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THE HIDDEN HAND OF GOD
CHAPTER one:
SENIOR YEAR CRISIS
Written by Rick
Archer
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Miracle
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A
surprising and quite welcome event that
is not explicable by natural or
scientific laws. It is therefore
considered to be the work of a divine
agency.
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A
highly improbable or extraordinary event
that brings very welcome consequences.
Rick Archer's
Note:
The Hidden Hand
of God
tells the story of how my life was dramatically enhanced by
unexpected Acts of
Kindness. What is curious about these
Acts of Kindness is that they were
accompanied by unusual coincidences that
challenged my sense of Reality.
Please
be aware this book addresses the issues of
Fate and Divine Intervention. Since the Existence of God is an area
of doubt for many people, I do not wish to insult anyone's
intelligence by claiming to possess special
insight. Nor do I expect the Reader to
agree with every conclusion I make.
All I ask is for you to allow me to
share the events that led
to my unusual belief system, then decide for
yourself what to think.
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Crisis
Our first chapter
covers the worst crisis of my life.
The time is my Senior year of high school,
1967-1968. Following two
extremely bad decisions on my part
compounded by several tough breaks, I have
just seen my dreams to attend college go up in
smoke. Adding to my misery, my
mistakes were responsible for my
cruel setback. Filled with rage
towards myself for sabotaging my future, I
became mired in depression and
helplessness. Thoughts of suicide
shadowed me like the grim reaper night and
day. How was I ever going to escape
the trap I was in?
Our story concludes
with a dramatic event that changed the course of my life.
To me, it was a Miracle. However, in
these sorts of matters, certainty is
impossible.
Let me tell my story
and let you be the judge.
Rick Archer
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ST JOHNS SCHOOL
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The crisis I refer to
took place at St. John's, a private
school in Houston, Texas.
Considered the
top academic school in Houston as
well as Texas, St. John's is
annually ranked as one of the top 20
private schools in America.
I attended St.
John's for 9 years, 1959-1968.
In addition to receiving the finest
education imaginable, quite frankly
St. John's is the only reason I made
it past childhood relatively intact.
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1959, Age 9,
4th Grade
blackmail
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To better understand
this story, let's begin in 1959, the start
of my nine year career at St. John's School.
To be quite
frank, I had no business being at this
school. My admittance was what most
people would call a fluke. Due to its lofty reputation, SJS has long been
exceptionally difficult to get into.
The school is also very expensive. Given there
was no possible way my father could afford
this place on his middle-class income, what was I
doing here?
Ironically, I owed my elite
education to my father's mistress.
Should I thank her? No, probably not.
The Mistress came very close to ruining my life.
As we shall see, her vindictiveness will
play a direct
role in my Senior year Crisis.
My life had been good until
the Mistress came along. I was 8 when
her presence began unraveling my parents'
marriage. Did I know about the
mistress? No. Did my mother know about the
Mistress? No evidence, but she was
suspicious. Something was
definitely wrong. The arguing started
when my father asked for a divorce without
divulging the real reason (take a guess).
When my mother said no, my father decided to
make her acutely miserable. For the past year,
my mother and father had fought like cats
and dogs virtually every night of the week.
My father's tactic was to criticize
my mother in every way possible. He
called her a lousy
mother and a lazy housekeeper. Not a
day passed when he did not criticize her,
pointing out her life of
comfort while he worked himself to
exhaustion. Hopefully his
ceaseless harping would force her to give
in.
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My
parents were a terrible mismatch from the start. My mother was a plain, unattractive
woman who did not watch her weight.
In addition, Mom had a smart mouth she used to
needle my father.
My
father was a handsome man who came from poverty.
My mother came
from a wealthy home. Seeing my mother
as meal ticket to a college education, he offered to
marry her. She dropped out of college to pay
the bill while he got his degree. My father
began as a salesman for electrical
equipment. Later he designed electrical
systems for giant cranes. It did not take long for
management to realize Dad was a genius. As his career took off, Dad got cocky and cast the roving eye. His
sexy secretary answered the call. Once things got
hot and heavy, my father decided he wanted a divorce.
Age 9, I was really struggling in school due to the
tension
at home. I was the worst behaved kid in my Third Grade
class. I constantly acted out and talked back to my
teacher. I made at best average grades because I rarely paid attention.
At least once a day I fought war battles on scratch paper.
Sometimes it was tanks and jet fighters. The next day it
was flying saucers. Then came the dinosaurs locked in
fierce combat.
To the exasperation of my teacher, I
would sit at the back of the room making muffled sound
effects. I assumed no one could hear me, but I was
wrong. I was a giant nuisance. Finally my
teacher laid down the law. Any more noise and she
would call my parents for a visit to the principal.
After her warning, I brought books on Greek
Mythology to class and spent my time in the back reading. My
teacher didn't care because at least it shut me up.
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My father's nasty
tactics made me crazy. Listening to
my parents argue each night, I turned into a
sullen, deeply insecure kid.
