opening a door without knocking, unthinking—Oh. Sorry. I didn’t think anyone was … Your big brothers who’d throw off Mom’s hand if even by chance she touched them.
A baby to love. A girl-baby to adore. The innocence of being loved totally and without question another time when she’d believed there would never be another time …
Of course, Lula was thrilled.
Of course, Lula was devastated. Oh God, oh Jesus no.
Hardly had she recovered from the last pregnancy—she’d determined would be the last. Thirty-seven years old—too old. Thirty pounds overweight. High blood pressure, swollen ankles. Kidney infection. Varicose veins like inky spiderwebs in her thighs fleshy-white as raw chicken.
And the man, the tall handsome Irish American husband. Turning his eyes from her, the bloated white belly, flaccid thighs, breasts like a cow’s udders.
His fault! Though he would blame her.
In private reproach he’d blamed her for years for she’d been the one who’d wanted kids and it was futile to remind him how he’d wanted kids too, how proud he’d been, the first babies, his first sons, dazed and boasting to his male friends he was catching up with them God damn it and boastful even to his father the old sod he couldn’t abide, as the old sod could not abide him.
And she’d been a beautiful woman. Beautiful body he’d been mesmerized by. Soft skin, astonishingly soft white breasts, curve of her belly, hips. Oh, he’d been crazy for her! Like a spell upon him. Those first years.
Six pregnancies. Not wanting to acknowledge—(except to her sister Irma)—that these were, just maybe, at least two pregnancies too many. And then, the seventh …
After the first pregnancy her body began to change. After the second, third. And after the fourth it began to rebel. Cervical polyps were discovered, that (thank God) turned out to be benign and could be easily removed. Another kidney infection. Higher blood pressure, swollen ankles. The doctor advised terminating the pregnancy. But Lula would never have consented. Jerome would never have consented.
It was not something that was discussed. Not openly and not privately. They were Catholics—that was enough. You just did not speak of certain things and of many of these things there were not adequate words in any case.
As boys went unquestioningly to war, in the U.S. military. You did not question, that was not how you saw yourself.
Those weeks, months your mother spent most of each day lying down. Terrified of a miscarriage and terrified that she might die. Praying for the baby to be born healthy and praying for her own life and in this way Lula Kerrigan not only lost her good looks (she’d taken for granted) but also became permanently frightened and anxious, superstitious. Looking for “signs”—that God was trying to tell her something special about herself and the baby growing in her womb.
A “sign” could be something glimpsed out a window—the figure of a gigantic angel in the clouds. A “sign” could be a dream, a mood. A sudden premonition.
In the later stages of her pregnancy no one could induce Lula to leave the house. So big-bellied, breathless and pop-eyed she’d become. Eating ravenously until she made herself sick. Gaining more weight. Knowing that her body disgusted her husband though (of course) (like any guilty husband) Jerome denied it. Last thing Lula Kerrigan wanted to do was expose herself to the eyes of others who’d be pitiless, mocking.
My God. Is that—Lula Kerrigan? Looking like an elephant! Making a spectacle of herself parading around like that.
Scornful expressions you would hear through your childhood, girlhood—making a spectacle, parading around. The harshest sort of denunciation a woman might make of another woman.
Parading around like she owns the place.
This would be charged of women and girls who exhibited themselves: their bodies. Particularly if their bodies were imperfect in obvious ways—too fat. Appearing in public when they should be ashamed of how they looked or in any case aware of how they looked. Of how unsparing eyes would latch onto them, assessing. Never was such a charge made of men or boys.
There appeared to be no masculine equivalent for making a spectacle, parading around.
As, you’d discover, there was no masculine equivalent for bitch, slut.
WE WERE JEROME JR., AND MIRIAM, AND LIONEL, AND LES, and Katie, and Rick, and Violet Rue—“Vi’let.”
“Christ! Looks like a platoon.”
Daddy would stare at us with a look of droll astonishment like a character in a comic strip.
But (of course) Daddy was proud of us and loved us even when he had to discipline us. (Which wasn’t often. At least not with the girls in the family.)
Yes, sometimes Daddy did get physical with us kids. A good hard shake, that made your head whip on your neck and your teeth rattle—that was about the limit with my sisters and me. My brothers, Daddy had been known to hit in a different way. Haul off and hit. (But only open-handed, never with a fist. And never with a belt or stick.) What hurt most was Daddy’s anger, fury. That look of profound disappointment, disgust. How the hell could you do such a thing. How could you expect to get away with doing such a thing. The expression in Daddy’s eyes, that made me want to crawl away and die in shame.
Disciplining children. Only what a good responsible parent did, showing love.
Of course, our father’s father had disciplined him. Nine kids in that rowdy Irish Catholic family. Had to let them know who was boss.
One by one the Kerrigan sons grew up, to challenge their father. And one by one the father dealt with them as they deserved.
Old sod. Daddy’s way of speaking of our grandfather when our grandfather wasn’t around.
So much of what Daddy said had to be interpreted. Laughing, shaking his head, or maybe not laughing, exactly. Old sod bastard. God-damned old sod.
Still, when our grandfather had nowhere else to live, Daddy brought him to live with us. Fixed up a room at the rear of the house, that had been a storage room. Insulation, new tile floor, private entrance so Granddad could avoid us if he wished. His own bathroom.
Daddy’s birth name was Jerome. This name was never shortened to “Jerry” let alone “Jerr”—even by our mother.
Our mother’s name was Lula—also “Lu”—“Lulu”—“Mommy”—“Mom.”
When speaking to us our parents referred to each other as “your father”—“your mother.” Sometimes in affectionate moments they might say “your daddy”—“your mommy”—but these moments were not often, in later years.
In early years, I would not know. I had not been born into my parents’ early, happier years.
Between our parents there was much that remained unspoken. Now that I am older I have come to see that their connection was like the densely knotted roots of trees, underground and invisible.
Frequently our father called our mother “hon”—in a neutral voice. So bland, so flat, you wouldn’t think that “hon” was derived from “honey.”
If he was irritated about something he called her “Lu-la” in a bitten-off way of reproach.
If he’d been drinking it was “Lu-laaa”—playful verging upon mocking.
At