Memorial Day by Mel Grieves

Note to readers: This is a piece of fiction I wrote years ago, intended to be part of a novel about victims of childhood sexual abuse dealing with those issues in their adult lives. I served on a board of directors for a nonprofit organization established to help people struggling with these issues. I think I’ve lost what it takes to do justice to such a novel. It’s too gut-wrenching. But I still like this piece. My own grandmother Maude shows up as a character, as does my hometown.

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© 2011 Melody Grieves.

MEMORIAL DAY

When I was little, I called it “Remembery Day.” It’s one of the few times I can recall my parents noting anything I did or said was cute. Mostly they didn’t pay me much attention at all, which is probably the reason I prized the attention I got from my brother Charlie. I would do anything for his approval, and would forgive him just about anything. If not forgive, then forget. I had a lot to forget, as it turned out. I remember the day I decided to start forgetting big chunks of my childhood. Memorial Day, 1965. I was 13.

Meekerville’s Memorial Day parade got under way at 10 a.m. That meant I got up early to decorate my bike. Since we turned six, Sally Duncan and I always rode our bikes in the parade. In the early years we joined the procession for the last half mile as it passed our houses on Main Street, winding up the only hill in town, and ending in the cemetery with the veterans-led ceremony and 21-gun salute. We were used to that half-mile ride. We made it often during the summer, accompanied by Sally’s older sister, for afternoon picnics. We liked the oldest part of the cemetery, where the pine trees had grown tall and the weathered tombstones served as table and chairs. Sally’s sister would sneak off with one boy or another while we sipped Kool-Aid and munched our sandwiches and made-up stories about the people buried beneath us.

But on this, my thirteenth Memorial Day, I would start where the parade started, south of town near the little league fields, along with all the veterans in uniforms, high school marching band members with white spats covering black sneakers, farmers on tractors, village VIPs in convertibles, 4-Hers on horseback, and half the town’s kid population on bikes, decked out with flags and streamers, bringing up the rear. And I would be going without Sally, who had recently decided she liked boys more than bikes. If that’s what turning 14 meant, I wasn’t at all anxious to do it.

I awoke before the alarm went off, pulled on cutoffs, a sweatshirt and new PF Flyers, then scrambled downstairs, carrying the box of crepe paper, Kleenex flowers and miniature flags. Maude was already stirring up breakfast.

“Sit down and eat first, monkeyshine,” she told me. “Made your favorite. Ham and raw-fried potatoes.”

I considered skipping the food. “Do we have syrup for the potatoes?”

Maude made a face at me. “You’re a funny kid. Who ever heard of such a thing? Yeah, we got syrup. Get it out of the cupboard if you got to have it.”

“Okay, I’ll eat first.” I found the familiar shape of Mrs. Butterworth without having to duck my head into the dark cupboard and settled in at my place at the kitchen table.

Mom, still in her robe, came into the kitchen, her beehive hairdo still adorned with the toilet paper wrap that kept it in place during the night. She used to always be the first one up in the morning. She used to never let people see her with the toilet paper on her head, and no matter how early I got up, the bathroom already smelled like Dove soap and Aquanet hairspray. But this past year she was sleeping in later. Staying up later too, watching tv and snacking on candy she kept hidden in those deep robe pockets and going to bed long after everyone else in the house was asleep. She peered into Maude’s skillet. “I was going to make Tom some pancakes.”

“Too late. He’s already gone down to the coffee shop.”

I wondered if Dad would come back home in time to help me decorate my bike. It was kind of a tradition with us. Where Mom lacked any sense of color coordination or artistry, Dad had a good eye for detail and design. And he was good at staying in the background and advising, rather than Mom’s impatient habit of busting in and doing it for you. Not that I really needed help anymore. I just liked those times with Dad.

Mom got out the Bisquick anyway. Making pancakes was her holiday morning tradition, even if the dog was the only one eating them. She cracked an egg into a bowl. “Oh, he’ll be back for pancakes. He loves my pancakes.” She stopped and stared out the window for a moment. “No,” she said. “Don’t say it. I know. It was Charlie who loved my pancakes.”

Neither Maude nor I had planned on saying any such thing.

Mom got the milk out of the fridge, added some to the bowl. She never measured when she cooked. “This is the first Memorial Day without him.”

I thought back to just a week after Memorial Day last year. That was the weekend Charlie died. We’d seen a lot of firsts without Charlie in the past year, a lot of pancakes going to the dog. First Fourth of July without Charlie, first Labor Day without Charlie, first Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Years, Easter and assorted birthdays without Charlie. I suddenly found myself feeling guilty for being glad this was the last first anything without Charlie.

