Not My Father's Son

There is nothing like an untimely death to stun you into reality. Like a bucket of ice water thrown on an unsuspected sleeper, it shocks your senses. It was a beautiful summer day and I was working in the garden when I received a frantic call from my mother. She was not frantic about the news she was delivering; rather, she wanted to reach me before John May, Jr. did. She knew the shock of receiving a call from him would be just as disturbing as the dreadful news that was to come.

I was the first-born to John May, Jr. in 1967; he was just twenty-one years old, and in the service of the United States Marine Corp. He and my mother divorced when I was four. My childhood memories of John were ones of terror, not because he ever lifted a hand against me, but because he was simply an ominous presence of a man. I remember hearing an old song play on the radio, "Big Bad John," and it played out in my head like a theme song for my father. Our relationship was strained. I experienced life through the lens of an overly sensitive child, and he fit into the role of the American Father as a terse, impatient and mostly absent man.

By the time the panicked phone call came from my mother, it had been fifteen years since I had seen or spoken to my father, despite the mere seventy miles separating us. The last time I had seen him was during a previous death in the family: his mother Stella. Before that, I cannot remember. John May, Jr. had another daughter with my mother and a son, much later, with his second wife. Jeffery was my father’s pride and joy. What conversations they might of have enjoyed, I do not know, but I do know that Jeffery made my father happy. They shared a common bond that I suppose is reserved for fathers and sons, one I was not privy to. I had not been in contact with Jeffery for as long as I had not been in contact with John. He was ‘Jeffery Peaches’ when I had spent time with him long ago. He was a little towhead with creamy skin and rosy cheeks. He was all boy; a little impish and had an annoying penchant for throwing his metal matchbox cars at the back of mine and my sister’s heads. I was not my father’s son. I was the overly emotional daughter – much too like my mother – in likeness and mannerisms. I came into the world at a time when John was barely a man; still, mostly a boy. Jeffery arrived at just the right time.

My visits with John were few and brief, but had a huge impact on the impression I would form as a little girl, and carry with me all of my adult life. A conversation with John was impossible. If I could not deliver my message in three words or less, I was swiftly cut off at the knees and left stammering—my half formed thoughts stilted like a half-wit. To show emotion was a sign of weakness and barely tolerated. I longed to please him; yet, in the same vein I hated him. Maybe not the man himself, but the way his presence, or even lack of it, made me feel.

I’ve noticed certain dynamics surrounding siblings raised in the same household. The same incidents may occur for all of them, yet they perceive their experiences and memories of them from completely different worlds. Their impression can have a positive effect or leave a devastating scar. However, my sister and I came away with the same feelings about John. I say this only because the impact that this man had on my life, in comparison to the time he was actually present in it, seem completely irrational.

I have two memories as a child that greatly influenced my impression of John May, Jr. The first, and only memory I have when he and my mother were still together, was when I was four. He and my mother were arguing, and as he went to leave, he came into my room and kissed my head; the only display of affection from him that I recall. I remembered this so vividly because it was, to me, hope that there was a love for me inside this man. I do not remember ever hearing the words, “I love you” come from the mouth of John May, Jr. The second, very vivid memory was during a summer visit. I was seven years old. My mother had called with news that my cousin and best childhood buddy, Richard, had drowned. I remember the shock and despair. It was my first experience with death and I could barely grasp what had happened. All I knew was that I would never see or play with Richard again. I was in a separate room of the house, crying my little eyes out when John yelled from his lazy boy chair in the living room, “Knock off your bawling!” It silenced me in an instant. The silencing would haunt me for most of my life. It followed me in and out of every life experience like a looming shadow. To articulate my emotions effectively to anyone would remain a challenge from that moment on. There were other incidences that I remember, but they did not carry the impact of ‘the kiss’ or ‘the death.’ But they were like individual bricks. Each one weighted with more fear and stacked on top of one another until they built and insurmountable wall between us. I could not see over to his side; but still knew he was there—always there, unseen and unreachable.

