A Man Named Dave (23 page)

Hugging me, she cried, “I love you, David.”

I took a deep breath and closed my eyes before replying for the first time, “I … I love you, too.”

“Thank you, David, thank you,” Patsy whispered. “You’ll see, the baby’s gonna make everything different. Everything’s gonna be fine, you’ll see.”

When not flying overseas, I dedicated every moment to redoing our house. I spent hours rearranging furniture, placing trinkets just the right way to capture as much light as possible. I wanted our home to be open and warm. I felt proud when I purchased a lawnmower and other garden tools. I’d wake up just after sunrise on Saturday mornings to spend the better part of the day mowing, raking, trimming, and watering or planting flowers to beautify our yard. I thought of myself as a husband providing for his family. I did my best to think ahead, trying to take care of every need to alleviate any friction between Patsy and me. Once all the bills were taken care of, I made certain Patsy received the bulk of our remaining funds. With each passing day my initial fears began to fade.

On payday I’d rush to the on-base department store and scour every aisle that had anything to do with babies. As the months progressed, I picked out toys, stuffed animals, or anything I knew the baby would enjoy. When I ran out of playthings to buy, I spent time in search of the perfect stroller, carrying basket, or clothes, even though I knew the baby wouldn’t be able to wear some of the shorts and tank tops for years. I couldn’t control my excitement. When overseas, because money was so tight, I skipped a few meals in order to buy the baby a cute stuffed yellow alligator, which I named Wally. The more I did for my baby, the more my heart warmed.

When a member of my squadron asked if I wanted a boy or a girl, my instantaneous response was “A healthy child with ten fingers and ten toes.” In the early spring, the air force doctors assured me that the fetus was perfectly healthy and was a boy. I was overjoyed with the news, but with my luck I had to think we weren’t out of the woods yet. Not until I held my baby in my arms would I be convinced that everything was fine.

Since Patsy and I had set our rules, we got along better. Now whenever we had a disagreement, rather than argue I’d escape outside to putter in the yard until we both calmed down. I knew I had caused the disputes more than half the time, and it was Patsy who would make amends. Even though I still did not trust her as I felt I should, Patsy and I were now living together as husband and wife. All we could do was wait for our baby boy.

In June of 1986 I had to attend a six-week flight instructor school course. Patsy was due in late July, so on every flight I’d drop by the administration office to give them the plane’s identifying call sign and frequency in case there was any news. On Fridays, after a lengthy day, I’d make the three-hour drive at warp speed, praying Patsy wasn’t in labor yet. The weeks crawled by and still no baby. Even after flight school, when the doctor assured Patsy and me everything was normal, I worried that something was wrong. Finally, in mid-August, Patsy went into labor. For months we had known our baby was a boy, but we could not decide on a name. As Patsy was wheeled into the delivery room, I held her hand and bent down to whisper if we could name our child Stephen Joseph. “Why?” she groggily asked. “Isn’t that your father’s name?”

“Yeah, but it’s another chance,
my
chance to set things right. Please?” I begged. “It will make things clean for me.” Patsy smiled as she squeezed my hand. A short time later, I was the first person besides the doctor to hold my son, Stephen Joseph Pelzer.

Stephen was so tiny and delicate I thought for sure he’d break if I moved the wrong way. I could have held him forever, but the small group of nurses insisted I relinquish my son to their care. Hours later, in the middle of the night, I lay on my bed thankful that Stephen was indeed completely healthy. Before falling off to sleep, I began to feel an invisible weight bear down on me, for now I was a father.

Just over a week later, on a beautiful Saturday, Patsy and I made our first family trip. Before noon, with sunlight beaming through the towering redwood trees, I pulled up next to the same house where my father had taken his family on summer vacations seemingly a lifetime ago at 17426 Riverside Drive. Patsy and I had made countless trips to the Russian River, sometimes staying for only a few hours or even minutes at a time, and I had bored her to tears, constantly harping about one day living in Guerneville. And yet I could not explain to Patsy why I was so drawn to the area. With Stephen cradled in my arms, I sat on the old, decayed tree stump where my brothers and I had once played. As Stephen slept soundly, I shielded his sensitive eyes and whispered, “One day we’ll live here. We’ll live here at the river.” Rocking Stephen, I couldn’t help but think of my foolish pie-in-the-sky fantasy of my father and me having a relationship at the same spot my son and I now shared. “I’m gonna make things right,” I promised Stephen, “What I do, I do for you. As God is my witness, I’ll make things right
for you.”

