Shot in the Heart - Mikal Gilmore [139]
Still, the family wasn’t without options. Though my father had not carried life insurance, he had left a fair amount of money in the bank. Frank estimates it may have been as much as $30,000 or more—enough to live on for a while in the early 1960s. Frank thought the family should give up the large home on the hill and move to a more moderate and affordable place. After all, he pointed out, Gary was hardly ever around these days, Gaylen couldn’t be counted on, and Frank himself planned on moving out in a couple of years. There was no reason to keep such a big and costly house. If my mother sold it now, he told her, she could profit nicely and put that money into a smaller but still comfortable home and have plenty left to live on.
Frank’s proposal became the beginning of an ongoing argument between him and my mother that would last for the remainder of their life together. It would also, in an odd way, end up keeping Frank tied to my mother’s fate, when all he wanted was to escape her world. The first time Frank suggested moving into a smaller place, after having gone through all the family’s financial records, my mother exploded bitterly. She did not want a smaller house. “You want me to give up my home and go live in a trailer, like a tramp,” she screamed, and then picked up a plate of food and threw it on the floor. No doubt the thought of giving up our nice new home was hard for her, especially after waiting so many years to have it. Also, I think she held out hope that the beautiful house was the one thing that might still bind us together. She wanted to keep it as a safe harbor for her sons to come home to, and since it was such a big, demanding place, we would all have to remain there to maintain its upkeep and grandeur. In other words, the house was what could save us— or at least keep us all under the same roof.
My mother defied Frank’s counsel in a way that she could never have defied my father. When the issue hit a boiling point between them, she finally agreed: She would go find a new house for us to live in. After a few days of searching she had found the place and was having a contract prepared. She wanted us to go see it. It turned out to be an even larger house, on an even grander, more expensive hill. She had made her point. Frank gave in. We would stay in the house on Oatfield.
After winning the showdown, my mother went out and bought a nice new piano, new furniture, new appliances, and a new television. Within six months of my father’s death, Frank figures she had gone through at least $10,000. But that wasn’t what ended up breaking the family. What broke us was the trouble that was about to happen with Gary and Gaylen.
IN THE MONTHS FOLLOWING OUR FATHER’S DEATH, Gaylen’s life started to grow wilder. He was now drinking more frequently and more openly, and while he was generally a funny or harmless drunk, he would sometimes sit in the dark and glare at the rest of us in ways that frightened me. I could never understand why my mother let my brothers bring liquor into the home and drink while they were still minors. I guess in part it was her belief that you couldn’t force somebody to change their behavior—that you had to allow them to make their own mistakes. Or maybe it was just a practical resignation. They were going to drink anyway, she figured, so why not let them do it in a friendly and safe environment, where they wouldn’t get in trouble or get arrested? I also suspect it may have been plain fear. I think that in some ways, despite all her love and support of Gary and Gaylen, my mother was also afraid of them— she knew that anything that smacked of a mandate or a regulation might produce an ugly reaction on their part. Yet I remember that when I would watch my brothers sit and drink. I sometimes sensed the threat of uncontrollable actions on their part—in particular, the chance of violence. I saw something that was dangerous and mean in Gary and Gaylen’s red, bleary eyes. They may have smiled a lot when they were drunk, but I thought