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Surf music plays. A male voice says:
Christopher Gronlund presents Hell Comes with Wood Paneled Doors. Read by me, the author, Christopher Gronlund.
CHAPTER THREE
“When I Dream, I Dream of Hell”
While packing, I thought about the relationship my mother and father had; I wondered what Dad saw in Mom. Back then, I thought what they had was a “normal” relationship, something I was destined to follow. The thought of marrying someone like my mother made me consider joining the priesthood, only I didn’t believe in God. I just didn’t understand why my father accepted all the grief Mom tossed his way. I always loved my mother, but the woman gave birth to me. Dad had a choice—he could have had his pick of gorgeous women who appreciated him, yet he chose Mom.
After packing, I put my duffel bag by the front door. I noticed the light was on in Dad’s den and I went to say goodnight. That den was his Fortress of Solitude—it’s where he housed his collections. He had huge, tacky ashtrays decorating shelves, even though he didn’t smoke. Lava lamps, pixie paintings, and truck stop placemats were a prize find in his mind; they shared space with Hawaiian hula lamps, fake African masks, and a stuffed jackalope head on the wall, with tiny red Christmas lights for eyes. The thing reminded me of Lucky for some reason. Dad sat at his desk, looking over roadmaps and putting the final touches on the trip.
“Hi, Dad,” I said. “I’m all packed and ready for bed.”
“Great!” He signaled me to come over and look at his plan of attack.
“So, you have it all plotted out, huh?” I said, knowing the answer.
“As always!” He pointed out our route on a map of America. “First we hit West Virginia, to pick up your Aunt Margie.” His finger moved east, along Interstate 64, into Kentucky. “Then it’s off to Mammoth Cave—you’ll love it…lots of stuff to do there!” His finger dropped down to Tennessee. “After that, your Mom wants to stop at Graceland, now that it’s open to the public. Better than the last time we drove through Memphis and she tried climbing the gate, huh?” he said, elbowing me gently in the ribs. Mom could barely climb a flight of stairs, but that didn’t stop her from trying to scale the wall at Graceland. She was convinced the King was alive and well and still living in his mansion.
From Memphis, he moved his finger west. He crossed Arkansas, Oklahoma, the Texas Panhandle, New Mexico, and finally stopped in Northern Arizona. “Of course there are plenty of roadside attractions along the way.”
When Dad said there were plenty of roadside attractions, what he meant were plenty of stops for bad pictures with us all pretending we were getting along; it was our gift to him so he could look at the photos and pretend we were the perfect family he always wanted. One time I counted them, there are over three hundred fifty pictures of my family posed before things on the side of the road: muffler men, historical markers, and fiberglass statues.
“That’s a long drive,” I said. “After Graceland, we just drive straight through?” It wasn’t like Dad to not have every stop planned out. Maybe he finally realized Mom would complain about stopping for landmarks, reptile farms, and reputed UFO landing sites; maybe Mom was getting the upper hand even on trips. I was glad when Dad pulled me closer to the map, hoping it would help me understand what he was about to say.
“It’s a big country, Michael. There are few things better than heading out and seeing all it has to offer. If I could make a living driving around the country, collecting stuff, I would. You can make a few big plans along the way, like Mammoth Cave or Graceland, but the beauty is in the discovery, Buddy. There are things out there along the highway just waiting to be found. They aren’t on any map; they leap out at the last second! It’s all about freedom. It’s what your grandpa fought for in World War Two; it’s what our forefathers died for.”
I like to think my grandfather fought for more than a family pitstop at Stuckey’s or a wading pool full of alligators, but the open road made my Dad feel like a pioneer. In his mind, it wasn’t about a tired insurance salesman taking a vacation with his overbearing wife and his children—it was about following in the steps of Lewis and Clark…at least in spirit. Then he said it:
“It’s healing, you know?”
“So I’ve heard.”
“One day you’ll understand,” he said, lost in thought. He looked at the clock on his desk: a big, round clock face set in the belly of a ceramic frog he bought in California. “You’d better get off to bed. We’re leaving before sunrise.”
I gave Dad a hug and said goodnight. As I left the den, he said, “Sweet dreams.”
* * *
I usually had no problem falling asleep, but that night was different. If it wasn’t my sheets bunching up, or my pillow getting warm, it was the sound of a passing car, or Lucky choking on something he found on the floor. Normally, little things like that wouldn’t bother me; I was usually able to fall asleep anywhere, in any condition, but that night I tossed and turned for hours. While my family was fast asleep, I laid wide-awake, thinking about the trip before us. How could they sleep, knowing they were about to embark on a twenty-four hundred mile journey to dump a body in the Grand Canyon? To my family, it was just another dysfunctional family vacation, but to me it was a pilgrimage. It was after three before I finally fell asleep, and even then, I was restless and haunted by a dream.
