The Retired Corporate Slave

In 1958 my paternal grandmother wrote a letter to my father detailing events of her failing marriage.  My grandmother didn’t feel safe discussing the situation over the phone as my grandfather usually sat near the phone. 

My grandfather drank heavily every day.  Owning a liquor store enabled his alcoholism.  He had threatened to move the bank accounts into his name.  He was trying to force my grandmother to divorce him so she would leave with nothing.  The letter detailed several occasions my grandfather threatened to kill my grandmother.  He kept a loaded gun in the liquor store which he used to threaten my grandmother.  Arguments would sometimes last until four in the morning.

It was appalling to read the letter which my brother found last fall in my father’s hordes of letters and cards saved over the last sixty-seven years.  My brother asked my father what he did about the situation.  My father did nothing, which was a disturbing revelation.  His father was threating to kill his mother, yet my father chose not to intervene.  

I asked Aunt A, my father’s sister-in-law, about the letter at my father’s viewing.  She didn’t know about the letter, but she was aware of the abuse my grandmother experienced.  Aunt A said neighbors called the police several times when my grandparents’ arguments got out of hand.  Each time the police told my grandmother she needed to be a better wife and learn how to keep her husband happy.  Aunt A recalled a time when my grandfather’s gun was discharged while he was allegedly cleaning it.  The bullet went through the floor and struck the washing machine in the basement my grandmother was loading.  She said the hole in the floor was covered by a metal plate screwed to the floor.  I remember that metal plate.  That revelation sent chills down my spine.  Was my grandfather really cleaning his gun or was he trying to kill my grandmother? 

My grandfather didn’t kill my grandmother.  He didn’t move the bank accounts.  My grandmother didn’t divorce my grandfather.  My grandfather continued to drink heavily until he died in 1961 after falling into a diabetic coma at the end of a twenty-four-hour drinking binge.  My grandmother inherited the money and the business.    

I can’t help but wonder how my grandmother endured the abuse.  My grandmother’s beautifully tailored clothes along with jewelry to match every outfit masked a hell she was living behind closed doors.  A hell that was well-hidden from me as a child but not hidden from my father.

At my father’s viewing I had an enlightening conversation with my Aunt A, who is my father’s sister-in-law.  Aunt A was able to answer many questions I had about my parents.  In her early nineties, Aunt A is the last living relative of my parents’ generation.

According to Aunt A, my mother wanted more out of life.  She wanted nicer clothes, better furniture, and a newer car even though she did not drive.  She wanted to take vacations, go out to dinner occasionally and go to the movies.  My father refused to spend money on the things she wanted.  My father controlled the money, so he controlled my mother.  My mother was given a small weekly allowance for cigarettes and other small incidentals.

In the summer before I started fifth grade, Aunt A, my father and my father’s brother, Uncle K, took my mother to the ER after a week of constant crying.  Later in the day my mother returned from the hospital.  She was no longer crying.  The incident was not explained.  It was ignored and swept under the rug like most uncomfortable experiences in my childhood.  Life at home was better because my mother no longer cried.

Aunt A told me she took my mother to the ER several times, but the other times occurred while I was at school, and my father was at work.  She said my mother was told she had to either leave my father or stay and accept her life.  Aunt A said my mother felt she had no choice but to stay.  She didn’t work outside the home or drive and had no access to the bank accounts.  My mother didn’t think she could raise three children on her own.  Being Catholic, divorce was out of the question unless a significant contribution was made to the church.  There was only one divorced woman in our parish.  She was treated like a pariah by other women.  My mother didn’t want to be like that woman.  My mother was trapped in an unhappy life.

My mother decided to fight back by making my father’s life a living hell, and by extension, the lives of her children.  It was the start of decades of bickering over insignificant differences, cussing at each other, screaming matches along with my mother throwing things.  In my younger years I learned to hide in my room or the basement when eruptions occurred.  As a teenager I sought refuge at friends’ houses or in the nearby woods.  Is it any wonder I started drinking in the sixth grade and started smoking pot in the seventh grade before moving on to more hardcore drugs in high school?  My parents chose to ignore my behavior because I continued to be an honor student.

My father never gave in.  He chose to live in chaos rather than spend money.  My father had a relentless drive to save money, which, I suspect, was caused by being poor during the depression.  My father only saw the need for the basics.  There was no need for what he deemed luxuries.  My father elevated being frugal to an art form. 

My mother was controlled by my father.  She was also controlled by her Catholic faith.  Is it any wonder my mother became passive-aggressive and manipulative?  My parents fought until my mother died in 2015. 

A decades long mystery was solved by one conversation.  The revelation did not provide any comfort.  Knowing my father’s behavior was the cause of years of domestic upheaval and bitterness made me resent my father even more.  He never enjoyed the money he hoarded. Was the cost of that wealth worth it?

My father died in his sleep early Sunday morning.  His health had been declining for months.  The last week saw a rapid acceleration in the decline.  His hospice nurse advised he was actively dying. 

My father stopped talking to me a few years ago.  I made no attempt to repair the relationship.  He was always emotionally unavailable and distant.  He was disappointed with two cousins who married outside of their race.  He told me I got “the gay” from my mother’s side of the family.  I’m not sad.  I don’t miss him. 

Although born into poverty he died with wealth which was the result of endless frugality along with only spending money on necessities.  Being consumed with saving money ruined my parent’s marriage. He never enjoyed the money he accumulated.  He told me he was never happy. How sad is that?