Chapter 5: Tribulations Part 3: The First Four Years

The universe is filled with endless enigmas waiting to be discovered, both uncharted and beautiful. Man will never realize the totality of space in his existence. Is it not amazing to consider that many of the shimmering stars we gaze upon nightly are only resonant ghosts of once living pseudo-planets that died millions of years ago? A star is one of the few things in the universe in which its death is more beautiful than its life. I wish I could say the same about human beings. Then perhaps our passing would be celebrated rather than mourned.

Just like the stars above, each story and every life must eventually come to an end. My mother was no exception, but we still have a long road ahead of us before we reach the untimely passing of Vedette Marcoux; though the story of her life has transcended death, and will be repeated indefinately through the pages of her memoirs and the memories of her son.

The following chapter outlines the first four years of my life, compiled from fragments pulled from my mother's journals. Vedette filled volume after volume and page after page with her mental soliloquies. To include them all would fashion a multi-volume series on the subject, so I have only selected a few key passages that I feel captured the transformation within my mother's troubled mind as I grew older. And so I begin with the moment I was introduced into this world, as told by Vedette Audrey Marcoux.

****3 January 1925

It's cold outside. The windows are covered with frost and I cannot tell how much snow has fallen, but it delayed the doctor nearly two hours. Today was unexpected. My Little Jack wasn't supposed to be born for another eight days. I suppose he's just as impatient as his father and couldn't wait to meet the world.

Jack Leon was born at 11:52 A.M., eight minutes before the town clock struck noon, turning my joyful surprise into temporary madness. Each time the bell tolled, it filled my heart with shame, and it took every ounce of strength I had not to push his tiny body away from me. I closed my eyes briefly, tried my best to relax, and forced my evil thoughts to subside. My Little Jack had no part in my past. It would be unfair to place blame on him.

When I finally returned to face reality, I actually smiled to realize his birth signified a new life - a truthful smile, not the fake frigid parting of the lips I usually displayed. My heart was bursting with relief, as if a moment long awaited had finally arrived, as though I had reached the end of a very long journey and everything was going to be okay. But these moments, even while gazing for hours into my Little Jack's big blue eyes, or watching his tiny chest rise and fall with each breath as he slept, were erratic in nature and hard to control. They were very delicate moments, because every time I looked at the soft tuft of black hair on top of his head, I could not help but think of my father's Uncle on that horrible day and realize that only by the grace of God was Jack not born more than nine years ago. Fate has benefitted him as a blessing and not an ever present curse clasped around my neck, a constant reminder of the wrong I suffered - and I would have hated him for it - hated this bundle of innocense that has made me smile truthfully for the first time in so many years.

I vow to say a prayer each morning as I wake, for the rest of my life, and thank the angels above that I have my Little Jack now and not nine years ago; thank the angels that his father, for all his faults, was still a kind man and held true affection for me in his heart, no matter how briefly, and that Jack was not the son of the man I despise above all men but one in this world; the Uncle of my father the pretentions baker and grandfather of my Little Jack, whom Jack will never know.****

****5 January 1925

I've had a few hours of sleep today. Thankfully, Jack only woke up once last night. If this keeps up, it will make my nights less stressful. Still, I cannot sleep, for fear that something might happen to my little boy in his sleep. I would never forgive myself. So I sit in my rocking chair and rock his crib, observing every rise and fall of his chest with curious awe. How could I have made this, this tiny person who one day will be a grown man with a child of his own. I find it hard to believe, and if it were not for the pain of childbirth (which was unquestionably real), I would swear this was all just a dream, that any moment I might wake up, thirteen years old in Paris again.****


Note: My mother's handwriting in this next entry was very erratic and barely legible. It is evident she was under great duress when she wrote it.