I was with my family at the canyon, only they were nowhere to be seen. I stared into the canyon—it reminded me of an image of hell the way it reflected reds and oranges from the deep pit. I heard noise behind me.
“Ashes to ashes,” I heard my father say, followed by Mom saying, “Dust to dust…”
I turned and saw my entire family (including Aunt Margie), standing in church robes. Lucky floated alongside my mother, his eyes glowing red like Dad’s jackalope head. The twins chanted in Latin as Mom opened the urn holding my grandmother’s remains. As eerie as it was, the scene was also peaceful. My family seemed to have come together, finally realizing how important the trip was. We were putting Grandma where she felt she belonged, on her fiftieth trip to the canyon.
It figured Mom and Aunt Margie had to ruin the moment.
Aunt Margie reached for the urn, but Mom wouldn’t share it with her. The two fought like children, having a tug-o-war over Grandma’s ashes on the rim of the canyon, which started filling with flames. Mom and Aunt Margie tugged at the same time; the urn slipped from their hands and fell in. I leaped after it!
Instead of falling, though, I floated above everything, watching the cremains disappear into nothing.
“Grandma?” I said.
“What, Mikey?” Her voice was everywhere.
“What’s it all mean?”
“What’s what all mean?”
“Everything,” I said. “What’s it all mean?”
“Look down, Michael. It’s healing.”
I finally understood!
Floating above something so huge, I realized how small I really was. Seeing something so gigantic put me in my place and reminded me there were things so immense in life, we can only look at them in awe and marvel at their beauty. It was more than healing—it was life changing!
Below me, I saw the flames take shape—a large phoenix shot up from the fire, knocking me back to the rim where my family waited. The experience somehow changed me; it changed my family, as well.
The twins sang “Ninety-Nine Bottles of Beer on the Wall,” while Mom, Dad, and Aunt Margie hugged me like they’d never let go. Lucky chewed on my pant leg, but I didn’t mind; my family—for the first time ever—seemed like a real, functional family! It turned out to be the best dream ever—I didn’t want to wake up.
I was awakened by screams.
* * *
“Why the hell aren’t youse two packed?!” Mom bellowed. “If we weren’t leaving on vacation, I’d ground the both of youse!”
I got out of bed and made my way down the hall, where Mom was rushing back and forth between Elvis and Olivia’s rooms. A cigarette dangled from her mouth and Lucky followed closely behind. I wandered up and feigned confusion; I loved seeing my brother and sister in trouble and if I could stir things up even more, all the better.
“What’s up?” I said innocently. I had to struggle to keep from laughing.
“What’s up?! Your brother and sister aren’t ready is what’s up!”
Mom rushed into Olivia’s room, pulling handfuls of clothes from her dresser and tossing them in a suitcase—it was probably the most exercise she had in months!
“Weren’t they supposed to be ready last night?” I said.
She stepped back into the hallway, on her way to Elvis’s room. “Yes, they were supposed to be ready last night! But you don’t see them ready, do you?”
It was time to show her how good I was, and how horrible the twins were. “I had my stuff ready last night,” I said. “Did you see my things by the door this morning?”
She poked her head out of Elvis’s room; she was growing angry with me.
“Yes, Michael, I did! Right beside my stuff and your father’s stuff. But you’re only as fast as the slowest person in the family, so why don’t you hurry things along and pack the twins while I make sure we have everything.”
She rushed down the hall with Lucky in tow. Just before turning into her bedroom, she said, “Can’t believe this crap!”
So much for my plan.
I stepped into Olivia’s room first. “Where’s your stuff?”
“In my drawers and closet, Dummy-Head!”
I heard Elvis laughing from his room.
“You have nothing packed?” I said.
“You’re smart, Four-Eyes.”
There was no winning with the twins. You could try being nice and they pushed even harder. It was like they believed everyone had a trigger deep down, and their sole purpose for existing was to find that button and push it. Maybe there was truth in that theory; they could get under anyone’s skin. Give them five minutes with Gandhi, and they’d have him swinging like Mike Tyson.
“He’s not smart, O. He’s a retarded retard!” Elvis said. He called Olivia “O” and she called him “E.” They thought it was an absolute riot to sit in the backseat of the car and say “O-E-O-E-O-E-O-E…” for miles.