As
an only child with no family friends or
nearby relatives, I had no one to turn to.
Forced to live alone in this house of
horrors, I became very disturbed. I disrupted class so often that
finally my parents were
called in to hear the riot act.
Upset over my poor
grades and severe discipline problems, my
parents sent me to their psychiatrist.
After testing me, the doctor had a
surprising solution. What I needed was
a stiff challenge. Send me to St.
John's and let the competition work its
trick. That is where his two boys went
and they thrived.
Mom was for it, but
Dad was against it. Given my father's
low opinion of my intelligence, he was
stunned when I managed to pass the SJS
entrance exam and receive an invitation to
attend. The thing to understand is
that admittance to this school was highly
coveted. Even back in those days the
waiting list was out the door. But
that
meant nothing to my father. Dad said forget it, there was
no way on earth he could afford the tuition.
Let the kid stick to public school where he
belongs.
Mom was fed up.
They had been arguing for a year and getting
nowhere. Sick and tired of the
impasse, Mom stunned my father with an
ultimatum. "Pay Richard's
tuition for three years and you can have
your divorce."
Dad
immediately
balked. He would have to go deep into
debt to pay for this. Which was true.
The St. John's tuition was way beyond his
pay grade. Mom countered with
blackmail.
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"Jim, I know about
your mistress. I will take you to the
cleaners and ruin your life unless you
cooperate. Do the right thing for a
change and let's put an end to this
bickering."
My mother later
confessed she
was bluffing. Mom had her suspicions,
but no proof. She just "knew"
in that instinctive way women sense things.
However, till now she had said nothing.
Convinced my mother had the goods on him, my
father turned ashen.
Unwilling to defy her threat to go scorched
earth, my father caved in. That is how St. John's School
became the center of my life.
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MIDDLE SCHOOL
1962, Age 12,
6th Grade
CONSEQUENCES
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My father was bitter over being forced
into debt.
He saw it as a
disgusting waste of money despite the fact
that the
psychiatrist's prediction came true.
I made the Honor
Roll for nine straight years and finished in
the top 5 of my class.
However my father
never said a word of praise. Not once.
In fact, my father
turned his back on me. Why? I blame the
Mistress. Unwilling to forgive my father for
making a bad deal, the Mistress
badgered my father incessantly for
making such a bad deal. Considering he married her
as promised, what was her problem?
The Mistress was
unhappy because St. John's threw a serious monkey wrench
into her Devil's Bargain. The shrew did not anticipate
she would be forced to keep working in
order to help my father pay the costly tuition.
It galled her no end
to realize every cent she earned was spent on my behalf.
Her honeymoon was budgeted, there was no money to buy a
house and they had to delay starting a family.
Infuriated, the Mistress took it out on me. Lacking a
backbone, Dad decided it was easier to abandon me than stand
up to his domineering wife. The wedge caused by her
relentless bickering caused my father to limit our
interaction to lunch four times a year.
Although the
divorce cost me a father, at least I gained an exceptional school.
For the next nine years, my gifted teachers kept me glued
together while my mother fell
to pieces. After the divorced, she quickly remarried, a
huge mistake. The new husband was an ex-con with a
fondness for excessive drinking and passing hot checks.
He beat my mother several times when he had been drinking.
One night in desperation, Mom called to my dog Terry for help.
One snarl from Terry put a quick stop to the violence.
As for the man's parenting skills, he tried to get me hooked
on cigarettes and stole my silver dollar collection to buy
booze. One night the cops came looking for him.
Good riddance. Unfortunately the misery continued due to my mother's
penchant for collecting losers in bars and bringing them home to
live with us. Do you think I'm kidding?
Guess again. I can remember six live-in boyfriends.
There were probably more.
In addition to my mother's bad habit
of picking up strays, she had trouble holding a job longer
than a year.
When my parents married, my mother dropped out of college to
support my father while he got his degree. Her lack of
credentials cost her dearly in the job market. So did
her smart mouth.
Due to her frequent
unemployment, the bills mounted. One way to solve the
problem was to skip out whenever the unpaid rent grew too
high. We moved 11 times in 9 years. The problems
did not stop there. Every three months or so I would
come home to find the electricity turned off. Or the
water. Or the gas. I am fairly certain I was
poorest kid to ever attend St. John's.
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Given my mother's emotional
problems, she did not have much energy left over for me.
With many nights devoted to cruising the bars for
strays, I
was left alone to take care of myself starting at
age 10. Abandoned by one parent, neglected by the other,
I had no one to offer common sense advice on how cope
with my underdog status at the rich kids school.
I was consumed with envy at the privileged lives of my
classmates. It would have been
nice to have a parent to remind me to look on
the bright side. Unlike a lot of kids in this
world,
I never went hungry
and I always had a roof over my head. Plus I was
getting a great education. Rather than appreciate
what I did have, I grew bitter from daily reminders of
how much better my classmates had it than me.
It was obvious from
my ragged appearance that I came from a different walk of life.
