Chapter Twenty – Seven An Opera in Three Acts –– But with Five Parts Acts One and Two: Parts One, Two and Three
Chapter Twenty – Seven
An Opera in Three Acts
–– But with Five Parts
Acts One and Two: Parts One, Two and
Three
“ ‘The body of a
woman is filthy, and not a vessel for the law.’ --- Buddha.
‘Three things are
insatiable –– the desert, the grave and a woman’s cunt.’ --- Arab Proverb.
When man made himself God, he made woman less than human. ‘A woman is never truly her own master,’
argued Luther. ‘God formed her body to
belong to a man, to have and to rear children.’
In the grand design of the monotheistic male, woman was no
more than a machine to make babies for him, with neither the need nor the right
to be anything else:
‘Let them bear
children till they die of it.’ Luther advised. ‘That is what they are for.’ ”
--- Prophetess Dr.
Rosalind Miles in Chapter Five entitled “The
Sins of the Mothers”
of her Scripture, The
Women’s History of the World, verse – page 102.
Confused yet? It’ll
get clearer.
It’ll get clearer on the second
scream. The first outcry is for help;
the second, plain raw rage, is for … justice!
Clearly a good thing, too, that Smutty
Smug Thug Herry will not win custody
of Mirzah, Jesse and Zane after Act One, Trial One. In about a bazillion ways this is a good
thing, not the littlest of which, of course, is the stoppage of the Truemaier Boys’
exposure to patriarchal Pappy Herry’s pornography. At least the most I can do to protect my children
from access to a ‘facilitating’ father’s stash of two – dimensional and,
therefore, totally silent DEhumans,
an ‘educating’ cache of relational non – existence belonging to Teacher and Role
Model Herry the Daddee who, in his first affidavit to ‘the Court’,
narcissistically only discussed matters of how terrific a parent he was and of how
meganegatively crazy and cuntishly whoring the Truemaier Boys’
mother, Legion True, was … all whilst, most
notably important here, NOT ONCE
OUTRIGHT STATING anywhere within the affidavit that Father actually … LOVES … (any
one in particular of) the Truemaier Boys! Certainly, no mention was made in said document
of Herry’s ever loving moi, er Dr. Legion True, buuuut … that would be
expected, wouldn’t it Jury? since the man never ever could utter in any type of
speech of his those three ‘I
love you’ words in my direction. But for
the perfectly pillared and countenanced Dr. Herod Edinsmaier the Parent, the
ideal of Paternal leadership Himself, the Father who so – oft fuckfully fancied
in the Shitbox Dodge whilst motoring us all past Midwest pastures of grazing
Holsteins modeling through his full facial hair, his brownish bushy beard and handlebar
mustache, its sniggering and snorting bulls’ snouts sniffing after the several cows’
vulvae, … for Daddee – Herry to be so self – absorbed as to believe that he did
not even need, let alone think, to
tell ‘the Court’, that is, to tell a similarly elevated judge – man, that the primo
papa actually loves his sons smacks of the highest degree in androcentric arrogance
and entitlement. To the actual point
that its absolute absence in the
situation of child custody! qualifies as
hate speech … that silence – genre of thuggery so, so commonly perped by
Terrorist King Herod. … With much more
of only the same to come.
A good thing, too, if also just in the locking of the front
and back doors at night before retiring.
Herry not one time that I observed ever desired to, nor did, this
‘safety and wellbeing’ measure on behalf of himself or of me, not to mention of
the Boys! Not one time. I never said word one to him about this; I
just did it myself every night everywhere we happened to be at bedtime. Herry’s not locking up was not at all because I did it for him and the rest of us all; it was, always, that he did not see
the need for his remembering to do the
work! of it all, “They’ll come in anyway, if they’re going to, so what’s
the use? They’ll still get in and get to
ya’.” Much this was along the very same
lines of, “If an emergency came up, then you’d have to handle it yourself alone
now anyhow, wouldn’t ya’?” That which
was given me as his standard, pat answer at least 25 times in 12½ years as Dr. Herod
Edinsmaier was headed out the door to a medical meeting for a week, say, in
Boston or in San Diego. A time span
during which I could’ve not only handled any
emergency, I could have also, very much alone, buried all three of my sons, too, before their Sperm Donor would be
back in town to even know of, let alone, care to find out about our ‘safety and
wellbeing’.
Yes, Herry’s never locking up of the doors at night nor
safeguarding our collective sleep as much as possible was a ‘safety and
wellbeing’ choice whether we were
home, at relatives or friends, staying in a motel or camping out in the woods
all night, and Herry simply chose never,
ever to do it. Because Judge Sol
Wacotler Seizor, if he would have even cared, didn’t know of this fathering
choice about the Truemaier Boys’ ‘safety and wellbeing’, great thing it was
then that I, their protecting mama,
would win!
Still … I was petrified entering the courtroom that first
day, 10 May 1989. I didn’t know I would
prevail. I thought I would. I thought I should. But shit … there was the matter of the literally
mother
– fucking report from Ms. Carrie Canard, Custody Evaluator, to
Judge Sol Wacotler Seizor, daMan.
To prevail in a legal dissolution of marriage action can
mean a lot of different things for folks.
For me though, it simply only meant having my kids live nearly every
single day and night with me along with something to support them. It didn’t mean calling home a pad – like
palatial mansion next to an urban forest; it certainly didn’t mean owning
anything fancier than the beige, 1980 Dodge Diplomat stationwagon that
I presently drove or the clothes we already had in the
drawers and closets. I wanted no other
embellished spiritual life than silent Quaker Meeting, and we didn’t, any of us
four, need a more elegant town;
By the time the entire Opera was finally finished near the
end of 1994, things about this so unadorned idea
of mine, that is, of the Truemaier Boys with me and living
okay day to day in
Why? For why?
Because of why? Why was the
result in the end The Right Choice, The Right Thing To Do, In the Children’s
Best Interests? Fuck, even legal? Like, ah, aaah, U.S. Constitutional? Let’s
just tackle that last one: how
was what happened, The Mother – Fucking that is, even legal? I mean, U.S. Constitutionally legal?!
I’m no lawyer and, of course by extended logic, no ‘The
Court’ or daJudge so I (probably) cannot or, more accurately, cannot “be
allowed to” completely nor officially answer these questions; but I have quite
a few ideas as to why this –– the Mother – Fucking
–– not only happened to me and to my Boys but also is today actually rampantly
waging down against mothers and their minors in little courtrooms across every
county around the entire nation some few short years later. All of those ideas of mine boil down. Into one word. Sexism. Sexism:
the Original Sin.
Where the accusatory pronouncement , “O m’god, you’re a sexist!” carries
no weight nor elicits any reactivity at all –– except ridicule back onto its
speaker. When it should.
It should carry to the
accused and to all societies even more shock and awe than any other accusation.
Than any other has –– ever before. If for no other reason than … simply … by the
fact of our sheer numbers. Of us Not
Males. The mere numbers alone of us
DEhumans should bring us such respect, honor and … justice.
Flip / reverse. Flip
/ reverse the gender. If over 85 percent
of the judges at all levels were DEhumans, if over 85 percent of the attorneys
at all levels were DEhumans and if only a fractional iota of these same
injustices and evil came down upon Males, just guess then which gender would rise
up and take fricking notice of this inegalitarianism – and, too, just how
fucking fast it would be that they would?!
That they would take note of it?!
And then how fast it’d be that those same Males would up and go do
something (including violence, very likely) because of it?!
I myself have yet to
hear from anywhere that even one lawyer, one ‘The Court’ or even one judge knows
that sexism in the courts, in all of the nation’s courts, will stop. Has it even been stated as such? O JYeah, Baby, multiple times. Actually formally … with appointed
commissions of persons, most on these “task forces” men even, “to study” it and
with published, glossy – bound reports and such. Since the first one in the early 1980s out of
15 Years After the Report of the
Because of its Task Force report then, the first – of – the
– week’s opulently sized Des Moines
Register in 1993, on Valentine’s Day! no less, ran a lovely explanatory
editorial in its Sunday Opinion section with the headline of “Equality Not Always Present in Iowa Courts,”
its text ending with “Finally, the task force recommends creation of a follow –
up group to ensure that education programs continue to monitor progress and
identify new problem areas. Some task –
force members, in discussing the report with Register editors and reporters last week, candidly alluded to
differences among them. But there also
seemed to be a very high level of mutual respect and, just as important, a
willingness to listen, to study and to accept the need for change. The task – force report notes that ‘more work
and understanding can make a difference.’
If the report is accepted by the legal community in the spirit in which
it has been presented, it not only can make a difference, it will.” There’s that second of (Chapter Eight’s) two tools about changing shit again, the will
to do the change identified and educated about.
And needed.
So then? Then
what? Well, you know. You know, Jury. You know what … then. Lovely as all that moonshine on the mess was,
especially those sappy, syrupy parts about “mutual respect” and sweetly
listening to each other and about even one more fucking focus and “educational
follow – up” group needed –– when we all, all of us, everyone of us already knows
since we were at least eight years old that
we should be fair and equal, for chris’sake … that was that. Nothing
changes when nothing changes. The will
to change? In humanity’s males?! Particularly its pillared ones?! Fuck that!
With all of this sexism running around rampant inside the
male – driven legal system and even published about, no one judge, male or
female, about whom I have ever heard from anywhere in any state has publicly admitted, “I made a sexist
decision in such – and – such case. That
was a bad thing to do, and I was wrong.
I’m sorry.” Let alone, “And I
will set about right now to fixing it and getting it righted, corrected … and
just – just as soon as
possible!” No one has admitted personal
guilt nor personal accountability. Not
one about whom I have ever, ever heard.
Kind of like Herry here.
About himself and others The Rule.
The rule of daMan is: to deny, deny, deny.
The wrongdoing or even just the charge of doing
wrongly. It will go away. You just have
to deny it was you – loooong enough. And
about this denial thing of men –– in regard to all aspects of living their
lives, not just within the legal system –– women absolutely have to get most
clear: no amount of hoping for “what goes around, comes around” will ever,
ever, ever make it –– will ever, ever, ever make for her justice –– fucking
“come around.” Women, if they are
addicted to anything, are fucking addicted to … hope. Over and over we recite little sayings like
that one as if mouthing it enough times will make it happen. We scurry and scram to the kneeling boards at
the local cathedrals and mosques and temples with rosary beads and prayer books
in hand and with ayatollahs’ and rabbis’ and priests’ and monks’ outspread
hands dominatingly positioned above and upon our so purely white – doilied
heads and with their enmeshing and entangling limbs around our shoulders and
our waists and … wrapped around other parts of our anatomies as well –– to be sure … , we women so sigh or shout
or heave in slobbering sobs about how it is that, “O, he’ll get his! On Judgment Day! On Judgment Day, he’ll get his, don’t think
he won’t!”
Well, … I’m here to tell ya’, “No, Girl, he will not! He won’t!
He will fucking not not
not … ‘get his’! The only
thing he’s gotten, Sister, is all of your babes away from you! And he has them – clean slick away from you! The vengeance upon you that he soooo, so desired. And you, Girl? You are the one vexed and hexed. Forever.
You are. There is no
hell for him. Got that?! He has
gotten away with this – clean slick away
with this. So the thing you first
gotta do is get the fuck over that frickin’ addiction of yours … to hope. Just fucking quit with that. Do it!
And do it right off! When he is
dead –– just like when you are –– well then, he’s dead. No judgment.
No hereafter. No ‘you finally
getting’ yours back now. Either your
justice – or your babies. No way. Doesn’t happen thataway, Woman! Does not.
He is fucking just dead. The
worms move in. Ya’ got that? The worms move in. Ya’ know, the vermin. As in the verms
– just – come – on – in … as in vermiculture!
And you, Mama? Well,
you and your children have been denied each other all of his life. That? That is reality. That is … the Truth of things,
Woman.”
* *
* *
Nine boxes of files and documents is a lot, an awful
lot. Dusty, cobwebs, even some of the
pages moldy, rust on the binder clips after years of moisture in the cellar air,
cardstock accordion files ripping with ease after the ages, staples similarly
rusted loosening and the originally bound sheets coming apart and mixing
up. Like I’ve written before, every
single divorced mother whom I know, everyone of them, utterly loathes the
probing into these papers and simply refuses to ever do it unless absolutely
necessary. Truth is … today
… absolutely necessary. Finally.
In coming up with the first date of trial, I find that
Herry, in those papers mostly on legal – sized sheets, double – lined and
variously entitled always in capital lettering with such phrases as “PETITION
FOR DISSOLUTION OF MARRIAGE” or “APPLICATION FOR PHYSICAL CUSTODY” or
“RESPONDENT’S RESISTENCE TO APPLICATION FOR PHYSICAL CUSTODY” or “INTERIM ORDER
FOR HOME STUDY” or “NOTICE OF INTERROGATORIES” or “REQUEST FOR PRODUCTION OF
DOCUMENTS” or the actual “PRODUCTION OF DOCUMENTS” or “ANSWERS TO
INTERROGATORIES OF PETITIONER” or “SUPPLEMENTAL ANSWER AND ANSWER TO
INTERROGATORIES” or “OBJECTION TO DISCOVERY REQUEST AND MOTION FOR PROTECTIVE
ORDER” or “RESPONDENT’S RESISTANCE TO MOTION FOR MENTAL EXAMINATION” –– I find
that Herry had already, early on, file – stamped some of these icy documents
06 February 1989, meaning that Herry went straightaway right
for my winterized jugular even before opening – day salvo! Nooooo matter to Dr. Herod Edinsmaier that several
different AFFIDAVITs OF WITNESSes on the behalves of both the Petitioner and
Respondent included a lovely one from fellow Quaker, Dr. Tad J. King, Associate
Professor and Coordinator of the Religious Studies Program at Iowa State
University stating how “Legion exercises wise discipline with her sons and has
always been in complete control of herself in dealing with them.” The last one I perused, “PETITIONER’S MOTION
FOR MENTAL EXAMINATION AND TEMPORARY CUSTODY OF THE CHILDREN” –– I find that
Herry had ordered all of it up –– in
one fell swoop. I had actually forgotten
this: that I had so fuckingly pissed off
Herry so very fucking much in my finally calling him to accountability for his
addiction illegalities and criminal abuses of both me and of the Truemaier Boys
that, right off, he went for grounds against me … of
craziness, unfitness, loony tunes, mental instability … all around about the
Ides of January 1989, even when we were still most married and, as a matter of
fact, on very nearly the exact same day as the “You go on out there, Cunt. You try to find a man who doesn’t lust after
other women every single day” sewage and violence that this husband of mine savagely
slopped and sloshed, like mutilating acid, all over my brain and my heart and
my blood and my bones.
“COMES NOW the Respondent, by and through her attorney, and
for Objection and Request for Protective Order regarding Request for Production
of Documents served by Petitioner on Respondent on April 07, 1989, states that
the respondent has in her possession certain diaries that she has kept that are
personal and even intimate in nature and that disclosure of said information
could be personally embarrassing to the Respondent and that such matters should
not be inquired into.” Notarized and
served to ‘The Court’ 03 May 1989.
Not quite so done with The Opera’s Overture, are we, after
all? This, Jury, this would be my “Mawwiage
Counselor” Larry Brouhaha – assignment, the Rolodex inventory of me, myself and
I of which, of course, Herry knew and saw for chris’sake and, of course, which
sure’s shit became Petitioner’s Exhibit #9
and submitted to ‘The Court’ right off the second day of Act
One, Part One … that is, of Trial One …
on 11 May 1989.
Funny though. Mr. Jazzy Jinx and I had asked through the Interrogatories and Production of Documents overturing procedure for that royal blue,
5” x 8½”, spiral – spined notebook of Herry’s from his first year of college at
his age then of 18 with the
So that on court – stamped,
legal paper I had to, again, defend myself with “the Respondent True has
searched, but does not have any journals or diaries kept by Petitioner
Edinsmaier.”
“Smooooth, Herry.
Smooth move. Not the Truth,
o’course, is it Herry? But soooo smooth. Denial.
Deny, deny, deny.
Even something so tangible as that, just deny its existence in your
possession.
Same as like your denying the existence of or ever having received
the pornographic book of poetry sent to you from the Australian woman, Ms. Li
Zhang, whom you were soooo “comforting” back at the Chicago Knickerbocker Hotel’s
medical meeting of March 1989 – at 3 in the goddamn morning! DaJudge never saw that palpable piece of
fucking ‘evidence’ either, did he? Where
d’ya’s’pose that little Blue Book of yours is by now, Herry? Where’ve ya’ managed to keep that journal
stowed all of these years so that you can still reminisce, er, I mean lust,
just every so now and then like you did when wed to me? Mind – fuck over all of those two –
dimensional names in the Stash and all of your mother – fucking dirt from back
then at
Right alongside some of your loathsome comedy: the three – types – of – New – Zealand – ducks’
– anuses joke which you remembered to tell the Truemaier Boys at that Fatlantic
café the very first time that they ever even met Ms. Fannie Issicran McLive,
the bicycles – are – better – than – women one and the old – woman’s – tight –
tits – and – twat – for – her – blind – old – man one. Those jokes, Herry, aren’t the ones you soooo
told, er testified, to Judge Sol
Wacotler Seizor as examples of the actual and true woman – hating nature of “our sense of humor” –– that … brought
you and Ms. Fannie McLive so bondingly close to Mirzah, to Jesse and to Zane,
now are they? ‘Member telling him from
the witness chair, sworn in you were, how wonderful your and your Next – Cunt –
in – the – Stash’s “sense of humor”
around the Boys was? I’m right, aren’t
I, Herry? The Truth now, Mister Doctor
Wonderful, the Truth now! There’s no judge around to even give a shit now,
Herry, as if daJudge, daMan, was ever going to care
about the Truth in the first, friggin’ place anyhow. You can stop denying it, can’tcha’, Dr.
Edinsmaier?! After fucking all, ‘the
case’ is closed!”
But, no. We’re just
getting warmed up. We’re just getting
started with The Opera.
* *
* *
Without Trial One transcripts
then at all, we are in reality, we are in Truth, left with throughout all of
Act One
Part One only what I affirmed
verbally and what Herry swore to, that is, the he – said / she – said dance
routine which we shall again so behold in future Acts, what some testifiers
said including the now – dead – and – ashes witness Ms. Margaret Sagely, what
was written down on the well – choreographed ‘official’ answers to Interrogatories, the putative acceptance
by each party, by the Petitioning Edinsmaier and by the Responding True, of the
Production of Documents and some by ‘The
Court’ in the form of allegedly material exhibits and the submission to ‘The
Court’ from the so – learned and so parentally experienced Ms. Carrie Canard
after that supposed “home study” of her custody evaluation report! In a nutshell then that, and only that, equaled the sum total of the Truemaier Boys’,
Herry’s and my lives to date. And, most
importantly, of Herry’s and mine as parents!
What literal … fuck!
The beginning questions requiring essay – sized answers on
either set of affirmed or sworn – to, completed Interrogatories, the respondent’s or the petitioner’s, meaning
those given back to the other from me or from Herry, are just like based – on –
a – true – story, made – for – TV movie contracts: pretty damn standard and routine. Interrogatories
such as “State your name, your current address, social security number, blah,
blah” and “State with regard to your current place of employment, both full and
part time, the following, yada, yada” and “List all sources of income that you
have had for the previous five years, plus estimated income for thus and so and
attach federal and state tax return forms from such and such” and “State with
regard to any property in which you have an interest of any kind the following”
followed by a whole big, big bunchy wad asking about “value” especially “cash
value” and “current market value” and “life insurance policies in force on your
life and all policies on another person’s life in which you have an ownership”
and “each and every retirement plan, blankity – blank – blank blank plan or
similar fund or account” including stock shares or “interest of any kind in any
firm, company, partnership or corporation” or “a safe deposit box at any time
since the filing of the Petition in this Dissolution of Marriage matter” or
“all assets of any kind whatsoever in which you have any interest whether or
not in your opinion it has any value which is not otherwise listed in these Interrogatories.” A whoooole passel of ‘em about … money,
money, money and, then, … more about … more money.
My personal favorite answer from Herry re “material assets”
was the one where he was ordered to “State what property or property rights you
had at the time of entering into this marriage by listing the property or
property right and its value at the time of the marriage.” It was such a guttural giggle or two to read
all right what, in Herry’s mind, had been worth something and “his right” to
it. A lot about socket sets and punches
and chisels and motorcycles and loudspeakers and an LL Bean sleeping bag, a
Moor and Mountain tent and
a Craftsman gas lantern plus a “rec pac”. Manly man stuff. Let’s varoom on out into the woods every day
and there do the essence required of daily living stuff?! … what AmTaham had
termed about the accountable adult American man was the work involved in …
“so much to just staying alive?!” O …
NOT! Not one Petitioner Herod
Edinsmaier–answer about that. About that
staying – alive stuff regarding a man’s
family!
And not word one in Herry’s answers on tangible assets
before marriage, or during and since we had gotten married, about animals or
pets, I noted, wherein I myself had marked these –– that is, Zephyr, the Boys’
gray striped tabby, Zane’s zebra finches and Jesse’s exquisitely imprinted
Eastern Florida kingsnake named Rex even though the regal serpent was female ––
as holding the “present value” of … “priceless”. Regarding all of these $ queries about
materialism and possessions over there on Othello Drive then, we were to have
ponied the hell up the answers about anything and everything thought to have
merit of any fucking dollar value!
These were then, of course, followed by the Interrogatories questioning the both of
us about our costs and expenditures, our debts or about our having a stake in
agencies or organizations which had bucks in them – also only regarding those
monetarily valued ones. Such as “With
regard to liabilities or debts of any kind that you have which are not
mentioned elsewhere in these Interrogatories,
state the following” and “State whether or not you have, at any time within the
last five years, furnished a financial statement of any kind to any bank, life
insurance company, financial institution or other person or organization” and
“List any reason or personal property possessed by you or in which you have any
interest, which you have sold, assigned, mortgaged, given, loaned or in any
matter transferred to another at any time after thirty days prior to filing
yada, yada.” Here in this area of
interrogatory type, my personal favorite turned out to be no. 19, “List your
actual personal expenses on a monthly basis at this time,” especially Herry’s
sworn answer of $60 to “children’s allowances” with just $67 then that he’d
stated was for an entire month of his “children’s expenses”, a mere $10 to
“home repairs” and, of course the funniest: the absolutely hilarious … $300 monthly
to “charities”! Ha! Ha! Ha! Ha!
What kind of payoff in 1989, is
there in it for the 17 – year – old, older brother – Joy Toy Boy daddee who
spends only $67 on his children’s needs
but then at the very same time simply tosses
down to the nine – year – old, the ten – year – old and the twelve – year – old
children just about that very amount to spend as they so choose on their wants for the month? Well, the bonus, the perk, that payoff is not
even subtle: Herry – Daddee continued to
purchase the Truemaier Boys’ affections –– even after the separation,
no change in his will regarding this
laissez – faire behavior of his here, for sure.
A soooo perpetuating sequel, wouldn’t you say, Jury, to Dr. Herod
Edinsmaier’s becoming the primary caretaking parent for my three minor
children, for this finally freed potty – brain from out of the
Finally only near the ends of both of these Discovery sets do we come to the
inquiries and answers regarding each other’s opinions about qualities or traits
necessary to be custodial parents of human offspring! To be the continuing primary
caretaking parent of the babies whom I alone grew and whom I alone
birthed. And was …, from their git – go,
trusted to so do! From a bumpersticker I recently read, “If you
can’t trust me with The Choice, then how can you trust me with The Child?”
But! But I had been trusted with both! … And times
three! Three perfect, perfect, perfect
platinum blonde, blue – eyed Aryan boy babies!
Bada bing, bada bang, bada boom!
Regarding The Choice, too, just wait, Jury, till you know the Good and Wonderful Dr. Herod
Edinsmaier’s C H O I C E for … Dr. Legion True’s, for
my
uterus’s very first fruitful fecundity … … Zane. Huge H I N T here, Jury: Think … A B O R T I O N.
Beginning with #20 out of a total of 24 interrogatories, we
read that a mere five or only about 20 percent of all of the queries pertain to,
well, … the characters of the adults, the Truemaier Boys’ mother and
father! Too, these five are not so
standard nor routine either. As a matter
of fact, they’re pretty personal. Or,
I should say … personalized.
Worded so that the questions fit me most
specifically. I The Mother, and
never the Petitioner, not the father, am decidedly
singled out to specifically be put on the defensive right off. Sexist!
* * *
*
About only mamas’, and never the papas’, being put onto the
defensive from the babes’ very, very, very
git - go, here’s a dastardly tidbit thread for you,
Jury. From 1989? Nooooo, no, no, no. From 01 April Y2003 it comes, and no mother –
fucking April Fool's joke is it either!
Inside this very 21st goddamn American century it is!
My girlfriend, Rachel, had to have an emergency cesarean
section due to Mama’s very high fever, her other pulmonary and gastrointestinal
symptoms –– and all of these along with a chronic hemoglobin level in the
friggin’ toilet at under for months and months and months despite ferrous
supplementation … at under
9 grams per deciliter! The major surgery occurred on 01 April 2003, with a recorded due date of
only ten days hence so, for the fetus’s growth, the soon – to – be human was in
fine shape development – wise. It was
for Mama’s life – saving sake that Baby Victoria Joy was so born out of Mama
Rachel’s belly.
So: Tall and tiny – framed
Rachel struggled with nausea, high fever, chills, coughing, sweating,
exhaustion, joint and muscle pain –– an unknown illness on top of an already
critical –– and chronic –– hemoglobin of under 9.0 at 8½ months’ gestation, not
to mention the laboring agony of the uterine contractions –– as she literally hunkered
down during hospital “admission”. The
questions came too fast for Rach to answer, “Previous history of high fever
post anesthesia? Family history of high
blood pressure? Allergies? Family doctor? Religious preference? People who live with you in your home?” Husband Matthew had to mostly answer, the
contractions were two minutes apart and one minute long, for chris’sake.
Rachel had no IV in place yet, … yet had also already been
told that her fetus would be a child in the World within the hour. Fast losing the ability to even care how that
was going to happen, Rach labored to state,
“I have a seven – year – old, a son.”
“Where is he now?”
“With his dad. He
lives in
The nurse tittered and twittered at Mama’s wisecrack, then
torpedoed Rachel with, “So. You, his
mother, … you don’t have custody of your own son?”
“Wha’?” No
reply. “What did you ask?” No answer back still. Rachel’s head turned ever so slightly. Matthew did not speak either. The question seemed, at the time, little more
than mother – fuckingly nosy.
Sure‘nuf, within that hour Rachel and Matthew were in the
World joined by Victoria Joy Babe.
Second time – around Mama was administered something to finally help
shed the residual pain and doze off a bit with Bambina Victoria –– quite
concertedly and noticeably not at all
placed inside Mama Rachel’s waiting and outstretched arms –– immediately
spirited away to the newborn intensive care nursery. Rachel managed to catch one glimpse of one
foot; it was very pink. And … that was that. As for the scientifically documented importance
of physically bonding –– ma with babe –– at birth? That
was that … as in: (Mother – ) Fuck that.
Nurse Titter Twitter Torpedo appeared again at Rachel’s
bedside, clipboard in hand – again – but
not seated; she was standing – and the nurse stayed standing. Hours and hours postpartum … yet still more
questions.
“We should review your allergies,” this ‘health – care
provider’ masqueraded. Yet still no bambina to mama. No
Victoria Joy into Mama Rachel’s arms.
Rachel yearned, “When can I touch
The incredulous reply came back at now–again–Mama Rachel, “When you can make it down the hall.”
Sensing herself frantic, not to mention furious, Rachel
queried, “What’s wrong with her?! What’s
wrong with my baby?! Where’s my
husband?!”
“They’re just watching her,” answered an equally watching
Nurse Ratchet as she warily surveilled my dear, dear friend Rachel lying there
in her post – so – mother – fuckingly – bad – labor – now – partum bed … but
with no babe in arms.
More questions. Still
no baby to Mama. Instead, “information” slopped
onto Mama’s eardrums and onto her beautiful brain behind them, “Sometimes after
a baby is born, mother gets the baby blues.
If you feel helpless or hopeless or like you just can’t go on for more than
two weeks, you need to see your doctor. ‘He’ can give you medicine to
help you feel better.” In her next
blinkless mouthing, Ambushing Torpedo Nurse exploded, “We know you don’t have custody of your son. What we don’t know is why you
don’t? Are you having any feelings, Rachel, like you need to hurt your new
baby?”
We? We noncustodial,
no – parental – rights – even mamas? We
get this fuckful sexist askance all of the goddamn, mother – fucking time. Years and years and years later. After daJudge’s custody ruling. From both genders obviously and everywhere we
are –– including right there not only in a ‘health care’ facility,
a goddamn religiosity – denominated / – dominated sponsoring
hospital but also just moments … within literalfucking moments … into a situation where Mama could have
succumbed –– Rachel could have mother – fucking died –– before or
after bearing his babies for him.
“ ‘TILL SHE FUCKING DIED OF IT,’
fuck ya’ very much, 500 – year – old Martin Luther!” I blast silently forth on Rachel’s, as well
as on my own, behalf! Having seen only a
few tiny pink toes peeking through the warmed receiver, a startlingly stunned
Rachel, 21st Century adult and mother multiple times over, sonorously
and incredulously intoned, “Whaaaat?! I
haven’t … met … her! ! !”
“We have a situation here,”
Pillar – of – the – Medical – Community’s – Nurturer Nurse wasn’t done.
She tortured further, “With the situation of your
son, … naturally … we are concerned about
Believing this friggin’ conversation a nightmare borne out
of Demerol, Rachel ordered the male – identified she – devil to leave her
immediately. And summoned the strength
to … to what? To what, Jury?! To stare at the fucking blank wall. Between her interior cranium and the plaster
beige screamed the following soliloquy
but of course only telepathically –– this venue being a hospital and all and
Rachel so had to be quiet and keep her voice down and, as a matter of very,
very real ages’ – old fact, just shut the fuck up,
Woman! …, doesn’t she? “I DIDN’T HURT MY
SON! HE WEIGHED IN AT 9 POUNDS 10 OUNCES
ON DECEMBER the 13th OF 1995.
