The Calling. Kim O'Neill

kitchen. “Good morning, honey,” she wearily sighed, approaching to give me a light kiss on the cheek. Her face wore a dark expression. “Oh, God, I need a cup of coffee.” I watched her go to the cabinets and grab the big tin of Folgers. As she measured the grounds, she turned to look at me. “Where’s your father?” I gestured toward the powder room. She grimaced and turned away. She wore her robe over her nightgown, and I guessed that she must have been sporting a number of angry bruises from being slapped and choked. I knew then that I couldn’t burden her with my creepy nightmare. She had her hands full with my father.

      It was going to be a typical Sunday, with her giving my Dad the cold shoulder as punishment for his bad behavior. Of course, I could readily understand why she didn’t want anything to do with him that day. It was a miracle that she was still alive! I thought that it was too bad that she didn’t whip out the big wooden paddle she carried in her purse when one of us kids was naughty . . . and spank him. Even as a kid, it was apparent to me that she was hiding from what needed to be addressed—as if the relationship might magically get better on its own. Why did she allow herself to be his victim . . . over and over again? Perhaps, as a Catholic, she considered a disemboweled marriage her fault . . . like an unspeakable flaw? By disparity to some of my friends in school, no one in our family had ever been divorced. It was apparent that my Mom preferred to be in the marriage as it was . . . than to be on her own. Any relationship was better than none. Possibly, she felt that being a martyr every Sunday was the only way to really get my Dad’s attention? Then again, maybe it had something to do with the fact that my Dad had a girlfriend. I overheard my Mom crying over the phone about it, and she was really upset. Evidently, he had taken his secretary bowling and then out to eat. I figured they must have bowled for an exceptionally long time, and that the restaurant must have had some pretty late hours, because he didn’t come home until early morning.

      My thoughts returned to the nightmare. My beloved, practical Swedish grandparents would never understand, and I predicted that my favorite Aunt Vera would be quick to tell my Mom, fearing that there was something terribly wrong with me. And who would blame her? Not even my closest friends would understand, either. I realized that I’d have to keep the dream carefully concealed—like an oppressive, traumatic secret that was mine alone to shoulder—just like my Mom kept the secret of my Dad’s abuse from the rest of the family. My nine-year-old brother came downstairs.

      “When’s breakfast?” he groused.

      “I’ll start the bacon in a minute,” answered Mom. “This is your summer vacation—you should enjoy it. You’ll never have this carefree time back again.”

      My brother scampered into the family room. The TV sprang to life with noisy cartoons.

      I glanced out the big kitchen window. The soft early morning sun caressed the budding roses in my father’s garden, monarch butterflies danced among the petals, birds chirped busily, and just beyond the flowers, the sprinkler sat on the lush, green lawn holding the promise of another day’s cavorting in our bathing suits.

      The peacefulness of that Sunday morning utterly contradicted the brutal carnage I had witnessed the night before. In the course of a single night, my life had changed forever. I had learned that even a grownup’s life could be shattered at any moment by events that were completely out of one’s control . . . because of a stranger! It wasn’t only family members who could hurt you.

      Both events struck a sudden, unexpected death knell to my childhood innocence. It was gone forever, almost as if it never existed in the first place. There was no way for me to retrace my steps and reclaim the mindset of the little girl I was—just the day before. And there was no one in my life with whom I could share this chilling new reality.

      At that moment I was consumed by two burning questions. Why hadn’t God saved those girls? And if I wasn’t brave enough to save my mother from my own father, how would I save us from a merciless, diabolical killer like Richard Speck if he should escape from jail?

      Over the course of the following months, I came to believe that what happened to those girls—and me—that summer night had been destiny. Later, on the TV evening news, I heard that the dark-haired girl, Speck’s lone survivor, had returned to her native Philippines. I was glad she was safe. Still fearing for my own safety and that of my family, I snuck regular peeks at the Tribune to make certain that the killer was still behind bars.

      When he was sentenced to death, I finally felt a small degree of relief from the corrosive effects of the unwavering fear and insecurity he had inspired. Once he was dead, he would never be able to come after me. I confess that I was never able to muster any pity or compassion for him as he faced the electric chair. Frankly, I didn’t believe that it was going to be a fair punishment. Maybe, I reasoned, it might be more equitable if he burned in the electric chair seven times—one for each of the girls that he had tortured.

      However, to my utter despair, that was not Speck’s destiny. His death sentence was commuted to life in prison, where he expired benignly from a heart attack—overweight, addicted to drugs, and grotesquely parading around in a garter belt—even before he had served the first twenty years of his sentence.

      Richard Speck had indeed marked me. But he was wrong about one thing. I have been able to forget him—except when the indelible memory of that long-ago midsummer night escapes from a vulnerable, hidden pocket of my soul to haunt my dreams.

       Part Two

Coping with Adult Spiritual Amnesia

       Chapter 5

       Barely Surviving My Day Job

      The old ship pitched and rolled on the heavy seas, just in sight of the British bombardment of Fort McHenry in Baltimore Harbor. A man could be seen on the deck of the American vessel; explosions of cannon fire illuminated his face against the dark, starless night sky.

      Consumed with passion, he reached inside his uniform and pulled out a folded piece of paper and a writing instrument. The man unfolded the piece of paper on the ship’s battered, wooden rail and began to write with deliberate intent. After a few moments, he looked once again toward the fort under siege, tears welling in his eyes. Inexplicably, the corners of his mouth began to curl and he burst into uncontrollable laughter.

      “CUT!” yelled the director. “Goddamn, Jimmy—how many times we gonna shoot this scene? Get in character and stay there! You’re supposed to be Thomas Jefferson, the father of our country, for chrissakes!”

      “Francis Scott Key,” I corrected the director with a heavy sigh. I was thirty-two years old, and I co-owned an advertising agency. My partner was my ex-husband, with whom I had started the business five years earlier when we were still married. At that precise moment, I was in the process of shooting a TV commercial for one of my clients who had planned a big sale over the Memorial Day weekend. I had created the poignant TV spot for the T-shirt company to ignite a spark of patriotism in the Houston community and, more importantly, to allow my client to unload his huge surplus of T-shirts emblazoned with the Texas state flag.

      “Okay, Jimmy, you got your shit together now?” inquired the director.

      The actor made a thumbs-up gesture, indicating that he was ready to begin shooting again.

      “OKAY! QUIET ON THE SET!” the director barked. “ACTION!”

      Once again, strobe lights began to flash on the actor’s face to simulate “bombs bursting in air.” His expression was so moving that I knew it would be a real tearjerker of a spot—just the tone and mood I wanted.

      At the right moment, the actor reached inside the jacket of the rented military uniform for the paper and pen with which he would write the poem that was to become the Star Spangled Banner. He pulled out the piece of paper,