Although we all wore the same uniform at St. John's, one
look at my shoes was usually enough. My chipped
tooth removed any remaining doubt. Given that my
mother was too broke to have the tooth fixed for two
years, it sent a clear message that money was scarce in
my home. By definition, every child at my school
(but me) was well cared for. Best clothes,
impeccable social skills, contact lens, braces, the
latest haircut, dermatologist, etc. And here I go
with the chipped tooth, hair that sticks up straight,
cheap clothes, thick glasses, plus two eyes that don't match
due to my blind left eye.
Once my classmates pegged my
impoverished status,
I became low man on the
totem pole. Fortunately I was never bullied. Nor
was I insulted to my face. But I was ignored.
The moment my privileged classmates realized I wasn't one of
them, it became tough to turn casual acquaintances into
close
friends. Academically I belonged at SJS, but socially
I was out of my league. Although I appreciated my
education, I hated my loneliness. Unable to
play sports due to my blind left eye and untrained in the
social graces due to my deplorable parents, I will be the
first to admit I did not fit in at this school. Over
the course of nine years I developed a severe sense of
social inferiority.
Six years prior to my
Senior Year Crisis, a key event took place at the end of the
6th Grade. Dad's three year tuition ordeal was over.
No longer legally obligated to pay, my father told me his
money was better off placed in a college fund.
Referring to this as his "College Pledge", my father
promised the money saved would be waiting for me when the
time came. Broken-hearted at being forced leave SJS, I
begged him to change his mind, but got nowhere.
Fortunately I caught a last-minute lucky break.
Informed of my father's decision, Mr. Chidsey, the
Headmaster, took note of my good grades and offered a
scholarship. This explains how I was able to attend
St. John's for six more years.
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SENIOR YEAR
CRISIS
September 1967, Age 17, 12th Grade
MISTAKE ONE:
THE UNIVERSITY OF TEXAS
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My
Senior year Crisis was not the product of
one particular event, but rather a
complicated series of problems that
snowballed. The first problem occurred
in September 1967. Mr. Salls was the
new Headmaster, taking the place of Mr.
Chidsey. We knew each other well.
Mr. Salls had been my German instructor for
three years prior to his promotion.
Although we never spoke on a personal basis,
I could tell he appreciated how hard I
worked in his class.
Mr.
Salls made it a point to meet with each
senior early in the school year to discuss
college preferences. I had my heart
set on Georgetown University in Washington,
DC. My beloved Aunt Lynn and Uncle
Dick lived just across the Potomac River in
McLean, Virginia. I wanted to be close
to them. I had been working as a
grocery sacker after school for the past two
years. By the end of my Senior year, I
estimated I would have $2,000 at my
disposal. That was a lot of money back
in those days. That plus six years of
savings in my father's College Fund should
be enough to pay for Georgetown. Or so
I assumed.
For
some mysterious reason, during our meeting
Mr. Salls completely ignored Georgetown
despite my explanation why this school was
my one and only choice. He insisted I
also apply to Johns Hopkins, a college I had
never heard of. The moment I
discovered it was a men's-only school, there
was no way I was interested. Due to my
sense of inferiority, I had yet to work up
the courage to ask one of my lovely
classmates for a date. A
serious case of teenage acne put a swift end
to any chance of changing my mind. Given that I
never
had a
single date in high school, the thought of
going to a men's school was out of the
question. Sensing my reluctance, Mr.
Salls took the extraordinary step of asking
me to apply to Hopkins anyway as a favor to
him. I agreed to do so, but why did he
bully me?
I was
very angry when I left his office. Mr.
Salls
had made me promise to apply to a college I
had no interest in. The thought of
wasting $75... two weeks of work at the
grocery store... on a senseless application
fee made me sick to my stomach. It was
standard procedure for my classmates to
apply to ten schools, maybe more if they
felt like it, but that was Daddy's Money.
This $75 was coming out of my own thin
pocket. I was so bitter that I
unwittingly made a serious mistake. I
had intended to apply to the University of
Texas as a backup option. But why
waste money? With my grades, I was a
shoo-in for Georgetown. So decided to forget UT.
Using the money to apply to Johns Hopkins
instead of UT, the day would come when I
deeply regretted this decision.
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SENIOR YEAR
CRISIS
NOVEMBER 1967, Age 18, 12th Grade
little Mexico
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My failure to apply to the
University of Texas was my first mistake.
That led to a second mistake in the coming
Spring (we will get to that shortly).
The second mistake was so costly, I could
not understand why I had taken leave of my
better judgment. Perplexed by my
extraordinary stupidity, I asked myself what
went wrong. The best explanation was
extreme stress related to an idiotic move on
my mother's part. This is the story of
'Little Mexico'.
Late in my Junior
year, my mother finally found steady
employment in Houston's famed Medical
Center. She decided to buy a
ramshackle house in a largely Hispanic part
of town. Mom wanted to make her
live-in Mexican boyfriend Ramon more
comfortable. Given her shabby credit
history, I have no idea how she persuaded a
bank to loan her the money.