I WAS 20. I WAS INSTANTLY,
IMMEDIATELY HIS! I STILL AM! I STAYED AT HOME WITH HIM UNTIL HE WAS 9
MONTHS OLD AND DIDN’T GO TO WORK UNTIL HIS DAD WALKED THROUGH THE DOOR ONE
TUESDAY ANNOUNCING THAT HE HAD QUIT HIS JOB.
THAT’S THE SAME MAN, MY BOY’S DADDEE, WHOM I FOUND IN BED
WITH TWO WOMEN ONE SUNDAY MORNING DURING CHURCH. WE WERE IN COUNSELING. WE WERE WORKING IT OUT. WE WERE IN LOVE, DAMMIT!
I LEFT. WHY DID I
‘LOSE’ MY SON? WHY? BECAUSE I MOTHER – FUCKINGLY PISSED HIS
FATHER OFF! I LEFT! I REFUSED TO YIELD TO HIS SENSE OF
ENTITLEMENT. I PISSED HIM OFF, AND HE
MOTHER – FUCKED ME BACK: HE TOOK MY CHILD !!!
AND I’D RATHER HE’DA TAKEN A LIMB.
BITCH.”
We such mothers? We
tell each other. Rachel resolved then
and there, she had to, to think on this matter … later. She would think on it –– justice sought –– later
and get in touch with others of us. No
one else wants to feel what they know about this. They know; they just will not, will not, will not … deal with it! Ever.
So. They don’t. And a day ago Rachel emailed me from her home
two hours easterly, “And now, writing this,
I see that I cannot even think about this now. I’m ill.
We two women in our late 20s.
Nurse Twitter Titter Torpedo Torture Terror and Tyranny, a mother of a
two – year – old son. Me? The mother of a seven
– year – old and with a newborn lying in a bassinet two
frickin’ miles down the hospital hall.
To ask me?
To assume? To
presume? How the mother – fucking hell
dare she?! How the hell dare she,
Legion?!”
* *
* *
So too, with the asking, with the questions, with the
incessant questioning of the mother, these
insinuating, insulting Interrogatories
of ‘the Court’, of its “law”, specifically going after only the mother’s fitness here in ‘my case’ of the spring of
1989. Completely put onto the discriminating
defensive the mama is.
Herry’s was the most humorous, two – word total answer of “good health” on an otherwise, nearly entirely blank, legal –
sized sheet to Interrogatory #20, “In
your opinion, what is the status of your physical and emotional health at this
time? If you have been under a
physician’s care or hospitalized for any reason during the preceding twelve
months, state when that occurred, the name and address of the physician, and
the purpose of the treatment.”
The actual answer being sought was mine to Terrorist bin
Herry – Daddee’s Interrogatory #22, “State your date of birth, and your
physical and emotional health on the date prior to your marriage, during your
marriage, and at the present time. List
with specificity all dates that you have been hospitalized pertaining to the
above – listed date, the dates of said hospitalization, the reason for said
hospitalization, and the resolution of said hospital stay. Make sure to include with your Answer all
treatment and / or hospitalization that resulted from any suicide attempts by you. Have you ever attempted suicide? If so, specify the dates of said attempt,
what method was utilized in the attempt, and the reason, if known, for the
attempt.”
The … “so very healthy” … Dr. Herod Edinsmaier through his
employed mouthpiece, Mr. Shindy Scheisser, by way of Interrogatory #22 was sooo seeking dirt. Mud. Smashing,
smear – worthy, ‘The Court’ – flinging dirt.
On me, Dr. Legion True, 20th Century adult and mother
multiple times over! But, too, … the Ex – Cunt. The “Gotcha’, Bitch!” genre of
muddy mother – fuck.
I stated that I was due
compensatory consideration as the primary parent and homemaker and, therefore, quite worth the “current
market value” as well as possessing a “replacement value,” according to the two
references given in my answer, of from between $21,500 and $46,000. That is to say, universities and other think
tanks had several times over, even by 1989, researched and published in a 1983 Good Housekeeping and a February 1984 Vogue, p 121, the worth of just the
labors and services of such an occupation — in the view that, if dead and / or
needing an alternate, a proxy, let alone the equivalent of me, the Ex - Cunt,
why this is how much money one — for example, the husband – daddee person — out
of his pocket then annually for the
chores’ ‘help’ with the mundane, daily work
of staying alive … of family – raising … would actually be required to shell
out!
But …
But at no time in any Act or Trial did any attorney or either judge
deal with this: with Dr. Legion True’s
worth — just monetary … alone — as a stay – at – home mother and
wife!
I was further so disappointed in Herry’s answers, too, I
have to say, although not in the least surprised by his … well, shall I add, reluctance to come anyfriggin’where
clean with it all! Among Dr. Herod
Edinsmaier’s personal belongings of worth we, Judge Seizor and I, just did not seem to get the legal opportunity either from sworn witness testimony nor from notarized
paper document evidence, to even know about the “replacement” or “current
market” values of the (plastic, fake) gem – encrusted, studded condom which
Herry would in the very, very near future flash to Mirzah nor of the “raging
hormones” birthday card that, with nine – year – old Mirzah also along again and
by his side on Herry’s shopping jaunt, daMan would in just two more months’
time role – model as ‘an appropriate greeting’ to send to the Next Cunt in Daddee’s
Stash, Ms. Fannie Issicran McLive.
Among the various papers required of me “TO BE PRODUCED” to
Herry via Mr. Shindy Scheisser were requests beginning right off with …
money. Not beginning right off with the
Boys but, instead and so – so like Dr. Herod Edinsmaier, with the $Bucks$: bank statements, savings and loan statements,
credit union statements “during the past ten years,” “copies of any and all
insurance policies on your life,” “copies of any Notes or any other written
evidence of indebtedness as well as copies of any security agreements relating
to any incurred indebtedness by you or your spouse at this time,” “copies of
any real estate mortgages upon which you, individually or you or your spouse,
jointly may be liable,” and then finally, of course the choicest and last one
so that, in sum, no documents handed over
to Herry were actually ever in fulfillment of his nonexistent requests for
ones about the Boys whatsoever at all, “all medical reports and records and
hospital reports and records concerning your physical or mental condition for
the [mother – fucking] last ten years, (emphases mine
naturally) including but not limited to, all reports regarding any counseling
you might have received.”
My such requests of this last genre to Herry? Well, no documents were forthcoming to me; he
just didn’t seem to have any –– along the lines and lyrics of that same ol’
song refrain of the Deny, Deny, Deny mantra about which no judge does squat
when the procedural “technicality” is coming forth to daMan from a pillared
community dude such as he himself, daJudge, is.
Not even a Step #4 Inventory was produced to me. Zero.
Zip. Zilch. No answers that related to Herry ever even having
been at Creighton University, let alone, to his frequent and blatant DEhumanization
activities there nor to any such counseling with Mr. Larry Brouhaha which would
have been, of course, those mere two words scribbled onto that one assignment
page I’d seen during the second of two marriage therapy hysterics nor to any
“mental condition” of Herry’s nor to what Attorney Jazzy Jinx and I both knew
existed on paper: The Wholly Telling and
Weighty Eight Pages ! ! ! About
such veridicality soooo, so much more, as the saying goes, … will be revealed! Suffice for it right now to explain
here? Those Eight Pages
never fuckingly appeared to us –– to Respondent’s Attorney Jinx nor to me –– both
of us seated at the Respondent’s … the pissant woman’s … the DEhuman’s … at
Legion True’s … courtroom table.
And the last interrogatory, #24, was indeed as comedic as the mother – fucking absence of Dr.
Edinsmaier’s documents’ production –– in that Herry simply left mine to him
blank! No answer at all –– let alone, an
honest one –– to “State the name,
address, telephone number and occupation of any person who is or may be
qualified as an expert who has been retained or specifically employed in
anticipation of litigation or preparation of trial and now is, as well, expected
to be called as a witness at trial.”
Empty it was so Mr. Jazzy Jinx had to resend it, of
course. And, of course, this resending takes
days and days for a response. Herry’s
answer only arrived when it was shoved across onto our table and into the grasp
of Mr. Jinx about two minutes after head nods all around at approximately 9 am
opening curtain of Wednesday, 10 May 1989, the first fusillade, a raspberry
blast from Herry’s pillared tongue itself.
Is this legal? Is this a
“technicality” that means something, has any meat to it, pulls any weight at
all? Can a litigant get away with
shitass unfair stalling tactics such as this because it is legal? Or, just … because he, daMan, can. And
because nobody –– nobody with the legal power and prowess to do something –– is
going to do anything the hell at all about it.
That finally filled – out sheet with answer #24 on it the
first morning of Trial One contained the names as potential witnesses of nine
persons. Seven of these were of folks allegedly
anticipated by Petitioner Edinsmaier to be called to testify specifically and
only as to my employability at veterinary institutions and practices and at hospitals
for humans or veterinary – related supply agencies in the local
Immediately again was Herry – Daddee bringing forth testifyingly
sworn proof of his parenting capabilities?
Or. …or was Dr. Herod Edinsmaier presenting as witnesses everyone every
which way who could possibly try to save the Good and Wonderful Pillar $a
dollar or two of his$ from its being expended
out … to me?!
Only one of the
other two people had to do with Herry’s personal character. It cannot be too difficult to guess, Jury,
what long –, long – time, closely associated (NOT!) colleague this
one would be. Yeah, …
Mr. Larry Brouhaha.
Mr. Brouhaha of the “Gaaawd, Man, do you hear what she is haranguing you
with?! Do you hear her?! Her reading you all of these?!” ‘closeness’
and ‘long association’ over those two visits Herry had actually made it to, that
is, to Brouhaha’s “mawwiage counseling” back the December before! From just five months’ time and a couple of
very short, short appointment sessions previously! That guy! That “expert”! That
“witness”! That witness to … exactly squat,
I say, Jury! What a (literally) mother – fucking industry!
Only one person
proposed as an upcoming witness to be called by Herry in Act One had anything
at all to do … with the children! Here, again,
it cannot be too difficult to guess what long –, long – time, closely
associated family friend or relative or teacher or principal or coach or
spiritual advisor or, voila, childcare
provider that one person would be. JYeah,
… the Dr. Edinsmaier – charmed, in – her – early 30s Ms. Carrie Canard of the I’m
– so – male – identified, mousy – frumpy circuit, who had had in her mere weeks
and weeks of custody – evaluating “experience” never a child nor nary a spouse
of her own. But – for sure! – who had
now become the “long –, long – time, O –
so – knowing” commadre of the Good and Wonderful Dr. Herod Edinsmaier by the
very virtue of their having known each other through a grand total of two to
three hours’ worth of his visits to her office in the state capital city’s
tertiary teaching hospital! That ditherer! That “expert”! That
“witness”! That witness to … exactly
squat, I say, Jury! What a (literally) mother – fucking industry!
* *
* *
A few moments of Part One Act One stand out. Only a few.
Mirzah, Jesse and Zane were asked by Judge Sol Wacotler Seizor to come
in near the end of the last day of 2½ total and to tell him one by one alone and separated from each other, what their thoughts each were on the
matter of their own individual custodies.
This occurred. Behind closed doors
somewhere. I have never known where they
were nor what any one of them said.
Either during the daytimes of Trial One when Judge Seizor never revealed
to me what my own children said to him nor was that which had been any of their
separate statements made known to me in the final divorce decree’s “Findings of Fact” –– as alleged
testimonial “evidence” after Trial One’s conclusion. I have
no idea to this day of the words of the three Truemaier Boys nor of their
weight with … “the Court,” with daMan. And,
as importantly, I have no idea either –– if Herry and Mr. Scheisser did know what the statements taken from
Jesse and from Zane and from Mirzah had been and what, if anything, had gone
down with the Boys and with their custody –– because of them. They may have. Herry – Daddee and his shyster employee Mr.
Shindy Scheisser, indeed, soooo may have known!
This is huge with me.
Not in the sense that I don’t know what my Boys said. That isn’t it at all.
What matters to me is in the unmistakable fact that I,
indeed, cannot trust that Herry and his lawyer did not know
either. I cannot trust
that they did not know either. Closed
doors. Things are winding down. Where is everybody? Mr. Jinx is with me but where’s Mr.
Scheisser? Hearkening back to what Mr.
Jazzy Jinx had emphatically counseled me regarding fathers in his 20 years of
practicing family law, … on their not
really wanting their children but so desiring to make it appear like they
truly, truly did, ya’ know? I
cannot trust that something did or did not take place with Herry
and Mr. Shindy Scheisser and daJudge –– based upon the Truemaier Boys’
testimonies which have clearly been kept quite hidden from me –– at right about
the very last hour of Act One.
Lesser matters involved, of course, those surrounding the
evidentiary testimonies which were the two of
Ms. Canard and Mr. Brouhaha.
Herry’s proposed experts on my veterinary or nursing expertise and,
thus, my near – future employability
hardly materialized, one or two, certainly not seven. So Jinx’s and my pretrial receipt of that
piece of paper with on it all of those several such names of “expert witnesses”
had merely been a bullying and threatening gesture, not even an actual, upcoming
reality, “Don’tcha’ dare be coming after my money, Pussy, or I’ll, I’ll …
whatevah!” Like the Good and Wonderful
Dr. Edinsmaier’s clenched fist poised which hasn’t yet pummeled its imperiled
eye socket target –– but, for sure, ominously looming there though just inches
above my face. Like Loving Herry –
Daddee sneers, “Gotcha, Bitch!” as he hammers and brutalizes Down – on – My – Mother
– Begging – Knees Legion with the Squaw Creekside killings of my sons, one by
one. Like how it is that young Herry
Edinsmaier writes in his Creighton journal –– a document purposefully withheld
from and also not “produced” to ‘the Court’ –– that he “enjoys,” “likes,” “feels good about,” “gets
pleasure out of roughing up and injuring” us Not Males, us DEhumans!
In like manner to Herry’s gait out the
Mr. Brouhaha swaggered, too, right on up to the witness
chair and bellowed on from it there about my spouting forth a whale of a lot of
hot spit and the uselessness of Mr. Brouhaha’s laying out any more of his soooo
valuable time on such a doomed couple as was the True – Edinsmaier pair. One of Herry’s other professional –
employment witnesses, a former medical colleague of his, bourgeoisified the
swagger – strut thingy, too. His even
included the whole body, his ‘bounteous’ countenance spilling itself out all
over the railing of the witness box. Dr.
Freddie Goldstein laid his authoritative – posturing and likewise pillared self
forward sprawling his fat hulk across the wooden banister siding during his entire
glorified bloviation on the passive parenting methodology of noninvolvement ––
read that, laissez faire “older brother” – like, Joy – Toy – Boy laziness
–– about which Dr. Goldstein, from his two loooong (NOT!) years’ worth
of knowing Herry right after Hershey P A’s supervising Dr. Shark had indeed
fired Herry’s ass, blatheringly testified resided either deeply or shallowly
somewhere within this pathological liar of Dr. Goldstein’s pathology resident
acquaintances, Dr. Herod Edinsmaier.
Naturally the final scene of Act One cannot be played out
without its being the relational one in which the folie à deux of Herry with
Ms. Canard stars. Donned in that same
orderly navy frock with its proper white polka dot spots, Ms. Canard ascended
to the witness chair by way of her unadorned navy pumps and was barely audible
through her formal swearing in. At no
time did she make eye contact with me.
After all, I had had a preview copy of The Report –– with its billable hours, of course. She proceeded to elaborate on said Report at the behest of Herry the
Petitioner by way of and through another of the Good and Wonderful Doctor’s currently
operating folies à deux –– the one between him and his fouling mouthpiece, Mr. Shindy
Scheisser.
Since there are no transcripts for Act One and only The Report, I have decided here to
present it in its hexed entirety with all
of its formatting, spelling and grammatical inconsistencies and errors –– to
the operatic tune of your choice –– after I first sing out to You the Audience,
$1,041.25 worth of my comments from its margins. JYeah, that’s the dollar amount billed all
right for something in family law in March of 1989, anyway that was known then as
a … “custody evaluation.” Equals $85.00
an hour for 12¼ hours charged.
The aria goes like so, “Mr. Jinx, I was right all along
regarding Herry’s parenting and passivity.
I’ve been up front with my
emotionality ALWAYS; completely honest – so what else is new? ‘bout
this report anyhow? It’s most of what I
already knew or avowed. Now why did
Custody – Evaluating Canard go with the push – over, ‘whatever’, lackadaisical,
pornography – purveying parent?! the abuser – parent?! the criminal
one?!
So what do I have to do to make me the ‘considered’
recommendation? Results – wise she ruled
completely on one aspect of the emotional needs entirely discounting
social, physical and spiritual needs as well as Herry’s negative emotional,
sexual problems and my good emotional provisions. She states these interviews obtained
‘information’. How does she know it’s
the Truth?! Multiple times she makes
assertions using so – called ‘information’ she has no certainty is so!”
Then as well there are my choruses
from the Report’s margins of, “I
didn’t say this! Not so! I didn’t tell her this! I didn’t tell her that! And … and I explained why but she didn’t
include my explanations here! This is
not just due to me alone either! Where
are the specifics of these nine issues I addressed with her, ie, the care and
cleanliness and maintenance, proper and regular meals and by whom prepared,
proper and suitable childcare personnel, educational progress, need for medical
and dental or mental treatment, the Boys’ spiritual needs, supervision and
control, leisure time uses, uses made of any temporary support payments!!!??? Phil Donahue’s segment on how the divorce is
good for the adults but bad for the kids.
Why wouldn’t she call the past five “traumatic and emotionally
distressing” months a normal reaction!?
Who the hell wouldn’t call that a normal reaction to them?! After all, it was Margaret Sagely who
righteously recounted to me, ‘If you were not hysterical, then … then Legion, … is when I would be
worried about you!’ Herry’s meal
planning “casual”?! Hell, it’s Burger
King and McDonald’s and Hardee’s and pizza joints for chris’sake! Did Dr. Edinsmaier express several concerns
here? No, he did not. ‘Cause he knows I take great care of
them! He doesn’t need to be concerned because he knows … I
will be! Define this, this
‘high degree of structure’ or ‘behavior modification program: I do not spank or hit but she didn’t write
that! Talk, talk, talk, then talk some
more and then that’s that: nothing
changes with Herry’s lazy, no – confrontation – at – all – costs approach to the
Truemaier Boys’ ‘discipline’ – or, more accurately, its complete and total absence
thereof by their father!
She and I did not get to all of this. Ms. Canard took very few notes, and I saw no
recording device so just how does she remember much of this at all?! Wha’!??? I was done ‘training’; in
Last page’s not – so – musical notes from the margin! Even a couple to myself, “Legion,
beware. If he says he will go to counseling or parenting classes, he’ll say and
even go but then not follow through with actually living differently
with the Boys or continue with consistency.
Why? Because I was the ‘bad’ guy
– the one who, before, always disciplined the Boys, not him, never him. I’ve attended to all of the mundane, ordinary
situations so he’s had no ‘difficulties’
to deal with! VAGUE, VAGUE, VAGUE
here! There were more she didn’t take
the time to hear! So his are NOT IN
CONTROL IN FRONT of the Boys either, eg, 01 April 1989!” One last note about the violent aggression
from Herry’s passivity, “If becoming AWARE is completely and vigorously DENIED
as even being necessary, then how the hell will he take any ACTION? Let alone, REALLY change. He’s PASSIVE, remember??? Legion, Legion, in the face of CONFLICT, just
stay honest and be consistent!”
My final note is the favorite, “Where
the hell is word one about the specifics and details of i) ‘the
children were asked to discuss things that they like and things that they don’t
like about their current family situation’ and ii) ‘each
child’s desired outcome of the court proceedings’?” Mother – fuckingly classic,
I fear. I
do. For other mothers and children who
have gone through this ‘routine’, or will, I soooo fear.
Ms. Canard’s Report
was dated 28 March 1989, marked as “Re:
Zane, Jesse and Mirzah Truemaier,” addressed to the Storm County Court’s
“Presiding Judge” and signed off on as “Please do not hesitate to contact me if
you have questions or need additional information. Sincerely, Carrie Canard, Ph.D.,
Psychologist.” Not including the cutesy
billing segment the five – page, single – lined Report was divided into four more, the last and conclusions’ segment
the most watched, of course: Procedure, Background Information,
Current Assessment and Summary and Recommendations.
It is clear how I believe that The Opera’s starring tenor’s
solo appearances –– Herry’s in his folie à deux with Ms. Cherry Evaluator –– beguiled its end.
To begin, “The purpose of this
evaluation was to determine which parent could provide primary living
arrangements that best meet the children’s emotional, social and physical
needs. This was done according to
standard procedures using interviews, observations, and psychological test
data. The parties were cooperative in
this evaluation. In my opinion, the
results reported here represent a valid assessment of these individuals.
The interviews were conducted in order to obtain information
about the nature of the relationships among the adults, their feelings about
the current custody / visitation arrangement, and each person’s desired outcome
of the court proceedings. The interviews
asked each parent to talk about the children and about the relationships among
the children and the adults. The
interviews also asked about activities and plans for the children. Interviews of the children focused on each
child’s desired outcome of the court proceedings. The children were asked to discuss things
that they like and things that they don’t like about their current family
situation.
The purpose of the observations was to assess one important
aspect of the relationship between the children and their caregivers, their
play. Though brief, these observations
provided important information about how these individuals relate to each other
in an unstructured situation that is at the child’s level.
The paper and pencil assessment measure served to round up
personality profiles of the adults.
The MMPI is a widely used inventory that gives information
about several aspects of personality.”
The second section on background read, “Legion True and
Herod Edinsmaier met in 1974 when
they were pursing advanced
degrees at
This couple separated in June 1988, at the request of Dr.
True. She felt that a separation was
necessary in order to preserve the marriage, which was highly conflictual and
stressful. According to both parties,
their relationship was conflictual throughout their marriage. Among the stressors cited by each party were
intense competition, alcoholism and codependency issues, and a tendency to
place the children in the middle of their conflicts with each other.
Dr. Edinsmaier filed for divorce in October, 1988. Dr. True has experienced the past five months
as extremely traumatic and emotionally distressing. She has expended a great deal of energy in
her effort to understand the problems encountered in her marriage and the
forces that led to its dissolution. She
expresses anger and confusion, as well as regret, that the couple’s attempt at
marital counseling was not fruitful. Dr. Edinsmaier, on the other hand, seems
to feel that the divorce is potentially beneficial for the adults as well as
the children. All parties agree,
however, that the conflict and hostility so openly expressed during their
marriage have not subsided since the separation.”
That’s it. That was
it for background. Ms. Cherry moved
right into assessing!
“This section will address the topics outlined in ‘Child
Report, Exhibit A;’, that was attached to the court order. Dr. True expressed several concerns about
these issues, which include basic care of the children when visiting their
father. For example, she noted that the
yard near Dr. Edinsmaier’s apartment is contaminated with dog feces, and she
feels that this poses a health hazard to the children. Dr. True also expressed concern about Dr.
Edinsmaier’s tendency to leave his apartment door unlocked from time to time
because she feels that this creates an unsafe environment for the
children. In addition, Dr. True is
concerned about the boys’ eating habits when in the care of their father. She worries that they may not get balanced
meals there.
Dr. Edinsmaier acknowledges that his meal planning and
preparation are more ‘casual’ then that of his exwife, with less attention to
nutritional requirements then Dr. True pays.
[Canard’s two uses of ‘then’ …]
In the category of childcare arrangements, Dr. True is
concerned about Dr. Edinsmaier’s choice of sitters for the boys because she
feels that ‘13 to 25 year olds’ have no idea of nurturing skills.’ She acknowledges that poor choices of daycare
providers in the past were made by both parents. But she feels that she has learned from those
mistakes, and she doubts that her exhusband has.
Both parents expressed concern about Zane’s progress in
school and recent increase in behavior problems. And their styles of intervention are markedly
different. Dr. True places great value
on a high degree of structure in setting and enforcing limits for the
children. She favors a behavior
modification program
for reinforcing desirable behaviors and decreasing
undesirable ones. Dr. Edinsmaier, on the
other hand, describes his style as one that values ‘affection and security’
over discipline, especially physical forms of punishment. He is more likely to let misbehaviors go
unpunished or to respond by talking to the boys about the problem. He acknowledges that he would like the boys,
especially Zane, to behave more responsibly but does not seem to have given
much thought to how to facilitate this.
Neither parent expresses any concern about the children’s
health, religious training, leisure time, or the use of child support payments.
Moving beyond the scope of the topics covered above, each
parent demonstrated strengths in his / her relationships with the
children. Dr. Edinsmaier is highly
sensitive to the issue of parent – child boundaries and seems to make an effort
to keep the boys in the role of children and to exclude them as much as possible
from parental conflict and stress. Dr.
True is most interested in attending to the task of providing structure and
consistent limits, even when this makes her unpopular with the children. In the process, she focuses on the daily
details of the children’s lives, including whether or not they’ve completed
homework, drunk enough milk, etc. both
parents appear to be genuinely interested in their boys as uniques [hers]
individuals worthy of respect. Both have
demonstrated a readiness to alter their routines in order to meet their
children’s needs.
The interviews and test results of Dr. Edinsmaier yield a
picture of a fairly passive individual who does not experience much emotional
distress at the present time. He tends
to be rather indulgent of himself and his children and lacks insight about how
this affects others. Dr. Edinsmaier
appears to be a very self – confident and socially adept man. He is rather defensive about any deficiencies
that he has. Such personality
characteristics can create problems for him as a parent when his sons perceive
him as a person who is permissive and easy to manipulate, as they clearly
do. He may identify with their
misbehaviors, especially their conficts [her spelling, er, misspelling, too]
with authority figures, and fail to adequately intervene to correct them.
Dr. True is a very emotionally reactive person who has
intense needs for affection and attention.
She often expresses her dependency needs in ways that alienate others,
for example, by voicing intense hostility and anger toward other people. When her affections and need for attention
are not met, she may experience chronic feelings of resentment and
bitterness. Yet her strong defenses,
such as rationalization and intellectualization, prevent her from seeing her
own role in the relationship difficulties.
As a result, she projects the blame for the problems onto the other
person.
Dr. True has made a serious effort to understand what has
transpired in her marriage, and her quest for personal growth and insight may
yield benefits for herself and for her relationship with her children. She appears to be a person who is quite open
to suggestions and willing to seek help for solving her problems. Nevertheless, it is of grave concern to this
examiner that Dr. True’s emotional reactivity and unhealthy coping strategies
are jeopardizing her relationship with her children.
For example, the most consistent finding from the interviews
with the boys was their intense dislike of their mother’s hostile remarks about
their father and her attempts to obtain information from them about their
contacts with him. They perceive their
mother as a very angry person who takes her anger out on them by demeaning
their father, his acquaintences [hers, again] and friends, and men in
general. They feel that their mother is
frequently difficult to talk to because of her persistent efforts to gain
information and her negative remarks. It
is important to note that each child seems to have difficulty distinguishing
their mother’s anger at their father from anger at them. They feel her verbal attacks and name calling
of their father as personal affronts, and this perception has already damaged
their relationship with her. Dr. True
seems to be aware of this and feels that she and her children may have an
‘estranged’ relationship. Unfortunately,
even Dr. True’s assets as a parent, her ability to structure the boys’ routines
and her attention to their physical needs, are carried too far when she demands
to know about the details of their lives when they are with their father.
Another consistent finding from the interviews with Mirzah,
Zane and Jesse was their understanding
that they can get away with more misbehavior when with their
father than with their mother. It seems
that
Dr. Edinsmaier’s strong desire to be liked by his sons and
to avoid conflict with them is interfering with their perception of him as an
effective parent. While this may not
have presented major difficulties in his relationships with the boys yet, it is
only a matter of time before they lose more respect for him and he ceases to be
a role model for them. Dr. Edinsmaier’s
lack of insight regarding this issue may prevent him from making changes in his
parenting style necessary to promote healthier parent – child relationships. However, his participation in Alcoholics
Anonymous suggests that he is capable of seeking appropriate help once he
recognizes a problem.”
So, with Ms. Canard’s educated and experienced reckoning and
so seasoned judging skills that “they can get away with more misbehavior when
with their father than with their mother” and “Dr. Edinsmaier’s strong desire
to be liked by his sons and to avoid conflict with them is interfering with their perception of him as an effective parent”
and that “while this may not have presented major difficulties in his
relationships with the boys yet, it is
only a matter of time before they lose more respect for him and he ceases to be a role model for them”
and “Dr. Edinsmaier’s lack of insight regarding this issue may prevent him from making changes in his parenting style necessary to
promote healthier parent – child relationships,” charmed little Miss Cherry
proceeds immediately to up and forget about her mother – fucking studies! In quite subservient deference by her, the
soooo, so male – identified female, to daMan’s, of course, ancient rite of
favor and right to ownership of … absolutely everything.
Her violently vexatious and stupid ending then, “As
described above, this evaluation found Dr. True
and Edinsmaier to have a number of unique strengths as
parents and some serious deficiencies, as well.
If [Canard’s gaffe … again!]
is the opinion of this examiner that the specific concerns expressed by Dr.
True about her exhusband’s residence, his supervision of the boys’ diets, and
other concerns are examples of an overall disapproval of his current lifestyle
and do not constitute major lapses in parenting. Of far greater concern are the potential
negative effects on the children of Dr. Edinsmaier’s lack of consistently set
and enforced limits and Dr. True’s hostile expressions about their father. Weighing these relative strengths and
weaknesses is most difficult. However,
at this time, the greatest threat to the boys’ emotional well being is the
almost constant exposure to their mother’s intense neediness, demandingness, [not my word!] and negativity. It is likely that, in her emotional
dependency on them, Dr. True has inadvertently pressured the boys and alienated
them to some extent as well.
It is the opinion of this examiner that it is in the
immediate best interest of these children to be placed in the physical custody
of their father. While joint custody is
desirable, it is highly unlikely that these two adults will be able to
effectively coparent their sons without considerable effort by both parties to
reduce the destructive competition in their relationship as parents and to keep
their feelings about each other under control.
