Thirty Rooms To Hide In (26 page)

Mom’s letters, August 21, 1965

Jeff has had his Beatles ticket for many weeks – locked away in a drawer and he checks it every day or two to see it is still there. I have not yet had the chance to talk to him about it but I know he’ll think of it as an experience of a lifetime.

In August of 1965, the Beatles’ song
Help!
was number one on the charts and occasionally you could hear one of the Pagans playing it on the piano in the Millstone’s music room. From their concert at Shea Stadium, the Beatles moved through America arriving at the Met Stadium in Bloomington, Minnesota, on August 21st. There, to the grinding envy of the other brothers, Jeff saw the Beatles live in concert.

Back at home, we gathered on the floor of Dad’s study to watch the concert on television. It was a happy night in a house that was enjoying an uninterrupted string of them. Dad’s sudden absence created only a temporary hole, one quickly filled by the busy lives of the family he’d retreated from years ago. If asked, we might have said how much we missed our father and how eagerly we anticipated his return. Privately, we were elated; guilty about the feeling, but elated.

Kip was winding down life in Rochester as he prepared for a September trip to California to begin studies at Pomona College. He filled out the college financial forms and where it asked for “adjusted family income” he remembers asking Mom, “Shouldn’t it read ‘maladjusted family income’?” A week before the Pagans’ final concert, Kip gave Jay Gleason – his friend, diving pal and sometimes Pagans drummer – a phone call.

Kip’s diary, August 31, 1965

Jay committed suicide!! We were just getting ready for Collin’s birthday cake. I called Jay’s house, his step-mom asked who it was, I said, “It’s Kip. Is Jay there?” Sad voice on the line says, “Kip, haven’t you heard?” She cried. Jay put a vacuum cleaner hose from his car exhaust into the front window of his car. Our band is ended. It’s over.

Jeff’s classmate, Steve Rossi, who’d been drumming for the Pagans off and on since January, stepped in. After a few practices the Pagans got back up to speed for their very last performance on September 10th in nearby Spring Valley. After the final song, Kip was to get in a car and drive to California. The concert was poignant for both the Pagans and my mother. She drove the four little ones to Spring Valley for the great goodbye.

This was her first child to leave home but by then Kip was more than a son.

He was her battle companion, her witness, a guardian who’d more than once kept Dad from hurting her or one of us. On those medevac-motel nights, Kip often stayed behind at the Millstone playing rear guard to our retreat. Now, with Dad’s recovery more wish than certainty, she knew Kip’s departure would make the Millstone feel lonelier than ever.

From Oldberg’s “The Flip Side: An Illustrated History of Southern Minnesota Rock & Roll Music”

The last recollections of the Pagans Kip can remember happened in summer of 1965. “I can recall singing
Kansas City/Hey, Hey, Hey
off of a flat bed trailer truck in Spring Valley. It was after 11 o’clock at night and this was the last song we were gonna do. I was pouring my whole heart and soul into the song; doing it the way the Beatles did it – ‘Bye, bye. Bye, bye.’ After we finished that song, I literally grabbed my guitar and amp and jumped into Chuck Rushton’s car and headed for California.”

Grandpa’s letters, September 10, 1965

I know that you are lonesome tonight. Your #1 boy is on the way to California. You have found him a real help in the recent years. Our thoughts are with you. And eagerly you await the first letter home from him. We also know that soon you travel to Hartford. This is, of course, a very important trip and we await with anxiety what will issue.

Mom, in a long letter to her parents, November 6, 1965

I have just returned from Hartford very much encouraged and – this you will find hard to believe but will have to accept as a fact – in love with my husband! This whole thing is so mysterious to me – the working of the mind and the heart – that I realize you cannot be expected to understand any of it – nor do I.

From the moment of arrival in Hartford, I could see this was a new man! He looks in splendid health – thinner, tan, his face free from the harassed lines and frantic eyes. He may be greyer but he looks younger. But the most miraculous part is the personality change! He is kind, considerate, eager to understand me, tender and loving. I spent the entire week with him – from Thursday noon to Thursday noon – and never a hard word, never a criticism, nothing but gentleness! I know this is hard for you to believe – it is for me, too.

But when my train pulled out of Hartford, I felt an anguish of separation such as I haven’t known since the Navy days. Except for Monday and Tuesday when we were in Mystic Seaport and two nights when we saw a play and a movie, we did nothing but talk! It was as exciting as a courtship – it was like getting to know a new person.

Of course, there are many things I see in him that are troublesome – he is very unsure of himself, uncertain how to do ordinary things like make a telephone call, and he is extremely nervous about being with people, and his memory is very faulty. But Dr. Spence says these things will gradually improve. He thought that it might be possible for Roger to make a Christmas visit home, but warned that everything depends upon how he feels as that time draws near.

He warned also that there are good and bad times in this process – and spoke of Roger as having been “very sick.” So I am trying not to be too enthusiastic about the results of my week in Hartford.

Notes from the Hartford psychiatric record, October 29, 1965

The patient reported the visit went extremely well. He found that he was able to discuss many difficulties with his wife that they had been unable to deal with in the past.

It is evident both from the patient and his wife that the time spent together was the first time in their recent married life they were able to communicate with each other. The therapist has pointed out to both of them that the brevity of their contact was different from day-to-day existence at home. However, both the patient and his wife have agreed to another visit in the Hartford area and are also planning for the patient to go home for Christmas vacation to spend some time with the children.

