“I started writing to save myself.” – Eldridge Cleaver

I started writing initially because I was a bored housewife with a newborn. Through a very circuitous route, I realized I was gay. This was the book I was writing at the time. 

Furthest from the Gate took over a decade to write. I just couldn’t seem to finish it. Then my mother was diagnosed with dementia and went to live in a care facility. I journaled constantly as a way to cope with my mother’s fading light and her inability to remember people, something that had come naturally for her entire life. Until the dementia, she could name every person in her first-grade class picture. I realized those conversations between Mom and me at her memory care facility and which are detailed nearly verbatim in the book, was the plot line that completed the novel. 

Gate celebrates and details the relationships between family members: the mother and daughter, the mother and her brother, and the daughter and her first girlfriend. I’ve called this book “semi-autobiographic,” as portions of it really happened, but much is fiction. People always ask me questions like, “Did your uncle really know people who lived in the sewer?” Yes. “Did your best friend really win an Academy Award?” No. “Did your grandmother cause a huge kerfuffle at the church bingo night?” No. One such piece that is very true is the letter exchange between the mother and her brother, a man who was incredibly funny and gifted with words. My uncle Ed and my mom, although vastly different as people, kept a running correspondence going until his death in 1982. 

The coming out plot line for the daughter (Kate), is entirely fictional. It’s my “what if?” Had I made the realization much earlier in life that I was gay, how would that have played out? This is a potential guess. Suffice to say, Furthest from the Gate is my absolute favorite book. I’m proud of all my books, but Gate holds a piece of my heart. 

Present Day

After one pass through the parking lot, I give up. Normally I wouldn’t even bother navigating the roundabout, since the number of spaces seems to equal the number of employees currently on duty at Dayport Care Center. Visitors parking is non-existent, a testimonial to the reclusive life of the residents, most of whom have been tucked away for their own safe keeping, like valuable family heirlooms placed on display pedestals in a china cabinet.

Today, though, I am in a hurry, trying to sandwich a visit between errands and a stack of essays to grade at home. A close parking spot would have saved me a few minutes. I sigh and park on the street, quickly walking toward the ranch-style, brick building, looking at my watch. I haven’t even arrived and I am already calculating how long I will stay and when I can leave to maintain my status as a good, dutiful daughter.

A fluorescent pink sign warns, “Keep Door Closed – Dog in Residence”. I peer through the glass, and not seeing Mabel, the ancient, friendly Greyhound, I open the door and glance at the nurse on duty. Her eyes meet mine for a second, just long enough to confirm that I am not a wayward homeless person or a deliveryman who might demand her attention.

I work my way through the Great Room, side-stepping haphazardly arranged wheelchairs and walkers, their occupants facing any direction, their intended destinations forgotten. A row of straight back chairs line the far wall, used by the few residents who are still entirely ambulatory. I wander towards a semi-circle of mauve recliners facing a large TV and find my mother lounging in the one closest to the screen, an old movie blaring in Dolby surround sound. Bing Crosby and Bob Hope travel on the road to somewhere, but my mother’s gaze, like so many of those around her, is directionless. She stares ahead, her eyes hooded, drugged without drugs. Only when I appear in front of her does she look up, her facial features contorting into an actual expression of happiness, like a camera lens adjusting to the picture frame.

“Hi, Mom,” I say with a warm smile.

“Hi there,” she replies. Her voice is like sandpaper from lack of use.

I squat down, trying to move closer to her, taking her hand. There are no extra chairs for me and moving to her room would be very troublesome, not to mention time consuming. “How are you, Mom?

How’s your day going?”

This is without a doubt the silliest question I could ask. Her day is no different from yesterday or the day before. She moves from her bed to the recliner, her surroundings changing only when she goes to the dining hall to be fed her meals. Still, I ask the question to continue the charade of hope that her life can be meaningful, even within the walls of this kind and humane prison.

“I’m having some time,” she mumbles.

I nod, although I have no idea what she means. All of her words, her entire language, are a code. She speaks English usually, but there is no formal structure, nothing to remind me of her years as a teacher, and the time she spent instructing 6th graders about the placement of nouns and verbs in a sentence. She has become her worst student.