Although my father had
little to do with me, he deserved credit for
his reliability on child support. Not
once did he miss his $100 per month payment. My mother and I
were extremely dependent on this money.
The check's appearance would allow us to get the
lights turned back on or make a much-needed
visit to the grocery store. Then came
the bad news. In
November 1967, for the first time since the
divorce eight
years ago, Dad's monthly check failed to appear.
This was serious. Without my father's
child support check, my mother could not afford to
pay her house note.
My mother was
completely
blind-sided. It took her two days to realize
my father had not sent a November check
because he was no longer legally obligated
to pay child support after my 18th birthday.
Oops. When she bought the house, my
mother had assumed the child support would
continue until I finished high school seven
months down the road. My mother was
panic-stricken. How would she
ever make up the difference?
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I stared at her in
utter astonishment. Well aware she had purchased this house with
no margin for error, my mother should have
had the sense to anticipate her child
support problem. Too late now. I
offered to make up the difference with my
grocery store money, but my mother said no.
Without telling me, she had already cooked
up a wild scheme. My mother's solution
was to invite Ramon's younger sisters, Janie, 18, and Linda, 21, to come up from
Mexico. They were expected to get jobs
as waitresses in one of the nearby cantinas
and pay rent.
I had no idea what was
going on.
I came home one night after work at the
grocery store to
find the two sisters had moved into bedrooms
next to mine. Within two weeks, Janie
and Linda had boyfriends. My mother
gave their boyfriends permission to come
live with us as well, a decision that
included Enrique's 2-year old son Manolo.
I was never consulted about the additions, probably because my
mother knew I would scream bloody murder.
The ensuing culture
shock flipped my world upside down. I
had grown up as an only child accustomed to
silence. Suddenly there seven other
people in this house besides me. This
included my mother and six Mexican
immigrants, none of whom who spoke much English.
Given their fondness for loud
Mariachi records, the place was a madhouse at
night. Given how hard the racket made
it to study, College could not come soon
enough.
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SENIOR YEAR
CRISIS
JANUARY 1968,
Age 18, 12th Grade
the Jones
scholarship
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At the turn of the
20th Century, a visionary named Jesse H.
Jones proposed turning Houston's slow-moving
Buffalo Bayou into a world-class ship
channel. It was a brilliant move.
The widening process was completed
in time to allow ships from the new Panama
Canal to visit. Shortly after that
came World War I with a massive demand for
oil. Thanks to the Texas Oil Boom, the
Houston Ship Channel exported tons of
barrels overseas. This is how Houston
became the Energy Capital of the world.
Now a very rich man,
Jesse Jones looked to his legacy by creating
a scholarship fund. Every year one
graduating Senior from each Houston high
school would receive a $4,000 stipend. I
counted heavily on winning this award.
In addition to my good grades, I assumed my
status as the poorest kid to ever attend SJS
guaranteed I was a shoo-in. However,
something was wrong. It
was January and so far no one had mentioned
a word about this scholarship to me.
The winners would be announced in March, so
I was troubled by the lack of contact.
I should have asked someone, but I was too
acutely introverted to speak up.
Left completely in the
dark, I worried constantly.
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I was also worried about my father's College
Pledge. According to him, for the past
six years he had placed money equivalent to
the annual SJS tuition in a college fund.
If he had done what he promised, there
should be about $10,000 waiting for me.
However, when I saw my father for lunch
shortly before Christmas, he did not say a
word. Considering college was just
around the corner, why had he avoided the important
subject of college finance?
I did not trust him. This
is why I had gotten my grocery store job two years
ago.
When I substituted Johns
Hopkins for the University of Texas in
September,
I was unaware that state tuition at UT was
dramatically lower than private college
tuition.
I admit this level of naivete is tough to
believe, but who was going to tell me?
My non-existent Padre? Yeah, right.
Or Mariachi Madre? I was so angry at
my mother over "Little Mexico"
that we were
no longer speaking. Adding to my
problems,
I was
what you would call a loner. An only
child stuck with an erratic mother, keeping
to myself was second nature.
Due to my limited social skills and tendency
towards introversion, friends were few and
far between. Although I was pretty
good at book learning, things most kids my
age understood like
college tuition
fell by the wayside.
Due to my ignorance,
as of
January 1968 I was stuck with only two
options. One was
the
prohibitively expensive
Georgetown
and the other was Johns Hopkins, equally expensive.
I focused on Georgetown. Including
room and board, it would cost between
$20,000-$24,000 to attend Georgetown over a
four year period. This was such a
staggering amount, I worried day and night
if my father would come through as
promised.
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As it turned out, I did have one friend at
St. John's. David and I liked to play
chess at lunch. One day I got into a
discussion with David about college
finance. I stopped breathing when
David told me his brother's tuition at the
University of Texas was $1,000 per year.
$1,000 per year at the University of
Texas?
Georgetown was $5,000 a year!!
I gasped. This was Unbelievable!
I was so upset I nearly had a heart attack.