Should Dr. True make improvements in her ability to do this, then her
parenting ability would deserve further consideration. Likewise, should Dr. Edinsmaier be unable to
improve the structure and consistency in his parenting, then this
recommendation might be reconsidered.
In order for each parent to meet the long term emotional needs
of these children, much work remains to be done in terms of counseling and
parenting skills enhancement. It is
hoped that this evaluation will serve to help these individuals identify
problem areas and to work on their resolution.”
The End.
The end? O no. Miss Cherry, with her arrested, middle school
– aged underdevelopment, did not fade away.
O no.
Juggern’s Seventh Donated Sperm – Herry – wasn’t done warbling out his
wiles onto her so male – identified persona just yet. It is the long –, long – studied and not – so
– stupid – anyfuckingmore opinion of Dr. True’s here that Dr. Edinsmaier was, …
that Herry is, … the needy, self – centered, narcissistic,
passively very aggressive and utterly undisciplined, entitled thug, a teenaged
actor with the very same arrested adolescent, attention – hogging non –
development who was about to waaah, waaah, waaah whine his way into workin’ it,
workin’ it, workin’ it … again … any
which way possible. Just so long as in
the end ––
it all came out … his
way.
The old – style, standard white desk phone which still functions
quite well enough for me to this very day rang on
hand the divorce and custody decree signed by Judge Sol
Wacotler Seizor and file – stamped the day before, 24 May 1989.
No big hoo – hah: I
was a single woman. Biiiig, big hoo – hah:
it further stated that I was the primary caretaker and physical
custodian of Mirzah, Jesse and Zane!
Jinx’s call with consequential news came in to me on a
Thursday! Just like … any
… Thanksgiving Day is!
School all the way down on the farthermost, other side of
town at the Truemaier Boys’ Kate Mitchell Elementary was still in session for just
another ten days, and then we’d all be moving away. Moving away from the Good and Wonderful
Doctor’s bachelor pad and residing, instead, right down in the belovéd school’s
‘hood. Right down in it, as a matter of
fact, on Havencourt Drive only a half a walking block’s distance from the
schoolyard inside a little, three – bedroom condominium there of an amorphous
character with no window above the kitchen sink, in fact, no vista looking from
the kitchen to the outside … at all.
Blasted and blighted and so, so cold and now newly sold
Including in – laws. No
more would I have to assemble any DEhumanizing trips to the
Fatlantic area to attend there the gargantuan ego of the paternal, er,
patriarchal Juggern Aut Misein Edinsmaier who hadn’t even had someone drive him
the 1¾ hours’ road trip time to come to the trial, indeed, though he could have
more than managed motoring up to the Nevada, Iowa courthouse all by himself
alone. Shit, of Herry’s ten other
siblings alive and kicking as well? Not a
one of them all … testified! Most certainly
not the Ohioan renowned as a pediatric
cancers’ researcher and Herry’s so parentally appearing sister –– quite the
mandatory reporter of abuse and criminal activity such as the supplying of pornography to children … be she, Dr. Mi
Sprision O’Revinnoco! Their all … not coming … must have been a major stratagem
of Mr. Shindy Scheisser’s contrived blueprint for securing as inevitable
Herry’s tenor – ous role in the whole of The Opera as the fun – loving
nondad. Keep all of the brothers and
sisters away or Daddee just might end up with physical custody after all! And, of course, of all of the things in the
courtroom most muffled and muted, Detanimod unquestionably qualified, too. Those bones of Herry’s mother long lay silent
in a hillside graveyard parallel to Interstate – 80; and, for sure, this True mama,
one who still did have a breathing spirit
left inside her lungs, me – Legion – did not need to go there anymore now
either!
Those days of AmTaham’s testimony on how it seemed that I
might have been a little “preoccupied” were over. Mr. Jazzy Jinx had graciously declined
Mehitable’s screed – type offer to him to give ‘the Court’ “evidence”. “Hers,”
he had forewarned me – behind a closed office door – before trial started,
“would be poison.” He soooo did not
trust her, “… nor should you,” Jinx repeatedly betokened me, toxic Mehitable’s
own daughter, her own baby chil’. She who should have for me, the
Truemaier Boys’ mama, … she who should have, right off the bat and
always, gone to The Mat and to The Very Ends of the Earth for me,
her own baby child.
The decree’s formalized 19 pages arrived in the United
States mail the next day declaring that I, “Leigon,” was, despite its blatant
misspelling technicality, “restored to the rights of an unmarried person” and
had only a couple of years of alimony coming to me equaling, when ended, $12,000,
a far, far cry from either $21,500 or $46,000
per annum. As a matter of fact, Judge Seizor wrote on
its page two already, “She is currently unemployed by choice.” To daMan, too, an intelligent woman of
bluestocking blood choosing to be and
then actually being a full – time, at
– home mama meant squat for worth ––
and certainly had little, if any at all, “current market dollar value.”
Judge Seizor further stated, “In spite of the fact that at
times Legion’s work or studies have been demanding and her hours were long, she
has been the primary parent for the children.”
How, Judge, do you suppose this same sentence sounds flipped
and reversed,
“In spite of the fact that at times Herry’s work or studies have been demanding
and his hours were long, he has been the primary parent for the children?” “In spite of?” So clearly, even ‘clearly … legally’, females
are doing something out of the societal … read that, patriarchal … norm by
working and by studying; but if they choose to do those things, then thank gaaawd,
she remembers where her first priority must –– still –– be placed? Indeed
though, that = her mothering of three
children inside the home all day in
Or what? If she
didn’t remember to and she had flip – reverse acted instead
as Daddee Herry so far had, like a 16 – year – old cheerleading sissboombah,
boy – chasing, boozing vamp – scamp older sister to Mirzah, to Jesse and to Zane,
then what would have happened to her in the legal system’s view as far as her mothering her own baby children
daily? Well, since I would have lost
custody flat out –– even with no such evaluation Report asserting this comportment and conduct –– since I would have
lost just because of my choosing that behavior, then that same society? It would, wouldn’t it, accept me back into it
from the courtroom with the same, open, sympathetic arms that
Or what? Would
Americans –– about a noncustodial mama –– would Americans as well as the
greater international society respond as if Legion were bad, evil? Wrong?
Unstable and unfit? A crazy? A whore?
A crazy whore? Fucked up –
instead of … fucked over? Instead of
… mother
– fucked?
The funniest portion of the 24 May 1989 file – stamped
“Findings of Fact, Conclusions of Law and Decree” by far was Judge Seizor’s
idiotic statement on page six, “It is obvious he talks to his counselor (Gary)
to get his counselor’s assessment of his current problems more than alcoholism
problems.” This person would have been
the “alcoholics anonymous sponsor,” Gary Wussamai, the dry drunk with himself a
bazillion busted – up mawwiages under his belt by the age of 50, and not a one of them in which he had ever
been a father or a stepfather or even just a halfafather. His “counselor’s assessment” to Herry of exactly
squat would have been more appropriate than Gary Wussamai’s opinion
about anything pertaining … to staying well – married, to being an enduring and
real father or to sustaining and uplifting a family, for chris’sake! Whom one wishes to emulate or finds of
“worth” is with whom, for hours and hours and hours a week, one hangs out, not
so, Judge?! Well, the “assessment” of
what was “obvious” was that Herry was not
at home hanging with us four, the spouse and her kiddos! “Is this what you really meant, Judge Seizor,
and the real reason behind why it is that I was given primary care?” I am left
thinking.
Judge Sol Wacotler Seizor had to write a few nice things
about me before decreeing that I should receive the “award”. The “award” of … in his ‘joint’ custodial order … the Boys’ primary physical care. The “award” of my ‘staying on’ as their … actual … caretaker! His would not have fit with the correct
interpretation of the law, it wouldn’t have been legal and would have left easy
grounds for Herry to appeal – had daJudge not done so. Not after Ms. Carrie Canard’s “Report”.
But then daMan Sol Wacotler Seizor up and androcentrically
negated all with which he had just praised me, “She finds that others do not
have the intellectual capacities or standards which she sets for herself. There is little doubt that she has
accomplished what she has because of her high personal standards. There are a lot of good people out in the
world who will never be able to achieve or measure up to the standards that she
sets for herself,” by the following stupification and prostitution of me, my
being, my essence and those of hard – working, brilliant and accountable
mothers everywhere, “Somehow she needs to find a happier middle ground in
regard to interpersonal relationships than she has had in the past.”
O! According to
daJudgeMan, I needed to be lesser … in order to be greater.
I had to be lesser … in order to be happier.
What a(nother) literal … mother – fucking. Misogynistically … woman – loathingly typical.
“Be lesser than, get down.
Get down, Woman. For sure: be less than he is. He, daMan.
He daMan, who, pillared and male, looks just like me, daJudgeMan!”
Not that others –– meaning Herry –– had to improve, had to
come up in his capacities or accomplishments or standards! Not even in those as a person, let alone, those
as a parent, no. I, the woman and the mother, had to compromise: I had to be the one dishonest, even to lie,
about folks’ behaviors and intentions and endeavors. If I saw or knew something to be wrong, I was
the parent called by daJudgeMan just now to deny the realities of peoples’ actions. And, most especially, I was fucking court –
ordered to overlook those –– overlook those which are the crimes of ––
my Boys’ daddee! No matter how
endangering! I had to DEhuman myself,
else face a future of unhappiness. I had to stupify myself I had
to prostitute myself. And the
judge’s comment to me was none other than that same whoring one of Edward
Lewis’s to the character of Vivian Ward of many men’s fantasia film, Pretty
Woman, after which Julia Roberts whispers to her vapid self, “You just did.”
“Well,” I am left thinking, “Fuuuuck … that.”
The Truemaier Boys were to be supported monthly at a
configuration of the usual formulation rate set down into codified tables in
such matters by the State of
The divorce and custody decree papers, slipped back into
their buff – colored manila envelope, were placed among the litigious others inside
the several boxes, the ones so far accumulated.
Almost all divorced mamas I know require reading ‘the Court’s’, ah … daJudge’s,
daMan’s decisioning details only one time.
Only once.
Now I needed to think about how the hell I was going to pay
off the $7,000 Mr. Jazzy Jinx seemed to feel that I alone still owed him, to get
in to Herry’s empty Othello pad the two – woman cleaning crew, to close out on
its sale deal and to move the Boys and me down to 6143 Havencourt Drive right
after their school year at Kate Mitchell Elementary next to it concluded. We had a bit to do!
Having no idea nor even an inkling of what Herry – Daddee thought
about the custody part of the dissolution order other than wagering that the
Good and Wonderful Dr. Herod Edinsmaier was most relieved, I for myself ended
Act One Part One. Off that very same
hour out of Jinx’s ringing me up with the news came the gold band from the left
fourth finger and, instead, –– and to
this hour –– enwreathes that digit a blue topaz birthstone in a faceted emerald
cut with four surrounding diamonds symbolizing my new family of Mirzah, Jesse, Zane
and me –– all in a simple silver setting.
* *
* *
AmTaham wanted to help us all move so up from
It was nearly July 1st of 1989. I rinsed out the paintbrushes whilst AmTaham
True gifted his little girl child, the one with whom he every year shared his
Winter Solstice birthday with that apology –– for the child abuse that is
religious inculcation –– which would change my 41½ – year – old
life at that point to nearly the same magnitude and dimension as would the end
of The Opera’s Act Two Part Three.
Meanwhile back in Fatlantic and speculatively shoed in shabby sneakers which
I’d bet to be no different than the gym treads he chose to wear in order to
dance with me at Fatlantic High’s long – ago, now – remote 10th one,
Dr. Herod Edinsmaier attended his most recently thrown high school class
reunion. Hhmmm, it’d’ve been by then about
Herry’s Class of 1964’s 25th one.
Or somewhere thereabouts.
During one of those nights of lovemaking, … er, of Herry’s
pornographic “pussy poking,” and not yet two years into our dozen and a half during
mawwiage to which Herry nearly always flatly referred … as “screwing” or “takin’
me some strange” and once in awhile as nothing more than merely “messin’ around,”
… a woman then described to me by My Loving Husband Herod Edinsmaier as “a very
fat girl who used to talk to me at the lockers between classes at school” made
sure she showed up, too, at this particular class reunion. Her dad was old and weakened it seemed, but
her mother still got around the town of Fatlantic enough to have found out
about Dr. Edinsmaier’s recent little unlashing from his 12½ – year legalized
liaison to me. I’m only surmising here,
but it was information probably well turned around and around and around the
social hall and curtained confessionals of saints john and jude roman catholic
church whereat the now 79 – year – old
widower Juggern Edinsmaier and Ms. McLive the Elder both still attempted to
most regularly genuflect. As a matter of
blatant fact, one of the chief reasons that Detanimod Edinsmaier, dead for
years by then, could never have come to this
prayer meeting for help for her family and for her livestock suffering from sister
– brother or daughter – father incest and cows’, dogs’, pigs’ and chickens’
bestiality back in the late 1950s had had to do with Perpetrator Juggern Aut
Misein Edinsmaier’s patriarchal standing in the local community as such the
churchy layman then, and he was still
one of the county’s most elevated vicars ... five adult daughters and (some –
of – those – boffing) six sons later.
At any rate, with painted talons poised and before any one
of the three Truemaier Boys was able to blink twice, why lickety split, there
appeared on their terrain when they were tarrying with Herry the Daddee, their
17 – Year – Old Bro and Joy Toy Boy, on those mandated weekend visitations of
his … the Next Cunt in His Stash, another fungible commodity by the name of
Fannie Issicran McLive. Twenty – six
years of pining away for her lost – love illusion from beside those Fatlantic
High School lockers and some 310 poundage later, why, Ms. McLive the Younger had
secured for herself one of those how – so – friggin’ – easy – is – it – to –
lose – all – of – my – blubber’s stomach – stapling operations, dropped some 67
and one – half of those neck – to – knees kilos, stashed her own two adoptees
somewhere else and arrived at Fatlantic’s ‘64 Reunion,
her sights and tipped fingers aligned with and aimed right
at soooo – available Herry’s inside wallet pocket! It seems that she herself had never mawwied. It seems that she had fixed for herself,
besides one hefty apron of abdominal flabby fleshy panniculus, a little family
of one child, spotted that one up to its adulthood and then, still with such
the same narcissistic neediness as Herry’s, fixed herself up with then yet one
more. Another second, adopted and
attending (as in attention – tending) daughter who was now somewhere around her
twelfth year and charging full throttle into adolescence. One at a time times two times.
So the single but not yet slim
and svelte surrogate got word of for herself a third chance now –– most likely
straight from the tongue of Ms. Genuflecting McLive the Elder, ah, from her own
mother. And for this “new family” she didn’t even have to be the
mama, not a foster mom and, most assuredly, not even a true ‘step’ping back –
like ‘step’mother. Just had to be all … his! The Doctor’s!
Not a bad plan. Not a bad plan at
all. Not a new one either certainly. Many, many others – consorters – throughout the ages have quite nearly and fully researched
and developed for the dear Ms. Fannie Issicran McLive the diagrammatic schema complete
with flow – chart chronology on how to get this done –– this “blended, transition
family – making,” [such the fuckful yet
soooo, so usual term for effectually dissing any mama’s First Family] –– in a fairly fine – tuned, failsafe
fashion. Ms. McLive at the time ––
apparently and allegedly –– taught students some English grammar a westerly state
away at a tiny high school and, there as well, advised its squad of
cheerleaders –– whichever, the younger or the older DEhuman Kansan screamers, I
have no idea … nor would I care.
Leaving all that? Not
a problem. “Soooo not a problem,” she
had repeatedly reiterated to Herry. Ms.
Fannie Issicran McLive could and would walk away today, the Good and Wonderful
Doctor learned, and not look back. He’d
thought about asking her just as far as mid
I didn’t either, of course! J
Hee, hee! Hah, hah!
To where I also did not go was ten – year – old Jesse’s side
at his
* *
* *
A new home, a new school year for the Boys real, real soon;
and I, Dr. Legion True, had secured, too, a new job, the first outside – the –
home and actually salaried endeavor since the end of June 1987, back in
“One semester only the need is for. At a flat fee of 8,000 bucks. No benefits.
Take it?” queried its salty department chair.
“O yes, yes! This will be splendid, indeed! My text?
My class? My lab?” I answered. I owed Attorney Jazzy Jinx just a grand less
than this amount. How cool to be able to
so quickly get out from under all of that debt, huh!? And what’s more: I would be soooo damned good that they’d just
have to hire me on permanently,
I knew it!
O! What I did not know!
… Still. About the academy! Even after fucking
The Truemaier Boys’ two rooms were shaping up each with one
large window to the day’s rising sun.
Mirzah in one alone, and Jesse and sometimes Zane in the larger. No more fucking chipped red metal or
lumbering and glossily varnished bunkbeds anywhere. The king – sized bookcase and bed frame just barely
squeezed into mine on the west side of the condominium’s upper – level; I arose
out of its left portion to stand almost directly inside the very midst of my
clothes closet. Enough space for the
ancient ancestral bureau’s drawers to
extend up to within approximately six inches from the foot of its mattress and
boxsprings. Vacuuming the room’s burnt orange
shag was so easy; there was hardly any of it left visible at all ––
after placing into the mistress’s bedroom just those two
pieces of furniture alone.
Zane and Jesse got the gray metal desk following such the
trick it was for AmTaham, with them and me thinking we were actually helping that
old man, to hoist the fucker up the railed and winding staircase.
After that moving maneuver then,
sailing the 88 white and black keys into the condo’s 12’ x 18’ front room,
itself floored in coconut – bark shag, seemed a snap. The two tawny plaster busts of Beethoven and
Mozart each perched themselves again at their usual ends atop the console. Gold refrigerator, gold range came with the
$425 – a – month rental. Hoo – hah! Our brown, top – loading portable Kitchenaid
with the fake wood cutting board surface and just enough room for the same old
brown dinette set from out of Othello and every other kitchen before that plus
one closet pantry and about three also so – dull brown drawers and cupboards,
and … that was that.
The blue and green floral couch
cushions, the chocolate, faux leather barrel chair on whose backstretch Zephyr
so loved to sharpen his claws, the two floor – to – ceiling bookcases with a
special shelf shrine on the most prominently situated one for my already
inherited 1896 black, quarter – hour – chiming, mantel timepiece of AmTaham’s
and the front room with a double – paned patio door was nearly completed. Finishing it off from a dome hook in its
warmest corner hung Zane’s yellow wired contraption caging his zebra finch pair
with some dimestore bamboo nesting material inside it, and from time to time
Jesse kept Rex in her colossal aquarium in either the living room or on the
equally gold kitchen linoleum, depending I guess on his particular whimsy.
Zane played and studied upstairs,
but his late – night reading and sleeping he did in the basement. Not legal I know. Not by fire code standards is it legal. And all other poor and cramped mamas know
this, too, of course. There were two
window – well panes that opened partially inward near the top of the east
concrete block wall above which spread our living room, but no mama I know
wants to depend upon her teenager waking in time and then being able to escape
out through either window to safety in case of need. No, no mother wants to. But she does.
Besides the storage of the Boys’
baby clothes and their tender – years’ toys in cardboard boxes under the
staircase, the only other basement space in an area separated by a thin,
darkish covering from Zane’s bed and headboard was completely occupied by the
furnace, the water heater, the clothes washer and dryer and one stand – alone
sink with an archaic train – case mirror wired from overhead water pipes, all set
upon bare concrete flooring. No toilet
in the basement. Zane had to use the
stool either one set of stairs up or two, the one on the top floor the main
bathroom with standard white fixtures and absolutely no frills. Up in its tub went the same shower curtain in
multiple tones of beige, tan, ivory, cream and brown butterflies that I had
purchased and placed in the rental on East Chocolate Avenue in Hershey, P A. That would have been the one from even before
the Boys’ belovéd nanny, Rosemarie, came into all of our lives. Why, Mirzah was still exercising his baby
thighs in the Johnny Jump – Up bouncer which I’d suspended by a coil from the kitchen
doorframes there! … the very same shower curtain from some nine years before,
that is.
This was Home, Sweet Home; and I was very satisfied. I believed, too, that so were Zane, Mirzah
and Jesse, especially because their Kate Mitchell School and the baseball /
kickball diamonds and a couple of playgrounds there and The Pines neighborhood
one were all a mere two minutes’ or so walk away from the condominium’s front
door. And their friends? The Truemaier Boys’ friends were everywhere
and anywhere including the condo complex’s gated and guarded swimming pool
right outside our easterly patio door but also, most wonderfully, their friends were with us inside our very own home every single day. I kept on hand plenty of oranges and apples
and bananas and punch – flavored Juicy
Juice, Jesse’s favorite flavor, along with ice cream bars and fudgesicles
in that old – gold icebox and still made popcorn in my ancient ancestral Revere Ware copper – bottomed skillet
nearly as often as the Boys and their chums felt like chomping on it.
AmTaham and Mehitable got a
little carried away it seemed.
Grandparents’ style. No longer
intimidated and humiliated by the physical presence of a hard – hearted, son –
in – law ruffian bully, one day an accordion showed up: black, white, pearly finish, squeeze
segments, piano keys on the right – handed location, blackish buttons on the
left, the whole damn ball of wax. And in
not only mighty fine – looking shape but also in a mighty massive – appearing
size, too! Black case even. It was wild, and I loved it. Grandpa and Grandma had intended it for Jesse
whose eleventh birthday we were now celebrating, and he was going to have,
well, … no frickin’ part of it! At the
same time in bing cherry red and also burnished off in that identical pearly
white finish came a full fucking set of drums for Mirzah with Grandpa AmTaham
explaining that the Cedar Rapids bar owner from whom they’d purchased the entire
bloody mess of ‘em right down to the dual top – hat cymbals had convinced him
to buy because as she’d declared to AmTaham, “Why, Mister, ya’ just don’t have
a band at all till ya’ have the heartbeat of the whole damn deal: the drummer and her drums!” Topped off with the hottest pair of Day – Glo,
fluorescent, neon pink drumsticks to match, er, I mean to clash! Mirzah’s late September birthday present for
his tenth year just happened to come from Grandpa and Grandma during their same
trip up to Ames, only a wee bit early this time –– since it was still … August.
School started for all four of us. Very soon I settled in to late – night
lecture writing and laboratory prep.
Also I wanted a different quotation on the chalkboard at the beginning
of every lecture so I had to go over my collections for ones appropriate to the
day or its lesson. Three hours’ lecture
at 9 am weekly plus two four – hour laboratory afternoons plus, of course,
always the very most time – consuming for me, the course’s primary instructor: the lead preparatory time necessary to get
ready all of the materials and supplies for those pathogenic bacteriology lab
sessions, all part of the
Yet they couldn’t come to class –– something for which they
or their parents were paying plenty of per – credit dollars. Or, when they did manage to appear, they
couldn’t come prepared. And worse: they did not even know, at junior level, the extreme
basics of several areas that I, in the beginning of the semester, assumed that they had learned in their
high school science classes, let alone, during first – or second – year collegiate
biology! I was rapidly met with having
to stonewall the entire section by backing up, oftentimes in concepts’ explanations,
to square frickin’ one, a most frustrating experience for me and for a few
students –– a very few though –– in the class as well.
As a matter of fact, Bethany
Joan Marquardt stands out in my memory since she was, hands – down, the best –– that is, the smartest and
always the most prepared –– student. In
actuality, she is the only student
out of the entire class whom I, 14 years later now, can still remember. Thirty – three years old then, the mother of
three kiddos under seven years of age and in a tech post full – time, 40 hours out
at the National Animal Disease Center on the other side of town –– including working
there some nights this specific semester so that she could take my course only
offered during daytime hours. And, not
including the final examination, she was for two out of the other three exams I
administered that term not only both tests’ highest scorer but also, at 1 or
midnight or 2 in the so early darktime of the morning, inside the local
hospital’s emergency room both times the very day of the 9 am exams with
babies’ high fevers and raging otitis media infections. She was also married. To a man about whom I know nothing. And I never did. Needless to say, she reminded me … of me.
Zane began walking or bicycling a Des Moines Register paper route mornings and Sundays, too. Bill payments were automatically sent in or
put onto credit cards by subscribers. No
collecting for him as
I had had to do with the Ames
Daily Tribune when only 13 years old myself and delivering it in the same
town afternoons and on Saturday mornings around the married students’
complexes. That was so cool for
Zane. Collecting soooo sucked, and I
have never forgotten that it did. Jesse
helped him, too, nearly every day because all had to be folded, bagged,
delivered and in folks’ doorways by
6:30 am, and I drove them both around our Teacup ‘hood on Sundays with the Shitbox
Dodge wagon’s hatch window open and up since the individual paper size that specific
day was humongous and burdened me, the adult, to an extent that I could not
imagine it for them as youths. Besides
after breakfast, that of their own
worlds everyday, I did not want that of
the newspapers’ weight also on both of their shoulders –– as well.
As a matter of fact, I am thinking that the whole deal was
Jesse’s idea in the first place, that is, to even start up a delivery route. Jesse may have only been 11, but he had for
quite some time before then appreciated the value and everyday commitment of
hard work and a dollar; and when word came down to him through his many, many
friends that a newspaper route in the neighborhood was opening up, Jesse was
the one to jump on it. Very reliable,
very, very dependable Zane was –– for a young man who couldn’t indeed end a day
and had not, before taking on this accountability, begun a day too easily
either. Zane, as I have often written
before and exactly like his Ancestor – in – the – Making AmTaham, read and read
and read and just could not seem to turn off the cellar lamp on his headboard
at night. Consequently as is plausible,
it was fucking hard for him to wake up in the morning. Every morning. But he did.
And Jesse gently encouraged him to get up and to get going, and the two
of them together were quite the diligent, entrepreneurial pair. Too, a warm, furry memory: when Jesse was two years old in footed
flannel sleepers I remembered his following similarly fuzzy fleeced four – year
– old Zane into hellfire if that’s where the action and adventure took the two
of them inside the Hershey Medical Center housing complex. Now, with the delivery route, I wondered if
maybe it hadn’t also been Jesse’s thinkings and doings back then in P A during the
early, early 1980s as well and that Zane was more than complicit in abetting
the ittier bittier one of them by facilitating and helping to implement Jesse’s
comings and goings. As far as walking
routes and carrying newspaper dailies locally, needless to say, they reminded
me of me. And of AmTaham. Accountable, hardworking Righteous Ancestors
in Training … all of us then.
Judge Sol Wacotler Seizor’s divorce order specifically
decreed on its page 12, “In the even numbered years, Herry should be entitled
to have the children for twenty – four (24) hours commencing at 6:00 p.m. on
the days preceding New Year’s Day, July 04th and Thanksgiving.” But the paragraph just immediately above that
one stated that “Herry should have visitation from 6:00 p.m. on Friday until
6:00 p.m. Sunday on the first and third Fridays of each month. He should be able to have the children with
him over night [daJudge’s idea of ‘overnight’] commencing at 6:00 p.m. on the
Thursday of the week that he will not be exercising weekend visitation.” This from the paragraph that came first
before the Thanksgiving one or the Christmastime paragraph which ordered me to
give the Boys over to Herry for a period of at least four consecutive days and
“in the odd numbered years, this is to commence on December 24th at
6:00 p.m.”
Then came its patriarchal, belly – gutting, mother – fucking
kicker: New Year’s of course, could
never, ever be in the same odd or same even year as had just been the Christmas
Eve or the Christmas Day of the week earlier, could it? That is, if 25 December was in 1989, then
that specific Season’s New Year’s Day would be one of the even year of 1990,
seven days hence, not?! And the Decree’s
word “preceding” of “commencing at 6:00 p.m. on the days preceding” means, of
course, then … New Year’s Eve. The
visit for the even New Year’s Day was to start at 6 pm of the preceding evening. Pillared Herry was to have the Truemaier Boys
all of the celebrating of New Year’s Eve of the odd – numbered years –– or at
least the most significant six hours of it before the ball drops at midnight
and it’s then the next even –
numbered year … in the order of things ––androcentrically –– calendar – like!
Funny judge. The
stuff of funny judging. And, … fuzzier
math. Like I wrote before, I had had to
read
these details only one time through to know them –– and I myself, unlike any family law court judge,
was … shall I say, “getting this” –– for
just the very first time. I picked up on
this clutter, this ‘dis’order of an order, this mother – fucking snafu right the
hell off.
And, with Herry also not too dumb on the uptake of this
court order’s declarations and his most easily interpreting “the math” of
patriarchal religions’ calendar configurations, he likewise did, too –– to the
extent even of pronouncing and demanding of me that his routine Thursday overnight visitations during the weeks that
didn’t include his weekends with the Boys took precedence –– both because of
the sequence of their respective paragraphs in the Decree and because of the
perceived importance and necessity to him of his getting from me all that he
felt entitled to take away. To take away from me … aprovechar – style. As every other working – outside – the – home
mama I know in like manner has to do on Thanksgiving morning, I also took noooo
holiday hours of extra rest off at all and, as with any other ordinary workday,
–– again –– arose at dawn on the day of Thursday, 23 November 1989, to bake the
Peking duck with glazed orange sauce plus prepare and cook all of the dressing,
trimmings, side dishes and pumpkin pies –– since Zane, Jesse and Mirzah
Truemaier were, according to Taker Herry – Daddee, absolutely having to go to
him by no later than 6 pm that very night –– to keep in accordance with his, the
father’s right! Daddee’s so,
so saaaaacred sperms’ exaltation! And the
mama? The mother was most certainly not
to have her very own babies even for a leisurely and completely uninterrupted,
24 – hour Thanksgiving holiday! Uh – uh!