“Charlie was here,” she offers.

“Uncle Charlie was visiting? That’s great, Mom.”

“He said...he brought...” The sentence evaporates into the air, and I cannot make out the end of it. I nod politely, knowing my dead Uncle Charlie couldn’t have brought anything, except the fond memories my mother carries in her mind.

“Speaking of Uncle Charlie, I have some more of his letters for you to read.” I put the copied pages in her lap, well aware that she cannot decipher text and understand paragraphs, but she might recognize the handwriting. “I think these were written before I was born, while he was in the Air Force.”

“Thank you so much,” she gushes. “This is wonderful!”

Her eyes drift away but her hand remains under mine. Bing Crosby is singing now, overpowering the nurses’ voices, the ringing phones and the beeping of several monitors. I no longer struggle to create conversation. She is not expecting it. I lean close enough to hear her wheezing, a byproduct of the emphysema that ravages her lungs and permanently tethers her to the oxygen tank next to her.

Not only is she unable to communicate effectively, but physically she cannot control any aspect of her movement beyond simple gestures. Like most of the other patients, her skin is the color of paste, and deep grooves cross her face from decades of smoking, adding at least fifteen years to her appearance. Only her salt and pepper hair signal her true chronological age of 65, the milestone for movie discounts and senior buffet prices, opportunities she will never enjoy.

I stand up again, unable to continue squatting beside her, my own joints feeling middle-aged. The movement gains the attention of several patients whose eyes now stare at me, their faces either full of confusion at the sight of a stranger, or happiness because my activity reminds them they are still alive. A thin woman in a pink dress with a mole on her cheek fixates on me, her bland expression unmoving. I smile, gain no reaction, but she continues to study me, since she has nothing but time, and I am clearly the most interesting thing in the room.

Their bodies prove that individuality evaporates with age - their stooped shoulders curve into a question mark, the small tufts of gray and white hair that remain on their heads, the plainness of their clothes designed for easy access to their bowels and bodies, and most of all, their expressions, which are carbon copies with only a few variations. Their mouths hang open slightly whether they are asleep or awake, and their eyes are vacant, all the glimmer and excitement having vanished with age, disease or both. It is difficult to tell whether some are alive or dead, only the slight rise and fall of their chests keeping the doctors from signing the death certificates.

I look at my mother, robbed of her uniqueness, the very soul of her essence, and the memories that defined her. She is no different than anyone else here. The pages of everyone’s journal have been erased, leaving only small random paragraphs to tell their stories and the outer shells to wither and decay in this room. Their minds cling to what little is left, the most vivid imprints that remain.

Signs of life surround the residents, the sleeping Greyhound in the corner, the parakeets singing in the nearby cage and the endless kinetic motion of the nurses’ station. Even the bright blue walls give the residents a reason to force their hearts to beat a little longer, for in such a vibrant environment the desire for life is strong. At least that must be what the Dayport Care Center trustees believe.

I lean against the nearby wall, scanning the faces, the rows of people waiting. Their walkers and wheelchairs form a gauntlet at this finish line.

Waiting to die.

Waiting to arrive at the Pearly Gates and see Saint Peter. They could use this sunset to ponder their existence and their imminent death, yet their decrepit minds prevent such thoughts, and maybe that is the great architect’s plan, a sign of compassion for these fragile beings who wander through the final chapter of the book of their lives.
I glance about again, recognizing that collectively they have lived over two thousand years, their existence marked by the joy they brought, the tragedy they created, the despair they endured.

Whose pages will be most impressive and earn a place at the front of Saint Peter’s gate?

The hands of the large wall clock have descended deeper into the hour, and I realize I have been with my mother for nearly twenty minutes. My allocated time allotment is half an hour, but if I leave early, only I will know. She will make no guilty swipes at my conscience as she did in my youth, none of the care workers will shake their heads disapprovingly, and my father will never ask how long I stayed with my mother.

Remembering two other things that loom on my agenda for the day, I pat her on the arm and lean down once more. “Mom, I’m going to need to go. I’ve got some more errands to do. I’ll come by tomorrow and see you.”

“Hmm,” she says. “Well, I’m not sure if I’ll be around. I’ve got a luncheon with the governor and then three meetings back to back. You may not see me,” she adds with a doubtful tone.