****7 March 1925

My little Jack is now two months old and I have already had my first genuine scare regarding his health. Three days ago he had a fever and was coughing horribly all night. The doctor came early the next morning and prescribed some drops to give him five times a day. My little one is doing much better, and I know that I'm just overreacting, but I just don't know what I would do if anything were to ever happen to him. My birthday is tomorrow, losing him would shatter the foundation of my entire world.****

****3 January 1926

Today my Little Jack is one year old. I can't believe how quickly the last twelve months has gone by. Grandfather Gilbert gave him a football, which is much too big for him, but little Jack loves to roll around in the floor with it. I bought him some new clothes and some books to read to him. I'm anxious to hear him speak and hear what precious voice he's been hiding from me.****

***15 December 1926

Christmas is just around the corner. I know I should be excited, but it's so hard to join in the holiday spirit when so much is happening outside our little home. Crime has been escalating over the last fifteen months. The youth in this town are out of control. Just yesterday a fifteen year old hoodlum assaulted an elderly man and stole his car right outside our house. I saw the whole ordeal from my bedroom window, shielding Jack's innocent eyes from the young man's incorrigible act. It reminds me all the more of Jack's father and his unethical business practices. I find myself hoping more and more every day that my little one will stay a baby forever. I already intend to homeschool him, and I know I can't keep him locked up in this house forever...it would be wrong, wouldn't it, even if I was doing it to protect him.

6:35 pm -
Only a mother fully understands a child's pain. Just an hour ago, grandfather Gilbert accidentally shut little Jacks' fingers in one of the kitchen cabinets, and although none of them were broken, Jack's tears nearly crushed my heart. I don't know how I will survive if he ever breaks an arm, or loses an eye, or is beaten and paralyzed by some bully. I expect the worse, but it's my right to do so as a mother in order to spare him such tragedies. God save my soul the day Jack is old enough to step outside our front door without me.****

****25 December 1926
Christmas is my favorite holiday; Jack's too. He loves pulling all the Christmas ornaments off the tree and ripping open presents. This morning we played with the toys Santa brought him, and tonight we will read by the fire and sing Christmas Carols; if I can ever get him to stay still long enough. I'm aware that I'm not helping matters when I laugh at the sound his feet make when he patters across the floor, and at the same time it makes me nervous...it won't be long now. It won't be long.****

****2 January 1927
Tomorrow Jack will be two years old. I've used part of the blood money I brought from France to renovate the basement. Gilbert has been sweet about the whole ordeal, and has helped as much as he can...when he's not drunk. Gilbert buys his moonshine and beer from a peddler down the street. Thank God for prohibition. There's no telling how bad off he would be if it was readily available. For such a sweet man, he wouldn't part with his bourbon to save his life; which may prove his greatest fault some day, but such is the Tolliver curse. Allen was no different. I only hope I can break Jack of this family tradition.

I planned on saving my money, having only spent a few hundred dollars over the last eight and a half years on necessities, but I'm growing restless. I feel like a mother hen fussing over her nest. The days are getting longer in expectation that Jack will one day be old enough to leave me (is it really that far away?). I have been debating on how to keep him safe, and I must make a decision soon. It's only going to be harder to decide with each birthday.****

***3 January 1927
I have decided. Though it grieves my heart deeply to do it, it was an easy choice after what happened today. It has been snowing for days, and today Jack pleaded with me to go outside and play. I tried to sooth him and direct his attention elsewhere, but he would not give up. He's as strong willed as his mother. Perhaps stronger, since I was the one that gave in. Reluctantly I agreed, bundled him up in two sets of clothes and a thick coat, and took him outside. I kept a close watch on him, never letting him wander more than a few yards away, but young ones are so inadvertently clumsy. Jack tried to carry the football grandfather Gilbert gave him, but dropped it on the sidewalk and toppled onto his side.

Some older neighborhood kids were playing in the street and laughed at my Little Jack, calling him names like "little roughneck." They taunted me and begged me to let Jack play with them. They were at least seven years older than him, and I could see the mischief in their eyes. I didn't need to know their plans to realize they were up to no good.

I watched them with the eyes of a hawk - a mother's eyes - as they gossipped in their huddles and steadily moved closer to our house. I only turned my back for a moment when Jack tried to kick his football and fell down, using it to pull himself up again. I hurried over, but one of the hateful little boys reached him before I did. In a matter of seconds the bully pried Jack's little fingers off the football and pushed him down in the snow. Jack was left with a bruise on his forehead and the little boy escaped with his football. I screamed at him in French, the most vile curses I could think of, but was too concerned with Jack to chase after the little b*****d.