Mother – fucking, conniving conundrum this was right off
after the official divorce for the holiday seasons of both 1989 and 1990. Mother’s rights?! Ha! Mother’s
rights be damned. They be fucked. Fucked up any which way. Pillared – Man Herod Edinsmaier was going to
– and did – have the Truemaier Boys
for Thanksgiving Day night, Christmas Eve, Christmas Day, New Year’s Eve and
New Year’s Day. Just as he had plotted
the 1988 to 1989 seasonal cycle the very year before which had also, according
to King Herry’s dicta during our marital separation days, completely played
itself out back then in this very same fashion with his I – must – have – the –
Boys – every – single – weekend visitation schema. Fuck, what contriving! Herry’d had my May Mother’s Day 1989 weekend because Act One hadn’t even
commenced yet so he was still maneuvering visitation under his every – weekend
deal; and within only a wee bit over a fortnight after the Decree was
finalized, why, Dr. Herod Edinsmaier enjoyed his Father’s Day with the Boys as well. Shit, it had been the 18th and
June’s third Friday – to – Sunday weekend … so, of course, Mirzah, Zane and
Jesse were gone from me!
It wasn’t too difficult for me to figure out just who’d done
the Edinsmaier decorations, the Christmas turkey, the caroling and the tree or
the New Year’s Eve hats and horns – if
there had even been any. These had
never, ever been the doings and thinkings, the things of Herry’s days –– any
days or nights –– and, least of all, Dr. Edinsmaier’s holidays so if there had been some, then the folie à
deux that was Herry with his Next Cunt again kicked in and the Sheriff of
Nottingham, Ms. Fannie Issicran McLive, provided the enforcement behind the
King’s directives for the Boys’ own labors at getting these things done. All of it –– I could be certain of that. The likeliest likelihood was that nothing was
done. No tree. Not one strung string of lights anywhere. Not even one song sung. Not even a single round of the Jingle Bells chorus.
Instead by that Christmas Day 1989, exactly seven months’
worth of alimony and child support had been paid out to me and the Boys. Trying now to figure the frost of this to
Herry’s financial framework, why, the total froze him out of around $3,500 plus
$12,600 or a hundred spot over $16 grand.
The fall semester finished, Microbiology Chairman Dr. Eddie Winston had
no more ‘instructor’ need for spring and none in sight,
“O, we already have the budget prepared, Legion, and it
includes in it no new appointment provisions for the foreseeable future.” Dr. True was toast on a cold, cold Solstice,
my and AmTaham’s birthdays. Classes, the
lab practical and its lecture final were over, “Thank you very much. Good luck in your future endeavors in this
field. O yes, Merry Christmas,” Professor
Winston’s holiday greeting card in my mid – December departmental mailbox read just
like any standard and routine “We – regret – to – inform – you” rejection
letter.
Dr. Legion True paid off Mr. Jazzy Jinx on Tuesday, the
second day of my Happy 1990 New Year! In
full –– the attorney’s bill balance retired!
That Midwestern finishing deal of mine, ya’ know. And I began again then that very day on
precisely that: to get figured out what was going to be the
degree and level of my “future endeavors in this field.” KIOA, 93.3 on my FM radio dial out of Des
Moines and, believe it or not, hosted on its marvelous get – off – to – work
morning show by none other than Maximilian Schaeffer, our belovéd Hershey
Rosemarie’s firstborn of her three sons too, was playing over and over and over
one of my all – time oldies rock favorites.
Its artists, Denny Zager and Rick Evans, only ever had had in all of their
years before or since 1969, that
world's biggest one – hit – wonder of my Woodstock year –– and no more ever
again, “In the year 2525, If man is still alive, If woman can survive, They may
find. In the year 3535, Ain't gonna need
to tell the truth, tell no lies.
Everything you think, do, and say –– Is in the pill you took
today.”
An omen, a premonition, a harbinger that tune and their
words were and yet Spring 1990, wasn’t even in the air. In fact, it was the
dead of dark and frozen wintertime when, into our Sweet Havencourt Home’s regulation
black, top – flapped mailbox arrived another ocher – colored manila envelope
with many, many pages inside it, all of them file – stamped 17 January
1990. Again in the Iowa District Court
for Storm County and in Case #9215 – 8801, the sheets were stapled together and
entitled also again in capital letters, PETITION FOR MODIFICATION and first
began, “The Decree provided (a) Respondent is to have the children’s primary physical
care and (b) Petitioner is to pay child support in the amount of $1,800.00 per
month.”
I choked and read on, to page two, “There has been a
substantial and material change of circumstances since the entry of the said
Decree, which requires that the physical care, custody, and control of the
minor children of the parties to be placed in the Petitioner.” Who would, of course, be … Aprovechar – Taker
King Herry.
Page Two continued, “It is in the best interest of the
parties’ minor children that the custody provisions and child support of the
Decree hereinafter be modified. The
Petitioner has no other information of any other custody proceeding concerning
‘my’ children other than this
Petition for Modification and knows of no other person not a party to the
proceeding who has physical custody of the children or claims to have custody
or visitation rights with respect to the children. Application is hereby made for Petitioner’s
attorney fees. WHEREFORE, Petitioner
prays that the Court set time and place of hearing, and thereupon modify the
terms of the original Decree herein to award Petitioner the permanent care,
custody and control of the minor children of the parties, award child support
and attorney fees to Petitioner, and grant such other further relief as is
equitable in the premises, including judgment for costs. Signed, Mr. Shindy Scheisser” … with copy to Mr.
Jazzy Jinx, of course, whose paid – up – in – full office staff hadn’t even
bothered itself with just one telephone call to me to apprise, let alone,
forewarn me that this –––– this HOLOCAUST! –––– was oncoming by way of them themselves, my own employees, into my future’s mail!
This petition had affixed to it then a second affidavit of
Herry’s, this time this next one, before the signature of Dr. Edinsmaier upon
it, a mere and putridly paltry 39 words in length, “I, Herod Edinsmaier, after
being first sworn, hereby state that I am the Petitioner in the above –
mentioned matter and that I have read the foregoing Petition for Modification
and believe that the statements contained therein are true and correct.”
Seven months since plus every single one of them during the
separation before the final Decree, I had so attended Mr. Jinx’s prescient and
threateningly sober foretaste, “No men, Legion!
Not one damn man, you hear me!”
And so? So … … there had never
been one. Not even one. –– Although
three – daily – followed my scent, as well as my essence, during office hours
and wanted to continue to do so afterwards, one of them brilliant and tall as a
precious mountain.
Herry had had the Petition
signed off on and notarized on 12 January 1990, just about the very day that
the lovely, … er, the now ‘lovingly’ shrink – wrapped and mightily wrinkled and
pannicular 73 – year – old …
er, (in reality) 43 –
year – old Ms. Fannie Issicran McLive and Dr. Herod Edinsmaier announced their intention
to mawwy the following June on a first weekend then and quite before, of
course, Father’s Day … again.
O JYeah! There, indeed, surely had been “a substantial
and material change of circumstances since the entry of the said Decree” all
right! And about just that very change
in and of cuntliness we were most assuredly going to hear a passel more!
* *
* *
Act Two Part Two had begun. And I was relentlessly nauseated. Again.
The first of some very many and ghastly episodes to ensue at
the mailbox … this particular receipt had been.
I grabbed a hooded windbreaker off its crampon in the
condo’s 2’ by 4’ foyer, really a piece of wooden furniture at the bottom of the
staircase that had in its base a couple of drawers for mittens, gloves and
scarves and about eight hooks and, over my sweats, escaped for a run. Where better for this witchy forestwife but,
now, the feral ex – cunt to puke than onto the snows of the tractor paths left
inside the few but welcoming and beckoning acres of the State of Iowa
Department of Natural Resources’ dormant forest nursery just to the north of our
condominium complex.
Detanimod Edinsmaier died in 1985, at age 74 of ovarian
cancer metastases after losing her four – year war with the stuff of it. As well as of … heartbreak.
“When I get better in the spring, I will tell you, Legion,”
she had whispered to me in late December nearly breathless then but, like this
particular one son’s and my lifelessness in the merry month of a later May, she
too succumbed in a May just four years earlier than our mawwiage’s death. Instead of the 14 – time fecund woman either ever
getting better or telling me anything by the date of her 50th
anniversary knotted to Juggern on the 05th day of June that year
about what had taken place to cause, in her opinion, so many of her progeny and
her husband to be dangerously unsound, perverted and predatory, Detanimod exhaled
her very final breath one month shy of half of a century’s worth of ‘religion –
fully’ coupled and unionized throes to that man. The patriarch had lived in the milk parlor
for over two months at one time at least; even both of Herry’s littlest baby
sister Murielle, and the nearest – to
– his – own – age brother Marcus, acknowledged to me that much ––– with Juggern Aut’s hot meals on trays and laundered pairs
of socks brought down there to him so that the cows’ udders would fill and they
could be milked. Detanimod often
chortled as she kidded me, the veterinarian, that without bestial Juggern
Edinsmaier’s comporting clean, matching socks to first meet up with the bodacious
Bovinae inside the milkhouse’s morning, “Why, the cows just won’t let down
their milk!”
I was more than starting to know
about what it would have been that Detanimod Edinsmaier intended to disclose to
me ––– had she lived. By 1988, and 1989
for certain, Dr. Herod Edinsmaier’s sexual addiction and the rudimentary
smatterings of it that had splattered over onto his and his older brother
Atwater’s Amish – styled incestuous activities as countrified teenage boys with
their three, fondled baby sisters, Kay, Celeste and Murielle, little more at
the time than seven and six and five years of age themselves was becoming more
and more evident the less and less that Herry drank beer. All of the fucking folks of alcoholics anonymous
and of
al – anon had been downright
evil to have admonished me to keep my mouth closed, the big book’s
frigging chapter eight, “to wives”, and Herry’s so – called “sponsor”,
Mr. Gary Wussamai, censuring me to just shut my fuck up and, instead, to go on
and give this man –– Herry –– with his velvety, chocolate – laced voice
described as a “verbal massage” on page 152 of Mike Lew’s Victims No Longer
… some more loving!
Count also amongst those same, certain mother – fuckers Mr.
Larry Brouhaha and Ms. Carrie Canard and all of the friggin’ thousands of
dollars I had paid out to those two, too.
Dr. Patrick J. Carnes of the Twin Cities area clinic there and Out of
the Shadows: Understanding Sexual
Addiction authorship and others including Dr. Ralph Earle and Dr. Gregory
Crowe with their work, Lonely All The Time: Recognizing, Understanding and Overcoming
Sexual Addiction for Addicts and Co – Dependents, have a name for what
Detanimod Edinsmaier could not. A name
for what she had never even one time had a chance to term it –– in all of those
damned and so mother – fucked years of hers so frickin’ isolated out there rurally
in Bass County with so many, many baby girls to protect and so many, many baby
calves and chicks to brood over and nooooo
help at all forthcoming from the republican party’s county sheriff or from
the saints john and jude priests and nuns for all of the crimes committed
against the children and her. Not to
mention any admission or apology or accountability or any restitution or
restoration or reconciliation from
anybody to her, least of all to her
from Mr. Juggern Aut Misein Edinsmaier or to
her and to me from merely even
just one of those gazillion’s of ruthless and relentless, squirted, spurted
spermatozoal donations of Juggern’s, … Herod Edinsmaier!
Fifty years. And then
the DEhuman, Detanimod, was dead … is all.
Secrets and the violence of silence … enabling and enmeshing: this had been “the advice” to me from so many
so far, persons who knew better and,
yet, … chose … for me and for my sons their same unwillingness to
change their counsel as was fueling Herry’s freely taken choice to continue his
scourging, scorched – earth conflagration among at least the four of us. The local interlibrary loan service secured
for me copies of Out of the Shadows and Lonely All the Time. These books named it sexual addiction
all right. Carnes, Earle and Crowe named
as specific markers of it the innumerable formats of pornography,
exhibitionism, voyeurism, bestiality, ‘humor’, indecent liberties stolen in frotteuristic
gropes during the press of a crowd, behind closed doors, elsewhere. All and any of these –– these crimes ––
involving minors and on and on and on.
Even actions involving spouses or otherwise consenting adults when
they’d decided not to participate in acts which then became forced upon them,
thus, therefore, … also crimes. Not to mention the addict’s punishing his partner
through the withholding of coitus in favor, instead, of extended lengths of
self – masturbation or his visits to prostitutes or conjugally with anyone else
anywhere else one could find for the purposes of penetration or masturbatory
blow – jobs outside the realm of health and happiness for the addicted’s family.
Dr. Carnes and the words in other sources from other experts
explained that not only were these actions of and characteristics seen in the
addicts’ sex lives but also that variations and atavisms of them all carried
over into other angles of their lives. Even
– at times – into all aspects of their lives.
I could not have agreed more. I and the Truemaier Boys had been living … exactly
this … all along ––
duped as easy marks, as Aprovechar – Taking Addict Herry’s
prey. As had also been my dearest
friend, Grace. And, of course, as had
also been Detanimod and her several small daughters. Casualties we were. Suckers.
All of us DEhumans ––– the mightily mother – fucked.
With an advertisement in the Des Moines Register’s Thursday calendar of weekly events, I started
to put a stop to my complicity in this now – named choice of Herry’s plaguing and violating my Boys and me. “Think you drink too much, think you need AA? You don’t.
Believe me. You don’t. You do
need Sex and Love Addicts Anonymous
though. Weekly Friday evening meetings
at the Franklin Avenue Christian Church, 7 pm.
Come. It will change your life. Almost guaranteed.” It was that italicized adverb. No lies here, Zager and Evans, “Tell no
lies.” They weren’t going to promise me
the moon, just correct information. And
these folks, soooo unlike the al – anon ones, sure’s hell weren’t going to stay
the fuck shut up. Or, tell me that … I had to.
In that –– that
is, in my staying utterly shut up and remaining the quite silent wifely woman ––
I had been spot – on. I had excelled at
that androcentrically dictated role. On
just the pornography crime of Dr. Herod Edinsmaier’s addiction alone!
Subscribed to, as well as arriving via the United States Postal Service,
– it was – in Minor Son Zane’s entire first and last names – to boot! I remember Eldest Child’s later querying me
in an almost whining – like, pouty tone not more than two years hence, more
stating it as fact than indeed asking me if it were really true, “But, Mama,
you were never against pornography before, were you?”
Oooo, I know I was
pissed at myself when I heard him, at 13 or 14, actually question this of
me. What had this innocent statement of
Zane’s just bespoken? As a matter of fact, Zane had just completely although
unknowingly shouted at me that I had been a pissant, wuss – ass chickenshit for
my not confronting Herry – Daddee’s criminal violence and abusive violation of
him, of his two brothers and of me long, long before I finally did so. That
is what Zane was saying. Indeed, all that I had ever managed to tell any one
of the Truemaier Boys was that their little friends ––– when they from the very
Teacup neighborhood we now, post – divorce, lived in ––– had, before, come up to
play at Othello Drive, couldn’t look at the images since their parents might be
disapproving. I essentially served as
Criminal – Daddee’s accomplice in my so perfected al – anon – like, spousal condoning
capacity! The magazine issues needed to
stay hidden away in that Criminal’s den “because some folks don’t like the pictures
and don’t want their boys looking at those things.”
I’ll say they fucking didn’t! They would not approve, these
parents! Hell, I finally answered Zane,
“Honey,
I always loathed
pornography. I just couldn’t get up the
nerve to tell your father to stop doing it with you three Boys. It’s true; you never did hear me go back
there to the den and try to put an end to this, did you? And I was wrong not to have. So very wrong, Zane. I should’ve.
I should have tried.”
We were, just Zane and I, in the Shitbox Dodge somewhere headed
east on Lincoln Way by the Iowa State University Campus when I beckoned him to
pick out the very next ten women we passed by who looked to be between the ages
of 18 and 60. “How many,” I asked him
first before recording any into our respective visual fields, “How many of the
next ten women we see, do you believe, Zane, will be of the looks or
characteristics that Playboy would
want to have in its issues? How many? How many out of the next ten that we drive
by?”
Without so much as a split
second to decide, this relatively ‘new’ teenager’s answer flew back at me,
“Seven.”
“What?!”
“I said seven.”
“You mean you think that seven out of ten female adults are going
to be of the shape and size and proportions that the people of Playboy put as pictures onto their
pages, is that right, Zane?”
“Aaahh, well, um, ah, five then. Five.”
“Okaaay, five. Five
out of ten. That’s half of all adult
women you’re saying?”
Inside my brain I was left
immediately blasting, “Who the Fuck gets to give my Boys this frigging expectation?!!!” Adolescent Zane’s two answers screamed out who
it was that ‘got to’ teach them as little boys that they could expect, that they could even
contemplate, let alone, that they could
require this mind – fucking mind – numbing … this mother – fucking …
for themselves? When – developmentally –
they reached the ages of interest … at which Zane was more than already … with
Jesse and even Mirzah hot on his heels, who was it who had taught
them all that they could require, inside their nascent expectations,
that any of the teen and adult girls
and women of their lives should look and
should act and should be as those DEhumans’ images on Playboy’s two – dimensional pages?
Who the Fuck did this to my children?!
Who had “the right” to role – model this
thinking, this belief, this expectation to Zane, to Jesse, to Mirzah?!!! Who perped this crime upon my
kiddos?!
Because … of
course … not one of the ten females on Lincoln Way out beside the
University campus qualified for Zane’s “natural” worldview, I asked him then to
repeat the experimental survey as the Shitbox entered the downtown Ames Main
Street area. Its results this second
time around were again exactly borne out –– statistically the very, very
same. Zero.
I knew. I knew Who the Fuck it was who had
sullied and imperiled my Sons’ minds and hearts. And, …
quite likely, more
of their anatomies. And Who
the Fuck it was who had wounded and insulted and injured me. All three of the Truemaier Boys were fast
approaching their teens where it would be very nearly impossible for me their mama,
hopeless really –– … that hope – kills – woman thing again … –– to exert any
restorative and healing influences! If
they were to change their thinkings and doings and comings and goings away from
Herry The Daddee’s, if they themselves were to become loving and kind and just
and honoring, accountable boyfriends and later, perhaps such husbands too, then
it –– the change –– would have to
come from their own wills to fix themselves.
And not from mine. Not now. Not anymore.
The only thing I could do now would be to not stay shut
up. To not continue to cover up Herry’s
abuses, Herry’s violations … Dr. Herod Edinsmaier’s
violence. Herry
Edinsmaier’s crimes.
Parking the wagon I determined
then and there right in front of one of Ames’s busiest establishments, the Main
Post Office and also its Federal Building (allegedly, then, purveying for all
of us United States citizens the freest of speech), that I was not anymore silent
about pornography nor about any other of the manifestations of sexual abuse to
my children and to me. Uh – uh. Of what is it that Ms. Andrea Dworkin teaches
us all in her seminal, 1989 Letters from a War Zone ––– about an ooooold,
old federal paper –– quite likely thought up by ––
yet most certainly and actually constructed by absolutely not one female
person and, most assuredly, never done so with the intent of its enactment to ever,
ever safeguard any such of us DEhumans either, “If the First Amendment doesn’t
work for women, then … it doesn’t work! ! !”
If I myself were going to at least try, as Ancestor in
Training, to protect three teenage girls or adult women
–– and quite possibly many, many more –– whom I did not know
and had not even yet met, those future girlfriends and maybe eventual spouses
and, consequently, my direct descendants too out of Jesse’s, Zane’s and
Mirzah’s spermaries or as their other fosterlings, then I was not about to turn
another blind eye, cower and kowtow –– ya’ remember: to continue to comport myself as male –
identified Mehitable’s soft, servile and deferent successor –– one damned, mother – fucked day longer. To learn, particularly proaction, I began
attending the evening meetings of Sex and
Love Addicts Anonymous.
What not a one of us at SLAA
meetings ever knew at our beginnings there, though, was what our newly gained
knowledge and self – action to bring ourselves and our littlest loved ones back
to healthy ways of interacting with other real people, with all people, meant ––
meant specifically inside an American, small county family law courtroom, that
is. What it would mean to the deciding
of the primary care custody of children or to the infamously bogus “parental
alienation syndrome” and its vicious, vengeance – seeking application against
me or what our insight had to do with some faking fuck named Richard Gardner,
Junk Scientist. Least of all, we attending
students knew nothing about what our lessons on and acts of protecting and safeguarding
would legally mean to my three Boys, to me, to maternal –
child bonding and, most perilously, to keeping intact and whole and pure my
(constitutionally conferred!) human right to parent the very
beings whom I alone chose to grow:
Mirzah, Jesse and Zane. On the
month’s first and third Friday nights when Zane, Mirzah and Jesse were not with
me for their weekend, Comrade László and I commuted to Des Moines meetings
together; but he, a distinguished and highly decorated university chemistry
professor, didn’t then know about any of this –– this impending HOLOCAUST
–– either.
Now Ms. Fannie
Issicran McLive was 74 – nearly, too. Appearing
after a gastric bypass operation, apparently her idea of a surgical stoppage of
some caloric consumption, Ms. McLive resembled in strikingly crinkled and wrinkled
physiognomy … Herry’s mother. Physically
this likening included the balding hairstyle pattern but at no time Detanimod’s
countenance, demeanor and kindness. Ms.
McLive actually looked as though she were the very same age that Detanimod had
been at the time of her death from losing out to the primary ovarian cancer war
waging within her body.
But she
wasn’t. Uh – uh. Ms. Fannie Issicran McLive was 43, one year
older than I, when in the first part of June 1990, Herry again quickly locked
himself inside a patriarchal, churchly mawwiage yoke. To his mommy.
Er, to an “other mother.” Uh, to
his deadened mama – lookalike, Detanimod not actually the woman present at all in
Fatlantic at the androcentric altar of Juggern Aut Misein Edinsmaier’s saints john
and jude, of course.
It rained in
I should have been worried.
Not only had the belovéd husband,
a thousand years ago, Teri Lynn, been struck and killed by a
bolt out of the
a bone – dry haying day the very same Memorial Holiday
weekend that my marriage to Herry had itself implosively dropped dead the 1989
year before, but some ominous and portentous events were also unfolding this
dire wedding day. Taking place they were
with Juggern Aut and his whole gang of mind – and – body bandits inside
As these events were developing,
the two who are my littler sons were literally being force – fed –– what The
Four Horsemen, Atheists Dawkins, Hitchens, Dennett and Harris, unequivocally define as outright, outrageous CHILD
ABUSE –– someone’s idea of frackin’, unleavened crackers under the
patriarchal incantations of superstitious and magical males’ – only, crucifix –
gesticulating, ‘blessing’ hands; and my eldest was himself … bolting. Zane vaulted out the front passenger door of Dr.
Edinsmaier’s moving vehicle enroute to saints john and jude and, at 13, at the
same age in the early 1930s as had occurred his Grandpa AmTaham’s areligious
enlightenment, simply refused to be known as any sort whatsoever of a
witnessing presence at the burlesqued farce which Zane recognized as the 44 –
year – old Sperm Donor’s mawwiage to the Next Cunt in Daddee’s Stash, Ms. Fannie
Issicran McLive. If I, Dr. Legion True,
have to deal at all with matters magic and mythical, then I thank the World’s
nymphal goddesses –– Reason and Balance –– that the loveliest of
firstborn babes everywhere, Zane, was not himself physically mashed or mangled
by the jump that he felt compelled to make the same morning during which Dr. True
blitzfully charged through that springtime’s cleansing, drenching downpour a
hundred miles off!
Herry moved Next One and that woman’s adopted girl #2, Mary
Jane, up from the Kansas back country to his three – bedroom apartment on the
west side of Ames, its only redeeming condition being that the Truemaier Boys
now had there a piano, too –– if only inside Herry’s garage. I construed that
he and she kept it stashed there until their next moving day. I did not know but guessed, like always
before when Herry had been mawwied to and moving and moving and moving and
moving and moving around with me, that when Dr. Edinsmaier exercised his
court – ordered access to them, the Boys once again were relegated –– all three
of them –– to their lives altogether stuck inside one bedroom.
Mr. Jazzy Jinx wanted me to remain surreptitiously
shrouded. In other words, “Shut your
fucking, exasperating mouth, Legion!”
No, he did not use the word “fucking” –– not right out loud to me. He did not.
He did … in characterizing me and to my face most clearly and repeatedly,
however … state, as sexist, slurring epithet, … “exasperating.”
Mr. Jinx’s intention for me was obvious. I was to leave very well enough alone all of
this information about which László, my new
With László’s encouragement and support, I released Mr.
Jazzy Jinx from my employ and went attorney – shopping in the empty – suits’
district of downtown Des Moines, same area as housed the offices of Herry’s Mr.
Shindy Scheisser and where, around any weekday’s noon lunchtime, its equivalent
of skyscrapers opened up and spat to the sidewalks below all manner of stuffed
shirts and hollow – hearted hypocrites.
First Cousin Wyman had had a lot of lawyering experience here in this
quarter, he and his family company having been sued for millions and millions ––
however wrongly, too –– by a corporate and competing hybrid seed corn giant
just the decade before. Wyman made some
telephone calls and got back to me.
Within the week I was introducing myself to Ms. Carlotta
Klutz, Attorney at Law, in private practice by herself with only one office assistant,
a legal secretary named Ms. Dee Dee Garnet.
I liked the lawyer from what little I could see, but aren’t looks
deceiving? I also trusted Cuz Wyman’s
contacts, but then of what did they truly know either? Soon László was accompanying me on my trips
to visit her. I wasn’t taking along an
attorney; but he, the professor, was the next best thing to my trying to make
sure that I could figure out what was really going down with Ms. Klutz. And with ‘my case’. A whole ‘nother set of hours and hours and
hours, all billable. If these weren’t because
of László and me inside her office in person, then I was on the telephone
speaking with Secretary Garnet always far more often than I was actually talking
with Attorney Klutz herself –– all of these calls, however, at long – distance
toll fees either way and, of course, entirely charged to me, too. “Good thing I have no fucking job at which to
have to be –– what with all of this driving back and forth to
Klutz’s solo law office at its
tenth floor height was, however, directly
across the street from the gilded and pillared Joseph’s Jewelers’ Building in
which, at the very same lofty tenth level, sat Mr. Shindy Scheisser.
In a firm comprised of a
gazillion lawyers, Hoo – Hah Scheisser one of its founding partners, of course.
I hadn’t planned this –– this
geography –– but it surely was funny.
And about the last humorous thing of the whole litigating opera. “Like two battling barristers in the
billows,” I laughed with László. I
didn’t laugh long.
Although no longer my employee,
I kept close in my cranium Mr. Jazzy Jinx’s dressing down. Men? A
man? “Das ist verboten!!!” AmTaham in his
impeccable German could have mimicked Jinx’s earliest admonition to me. László was no lover. László was gay. And had long had for himself his own lover of
partnering proportions, an equally likeable man, Judd, who, in architecture also
at the University, had designed and built the country estate upon which for the
past 18 years the two of them had resided.
Lovely László was also tall. Tall
as that precious mountain man, the Chair of the
László and I spent, in fact, the first anniversary of my
divorcing freedom out for BBQ at Hickory Park and there planned how to bring up
from Des Moines to Ames its own meeting chapter of Sex and Love Addicts Anonymous, László himself regrouping from his loving
too recklessly a man who had breezed out of his and Judd’s lives after
occupying a place there for eight years in a way Herry would have found, well, …
revolting. Pathologist that Dr. Herod
Edinsmaier is, he himself is disgusting and revolting and most uncatholically
but, indeed, papally, pontifically
and piously pathologic about homosexuality.
Quite the closet homophobe Herod Edinsmaier is –– all the while,
however, outwardly and so hypocritically sporting leftist liberal, even
sometimes his version of universalist, feminist ideologies in vain, feigned
attempts to cloak his true
thinkings. I knew these –– however progressive
the true thinkings of Herry’s so were
not –– from those nights in that back
bedroom on Othello –– particularly after Herry had returned from alcoholics anonymous
meetings whereat a certain woman regularly attended … and about whom Herod
Edinsmaier repeatedly stated to me that he found her … “suspect”. Herry couldn’t –– and would not –– even utter
the word “lesbian”!
I myself never “suspect”ed that this about László would
matter. I respected and honored the fact
that he and Judd were not out either, even after nearly two decades solidly
together, certainly longer in union with each other than Herry and I ever were
coupled. But I, then still steeped in
this nation’s Constitutionality as if it actually also applied to –– and
worked for –– me, one of us DEhumans, never one time at all worried
about László’s homosexuality and his association
with me as being “factors” … whatsoever
… in my retaining custody of my children.
Or, not! I really liked László;
and both he and Judd, whom I also liked a lot, so understood my fear of
loss. Again.
Two teams’ and three Truemaier Boys’ worth of legendarily
fabulous Little League ended and classes for Mirzah and Jesse always commenced
right around the date of Zane’s 24 August birthday. This year in 1990, Mirzah had truly enjoyed
papermaking –– as in … making it from scratch –– a section taken just for fun
during the summer school’s sessions offered all the way north uptown again at
the Ames High School Art Department. Zane
had fired pottery there as well. At the
I managed to keep upbeat and energetic until after all of the
Boys’ birthday celebrations and fall soccer had begun and then I felt myself
beginning to backslide again, “a slip” it is rationalized away as in alcoholics
anonymous but just called being fucked up or, indeed, plain fucked in SLAA.
I had no job, no outside money coming in at all, enough from support
checks to pay only household bills, put groceries in the refrigerator and onto
the table plus keep a mere $15 a month funneling into four different types of
dentists’ pockets as well as into the office coffer of Lawyer Carlotta Klutz … And
that was that.
So far I really had had no time for a paying job; keeping
company with Ms. Klutz and the documents and the paperwork of ‘my case’ again
was certainly all of the job time that, alone, I could handle outside of taking
care of my Boys and their schedules including Zane’s track and field activity
after school in West Ames. Men? Hell, except for László every other Friday
usually or our commutes together down to
But I did need a paying job.
And that –– and the time for one –– I did want.
It was Friday just after suppertime of the weekend in which I
had the Boys with me and was on the telephone to Grace from whom we all now
lived just two minutes’ jog in the same condominium complex –– almost within
earshot of a little bit of a yell … if either of us had ever needed to. I was telling her to wish Lionel for me a
happy birthday. His, the 10th
of September, always came after the Labor Day weekend so it was not difficult
to remember plus, now, with our move down to The Teacup Subdivision there and
away from Herry’s Othello Drive bachelor pad, all three of her and Lionel’s
sons were always either over at our home or my Boys at the Portias’ condo. I knew Lionel’s birthday was upcoming the very
next Monday.