A smile crosses my face. “That’s OK, Mom. I’ll find you. You don’t worry, because I’ll find you.”

1964

Dear Sister Mine,
I have deduced what was obvious to everyone else in my life: I am entirely unsuited for military service. Considering I’ve now been at Fort Whitlock for one week, I feel I can fairly assess my aptitude for defending our nation, and the positions for which I am qualified. They include, in no particular order: Official B-2 Bomber Window Washer, Stamp Licker to the General Attaché, or Court Jester.

My superior officer, Lieutenant Wyrick, would say that I’m over qualified for the latter position. In fact, my antics may be chiefly responsible for his impending heart attack or the U.S.’s deteriorating relationship with Cuba.
Just yesterday, we had a surprise locker inspection. Since I was relatively certain my locker would not pass “muster,” and I didn’t think the good lieutenant would notice I was missing, I contortioned myself inside the locker and peeked out the vent slits. I quickly realized my ruse would soon be discovered, as protocol required all new recruits to stand at the foot of their beds during the inspection. Even dim-witted Lieutenant Wyrick keenly observed that Private Charles Driscoll’s bed had no one at its helm.

“Where’s Driscoll?” Wyrick bellowed at poor Airman Johnson, the unfortunate lad who bunks next to me and endures my late night penury and constant snoring.

“I DON’T KNOW, SIR!” he squawked, his post-pubescent voice cracking at the end.

Wyrick turned and faced the locker, his pencil thin mustache in stark contrast to his chalk white face. He sported a freshly buzzed flat top, and I could see his gritted teeth from my vantage point.

He stared down at my poorly made cot, and his eyes settled on the locker. I watched him advance toward me, the click of his heels echoing throughout the silent barracks, his individual short hairs becoming more distinct with each step.

I smiled as the latch turned and the door flung open. I said the only thing that came to mind: “Going up?”

Lieutenant Wyrick, as you might imagine, was not amused. And if you’ve ever wondered if all of those sophomoric punishments you see in the movies are really employed by military personnel, such as cleaning the latrine with your toothbrush – they are. Can you send me a quarter for a new toothbrush?

As for Christmas, no gift is necessary. Your announcement of the “Blessed Event” was met with much elation. I am thrilled for you and Joe. As I have told our mother, I consider myself perfectly suited for the role of an uncle. I am really not too concerned over the child’s sex (so long as you agree it should have one), nor am I unduly worried about its horoscope. Also, I do approve of your choice of names. Kate is a strong name and reminds me of Katharine Hepburn, while Henry would be equally appropriate, should the Y chromosome prove dominant. I trust you and Joe will adjust to being parents. As for your inevitable discomfort, I only give a slight bit of sympathy. I told you what would happen if you got married. You are a good Catholic with bad rhythm.

Joe, you must be patient my sister. Once, in a rare moment of sibling magnanimity, I tried to explain to her the biological aspects of marriage, but she just mumbled something about there being nothing disturbing about storks.

Now, I will be sending you a Christmas present, dear sister. I’m knitting you a brassiere. Right now I’m working on the left cup and would like you to cooperate by putting on a little weight on your left side only.

I must go. Lieutenant Wyrick will return shortly, and I’m supposed to be guarding this chain link fence from the barbarians of lower Ohio, who will inevitably storm the gate. Again, I proclaim my happiness at your good news, which can only be surpassed by your own joy. The population problem be damned!

Take care and don’t worry. The chances are a thousand to one that the little son of a gun will ever resemble me – let alone think like me.
Mazeltov!
Charles

1967
Dearest Sister Mine:
I’m sorry I can’t remember much about my last letter. That particular evening I had rinsed my cerebellum in septic pools of Schotch (damn typewriter) and I find it very difficult even recalling the fact that I wrote you a letter. However in the clear light of sobriety, I state my congratulations to you on the adoption of your second child. I think Thomas is an outstanding name. Hopefully, he won’t be doubtful. I know you have to wait a long time for him to come home with you, but it will be well worth it.

