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Cage Stories by jwcarvin i Copyright © 2000 Joseph W. Carvin All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form, except for the inclusion of brief quotations in a review, without written permission in writing from the author. Library of Congress Control Number: 2001126126 This version has been created as a .pdf file for digital publication on line. It differs slightly from the original with respect to margins, pagination, and correction of certain spelling and punctuation errors, but is otherwise identical to the original version published by the author and printed by Morris publishing of Kearney, Nebraska. ii To my children, and theirs iii CONTENTS The Big Pool 1 My Father’s Closet 7 The Bunk Bed 15 The Jungle Gym 19 Wee Ranch 22 Head Games 27 The Secret Room 32 The Big House 37 The Monkey‘s Cage 41 The Bathroom Door 47 The Thompson Cage 53 The Dummy 59 The Kiss 67 Descent Into Hell 71 Space Odyssey 84 The Magic Circle 99 Invitation 107 Consequences 110 iv CONTENTS (cont.) Family Business 123 A New House 136 Daniel 145 The Roof 149 The Mountain 155 The Stick 160 The Courthouse Steps 164 Bintu of the Magibuti 169 Diluvius 172 The River 177 The Godfather 186 The PFD 194 The Coffin 201 The Quantum Leap 211 Walking Proud 218 Taking Control 225 At the Head of the Table 232 The Last Escape 246 Poems 257 v For my father, Who rests now in the grave, Having passed me crumbs And passed on life In the empty days of winter; For my mother, Whose heartbeat I knew Long before any other; And for their hundred Fellow travelers Who stood on deck Before the salt winds Of the ocean passage; For each of them, I write these words. vi he Big Pool Among rows of pews that formed an octagon around an altar, we sang off key, echoes crossed in opposing frequencies: Abba, Abba, Father TYou are the potter, we are the clay, The work of Your hands… My brother David wanted to bury Dad’s ashes in Pennsylvania. Chris wanted them taken to sea. My mother had refused to express an opinion on their disposition, insisting that Dad’s soul was now free of them. What they were had nothing to do with him, she had said. She now sat dry-eyed, black- veiled, confident that her husband was now with his Father. After a homily by the old priest, two altar boys in white and red robes walked up the center aisle, one with a chalice, the other with a golden box. Chickie entered the aisle behind them, taking confident strides forward, causing whispers and chuckles among the crowd. As the priests began the Lord’s prayer, Chickie knelt on the altar’s carpeted step; while the priests consecrated the Eucharist, a friend of my father’s enticed my oldest brother back to a pew. I thought of the shower I had taken with him that morning, when I’d washed the dried excrement out of his leg hairs. My sister Corinne, out of the hospital for now, sat beside me. On the other side of the church sat my wife, my three daughters, and my son, who was fidgeting in a jacket two sizes too large. With them was my youngest brother, Jim, in a bright blue shirt and a white jacket, which I am sure he had chosen for symbolic reasons of one kind or another. Jim, you see, was mystical. Born a Presbyterian, he had converted to Roman Catholicism, gone to an Episcopal Seminary, and eventually converted to Greek Orthodoxy. For several months, he had studied under a Swami from India 1 how to “levitate” above the ground. Jim’s position on the disposition of Dad’s ashes was stronger than anyone else’s. He wanted to save them in an urn and build a shrine for them under an icon of the Blessed Virgin. After communion, I felt it my duty to say something about my father. I went to the lectern and delivered a eulogy, describing the stages of his life as I’d known them, from my childhood fear of the black alligator belt that hung in his closet, to the recent occasion on which I had cut his hair. Deaths cause us to think of such things. The service over, aunts, uncles, neighbors and friends gathered at my parents’ apartment, bound by tradition, emotion or momentum to speak of the past. I began to reflect on the many episodes of my own existence that had led us all here. I hadn’t written in my journal for years. In my reminiscence, I resolved to return to it. * * * My great grandfather was an immigrant from Ireland, a Catholic who made money selling liquor during prohibition, then lost it all gambling. My grandfather was a storyteller who sold rayon stockings during the Depression, using his gift for ethnic dialects to charm his customers. He spoke with a loud, musical voice and was the center of attention wherever he went. We called him “Pop Pop.” My mother’s family consisted mostly of Presbyterian ministers and their wives. Her father was a bookkeeper who counted costs per yard of cotton; he spoke with a quiet voice, deferring often to my grandmother, whose nickname was “Noise.” His family attended church services in Lancaster, Texas, praying so that heathens might be saved. We called my mother’s father “Danny.” My Irish father went to mass every Sunday with the Catholic boys. His mother was an alcoholic. His father was always on the road, telling stories. When he was thrown off the high school basketball team for smoking, he started his own team, The Nicotines. After enlisting in the army during the Second World War, he drove himself, a girlfriend and a case of beer off the road, tumbling down a hill. He was taken to the hospital, where he spent an entire year. Danny had brought his family from Texas to New York in 1939. One evening in May of 1945, my parents met. In less than a year, my father proposed, but my mother turned him down. The Carvins, of course, would have preferred that their son marry an Irish girl. And the Logans couldn’t tolerate the thought of their daughter marrying a fast-living Catholic. 2 Matters got worse when the Carvins insisted all the children be raised Catholic. My parents argued. They split up. He kept calling. She fled to California and got engaged to a Presbyterian. He refused to accept defeat, and kept calling. By July, 1946, she finally said yes, she would marry him on one condition: the children would not all be raised Catholic. All the girls, she insisted, would be raised Presbyterian. Sonny agreed. They eloped and were married in Santa Monica, California on August 4th, 1946, by a justice of the peace. It was from this union, and from the gene pools that produced it, that my siblings and I would come into the world. On August 6, 1947 – a year and two days after they married – Julia and Charley Carvin had a son. To preserve the family heritage, they named him Charles III, like a king. But the baby’s eyes were slanted and crossed; his head was small and round; his fingers and feet were stubby, with creases in the palms and soles. The doctors had a different name for the baby – they called him a “Mongoloid” child. They informed Charley and Julie that the child would be severely retarded and would have a short life. They called the baby “Chickie” – like a yellow bird with a broad beak emerging from a broken shell. Science tells us that during meiosis, when the chromosomes replicate, they are supposed to split into two separate chains of DNA. But in Chickie’s case, a stubborn 21st chromosome had refused to split from its genetic twin. Clinging tight to each other, these frightened twins had shown up at the wedding of sperm and egg as a couple, both seeking admission on the same invitation. During the posturing of the genetic ritual, when it came time for my father’s chromosomes to align with my mother’s across the dance floor, there were, at position 21, two nervous chromosomes on one side of the aisle facing only one on the other. Like that moment in “musical chairs” when the music stops, there was only a seat for one. Yet neither was willing to defer. Two chromosomes squeezed into the same spot in the egg. The result was an awkward, confused moment, and a child with a condition the medical literature called Downs Syndrome. Charley and Julie sought a second opinion. Finding none, they went to Florida in hopes that Julie could get her mind off her child. Plans were made by others about what to do with Chickie. On November 23, 1947, from a hotel room in Florida, Julia wrote this letter to her mother-in-law: 3 Dear Mother C, Your letter was wonderful and I really think that was so thoughtful of you to write me just what you knew I wanted to hear – all about Chickie. I miss him so much I don’t know how I’m going to stand it. Charley has been wonderful in trying to help me get my mind on something else but even though I say I’m going to, my darling baby is ever in the back of my mind. I know you are all helping to take good care of him and I do appreciate it so much.

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