Grace’s calm speaking voice suddenly rose, “Turn on your TV,
Legion! Right now! Turn it on!
Channel 8. Got it?! Who is that, Legion?! Who is that?!
Isn’t that Carlotta Klutz?! It
is, isn’t it?!
“Om’god, Grace, it is! What the hell?!” The Des Moines television station’s local news
broadcasters were recounting –– right then and there –– about the New York
crews in town to acquire documentary film footage of a manslaughter trial which
was ending that very afternoon in which a Polk County mother had been charged
the spring before in the death of her 11 – year – old found to be weighing only
44 pounds of which 22 of these occupied the child’s small intestine and large
colon, thus, impacting and totally blocking these organs with fecal
matter. Petite, freshly bleached and
navy skirt – suited Carlotta bearing a subdued orangish – bronze shade had just
told the reporter that she had been so anxious about which lipstick hue would
best match her three – piece ensemble –– given that the 48 Hours’ cameras were pointed at her lips and at her defense table
from nearly every angle of the courtroom, a table she, as the charged mother’s
defense attorney, had shared with the dead child’s father and his own lawyer
there. “O Jesus, Grace, it sure’s hell
is! Shit! No wonder I could never, ever reach her. That Dee Dee person of hers was always, always
fielding my calls all fucking summer long!
Remember?!!! Her secretary?!!! Fuck! I gotta go!
I gotta go! I gotta call László
and let him know, too!”
Pissed! I was so friggin’
pissed! Justifiably and immediately so,
so pissed! I half – expected my newest
employee these past three months’ worth, Attorney Carlotta Klutz’s last
statement for the New York City reporter to be something as fruitfully
important and profound –– it being the end of the week’s evening news and all
–– as daytime All My Children soap
character Bianca Kane Montgomery’s infamously smug retort, “Excuse me, but … I
need to go tuck in my Barbies now.”
* *
* *
What chanting
pentastich, what witchy incantatory verity have I myself, Dr. Legion True, intoned
at the very prologuing outset of this entire Mother – Fucking Saga,
“True it is. O, so head – bangingly true
it is! No one else ever thinks that your
passions and your struggles are anywhere near as fantastically important as you
yourself think that they are. You can
write letters to the editor, you can give speeches, even just little, daily
ones, to anyone who’ll listen, you can send a passel of e – mail transmissions
to folks who are glad to hear from you and to the ones who never want to hear
from you. It doesn’t make a bit of
difference.”
True it was and could not have been truer: I and ‘my case’ had not had anywhere near
that past summer’s diligent attention of this $125 – an – hour attorney way
down there 45 miles off inside the state’s capital city.
Not once.
Not once had I “made a bit of difference” … enough … to her so
that Attorney Klutz – full well paid to
do so – had given over to me and to ‘my case’ her thorough and complete
attention, so that Attorney Klutz had –
at all – expended on ‘my case’ the absolutely necessary preparatory efforts
for which she had accepted retaining engagement and hire and was … allegedly … working!
I was fucking stunned. Besides Grace and László and everyone else in
on ‘my case’, too! None of us had had
one iota of an inkling, not one fucking smelly smidgen, that Ms. Carlotta Klutz
was, to the bloody, all – encompassing extent that she was, involved in this – other
– deadly case.
Until that TV news screen just
87 hours before the knocking knell sounded from Judge Sol Wacotler Seizor’s
gavel which opened again ‘my own case’, that Polk County situation hadn’t even
entered any of our minds since its first appearance in the Register headlines three months earlier. Fuck, I myself couldn’t even afford the
newspaper nor the time to read it elsewhere anyhow. Everybody called me the very next day to
express their wonderment and concern; we all that Saturday had had no mother –
fucking idea of what was about to foul all over me and my Truemaier Boys with the
start of our own disgusting, deadly and solidly shit – filled impaction: Act Two of The Opera’s Part Two was to begin
promptly at 9:00 o’clock, Tuesday, the 11th day of September, one
day after Lionel’s birthday. Over a
decade before anyone else’s: our very own Tuesday, September the 11th! I did not sleep well that weekend. As anyone who has had loved ones lost because
of their own September 11s can imagine, I was not sleeping very fucking
well.
As bad? One of the major
other reasons that I had fired Mr. Jazzy Jinx had been because of one of the
four, named agencies or persons he had submitted “on my behalf” –– of which one
would be chosen by ‘the Court’ as the custody evaluator for Act Two! That is, another to conduct a second –
a
second – custody evaluation!
I am saying that … Mr. Jinx actually “counseled” me that one of those
submitted four should be the name of
Ms. Carrie Canard, “Ya’ know, Legion.
So’s the judge, whoever that’ll be, can see that between the first trial
and this one you’re not much concerned about it, ya’ know. Like you’re confident that no matter who does
it, things won’t change. We’ll put her
on last, and it really won’t matter
‘cause there’re the three others named on the list here, and “whoever” takes a
look at this, … well, they won’t even know.
They’ll just pick the first one.
Trust me.”
I could hardly believe him.
This “advice” certainly went wholly against my gut. Buuuut at the time, he was my attorney, and … I – “agreed” to do – that which he said to do:
Childless Carrie Canard’s name went down onto the list! And into ‘the Court’! To daMan!
“A true mother’s personal witnesses such as her family and
friends and spiritual advisors and teachers
and coaches and the children’s other activities’ sponsors
like their piano lesson teachers, even the family and individual therapists
whom she chose for herself and the Boys, these people testifying at trial matter
not at all, Mr. Jinx!” And,
especially for certain, those of this True mother’s. I know this now. All of their “evidences” … well, … they
be fucked!
Indeed and of course, Jury, allya’all know, doncha’? You can just tell what happened, can’t you? O JYeah, Ms. Canard was again picked by daJudge
… by “whoever” the mother – fuck he was.
And, again, she billed –– but for more hours, 15¾. At $85 per each then, the total this go –
round #2 of the Frumpy Mouse’s “industry” came to $1,338.75. Plus the three Boys’ and my time, plus
gasoline, plus telephone toll calls and parking fees in Des Moines, plus all of
the other change – around summer arrangements from the 01st through
the 23rd, the day before Zane’s 14th birthday cake needed
me to bake and decorate it this
particular August.
For more hours Ms. Canard charged this time because she had
wanted now – and so did have – yet another interviewee. Someone who really, really “knew” my sons and
me well and had been a close, close part of our daily lives for a long, long
time, of course? Well … not!
! ! The other was none other than the
Next Cunt in the Good and Wonderful Doctor’s Stash so in this, ‘my case’, that
other was now called Ms. Fannie Issicran McLive. As a matter of fact, Ms. McLive received a
passel of Ms. Canard’s attentions including a couple of hours on Jesse’s very
birthday day, the 15th of August!
I remember walking out of her office the very last time I
ever heard from Ms. Carrie Canard on the 23rd – except for that exact last time, that is, except for her
testimony as (literally) mother – fucking “evidence”
at September 1990’s Trial Two, “What will you do if you
lose?”
“I shall appeal.”
“O! I don’t think
that’d be ‘in the boys’ interest’ at all, ya’ know, to put them through any
more stress than you already have,” came Ms. Mousey Frump’s backlashing, fuckly
fire right back at me. Ms. Carrie Canard
was actually ordering me not to act against what was her mother – fucking opinion
nor against what was about to happen.
She already knew. Before any
study of hers, any reading and rereading, before any thinking through, Childless
Canard already knew what she was going to do to me and to the Truemaier Boys and
to write to ‘The Court’, … to daMan. She
had already decided that, of Jinx’s things that he’d assured me wouldn’t change,
it was her so unlived opinion about my and my Kiddos’ lives that wasn’t going
to change. And not only had I lost in
Canard’s so male – identified arena, it was soon to be equally known in ‘just’
whose other similarly identified, sexist arena I had already lost as well.
Just? Hardly. Hardly justice. Hence, my backsliding and the deal that
deeper and deeper sleep was now mightily difficult to come by.
Charmed so by Tonguey Herry, Ms. Cherry Canard pulled a
truly fast one right off. The very first
sentence of her second, subsequent Report,
addressing “some important changes in Dr. Edinsmaier’s life,” stated that Herry
– Daddee was “now in a new mothering relationship for his children,” ! ! ! … the one that, for the time being at least, “makes him happy!”
So, … in so many – of few – words: of the old one, of the old relationship, of that
of The
First Family,
of its happiness and health …
of all of that? All of that … be fucked!
For the women unwilling to
become one like himself, to become a consorting homeland terrorist like Dr. Herod
Edinsmaier and such other violent abusers, these women are referred to the
online resources of some friends of mine:
to Floridian and Attorney ms. liz’s web university of www.thelizlibrary.org, to Massachusetts
researcher, author and commentator Ms. Trish’s site of www.florida-family-lawyers.com/trishwilson/interactivist.html,
to the infuriating www.cincinnatipas.com and to www.echidne-of-the-snakes.com for
Truth’s rational, reasoned and balanced lessons on The Primary Parent, How Not to Become the Next One in His Stash,
Who is The Mom – and Who So Ain’t? Fake – Fuck and Pedophile – Sponsoring
Richard Gardner and his Spurious “Parental Alienation Syndrome” Now Universally
Foisted By America’s “Legal” System … But Only Upon DEhumans.
But, most importantly for learning and understanding about the
essence and being of –– about the status and condition of –– The
First Family. And Why
Daddee, Why Patriarchy is Really Behind It
All. Behind It … HIS Mother –
Fucking.
Any willing women of Mehitable’s favorite “soft, servile and
submissive” genre but unable to get their hands on her textbook could most
certainly take their lessons in becoming male – identified females from either
or both Ms. Canard and Ms. McLive. Quite
improved might be their lots, particularly monetarily as a matter of fact, if, while in their men’s lives before
honing their courtesan skills, they first became thoroughly trained in the
complete and utter dissing of the real and true mother of … The
First Family.
Ms. Canard, with none of her nor of Fannie Issicran McLive’s
life experiences and educations whatsoever akin to ours, began her settled
“facts” of the Truemaier Boys and of me to The Court at the very last of her Report. She entitled it, also in capital letters with
all other emphases including quotation marks hers and not mine, the “CONCERNS PRESENTED by the MOTHER and the
CHILDREN” and only included in her vituperative account, a diatribe against me
really, at least five direct references [count ‘em!] to anger. Yet … the allegedly professional Ms. Canard
gave absolutely no referencing whatsoever at all over to the veracity of
“Dr. True’s primary concern.”
Child custody – “evaluating,” childless Carrie Canard wrote
thusly then, “Dr. True’s primary concern is that contact with Dr. Edinsmaier
and Ms. McLive will jeopardize the boys’ ‘recovery’ from what she considers
their codependent roles in their father’s ‘sex addiction’ and ‘romance intrigue
addiction.’ She believes that her ex –
husband, as a ‘sex addict’, is inherently untrustworthy in caring for their
children. She is most concerned about
the boys, especially Zane, becoming like their father and engaging in behaviors
that she feels are self – destructive.
Dr. True believes that Dr. Edinsmaier reinforces irresponsible behavior
in the children. In fact, she cited
several examples of Dr. Edinsmaier’s behavior which she feels placed the
children in jeopardy by exposing them to sexual addiction. For example, she stated that Dr. Edinsmaier
helped Zane order Playboy magazines
in the past and has shown the boys materials that she considers
pornographic.
Dr. Edinsmaier has admitted to her that he fantasized about
other women during their marriage. Dr.
True believes that Dr. Edinsmaier is an exhibitionist, walking in front of
windows with the blinds open in the nude and wearing jeans with holes located
in inappropriate places.
In addition, Dr. True is currently angry about the way she
was treated by Dr. Edinsmaier during their marriage. For example, she emphasized what she
perceived as his lack of sensitivity in accommodating to her hearing
impairment. Dr. True is proud of the
boys’ respectful and sensitive attention to this disability of hers.
Dr. True is also angry because the boys were not informed in
greater detail of their father’s plans to remarry, and she feels that Mirzah is
often anxious because of uncertainty regarding his relationship with his
father. Dr. True believes that children
should be informed at all stages of their parents’ relationships and that
children’s feelings and opinions should be of utmost importance in considering
whether or not an adult relationship continues.
Dr. True stated that she does not want Zane, Jesse, and
Mirzah to adjust to their stepfamily situation because she views it as
inappropriate and dysfunctional. For
example, she is concerned that the boys are not seeing a healthy husband and
wife relationship modeled by their father and stepmother because she views Ms.
McLive as ‘servile and submissive’ to Dr. Edinsmaier. She also expressed concern about reports from
the boys that their father shows favoritism to his stepdaughter.
Dr. True is angry because her ex – husband has not paid for
the family therapy in a timely fashion.
She also believes that he is trying to modify the current custody
arrangement solely in order to avoid child support payments, which are
currently $1,800 per month.
Dr. True voiced grave concern about this examiner’s ability
to assess the family situation from her perspective. She was frustrated with her effects [her word
… and not what it should have been: ‘efforts’]
to educate the public about addictions.
Zane, Jesse, and Mirzah voiced numerous complaints and
concerns about their father, his new wife, and their new stepsister. These points were presented by one or more of
the boys during the interviews. They
believe that their father just wants custody in order to look good and doesn’t
really want the boys. Examples cited to
support this point of view included his tendency to not pay for collect phone
calls from the boys or for their family therapy with their mother. Closely related are their resentments about
the decrease in their father’s attention and time since his remarriage, hostile
feelings toward Mary Jane, and anger at their father for not siding with them
in arguments with Mary Jane. Their anger
toward their father since his remarriage seems to have increased the emotional
distance from him and led to more open criticism of him, especially by the
older boys. In turn, they are frustrated
with his lack of openness in responding to their questions and
accusations. They feel a lack of trust
in their father for keeping their mail that they receive from their mother
during visits. Likewise, they perceive
their father’s lack of trust in them that contributes to his evasiveness in
answering their questions.
They are also concerned about having to move and to switch
school if their father gains primary physical care. Each child stated that he does not want to
move.
Zane, Jesse, and Mirzah feel that their mother needs them
more than their father does and might be too depressed if they weren’t with
her. This sense of worry about the
emotional well – being of the parent was not expressed about the boys’ father,
only their mother. They are also
concerned that Dr. True would continue Court action if their father gained
primary physical care, and the conflict between their parents would only
escalate.
The boys expressed concern about losing some of their
mother’s attention if she begins to date, as she has indicated. They feel reassured that they will get to
determine if her relationship with a man continues or not. In general, Zane, Mirzah, and Jesse were
concerned because they often feel that neither parent is listening or attending
to their needs and desires, and they worry that the conflict between their
parents will continue regardless of where they live or what they do. They also worry about their own potential for
developing addictions of various kinds.”
Zane and Jesse then stated to me they never told Ms. Carrie Canard
that they were at all concerned about future litigation nor “continued Court
action if their father gained primary physical care” but had insisted to her
instead that, if he did get their physical custody, then … they
wanted me to! Likewise,
Mirzah had said only to Ms. Canard that “Mama would be sad and do anything to
get us back.”
When Ms. Canard entered her “SUMMARY and RECOMMENDATIONS,” I
just had to guffaw! Could not help it! “Ms. McLive was given the MMPI. Her test results fall well within normal
limits and present no concerns regarding her parenting abilities.” What the fuck?! What the fuck did Ms. Canard specifically
know, let alone, know from the Minnesota Multiphasic Personality Inventory,
about Ms. McLive’s looooong, longstanding history of panic and anxiety attacks,
her bouts by her own admission to me with “severe PMS,” her medical record of morbid
and gross obesity – “310 pounds and more,” she herself had stated – and how she was “managing” that by those
carving – off – the – fat and stomach – stapling surgeries she’d undergone, her
other innumerable physical health problems, her failure to reconcile with that
older, adopted daughter of hers after a probable incestuous attack upon her own
person or upon the daughter’s or upon the both of them – after that child, when
shortly a legal adult, had married a man of massively questionable and abusive,
thuggish repute. A daughter whom none of
my own sons had ever even met one time in person then. Or,
since. Thankfully!
Of all of the fucking –– UNtrue, UNprofessional –– things to
write about this entirely fucked – up entity known as Ms. Fannie Issicran
McLive, the Next Cunt in Herry’s Stash, “… results fall well within normal limits
and present no concerns regarding her parenting abilities” had to be just the
most … idiotic imaginable.
I just could not stop laughing … this soon – to – be – Court
– sanctioned idiocy grieved me so.
Ms. Canard continued, “Of grave concern is Dr. True’s
vehement position that the honesty or trustworthiness of the children in
interactions with their father is not important because he is ‘inherently
untrustworthy’ because he is a ‘sex addict.’
This may give the boys the message that integrity is a situation –
specific quality, one that can be discarded with ease in certain justified
instances. Dr. True holds the position
that the boys should not adjust to the stepfamily situation because this
implies acceptance of a dysfunctional lifestyle and places them at risk. Her position overlooks an important
developmental function which is to experience various types of social
relationships [“ … even ones known to be abusive relationships?!” I query!],
learn to function within them, and evaluate them based on one’s own personal
experiences. These boys need to have
permission from their mother to decide how they feel about their stepmother and
stepsisters [plural hers], as well as their father, without pressure from
her. Dr. True’s attempt to prevent the
development of healthy relationships between the boys and their stepfamily may
cause them to question their own perceptions of reality and foster guilt
feelings. Allowing such individuation is
a difficult but essential step in promoting healthy identity development and
social skills in children.
Dr. True emphasizes the need to understand concepts of
codependency and sexual addiction in order to understand her family. She seems convinced that any negative
consequences the children are experiencing, such as feelings of distrust or
anxiety, are due to their father.
Unfortunately, the intensity of distrust
among these family members has resulted in Dr. Edinsmaier
and Ms. McLive violating important boundaries by reading the children’s mail from
their mother. This is done with the best
of intentions; and while
Dr. Edinsmaier appears to have handled his distrustful
feelings when questioned by the boys in a way that heightens their anxiety
rather than reassures them, he has made attempts to improve his parenting skills
and foster his relationships with Zane, Jesse, and Mirzah. However, their resentment over his remarriage
and conflicts with their stepsister have left the boys feeling that their
relationship with their father has weakened, especially in recent months. The move and space constraints for the boys
in the new house fuel their dissatisfaction with their father and
stepfamily. Likewise, their mutual
animosity towards Mary Jane has served to unite the brothers and to minimize
their own differences and conflicts.”
“Evaluating” Canard actually finished her Report with this violent mother –
deprivation mother – fuck, “The prognosis for a successful
transition into the primary physical care of their father is more guarded at this time than perhaps at any time in the life of
this family (my italics!). However,
based on the information gathered in this evaluation, such a move would be ‘in
the best interest of these children.’
While there are indeed aspects of Dr. Edinsmaier’s behavior that must be
addressed in his relationship with his sons and there will no doubt be intense
conflict in the process of integrating the boys into the stepfamily routine,
such a move would provide the children some much needed distance from their
mother.”
I say, “She and hers, anything hers including that friggin’
‘primary concern’ of hers, be … mother – fucked!”
Whatever makes Daddee, daMan, happy. Daddy the Community Pillar, that daddee.
“One option, rarely considered by this examiner, may be
appropriate in this case. If the Court
becomes convinced that Dr. True is not likely to change her pattern of
interactions with the children and believes that their well – being is
jeopardized by continued exposure to her, then supervised visits with their
mother are recommended.”
And for the precious sake of her, the American state government’s,
Ms. McLive’s and Pillar Edinsmaier’s all perpetuating the violence of silence
and secrecy against a True mother, Childless Canard concluded her aria in The
Opera with The Grand Finale of all sentences, “Finally this examiner asks for
the support of the Court to ensure that this report is not disclosed to
extended family members or other unauthorized individuals. Sincerely,” Signed __ Male – Identified
Frumpy Mouse Canard __ . JYeah, Riiiight.
Trial Two was open and shut … its result.
Case closed. Even before
Ms. Carlotta Klutz, likewise liveried as when she had smiled before her Friday
cameras but in appropriate black this week, had actually called the first
person to witness in front of the same judge, Sol Wacotler Seizor, the one who
had sequestered so effectively in that sanitarium for drunks his own first wife
–– away from her own four babies. I
recall hoisting my corpse into the witness stand with orbits blackened from the
running mascara, true, but also from the now complete absence for nights and
nights of refreshing slumber.
Even before opening my ‘witnessing’ mouth to give forth from
it ‘evidence’, I saw in daMan’s facial countenance his already decided judgment as he lowered his eyes and looked away
from me. I raised a
tears – smeared right
hand to make the testimony affirmation of The Truth to … The Court. His
court,
that is. It was
Friday shortly after 1 pm, and he announced to the assembled which included in
the gallery Ms. McLive on Herry’s side and about ten friends on mine that he,
daJudge –– the same judge as in Trial One was this time … this second time around …not going to hear from and not
going to listen to … my Boys.
At all.
Not a word whatsoever.
I shot Grace our all – knowing, leveled glance between each
other. Her lower jaw dropped but just
ever so slightly; then her whole head followed in its direction, her eyes never
leaving mine. Grace and Lionel did not need to bring the Truemaier Boys over
to the courthouse from their respective schools. Not a word from any one of My Three was daJudge
going to listen to … in Act Two. Judge
Seizor didn’t need not only the Boys’ expressions and declarations and opinions
although Jesse and Zane were 12 and 14, and Mirzah was about to turn 11 on the
28th day of September, Judge Sol Wacotler Seizor wasn’t even going
to –– and did not –– direct the court reporter –– even just one time
–– to repeat back to him for his ‘concerted’ study and ‘thorough’ review from that
stenographic machine’s multiple strips of hers … any of my
words either.
* *
* *
A good, good job opened up in late August and I took a stab
at it. Monday through Friday, every
weekend off, only daytime hours, no nights ever, great benefits, a wonderful
vacation and sick leave policy, a county government position, completely suited
to me as the detail person that I am, a great deal to demonstrate
to a district court judge as my trying to support my
children yet still be very available to them all physically. And at nearly $32,000 per annum in salary to
start!
One catch. Of course.
–– I had to win the upcoming November 1990, midterm election for it. The actual position? –– Recorder for Storm
County, running against a Republican Party incumbent who not only had been 12
years in the post then already but is still there in it today 13 more years
later and doing, now, the great job at it that she had always performed. Over Labor Day weekend, the Boys and I even
donned royal blue tees with my name in white lettering on them and waved my
official cobalt blue and white yard signs
in the courthouse town’s Lincoln Days’ Parade. We campaigned ourselves right down its main
street,
By Sunday, 16 September, I was on the phone at 5 in the
morning, “I need Lionel to drive me to the hospital emergency room, Grace. No, … none.
Not really. Not since Thursday
night, and even before I testified on Friday it wasn’t in solid chunks, ya’ know. I don’t think I should risk driving there
myself. Dr. Narod won’t come out to the
house and give me a shot; I called him at home.
He told me I had to come into the ER.
Just three days. Good. I’ve already waked up the Boys and told them. No, no need to call László just now; please
do so, though, later on this morning.
I’ll be waiting outside for Lionel then.
O, and Grace? Thanks. Thanks ever so much, Grace.”
What I had told each child at his bedside was that this –– this –– was the way in which one should go
about getting medicines legally and healthily –– when one needed drugs in order
to fall asleep. That one shouldn’t just
slither on down to the
“Three days and nights,
Margaret. That’s all I need. The Boys are with my best friends, the
Portias –– Grace and Lionel, from down here in The Teacup. Tell Abraham and Adam before Meeting centers
this morning. Tell them both that I went
just now for some help to sleep, would you please, Margaret? No, we haven’t heard, not officially. But I know.
I know. Hell, you were there,
too, Margaret. You saw. You heard what went on.”
“If I can do anything … O.
If, … if you were not
hysterical, Legion, then … then is when I would be
worried about you! My god, Woman; he is
taking your children!” I have never, never forgotten Margaret Sagely’s sorrow
hurtling at me over the wires and through my telephone receiver.
Times three. I would never, never, never dismiss as
nothing the suffering of a mother who, with one child lost, sits and sits and
sits and rocks and rocks and rocks her way back up to the surface of this
holocaustic cesspool, I would not. I
would not. But with three lost? Now that’s something. Mirzah was exactly spot – on, “Mama would be so
sad and do anything to get us back.” I
started to before I even knew for sure that I had lost them.
Act Two Part Two. “I
can’t sleep. There’s been a trial; it’s
about my kids, and I just can’t sleep. Umm,
I’d say it’s been, … O, a full night’s? Well, probably three weeks or more. It feels like I could sleep forever. By the way, thanks a lot for that $50, Bob! That was really generous. The campaign?
O, so – so. Kinda suspended for
right now, I guess. I just can’t get
rid of the adrenal surges long enough to get to sleep.
Let alone, for a long, long time. Why is that, Doctor?”
“Experienced this before, Legion?”
“Yeah, once. Long,
long time ago. Something bothers me a
lot, Bob, I just don’t let go of it enough to fall asleep. Ya’ know, soundly. Like deep, deep.”
“Okay, well, Legion, I’m … I’m going to admit you since
that’s what you want, right?”
“Well, no.
Actually. No. I’d like you to give me something in my own
bed, so I could sleep there. In my own
bed.”
“Uh – uh, we just don’t do that anymore, Legion. I’ll have to admit you for injections, and
that’s really the only way that I can make sure you can have enough to actually
get you the sleep that you need. Here –
fill this out; it’s for the best, don’t you agree?”
I did not agree; but, obviously, … I had no choice.
And I liked my doctor, Dr. Narod, a lot: Bob and I had gone through the seventh and
eighth grades together, and he was an obstetrician and gynecologist just like
his own father before him. He truly,
truly liked women and respected us; so had his dad, now deceased.
Over my protestations, Lionel besought me to walk inside the
hospital to the emergency room with me –– into Dr. Narod’s care, “Legion, it’s
nothing. Really. I can just accompany you inside in case you
need something, ya’ know.”
But I had resolutely stood there beside Lionel in the
parking lot of the hospital’s emergency room and told him that I had by that
time bothered him and Grace quite enough with my needs and that he should
return home to her. “Besides,” I managed
a sidewise smile, “you’ve got Mirzah, Jesse and Zane for the next three days,
Bucko. You’ve already done enough for me
this morning, Lionel. Thanks ever
though!”
And just exactly as I was soooo, so used to doing the things
that simply needed doing –– that simply needed to get done –– when I was
married to Dr. Herod Edinsmaier, I walked inside those hospital walls … alone.
Biiiiiiig , big
mistake!
Cuz now? Now, … I had
no witness.
In addition to all that Lionel had just done for me and, along
with Grace, was about to do more, Lionel also could have been my much – needed
witness to all of the events … which next transpired. But how would I know to even need one?! How would I know to need a witness to go to
the doctor, for chris’sake?! As it unfolded, it clearly became only my word, alone,
against theirs of the hospital staff.
Again. Big, big hoping and
trusting fuckup of mine! Again!
We DEhumans are so addicted to both … dangerously –– even
lethally –– addicted. To both hope and
trust.
Directly from that cubicle in the ER then, I was wheeled up to
a place in the hospital called The Sixth Floor.
Its loftiest level, I could barely move, and it was now 6:30 am so with
the employees’ change of shift, I could understand why no one was immediately attending
to getting me a soporific injection and off into a bed for sleep. But soon it was 7:30 am, and I still remained
on the sofa in an anteroom next door to The Sixth Floor Nurses’ Station. Still I sat.
And sat. And sat. And nobody came. I just sat.
I could not read because my eyes would not focus; for over a week now
Grace had been worried for me, worried about just that very aspect –– among so
many, many others –– of my sleep deprivation.
Finally then around 10 am a caucasian woman of ordinariness
in a white coat sat directly in front of me on her own separate chair holding a
clipboard with papers on it in one hand and a pen in the other. She grilled –
in a kindly tone – yes; but hell, I had already answered all
of these same friggin’ questions hours ago now down in the emergency room,
hadn’t I? I was left thinking, “Where’s
the shot, for chris’sake?! And the bed?!
I need to crawl in a bed somewhere, get the medicine injected and get to
sleep, don’t I?! Back down in the ER that’d
been the plan Dr. Narod and I had gone with as … ‘for the best,’ wasn’t
it? Where was Dr. Narod anyhow?, O yeah,
the clock in the Nurses’ Station says it’s 10:30; he must be at his
office. Aaah, no … no – correction here,”
I amended my soooo sleep – deprived mind, “it’s Sunday. He’s left the building; he’s long gone away
like all of those other I – don’t – work – weekends’ folks!”
Ordinary Worker Woman continued on and on and on. I answered her questions the best that I
could but, “Jeesh, cut me some slack here.”
Then she left.
There were a lot of people it
seemed just milling about back and forth … rather aimlessly. And no one appeared particularly dressed for
work I thought. I again waited,
expecting a bed and some help real, real soon.
“For sure, not?” I thought, as a
lot of pairs of eyes, too, were evidently aimed every now and then, kind of
fleeting – like, in my direction. “Don’t
get paranoid, Legion,” I told myself.
“Wouldn’t Herry just love to see me paranoid about now!? Whoooa, what a heyday he’d make out with that
one to Ms. Canard! To Judge Seizor! He and Ms. Folie Fannie would have a hoot
over that, wouldn’t they?” I remember musing to myself.
That same clock’s hands pointed to 3; it was 3 fucking
pm! Not only was it Sunday afternoon,
now a full ten hours since I’d first telephoned Grace; but the workers’ shifts
were changing yet again one more time! And
now double the pairs of eyes were
sometimes affixed upon me on the couch –– still sitting in the anteroom
right next to The Sixth Floor Nurses’ Station.