The evening I penned my last letter did not end with the licking of an envelope. No indeed! With wild abandon, I led a raucous mob of two other Airmen upon the semi-civilized populace of Cleveland where we waged a furious battle against Demon Rum. We lost, largely by virtue of insincerity. One of my comrades, Dirk Moore, became a trifle overzealous in his efforts to strike a blow for Democracy and passed out while charging up the steps of the Cleveland City Hall, intending to liberate the hundreds of political prisoners he was certain were suffering within. It was an hour before we could awaken him, and from there we journeyed to another local pub and led the many customers in a community sing. What transpired after that point is known only by the several frightened old ladies whose lives we lengthened by making flirtatious suggestions to.

I am pleased to write that I ran into my old friend, Nestor. He drove up on the day of my discharge and we trekked out to Santa Barbara. We drank enough Budweiser to justify a stock split and then went looking for our mutual friend, Jim. We brought a bucket of beer as an offering, and Jim was pleased. Jim, an anthropologist, was angered when Nestor suggested that primitive man first gathered together in order to grow grain so they could make beer. I didn’t take part in the debate, for I was lusting after Jim’s wife. I tried to convince her that only the Eskimos really know how to treat their guests. The host always gives his friends the best food, lodging, beer, and even throws in his wife for good measure. She wouldn’t have anything to do with it, but I partook in much good food and beer. Jim eventually passed out (beer does that) and Nestor and I spent the night on the floor. I was sorry to see Nestor leave, but we both ran out of cash (beer does that, too).

You asked me what I’ll do, now that I’m free of the Air Force. Who knows? I may join the Peace Corps; I may join the Viet Cong. I may go back to college; I may take up beachcombing. Will I reenlist? Will the Pope be circumcised? Regardless of what I do, I will probably continue to love hating it. That’s the way I am, or haven’t you noticed?

Your rather honorably discharged brother,
Charles

Not Your Typical Girl
Top row – fourth from the left. That's where Kimmie Lancaster stood for our first grade picture. She was easy to spot, the only girl amidst the tall six year-old boys. A young Helen of Troy, she towered over the rest of us in stature and beauty. She wasn't very bright, so we were never in the same skills groups, but I always found an excuse to pass her desk during the day. My pencil was dull or my bladder was full, anything just to glance at that porcelain face.

I always avoided any meaningful contact. We never played together or sat next to each other on the bus. I watched from afar as Kimmie's best friends touched her shimmering blonde hair, wrapped their arms around her slight frame, and best of all, kissed her perfect lips, which always seemed to form a pout. I marveled at how easy it was for Heather Bowens to take Kimmie's hand, something I wouldn't dare do. Every time I looked at Kimmie I felt sick, sick in the most wonderful of ways. My stomach plunged like a runaway elevator and my tongue expanded, making only guttural sounds possible. How did Heather do it? Didn't she just want to spend hours looking at Kimmie?

I'd been so distracted watching Kimmie make "O's" during penmanship (her mouth kept forming the letter as she wrote) that I'd been scolded by Mrs. Locke. “Kate Mitchell, keep your eyes on your paper, young lady. Class, remember, letter formation is critical to good writing.”

I lived for lunchtime. Mrs. Locke would put the boys and girls in two lines alphabetically, and I got to stand right behind Kimmie, within inches of that honey scented hair and those magnificent lips.

Before we'd begin our march to the cafeteria, Mrs. Locke would turn toward us and flash two perfect rows of dentures. "Now ladies, look at the little boy across from you. Maybe someday that will be the man you marry."

I glanced at Ralph Needleman, his hair plastered to his head with Dippity Doo. I couldn't imagine any girl talking to him, let alone marrying him. Everyone knew he had cooties. No, if I had to get married, I'd marry Kimmie. There was only one problem.

She was standing in the wrong line.

****

My father’s car pulled into the driveway, and I heard the familiar sounds of his entrance. Seeing my mother on the phone, he kissed me on the head. “Hey,” he said tiredly.

“Hi Daddy! How was work?” I asked, trying to sound like my mother.

My father looked at me seriously. “You wouldn’t know anything about construction code violations, would you?”
I shook my head. I knew my father was a civil engineer, but I had no idea what that meant. “I’m only in first grade, Daddy. Maybe we’ll get to that next year.”

