My Father's Secret. Part One.
My father’s secret. Part One.
With the approach of Father’s Day, I often think of my dad. He has been gone now, 19 years. My life growing up with him was a mixed bag as he was a man who seldom showed his real or sensitive side. As a child, I was his diametric opposite, which in retrospect seems appropriate. After all, as a father myself, I am blessed with children (in particular a son) who is nothing like me. The juxtaposition that fate offered Dad, me, my daughter Mary, and my son Benjamin was an opportunity to grow and learn from each other. To adjust and allow a level of seasoning to our approaches hopefully aiding in proper navigation of the minefield of familial relations. In my case, especially as it relates to Dad, time and hindsight allow one to see the mistakes as opportunities and in turn, grow. Dad, unfortunately never seemed to embrace those openings presented to him.
Adversity was written in my father’s countenance. His hardscrabble Great Depression Era upbringing made it thus. Dad was a man of quietness mostly, except when the demons came, and when they did, his emotions became volatile. This state was normally presaged by alcohol, which my father was an ardent imbiber of. He would go from calm and stoic to merry and jovial to enraged and physical, contingent upon the provocation. As a boy of 4 years old, I once saw him pummel a man unmercifully who had dared enter our yard, chasing his wife who ran to our house for shelter amid a domestic violence situation. After the police came, they shook hands with my father and he was all smiles, reacting as if nothing untoward had occurred.
Dad was never one to show his affection or emotion with his offspring, especially me, the last of five children with 8 years separating me and my closest sibling. I was often treated, understandably as an afterthought. I was in large regard, another “mouth to feed” and seen as burdensome. This facet of his character confused me in ways that I found quite vexing as a child and even as an adult. In quiet moments, they still leave me wondering about him. In reality, my father was a simple man. Once a door was closed, it remained so. I always want to assign more complication to his character than I think he possessed. In my thinking, it might somehow explain the reason for the distance in his eyes, the pain that was there and yet not there.
The first time I saw this pain was as a child of maybe 7 or 8. I had wandered into the recesses of our garage and found a box containing old family photographs. I pulled from the box an old black and white photo of what was my dad holding a baby and sitting in an old “Ford Model T” automobile. The picture was taken on a farm in what I assumed was Oklahoma where my father was born and grew up. Intrigued with the photo I ran to the house, saw my dad and simply asked: “Dad, who is this baby?” As I handed him the photo, I saw the change in his expression. Calm and tranquility began to form into furrowed anger. I knew then, I had entered the maelstrom. As he snatched the photo from my hand he backhanded me across the face, sending me to the floor. Shocked and stunned I began to weep, uncertain of what my crime had been. My stepmother, hearing the commotion ran from the kitchen to stand between Dad and me as when my father raged, it often knew no end. Gathering me from the floor, comforting me, and helping me to my room, I lay on my bed, mildly sobbing in my stunned and still incredulous emotional state.
Closing the door behind her, I listened as my stepmom confronted Dad over the photo, protesting my innocence, infuriated at my father’s reaction. Dad remained silent, accepting neither responsibility nor remorse over his visceral reaction. I drifted off into sleep, tears staining my pillow and confusion buffeting my soul.
After the storm receded, my stepmother roused me from my nap with a cup of tomato soup and a grilled cheese sandwich. Her smile was a welcome sign of calm. She sighed deeply, contemplating her words: “Allan, your father was angry with you, that much you know right?” Staring into the pools of calm in her brown eyes, I nodded. “I want to explain why he was angry; will you listen to me?” “Yes Ma’am” I replied cursorily, albeit not desirous of revisiting earlier events.
She then went on to spin a tale of my father, who before World War II (In which he served as a Marine) met a young woman at a dance. They got to know each other and dated for a brief interlude. The woman confided in my father that she was pregnant, (before their fledgling courtship) and was confused and alone, being shunned by her family for disgracing them. My father, being sympathetic, took pity on her and married her so that the infant in her womb would have a name and not be considered a “bastard” child. “Your father thought that he would not be coming home from the war. He honestly thought that his fate was to die in the South Pacific and he married this young woman so she could get the life insurance and he might leave a legacy of good. The little girl (I hadn’t realized it was a girl) was not “his”, he was merely doing the honorable thing.”
As a young child, I took this story for what it was worth, believing it and in my pre-adolescent thinking, the matter was settled. Struggling with uncertainty and unfounded guilt, I wanted to move on with the incident. I thought nothing more about the curious little photograph that had caused such consternation in the house on that balmy summer day.
Life however is not static. And stories told to you as a boy are often disguised as half-truths.
Fall 2022.
As I navigated the country road towards the highway and home, my phone rang, Siri calmly announcing that “Maryvon” was calling me. Smiling, I toggled the “hands-free.” button on the steering wheel. “Hey Von!” I said with a lightness in my voice. “Dad, are you driving now?” she inquired curtly. “Yeah, I’m headed home from work, what’s up.” “You should probably pull over, I found something. It’s pretty important.” Curious, I piloted my vehicle to a parking lot and stopped. The seriousness in Mary’s tone piqued my interest, my mind began to dread potential bad news.
Since completing her Graduate studies degree in 2022, Mary acquired a clerk position at the City of Kyle public library. One of the perks of said position was unlimited access to websites like “Ancestry.com.” As curiosity and boredom overtook her on a slow day, she started entering in family names, just to see what a cursory search would yield.
“Dad I was searching Ancestry.com and I found a name attached to Grandpa. I think you have a sister…” I sighed deeply remembering the “photo” and its aftereffects. “Von, no I think you may be misinterpreting something here, I’m not related to that person.” I then went on to relate the story my stepmother told me, assuring her that the “child” in question was not his, therefore not related to us.
Mary, of course, being the intellectual sleuth that she is chimed in: “Dad, that story doesn’t make sense, the dates are wrong. You said that he married this woman before he left for the war in ‘41 and she was already pregnant?” Listening intently now, I replied: “Yeah, that’s right.” Mary paused on the other end of the line: “Dad, the dates don’t add up. This child was born in 1945.”
Suddenly, the realization of Mary’s research flooded through me. That photo. The photo that caused so much dismay was more than I was led to believe. That was a photo of my long-lost sister.