Off of the stand beside the divan, I picked up that particular
day’s usually thick morning newspaper and rolled it over into a baton, arose out
of that sofa’s seat, strode on over to them all huddled up in their clutch of a
shift – change “Report” and, in front of goddess and everyone else around,
banged repeatedly my new witchy wand upon their clearly o – so shatterproof
windowsill, “Get me some goddamn drugs and a bed!
I hafta sleep, and I hafta sleep now, Dammit! Now!
I wanna go to sleep. You fucking
hear me?! I. Want. To. Go. To.
Sleep! Get me a bed! Geeeet meeeeee a gawddaaaaaamn bed! ! !”
O O O, four of ‘em! And I mean yesterday! They were – all four of ‘em – on me like yesterday! Four men.
All in white, head to toe, except for their trouser
belts. Even their tennis shoes. I soooo had me the drugs and the bed! Well, had them
… sort of, shall I say.
Two on my upper body and torso with my breasts and left
cheek crushing into the bare mattress flung once upon a time … before me … onto
the equally bare floor and one fellow squarely squatted on top of both of my
thighs, his buttocksy behind covering all of mine nearly. Except for Manly Man #4 yanking down my
underpants and jabbing the hypodermic full throttle into that particular left cheek.
Lights … soooo, so out!
I slept.
Fuck knows what I looked like those three days. Those … three
slumbering days! Because I certainly
don’t know what I looked like. I
awakened. The doctor’s chart note, the
one that I myself and a whole passel of other people would later read as well, described
me simply as … “a changed individual.”
Well, I’ll say! “Sleep’s
good. Sleep’ll do that for ya’!” And a whole lot of it can, when one’s had
almost none of it, well, … change you. Ask any military torturer or terrorist. Or, as a matter of fact, the victims so
tortured! Ask them. Or, for further ‘evidence’, ask any celebrity
or sports figure on tour or on the road who collapses and drops from exhaustion
and needs a few days in the clink or off somewhere at a secluded yet glitzy,
mountain – air spa for some badly needed rest.
Ask all of those folks about whom we read in the Sunday celeb and sports
sections nearly every week! There were
probably even such stories in the caduceus which I had spontaneously sculpted out
of that specific daily’s chunky, rolled – over newspaper!
I was no longer inside the rubber room either. Someone, and most likely those particular,
peculiar four men, had carried me into a regular hospital bed in a regular
room. Or so it seemed. And the door was not locked. Not that door, the bedroom’s door. The ones, however, that led out and off of The
Sixth Floor altogether? Now those three,
stacked doors, one right after the previous and parallel other one, they all were locked.
I, of course, was in the goddamn, mother - fucking psych
ward, and I now knew it, too. Come to
find out –– a lot later, of course –– that had I not pitched my successful
albeit witchy hissy – fit, it would’ve been even more hours that I would have
been left there on that sofa to languish and rot.
And I was being
watched. All along when I’d thought I
was being watched? I had not been … ‘paranoid’. Indeed, I was being surveilled. Was I ever!
For signs and symptoms of illicit drug ingestion or whatever the hell allya’all
call it when one snorts, shoots up, stashes stuff inside their vagina or rectum
or otherwise takes street shit inside themselves. Also for alcohol. Poisoning?
Abuse? Hell, I didn’t know. I didn’t even drink much, one or two glasses
of wine a month – if I were lucky enough to be able to go out for Italian. Ya’ know, like with a spaghetti dinner! For my own personal drinking purposes, well,
we certainly could not afford! for me to purchase any booze to just have it on
hand! There hadn’t been a bottle or a can
of anything liquor – like in the house for nearly two years or more! Hardly a drop even of soda pop, as a matter
of fact.
Just as I had explained to Mirzah, Jesse and Zane at their
bedsides, immediately before Lionel’s chauffeuring me to the ER’s entry, never
to do –– never to go buy a dope dealer’s crud for one’s problems –– I had been, myself, observed for these very
abuses. I was blown away. Then, again, I had had no witness, let alone,
one to vouch for me and for my ‘everyday’ conduct: gracious and generous and offering Lionel had
not come inside with me.
I went to the same window glass of the Nurses’ Station and
asked to see Dr. Narod. “Well, he’s not
here, and, anyhow, he’s not your doctor.”
“What?”
“I saaaaid he is noooot here and, anyhoooow, he is nooooot
your doctor,” the worker intoned, ridiculing me.
“O?”
“O whaaaaat? You’re
in the psych ward, Sweetie, you’re not having a baby, for goodness’ sake! Oooooor,
are you?!” Roar,
roar, roar. The three of them gathered
there split out into guffaws at Ward Clerk Blatherer’s off – the – cuff mockery
of me.
“I want to see Dr. Narod.”
“Uh – uh. That idn’t
gonna happen.”
“What? I need to see
Dr. Narod.”
“I saaaaid NO! That
is not going to happen, Legion True! Er, eeeh – scuuuuse me: … Doooooctor Legion
Truuuuue! … it says here on your chart, dudn’t it?” He turned and smirked at the other two also sniggering
through my title and my last name. Snidely
First Blatherer finished, “I’ll tell your doctor you wanna see her, but you
will not be seeing Dr. Narod. Dr. Bassenthwaite’s your doctor now, and she’s
busy with office hours. She’ll probably
stop by later –– after 5 or somethin’.”
So unknowingly slogged I, after those three terrific
soporific nights and days, into … another
entire fortnight! at the SpaChezResort
Hotel Sixth Floor. Dr. Bassenthwaite did
come around that evening, a person whom I liked right off. She informed me that she’d had a call from
some attorney who was representing me.
“O, Ms. Klutz? You’ve
heard from Ms. Klutz?!”
“Well, yes, I have; but that’s not the lawyer I’m talking
about now.”
“Ah, um, with Ms. Klutz.
With Ms. Klutz, Doctor, what did she say? Has the order come down? Is it back?
Did she say?”
“She didn’t. No. She called, in fact, to say that it wasn’t
back yet actually.”
“What? O. O. I
see. Jeesh. Umm.” I was despondent but not wanting to
show the doctor this face, of course. I
mean I liked her, but I didn’t know her like I knew Bob Narod so how could I
trust her? “What’d you say?” I
remembered now, something about some other lawyer.
“Did you sleep well, Legion?
You seemed to. Did you, do you
think?” Dr. Bassenthwaite eluded, evaded.
I did not like this. “Do you know what day this is?”
“Well, yeah! I’ll
say! I loved it. It was great.
I feel great. That’s just what I
needed. It is what I came to see Dr. Narod for in the first place. And, ah, … yeah, as a matter of fact, I do
know the day: it’s Wednesday. Wednesday, the 19th.”
“Um – hmm. It is,”
the doctor nodded nicely, her tone rather a bit syrupy I reckoned.
“So, Doctor Bassenthwaite.
My kids, I haven’t talked to them yet.
But I won’t really need to make but one telephone call. They’re with friends, and the husband’ll come
get me tonight so can I go do that now then?”
“Ah, no, I don’t believe he will be coming for you tonight.”
“O Yes! Yes, he
will. He promised. Anything I need he and Grace, his wife? They’ll do it. Lionel will come.”
“Ah, … noooo, he won’t.”
Evasion, elusion.
“What the fuck is she saying? What the fuck is going on here?” I pondered
and purposefully maneuvered my hearing ear, my right ear, closer to this
doctor’s lip direction, “What do you mean?”
“A man named Mr. Zaffar telephoned me this afternoon. He is now your attorney, too.”
“No, he isn’t. He
most certainly is not. I know Mr.
Zaffar, and he’s cool. He’s all right,
but he is not my lawyer. What are you talking about?! Why’d he call you anyhow?! What is
somebody I have not hired talking to my
doctor for, a doctor by the way whom I haven’t even hired –– either!” I was
getting righteously pissed –– to say the fucking least!
Come to find out, ‘the Court’ had appointed an attorney for me.
Mr. Dario Zaffar. That’d be the
same
‘the Court’ of
I knew of him through those long – ago channels, I
liked. For a lawyer anyhow, no shyster
he. That I knew of. And I liked his wife, a biology technician at
the University. She and he had had three
little ones, bang, bang and bang, too.
“Whatever the hell for?”
Dr. Bassenthwaite so unsuccessfully struggled to maintain
eye contact, “Well, ah … there’s been an emergency hearing and a’, um …, you’re
going to be getting a visit from Sheriff Stout later on this evening. And ah, um, … an’ Mr. Zaffar, um, ah, on your
behalf, well, ah, he’ll be accompanying the sheriff here …, ah, … here to The
Sixth Floor.”
“What the …, ‘an emergency hearing’, you say?! Wha’ … Whatever are you talking about? I think you’d better tell me straight up now,
Dr Bassenthwaite. Now what do you mean
just exactly here? And why the hell do you know all of this anyhow and I don’t
even know any of it yet? Why is that exactly, huh? Why?! … an emergency hearing? Why?
What the hell is that all about?” I feigned dumbfoundedness as I
surmised was expected of me. But –– in
that very instant – I knew. I knew
what an ‘emergency hearing’ meant. I so
knew just exactly what was going on!
Come to find out, quite a mother – fucking bit had been
going on out those Sixth Floor triplet doors of this locked – up – tighter –
than – a – drum Hotel during all of those nights and days of mine off in sweet,
sweet somnolence. It’s an ol’, ol’ story
though; and most folks already know of it, we DEhumans, very, very many
of us, having already lived it ourselves.
And I certainly did know it, too, now –– almost at that
specific, earlier bolt – like slug of hers:
Back there at Dr. Bassenthwaite’s exhortation of, “No, he won’t… ,” … meaning,
the ‘good’ doctor had been, that Lionel Portia would not be coming for me – –
– – buuuut … that the
Manly Man White Coats would be. If. If.
Hadn’t taken much convincing to daJudge, to daMan who himself
had removed his own daughters’ mother remotely from those girls’ residential
vicinity, for Herry to sway this man and get an invocation in to him for a real
bit of Southern – applied, maternal – deprivation aprovechar here, “Just let me
see here how much further I can fuck her over!
To take advantage of and to swindle the shit out of this situation of
hers! The Cunt’s sleep – deprived and
utterly exhausted, O JYeah! Judge Seizor
already’s seen her crying; he’s seen her blubbering. Now she’s in this joint. Not a prison but
no clinic clink either. Hey, get the Twat
sent up the river for good I can. With
Scheisser’s maneuvering, we can get this done – and no one’s the wiser! Certainly not Zane, Jesse and Mirzah! Cheap, too!
Won’t even cost me! It’ll all be
‘on the county!’ Hey, go for it,
Shindy! Get her! Unstable.
Unfit. Crazy. Loony Tunes.
Get her! Gut her! Gut the goddamn Bitch right in her friggin’
belly! Get her put away. The Cunt won’t be dead – but shit! That
–– permanent maternal – deprivation from her sons –– that’ll do it. That’ll be just as good as dead! Work it, Baby! Work it!
What’s that cadence again now, ya’ know, the one we in the military all
march so well to, ‘You can take a woman, Cut the bitch in two; I can fuck the
lower half and give the upper half to you!’
Yeeaah! Work it, Scheisser!”
Same ol’ control, dominion and domination fuckover of the
DEhuman as that of the last 12 or so millennia ...
Certainly enough: Sheriff
Stout and Mr. Zaffar did –– together –– appear.
On The Sixth Floor. With
papers.
Two more weeks in
this very palace at the least or?
Or … I was to be placed smack – dab on the fast track to Cherokee. The very next day.
That would be
There –– to be hauled, locked away and, most certainly, to forever
be forgotten all about! –– cuz it was obvious to every man, to all pillared men for sure, wasn’t it? i) Legion True was nothin’ if not wholly rode
hard and put up wet. ii) She –– that
Whore –– deserved this.
A place –– Cherokee
–– about which I had often, often heard ever since I first was a rebel teen and
had also at such rebellious times been threatened
with incarceration there by some not – so – witty persons of Mehitable’s
acquaintance, “O, once inside, Sweetie, you don’t see the light of day again! And your family, Girl? Ha! That’s
the last they’ve seen of you, too!” That is what I had known of Cherokee. For just years and years and years.
“Sign ‘em. You’ll wanna
be signin’ ‘em,” the lawman as rotund as his name proclaimed.
Looming from around the obese sheriff’s backside at about 6’6”,
Mr. Dario Zaffar was quietly nodding, too, and trying unsuccessfully to
smile. “At least another two weeks,
Legion. That’s what the doctor’s
saying. Please. You’d better sign. It could get bad if you don’t. Real bad.
It’s nice to see you again, by the way, Legion.” At least Mr. Zaffar, unlike the fat fuck of a
“peace” officer in front of him, not only could look straight into my eyes but
also actually address me by my first name!
Twice!
I did. I signed. That was Wednesday evening, 19 September 1990:
the “Wednesday” of exactly when I had
promised to all three of my Boys that I would be home to them again. Instead, of course, AmTaham and Mehitable
were called and motored right up to take the Truemaier grandsons back over from
Grace and Lionel’s to Havencourt where Mehitable, for the second time in my
adult life, immediately proceeded to
set about rearranging our entire home –– starting, of course
again, with my kitchen drawers’ compositions.
I’ve never known for sure how it was that Mehitable already knew, when telephoned to please come up, that I was not
around the condo and the Boys that week, whether it was from Zane or Jesse or
Mirzah –– or from Herry and Fannie Issicran McLive. But she did.
She knew.
Dr. Bassenthwaite assured me over and over as did Dr. Narod
the couple of times in that 15 days’ stint –– “hospitalized away” –– when he
actually did visit me on The Sixth Floor, too, that this information had not
gotten to Mehitable from them nor from any of the hospital personnel. Staff had had strict orders from the doctors
and from me not to speak to her. And its workers had not the doctors pledged to me.
Anyway, it was (alleged … ) to be the hospital’s and its medical records’
departmental policy. At 42½, I was a friggin’
adult after all, and they (again allegedly … ) could not release information to
anyone – simply by that fact alone. Indeed, one of the nurses in a chart note ––
a copy of all of which for my own ‘research’
in preparation to later be able to rebut Mr. Shindy Scheisser in ‘the Court’ I
eventually had had to buy for myself
… 20 bucks! … –– described just even Mehitable’s conversational
mannerisms to the ward’s staff members when she telephoned them, which they told
me she frequently did do, as … “dithering.”
How the fuck had I ended up on The Sixth Floor ward in the
first goddamn place?! From Dr. Narod, my
‘good, good man – doctor – pillar’! “It feels like I
could sleep forever.” That’s how! Dr. Narod had written on the hospital’s admission
note beside that quotation, the one back down in the emergency room which had
been my bleary – eyed, lids – at – half – mast answer to his query of how I
felt, “Legion expresses suicidal ideation!” … something I never, ever had stated!
But. But I?! I, a mere DEhuman
– girlchil’ – peon? A looooong, long
– time adult though I so be?! I … had had no witness! “No,” I had told Lionel before walking inside
alone, “I can do this all by myself. But
thanks ever so much anyhow, Lionel.”
“What the fuck!?
Suicide? That is friggin’ puissant,
Dr. Narod! What a stupid thing, what a
contrived, arrogant and so – male assumption!
for you to have gone and written down?!!
Why the fuck had I had Lionel drive me in to the ER if I didn’t care
about living or dying? Or, better yet,
if I’d really wanted to kill myself, then I should bloody well have driven myself to the hospital’s
emergency room; I could’ve maybe killed a few other people in the process and
taken them on down out of their frickin’ miseries, too, for chris’sake!”
For someone whom I had trusted
for quite some time, the $50 that Dr. Narod had contributed to my short – lived
political campaign was – now – peanuts.
Why, it took me, at 15 frigging dollars a month and never more than
that, until the end of 1998, to retire the entire amount of that hospital bill
balance! The county pay? As Herry had likely fantasized?! The county pay for this forced and
unjustified incarceration, this jailing?!
Fuck, the county didn’t pay; I had had to! I had had to sign away two mother – fucking
weeks of my life! –– as well as to pay these bullyingly entitled mother –
fuckers to take it from me, too! And
suffer threat and fear of the Cherokee
life imprisonment and, therefore, loss of everything including my very physical
freedom besides. I was to lose all of my rights ––
including the one to parent my own Children.
How was this at all U.S. Constitutional?!!! Herry was behind this. His mark was all over it. As Andrea Dworkin buttresses about documents not
working if they aren’t, as well, working for women, “How
was this at all constitutional?!!!”
The medical employees were under siege, too, some said. Because of lawsuits as well. The hospital and the psychiatric ward’s
specific staffers including both its nurses and the doctors. If they had given me something for sleep right
away that first Sunday morning early and I had been drinking alcohol or had had
something else in my system –– and all of that together had interacted badly,
even fatally, –– why, then the hospital might have been liable. Or, that
had been the story that one of the nurses there told me much, much later. She also had children at
If I’d only taken Lionel Portia inside with me like he had wanted
to go. If only.
With Pillared, Privileged Herry in the pathology business
and himself on this hospital’s very medical
staff, he definitely had obtained private information about me as a physician
that he was nowhere, no way –– never –– entitled to know, to
have –– or to (ab)use –– as an ex – husband, as a person, as the other,
opposing ‘parent’ embattled with me, a client there, for my Children’s very
custody.
Indeed, those of Dr. Elitist Edinsmaier’s Leader – of – the –
Community marks were all over this one.
It was no stretch, either, to further imagine Ms. Fannie Issicran
nodding her balding bobblehead as she stood, er, as she soooo plopped that unctuous,
male – identified McLive carcass of hers fully down beside her man!
A couple of cool, cool things did happen in the joint, inside
the SpaChezResort Hotel Sixth Floor. In
addition to the wonderfully refreshening sleep.
Friends from out of the woodwork called so much that by the end of the first
week, my telephone “privileges” had been severely limited by the staff. Abraham and László took me on long, long
around – the – block walks; that is, the second week there we daily went round
and round the hospital complex’s gardens, courtyard and grounds as long as I
was “allowed” outside. From The Teacup
nurse I obtained the name of the Reverend Mr. Keith Log, a therapist she said
truly, truly knew pain and suffering –– and survival.
Come to find out, Mr. Log was about my age, had been at one
time an ordained Mennonite minister married 26 years to Rhonda with whom he’d
raised up three birthed children to all of their adulthoods before explaining
to her that he, with the help of a lot of people among whom he counted both his
mother and father, was exiting the closet … finally. Their (legal and religious) marriage formally
ended, of course. Their friendship and
bonds, after three or four more fairly rocky, and even somewhat explosive, subsequent
years, did not. From very shortly after the
time when I myself exited that most closeted mental establishment on Monday
morning, 01 October 1990, to this, Keith remains for me and for hundreds in
town not only a lifeline ministering wherever he is needed but also a true part
of my estate … my friend.
But, two things were not cool. In no way.
Soooo, so … not cool.
The drugs. Om’gaaawd!
the drugs. I ballooned by the end of the
drug – taking, Herry – Daddee’s drugging of me, over two years later … 47
pounds up … which until this current 21st Century, never, ever came
off! For over a decade there occurred my
carrying around this fat that I, too, had actually paid them all biiiig dollars
–– to do to me! Herry –– fuckingly controlling
from behind his self – and judge – anointing as an elitist community pillar and
from the safety of his smarmy frontage as an unguentary physician in the area stomped
his toe tips down onto my bathroom scale every single time –– which was so damned
often I lost count –– that I begged the court – appointed outpatient
psychiatrist, Dr. Singh, to altogether quit with the lithium and the
haloperidol and the chlorpromazine and the imipramine. Just leave me the hell alone with
an itty bitty, wee amount of the friggin’ flurazepam, 15 mg
a night for awhile; that was all I needed.
And I,
a doctor my own self after all –– but a Not Male one, of
course! –– knew it, too.
But no.
A court document, an estoppel of some sort, would appear
ordering me to remain doped. To
remain fucked.
Barred, Herry did with that court – order paper of his, my freedom FROM
drugging. I –– and many,
many others –– call the dance I boogied …
the Haldol Shuffle. Inside the shell
that was the thing in the room who was me, I continued entirely lucid and solidly
knew just exactly how mother – fuckingly ridiculous I looked outwardly to all
who saw me literally pour on the pounds or try to stop the stiffened amble or
my rock – hard, stony and stoned, frozen face.
I could not smile but that I looked like my mumbling jaws would shatter
if I did try to. And my vision? I still
could not read, and Grace –– as, indeed, was I –– remained yet so troubled
about that for me. The words were not
only fuzzy, but they also jumped all over their freaking paragraphs. That was the worst of it for me; Grace
worried, “How will you get through your day, Legion, if you cannot read?! How?!”
What is as murdering is
that Herry
so very well knew, too, the loathsome, renditioning side effects of all of this
deadening junk – fuck. If Torturer
and Executioner Herod Edinsmaier in his chief role in The Opera could not slay
me himself and, most importantly here, at
the same time retain all of his glory and money and
if I would not seem to go dead
by way of my own hand –– which, of course, had not yet happened, –– well then,
fuck, all of this toxic chemical shit just might kill her! From the PDR which any of us all know is the
Physician’s Desk Reference:
“Overdose may cause cardiac rhythm disturbance, stupor, coma and death. May result in heart block, hypertension and
postural hypotension. Also may cause
coma, seizures, hallucinations, delusions and tremor.” That was just for imipramine – and for that
evil haloperidol as well as with chlorpromazine alone? Try possibly irreversible! Including like irreversibly dead! Whoa!
“Potentially irreversible, involuntary movements of the face, hands and
trunk (tardive dyskinesia), increased heart rate, low blood pressure and EKG changes.
Cases of sudden and unexpected death have been reported. May also cause high fevers, muscle rigidity, altered mental states and
instability of blood pressure and pulse; potentially fatal (neuroleptic
malignant syndrome).” Fuck! I was fucked –– soooo fucked –– and did I
ever know it, too!
The second heinous –– and utterly preventable ––
wicked thing? Tuesday evening, 25
September 1990, 12 – year – old Jesse
found a newspaper, the
The article’s author was a person then named Abbey Gaffey,
about 25 or so. By the time I was released
and on the way home from the hospital by way of a really rarely stunned AmTaham
on 01 October, Ms. Gaffey was, also a Monday one week hence, cleaning out her
desk at the Trib and told to be gone
from the building before her editor returned.
This boss man’s act was the
Tribune’s version of an appeasement bone thrown to the
A reporter Friend of mine, whom I shall not name outright for
obvious clandestine reasons, called me at the hospital to tell me that he
personally had witnessed this editor’s tyrannical abettors’ and cohorts’ deed
in the bloodbath that maneuvered my and my Boys’ published undoing, “No!”
“JYeah. Yea – aaaah,”
Friend declared.
“O my fucking god, Friend!”
“Ya’ know, Legion ... as much as you believe that your case
is important and as much as it so is to you and to your boys, of course, it
really isn’t to a newspaper. Nobody here
went lookin’ for this. We never do.”
“Wha’? What are you saying?!” Head – bangingly true my Friend had
been: I did think ‘my case,’ my struggles, my passions fantastically
important. That I so did.
“Well, it’s a divorce, Legion. A divorce.
People get frickin’ divorced every single day everywhere. And nobody prints a thing about it. And we don’t either. Not even the ones with kids. Everybody’s also got kids, Legion, and
o’course, a divorce is a lotta times, probably most times, gonna involve
kids. It just isn’t news. And we soooo don’t go lookin’ for it. Nobody from here went over to the courthouse
to get the daily rap sheet or whatever the fuck custody records are
called. We don’t have to; there’s plenty
of other stuff to report on and print.”
“Then … then?”
“Yeah, that’s what I’m coming to. The newspaper got the goods on you cuz of yer
ex – husband.”
“Yeah, well, that doesn’t surprise me. But, what?
Meaning what? What about Herry
and this printed fuck?”
“Seems Edinsmaier had his attorney fax us the Court’s order,”
Friend stated about the multiple pages of Sol Wacotler Seizor’s 24 September 1990
Mother – Fucking.
“Whaaa – at?”
“Yeah. Yesterday, no,
… no, Monday morning. Right after it must’ve
reached his lawyer’s office in
“Om’god. And then?”
“Yeah well, somebody gathered ‘em all together and read out
loud who it was about –– you. An’ we all
knew you were running. Ya’ know, runnin’
for county recorder. That guy took it over
to the editor. That was about 11
yesterday, an’ Abbey? Well, Abbey didn’t
right then have an assignment so he put her on it. She’d already met deadline, and she was freed
up; that’s why the editor put it on to her.”
“Jeesh! All of them? All of the pages?”
“O JYeah. Thaaa –
at was the worst, Legion. Everybody
in the newsroom was snickerin’. Well,
you’ve read it, haven’t ya’? It soooo sucks. It just kills you. I mean:
it just kills
you! You have read it, … right, Legion?!”
“Well, actually no, Friend.
I haven’t. I know about what it
says though. Sort of. But I
can’t read. All of the goddamn dope
–– and I can barely keep food down for that matter. Ever since Carlotta was here last night. She brought in to me both the decree and the newspaper.” Those two items she had had all right. Acting the evening before in her two pieces
of lace – fringed ivory Escada Couture like she was such the concerned friend –
o’ – mine driving her tiny, teal – tinged attorney ass all the way up from Des
Moines “to serve” me in The Sixth Floor Hotel what amounted to just another
helping of mother – fucking. This from
the person who did not even know ‘my case’ –– from its
first minute inside Act Two Part Two, the person who didn’t even have the
witnesses straight, let alone, the facts.
Nor all of its facts. Let alone, any of the ones that she had
managed to have at her very
fingertips –– aside from their being anywhere near the tip of her friggin’
tongue.
So head – bangingly true it was. Only I
had known ‘my case’ like ‘my case’ had needed to be known ––
yet I could not shepherd
it, let alone, … present it.
The guts of Judge Sol Wacotler Seizor’s Trial Two decree
signed 21 September 1990, amounted to the fact that even though he
acknowledged that I had “not significantly restricted Herry’s
specified visitation,” [There had, Jury, in reality? There had been noooo restriction in “Herry’s
specified visitation” ever at all! ! !] not only were all three Boys to be handed
over to the Good and Wonderful Dr. Herod Edinsmaier on Saturday, the 13th
of October, at 11:30 in the morning with the directive specifically to this man
that he “should not destroy the love and attachment they have for their mother;”
but daJudge also gave a similarly countenanced community pillar, daDoctor, the
now court – ordered patriarchal power to reign over and to rein in … me! That is to say, the fact that Herry, daMan
and the daddee, was also a fine, leadership hoo – hah, a
physician at that, this now meant that The Court in the form of The High
Aggrandizier was stepping aside and aggrandizing The Androcentric Good Doctor
instead. Judge Seizor had just
supplanted himself with Dominion – Colonizing Herry –– and ordered Dr.
Edinsmaier to literally take over all legal control of the Truemaier Boys
and
of me –– for as much and for as long as King Herod wanted this
reign and these reins!
No matter that Herry Edinsmaier was also … my ex –
husband. No. No matter that
small thing.
“Legion may have visitation provided she has furnished to
Herry a signed statement requesting visitation, stating that during the periods
of visitation she will refrain from any negative comments to or about Herry,
his spouse, and her children in the presence of the boys, and that she is
undergoing and will continue to undergo counseling to help her achieve a
harmonious relationship.” Next page The
High Aggrandizier rubber – stamped King Herod’s reign of terror in this folie à
deux of his with Herry, “If it becomes apparent to Herry that Legion is
continuing to engage in the same practices that blah, blah, blah …”
Hmmm, just precisely how, in specific outline and detail,
was that order of Judge Seizor’s “apparent
to Herry?” O, but he waaas … the Androcentric Good Doctor,
Dr. Edinsmaier was. So, in countenance
and demeanor then by the fact that Herry was i) a man and ii) a medical doctor,
then he looked quite a passel like the flowingly intelligent, black – caped
magistrate himself, the High Aggrandizier.
Likewise then, was Herod not also most able by so appearing as clever
and gifted, especially to all in the community, to have all matters of the
children and their custody, his own
children, become “apparent” to
him? As well as, of course, with the
aggrandizing of Dr. Herod Edinsmaier through then his maleness, his superior
medical knowledge and his training, why daMan also known as the ex – husband
and the daddee would also be “objective,”
capable and skilled in the discernment
of the law like a judge would be,
would he not, in setting down the detailed guidelines into what Judge Sol
Wacotler Seizor literally decreed was to be “a program of mental therapy”
for the childlike subject, Legion True,
to follow and to adhere to and for himself, King Herod, to design and, then
subsequently –– if pleased and satisfied … enough … as to the child’s
performance thereof, to sign off on!
Just like, by way of Herry’s long and circuitously stretchy
digits, King Herod had already been symphonizing and conducting from behind The
Opera’s scenes … with “the papers” and with “sending” Sheriff Stout and Attorney
Zaffar and with all of those psychotropic drugs and the threat to me of Cherokee State Mental Hospital … thus
far. Just like the
The folie à deux from the High Aggrandizier continued,
“Joint custody should be terminated and sole custody be placed with Herry. Payment of child support to Legion should be
terminated after payment of the October 01, 1990 payment. Herry has the right to make application to
require her to contribute to the support of the children or share in the uninsured
medical expenses. He is to advise her by
letter that it is his intention to terminate visitation if her practice
continues. He has the right to deny
visitation.”
Herry could devise a program of mental therapy that I needed
to follow and about which he, The Good Doctor Edinsmaier himself, granted by
way of the folie à deux with The High Aggrandizier, that is, this authority now
conveyed upon him by ‘the Court,’ would decide was either enough or it
wasn’t. Herry could now wield the power to mother – fuckingly decide the construct
and structure of such a program all by himself, to have me, his ex – wife – yet
– nonetheless – “child,” submissively succumb to it and to complete it
successfully to his satisfaction alone,
before he, Herry, would even have to consider affixing his
signature to something that bestowed back upon me – perhaps – a “chance” to have contact with any one of my very own children again! Unfuckingbelievable! I mean: THINK on that! Unbelievable mother – fuck!
No matter that Dr. Edinsmaier was a sex addict and had repeatedly
sexually and physically abused his sons.
And me.
“If her practice continues …” Of not turning a blind eye any longer, that
practice of hers? No, Judge Seizor, Your
High Aggrandizier, no matter that small thing.