That afternoon at the river was more than a family outing. Since that day my anxiety began to ease. Since Stephen was born, I had become paranoid, not only as a parent sustaining him, but other fears like illnesses, late-night fevers, and getting him all the appropriate shots at the right time. Back in our home at Beale Air Force Base, I discovered a million different ways my son could accidentally hurt himself – jamming his fingers into light sockets, crashing down the stairs, or even suffocating from his baby blanket.
“How,”
I asked myself,
“can I protect him from all of this, all the time?”
It was at the river when Stephen unknowingly taught me my first lesson: Do everything I possibly could as situations arose, but ease up a little and let go. I realized I could not shield, fix, or control every aspect of my son’s future, let alone my own.

From that point on, not a single day passed that I was not utterly amazed at Stephen. How he curled up and slept in my lap, the softness of his skin, or the gentle sounds that escaped his tiny mouth. When I returned home from a late-night flight, I would always tiptoe into his room and become lost in time as I stood over his crib to watch him sleep. Almost every time I did, after a few minutes of no movement from him, I would think Stephen was dead! My heart would seize as I reached down into the crib and snatched him up. I was always rewarded a split second later as Stephen’s screeching cry became music to my ears. I would then take him into my bedroom, where I would lay him on my chest.

In the mornings while Patsy still slept, I always made sure I woke up early to spend time with Stephen, listening to him coo, watching him suck on his fingers or crawl through the sheets all over the bed. I was captivated by his constant smile and how every little thing made him laugh. At times I played with him so much that I was late for mission planning at work. At the squadron I’d show off stacks of Polaroid photos before sticking them in my in-flight checklist, so no matter where I flew I always had Stephen with me. After work I would race home, breezing by Patsy with a quick hello before playing with Stephen. By the time he was in his walker, I would chase him throughout the house as he sped away, giggling at the top of his lungs. I laughed as he learned to build up speed by pumping his tiny legs, then lean his walker before taking a sharp turn. More than once I kept my eyes on him instead of the wall that I smashed into at the end of the hallway. At the end of an exhausting day, I’d slowly read Dr. Seuss books to Stephen while he jabbed his finger at the pictures. Even though he was too young to understand, I wasn’t concerned, just as long as we were together.

Before his first birthday, Stephen’s room, which at one time had been vacant, had become a virtual Toys R Us warehouse. He had so many stuffed animals at one point that I would fill his entire crib to the brim and gently toss him in. He would disappear, only to resurface a few moments later, giggling for me to toss him again. To me, nothing was too much if it made Stephen happy.

With Stephen, Patsy gave her all. She always made sure he was bathed and covered with baby lotion. When she fed him she seemed happy and beamed whenever he did the smallest thing. As a couple, if we had a flare-up, all we had to do was gaze at Stephen and our anxiety disappeared. At times she’d joke that I spent more time with Stephen than I did her. I took the hint. I just didn’t have the heart to confess that for the first time in my life I was filled with an emotion that I never felt before. Without a shred of hesitation, my son, Stephen, was the first and only person I adored – that I absolutely loved with all of my heart and soul.

By the summer of 1987, just weeks prior to Stephen’s first birthday, I took time off from the service and made our family’s first long-range trip. Our destination: Salt Lake City, Utah. Since Patsy was complaining of being cooped up in the house, and, surprisingly to me, got along well with Grandmother, we decided to take the journey. I carefully explained to Patsy that Grandmother could be pleasant on the phone and yet once in person could be controlling and spiteful, but Patsy didn’t care. She thought I was being paranoid. Once there, I knew Grandmother would drive Patsy and me crazy, but since becoming married and having Stephen, Grandmother had treated me like never before. On the phone she savored all updates of Stephen. In the back of my mind, though, I was extremely leery because of my last visit with her.

Secretly, I had another reason for traveling to Salt Lake City. For years I had had so many questions, and now I felt I was ready. With each day as Stephen grew before my eyes, I could not imagine how a person, let alone a mother, could concoct ways to dehumanize and torture their own child. As much as I craved closure to my past for myself, now as a father I felt I owed it to Stephen.

