle flying into his face and his teeth chattering. I only wanted to straighten him out; toughen him up a little.

Things were never the same after that. That night was a turning point, for all of us. It was the beginning of the end. I remember the silence as the kids went to bed, and then Irene calling me a son of a bitch. I had to hold her wrists as she tried to get at my face, hissing through clenched teeth that O. K. Perry couldn't catch a football, or swing a baseball bat, but he was her child — and she wouldn't have him any other way.

Every one of them cut me right out of their life after that. I'd walk into a room and they would stop talking, the boys edging their way out, and vanishing upstairs. I don't know what they told Stephie — she was only about six — but she started looking at me like I was the bogie man, and hardly left her mother's side whenever I was around. No amount of shouting and threats could make them see just whose goddam house they were living in, who was feeding them, and putting clothes on their backs.