CHAPTER 1

Dad looked dead. I wished he was. Instead, he was passedout on the sofa, his snoring blaring louder than the sportsprogram on television. I snuck past the green velvet rocker.A heavy brass floor lamp was big enough to hide behind, and I slippedby without disturbing him. I knew he would get mad if I woke himup. It was the weekend.

Friday nights through Monday mornings, Dad lived on the sofa,only getting up to stagger to the bathroom and stagger to the kitchentable for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. He ate well at every meal andin doing so maintained his health. If he hadn't eaten well, he wouldhave sunk much sooner than he did. I overheard some grown-upssaying this one day when they didn't realize I was listening. Afterdinner he did what he usually did, guzzle down his precious SunnyBrook whiskey until he passed out.

My name is Allyson, and when I remember my dad, even nowwhen I am much older than he was then, I wish I had given him moreslack, but back then I couldn't. Before I learned to tie my shoes, thedelicate laces that held my life together began to unravel. To keep thefrayed drama a secret, I pretended. Lost to fantasy, I hid my sorrowfrom the outside world. I had no idea just how crazy my own lifewould become.

Whenever Mom reminded me to stand straight, my mind rejectedher instruction. How could I be perfect when my whole world seemedto be crashing down around me?

Outwardly normal, we lived in an upper middle-classneighborhood. Sprawling sycamores lined the streets, and flowersbloomed in sculpted yards. We were just twelve miles outside of SanFrancisco. I dreamed of the day I could live in that city. It seemed fullof promise, and it was far away from Dad.

Our upscale sandstone home sat on a quiet, unassuming corner.Eastern sunshine flooded the roomy kitchen, adding more coziness toour deceptively lovely family. Ironically, our impressive living roomappeared bright and cheery with white walls, expensive furniture, anda fireplace that sported an oversized picture of a collie dog above it. Areligious painting hung over the couch where Dad always lay. A verylight spot in the house, the painting gave me a sense of strength.

Mom kept the windows covered with Venetian blinds. She pulledthe heavy draperies when she wanted extra privacy. We had thick rosycarpet. I had to take my shoes off every time I came in the house.

I convinced my scant circle of friends that I was living thedream life with perfect parents, two older brothers who were away,a big allowance, and no worries. All that dishonesty accomplishedwas having no one to talk to. I couldn't turn to my friends withoutadmitting the truth, so I turned inside myself.

Mom pretended too. I didn't blame her for avoiding the cruelrealities of life. After all, I was following her lead. She overlookedDad's complex and emotional disconnection. I couldn't stop thinkingthat she was giving up. I didn't consider myself a quitter. I justwanted out. Following an imaginary path, I became more lost in myinterwoven imagination.

My two older brothers didn't seem to care that our parentscarried on an unending feud in private. A decade stood betweenLarry and me while James was three years older still. By 1950, mytwo big brothers had left home. We were not close because of our agedifference, but Larry had a comfortable place in my heart. I never gotclose to James.

I blamed my dad for every misery I felt. I had to blame someone,and Preston Joseph Smith was it. A large man with deep-set eyes andno sense of humor became my target. Watching his daily habit andMom's constant frustration, I pretended I was the daughter of a hardworker, not a hard drinker.

I was about ten years old when I first noticed Dad talkingto people nobody else could see. I had gone outside to play in theneighborhood. At first, I thought he was talking to a neighbor, butI knew Dad wasn't that friendly with the neighbors. Whoever thisperson was, Dad really liked him.

He was on the other side of the sycamore tree so I was sure hecouldn't see me.

"Oh, don't you just wish." Dad teased his friend in that boomingvoice of his that always carried the sound of gravel being hit by tires.

I stopped outside the front door and held still. At that age, I triedto make myself unnoticed by Dad. I didn't want his friend to see meeither because he'd say something like "Well, Preston, who do we havehere? It can't be little Ally. She's much bigger than the Ally I know."Adults were always talking like that around everyone my age.

Suddenly, Dad roared back and convulsed with laughter. In themidst of it all, he was saying things like "Oh, you got me that time.Yes, you did" and "That's the funniest damn thing I've ever heard.Did he really say that?" and "Better not tell the boss or we'll both bein trouble."

I suddenly realized Dad was alone, that his friend was imaginary.Looking back, I wonder why the realization didn't scare me, but itdidn't. I just chalked it up on my parental scorecard as one morething, in addition to his drinking, that made him the worst dad in theworld.

I quietly stepped off the side of the front porch in the oppositedirection and ran silently through the neighbor's yard to my friend'shouse. I made a decision that day to do everything in my power notto end up like my mother. Why didn't she feel as trapped as I did?

Late that afternoon I returned home for supper. Dad was passedout on the sofa. All was normal again. After so many times ofwitnessing his odd behavior, it didn't bother me to be around himwhile he was visiting with unseen friends.