With Patsy and Stephen at Grandmother’s house on a warm late morning, I drove the Toyota to Mother’s and stopped a few houses away. Before getting out of the car, I stopped to collect myself. I checked my watch to make sure I wasn’t late. I ensured every hair on my head was in place so to make a good impression. For the hundredth time that morning, I asked myself if I really wanted to go through with this. Part of me felt it was a hopeless quest. I knew Mother would never come out and tell me why she did all she did to me. After the countless ways Mother had made me suffer and the river of booze she had consumed over the years, she probably had no memory of it all. But, I thought, if I could walk out of there with even some information, maybe that would be enough to make me feel cleansed. As a matter of closure, if I could enter Mother’s house without cowering down to her and display myself as the fair-minded, independent, responsible person that I strive to be, then by the time I left, I’d know in my heart I was no longer looked upon as a child called “It”. After the years of self-doubt, I was beginning to feel I didn’t need to prove myself to Mother anymore. Of all my tests, perhaps seeing Mother was the ultimate one for me.

Walking up to the house, I noticed how worn and lifeless the grass had become and how overgrown and unkempt the bushes were. Among the well-groomed houses on the street, Mother’s gloomy, rundown home stood out.
“And years ago,” I
said to myself,
“her home was the Camelot of the block.”
After knocking on the door, I caught a whiff of a rancid odor. When the door opened, I almost fell over from the smell. Before I could turn my head away, Mother flashed a smile. “Yes … well, right on time. Come in.” Confused, I thought Mother was acting as if my seeing her was an everyday occurrence. Before I could offer a greeting, Mother spun around and made her way up a small flight of stairs. As I followed a few steps behind, an overwhelming stench began to flood my senses. Covering my mouth, I guessed that part of the smell came from the stairs, which were worn to the point there was nothing left but the bare wood. Whatever covering that remained was on the edges, but was layered in what I assumed was cat and dog hairs. The walls gave off an eerie glow from the dark yellow-brown stain from, it seemed, Mother’s constant smoking.

After my youngest brother, Kevin, who by now I guessed to be sixteen, proudly showed off his bedroom, I returned to the living room to sit next to Mother. Kevin seemed to hover nervously as Mother and I strained to make small talk. After a few attempts, my mouth became dry. All I could do was nod my head as Mother made an occasional remark. An icy tension began to fill the room. For some odd reason, I was not afraid or even slightly intimidated by her. If anything, I could not help but stare at her. Since Father’s funeral seven years ago, Mother had not only gained a great deal of weight, but her face now seemed pudgy and leathery. Her crimson features reminded me of Father’s when I had found him at a bar across the street from the bus station in San Francisco during a visit before I joined the air force. Mother’s fingers were swollen and twitched every few seconds. I fidgeted in my chair while trying to think of something to say. But Mother’s appearance said it all. Her years of vindictiveness had left her a broken and lonely person. Whatever domination Mother once waved over others like a sword, allowing her to hurt anyone whenever she pleased, had now vanished.

Growing bored, Kevin barged out of the room, down the stairs, and from the house. Before the front door closed, Mother’s head snapped upright. As if making sure the coast was clear, she murmured, “I want you to know it was an accident.”

Realizing I was alone with Mother for the first time since that day in March before I was rescued – over fourteen years ago – made me feel weak. I couldn’t believe I was actually sitting four feet away from someone who had tried to kill me. Mother’s statement flew over my head. “I’m sorry,” I apologized, “accident?”

Mother heaved as if she were already impatient with me. Raising her voice, she stated, “I want you to know
it
was an accident!” She nodded as if I should understand her coded message. All I could do was nod back. An eerie silence followed. Raising my eyebrows, I tried to get Mother to explain, but she simply grinned. Suddenly it hit me. Years ago, one summer when I was a child, during one of Mother’s rages, she had snatched a knife and threatened to kill, me. Back then I had known by her drunken condition and her flailing arms that Mother’s threat was beyond the norm. Sitting in front of Mother now, I could visualize the terror in her eyes as the knife slipped from her grasp before stabbing me. I knew somehow, even back then, Mother had never meant to kill me. I had always felt it was one of her “games” that went too far.