He nodded and smiled. “You just might.”

We looked at my mother, the epitome of Betty Crocker, stirring the vegetables with one hand, cigarette in the other, still watching my young siblings play on the floor. “I think this committee could be very important, Estelle. The Superintendent of Schools wants to actively involve all of the PTAs in the district and mobilize them. He’s very concerned about declining enrollment. I need you to serve with me.” My mother listened to Estelle’s obvious hesitation, already shaking her head. “Just think about it, OK? All right, I’ll talk to you tomorrow. Goodbye.”

She hung up and smiled at my father. “Hi, honey.” They exchanged their customary evening kiss and retreated to the bedroom for adult decompression time, as my father called it.

“What’s adult decompression?” I’d once asked him.

“A time just for adults to talk,” he said. “In other words, it’s all about boring stuff.”

“Oh, so I’m not missing anything really important,” I concluded.
“Not at all. Whenever the topic of Christmas toys, Disneyland or the president comes up, you’re there,” he assured me.

Dinner was always at six o’clock. We sat down and said grace, and then talked about our
very different days, while my mother fed my infant sister, and my father oversaw my three-year- old brother’s messy eating habits.

“How was school?” my father started.

I frowned. “Mrs. Locke says that I can’t wear my six-shooters or my cowboy hat anymore.”

His eyes narrowed. “Why not?”

“Because,” my mother interjected, “the guns are a distraction to the other students and the cowboy hat isn’t lady-like enough.” My father opened his mouth, but my mother quickly cut him off. “I’m just paraphrasing, dear.”

“Hmm,” my father thought. “Well, I understand about the pistols, but unless there’s a rule about hats at school, Katie, you can wear that hat any day you want.”
My mother shook her head in disagreement. “Joe, Katie would benefit from some ladylike manners.”
“I don’t care about being a lady!” I exclaimed. “Well, dear, someday you might,” my mother said.

“She’ll have plenty of time to be a lady,” my father responded. “And wear high heels, and all that other stuff.” He looked at me and winked before turning back to my mother. “Besides, Barbara, where’s your sense of individuality? The ACLU would revoke your membership if they heard that talk.”

My mother busied herself with my little brother’s vegetables and ignored my father. “Katie, I don’t have any problem with your Levis and t-shirts, but every once in a while it would be nice if you wore one of the lovely pinafores Grandma made you.”

I shook my head violently. “No, no, no!”

Realizing the conversation would go nowhere, my father changed the subject. “Did you see Nixon’s press conference on TV today?”

My mother pursed her lips and passed me the meat. “There’s something about that man that I just don’t trust. I can’t put my finger on it, but he just doesn’t seem honest.”

“Nixon, Nixon, he’s our man, McGovern belongs in the garbage can!” I sang.

My father and mother both stared at me. “Why would you want to put Senator McGovern in a garbage can?” my father asked.

I really had no idea. It was just how the song went. I shrugged my shoulders.

“Do you know what Mr. McGovern stands for, Katie?” My mother looked at me with questioning eyes. “He’s done many good things for people, and he favors removing the troops from Vietnam.”

I knew all about Vietnam and the soldiers who were dying. “Well, maybe he shouldn’t be in a garbage can,” I said.
My father stared at me. “Kate, I’ve got one word I want you to learn. Democrat.” “Democrat,” I repeated.

“Good,” my father said with another wink.

My mother wiped goulash from my brother’s mouth and turned to me. “Katie, honey, I do have something I need to speak with you about. It’s very exciting!”

“Is it a pony? Are we getting a pony!”

“No,” my father added.

“No, honey, it’s not a pony. One of my old students is getting married, and she would like you to be the flower girl. Isn’t that wonderful?” Her face became overly animated, and I sensed something was up.

"What do I have to do?" I asked suspiciously.

"You just walk down the aisle ahead of the bride and drop flower petals. Simple." I noticed my mother glanced at my father, who quickly studied his dinner.

"Sounds stupid to me," I grunted.

My mother noticed my sour expression. "It's a very important job, Kate. And I think it's
extremely nice of Lucille to think of you – and me. She said I was her favorite teacher." "Mom, I don't even know her," I protested.

