Chapter Eleven

1947–1955

MONTHS PASSED. Roy continued to drink, and Minka’s disappointment deepened. As his absences grew more frequent, arguments began to fracture their lives. But the couple was in perfect unity on one point: their enchanting daughter. Dianna was proving to be as smart as she was beautiful. She seemed to do everything early: by her first birthday, her rosebud mouth sparkled with twelve perfect teeth. Two months later she learned to put her shoe straps through her buckles. At eighteen months she memorized her first of many poems, “I Had a Little Pony.”

Determined to give her daughter the affection that her own mother had not known to give, Minka held Dianna, cuddled her, kissed her. She wrote a wistful note in her baby book: As I write this you are sound asleep in your little bed. You’ve had a busy morning creeping all around & exploring rooms & drawers, mostly Mommy’s cupboard, where pots & pans are pulled out & banged over & over again. . . . Mommy hopes you won’t grow too fast, & that you’ll always be as happy as you are today. Sometimes we can’t always be, but Mommy’s hoping & praying her little girl will.

By the next summer Minka was pregnant again. Her last child, a son they called Donnie, was born on the third day of 1949, giving Minka the matched set she’d dreamed of. Donnie was another pretty baby, with big eyes, curly blond hair and, within months, a winning smile.

Roy enrolled at the Dunwoody Institute to study mechanical drafting. He would take classes on and off for two years, producing beautiful drawings and earning good grades but accruing frequent absences for health problems. His stomach continued to bother him, and he worked so deliberately that his teachers marked him down as being “slow” to complete tasks. In reality, his mind often raced, making it difficult for him to concentrate. He complained, “When they’ve gone around the broomstick once, I’ve gone ten times.”

He was obviously intelligent. His wife found his challenges puzzling.

There was sweetness in their lives, at times. On Sundays, Roy read the comic strips out loud to the children while Minka made waffles for breakfast and pot roast for dinner. Refusing to yield to polio fears, which kept many people away from public places in the early 1950s, Minka took the children swimming and fishing at Lake Calhoun. On Sunday evenings the family went for rides around the lake in Roy’s big Buick, stopping on the way back for tall ice cream cones. When snow piled up on city streets in winter, they went sledding.

Christmas was the most special time. The whole family went shopping at Dayton’s department store, where Dianna and Donnie stood in long lines to ride the elevated North Pole train. Even sensible Minka played along with the legend of Santa. She baked cookies to leave out on Christmas Eve, while the children knelt by the window, watching fat flakes drift from a cloud-darkened sky. After reading The Night Before Christmas aloud and tucking the kids in bed, she and Roy stayed up late, wrapping presents and leaving behind a milk-stained glass and a plate of crumbs for Dianna and Donnie to find in the morning, while their parents pretended to sleep.

Since that first simple dress she’d sewn —the one that would forever be linked with Betty Jane —Minka had become an expert seamstress. Roy preferred to wear store-bought suits, but Minka made all her own clothes, and the children’s as well, everything from overcoats to fancy dresses. She even sewed pretty clothes for Dianna’s dolls, decorated with miniature trim and buttons and lace. When the family went out, all four got “dolled up.” Roy and Donnie wore suits, hats, and shiny shoes; Minka and Dianna wore pretty dresses and hats, gloves, and jewelry.

Jennie eventually sold the grocery in Aberdeen, moved to Minneapolis, and bought a whole apartment building a few blocks from Minka’s house. Jane, in her midthirties now but still unmarried, came with her. Although Minka was busy with work and her children, the women were thrilled to live close to each other again. Jennie retained her married name, Vander Zee, so Dianna and Donnie called her “Grandma Van.” They loved to spend the night at her place. In the mornings she’d bake cinnamon rolls while ever-vivacious Aunt Janie cleaned house in her slip, dancing and teasing the kids, who adored her.

The family’s joy was clouded by the darkness that seemed to follow Roy. By now, he stopped at the bar every night. At home he smoked cigarettes compulsively. His fingertips reeked of unfiltered smoke, and Dianna and Donnie would hold their breath in the haze around his chair. Sometimes he seemed to be another person, a cruel and cunning stranger. The children learned to be watchful of this other Daddy.

Minka began attending a Lutheran church in Minneapolis, where the rituals were familiar and comforting. The weekly reflection and prayers grounded her.

Roy would not go along, but he found some solace in gardening. He spent hours in the yard, planting bright, puffy dahlias along the back fence, a fragrant lilac in one corner. He built a sandbox for the children. But Roy couldn’t always remain with his hands in the rich soil and warm sunshine on his back. Other responsibilities tugged at him. Before long the seasons changed, and his garden spent months buried beneath the heavy snow. This outdoor therapy could not last.

The Disbrows’ lives lurched between darkness and light. Sometimes Roy was the smart, charming man Minka had fallen in love with. The whole family would go “to town” for dinner, the children acting grown-up in their best clothes. They’d sit at the bar with their parents, dipping cherries in their Shirley Temples, smiling at the barkeep. In summer, Roy rented a small cabin on the lake, where they’d fish and swim and wake up from naps with sweaty hair plastered to their necks. Roy bought gifts for his wife and children —an engine for Donnie’s ever-expanding train set, a fancy new doll for Dianna. He’d put a record on the player and sweep Minka around the living room, dancing as he’d taught her to do years before, while Dianna and Donnie giggled and grinned.