Sadly, I kept his secret. My dad was a crazy drunk, and I didn'tknow what to do besides ignore it. I could only hope my friendswouldn't ever find out.

My parents worked at Prime Premium Foundation, a companythat produced bathtubs, sinks, toilets, and faucet fixtures. Dad was astock clerk, and his job demanded most of his time. His being gonewas fine with me; however, weekends were his own. Mom workedin a different department. Even though she worked all day, dinnerswere always on the table every evening at six o'clock. She managedthe entire house as well as her job, impressing me with her skills andpreciseness.

I stayed outside or in my bedroom during Dad's weekend benders.A small RCA radio provided more comfort than watching television.My room was safe. I had a double bed and two large dressers. Dozensof games spilled across my closet floor, and I had lots of trinkets andtoys to keep me occupied.

I was happy and secure in my room even though Mom's ideaof interior decorating didn't match my style. She didn't seem tounderstand me. Her idea of a bedroom was frilly and just toofeminine for me. I was a tomboy despite Mom's girlish persuasiontoward lace and taffeta. A large bag of marbles lay in plain sight onmy dresser. I was proud of them. I had won most of them from myneighbors, Sharon and Ben. I was especially proud of my steelies. Abox of plastic soldiers guarded my collection.

If I wasn't hiding in my room, I lost myself in the downstairscloset beneath the staircase where Mom kept my big brothers' oldclothes. I loved wearing James's yellow corduroys. They were a littlebaggy but that didn't matter because I loved wearing them. Theywere comfortable. Girls' clothes were restricting; and I couldn't getdirty, climb trees, or relax. Mom didn't understand me. I wasn't sure Iunderstood myself. I wasn't into girlish things.

My mother, Roberta, was an attractive woman with perfectposture and a pleasant smile. She kept her dark hair styled short. Itsuited her. With intense green eyes, she was the striking opposite ofmy blonde hair and blue eyes. She always kept herself neatly groomeddespite the lack of attention from Dad. I was proud of her. I justwished she would notice me more often.

In my mom's eyes, I could do no wrong, but her eyes didn't focus onme much. I felt more like a guest than a daughter. As much as I lovedher, she didn't seem to need my love. Too busy reprimanding Dad, shelost herself in her work, her friends, and avoiding issues at home.

Because Mom worked, she was never available whenever I wantedor needed her, which was usually after school. I desperately wishedshe would divorce Dad. I never knew what he was capable of in hisdrunken state, but if the house caught fire, I pictured Dad beingburned alive. If a burglar broke in, he would be useless as well. I hatedthe noisy images that continuously blasted in my head.

I remember especially one fall weekend when I was thirteen. Itwas a bright, clear morning when Dad and I were outside waiting forMom to come out of the house. We were going to the store. I watchedfrom the front porch as Dad talked and gestured to an invisible manin the driveway. Mom was taking forever inside the house while Dadcarried on. I could feel time stop. I didn't know what to do. I wasn'tgetting in the car until Mom came out.

I stood frozen, peeking from the corner of my eye, careful notto let Dad see me staring at him. I was afraid he'd get embarrassedand be angry with me. I didn't want to embarrass him. Confused andhelpless, all I felt was sorry for him.

It was Tuesday, so I know he wasn't drunk. He paced a little in thedriveway as he talked and listened to the invisible person. His wordswere muffled, but his mood was good; he chuckled, listened, andnodded. I couldn't figure it out. To me, it didn't make any sense. SoonMom came from the house onto the porch, ready to do shopping orwherever we were going that morning.

"I'm ready! Let's go," she called out to Dad. If she noticed thathe was carrying on a conversation with a secret friend, she didn't leton. As soon as Mom appeared and spoke, he snapped right out of hissecret world, and we all climbed into the car and drove away.

To get through the snags of childhood, I imagined myself as partof another family. It didn't matter whose family it was as long as itwasn't mine.

Neighborhood friends distracted me from the strange thingshappening at home. A ray of light came from Sharon and her littlebrother Ben, who lived two houses away. If their mother worked onSaturdays, their dad usually took us fishing or on long rides in hislight yellow Ford. It never mattered he wasn't my own dad; it waseasy for me to pretend he was. Sharon's dad didn't drink, and he nevertalked to imaginary people the way my dad did. I felt safe with him.

By the time I turned fifteen, I had grown into a quiet observer,ready to please, and very obedient. Nevertheless, my complaints beganone early Saturday morning in the living room where Mom relaxedon the sofa and Dad was downtown running an errand. I decided thiswas a good time to talk with her.

"Mom, I can't bring a friend home when he's here. He's alwaysdrinking. He talks to people we can't see. Why don't you get a divorce?Get a divorce and never look back."

