Blame It On My Youth

The Unexpected Delivery

I coasted through the following day on autopilot. On Fridays, my job as a teacher was not too taxing. The kids knew the routine by this point and brought out the necessary equipment. During the game, images of my mother played through my mind like a flirty old film from the 1960’s. Her auburn red, banana-curled beehive, and plunging neckline were legendary in Middle Village. A slight smile crossed my lips for a split second just as one of the student’s shouted out, “Foul!” which brought me back to the present.

At 2:30, I packed up, headed toward the parking lot, and hopped into my Honda. Traffic on I-4 was always a nightmare any time of day, but today the cars crawled along like a slug parade. Soon I had joined the “Conga” line on my street and finally sailed through the gates of my complex. With Taylor still at work, I suited up the pups for their walk. Bambino was overly excited as usual and yipped all the way down the stairs, Midknight right behind. We did our usual jaunt around the complex, ending at the mailboxes.

“Bills, bills, and more bills. Ugh. Nothing ever changes around here,” I muttered. As I reached into the box to grab the remaining junk mail, I heard the scratching of metal on metal. A key dropped onto the pavement.

“I didn’t order anything. What do you think it can be, boys?” The larger mailboxes were housed at the end of the row. Once there, I finally slipped the key into mailbox “K.” A large, flat battered up cardboard box rested inside.

The parcel was almost disturbing. The only thing keeping it together was layers and layers of packing tape. It looked well over thirty years old. As I turned it around, I recognized the handwriting of the address. I gasped. It was my mother’s, but it looked as if it was scratched out minutes before the box had been left at the post office.

I wrested the heavy box out and barely managed to get it back to the condo. Bambino kept pulling me all over the place. Amazing how strong and stubborn a miniature Pomeranian can be. I tripped over the threshold and the carton crashed to the floor. “I hope nothing’s breakable… knowing her, it could be anything.” I stared at the lump of cardboard and tape. Once again, the memory of her leaving flashed through my head. “That’s right…she did say she’d send something in the mail.”

Bambino and Midknight sniffed around it like two drug dogs. “No—she wouldn’t! Then again…” I shooed the boys away.

For some odd reason, I ignored the shapeless taped-up blob of cardboard. I took a quick shower, started dinner, and graded some virtual papers for my online classes. My eyes glanced toward the corner countless times. The box seemed to be calling to me. What was I waiting for? Deep down, I was not ready to deal with the issues of my insane mother, but Taylor would be coming home soon. This was my responsibility, not hers.

I sucked in a deep breath, grabbed the utility knife, and advanced toward it like I was stalking some dangerous animal.

In all my years of living, my mother rarely gave me anything and when she did, she took it out of my so-called inheritance. Like the time I was expecting a five-thousand dollar down payment for my condo, the same amount she had given my sister. But instead, she handed me a black velvet box and inside was a sparkling 18K gold, turquoise, and diamond tennis bracelet. “Wow,” I thought. “A gift. How unexpected.” But then when I lifted out the bracelet, a folded check was underneath. It was not for five thousand, but for $3200.00; she had deducted the price of the bracelet. THAT was my mother. She even left me out of her will…so why had she sent me this box?

My curiosity was building with each swipe of the blade. It took several minutes before I could peel away all the layers of tape. Then, with one last great tug, I managed to remove the final piece.

As I folded one flap to the side, the musty smell of old cardboard and hints of Norell fragrance wrinkled my nose. Cotton-candy pink tissue paper sprang to life the moment I opened the other side.

Pink. She actually remembered my favorite color. My heart leapt as I dug through the endless layers of tissue. “I do appreciate the sentiment, Mommy, but you didn’t have to over-do it.” A slight laugh escaped my lips as I found a tiny pink envelope.

My fingers trembled slightly as I opened it. A painted image of delicate wildflowers graced the cover of the card. Inside, her loopy penmanship was a more accurate portrayal than the letters scratched on the shipping label. How often I had seen her writing in that dreaded black and white composition book of hers, keeping records of the countless “hot” merchandise strewn around the house as well as the money owed to her.