No matter that Judge Seizor also wrote that with me, “The boys continue
to do well except that Zane has been involved in consuming beer, smoking and he
is not achieving his educational potential.
Each of the parties suggests that that’s due to the action of the other
one.” No matter that they already were doing, all three of them in fact, truly quite, quite well! With
me!
Judge Seizor, the High Aggrandizier, had just given a fairly
smart American man not only as legal chattel the very children whom I
alone chose to grow –– AND . AND . AND . CHOSE TO NOT ABORT
–– but also complete legal control,
dominion and all – encompassing power over me, that man’s ex – wife. Take my children, then ya’ take me and all
that is mine, too. Ya’ take her
children, then you take and murder all that is of her soul and of her freedom,
all that is of any real importance to any true mother whom I know …
anywhere. Take, take and take. Be certain to take and own it all. Take all of hers. Whoooa!
Now what literally mother – fucking application of the worldwide concept
of aprovechar is that! Sperm Exaltation!
A FLIP / REVERSE would never
have even entered itself onto any judge’s radar. To decree this –– onto a man? Onto a father? To be controlled, this daddy, by a
woman? By his ex – wife? A father – fucking?! Fuck –– never!
This, … this patently patriarchally decreed “program of
mental therapy?” Well –– this
I, along with Grace Portia’s initial and absolutely passionate insistence as
well, resolved that I, Dr. Legion True, true mother, would never do. I refused.
Friend proceeded with the account at the Tribune on the 24th, “Yeah, Abbey got it; and after
all the laughing died down, why, she went to work on it. Around 5, the boss must’ve seen her
leaving. She was outside on the sidewalk
headed to her car. He bolted out the
door and grabbed her arm from behind –– kinda draggin’ her back up to the front
door all the time yelling at her. The
rest of us?! –– Well, we all ran to the window.”
“He did what?! Isn’t
that assault?! In the workplace that’s
assault, isn’t it?! What then? What happened?”
“Seems he hated her story.
That’s what happened. Her first
one, that is. Thought it was way, way
too watered down. He actually literally threw
Abbey back into her chair in front of her monitor and was still screaming at
her, and I’m quoting here now, Legion, ‘Put
the goddamn titillating, juicy stuff back in it, Abbey. Do it!
Do it now!’ That’s what he
told her to do. And, … an’ then he just
stood there. Over her shoulder the
entire time. Till she got it done. The second version of it. The one she’d tried so hard …
not … to write at all!”
“Om’frickin’gaaawd, Friend!
Unfuckingbelievable!”
“JYeah, I’ll say!
Well, you can imagine: we’re all
tiptoeing around here yet today. We are
so shuuut the hell up, I’m telling ya’, Legion!”
“I guess. Whoooa,
Friend, it is bad, isn’t it?! I’m certainly done as a candidate. Not to mention through and done, too, as a mama,
huh?!”
“Well, yeah, Legion, it so does look exactly that way. You are through being a candidate; that’s for
damn sure. Talked to Margot yet?” Friend meant Margot, the Party’s county
chairwoman. I hadn’t I replied.
Not at that point yet, I had not.
AmTaham was so sad.
Angry, too. AmTaham did angry
about the same way that I did angry: in nearly
utter silence for days and days and days.
He didn’t talk now as he drove. I
was so sad, too, but happy to finally be headed home –– such as my home now was: what with Mehitable’s and Herry’s both having ‘rearranged’ my house and all of its inhabitants and all
of its contents to suit just the two of them!
Grace told me during the first week in which I’d gone
missing that Herry had come around multiple times to hers and Lionel’s so she
suspected he’d been over to Havencourt and speaking then to Mehitable, too,
when Mirzah, Jesse and Zane had gone from the Portias back over to there; but
she wasn’t certain on that point. “I do have to tell ya’ something you are just
not
going to believe though, Legion! Herry
actually said to both Lionel and to me that we should all get together with him
and Fannie McLive – now. Ya’ know, like
before – with all of our Boys. Go out
together for supper and come over and visit and they all come by for pie and
coffee or something! JYeah, he actually
did say “pie”?!! He did! He said “pie”!! Like you, Legion, like you didn’t exist! Like you never even existed before!
As if you –– Zane, Jesse and Mirzah’s actual mama? Just as if you’d never really ever existed
at all either, Legion! He made you … ah,
ya’ know … sound invisible! Know what Lionel did? He just glared him down. Not one word came out of Lionel. Then he turned his back on Herry and went
down to the basement. Takes a lot to
shock Lionel, ya’ know. Believe me,
Legion, Lionel was stunned!” I believed
her; I believed Lionel was stunned.
We were grieving, Mirzah, Jesse, Zane, AmTaham and me. Mehitable’s voice was the last one I needed
to hear and, so unfortunately, the only one talking. Fuck, those first days of the orange and brown
harvest month were nearly my darkest, I thought. Things were about to get a helluva lot
blacker; I could not even have imagined then just how black. Years later, Adam and Abraham from Quaker
Meeting recounted the
Come to find out, Reporter
Abbey Gaffey had, indeed, … been fired!
And was leaving town on nearly the exact same day that
AmTaham drove me home –– in order to move back in with her own parents in Sioux
City, up in the very same northwest Iowa direction but even a bit further on from
Ames than Cherokee. Two Quakers walked
into the downtown offices of the Ames Tribune
to speak to its editor – in – chief where they then learned that over 300
subscriptions had been dropped within a month after the front – page article had
run and that letters to its editor had poured in regarding its soooo, so – yellow,
tabloid journalism. None, the Quakers
were told, of the letters went after me or my “obsession” –– as the High Aggrandizier decreed my stance had
been on Herry’s sexual addiction and his paternal parenting behavior with my Boys.
In addition to the one entitled with AmTaham’s vocabulary
word in its headliner, “Story appealed to prurient
interest,” another letter published had been written by a fellow Kate Mitchell Elementary
classmate of Jesse, Zane and Mirzah’s –– whose own mama had coached Mirzah and
Jesse in their early – morning, before – school sessions of French and
German. The child’s submission was
entitled “Truemaier story was in poor taste.”
The Truemaier Boys’ classmate wrote, “To the Editor: I think the article in the Sept. 25 Daily Tribune entitled ‘Judge: Mental
disturbance key in True custody case’ with its second page headline of
‘Kids: Psychiatric counseling
recommended’ was in poor taste. I don’t
think there is any purpose in putting
that article in the paper. Other people
have no business knowing the details of the Trues’ and the Truemaiers’ personal
lives. All the article does is drag
their family through the mud. I also
really don’t understand why you put the sons’ names in the article. I don’t know when you went to school last,
but I’m in the seventh grade at the
The Quakers Abraham and Adam had asked –– in person –– for
an explanation and a retraction: an
apology. The big – shot men of the Tribune’s answer to them and to the furious
citizens of
Ms. Abbey Gaffey, the
Tribune’s “unbridled reporter” –– which is how they, her boss ... and that
man’s boss, had ever – so – androcentrically – and – conveniently excused themselves –– by terming and, thus, …
by sacrificing … this particular peon – DEhuman worker to
their
I myself spoke by telephone to
Ms. Gaffey in the spring of 1995, 4½ years after its headlining publication. Around Mother’s Day it was then. She absolutely and utterly confirmed Friend’s
accounting of all of the events of Monday,
24 September 1990, at the
Then Ms. Abbey said something
else rather riveting, “Ya’ know, Dr. True, I was out of a job for six
months. Not only did I have to move back
in with my parents but I was also blackballed and couldn’t get work anywhere at
a newspaper in
We Quakers? We never
got our apology. And I? The crazed whore of an unfit mother? I was out of the running for my jobs,
too. Finished. Kaput.
Finito. Either as candidate for
county recorder or … as mama.
* *
* *
What a near perfect soul – murdering stratagem of Pissed –
off, Gut – the – Bloody – Bitch Herry’s!
Cunning and calculation in this fairly smart pillar. “Keep Legion poor, as poor as I can manage
from here, here from behind the main curtain of The Opera! Smear her!
Keep her from that cushy county job, and what’s more? O, what hard copy have I now to use against
her anyfuckingwhere else that I so choose to!
To smash her with it! To crush
her! She sure’s hell, poor as a fucking
church mouse, can’t continue to keep coming after me –– and certainly not in
fucking court if she hasn’t got a fucking lawyer! Or, the means to pay one with!”
No matter the Truth. No matter the opprobrious Eight
Pages’ Truth ! ! !
The “evidence” that was truly “key” in Act Two Part One,
that is Trial Two’s, Respondent’s Exhibit S –– that’d be S as in “sex
addict.”
What follows is
from Herry’s own script scribbled down onto pages taken from a Pfizer drug
rep’s freebie doxycycline hyclate pad left from time to time around the laboratory
of the Good and Wonderful Doctor, that is, from out of Dr Herod Edinsmaier’s own
hand! Verbatim! and In
Toto! [except for the
bracketed phrases which are my only
added comments]:
“Fears and Resentment of Legion:
Fears of Legion.
Fears of other people learning the truth about me.
Afraid that I am a sex / love / romance addict.
Told Fannie about Murielle / Celeste, animals. – Affects my self – esteem. [Legion told, that is; the Good and Wonderful
Doctor certainly did not reveal any of his proclivities for incest and
bestiality to Ms. Fannie!]
Threatens to beat me in court. – Affects my self – esteem.
Calls my place a pigpen.
Sends me books and letters.
Legion’s criticism / opinion of me gets into my mind and it
is like I hear her and feel unsure of myself or guilty as if I have done
something wrong. E.g., I think what time
would she put the kids to bed? Would
she feed them better than I would? Am I
really a sex / love addict? Am I
really obsessed to the point that
I would endanger the kids?
Am I abandoning the kids? I fear
I am not a responsible parent. I
fear I am not a responsible pathologist.
I am abandoned by the boys. I will
have to live alone without a loving wife.
What I have been doing?
Calling long distance [to Fannie] when I feel down. Writing many cards and long letters, love
letters – but at work. Saying I am in
love, that I love her. Invited her to
What I am promising or advertising:
1) love 2) a hurt that Fannie can fix 3) a father for her
daughter 4) acceptance of her appearance / desire for her body 5) “help” with parenting 6) more money /
more room / bigger house
Fannie seems to offer:
1) someone who loves me without criticism or reservation 2)
a child who chooses to be with me and who is affectionate 3) a home where
someone lives; a place to come home to 4) economic security = that old woman friend of hers’ inheritance
[ !
! ! ] 5) emotional security; someone I can love, trust and confide
in; outlet for my affection, emotions 6) safety from Legion’s criticism 7) refuge
from job and parental responsibilities [ ! ! ! ] 8) chance to realize
and relive a 26 – year – old fantasy [ ! ! ! ] 9) chance
to be young and carefree again [ !
! ! ] 10) driving to Kansas six hours each way 11) making love to
her 12) asking about her tubal 13) sending her pictures of me and the boys
What I have done with Mary Jane:
1) told her I like Fannie 2) sent her cards signed ‘love
Herry’ 3) paid attention to her, baseball, swimming, pool, bowling 4) returned
her hugs 5) gave her advice like I tell my boys 6) bought her gifts 7) openly
expressed affection for Fannie 8) ?acted like Dad?
What she has done / said:
1) she is in love with me 2) I was the first and only one
she was in love with 3) she vowed to be abstinent until she were with someone
to whom she felt spiritually / emotionally intimate – like me 4) told me about
her older, adopted daughter, about being
attacked [ ! ! ! ] 5) sent me cards / letters 6) visited me in Ames
– her suggestion; it surprised me but I immediately accepted 7) sent me books
to read, tapes to listen to 8) told me about her tubal, stapling, medifast [ !
! ! ] 9) told me she could become certified in Iowa 10) told me in
six years she would be ready to quit teaching and work at McDonald’s and she
didn’t care where the burger joint was located
My history with Legion:
Had ideas about her roommates but never gave any sign [ !
! ! … JYeah, that
is what Herry, of course, wanted to believe:
that I did not know! But … I
knew! I always knew that he had
had “ideas” about my roommates! All
women I know … know this!] Trying to be a grad student but spending my
time frivolously drinking and talking to friends, taking some courses, accepted
to med school for Fall ’75. Worked in
lab and had hots for new tech in Bio 101.
Continued living in trailer. I
really thought I might die.
I got sick with Loeffler’s syndrome.
Unable to work in lab or elsewhere.
Spent week at the
Back to myself I spat, “Herry! ‘After you?
Coming after you?!’ How you!
How so narcissistically right on the mark of you, Herry! It was never
about … you. Never you, Dr.
Edinsmaier. Nor your fucking money. Not that and not your status. It was never, fucking ever about you,
Herry. It was about the Boys. And, yeah.
Yeah, you’re right all right! And
so was Mirzah when he told Mz. CherryBabe Canard. I would
be a – comin’ after them, and I still will! It was never, ‘You call, O He
Who Must Be Obeyed, and I do your bidding,’
Herry. I have the Truth. Just try.
Just try and hold us mothers back!
‘Young and carefree again?’ Whaaa’, Herry? “Carefree again”?! With three boys and a couple of
stepchildren? Carefree?! Yeah, riiiight. ‘Refuge
from job and parental responsibilities?’ Well, fuuuuck that! That’s not even to mention the ‘attack’, or ‘Murielle, Celeste and the animals’, Herry! You write that you gave “no sign” about my
roommates, Herry? You fool. You fucking, narcissistic fool, Herry! I always
knew. We women who are roommates? We always
know! But … I am a fucked fool … nevertheless!
‘Fool me twice, shame on me’ – fool!
That kinda’ fool! Was that that
you ‘thought’ you might die when I
nursed you for three months’ time back from that pulmonary parasitism’s brink ––
or that you ‘wished’ you might die! ‘Sons,
you have no mother! Mother, you have no
sons!’ ??? Uh – uh. No.
No. Don’t even go there. Ya’ got one thing gone straight at least
though, Herry: what you were to me! ‘There.
Goes. My. Sex.
Object.’ But you, Herry? You
take my babies? Well, you’re in for
it then. Just try. Just try to hold this ‘girl’ back! You take my Boys
away from me?! What did you
expect?! What did you expect?! I
wouldn’t notice?! … I’ma gonna NOTICE! I am! I am a direct descendant of AmTaham True
and, as he had been when at once breathing, am myself a Righteous Ancestor – in
– Training! I. Am. Going. To. Notice!
Another piece of ‘testimonial evidence’ … another FACT,
O He Who Is THE So Great and Wonderful Doctor Herod Edinsmaier! ONE LAST FACT here, O He Who Is, in
veridicality, THE Mother – Fucker:
You demanded of me … Zane’s ABORTION, You Terrorist! MY BODY. MY CHILD. MY CHOICE.
And what you never –– THEN ––
acknowledged, Terrorist Herry: IF I had
aborted Zane, THEN … THEN … there NEVER, EVER EITHER would have existed a Jesse
or a Mirzah! IF I had had Zane aborted,
THEN we
–– you and I
–– would not have had either the same subsequent unions nor any such future liaison
whatsoever at all. THUS, NO
JESSE. THUS, NO
MIRZAH. Yet you, Abortion –
Commander Herod Edinsmaier, you have held onto –– all of this time –– you have possessed and ordered it up, although
no longer “legal,” certainly not “constitutional” and NEVER MORAL … the
entire World’s “RULE of PATRIARCHAL LAW” at your whimsy, ‘SONS,
YOU HAVE NO MOTHER! MOTHER, YOU HAVE NO
SONS!’ ”
The truck pulled up, a Ryder 24 – footer even! And into its back end on Saturday, 13 October
1990, around about 11:30 am went one bicycle.
Nothing else. Nothing else had my
14 – , 12 – or 10 – year – old ready, packed or, most importantly, the desire to put into Daddee – Herry’s (literally)
mother – fucking truck.
AmTaham True, with every centimeter of his brain, blood and
flesh the Cinque – “only reason I ever
was … is … for Legion now” – physique, stood statuesque and in
complete view of us all at the west window to the side of my king bed, its
curtains purposefully this time pulled completely back and him poised there in
his full ancestral force and regalia watching over me. Two of his precious progeny climbed into the
cab; I let go of Mirzah, and he belted himself up into the backseat of Ms.
Fannie Issicran McLive’s red Baretta which had been following her Herry
everywhere that daMan led.
“We’ll see allya’all back here in just a little bit. I promise,” and I smiled and waved. Off the Good and Wonderful Doctor spirited
this True mother’s three Sons. They were
gone from my sight around the corner at the top of Havencourt in less than a
minute’s time. I went back inside to Zephyr,
Rex and Lady, their tomkitty, serpentine kingsnake and zebra finch, all three of
the Boys’ pets never in the custody of
… and, most assuredly, never the work
of actually loving and caring for them
wanted by … Herry the Daddee.
* *
* *
Come to find out, Herry had no job anymore either. Not here in
Ms. Fannie McLive’s apartment complex in
I had 30 days to appeal and did. AmTaham and Mehitable left me alone and went
back to
The next Monday, a week after the one that some federal
workers call a Columbus Day holiday while righteous, Native American ancestors
– in – training instead term it Indigenous People’s Day, nonetheless, a day off from their work for those feds,
Mirzah occupied a freed – up desk in a fifth grade at Urbandale’s Karen Farmer
Elementary School. And whose classroom I
immediately visited for an afternoon. I
made myself known to his teacher and the school’s principal and asked for
reports often while being so, so careful not to let it out directly that I was
not the custodial parent fearing, of course, that so mother – fuckingly common
backlash. Of the Rachel on her Victoria
Joy’s emergency C – section birthing day variety –– even ever rampant as I type
in Y2003! That mother – fucking backlash.
Jesse and Zane were each enrolled in sixth and eighth grade
sections at the capital city burb’s one middle school where its staffers needed
a parent volunteer to assist the nurse with the school’s annual fall scoliosis
checks. The Truemaiers were represented
by an Ancestor in Training all right; but, trust me, it was not the ‘real’ doctor, the Good Medical Doctor Edinsmaier nor his Ms. Fannie
Issicran who proffered themselves up, let alone, their time.
These two –– my visit to Mirzah’s grade and the spine – spotting
scope – out at the suburb’s middle school –– were the last times officials from
either Urbandale school even spoke to me –– without my forcing it the one
future time it became so weirdly necessary for me to press for the middle
school principal’s attention.
László wondered aloud to me incredulously, “How can you
possibly do it? I’ve already maxed out
what I can loan ya’, Legion?” Thus began
Act Two Part Three of The Opera … the appeal of Trial Two!
“I know you have, László.
So’s everyone else from whom I’ve borrowed. Well, no, they haven’t said as much. It’s just that I can’t ask ‘em for anymore
than I already have. I’m calling Wyman
tonight. I have no choice. He just might. Especially if I ask him and his family, ya’
know, his sister and their mom and dad to just put it directly into Carlotta’s
accounts. I mean, ya’ know, I wouldn’t
even see the money myself.”
“Yeah?!”
“Well, I don’t know.
It’s all I can think to do. Hell,
they’ve been through this themselves, you remember? An appeal I mean. Carlotta wants $12,000 before even
starting. That’s before I can even get
word one to her from the transcripts! I only have a thousand left, and that’s gotta
go to the court reporter for her to type up the trial transcripts! No, it’s true what you say: my uncle and aunt didn’t win theirs, did
they? But, László, I have to. I just have to. I have to get my Boys back.”
Ardys, Sterling and Endys, my own siblings, had never yet,
it seemed to me, begun, let alone, taken for themselves somberly, solemnly …
Ancestor Training. And, as regards
particularly me, their rapscallion of a miscreant – atheist sister, why, they
were not about to start now either. I
didn’t even bother to ask any one of them.
Not before that day … during Trials One and Two –– nor on to this very day –– has any one of the three
other of AmTaham’s and Mehitable’s gene pools loaned me ten cents, … let alone,
loaned me the dime for the purpose of their trying –– at all –– to help me remain in my own children’s lives.
I mean: perhaps one
could usually agree that that business would be a worthy enough cause to which
to contribute some family nickels. But
not these Trues. None of these three
True siblings had even so much as placed to me one telephone call wishing us
four –– the Truemaier Boys and me, their mama –– good luck or asking if they
could come lend rides or cook some meals or provide childcare or a tank of gasoline. And not a one of these three had attended
either trial. For our spirits’ support. Not
even for one session of one trial!
For forty – somethings and as my Boys’ Ancestors – to – Be,
my two blood sisters and one brother had apparently never wanted for themselves
the work of Emily Dickinson’s five words, “My friends are my estate.” And as for
“family” and the all – consuming importance thereof? The absolute attentiveness to and importance
of “family” –– an institution to which Mehitable True had for so many, many
years given such flippantly flapping lip service? Ha! Patriarchal
religious hypocrites the lot of them –– all.
And most assuredly again, the direct mother – fucking and paternalistic representations
and societal thinkings to Zane, Jesse, Mirzah and to me of the backlash of Rachel’s genre and of the virulent and wicked type
about which ancient feminist, Dr. Phyllis Chesler, writes in her 1986 tome, Mothers
on Trial: The Battle for Children
and Custody. They and their silences? Signaling their squawkingly tacit
acquiescence of daMan’s, of the patriarchy’s control over all entities DEhuman? About them?
About this? This I shall not
ever forget!
But I did call my cousin Wyman. He asked me one question, “Will you please
not say anything, Legion?”
I refused to sing.
What have all of those who actually did will themselves to do the work of being a true friend ever known?
All that they ever knew was that Legion True’s and the Truemaier Boys’
appeal, that is, Act Two Part Three, mysteriously became, indeed, on track and …
proceeding!
Linda Kincaid, the mother of one of Zane’s
I was rocking and called for her to come in. Linda did.
We have been solid friends since.
Once inside my Havencourt condominium she enjoyed with me a television
that was turned completely off, the warmth of a second comforter I loaned her,
a cup of hot jasmine – sage tea and a 48°F
room temperature while we talked.
Halloween, Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Year’s all came and
all went; and I had had no Truemaier Boys with me at any time. Grace, Lionel, László, Judd, Linda, Margaret,
Abraham, Adam and I righteously refused to put together a proposal of “a
program of mental therapy” for me, and Wyman had not expected that I would
anyhow! None of his ex – cunt’s non – cooperation pleased Herry. Or Ms. Fannie Issicran McLive, daMan’s next – cunt. To say the least. László and I continued with a few icy roadtrips,
60 minutes of one – way driving time, at a minimum, to visit with Carlotta
Klutz. With all of those coastal TV –
videotaping crews long – gone back to
Apparently the “I just don’t lose. I just don’t know what happened” – blather from
a babbling Barrister Klutz just wasn’t enough of an explanation into my one
hearing ear to satisfy me, a most veritably vexed Dr. Legion True.
“You lost, Fucker, because of a mother – fucking number of
things, one gargantuan one of which was:
you were not paying to
me and to my matters the attention ‘my case’ required, Idiot Klutz!” No, none of that had Cousin Wyman nor I told
my lawyer; but his telephone call to her, after mine to him, apparently woke
her up some. I most certainly could have
then and before, even since, used some more friends in higher places like Wyman
Natures. I myself? Alone?
I smacked about as much sway with the blank – suited broncos of downtown
I rocked. The chill
grew deeper. Weeks passed. Nights and days and nights and days and
nights and days. I rocked.
Lady stopped laying and ruffled and furled but by my recoiling
her cage further up nearer to the ceiling, she wasn’t too, too cold I
thought. “How could Herry not even ask,
let alone not demand, to take the Boys’ belovéd pets with them all? How could an alleged ‘loving father’ not even want to take the kiddos’ kitty
with him?! O JYeah!” I reminded myself,
“there would have been with Daddee’s taking ‘primary – care custody,’ too, of
all of the Boys’ animals … the work for
Herry Edinsmaier of just having to remember
… about them!”
I saved enough from the alimony for Rex’s groceries! … for
her two mice every three to four weeks was all now. And went to meals for myself of microwaved
baked potatoes featuring fake butter and salt and pepper and, for dessert, sliced
bananas under sprinkled sugar nestled in skim milk. I cashed in every single one of the IRAs
accumulated to date so far, all of them the traditional kind since there
weren’t any such ones at the time as the Roth type. The tax and penalties due on that deed the
next year as my punishment for this too – early liquidating exploit of mine
there in the winter of 1991, I gave not even one thought to. And on a life insurance policy, the one on
me, I took out a loan. Creative financing? Hmmm.
Hardly that. Yet –– then or
since, not a one of any funding government’s pennies have I ever taken in
charitable welfare! For anything.
There was still intact, of course, that other insurance
policy where I was the benefactor and also, most fortuitously, its owner as
well and about which Mr. Jazzy Jinx had simply put an index finger to his pursed
and very, very closed lips. The insured
was Dr. Herod Edinsmaier, and the policy was only a term one for $100,000; but Lawyer
Jinx advised me that Herry’s Fancier Schmancier Attorney Shindy Scheisser had apparently altogether missed it! on the previously
court – ordered disclosures which had been my answers to the Interrogatories and to the
Production of Documents, a massive mistake which he, that is, which Mr.
Jazzy Jinx extolled, er, boasted about himself to me that he never, ever
made. “Ya’ just don’t wanna let these
stay,” he’d taught me, “in case, something dreadful comes up happening after the divorce. No, no, no, these don’t stay intact. These policies a punctilious and forthright attorney’ll
always look for and have them all either
dropped, cashed in or nullified –– ya’ know, made void –– as part of the dissolution
settlement cuz ya’ just can never know. Ya’
know? You can never know who to trust
afterwards!” Mine on the Good and
Wonderful Doctor Herod Edinsmaier, single – engine prop pilot to the
Mine was so intact
and as Wizened and Wise Friend Frieda had quite often passionately besot me to
keep it utterly unbroken … was so going
to stay, for always, exactly that way
–– intact! No matter what! … I vowed. To myself and to
Frieda. This I had promised!
Linda from her workplace brought to me a blank copy of the SF – 171, that dastardly hideous
application for employment at any job … federal! For anything federally connected or for
services that I perform wherein my paycheck is given over to me through the
auspices of the United States Congress, an SF
– 171 must be filled out. This was
not the first one I had ever completed, but that I did do –– arduously on the
old black Brother electric typewriter through a ridiculously herculean total of
17 supplemental pages of education and
experience history –– and turned it in to the National Veterinary Services
Laboratory and to the National Animal Disease Center and to the National Veterinary
Biologics Laboratory, there being –– at the end of this 1990 year –– not one
local university professorship opening in veterinary microbiology advertised
nor available to application.
Within moments of turning in this tome, well, a few January
days and nights of rocking really, and bedecked in the very same L.L. Bean cinnamon
tweed pencil skirt suit in which wool I had earlier landed the Kansas State assistant
professorate post almost exactly five years to the month, I was in a veterinary
laboratory’s conference room … interviewing.
Other than I, only men present. Regarding
a rather attractive governmental position with a GS – 11 or – 12 classification
at the NADC –– one at which I was to work on microbes of the genera Salmonella and Chlamydia. And at all of the
mighty sweet federal benefits, of course, with $31,900 to start and “… when
could that be?!”
“Hhmmm, this is lovely!
I’ll be back in touch just as soon as I check on something,” I
replied.
The something that needed my attention right then was the
conditions of the offer to me by those other federales: by some other men over at the Biologics Unit,
a position even more to my liking –– that is, vaccines and bacterins and the
development and production of veterinary immunizing agents –– smack in line
with my PhD program actually! This one
even went so far as to promise me that I would be almost exclusively working
with bovines again, either dairy or beef, and perhaps some dealings with swine,
too, and “ … will that suit?!”
“Hell, yes! That will soooo suit!” Same ranking, same bucks essentially. The cattle and hogs after the thousands and thousands of mice and rats first, of
course. O well. In this town that was the name of the game.
Good, good news all of this!
Truly mighty fine news –– since, hey, there were no more IRAs nor any
other pieces of paper worth one damn dollar lying anywhere around our little
condo that I could find. And it was such
a very, very cold February 1991. I
motored right down to the outskirts of
We four met like this almost every afternoon –– in the station wagon at the library lot or
inside it at a table behind its stacks near the window where I could view the
main artery leading in to the library building or below the bleachers at the
sports fields. For 2¼ hours per weekday
I wasn’t rocking because I was on Interstate – 35 headed to the Mixmaster interchange
onto I – 80, then west to Merle Hay Mall and onto
I saw the Truemaier Boys more … than “Custodial
Parent” – Herry did.
Dr. Herod Edinsmaier was not at home. Herry – Daddee wudn’t home.
Not because of his supposedly working any of those long, long per diem locum tenens hours either.
Herod was not at home because he was
gone, gone, going and gone –– outta town.
Out … of town!
Dr. Edinsmaier’s Great (work
– of – parenting) Escape! As per …
usual!
Apparently the temporary
pathology positions within the largest of Iowa’s cities were about as plentiful
and capable of sustaining and uplifting a household of four pre – teens and
teenagers plus the Next Cunt in Daddee’s Stash as the temporary veterinary
microbiology ones were in Ames! But I
had to carefully and continuously surveil the streets around the schools
because Ms. Fannie Issicran McLive in her folie à deux – posturing as the
Sheriff of His Majesty’s Nottingham patrolled them either in the red Baretta which
Ms. McLive had brought to the wedded union or with Mary Jane
riding along with … mother and adopted daughter side – by – side as yet another
folie à deux – posturing inside the newest vehicle, their Chevy #2, which Ms.
McLive and the Kingdom’s highest monarch, Dr. Herod Edinsmaier, had subsequently
then purchased together. The AM General
Corporation’s equivalent of a family Humvee, a faux woody, white paddy wagon of
vintage remoteness, the thingy had eight or ten or a hundred cylinders and
about 15 seats or something. An armored tank
from which –– for sure –– to fight off attacks from … The Mother Legion!
Ms. Fannie Issicran McLive held for me only one
mystery. Otherwise her and Ms. Canard’s
male – identified persona of female read, for me, like an open book –– which it
probably was: that is, that of
Mehitable’s text for such women –– full – up of those deferent, soft and servile directives of my mother’s. I wondered how it was that Ms. McLive appeared to be getting away with it: with smoking cigarettes.