My mother’s call was cryptic. She was so concerned about reaching me before John, that she actually couldn’t fully remember who had died. “I think it’s your Uncle Joe. He had a car accident, got hit by a train…something. I’m not sure. I just wanted to give you a heads up…” She rattled on for a bit and gave me John’s number. It took a while to muster the courage to call.

My Uncle Joe was one of the few people I knew to be a constant in John’s life – he and his son Jeffery. John’s second wife, Jeffery’s mother, had left him when Jeffery was a teenager. I imagined John in his house alone with only his guns and his hunting dogs to keep him company.

The call was brief. Jeffery was dead-- not Uncle Joe, but my father’s son. John talked in a low matter-of-fact tone. Jeffery Peaches was gone; the circumstances unbelievable. It was as if God’s hand swept down from above and affirmed, “It is your time to die. No question.” Jeffery had been drinking. He lost control of his truck and rolled it. He miraculously survived and crawled out, stunned and inebriated, and started walking home. In his confusion, Jeffery walked onto a train track and was struck and killed by the oncoming train. John gave me the address and time of the funeral and that was that. He was shaken, I could hear a hint of it in his voice but still ever stoic.

The funeral was surreal. My sister and I were seated were seated with the family and after the service, we exchanged a few obligatory niceties and went home. That was the last I expected to see John May, Jr. until another death in the family occurred or sadly, even his own funeral.

A few weeks passed, and when life resumed normalcy once again, I was startled by an unexpected knock on my door. The circumstance was so out of context from my daily life that it took my brain a few seconds to register. John May, Jr. was standing on my doorstep. He had driven the seventy miles, in hopes that I would be home; to come and visit. I spent the day with him in a semi state-of-shock. The probability of John seeking me out and actually coming to find me would have never, in a million years, crossed my mind.

Something truly wonderful unfolded that day. John engaged in small talk and stayed until the sun was starting to set. A telling glimpse of what must have helped form him into the hard exterior shell of the man I knew, jolted me into a life-changing realization. In the middle of the small talk, John did something amazing. He stopped for a moment and said, “You know, I can look back now and kind of laugh about it, but when I was about six, my dad (John May, Sr.) and my uncle took me out hunting. The rifle was twice as big as I was. We were hunting rabbits. The day went on and I had set off a few shots but didn’t get anything. So, my dad and uncle flanked both sides of this meadow we were in to corral a rabbit my way. They did this, and sure enough, I see a rabbit and I shoot and hit it. But the rabbit didn’t die. I don’t know if you have ever heard a rabbit in distress, but it sounds like a human screaming; a horrible, nightmarish sound. I started to cry. My dad told me to knock off my blubbering and walked over to the rabbit, picked it up and ripped its head straight off the body.” John softly chuckled at the end of his story; but at that moment I understood why he was sharing this terrible memory. In the only way he knew how, he was letting me inside his seemingly impenetrable shell. Inside of my own mind, I flashed back to the time I experienced the silencing of my own cries.

I reflected on that visit for days, and untangled all of the presumptions and conclusions I had formed in my mind and heart about John May, Jr. in my lifetime. John May, Jr. was my father, imperfect and marred by the same life experiences that we all face. He was shaped and formed by those experiences, and acted out his life in the shadow of his father. I was not my father’s son, but somehow, the tragic loss of Jeffery Peaches provided a way for John to reach out to his daughter. My brother’s horrible and untimely death had stunned my father into his own realizations that time was short, and life uncertain. As we sat and exchanged more words in that one visit than the accumulation of my forty-five years, I saw a man with regrets—a man longing for deeper connections. He was reaching out and making an effort to build a bridge across the missing years and misunderstandings. I realized that there was love in his heart for me; he just had never been taught how to express or nurture it.

We agreed to visit again at his house a couple of weeks later and as we had planned—and I had promised—I called my father to tell him I was on my way. He made sure that I remembered the way and replied, “ Okay Sis, drive safe… oh, and I baked you a chocolate cake.”