Uncle Asomatous

In 1954, when I was nine, Henrik told Frank that I smelled like turned milk. It hurt me so hard. For the rest of the school day, I sat behind my heavy wooden desk, sniffing the sleeve of my dress and the skin of my arm, alert for any sourness. But I could smell nothing bad. We weren't rich. But we had a washing machine in the basement. My mother carried baskets of clothes up and down the wooden steps on wash day. I would help her fold, and my clothes always smelled nice to me.

As far back as I could remember, I had showered every morning in the house's one bathroom - except, perhaps, on Saturday, once in a while. And I always washed my hands when I was supposed to. I was a girl who didn't like to be dirty.

But Henrik was eleven. So, he didn't pay much mind to facts and logic if he wanted to hurt someone. And he was my brother. So I was often the target of his cruelty.

My other brother, Sven, was much older than Henrik and me. He was a senior at the high school and was soon to leave for the Merchant Marine Academy. I also had two sisters, Sonja and Ingrid. They were 14 and twins. Sometimes they let me be the maid when they played at being Fifth Avenue society ladies. I didn't mind, as they were terribly sophisticated, and I wanted to be like them when I grew up. 

Legend has it that the youngest child will always be the baby of the family. That is meant to be a good thing. But I just felt like I was an afterthought. By the time I got to play with the toys, they were worn and faded. All the jigsaws were missing pieces. The decks of cards were incomplete. And the game of Clue was short two murder weapons.  

Henrik didn't help. He told me that I was the youngest because I was such a disappointment to my parents that, after me, they decided not to have any more kids.

This upset me because I loved my parents. It hurt to think I hadn't been the child they had dreamed of. It did not occur to me that Henrik was lying. I didn't know he would fib about something so important. 

My parents didn't help. It wasn't that they were cruel or angry; it was that they didn't seem to have any time for me. My mother was always busy. And when she wasn't doing something, she fretted that she should be doing something. She did fuss over Sven. He would be the first in our family to go to college. He was everything the girls dreamed of. Confident, intelligent, athletic, friendly, with the dangerous smile of a film star.

However, my mother's interest in her children diminished as their number increased. By the time I appeared, her emotional well had run dry. At least, that's the way I felt about it.  

I forgave my father because he was gone a lot. And when he was home, he sat in his chair, relaxing with the Amsterdam Recorder before telling us his 'war stories' over dinner. 

He worked for the Fuller Company as a traveling salesman. He did well enough to keep us fed and clothed. But if you listened to him at the dining room table, every day was a struggle against closing doors, hostility, and rejection. Once in a while, there was a tale of persistence overcoming resistance. He would smile at the memory. The rest of the time, it was a litany of frustration. 

Perhaps you are too young to remember these itinerant salesmen. People today date themselves by talking about 'before the internet'. When I was a girl, it was 'before shopping malls'. They may have existed in Westchester and the other wealthy suburbs. However, in Amsterdam, New York, west of Albany, there were only local stores. And men (it was always men) made a living going door to door, toting catalogs, and enticing housewives to buy consumer essentials.  

I did have one person I could talk to, my Uncle Aso. He did his best to cheer me up when I was sad. He lived a quiet life in a room above the garage. His full name was Asomatous Spector. I didn't know people were allowed to have names like that. He wasn't a relative. However, we called adults who were close to us 'Uncle' and 'Aunt.' That might be a Scandinavian thing. Or perhaps other people do it too. 

I also had an Aunt Susan, who was my mother's best friend from high school. She lived in a big house on the other side of town. Her husband was wealthy. Their children went to private schools. And she gave me the best gifts for birthdays and Christmas. 

Uncle Aso was not a gift giver. But I could talk to him whenever I wanted. He didn't seem to have a job, which wasn't important as he didn't place much stock in possessions. And his needs were few and simple. He spent most of the time thinking while staring out of the window at the back garden. 

I didn't know that he might be suffering from PTSD - or battle fatigue, as it was called then. He had been in Europe during the War before he came to live with us. He once told me that he had seen things that were more horrific than a just God would allow. I can't say much more than that, as he was tight-lipped about his past. And my parents never talked about how he came to live with us. 

This might seem odd to people now. But you have to remember that when you are young, you assume the way you live is the way all people live, except in the movies. Which, even when I was young, I understood were fantasies.

We had a radio, but we did not have a television. Everything I knew about life outside Amsterdam, I learned from history books and novels. And from Saturdays spent at the movies. It was a world apart. The characters on the pages and the screen were enjoyable fictions that had nothing to do with the life I led.

When I came home from school on the day Henrik told me I smelled like sour milk, I went to the garage and climbed the steps to Uncle Aso's room. As always, he was sitting in his rocking chair, staring out at the garden, deep in thought. 

I can't tell you how old he was. He seemed ancient, but he couldn't have been older than my parents. It wasn't that he looked old. But he was dusty, if you know what I mean. Like a book that has sat for a time on a shelf out of reach.

He didn't dress like the men I knew. No matter the season, he wore a tweed jacket with leather patches on the elbows. A muted tie with a cream-colored shirt. Corduroy trousers. And heavy brown lace-up shoes.

When I entered his room, he didn't move a lick. Without turning from his view, he greeted me as he always did.

"Hello, Lizbeth," he said. "Tell me about your day in the salt mines of education. Did your teachers prove worthy of your attention? Are you now possessed of knowledge hidden from you when the cock bespoke the sun? 