“Did you hear what E said, Mickey?” (I could stomach my grandmother calling me “Mikey,” but I drew the line at “Mickey”). “You’re a retarded retard.”
They pushed my button. I punched Olivia in the arm—not hard, just a tap to let her know her big brother was there and not about to take her crap. She screamed as though I cut her arm off with a chainsaw, however. In an instant, I was blind-sided by Elvis. I quickly regained my feet.
Elvis was the biggest ten-year-old I’ve ever seen. Even though I was older, he was bigger than me and able to take me toe-to-toe, so I had to resort to dirty tactics where he was involved. I kicked him in the nuts just in time for my Mom to come rushing back to see why Olivia was crying. Both my younger siblings shrieked in exaggerated pain.
“Mommy, Michael got mad and hit me and then turned around and kicked Elvis in his tenders. We didn’t do anything bad. We were just trying to help him pack!”
Mom hugged Olivia, rocking her back and forth as Lucky jumped onto the bed and tried eating a pair of Olivia’s socks.
“Michael, you’re making a rough morning even rougher,” Mom said. “Go see if you’re father needs any help. I guess I’ll help the twins.”
“I didn’t do anything wrong!” I said. “I’ll help them.”
Mom summoned her best martyr voice. “No, Michael…I’ll do it.”
The dreaded “I’ll do it!” shtick! The woman could make Christ feel guilty! “I’ll do it,” meant she wanted you to beg and plead to take on the cross she was bearing, but no matter how much you begged and pleaded, she wouldn’t let you help. Later, she’d be furious you didn’t lend a hand and she’d never let you forget it. Thirty years later, I still hear about that morning. There was no way out, but I didn’t care.
“Fine! You do it!!!” I yelled. “And have fun, too!!!”
Before Mom could say a word, I stormed off to my bedroom.
“You get back here, young man!” she said, figuring I’d stop. I didn’t. “Michael Gabriel O’Brien, do you hear me?!”
I continued walking.
“Fine, I’ll do it!” she said, defeated. “Go help your father, then!”
When I reached my room, I understood why Dad always had a smile on his face when he stood up to Mom. She really was an imposing figure, and standing up to her took guts. It felt good to finally win a round, no matter what retribution might follow. For that one moment, she had no control over me and I’d later realize she wasn’t half as tough as I grew up believing.
I got dressed and went down to help Dad pack the car. He was already done, though, but I noticed I could help him with something.
“What’s wrong?” I said.
“Flat tire.”
“We just bought the car, though.”
“I know,” Dad said, putting his finger in a hole in the tire’s sidewall. It looked more like burn than a puncture. Dad was sweating so heavily, it reminded me of Mom sweating into the spaghetti sauce the night before.
“I don’t get it myself,” he said. “But that doesn’t change the fact it’s flat.
He pointed to the jack, a big, old-time chunk of steel. “Can you hand that to me, Buddy?”
“Sure.”
I went to grab it, but quickly pulled my hand back. It was hot!
“What’s wrong?”
“The jack’s hot.”
He looked at the sun just poking its head above the trees.
“Well the sun’s not heating it up. You sure?”
“Yeah,” I said, trying again. I picked it up and quickly made my way to Dad, before being overcome with pain.
“Oww!!!”
I dropped the jack on the small of Dad’s back!
“Oww!!!” he yelled. “What the hell’s wrong with you?!”
“I’m sorry,” I said, backing up. “I was just trying to help.”
“Why don’t you go help your mother with the twins, then?”
I went to the backyard and moped, instead…
Mom was the yeller of the family. Dad never raised his voice, even when he probably should have, so I was shocked when he yelled at me. In my mind, the trip west should have been bringing us closer together as a family, but all it seemed to be doing was driving a wedge between us. It seemed sacrilegious to yell at each other when there were bigger things on the horizon. I hardly think Grandma would have wanted us to kick off the trip mad at each other, but that’s precisely what we did.
When Mom finally got the twins packed—when the house was all locked and we were ready to go—Mom ridiculed Dad for buying “a piece of crap car with shoddy tires!” He yelled back at her, surprising everyone—especially Mom—who was not used to having people stand up to her. The twins started crying, saying my parents were going to get a divorce, and we all piled into the Inferno and pulled out of the driveway hating each other.
* * *
Surf music plays. A male voice says:
Thank you so much for listening to Hell Comes with Wood Paneled Doors–it really means a lot to me.
Theme music is provided by Belgium’s best surf band, Pirato Ketchup.
And if you want to know a little bit more about me and the other things I do, check out ChristopherGronlund.com.
Stay safe, and take care…
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