Why didn't anyone tell me this back in
September? Considering how worried I
was about paying for college, this bad news was more than I could
handle. If I had applied to the
University of Texas as my backup option, I
already had enough grocery store money to
pay for the first year at UT out of my own
pocket. Even better, if I won the
Jones Scholarship and got a part-time job, I
would have enough money to attend UT for
four years without depending on my father to
come through for me. Only one problem.
It was
too late to apply
to the University of Texas for next
school year.
David's revelation sent me reeling. If
someone had told me that state tuition was
dramatically lower than private school
tuition, my college finance problems would
be gone and I could relax. Instead,
due to my glaring ignorance, I was facing a
monumental task. Oh gosh, why did I
ever apply to Johns Hopkins when I should
have applied to the University of Texas like
I wanted to? If Mr. Salls had not
bullied me to apply for Johns Hopkins, I
would not be in this fix. I was so
upset.
As things stood, unless I could find a
way to pay for Georgetown, I would be forced
to miss an entire year of college.
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My
misery did not stop there. When I suggested I
could probably get a scholarship to Georgetown,
David threw a wicked curve ball. To my
alarm, David warned me not to get my hopes up.
David informed me that scholarship money was based
on NEED.
"Yeah,
so what?" I said. "My father doesn't
know I exist and my mother is dead broke. I
definitely qualify."
"Rick, I hate to be the one to tell you, but
your father makes too much money. His
substantial salary will be a deal breaker."
My mouth
dropped open. The
recent years had been good to my father. He
was now one of the top electrical engineers in the
country. He designed electrical systems
for giant cranes such as the one used by the Space
Center at Cape Canaveral to launch rockets. He
made so much money now that he could afford to send
his two children by the Mistress to private school.
The irony was not lost on me.
"I
don't understand, David. I don't live with my
father and he no longer pays child support."
"Georgetown
still expects him to be responsible. They
will take one look at your father's salary and
expect him to pay."
"But
what if he refuses to pay?"
"Why
would your father do that?"
"Lots
of reasons. My stepmother hates my guts.
She would murder him if
he spent one extra dime on me. Besides, all he
ever does is complain about how broke he is.
That is because he sends my half-brother and
half-sister to private schools that are just as
expensive as St. John's and pays full tuition.
He claims paying for them is why money is tight.
That's his way of saying don't expect any further
generosity beyond the College Pledge savings.
I assume I will get whatever is in the College
Pledge and that's it. Furthermore, I can't
imagine my father would cooperate in filling out
financial aid forms. How do I explain to
Georgetown that my father refuses to help?"
"I
don't know, Rick. But I know Georgetown
won't give you a scholarship if your father
doesn't play ball. Why should they take
your word for it? They hear sob stories
all the time, so they expect parents will fill
out financial forms to
corroborate. It sounds to me like you
better hope your father was serious about that
College Pledge."
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SENIOR YEAR
CRISIS
february 1968, Age 18, 12th Grade
MY FATHER'S
college pledge
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Following my
conversation with David concerning financial aid, I was filled with overwhelming anxiety over my father's
promise to pay for college. Not a day passed without that
awful feeling that I might miss out on
college next year. It all boiled down to my father keeping a
promise made six
years ago.
One day in late February
the school receptionist gave me a message to meet my father at the
coffee shop tomorrow (my father never called me at home).
I was on pins and needles as
I drove my
car (bought with grocery store money). Surely Dad was good for his word.
Why else would he set up today's meeting? This was the moment I had spent the last six years waiting for.
Today I would learn the truth about my father's College Pledge.
I was skeptical and hopeful at the same time. Over the past
nine years, Dad had disappeared from my life. Although his
office was only one mile from my school, Dad preferred not to make
time for the forgotten child. Dad's idea of fatherhood was "Don't
call me, I'll call you." I had been told never to call
unless it was an emergency.
At best I saw him for lunch a few
times a year.
I was no fool.
Deep down I knew he didn't care. However, all would be
forgiven if he would just
come through for me today.
As I walked into the
coffee shop, my heart was pounding. I prayed Dad had put that
money into a savings account as promised. If so, the nightmare
of how to pay my Georgetown tuition would be over and I could
finally calm down.
The phrase 'hoping
against hope' was coined for this situation. Would the
father I had always hoped for show up today or would the father he
had turned into appear instead? I expected the worst, but you
never know, maybe the man was good for his word. I recalled his
solemn promise from six years ago.
"Rick, I know how
much St. John's means to you, but paying for college is so much
more important. This money will be there for you when it
is time."
Dad
was waiting for me in the reception area at the coffee shop.
He stood up and greeted me with the biggest smile on his face.
He shook my hand and gave me a big hug. Hmm. When was
the last time my father hugged me? This was a good sign.
Maybe there was hope after all.
A
waitress escorted us to a booth and we sat across from one another.
As our eyes locked, I could barely breathe. Six years I had
waited for this moment. The tension was unbearable. When
I saw him start to fish around inside his coat, I froze. This
was it.