A letter from Kip on one coast to Dad on the other, November 10, 1965

Dear Dad: When I got letters from both you and Mom saying you both had a good time, I could’ve jumped for joy. You mentioned some of the changes in the family you’ve sensed already. Man, just think what a difference this will mean for all of us. God, that sounds good!

Dad, written while at Hartford, to Kip in California, November 15, 1965

Dear Kipper: Monday morning has rolled around again – another week gone by and am delighted to report that I am feeling better and better. Do wish there were some way of speeding up this process of emotional regrouping. It is impossible to describe to anyone who hasn’t been through this business how painful and actually exhausting it is. Am convinced, however, that the months spent now will mean so much more happiness in the future.

I’ve already, of course, seen the difference in your mom’s response in the short time that she was here. Can also hear it in the kids’ voices at home. Called yesterday and Collin and Luke were bubbling over on the phone. Even that experienced man-about-town, Jeff, sounded great. Mama’s change since her return home after our visit has made itself felt in the kids doing better school work, staying on the ball more, etc.

Needless to say you are in my thoughts so much of the time and can hardly wait to see you. Looks as if we’ll both be getting home for Christmas about the same time and probably both leaving about the same time. I’ll have to return here for a few weeks after my visit. Take care. – Dad

Mom, to her parents, December 6, 1965

I’m safely home again from a second visit to Hartford and it was just as loving as the first one. I still find it hard to believe that after such a nightmare we can now so thoroughly enjoy one another. We count off the days now till the Christmas visit. Roger and Kip will both arrive on December 17th – what a joyous Christmas this is going to be for all of us! We did little else except talk talk talk. We have so many years to catch up on.

Kip’s diary, December 20, 1965

I talked all day with Dad. Oh, has he changed. He can be talked with!! It’s unbelievable.

Jeff, today

When Mom visited Dad that second time, they bought new wedding rings. I’ve never seen Mom as happy as she was that winter. When she returned home she redecorated the master bedroom. She did however mention that while they were together in downtown Hartford, a car engine backfired nearby, a noise like a gunshot, and Mom described Dad’s intense panic reaction at being startled.

Mom, today

This ring I have on now is the one we bought in Hartford together. We were walking downtown somewhere and in front of a jewelry store we looked at each other and agreed, “Well, the first part of our marriage hasn’t been so great. Let’s start over.” That Christmas of 1965, he was loving, interested, and connected. Just like he was years before.

* * *

The last happy family film was taken on Christmas Eve, 1965.

Mom is in the kitchen wearing a red dress and her hair high in a beehive. Dad is next to her and together they’re preparing the evening’s feast. Mom does the pot-stirring and finger licking but leaves the big job for Dad, who puts on the oven mitts and pulls the 25-pound turkey from the oven. He places it on the new roll-away dishwasher (with its modern hose connection to the kitchen sink’s spigot). The Mayo Clinic doctor has a poultry knife in one hand, a large fork in the other and when he tries to transfer the turkey from pot to platter, the turkey comes in half, butchered a second time. Watching this film as I have many times, there’s some sorrow in seeing the Mayo doctor fail to pull off the holiday photo-op with surgical precision.

The other surviving artifact from Christmas ‘65 is an audio recording of our living room on Christmas morning. Dad recorded the festivities using, as it turned out, the same recorder Kip and Jeff had hidden to capture the “Rage Tapes” that spring. The tape is remarkable only in its banality. Tolstoy wrote, “Happy families are all alike; every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way.” As I listen to this pointless and precious chit-chat, the observation is confirmed again. Christmas carols play on the Hi-Fi in the background; the wrapping paper with its high-end crackling sometimes obscures the conversation, but snippets of the quotidian back-and-forth come through.

My father’s voice on the Christmas ’65 tape:

Jeff, that after-shave you just opened? That “Double-O-Seven” stuff really grabs Mama. [Mom laughs.] … And I like this other shirt even better, with the zipper collar. Who’s this from? Thanks, Chris. The perfect size. How did you know? … Well, if it’s all right with you folks, I’m going to open this “record-shaped” present. I sure hope it’s that recording of Julie Andrews, “The Sound of Music.”

Dad starts to unwrap the last gift and little Collin teases him; says the gift he’s opening is a “just a fat slice of moldy old cheese.”

Dad chuckles, “Is that all? Well, you just wait till
next
Christmas.”

There will be no next Christmas but the tape plays on and in the background Julie Andrews begins to sing.
(“The hills are alive with the sound of music.”)
I can hear myself announce the unwrapping of my new Kodak Instamatic camera, which will take the last pictures of my father. The cheerful prattle continues and the Ghost of Christmas Future points at the tombstone, but for now, here on this tape of a man’s last Christmas, I listen to my father and it seems no matter what has come before
(“I’LL GO GET THE AXE AND BASH THIS DOOR IN!”)
on this Christmas Day, on this thin brown tape, I hear Roger Sullivan is a good father, loving to his wife, kind to his six sons, and grateful that his whole life with all its blessings has been pulled from the edge of the abyss and in an act of inexplicable grace handed back to him.

* * *

The last page of the psychiatric notes, January 11, 1966

Dr. Sullivan returned to the hospital from his visit. The patient found he was able to deal with almost all situations with relative ease. Dr. Sullivan does not feel that he will have any difficulties returning home, except in relations with his wife. Final diagnosis: Passive-aggressive personality, alcoholism.

Condition on discharge: Recovered.

Chris’s diary, January 10, 1966

Boy, life is going to be good when Dad gets home.