Prayers for Bobby - Leroy Aarons [9]
THREE
Fire and Brimstone
MARY, 1934–1963
Mary Alma Harrison arrived on October 13, 1934, at Colon Hospital in the Panama Canal Zone, the fourth child and third daughter of Ophelia Harrison and Naval Air Machinist First Class Alvin Edward Harrison. She was not a comely baby. When the nurse handed the squinchy, slippery five-pound infant to her mother, Ophelia had a hard time grabbing on.
Mary was to spend a good part of her life trying to get her mother to do just that—grab on. She felt not so much unloved as ignored. There eventually were seven children, all of them scrambling for attention from a mother who seemed more interested in the social whirl of navy wives than in nurturing her young brood. For Mary, childhood was an exercise in finding ways to stay out of the way.
Ophelia, not given to stroking, ruled with an iron hand. There were few hugs and kisses to go around. On the other hand, father Alvin, when he was around, offered warmth, affection, and fun, acting as a buffer between the kids and Mom. He didn’t talk much, but he made the children feel cared about. Once, when they lived in Jacksonville, there was a rare heavy frost. Alvin drew pictures on the window of the bedroom Mary shared with her younger sister, Gail, and told the children Jack Frost had come for a visit. Mary believed every word of it and was enthralled.
Ophelia Ambria Casey had met her future husband at a dance in Pensacola, Florida, when she was just thirteen. Her father, a railroad worker, chaperoned them on dates, until they were married in 1924. Ophelia was fifteen, and Alvin, a young seaman, was twenty-two. Ophelia had been a willful child, pampered by parents who grieved the loss of an earlier daughter who had died of pneumonia at eighteen months.
She was little more than a child when she married. Two of her seven children arrived before she was twenty. She greeted motherhood with the mixed feelings of a young girl who loved her children, was intensely loyal to them, but resented the responsibility they entailed. She could be biting and cruel—a lifelong habit that prompted some of her grandchildren later to dub her, half-affectionately, “Wicked Badass Granny.”
To Mary, a sensitive, introverted girl, life meant keeping from underfoot. Yearning for affection, she settled for lying low—anything to escape the maternal barbs. Mary had buck teeth; she was gawky and a slow developer. By first grade she still could not print her name. Ophelia reserved one of her most hurtful terms for her daughter: she called her “lamebrain” far into adulthood.
Mary contrived to avert conflict, spending a lot of time feeling fearful or guilty. She longed for a safe space. She felt dumb. Every day, before getting out of bed, she prayed that she would be able to get through the day without doing something to displease her mother.
Her closest friend was her sister Jean, six years her senior. Mary could confide in Jean, who shared the same feelings of neglect at home. In school, Jean was encouraged because of her unusual singing voice. Once, a teacher sent a note home urging that Jean’s talent be nurtured. Ophelia set the note down, and that was the end of it. Jean, also an introverted child, never brought the subject up, but it lingered as a bitter memory throughout her life.
The navy family moved around a lot during Mary’s earliest years, from Panama to Jacksonville to Pensacola. They settled finally in Oakland, California, in 1941 just before America joined the war. Alvin Harrison, by then promoted to commissioned officer, was assigned a desk job at the naval air station.
The Harrisons were churchgoers. They drifted between Catholic, Baptist, and Methodist congregations. Ophelia in particular subscribed to the wrath-and-vengeance school of religion. The children learned that God was to be feared. You did what God said or risked being punished. You could burn in hell.
Whatever else he was, God was a handy instrument