MOM IS circumspect about details of her early years in Haldeman, stressing only that she was never unhappy: “That was where I was and I accepted it.” I can’t imagine it was easy—she’d grown up in a city of more than fifty thousand people, in a tightly knit community of working-class Irish, with many relatives. In Haldeman she lived on a dirt road in the woods with four young children and no friends or family nearby. Dad was gone every day and many nights, working as a salesman.
To a large extent, my mother was on her own in a foreign environment. I was Mom’s sole source of aid, her little helper. She depended on me, and soon my siblings did, as well. Mom was the shepherd and I was the loyal guard dog, protecting my ragtag flock of three. Mom often said she liked it best when I got sick instead of my siblings because I didn’t need her ministrations, preferring to go off alone like a dog and lick my wounds.
Naturally we all wanted my mother’s attention, but they received it more directly than I did. On me she bestowed a special appreciation for daily assistance and making her laugh. It was less a mother/son relationship and more like that of a senior and junior partner in a shared enterprise. There was a bliss to our closeness as we worked together to get through the day. Mom and I lived in fear of Dad, but each of us knew he loved us best. He remained in love with her throughout his life. I was his favorite child, the golden boy of the family. In his eyes, I was always firstborn son, prince to the king, a successor.
I spent very little private time with my father, which made those experiences intensely meaningful. When I was thirteen, he took me on a long drive in his car. He was extremely quiet, which was unusual. A few times he began speaking, then faltered and trailed away in a mumble. After an hour or so we returned home and he gave me a pamphlet on frog reproduction. In retrospect I understand that he had tasked himself with explaining the birds and bees to his son but was unable to follow through.
In 1971 he took me to the movie Billy Jack. He’d seen it the week before and believed its message of a lone man fighting social injustice would convey a valuable lesson. I was thrilled that he wanted to spend time with me. What I most recall is my father’s pre-movie commentary on behavior in a theater, which began with the choice of viewing position. Never sit down front, where you’d have to strain your neck looking up. Don’t sit in the back, because that was where people talked. The middle was no good, because most viewers sat there and you’d be hemmed in. The best seat was three quarters toward the rear, near the aisle, behind and to the side of a couple. No one would sit beside them and block your view. I listened attentively, and we entered the theater. We were the only people there.
He whispered his instructions after we sat. Never buy popcorn, which was overpriced and stale. If you bought candy in a bag, it was best to open it in a swift rip, because the long, slow sound of tearing paper was distracting. Boxes of candy presented another problem, particularly jawbreakers. You had to open the box in a way that allowed it to be reclosed. If the structure of the box prevented that, it was crucial to hold the box upright to avoid spilling the candy. The issue was not waste but disturbance. The sound of jawbreakers rolling down the sloped theater floor was deeply offensive to Dad.
The movie impressed me with its use of the word “fuck” and a blurred image of a female breast. The character Billy Jack used martial arts to fight for the rights of hippies and Native Americans. After the movie we went to the restroom and stood at the urinal. Dad told me that I was an alpha male. I nodded. He asked if I knew what that meant and I shook my head. He explained that an alpha male was more or less the boss dog of any outfit. It meant that beautiful women liked to talk to you, and men naturally looked to you for orders. He said that beta males were plumbers, doctors, mechanics, and engineers. Below them were delta males, which included everyone else.
He explained the three types of alpha—I was an alpha three and Billy Jack was an alpha two. Dad waited long enough for me to understand that I was supposed to ask who was an alpha one, which I did.
“Me,” he said, and zipped his pants.
I went to the sink, but he told me I didn’t need to wash up.
“Alphas don’t piss on their hands.”
Years later Dad fondly recalled Billy Jack as the last movie we saw together. I didn’t have the heart to tell him it was the only one.