As hard as they all tried, it kept crashing down around them. It was as though the happiness was too heavy to prop up, for long.

* * *

The first sign of a problem with Dianna came when she was three years old. She’d gone to the sink to get a drink of water before naptime. Minka heard the faucet splashing, splashing, and followed the sounds into the kitchen.

“Dianna? Honey? What are you doing?”

Dianna stared at the wall above the sink, her tiny fingers gripping a cup.

“Dianna? Come to bed.”

There was no reply, no movement. After turning off the faucet, Minka stroked Dianna’s curls and tried to turn her chin up. The little face was as blank as a porcelain doll’s.

No amount of shaking or talking got the slightest response.

Minka lifted Dianna and hurried into the living room. She picked up the clunky black phone and yelled into the receiver.

“Operator! I need a taxi! My little girl . . . she’s . . . something’s wrong . . . please, get me a taxi!”

Heart thumping, breath quick and sharp, Minka ran to get Donnie from his crib. Dianna lay against her shoulder, stiff and hot. Minka staggered to grab her purse, then inched her way down the stairs to wait at the curb. During the ride, she kept trying to rouse Dianna. In her hurry to propel herself into the hospital, she forgot to pay the taxi driver.

Dianna woke up the next day, seemingly undamaged, but the doctors had a sobering diagnosis: the pretty little girl had experienced a grand mal seizure. She had epilepsy. The doctors prescribed Phenobarbital and Dilantin in high dosages, which managed the seizures but temporarily dulled Dianna’s lightning-quick mind. When she started school, she struggled to earn good grades, swimming through a fog of medication and fatigue until her doctor finally determined the proper dosage.

There was more trouble to come. One Sunday, two weeks before her seventh birthday, Dianna spent the night with Grandma Van. The next morning, Roy brought her home to see Minka before school. It was cold outside, so Minka watched from the screened upstairs porch, holding Donnie in her arms. He was almost five but small for his age, and Minka didn’t mind carrying him —the gentle boy was her last baby.

She watched Roy park across the street. Dianna rounded the car. She was wearing a tan wool coat that Minka had sewn, the buttons fastened tight against the icy air. Her hair was pinned back. She looked up, saw Minka, waved. Her curls bobbed. She started running across the street, her breath trailing behind her.

The approaching car was a brand-new Buick sedan with a monstrous metal grille in front. There wasn’t time to stop, and the street was slick. Brakes screeched, Roy hollered, Minka cried out helplessly from above. Dianna’s dark curls disappeared under one whitewall tire.

By the time Minka lurched down the stairs, Dianna’s blood was smeared across the rough pavement. A patch of her hair had been torn off, exposing a white square streaked with red. Roy yanked a wool army blanket from his trunk, spread it on the frozen pavement, and laid Dianna on it. Her eyes fluttered open.

A neighbor appeared with a cup of cocoa, a helpless gesture for a hurt little girl. An ambulance raced up, sirens blaring. Minka sat in the back, cradling Dianna in her arms as the driver sped to the hospital. Roy followed in their car.

After X-rays, lab tests, and a few nights in the hospital, Dianna was pronounced well enough to come home, minus some hair and with a permanent flat spot on the back of her skull. For years afterward, Minka watched her closely for signs of long-term damage. Dianna had nearly been killed. Minka had almost lost another daughter.

As tough as she was, Minka felt certain she couldn’t have borne that.

* * *

Minka found a new church within walking distance of her home, a Christian and Missionary Alliance congregation, and began nurturing her spiritual life in earnest. She was greatly intrigued by the CMA’s outreach programs around the world. Visiting missionaries came to services and told spellbinding tales of remote tribes of cannibals, of angels standing guard around campsites. Such stories opened Minka’s eyes to parts of the world that she hadn’t had the opportunity to learn about in school.

After Dianna saw Minka baptized at the church, she asked to follow suit. As mother and children attended each week, Minka began to view God as more of a heavenly Father —someone who was interested not just in mankind as a whole, but in her personal life as well. She began tentatively praying for wisdom and guidance in her chaotic relationship with Roy.

More and more, wisdom and guidance were desperately needed.

One morning when Dianna was still a toddler, Minka was at the kitchen sink, washing dishes. Roy came in, eyes glittering. He paced behind her. He spoke abruptly.

“Who is he? Did you see him last night?”

Minka’s stomach clenched. The water on her hands was suddenly too hot. She adjusted the faucet, squeezed the rag, scrubbed at the tines of a fork. These absurd ramblings came out of nowhere these days.

“Roy. Stop it.”

“Who is he? Who’re you two-timing with?” He halted right behind her.

“Roy, I said stop it. I’ve never two-timed on you, and you know it.” She slid a cup into the soapy water, jammed a washrag into it. “When on earth would I have time for such foolishness? After riding the bus home late at night? After working fourteen-hour days?”