The rest of the boy's friends ran after him like a pack of wolves, throwing the ball to one another, and dissappeared down the street. I'm not familiar enough with the neighborhood to know where they live. God save their hides when I find out. I'll have more than a stern talk with every one of their mothers. But for now it will have to wait.

I scooped up Jack into my arms, carried him into the house by the fire, and stripped him to check for more injuries as he cried out for his little ball. I was utterly heart broken that day and knew the decision I had been contemplating for so long was the right one.****

***10 January 1927
It has been one week to the day since I moved Jack to the basement on his second birthday. He was curious at first, and a little spooked, but I have done what I can to provide adequate light, and I will continue to stay with him day and night until he's old enough to sleep on his own. There will be many sleepless nights ahead of me, but it is all part of a mother's sacrifice.

The basement was furnished with what little I could spare in these times, but it should be sufficient. Grandfather Gilbert's book collection will be a blessing for years to come. I don't think he realizes how much money he could get for them, and I'm not going to tell him. He'd just sell them to buy more booze. His family has handed these books down throughout several generations, and there are some that are over a hundred and fifty years old. I wish I had the resources to preserve them; such a waste to know they'll be nothing more than tattered paper in another twenty or thirty years. Nonetheless, the collection is invaluable, though I'm more concerned with it's educational value than with its monetary. I have always esteemed myself an intelligent woman, reading and self-educating myself from a very early age. I confess, hopefully without sounding facetious, that I have an adequate vocabulary...a skill I hope to transfer to my son.

I am burdened with the grief that I have confined my Little Jack, but I know it's for the best, and one day I hope he will see all the pains I have endured to keep him safe. I will spare him nothing to grow big and strong, not only in body but in mind as well. I will teach him all I know, and if need be, I will learn subjects I am not familiar with, just so I can pass the knowledge on to him.****


Note: From this point forward, my life began it's monotonous daily routine. My mother read to me in four hour shifts, pausing momentarily to fix meals and eat with me. She set aside an hour every morning and in the evenings to invent games we could play to keep me happy. I was too young to understand what it meant to play with kids my age, and I can't argue when my mother wrote that I loved her company as much as she did mine, and that I really didn't need anyone else. Perhaps, it was just a mother's ignorance in wanting to be the only thing important to her child, and maybe it was true. I didn't know any better.

After our evening play time, she would bathe me and get me ready for bed, reading another bed time story or two before I went to sleep. The crib was too large to move downstairs, so she had grandfather Gilbert build a toddler bed with padded rails to keep me from falling out at night. Apparently, he was quite the craftsman when he wasn't drinking - which was rare, but even this did not ease my mother's anxiety - not until I was three years old. By then she had removed the padded rails and placed a mattress beside my bed where she would sleep for the next year.

Between years three and four, the entries in her journals were extremely brief and few, but from what I could gather, she began to queston her motives for keeping me confined to the basement; not enough to change her mind however. But she was beginning to realize that her spending so much time with me may do more harm than good the older I became. When the decision came to stop staying with me through the night, she cried until dawn.

***15 May 1929
Tonight, I've shed enough tears to fill an ocean, but I keep telling myself there's no need to feel such sadness when my Little Jack is only a short distance away. Who knows how much damage I might cause if I continue to stay with him like this. I haven't decided how long I'll keep him locked up, and I find it impossible to settle on any other options. Jack doesn't even know he's locked up, that he could climb these stairs and try as he might, but the door would never open for him. I know he won't try though. And if he does, I will be right here waiting for him, with the key right here in my pocket.

I left the mattress beside his bed, in case he should fall, but I moved my blanket and pillow into the kitchen outside the basement door. I stay close enough, if he should need me, but far enough away to let him be his own little man. Jack is so grown up now, four years, four months and twelve days, and he's already showing signs of genius. He knows his alphabet, can already count to one hundred in French and English, can name most any shape and color, and began reading to me a few weeks ago. He can only make out a few words, but it won't be long before he's sitting on my lap reading "The Brothers Karamazov". I'm only joking...then again, maybe I'm not. He's incredibly bright for his age.****