Maude sat at the table with me and slurped in a swig of coffee. She winked at me. “Ahhhh…black as the devil and hotter ’n hell.”

Mom, pulled back to the present by her own mother’s irreverence, whipped the batter with a fork and smiled grudgingly. “Oh Mama, honestly!”

I was glad for Maude’s humor. She was the only one in the family who still acted like herself. Dad was not around much since he’d started working nights, and now even quieter during the times he was around. Mom was moodier than she’d ever been, which was saying something, and you had to be careful to quickly disappear when she went off on one of her tantrums or crying jags. I guess I was different too, but I couldn’t say how. It seemed befuddlement was my usual mental state, not knowing exactly how to act. Afraid of some feelings, ashamed of others.

But you could depend on Maude. And since she was in a humorous mood, I figured I could cajole her into giving up one of her bridge decks and a few spring-loaded clothespins for noisemakers on my tire spokes. She went for it, after giving me a bit of a hard time. I set to work giving my bike its best Memorial Day showing to date.

Maude and her cronies lined the front porch and hollered and waved when I rode by the house. Dad sat on the other end of the porch, his nose in the newspaper, and didn’t notice. I saw Mom come out the front door as we rounded the corner toward the cemetery. At least she was dressed and the hair t.p. gone.

Once at the site, I hiked my bike up the grassy hill so I could watch the ceremony from a secluded spot. The program wouldn’t start until all the folks who walked along behind got there. I knew the routine. Old Colonel Dubanich would give his speech about patriotism and sacrifice. The mayor would read the names of Meekerville residents who had died in the World Wars, Korea, and now Viet Nam. It would end with the 21-gun rifle salute. That was the part I both loved and hated. I loved the idea of it, showing honor and respect to fallen heroes, so fiercely that you hoped their spirits would be able to hear it. Yet the crack! crack! crack! of the shots disturbed me on a level that I didn’t understand. More than just the loudness of it. Standing 50 yards away didn’t diminish the shock of the gunfire much, but it let me be alone with my thoughts and fears, without interruption or influence.

This year was no different. Except for two things: my mother had made the walk up to the cemetery; and the newest name on the list of the fallen was Charlie McGee, first Meekerville casualty of the war in Viet Nam.

I couldn’t take my eyes off Mom. She, too, stood apart from the crowd, but not as far as I did. I was sure she hadn’t seen me. The way she stood there, her cotton print dress fluttering in the breeze, reminded me of the photo in the picture box, the one where she was holding Charlie as a baby. They both had this way of standing on one leg, the other knee cocked and toe pointed to the side. There were more pictures of Mom with Charlie in the picture box than there were of any of the rest of us in any combination. And not even one picture of Mom and me. Of course, we all knew Charlie was her favorite. When they told her he’d been shot and killed, she wailed “Oh no, not Charlie! Dear God, not Charlie!” I knew she really meant “Take Elizabeth or Janet or Bill or Kathy, but not Charlie.”

We all loved Charlie. He was trouble, but he was also charming and full of light. Some of my earliest memories are of Charlie…taking us swimming at the lake, meeting me on my way home from school with a fun surprise, not minding if I tagged along with him and his buddies to the drug store for a Coke. My sister Janet considered it a pain to have to babysit me, and often foisted me off onto Charlie, who didn’t have a problem with it at all. He was more of a hero to me then than he was now as a fallen war vet.

Charlie could do no wrong in my mother’s eyes. Even though he had done plenty wrong in his short life and finally paid for some of it. He got into fights in school. Mom would say he was probably defending someone else. He did stupid, dangerous things, and Mom would marvel, “That boy just isn’t afraid of anything, is he?” He got a girl pregnant and married her and they lived with us until they moved into a dumpy little apartment on the edge of town, and all Mom would come down on was the girl who tricked Charlie into marrying her; Mary Jo, who was all of 14 when she met 20-year-old Charlie. When Charlie went to prison for robbing a gas station, Mom was certain it was Mary Jo who’d talked him into it. And then Mary Jo had the nerve to divorce him while he was in prison—the slut, the bitch—and that’s why Charlie went off and joined the Army and got himself killed in Viet Nam. Having nothing other than my mother’s perspective on all this stuff, since no one else in the family would dispute her, I guess I pretty much believed her.