"But I do. Besides, Robby Wentworth's going to be the ring-bearer, so you'll have a
friend to talk to."

The last thing I wanted to do was talk to Robby Wentworth, my only sometimes friend. My mother stared at me, waiting for an answer. The right answer.

"Mom, I don't want to," I whined.

She sighed. "Well, I'm not going to force you." She rose from the table and began
collecting the dinner dishes.

Years ago, my mother had perfected the art of Anger with Dishware. Plates crashed against each other and glasses smacked, just approaching breakage, but staying intact. She had resorted to the lowest of blows, unspoken Catholic guilt.

I crumbled. "Okay."

Mom set down the plates and hugged me. "Oh, and by the way, your dress fitting's tomorrow."

"Dress? I have to wear a dress?" My father grabbed the remaining innocent dishes and headed for the kitchen.

Mom laughed nervously. "Of course you'll wear a dress. This is a wedding! You can't wear your cruddy old jeans."
"I'm not wearing a dress!"

"Kate Elizabeth Mitchell, you will be in that wedding, and you will wear a dress, or you won't play basketball for a month."

"Fine!" I screamed. I ran to my room and threw myself onto the bed, punching my pillow several times.

The doorknob clicked as she entered the room. My left eyeball focused on her slight frame, the blonde bobbed hair, and the hands that perpetually rested in the pockets of her house dress.

"Katie, let's compromise. Look at me, please."

I turned around, my head still against the pillow.\

My mother's face softened. "If you'll be in the wedding, I'll get you a new backboard. Is
that fair?"

I nodded. At the time it seemed like a victory. I was wrong.

***

Lucille Orcutt was a battalion commander draped in lace and satin. She personally oversaw all the wedding preparations inside the cramped dressing room of Our Lady of the Valley Church. A bow was not tied, a bang was not curled, and a cheek was not rouged without Lucille's approval. She had just checked my hair ribbon for the third time before darting over to a bridesmaid with a slipper problem.

I slumped into a chair. Across the room I saw my reflection in a full-length mirror. I looked like a piece of mold. My pea-green dress supposedly provided contrast to the emerald green worn by the bridesmaids. The floor-length gown was too long, and I couldn't see the black patent leather shoes that suffocated my tiny feet. My long, brown hair had been pulled back and tied with a matching pea-green bow. A piece of mold with a tail.
I closed my eyes as I drove to the hoop for a lay up, the basketball bouncing off my new backboard and then, swish! Two points. Actually, the backboard was currently sitting in the garage, purchased three days before the wedding. Although my parents had never reneged on a promise before, it couldn't hurt to be safe.

Lucille dashed over and pulled me to my feet. "Now cutie, let me give you the once over." While she examined me,I reached my own conclusions. Her future husband must have been drunk or in a poorly lit room when he proposed. Lucille's face was all forehead, her dime- sized eyes, pig nose and button mouth sat somewhere near her chin. I did a better job putting a face on Mr. Potatohead.

Her neck smiled. "You're all set." She adjusted my bow and squeezed my cheeks. "You are so cute!" Before I could stamp on her foot, she was gone.

After what seemed like twenty years, we all lined up. I stood behind Robby, holding my basket of flower petals. My job was easy. I walked down the aisle and gently tossed the petals from side to side. The gently part had been emphasized by my mother, Lucille and the wedding hostess at least ten times.

"So what do you do?" I asked Robby. He'd been ignoring me, but he turned around when I addressed him.

"I carry this little pillow to the front."

"Why?"

"So everybody can see the rings." He held out an enormous burgundy pillow. In the center sat two rings secured to the velvet by white ribbons.

It occurred to me Robby's job was even easier. All he had to do was carry the pillow. I had the immense responsibility of carrying the basket and tossing the petals. What if I screwed up? What if the petals all stuck together? What if I didn't toss them correctly?

"Robby, why don't we switch?" I offered. "You drop the petals and I'll carry the rings."

Robby rolled his eyes at me. "I can't carry the flowers. There's no such thing as a flower boy. Everybody'd think I was a sissy."

My face clouded and Robby's mouth clamped shut.

"Are you calling me a sissy?" My hand tightened around the basket handle. The wedding hostess appeared and Robby whirled around, hoping to end our confrontation.