The note consisted of my name and three lines which read:

Kimmie~

I’ve always lived life my own way and with no regrets as you are certainly aware.

Of my three children, you are the only one who would appreciate the enclosed.

I never got around to writing my story…perhaps someone else will.

Mommy

“What the hell?”

The card slipped through my fingers and wafted onto the floor like a goose down feather.

I glanced open mouthed at the box, half expecting to find another black and white composition book inside with decades of neatly compiled stories. But instead, as I fingered through the piles of tissue, three bright red letters, CUE, splashed across several magazine covers. “Why on earth would she send me these torn and ratted things? She must’ve lost it at the end.”

After tossing them aside, I dug deeper and pulled out a manila envelope. A photo of my biological father was paper clipped to it. My eyebrows raised. She had little affection for him; their marriage was turbulent and only lasted a few years. I pulled off the photo and opened the envelope. Inside were adoption papers. The man, that I had thought was my father for sixteen years, wasn’t…

Mom was young, only eighteen when fate lent its hand. Driving through the campus of Hofstra University in a turquoise Chevy Belair convertible in late October of 1954, she screeched to a halt, leaving ten feet of tire marks. She missed hitting a service man by a mere inch. With pitch black-hair and eyes, he flashed a movie-star smile. He introduced himself.

Nicolas, a first-generation Sicilian-American stationed at Mitchel Air Force Base, was immediately drawn to her.

Standing 5feet, ten inches tall and plump with startling sea green eyes, Mom’s Anglo lineage dated back to the Mayflower. Her father, a banker, often criticized her weight and the moment Nick proposed a few months later, she answered yes. She wanted out of her family’s, and here was her opportunity.

Three months later, the wedding couple traipsed under crossed swords toward the priest in proper military style. The ceremony began and the newly ordained priest accidentally married himself to my mother instead of Nick…that should have been a clue for their impending doom.

Married life at the base was nothing like Kay had expected. Nick supplemented his modest military income, hosting crap and poker games at the base. Mom did not approve and often gave the money back to the wives so their children wouldn’t starve. This culminated in ferocious fights between them. She became pregnant with me, and the fights continued. Many nights Nick stayed out to all hours of the night.

During another heated argument, and while still pregnant with me, Nick pushed her down a flight of stairs. He rushed her to the infirmary, swearing it was an accident. Mom knew differently; neither of us were injured, but the marriage fell apart.

After I was born, Nick was often “missing in action,” sleeping with other women. Italian men were notorious for this, and it was highly unusual for an educated Protestant woman from the mid-1950’s to do the same, but Kay did. She shed her staunch, middle-class upbringing and began to live life on her terms.

Gossip surged through the base like a noxious gas after she was rumored to have had an affair with a high ranking officer. It was time to make haste. Mom packed me up and we left in a cloud of leaded gas. Nick found out. Not long after, he arrived at my grandparents’ house and pulled out a gun. With one swift movement, Mom snatched me up and ran into the streets. Nick didn’t shoot but stood there cursing at her. The police arrived, and he was eventually arrested.

In the 1950’s, women who divorced traveled to Reno or Las Vegas, Nevada, and waited out the customary six weeks for residency before they could file for a divorce.

She always said, “It would have been a lark to traipse off to Reno like several of my friends had.”

But it was not a good fit for Mom. She did not want to leave me for such an extended period. Mexican divorces through the mail were becoming the fashion for a “quicky" divorce, so Mom decided a short vacation to Mexico would do the trick. It was her first time there, but it wouldn’t be her last.

A few days later, Mom returned divorced, then mentally left the 1950’s and never looked back.

I dropped the envelope on top of the file and picked up my laptop. I had heard that many Mexican divorces at that time were not legal in this country. After a bit of research, the rumors I had heard were true. It was very possible my mother may have been a bigamist.