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Dad found what he was
looking for. He placed four $100 bills on the table.
My eyes
bulged. Staring in horror, did this mean what I thought it
meant?
"Dad, what is
this money for?"
My father
beamed with pride.
"Look, Rick, it's
Four Hundred Dollars!
This
is the money I've been saving for your college tuition! I
promised you long ago I would help. I told you I would help
you pay for college and I meant what I said. This money will
help you go to college!"
I was stunned.
Staring at the money in disbelief, Dad's $400 would barely put a
dent in Georgetown's $20,000 price tag.
Oh my God, my worst nightmare had just come
true. This was the father I had expected all along.
I turned white as my chances of going to college next year seemed
ever so remote. Even if I won the Jones Scholarship, the
annual $1,000 stipend did not come close to make up the difference.
Stunned by the realization I would
probably
not be going to college in the Fall, I could
not breathe.
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If my father saw how
upset I was, he did not show it. In fact, my father was
grinning like the Cheshire Cat. I was bewildered. What
in the hell is my father so damn happy about? There he was,
sitting across the table beaming with triumph.
Dad was so pumped over his good deed, he looked ready to
don an Indian war bonnet and start dancing in the aisle, piercing war whoops
and all. What is wrong with this man? Grinning from ear to ear, you would think Dad had just won the
goddamn Father of the Year
award.
I shook my head in
disbelief. What
could this man be thinking? I knew my father was a born
salesman, but even Dad had to know he was stretching things here.
Oh lord, just look at him! My father
was overcome
with pride thanks to his amazing 2%
contribution to my college fund. I could not believe my father
was doing a victory celebration over $400. You want to know
something really sad? My father never even asked where I
wanted to go college. This was not a normal man. Charles
Dickens would have been hard-pressed to come up with a parent more
pathetic than him.
Just then I wondered if
Dad was playing a joke. Maybe he was pulling my leg.
Was he hiding more money in an attempt to build the suspense?
If so, it was working. I was so tense I was ready to burst.
Suddenly hopeful, I peered at him for clues. But then I
remembered this was not my father's way. Dad did not have a
sense of humor. Sure enough, the moment he noticed my frown,
he replaced his Happy Face with his Let's Get Down to Business Face.
I had my answer. This was it. Sick
beyond sick,
I stared long and hard at
my father. They say moments from your life pass through your
mind in times of crisis. The image that came to me was the
vision of my mother and father arguing over sending me to St. John's
during their divorce process.
I remembered what my father had said on the day I
was accepted at St. John's. Hiding behind a doorway,
I listened as
my father said he was totally against it.
"Jesus Christ,
Mary, that
psychiatrist is an idiot.
What makes him think a boy who made D's on his last
report card can handle academics at the toughest school in the
city? Our son can barely hack it in public school,
so why should I spend all this money when we both know he will
be demolished at St. John's?"
My father had good
reason to feel that way. After my lackluster performance in
public school, Dad assumed competing head to head with the best and
brightest would be too much for me. However, just the opposite
had happened. As the psychiatrist had predicted, the academic
challenge was exactly what I needed. Although I had to study
my butt off to keep up, I thrived on the challenge of proving I
could hang with all these smart kids.
If ever there was money that was well spent,
this was it. What
a remarkable difference St. John's had made! My school
had brought out the very best in me. From an underachieving
child in public school, I had been encouraged to reach my potential.
I would have never made it through the past nine years without the
support I got from my gifted teachers. Indeed, my education
was the one bright spot in an otherwise miserable childhood.
From my point of view, St. John's had worked a small miracle.
For that reason, one would think my
father would be thrilled at how well things had turned out for his
son. But
apparently not.
Not once in nine years had my father
ever acknowledged the value of my school. Too dumbfounded to
speak, I gazed in shock at the money laying on the table. I had
planned on getting nasty with him if he disappointed me, but here at
crunch time I was far too introverted to confront him.
Even
though physically I towered over my soft, pudgy father,
psychologically I was a dwarf in his presence. I hated myself
because I didn't have the guts to chew him out. For six years, I
had vowed to speak up if he stiffed me. So much for false
bravado. Seeing me dumbfounded, my
father took advantage of my silence to drive another nail into the
coffin.
"I'm sorry, son, but right now my money
is tied up with sending Joy and Charlie to private school.
Unless I get a raise and things dramatically improve in my
finances, this $400 will
be
my only contribution towards
your college
education."
No surprise there. I was already so
numb, this news didn't affect me all that much. I guess I had
already anticipated he would say something like that. The
disgust I felt was overpowering. In addition, I was paralyzed
with disbelief. How was it possible to have the lowest
expectation for my father yet have him out-perform the worst thing I
could imagine? The thought that my
father was proud over $400 infuriated me. Is that the best he
could do after six years? The sad thing is I was pretty sure
what was going here.