Uncle Aso didn't always speak like other people. He sometimes used a vocabulary familiar to the characters in the historical novels I read. I sat down on a small three-legged stool with a round, faded pillow to cushion the hardness. I replied.

"It was OK, Uncle Aso."

"Was it now, child?" he replied. "I think not. Your tone belies the substance of your contention. Speak honestly."

Caught in my fib, I changed tack. "Henrik said I smelled like sour milk."

He said nothing. 

I continued. "The other boys laughed at me."

He remained silent until I confessed.

"It hurt me bad."

"How do you think Henrik feels about that now?" 

His question surprised me. Uncle Aso always offered support. Yet he had turned the conversation away from the victim to the author of her injury.

"I don't know. Happy, I imagine. He's a bully."

Uncle Aso replied, "Why are you hurt?" 

That seemed an odd question.

"I'm hurt because Henrik was nasty to me."

"Only if you permit it."

"I don't understand Uncle Aso."

"Do you smell like sour milk?"

"No"

"So now Henrik must live with that lie."

I didn't get where he was going. My bewilderment must have been apparent. He turned away from the window and looked at me.

"We are all whole unto ourselves. You do not smell of sour milk. And you know you do not smell of sour milk. Nothing Henrik says can change that fact."

"But what about those other boys sniggering at me and pointing fingers?"

"Are they your friends?"

"No"

"Do they control your destiny?" 

At this point, I felt the conversation was wandering away from the crux of the matter. But Uncle Aso had a point to make, as he so often did. So I answered.

"I guess not."

"Do you have friends?"

I did. Especially Elizabeth Olsen and Ingrid Rusk, whom I had known since I was young.

"Do they think you smell like sour milk?"

"No. Of course not," I spluttered, indignant at the thought that he would think my friends could be disloyal. 

He looked at me for a moment. Then he launched into a lecture as he was prone to do.

"So what we have here is a matter of scientific truth and opinions. There is your opinion that you do not smell like sour milk. Your friends share this opinion. Then there is Henrik's opinion that you do smell like sour milk. His friends share that opinion. Then there is the objective truth that you do not smell like sour milk."

He paused. I said nothing. He did not hesitate to allow commentary. He paused so that we could both sit there and contemplate his presentation of the case. I could find no fault in his analysis. I could not imagine what would come next. But what had come before was accurate in every detail. 

He continued, "You must understand, Lizbeth, that when we speak of others, it is ourselves that we reveal. Now ask yourself, why did Henrik lie?" 

"I don't know."

"Who do you think is more likely to lie, a confident person or an unconfident person?"

I'd never thought about it. So I ruminated on the question. My first instinct was that confident people would be less likely to lie. However, I was a studious child. Therefore, I did not blurt out a response. I considered the issue from all angles. As my thinking on the subject matured, I found no fault with my initial answer. 

I replied, "An unconfident one, Uncle Aso."

He did not react. He looked at me through dark brown eyes that had seen far more than I had. His placidity demanded that I think more deeply about the subject. 

I turned to the window. Until that point, I had always thought of Henrik as bigger and more powerful than me. Now I saw that his jagged exterior was a fragile attempt to keep hidden his doubts and fears. 

At nine, I was no professional psychologist. And as a girl, I lacked the wisdom that comes with experience. However, I did possess native intelligence. As I sat there in silence, I had an epiphany. I was stronger than Henrik. I don't mean I could beat him at arm wrestling. I mean that the scales had dropped from my eyes. And I saw the weakness in my brother's psyche.

He could say whatever he wanted. But now every insult was more proof of his apprehensions, his doubts. Every verbal stone he tossed, I swatted away with indifference. I ignored him until he realized that he had no power over me.

From then on, until I left for university, Henrik treated me with respect. Other children saw the confidence in my serenity. And I became a champion to those who, like me, had suffered at the hands of bullies.

At eighteen, determined to make my own way, I left for Paris to attend the Sorbonne. I didn't return to America for six years. I stayed in touch with my family through letters written on onion-skin airmail paper. Every square inch was covered, as you paid by the ounce. Putting a second sheet in the envelope was a luxury reserved for the wealthy.

On very special occasions, at the cost of a ransom, I would place an international phone call. But I never spoke to Uncle Aso. He did not have a telephone in his room. 

In 1967, I returned to upstate New York and visited my parents in Amsterdam. My father had retired, and with all the children gone, my mother had time to talk to me. My parents asked me innumerable questions about my life and travels. Like my oldest brother, Sven, now the captain of a freighter, I had traveled. He could talk of ports. I had been to inland cities - London, Madrid, Rome, Cairo, even Calcutta (as it was known then).

My sister, Sonja, worked as a buyer for Lord & Taylor in Manhattan. Ingrid had married an executive on the fast track and lived the country club life in Westchester. Henrik had never gone anywhere. He managed a farm supply store on the edge of town. When he came to dinner, he smelled weird.

Uncle Aso no longer lived above the garage. When I went up the steps to his apartment, all I saw was a dusty old rocking chair facing the window and a three-legged stool beside it. I found it hard to remember what he looked like. But I could sense his traces in the dusty sunlight streaming through the window.

I never saw Uncle Aso again.  

Postscript: Asomatous [ey-soh-muh-tuhs], adjective: having no material body; incorporeal.