Except… except…I couldn’t quite name it. Except there was a flip side to all of that hero worship. I mourned the death of my brother, but there was another Lizzie inside me who felt relieved, saved even. When Mom had asked me to read aloud Charlie’s obituary in the local paper, I smiled when my name was listed as one of his “survivors.” I immediately felt ashamed of myself and hoped she hadn’t seen it, but didn’t dare look up or stop reading, scared of her reaction if she had.

What had I been afraid of? That she would slap me like that other time? Oh God, I was beginning to feel sick. I didn’t want to remember all this. Colonel Dubanich was nearing the end of his speech. Soon the names would start. I was here to honor heroes like my brother, and all I could think about was the morning years ago when Mom came into my room to see why I wasn’t up and getting ready for school. I told her my tummy hurt. She pulled back the covers to check me out.

“Elizabeth! Where are your pajamas? And underwear? Why aren’t you wearing any pants?”

“Charlie took them off last night.”

She stood over me, silent for a moment. Then she slapped me hard across the face. “Don’t ever say anything like that again. Charlie would never do such a thing. You’re a dirty little liar. Now get up and get dressed and go to school!”

Charlie had warned me not to tell anyone about his nighttime visits or the tricks he and his friends had me do for treats, but I guess with not feeling well and being half asleep, I’d forgotten. As hurt and shocked as I was, Mom’s reaction scared me more than anything. I remember feeling confused, but knew in my heart that the best thing to do was to stay quiet and out of the way, and if I could, forget about the whole thing. It wasn’t much later that Charlie married Mary Jo and told me he had someone else to do tricks with. I’d resented Mary Jo, so like Mom, I tended to blame her for all the new problems in Charlie’s life. And I’d muddled on, busy with learning the things that a kid is supposed to be learning and put those confusions out of mind.

Until this thirteenth Memorial Day. Suddenly unwanted memories crashed back into my head and I could not stop them.

The guns started to crack. I bolted, pedaled my bike around tombstones and over graves until I got to the path that led to the old section and the safety of the tall pines. I sat on a marker with its name lost to time, and cried until I puked my guts out.

By the time I felt like riding home, the crowd had gone. I rode around the cemetery’s perimeter road just to make sure I avoided anyone who might still be there. But that led me past Charlie’s grave, and there was Mom, lying on top of it, curled up like a baby and bawling full out. I was close enough to hear her, but held back, out of sight. She would be more unpredictable than ever in that state, and I wasn’t feeling too sure of myself, either. I yearned for a closer connection with her, but I was also afraid of her. I ached for her loss, and I hated her for not seeing my pain. I missed Charlie, but hated him for making my life so complicated. Hated him for the sickening memories. I knew I would probably never understand it all. It was just too hard.

I’d missed seeing Maude coming up the road. She knelt beside Mom, shook her shoulder gently. You rarely saw Maude do anything gently. She got Mom to her feet, wrapped a sweater over her shoulders and kept an arm there as she walked Mom slowly out of the cemetery. I got close enough to hear Maude tell her, “Just keep putting one foot in front of the other. Just do what you got to do, hon.” I turned my bike around and took a long route home. I promised myself I would forget all things sickening, all things painful. I never rode through the cemetery again.

That night I had my recurring nightmare for the first time. In it I am on Charlie’s grave, digging down through the dirt with my hands. I’m wild. I’m screaming. I’m crying. When I get to his coffin, I claw through that too. My fingers are bloody stubs filled with splinters. I break through the white silk lining and rip it apart. And I find bones. Not even an intact skeleton. Just dry, hard bones. I start gnawing on them like a dog. I gnaw until my teeth fall out, my mouth and face are dripping blood. Then I look up out of the grave and…that’s when I woke up.

That’s when I always wake up. And that’s when Maude came in that first night to calm me. I must have been screaming for real. Whenever I have the nightmare, and I wake up and realize it’s a dream, I close my eyes and imagine her there. She sits by my bed for a while, patting my hand, until my breathing gets normal again.

I say, “How are we going to make it out of here?”

And she says, “One step at a time, Lizzie. One step at the time.”

And I ask, “What are we going to do?”

And she tells me, “We’re gonna make raw-fried potatoes. We peel one potato and slice it, and put it in the pan. Then we peel another potato and slice it and put it in the pan. And we keep doing that until we have enough for everybody. And when they’re cooked just right, we sit down and eat them and forget about everything else.”

“And we put syrup on them?”

“Sure, monkeyshine, if you got to have it, you put syrup on them.”

“And that’ll work?”

She smoothes the hair off my forehead and turns out the light. “It’ll work for now, hon. It’ll work for now.”