He was a B-17 bomber, homing in.

“Are you gonna see him tonight, honey?” The familiar endearment held no lazy tenderness. “You gonna have some fun?”

She’d had enough.

“Oh Roy, be quiet. Why don’t you clean up your own backyard?”

For two seconds the water ran, bubbles popped. Then Minka’s right arm was jerked backward as Roy spun her around. The dishrag slapped against her dress. A blurry shape approached her face, too fast.

Roy’s fist slammed into her nose, crunching the cartilage.

A warm gush of blood followed the shocking pain. Minka staggered sideways, turned toward the sink. Tears ran, blending with blood and dripping onto her dress. She watched the mixture swirl in the dishwater, cloudy and dark.

The blow jarred loose a memory from long ago. She’d been perhaps seven years old, splitting wood for the cookstove. Her hand slipped as she was trying to wrench the ax free, and the wooden handle slammed squarely into her face. Blood poured and Minka cried and Jennie came running.

Accidents happened on a farm, and medical help was a long buggy ride away. Jennie used the edges of both her hands to force Minka’s nose back into place, then taped it up and put her daughter to bed. Lie very still, she’d instructed gently.

This time, Jennie wasn’t there to comfort her. Behind her, silence. Then Roy’s hand was on her back. His other hand pushed a dish towel in front of her. They mopped at her face together.

Neither one of them noticed their young daughter, watching from an alcove in the hallway.

“I think it’s broken,” Minka cried. She had never felt so small, crumpled. “You broke my nose.”

“Let’s . . . uh . . . You need to go see a doctor. C’mon. I’ll take you.” The old Roy was back, and contrite.

Minka held the towel to her face. Roy fetched her shoes, the car keys, the children. He helped her to the car. He told her not to tell the doctor what had happened. And he made the timeless vow of a volatile man.

“It won’t happen again, honey.”

* * *

Surprisingly, this man kept that promise. Although he continued to drink and the dark voices continued to scratch at his mind, Roy never hit his wife again. But the ugliness persisted, and became more frequent. Sometimes he slept under the outside stairs with a pair of brass knuckles, threatening to accost Minka’s imaginary boyfriends when they showed up. Once he threw whiskey on his wife and took off down the street holding Dianna, with Minka running after him. When a policeman stopped him, Roy pointed to the alcohol stains on Minka’s dress and accused her of drinking. Then the former soldier drew himself up and spit in the policeman’s face, earning himself a whack from a billy club.

Roy’s father had passed away, but his mother, Florence, still lived near Aberdeen. When she needed an operation for cancer, Roy and Minka invited her to stay with them in Minneapolis. Minka changed her bandages and cared for her during recovery. Florence loved her son but hated his drinking, hated what it was doing to his dependable wife, to their family. She dragged a cot near the front door and laid Roy’s baseball bat next to it.

“Just let him come up here drunk,” she said. “He’ll have to deal with me.”

Roy’s mind clanged and clattered. He read newspaper articles about the American boys now fighting in Korea, and at night two different wars comingled in his dreams. He sought distraction at the cinema, watching black-and-white horror films that he found more manageable than his full-color nightmares. Alcohol brought a lessening, a loosening, so he drank. He didn’t realize that the drinking also worsened his mania and hallucinations.

Talking relieved the pressure. Sometimes when Minka was working late, he told Dianna and Donnie macabre bedtime stories of buddies burning in their planes and begging him over the intercom to shoot them dead. Although he’d been nowhere near the Asian theater, he talked about Japanese soldiers putting splinters under the fingernails of POWs to torture them.

He seemed a million miles away, unaware that his horrified audience was a little girl in a lace nightgown and a little boy in footie pajamas.

Desperate for hope and help, Minka took a bus to Fort Snelling, which had become the site of the regional Veterans Administration after World War II. But harried officers there couldn’t offer help, other than to suggest that she was fortunate —at least he wasn’t beating the children. During one bad episode Roy threatened to divorce Minka, even hired a lawyer to draw up papers that accused his wife of outlandish wrongdoings. Florence came to visit again and went down to the lawyer’s office with her daughter-in-law. “I am his mother,” she declared. “And this,” she said, stabbing a finger at Roy’s papers, “is a bunch of lies.”

Nobody knew how to help, how to fix a broken man.

Roy withdrew the papers. The couple would remain married for the rest of his life. But it was all too much for Minka. She couldn’t take the stress and threats, the rages that made no sense. She couldn’t stand her children’s frightened eyes, the way they shrank into corners. Roy’s drinking was the problem, she decided, and sobriety was the solution. It had to be.

John and Dorothy had moved to California, a place they assured her was bright and busy, a good spot for a new beginning. It was far away, near an ocean she’d never seen. Far enough away from Roy and the troubles that he would not, or could not, discard.

Minka made an agonizing decision. She would sell the house, the pretty place she’d been so proud of. She would leave the city she loved, her church, her mother and sister. She would uproot her children and issue an ultimatum to her husband.

He could come to them when he got sober.

And not a moment before.