She calmly quoted scripture to me, "Honor thy father and thymother ..."

I couldn't argue with that logic.

"I don't understand you're being against your father, when you'rejust like him in so many ways," Mom said.

"How could you say that," I scowled. I began wondering if Momwas right. I kind of liked the idea of being like him because he wasthe boss in our family. Even though I looked like him, I knew I didn'tbehave like him. His being drunk and talking to invisible people wasnot something I did.

Sometimes I found him alone with tears welled up in his eyes,crying. When this occurred, I turned away. I hated seeing him cry. Ipitied him in his weak moments when most of the time he appearedstrong, even a bully.

I fell deeper into make-believe, looking the other way when lifegot bad. I ignored things that were unpleasant. My survival was inpretending. It formed without any resistance from me.

Both my dad and I had secrets. He tried concealing alcoholismand invisible friends. I concealed homosexual feelings.

Even though I believed that homosexuality was not my choice,but rather something I was born with, society forced me to ignore myheart and entertain their idea of normal. I hated denying my feelings,but it was just another part of the game I played to appear normal,whatever that was.

At the start of high school, I became best friends with Kealy. Anonly child, she lived with her grandmother after her parents died inan auto accident. It was nice that Kealy had no parents to impressor win over. She just had a tiny, dainty old grandmother who neverinterfered but always smiled.

Each morning I dressed for school and wandered past themanicured lawns over to Kealy's house to pick her up. Elderberrybushes surrounded their nice home, black sage and white flowersstood out against dark, bumpy leaves dotting the yard. We alwayswalked together and discussed life, homework, and boys. I was neverhonest with Kealy. I trusted no one.

On days when Kealy was running late, her grandmother woulddrive us to school in her luxury automobile. I enjoyed the ride. I feltspecial whenever the old woman chauffeured us around in the bigChrysler with gold-plated wire wheels. Kealy always sat squishedbeside me even though the car was enormous.

I liked the attention and the special feeling. Kealy made me feelgood inside. She made me feel normal. When I had a bad weekend athome, Kealy hugged me as if she understood. I relied on her strengthmore than I admitted. I relished her friendship and was envious of hereasygoing home life.

I preferred my mom's hugs and consoling, but I took whatI could. Mom was too preoccupied with her own misery to realizethe need inside me. Kealy's friendship filled all voids, more than Irealized.

A few miles from Berkeley, Kealy's grandmother owned a horseranch. One day she invited me to spend the day at the ranch. I hadn'tbeen on a horse in a while, and I couldn't wait. Kealy insisted that Isit beside her during the car ride.

"Scoot over," Kealy said as she squeezed in beside me.

Despite the spacious backseat, she pressed her leg against mineand let her hand rest on my thigh. I didn't mind. It sent a warmfeeling through me. Kealy was the closest person I allowed in my lifeeven though she never knew my deepest secrets. No one did.

Our legs rubbed together as her grandmother jerked and jostledthe car down the street. The feeling aroused something inside me,something down deep that I couldn't escape. I turned my head towardthe window and stared out at the endless fields whisking by, trying tosort out my affections before we got to the ranch. I wondered if Iliked her that way.

Kealy let it be known loudly how much she hated queers. I neversaid a word. I could imagine her family's reaction if they knew mythoughts on the subject. Naturally, I couldn't tell Kealy how I felt. Icouldn't talk to Mom about it; she'd criticize me for even thinkingit. She would tell me that homosexuals were abnormal. I shook thethought from my head and tapped my fingers with the song on theradio, pretending I was fine. I couldn't confide in anyone. It was alonely spot to be in. Thus, my secret remained with me.

We finally arrived at the ranch house that laid tucked in abarricade of walnut trees. A colorful assortment of horses frolickednear the sweet-smelling fresh bales of straw that was stacked in tallpiles near the barn. Kealy's grandmother plopped down in her favoritewooden rocker on the front porch while Kealy and I took off acrossthe yard. From the porch, the old woman watched while we playedbasketball and ping-pong. Everything was perfect, right up until thetime the world crashed down around me.

The sun passed through a whisper of a cloud, dulling itsbrightness for a few seconds.

"Ally! Over here!" Kealy yelled at the top of her voice.

I chased her inside the barn. When she came to the last stall, Kealyspun me around and pinned my shoulders against the rough-hewnstable wall. The horses snorted at the disturbance. Giggling andwhispering, she held me captive.

"You're my prisoner." Kealy pressed her strong body hard againstmine. "You have to do whatever I say and then I'll let you go." Herhead fell back in laughter.

"Okay, I'm your prisoner. What do I have to do?" I waited for herto dole out my torture. We always played prisoner. I was usually theone in prison.

"You have to kiss me," Kealy said.