The church doors opened and strains of Ode to Joy echoed through the room. The first set of smiling attendants advanced toward the altar and our procession inched forward. My basket of flowers bumped Robby's butt, and he spun around, thinking I was provoking him again.

"Stop doing that!" he spat. We took two more steps, and I did it again - this time on purpose.

"Katie, I'm warning you."

"You called me a sissy."

"Well, you are!"

Before I could whack him in the rump again, the two of us were standing in front of the
open doors, facing the three hundred guests. I was hot. My tossing hand clenched some defenseless posies and I threw them in the air. Instead of landing on the ground, they flew up into Robby's face.

"Stop it," he hissed.

"I will not," I said, showering him with another handful of flowers.

Robby stopped walking. "Goddammit, Katie, you're gonna get it!" The little velvet pillow crashed down on my head. As he readied for a second blow, I smashed him broadside with the basket. An explosion of petals filled the aisle.

Although the guests were horrified, no one did anything. The organist played (her view obstructed by the mighty Wurlitzer), the groom laughed, the preacher thumbed through his Bible, and those guests nearest to us merely wiped the posies and daisies from their clothes.

Robby and I continued whacking each other and yelling obscenities until a scream pierced the air. Lucille Orcutt chugged down the aisle, brandishing her bouquet like a bayonet. She was a huge snowball rolling toward us. Robby and I did what all children would do – we ran. Robby scooted behind the Best Man, and I hustled onto the altar next to the Maid of Honor.

In my hurry, I forgot about the tall step that we had all been warned about during rehearsal. My foot, caught in the folds of the dress, hit the step, and I tumbled over it. The basket rolled into a corner and the dress flew over my head, exposing my clean, white underpants to the entire company.

I sat upright. A ripple of laughter began with the groom's men and quickly overtook the bridesmaids. It spread through the string quartet, and soon engulfed the audience. The only people not laughing were the mothers of the bride and groom, Lucille, and my mother. Lucille had to be restrained by the preacher. Luckily, he was stronger than he looked.

Once the rings were found and the groom recovered from an awful case of hiccups, Lucille Orcutt became Lucille Widentower.

At the reception Lucille carefully avoided me and my parents, but many of the guests came by and shook my hand. Some just laughed, and one man slipped me five dollars and told me I was the only good thing about the whole day. I'm not sure, but I think he was Lucille's father.

The drive home was solemn. My mother stared at the windshield, never looking at me and refusing to acknowledge my father's pathetic attempts at conversation with more than a grunt. I knew she'd eventually say something while I was a captive in a moving car.

As we pulled into the driveway, I readied my hand on the door latch, preparing for a quick exit the second my father got the car into park. Before I could escape, though, my mother swiftly turned and popped the door lock into place.

"I have never been so humiliated in my whole life. That was the most insensitive thing you have ever done, Kate Mitchell."

"Robby started it!" I blurted.

"Young lady, that is not the point. You embarrassed all of us and you ruined Lucille's wedding. A girl only gets married once."

"Well, I'm never getting married!"

"And you can kiss that backboard goodbye."

My mother stormed out of the car before I could protest. I sat there, picking at some old gum from the door handle and waiting for my father's wrath, since parental abuse usually comes consecutively. I waited, but he just sat there.

My attention wandered to the gum, which was becoming exceedingly resistant to my finger. My father made a noise. It sounded like a belch, but I couldn't tell. We sat there a while longer and then he did it again. By the fourth time I realized it wasn't a belch but a giggle. Unable to contain himself any longer, he belly laughed and pounded the steering wheel with both hands. He even honked the horn. He looked at me, tears rolling down his face, and I laughed too. I laughed until my stomach hurt, and by then I'd crawled over the front seat and into my father's wide arms.

We sat there until we could breathe again, enjoying the moment. It wasn't very often that my father got to be the "good parent," while my mother played the heavy. Usually, the roles were reversed, and my father seemed to savor the change.

Only after we'd given Mom a good half hour to cool off, did we go inside. Once I'd apologized to her, written a letter of apology to Lucille, and said one hundred Hail Marys for swearing in church, my father and I put up the backboard and played ball until dark.