There had never been a College Fund. My
father had just made that up to get me off his back when he stopped
paying for St. John's six years. But why did my father hand me
cash? It had to be related to the shrew. My father was
terrified of letting the Mistress know he had helped me. One
glance at the checkbook would have convicted him. So when Dad stopped paying child support in November, he had not told
his vindictive wife. Why risk a new riot act? Instead he
pretended to keep paying child support. November.
December. January. February. The checkbook said he
wrote $100 checks to my mother, but in reality the checks had been
written for cash. This allowed him to
systematically pocket the four $100 bill and use them for today.
As the spirit drained out of me, I was
upset beyond comprehension. Feeling my rage grow to Vesuvius
proportions, I was fearful of
an explosion. Rather than scream, I picked up the $400. It made me sick to touch
the money, but despite my wounded pride, I needed whatever I could
get. Feeling myself on the verge of losing control, I stood up
and said, "Thanks, Dad, but I've got a test
to study for."
I stormed out of the building and
threw the
money on the passenger seat in disgust. I seethed
over my father's brutal insult
as I drove away in my used VW Beetle. Without warning,
my anger suddenly
vanished. It was replaced by grief. My father's
broken promise was more than I could take. Beneath
the anger and disappointment,
I was
incredibly
hurt. In that moment, any remaining illusion as to my father's
concern for my welfare died.
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The sad thing is
I half-expected something like this would
happen. Some sort of eerie premonition had
warned me about today. I didn't see this dread as a
psychic foretelling, but rather that my subconscious knew my
father better than my conscious mind wanted to admit.
Well, not any more.
The problem was that my father was
deceptive. He had his
"Caring Act" down to a pat.
Over the past nine years I had met with him for lunch three or
four times a year. Dad was
always friendly, always affable, always glad to see me.
However, today's cheap trick had opened my eyes. It was
all a disguise. Before he began designing electrical
systems, Dad had been an excellent salesman. I suppose
Dad's sales training paid off. When you only see your
kid three times a year for one hour, Dad could fake
sincerity to perfection.
My father had
once loved me. I knew this for a fact. But ever
since he met the Mistress, his love mysteriously
evaporated. Did I do anything to deserve this?
No. For the past nine years I had been unfailingly
polite and respectful. Grateful for any attention he
was willing to share, I never gave my father a bit of
trouble. Now after six years of uncertainty, today's
betrayal had revealed for certain what kind of man my father
really was.
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SENIOR YEAR
CRISIS
FEBRUARY
1968, Age 18, 12th Grade
ME AGAINST THE WORLD
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As I drove
back to school,
I could not stop glancing at the $400 on the
passenger seat. Those four bills stared at me like a Betrayed Kingdom. I felt so
worthless. Most fathers would be proud of a
boy who got straight A's, bought a car with his own
money, worked 20 hours a week after school
and never got into trouble.
My father was the exception. Six years ago he stopped
paying for St. John's because it was
a waste of good money. Now he claimed there
was no money for me because his abundant salary was
better spent sending Charlie and Joy to private
school. Hey Dad, do you want to explain why
private schools are okay for them, but not for me?
Seriously, my father had to be the biggest hypocrite
to ever walk the earth. A liar too. This was the day my
father broke my heart.
Prior to my
Senior year, St. John's had been my sanctuary.
For the past eight and a half years, my school was
the only thing I had going for me. However, when I returned
to St. John's after
my father's betrayal, I hated my school with a
passion. It was a classic case of misplaced
anger.
The moment I
walked into my next class,
the phrase 'everyone but me'
starting playing in my brain.
Without a scholarship, I had
absolutely no way to pay for Georgetown.
Unless I caught some sort of break, next year every
classmate BUT ME would attend
college. The more I thought
about it, the more upset I became. Dating
back to the school's founding in 1946, only four graduating SJS Seniors had
failed to go to college, all girls. Legend had
it they were getting married, so why bother?
Easy to say when you're rich, but what about me?
As things stood, I was in line to become Number Five, a
dubious distinction indeed.
Taking a desk in the back of
the room, I was so upset I was in tears.
Mrs. Anderson, my teacher, asked us to
translate a long paragraph of German into
English. Since German was my best
subject, as usual I finished first.
However, it was for the wrong
reason. My heart wasn't in it, so I
gave a brief effort and quit.
Since I wasn't going to college next year,
what was the point of trying?
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Following my
lukewarm stab at the assignment, I sat there feeling
utterly hopeless. With nothing to do, I surveyed
my twelve classmates and wondered what college they
would attend. I started with Katina Ballantyne.
I had heard a rumor she was headed to Vanderbilt.
Lucky her. Katina was fortunate to be the daughter
of Maria Ballantyne, probably the best mother in the
entire school.
Katina was one of
seven Ballantyne children who
attended St. John's. Every sibling was a credit to their
gifted parents. They were all smart, athletic, and outgoing.
Katina was the perfect example.
A cursory glance at the
1968 yearbook said it all. Katina was
all-conference in field hockey. She
was captain of the volleyball team. She
played lead in The Music Man,
she was a Prefect, she was in the choir, she
was editor of the yearbook, she was
an honor student.
