Conspiracy

by Polly Williams

by Polly Williams

“Are you Catherine?” I asked an elderly woman in the café. “Yes, and you are Polly?”, she answered. “Yes, how could you tell?” I asked. She said, “By your jowls.”

So I sat down with the woman who babysat me as a high school student in 1941. “Before we start talking, Catherine, I need to know, did my mother love me?” I asked. “Yes, she replied, but did but she didn’t know how to show it.

I asked, “How did you come to care for my brothers and me?” She said, “Your mother was unable to care for you; she was addicted to Heroin and your dad hired me for the week days. I could tell that over the weekends all hell broke loose. “How did she get addicted,” I queried. “Your mother couldn’t stand pain from her wisdom teeth or her monthly period. She’d keep your dad awake till 2:00 a.m. demanding something, and he’d give in and give her Heroin so he could sleep to be able to go to work.”

“What about those early days?” I asked. “Well, the rumor was that town kids weren’t going to put up with you children since the kids of the doctor before your dad ran the town.” So, I began to understand the gossip and history of my brothers and me not being involved in school sports or band or other activities. We were left out. This was 1947. Mother would not let us go play with anyone because their ‘home wasn’t good enough.’

My brother often got into mischief. My oldest brother spent all his time with a pet calf. Dad was at the hospital, or on house calls, and very seldom home with us.

Forward 90 years, my brother just committed suicide at 82. He hated all of his life as a doctor’s son; he hated the town; he hated that people thought he was rich because he worked at a major machine factory after returning from serving in Korea. Later, he was given little choice but to retire early. Because we had been reared in a home providing only basic needs, shelter, food, and clothing, we did not get the emotional love we craved. It was a cycle: Father’d been raised with very poor German parents during the Depression, and he hadn’t gotten emotional love. So he had no love to pass on to his children, and we grew up wanting validation, acceptance, and to be needed.

My mother would yell to neighbors to send brother home to get a spanking, which they knew he did not deserve. He’d get a whipping because Mother said so. How many times my brothers were razor strapped I don’t know but it was enough that when he became a parent to 4 children, the sons were whipped often. No affection, no hugs, no ‘I love you.’

Brother married a woman of Cherokee background who was obedient to him. During their marriage, brother had an affair, and she never forgave him. Her last words to me were a confession that she’d made a mistake and had paid for it the rest of her life. She’d been pregnant when she married Brother.

In 2015, Brother’s wife was wheel-chair bound and needed full time help. Brother took care of her with the attitude of a saint. He acted as if he was sacrificing his life for her for the grueling 5 years. She died and he was alone. He changed, pushing his children away, pushing me away. He got very isolated. One day his son called and said Dad was moving to the town of his oldest son, being tired of living alone. They helped him pack and got a moving van. He went and I didn’t hear for him for a month.

Then came the shock of his son calling, “Dad decided to move back to his home. He left after angry words. All of us kids are disappointed and have not heard from him for several days.

Next came the call that my brother had driven home, the car was in the garage with it running, and he was found unresponsive. A note was left to deal with the house, burial.

The final conspiracy: I contacted the publisher of the town paper to put an announcement in saying goodbye to my brother, but was unable to know how to say it. He said he’d help. I sent a picture and letter thanking him for listening to me and helping me with the writing. Imagine my shock when the letter sent Oct. 5 came back to me Oct 20 with a stamp stating it wasn’t able to forward to unknown address. The address was exactly what I’d been told.

I feel continued snubbing. Because of the way he died, the publisher didn’t want to acknowledge any part of my brother’s death. How sad that the town didn’t get to know us individually, and we didn’t gt to know the town over our life time.

I think the ploy of my brother was to get moved from the hometown so when there was an auction, no one from town could see what he had. He made his children mad by moving back. His suicide was an act of spite toward the town.

Was I wrong? Had I had the wrong address for the paper? Perhaps any conspiracy died with my brother. Perhaps I make mountains out of molehills? In my mind, it is time for forgiveness and remembering the good.

Polly Williams is a doctor’s daughter, pastor’s wife, mother of 3 sons, farmer’s wife and widow. At 40, she completed her R.N.. Her desire now is to write stories of her life to inspire others.