In my
opinion, Katina was the most respected young
lady in our class. Extremely popular,
I never once saw a streak of meanness or pettiness. Katina remained
level-headed and even-tempered at all times.
Unlike some, there were
no airs or snobbery emanating from this
attractive
young lady. Katina's
brothers and sisters were the same way...
talented, generous, humble, no hint of
arrogance.
I watched Katina for the
same reason I watched her mother... I
admired both of them.
Unfortunately,
following my father's snub, today I caught myself
staring at Katina with bitterness for the
first time. I did not want to dislike
Katina; she was a sweetheart. But I
could not help myself. Katina's father
was a prominent physican. He was the
first person hired when
famed
cancer research center M.D. Anderson
opened its doors. At the moment I resented Katina
because she had come to school today secure
in the knowledge her father's lucrative
profession would send her to the college of
her choice. Katina had nothing to
worry about.
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The
same was true for the other German students.
My classmates did not give college finance a
second thought. But what about me?
My
father's broken promise meant there was a
good chance I would not be going to college
next year. Even if I won the Jones
Scholarship, what good would it do me next
fall? The stipend was $1,000 per year.
Add that to my father's $400 and my $2,000
in grocery savings. Tuition, room and
board at Georgetown was $6,000. Given
my father's salary and unwillingness to fill
out financial forms, I had no chance of a
scholarship. Unable to make up the
difference, I now expected to be forced to
sit out a year. I was incensed over the
injustice. Who at this school has
worked harder than me? Who needs
college more than me?
The
thought of being trapped at Little Mexico
for another year was more than I could
handle. Given the unfairness of it
all, my
father's snub sent me reeling.
Everyone but me...
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Lost in a whirlpool of despair, my
mind returned to Katina. I was embarrassed that I had
felt angry at her for a moment. Katina, bless her
heart, was one of the few St. John's girls who actually
spoke to me now and then. With her locker next to mine
due to alphabetical proximity, Katina never failed to say
good morning. That said, I never thought about dating
her. Why not? I thought Katina was wonderful.
Unfortunately, my mind was completely shut to the thought of
asking any St. John's girl for a date. They were all
so perfect, so rich, so important, why would any of them be
interested in a nobody like me?
That said, I admired Katina so much
that I wished I could be like her. You know what I
mean. I wished I could have friends, gain respect,
feel like I was part of the in-crowd, not be such a loner.
If I had any confidence, I probably would have fit in.
I was certainly one of the brightest. I was also one
of the top athletes. What a shame my blind eye kept me
from participating. But why let that stop me? I
could have auditioned for a play like Katina. I could
have worked on the yearbook. There were a lot of
things I could have done to fit in. However I had a
job practically every day after school. It just wasn't
meant to be.
But what if I had parents
like Katina's?
Who knows what I could have accomplished.
In my
opinion, Katina had the best mother in the school. Over the past nine years, I had watched Mrs. Ballantyne
mentor her children in the hallways countless times.
Like Katina, every child was a star athlete, a leader and
top scholar. I was
convinced the success of the fabled Ballantyne clan was
directly related to their mother's brilliance.
|
I watched
how Mrs. Ballantyne dominated the afternoon Mother's Guild
conversations. The Mother's Guild was a group of SJS
mothers who met several times a week to plan dance parties,
proms, book fairs, alumni receptions and fund raisers.
After their meetings, the various mothers stuck around for
coffee and tea. Conducting their chats in an open area,
I noticed how Maria Ballantyne was invariably a
fixture in the center. Based on years of observation, I considered
her the most influential parent in the school.
My hero worship
began in the 4th Grade, my first year. I was incredibly insecure
following the divorce. My mother's insane
marriage to the abusive alcoholic caused me great anguish.
So did her
manic-depressive behavior.
Seeing
her racked with sobs, there were times I actually worried she
might kill herself. My biggest fear was seeing her wind up
in the loony bin and be unable to care for me. Just the
thought of being forced to live with the hateful Mistress would be enough to scare the wits out
of any kid. Due to an increasing loss of confidence in my
own mother, I wondered what other mothers were like. Enter
Maria Ballantyne. I noticed her poise. I saw the
respect given by her peers. I watched with envy how her seven
children gravitated to her. I was a near-orphan. How
could I not be attracted to this caring, charismatic mother?
Given my troubled
home, I saw no reason to apologize for my adulation. I was
a sad, unhappy little boy who meant no harm. Respectful of her privacy, I would not dream of bothering her.
Indeed, during my nine years at SJS, we had never spoken.
All I did was study her from afar. I would
stand unnoticed in a corner and wonder what I could have accomplished
if I had someone like Mrs. Ballantyne for a mother. The thought of
having an effective mother to love and encourage me was
a tempting fantasy to be sure.
But I had no choice but to play the
cards dealt me. Right now I had a bad feeling I was
headed for a world of trouble. Unfortunately, my
foreboding would soon come true.
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THE HIDDEN HAND OF GOD
Chapter
two:
THE
ABYSS
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