Herry as Herry had drunk, all right, barrel loads of brew to
be sure and even drove drunk innumerable times, those times all crimes,
of course; but Herry as Dr. Edinsmaier loathed tobacco. And I mean:
loooooathed it. All cigarette,
cigar and chewing forms of it.
I should know. I was
a “recovered smoker,” an ex – smoker
of both cigarettes and cigars, those little cigarillo kind, Swisher Sweets without the filter ––
which I inhaled and … adored. Devin, of Edinsmaier’s
and my mutual friends Abby and Devin, had quit with his tobacco addiction altogether
by first switching from cigarettes to those wee cigarillo Sweets and had in just two months’ time completely weaned himself
totally off nicotine. I was so impressed
that he, an ex – Viet Nam War marine who drank the quantities that Herry consumed
could accomplish this, quit the beer and
lose 20 pounds all in less than six months’ time that I was sure Devin’s plan
would work, the no – nicotine part of it at least, for me, too. I threw away the last
That Thursday I quit cold turkey and, at the time, this –– smoking cessation –– this was the hardest
thing that I had ever done. I had done
it most unwillingly as well –– to which almost all nicotine – addicted people
can attest. I loved smoking. Every
damned thing about it I loved; and I don’t need to name all of those things
because every smoker, and every single ex – smoker especially, knows already
what these are.
When I first met Herry, though, what I loved most about my
smoking was knowing that, with him as
my boyfriend, I wouldn’t ever have to fucking quit! Why?
Because we had our own folie à deux thingy going on: Herod Edinsmaier drank and Legion True
smoked. I didn’t drink but maybe one
glass of Chablis every month or two if out to dinner, and Herry never smoked a Sweet, not even now and then. A meerschaum pipe –– yes –– but Pathologist
Edinsmaier slickly and easily and quite out loud rationalized and justified,
let alone, in his own thinking construed this specific aristocratic posturing … as, for him anyhow, a healthful
activity!
If Dr. Herod Edinsmaier drank the way that he did, to distraction, why then I quietly
understood that I could unyieldingly albeit inexpressibly enjoy my own fucking
addiction. It was when Herry quit the
actual beer intake that I, for five further years, had grown truly uneasy about
my continuing to light up anything. I no
longer had my cohort in external chemical substances’ addictions, let alone,
the tacit awareness that neither one of us would come down on the other for
it. I continued to smoke up until there exploded
a straw in August 1983, the brokeback kind, the type that breaks camels’ humpbacks,
that genre of jolting straw.
At the age of 35, 17 years out from the first Kool which I had inhaled as an 18 – year
– old truckstop waitress at the Landmark Restaurant just off Interstate 80 at
the Williamsburg exit –– and a damned good one there, too, which I totally
loved doing, I might add –– kind of a Diner – Diva Louise Sawyer type I was,
only younger –– of Thelma and Louise –– and besides all of the obvious
reasons to quit, the pulmonary, circulatory and cardiac assaults, why had
I? Why had I actually ceased using all
forms of tobacco?
Because Herry had threatened to leave me –– and to take all
of the Truemaier Boys with him back then
already –– if I didn’t. If I did not quit
smoking!
I have to spit now at remembering Dr. Herod Edinsmaier’s shaming
and browbeating. The pathological scene
so typifies Herry: Mirzah, Jesse and
Zane sound asleep, we are in bed ourselves, Husband Herry’s just made the
utterly respectful, honoring, loving, tender and amorous advance of stating straight
up to the blackened ceiling of the Manhattan, Kansas bedroom that he’s thinking
it’d be a good thing for the two of us “to screw” as in, to the mother of these
three Sons, “Ya’ wanna screw?” –– then immediately and blasély augmenting that
one with this next romantic overture, “O, by the way, you have to quit smoking
or I’m leaving you and taking the Boys.
I won’t be saddled with a respiratory cripple, and I can already tell
jus’ from listening to ya’, Twat, that you’re headed for emphysema. I don’t give a shit if you get lung cancer,
Cunt; that fuck’ll kill ya’ outright.
But if you develop emphysema, you might hang on for 10 years or more,
and I’m not gonna do that. So. Lemme fuck that pussy. O wait a minute, where’s the mirror? I wanna flash that penlight up it and get me
some strange.”
So. How Ms. Fannie Issicran
McLive had managed her “pre” – emphysemic ruse and seemed to actually be pulling
this gimmickry of hers over on Herry was indeed puzzling to me. From Mr. Shindy Scheisser at Act Two Part Two
there’d been accusation after accusation flung at me on cross – examination
about how I had damaged my three, “count ‘em … three” fetuses! –– as indeed I
had done. And as to how even more evil a
mother I had been for continuing to model that dragging and puffing behavior
around my sons! –– as indeed
I had done. So my
thinking now went something like, “How is Herry Edinsmaier’s Next Cunt apparently
‘getting away’ with this?!”
From afar I had seen his Next Cunt for myself –– out leaning
and inhaling away on the residence’s front stoop, a scant three steps with one
black railing going down to the bungalow property’s front sidewalk. Ms. Fannie Issicran McLive hadn’t even
bothered to try to hide it from the neighbors by, say, exhaling only out in the
tiny backyard amongst the garbage cans or herself all encased inside its detached
but camouflaging garage. As a matter of
fact, though, she did not seem totally relaxed about it because I don’t recall seeing
her ever sitting and reposing on the steps of that stoop, only upside the
railing, dragging and dragging and then back inside –– with ashes, butts and
all other telltale evidences gone missing from the front of the house,
I would imagine. The
neighbors? Well, if one herself isn’t at
all neighborly, then there’d be no concern on that account either. Still, the teeth and the fingertips and the
smell: how did she denature, dilute out
and neutralize those? Even if Dr.
Edinsmaier wasn’t at home or even for days and days and days in Urbandale, then
how did she disguise all of this odor and onerousness when actually having to
put herself around my Truemaier Boys?!
Local job scarcity gave the Good and Wonderful Dr. Herod
Edinsmaier another route of accountability escapement. I guess, like the Elton John lyric in The
Opera in a classic tenor solo of arrested development in a 40 – something
manipulator, Herry was just “gone up around the bend” –– bent upon fleeing from
the five others to whom he had only just fastened himself less than a full half
year earlier. Weekends King Herod was
home, and I was not in
On the late Friday morning of 08
February 1991, I placed another telephone call; but this one was a local, no – fee one and finally not a toll call
to Ms. Carlotta Klutz at all. Ms. Klutz
–– on Wyman’s and three other Natures’ precious dimes, er, tens of thousands of
dollars actually –– was allegedly hard at work, at least at
‘work’ on her acting role in The Opera at any rate, on ‘my appeal’: Part Three.
I am of the official opinion, now, that that consisted primarily of Klutz
–– sitting and waiting –– after about 20 or 30 words to that effect on my
behalf, initially set down most probably
by her able assistant Dee Dee! had been file – stamped somewhere
inside the state’s Capitol Building.
The veterinary researcher on the other end of the wire answered
my call transferred in to him by the federal agency’s all – round receptionist,
“No, the NADC will not be needing you to report Monday.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“No, you have no job here, Dr. True.”
“Whaa – aat?”
“I’m certain you heard me and understood, did you not? You will not be coming onto the premises next
Monday morning nor at any other future time.”
I hadn’t signed anything –– true that was –– but the purpose
of my call, the reason that I had telephoned in was to confirm that the date of
the 11th was not for the NADC, indeed, a federal President’s Day
holiday,
its being freethinking, atheist Abraham’s real birthday then
… Tuesday, 12 February, the very next day.
That I would, wouldn’t I, find open and operational my
office and my desk and my laboratory – to – be?
“But, Dr. Jones?!”
“The point is moot. I
am hanging up.” Click.
From out of where had that
stun gun just fired its slug bolt between my ears?! I went down.
Right down. Knees buckled. And I crashed
to the floor, the result, too, of the crushing reality of Rachel’s
backlash.
As The Opera was playing itself out, the Biologics Unit,
bequeathing me with their mask of feigned solace the hour before, had responded
to my very same phone inquiry into its building with their “fact” that funding
sponsorship wasn’t “at all” what the men had expected for “the project” soooo …,
consequently, there was no bovine bacterin development post available now …
after all, and all of the guys there, of course, well, they were in no
position, “probable upcoming hiring freezes and all like that there,” to even
know if or when that “situation” could change.
I couldn’t go to
Fully bleeding out so it seemed.
The last thing in the room that my Truemaier Boys needed to
see lifeless … was me.
Accompanied by the buoyancy and spongy porosity of my
blankets and comforter I floated from the deep end of the ocean that was my
king mattress on the upper level down to the cushioned rocker in the condo’s
front room before my raggedy heart attempted the arresting sidestroke of the
roundtrip lap back up again and into the bed.
While not medically thriving under the absence of blood glucose, a
DEhuman’s brain is fortuitously her last organ to shut down. Must be because of our near immediate
metabolic and physiologic switchover instead to usable ketones by way of
oxidation of adipose, our fat deposited during babies’ growths in and of us. The glorious and
glorifying and life – forming and life – giving fat. That
fat. Even within the midst of the angst
of a soooo unplanned … bleed – out.
Linda Kincaid, as I have said, worked at the agency; she
served there as secretary for several federal researchers among whom included
Dr. Jones. Past tense, that is worked, was key here; within moments,
well, within a few February days and nights of my rocking
really and of her hearing of the ramifications
to me of a certain piece of paper, my new true friend
confirmed for me what was developing inside that
drained brain of mine.
By the end of the next week it was clear that again –– actually
that TWICE AGAIN
–– the 25 September 1990 Ames
Tribune article, cut out and complete with my headlining picture and both
the front page and the rest of it on page two, had … “somehow” … “anonymously” …
surfaced at both the National Animal Disease
Laboratory and at the National Veterinary Biologics Laboratory: All of that hard – copy mother – fuck
had personally crossed the desks of not only Dr. Jones but also that of the
Biologics chieftain. As she did with all
of his daily mail and stamping it with the date received, of course, Linda had
been the employee to actually open up
the manila envelope addressed most directly to Dr. Jones himself. Enclosed within that envelope and
accompanying the documents meant for Dr. Jones existed several more copies of the Tribune’s woman – loathing slam as
well –– apparently those extra copies of it … intended for whomever besides
himself Dr. Jones deemed in need of another one.
A second phone call to the
Biologics man with whom I’d initially mostly dealt corroborated there what must
have been nearly the same scenario over across town at the NADC with Dr. Jones ––
but with an added androcentric and
angering yet sooo, so typical twist. It
seemed that the Biologics chieftain, as a matter of fact, remembered that a
woman in their front office received a telephone call –– previous to mine –– coming
in on the morning of the 11th.
The man on the line stated that he was calling long – distance from Des
Moines and asked the woman if she would please send to him at his law firm
written verification or documenting proof of the specific starting date and
accepted annual salary plus benefits for one Dr. Legion True who was involved
in a lawsuit in which he was “a representing attorney.” Her expediency in this matter, the Des Moines
lawyer had explained, would save them all the trouble of his first obtaining a
subpoena and her agency then being served with it. The woman, Biologics man confirmed to me, had
straightaway faxed over to the telephoning counselor’s firm –– right off … all of that requested ‘human
resources’ information on Dr. True. The
worker begged off her culpable stupidity by moaning that she never knew that … the male voice had not at all belonged to my attorney of record, that … daMan directing her wasn’t Dr. True’s
“representing attorney.” She’d just
assumed, of course, that … daMan was!
With a little bit of seniority and a whale of a lot of
secrecy, Linda Kincaid put in for and obtained an internal transfer. She was struggling in an appeal for Bazil
herself; the last thing she needed was to fight the utter and societally
entrenched mother – you’re – so – fucked, boomeranging backlash as well.
I was finished.
And I hadn’t even begun.
It was early 1991. I
was a mama. I had not been an academic
researcher nor a professor of veterinary microbiology nor a clinical
practitioner since before July 1987, now almost four years out. Crashed, crushed and burned, and I hadn’t
even been the (multiple!) small planes’ owner – pilot; Lavish – Spending Hoo –
Hah Edinsmaier is that person.
In four years’ time the number of newly minted and superbly
fresh PhDs cranked out across this country, Eurasia and Australasia is beyond
my wanting to count them, and all of
the ones with post – graduate veterinary microbiology fellowship experience on
their résumés beat out … me. I had had
exactly zero days of post – dissertational fellowship education or experience
back then … or since. With genetic
engineering and gene mapping burgeoning and exploding in arenas so massive that
even I could not have imagined them all, I had no chance. None.
Not now I didn’t.
Well, mission accomplished. King Herod’s tyrannical reigning mission
accomplished.
The King with the folie in the
form of his sexual addiction masqueraded as alcohol abuse instead, the King with the folie in the form of his shyster and all
that that “legal” wrangling meant, the King with the folie in the form of his
High Aggrandizier and all of the fucking mother – loathing power and control that
daJudge had soooo UNconstitutionally … had unbelievably … crowned
upon Herry, the King with the folie à deux in
the form of his dictates’
implementer and enforcer, the Sheriff of Nottingham, Ms. Fannie Issicran McLive. With all of those follies, er folies, why The
Opera, King Herod was confident, was drawing to a vapid closure. And a rapid one: Legion True was lifeless. Stopped.
“Hell, if Legion can’t find
work, even as a politico, a mere minion for the county, then she will not be able to support herself! If she can’t work, she sure’s hell can’t
provide for any one, two or three of the boys, let alone, hide any of ‘em away
somewhere. Even if one, two or all three of them decide to run away back to her ––
and they are now of the age where this idea has more than probably crossed both Zane’s and Jesse’s minds, if not also
materialized inside of Mirzah’s. If the
Ex – Cunt can’t work in her specialized fields, why then she is, for certain,
fucked over as a custodial mother when it comes to her inside a court of family
law thinkin’ that she’ll ever again be able to come after me and prevail! Ha!
Fuck her!” Dr. Edinsmaier to
himself dreamt … so … to Employee Scheisser paid him off … to conspiratorially act … at Herry – Daddee’s beck – and – call behest.
I could not return to nursing even. With a bachelor’s degree in it conferred from
ivy – covered Cornell University, I had been quite a nurse anomaly working in
the three, small, Midwestern county hospitals.
But just as soon as I’d been accepted into veterinary
medical college, probably around the very damned
and fucked day when Herry and I had first – ever met at that
campustown dance club, I placed myself onto the State of
Someone with a lovely voice –– a nurse’s voice for sure I remember thinking upon the return call ––
from the state’s examining board got back to me nearly right away. There was a shortage then, just as now, so
perhaps my initial inquiry would prove fruitful, but rationally I did not hold
out much realism. I had not practiced
nursing nor even been officially active since the spring of 1974, while earning
weekends and some nights to finish the prerequisites of organic chemistry,
genetics and physics. To secure top
grades in physics in order to get myself accepted into veterinary medical
college I paid a tutor. To pay the tutor I, maintaining in my larynx the
required nice nurse’s voice, injected many an androcentric buttock with anti –
gonorrheal penicillin on Saturday and Sunday mornings at the University’s
health center, those buttocks attached to student athletes –– for whose tutors you
and I and the rest of the entire State of Iowa paid. These asshole, literally fucking men received their
tutors at noooo charge! But throughout
all of those weekends’ administering labors of mine when I was soooo not free
to enjoy my own earned and fully paid – for fucks, “Nice voice now! Use your nice voice now, Nurse True!” Talk about the honor and the respect, or more
honestly, the utter absence thereof …
in and for real and hard work!
The upshot in the spring of 1991, now some 17 years out from
active nursing duty, was for me most grim.
A shortage there indeed was; that meant not in health care
personnel for me and my concerns but just in bucks alone to buy the rent and
food, let alone, for gasoline to
Two years more to reactivate my nursing license?!! Whoa!!
That was a no – brainer. How the hell did she propose I pay, tomorrow, to live while paying them or
some close – by community college to get me “back up and running,” so to
speak? Just exactly how was that going
to come about? State – required refresher training to aid in the
diminishment of a nursing shortage did not involve any fellowships or grants or scholarships, not to mention, any noncustodial and unemployed mothers’
paid sabbatical leaves –– in order for mama to be able, “in just a short two
years’ time,” that now very annoying, even disgusting voice blithered at me, to
punch a clock hanging outside some emergency room’s service entrance.
“Legion will not have money incoming. That’s for mother – fucking sure. I have seen to that, and she’ll never be able
to touch me. Fuck! She can’t even move away to find work! Where’ll she ever get the money for that
besides the start – up costs like just the beginning utility payments or even an
extra month’s rent for the security deposit?!” I reckoned Revenging Herry to
himself crooned in a descant’s decrescendo about now.
Anything further that Dr.
Edinsmaier sang, through particularly the duets with Lawyer Shindy Scheisser or
the aria with Ms. Fannie
Issicran McLive, would just be icing on The Mother – Fucking Opera’s cake. I mean I was already down and dead. How much more insult to injury need Herry
muck onto my cadaver after that!?! With
May came the promise –– and the threat –– of classes out soon and the Boys’
first summer with her.
And with Herry, but … with Herry
as Dr. Herod Edinsmaier so that would actually define as a summertime … with Daddee
– Herry gone … and absent! As one without Herry.
I would no longer have the easy cover of my favored library
parking lot nor the
“Well, then. Ah, um,
ah, please, … ah, please have Mr. Druid come out here then, if you would?” I had been halted in my tracks by one of the
enmeshing consorters who seemed to know who I was. I had no clue who she was and could swear I’d
never met her before. Yet she so knew me
and had moved with amazing swiftness to come barreling through those front
doors to stop me from advancing one mucky step closer.
“I’ll tell him you’re here.
That’s all I can do. No
promises.”
Several minutes passed.
From my forced post I could still see inside the glass doors, of course,
down the hallway and off to the right side not very far to his office door also
on the right. Principal Druid was not
only present but also poking his head and torso out his portal as he spoke to
his assistant to peer at me from time to time standing out there on the
sidewalk. Then Principal Druid strode
toward me.
“You’re Zane Truemaier’s mother?”
“I am. May I have a
word with you, Sir, in your office?”
“I don’t believe that’ll be possible. I am not at liberty to speak with you.”
“I beg your pardon?”
Again, I am begging pardons here.
“I have orders, a court order.” He turned to go back inside.
“But, Mr. Druid, no.
You don’t. That couldn’t be.”
He stopped. Principal
Druid turned back around to me just a little and over his shoulder as
controlling men often do with subordinate, such lesser – than, sacrificed
women, condescended to address me without so much as the respect to fully face
mine, “We have a file on you. In it is
an order. Well, a copy of one.
If you’re not aware of it, that’s one thing; but if you’re
arguing with me, I will not debate you.
The order looks legitimate to me so it stands and takes precedence, and
I and all of our teachers will obey it.”
The King had decreed, I thought, and O All They Who Must
Obey … bowed –– er, kowtowed. “Please
I don’t mean to argue, I don’t. I just want to see the order. If it’s what I’m thinking of. Then I’ll leave,
Mr. Druid. I
promise.”
“Hmmm. Come on. I’ll show it to you. But, remember, you promised to leave.” Very, very well did I note: the exact same shun as that of Dr. Herod Edinsmaier
when, long ago it now seemed, Husband Herry had ever deigned to speak to me: only the nondescript ‘you’ appellation in
addressing me and never, ever my name –– first one or last –– could … or would
… daMan utter. Several pairs of eyes
inside statue – still heads bearing mostly brunette bouffant dos swiveled in
the direction of the marching pair that was Principal Druid and me moving over
and in to the schoolmaster’s office.
Inside a piled – high and strewn suite on top of a number of
stacks right in the very middle of his desk leaving no room, I thought, for him
to write anything down was a simple, cream – colored, standard manila file
folder with four bold, black – marker letters in huge font upon its front: T R U E.
Principal Druid picked it up and, without shuffling much at all, found
exactly what he had apparently meant and handed it to me. Indeed, it was Judge Sol Wacotler Seizor’s basic paragraphs of intentionally
bequeathing all power over to Herry, that one sheet out of the 21 September
1990 decree –– of the vaguest convolutions for directives, I had always
thought. I feigned a reading interest,
not requiring to really go over this one, of course, since I already could
recite the damn page from memory; but I tried to buy time in order to think of
something hugely impressive or important enough which might open up the Boys’
summer to me and that I could use to sway this man. My thinking, though wandering, eye caught
sight of the edge of something else sticking out of the folder,
out of my
Ms. Fannie Issicran McLive had been by … moments before my
arrival … at the high school’s front entrance.
A school day and Dr. Edinsmaier gone out of town, of course,
Herry seemed to have in place and working most efficiently his folie à deux
with Next – Cunt – in – His – Stash McLive.
I have no idea but it is quite likely that when she got the telephone
call informing her that a woman had been seen around the school’s pool asking
questions about the Truemaier Boys, why, the Nottingham Sheriff didn’t even
first have to call and check in with the King as to what Herod wanted Ms.
Fannie Issicran to do about it all. With
prearranged dicta from him, Next – Cunt McLive probably knew immediately –– and I mean:
full – tilt boogie –– of just what to grab copies and right away
deliver over to the Truemaier Boys’ latest principal and other school
officials. In case of “need”, jya’ know,
Jury.
Fingering the order page and holding the sheet outstretched
to return it to his hand I noted, “Yeah, I see where you’re coming from with
this, Mr. Druid. I also see that someone
else has been here, too. Before me.”
“What? What do you
mean?”
“Did she bring it here herself or was it received
anonymously in your mail?”
“The order?”
“Come on, Mr. Druid. Come’n
. You know about what I mean, now don’t
you? The newspaper article.
Did you read it? Did
you read it clear through?”
Principal Druid, taller than I by about six or seven inches,
this time engaged squarely down into my azure eyes; and there may have been,
just maybe there was, a slight, ever so slight tinge of “Shit, I’m so sorry for
you, Ma’am” in those brown ones of his, “She brought it by this morning about
an hour before you showed up. Yes, I’ve
read it. It is bad, real bad. The order I’ve
had for awhile. That? That came in the mail.”
I wasn’t dazed anymore, of course, but turning my gaze away
from his, my chin dropped. And an aaah -
huh sigh, just one, escaped through my nostrils, both of my lips closed between
my upper and lower teeth. “I, ah, I’m,
um, I’m gonna hafta ask you to leave now and not come back. I trust you won’t be back, right? I mean … not ever.”
I wasn’t. I never saw
Principal Druid nor the people of the
More I rocked.
I worked now, too. At
a factory. Loading separate pieces of
junk into envelopes and calling it
“Ya’ know,” I told Linda who had turned me on to this ‘opportunity’,
“They are really, really nice folks there!
We do such a horrible thing to the environment, we do! Ya’ know, both because of the trees and
because of the public’s time in having to mess with this muck in their
mailboxes. But the people there at the
factory? They are really cool! ‘Course, we can’t visit while ya’ fill the
hoppers cuz of the noise level; ya’ just can’t hear anybody.”
There were two of us production lackeys to each shovin’ –
‘em – in machine. I worked the 8 pm to
midnight, half – time short shift and every night took a snack and a book with
me for the break which arrived always exactly at 10:15 pm and concluded always
exactly at 10:29 pm. One was back standing
at the ready at one’s machine always exactly at 10:30 pm. Robotic clockwork, I mean we were damned good
fembots, too!
Those of us workers who were not female were the mechanics,
paid of course, quadruple what we Not Male – fembots received for an hourly
rate. These men had to keep those fuckers
humming after the machines jammed, ya’ know.
And O, did those clankers ever fuck up all of the goddamn time! These silently roaming guys answered the lit –
bulb distress signal after one of us operators flipped its call switch because
of a jam. Either the male workers were
these mechanically skillful men … or, the dude was still in high school.
One night I came to work and was immediately assigned to the
machine Eric was already on; his co – worker was leaving after the earlier, 4 –
8 pm short shift concluded. Before the
cacophony cranked up, Eric and I
exchanged the usual 45 – second – or – so introductions which all of us
production operators did every night since we were each assigned to work with
someone different all of the time. “He
was lovely, just lovely. Maternal
instinct kicked right the heck in, I’m telling ya’, Linda! About 6’ 3” tall, one of the gangliest, lankiest
hunks of gaunt skin over sunken bone that I’ve ever had the pleasure to try to
feed and get rested up!”
Judge Sol Wacotler Seizor in Trial Two’s decree continued
for me the last few months of alimony which he had originally ordered during
Trial One, and then that was that. And
this was this, my job now. Seizor in
Trial Two had also done one more thing: granted
Herry – Daddee child support out of me just as soon as
I were to draw in a paycheck from out of anywhere. I was days at the downtown Hy – Vee
delicatessen. Back then before the Iowa
Flood of 1993, and the whole store inundated under six feet of muddily putrid
waters was necessarily and completely shut down and the grocery chain branch
eventually moved to higher ground in town, it was called the Save – U – More and
was located about a mile and a half drive from The Teacup. I had a wonderfully small man for a boss who
could friggin’ cook up a bloody damned good meal I thought –– especially since so long as we
didn’t fuck it all over by being too freakin’ greedy or taking food out of the
store or giving it underhandedly away to friends, we deli peons were invited
to, well, … “help ourselves.” My usual
shift was 6 am to 2 pm, no chairs, no stools ever. Only those of us delicatessen workers over 18
years of age could, by law, operate the meat slicer, let alone, clean the
fucking thing.
Any worker could throw down the pork tenderloins, the fries
and the chicken parts into the deep fat fryers, two of them; and those hot –
grease monstrosities were ever far worse fuckers to clean than was the
slicer.
Actually, and fairly soon as a matter of fact, I became
known about downtown as Save – U – More’s Queen of the Grill, not because I was
initially such a fantastic breakfast cook but because I learned to become
her. Never a good cook and hardly anyone’s
chef, I took to that delicatessen’s gridiron at 6 in the a.m. like the common
working stiff of Storm County depended upon me, in the classic film’s heroic Louise
Sawyer – style again, to get for him his goddamn day started off my griddle so
that he could then go on out there and …
‘nd build buildings, fight fires, fix fixtures, farm farms,
sweep streets, deliver mail, truck in tires, mow parks, sell RVs or whatever. I know nothing about how the grocery deli operates
today; but in 1991, 1992 and 1993, and for those 2½ years then Gert who was
already by then 72 splendid years old and could and did work entire – shift circles around the far too lazy college
kids who fuckingly simply refused to ever scrub the goddamn pots and pans, –– and
I –– kept that town’s thriftier dudes in #1s –– with their eggs over easy and
extra strawberry jelly … just as many, wee packets of their wheat toasts’
spread as any of the men wanted.
Others of the eatery’s clientele were the elderly. Every noon, every weekday noontime around
11:45 am, Frieda Guthrie pulled her sky blue, Chevy, two – door beater into the
deli seating area’s one handicap parking space outside and helped out of its front
passenger door her second, legal husband, Al.
Inside of about seven minutes’ of our visiting over the first two orders
of fried chicken breast along with the meals’ two sides each of baked beans and
Gert’s famed seven – layer salad that I served up to them, Frieda and Al and I
became fast … estate – like … friends
for life.
Frieda had
such a history, such an interestingly glorious and feminist history. What a Righteous Ancestor she was going to
make –– and nearly was! Not only did I
later send her a card postmarked on it from Chicken, Alaska, but I purchased
for her a coral tee there with that particular, itty bitty Arctic hamlet’s name
on its front and gave her the shirt when I returned. Not only did Frieda love to chew on Save – U
– More’s crisply fried chicken with her mighty fine set of dentures and that second
husband of hers but, before any of her marriages
or her four
babies grown inside of her and now grown up on the outside, she had been born
Frieda Chicken,
a surname out
of old
Frieda happened to hanker after hearing about my continuing
saga, about my trying to get back all three of the Truemaier Boys and just how
that holocaust was progressing, about the foibles and funnies of Herry’s
various folies and follies – and ‘specially about how I was not rocking so much
anymore, not now that I had found gainful employment. A first great – grandbaby of hers required
christening rites to be rendered it in a tiny white, wooden – slab parish in
the central
One weekend on the Trues’ trek back to their Burg from visiting
my brother
As much as Grace Portia, Frieda Chicken Guthrie could have
taught Listening 101 as well. She also was, too, more than capable of
teaching Insured Life Experiences for DEhumans.
The policy which Mr. Jazzy Jinx had shushed me about … well, Frieda
promised to float me the monthly premium amount for it –– should my account and
I ever come up short and unable to keep on with the term life policy’s
conditions on Dr. Herod Edinsmaier, the sometime weekend small plane pilot. “I mean it, Honey! You keep that goin’! Don’t you ever, ever let that policy lapse,
Dearie, and if you can’t make the payment some month, you jus’ let me
know! I’ll cover it for ya’ till ya’
can. I mean it! That’s yours, Sweetie. That’s your retirement, I’m tellin’ ya’. You’ve deserved it! That plane of his’ll come down. It will!
Al told me so himself ‘fore he passed.
Told me that he did, Legion. Said
he’d been a – chantin’ an’ a – charmin’, er I mean a – prayin’, that very hex
every single flyin’ Saturday morning!” I
could imagine that Attorney Jinx would not have shushed Mr. Al Guthrie, what
with Al’s own not – so – holy muttering mission and agenda for Dr. Herod Edinsmaier,
the ones quite a loooong bit ‘lengthier’
– termed than that of this also quite clandestinely quiet insurance policy of
mine. Ya’ know, Al – the – Righteous –
Ancestor’s mission and agenda for Autopsy – Knifer Edinsmaier which are … … the
ones “everlasting and forevermore!”
The finest thing on which Frieda tutored me, though, even
more monumental and far more protective and basic than any physics courses’
mentor had helped me to learn, amounted to one sentence in that car ride back
from the Dugout –– after dropping off
Zane at his Grandmother Mehitable’s.
“Don’t you ever let me hear
you say that you let a man hit you,
Legion!” She purposefully stopped short
of even thinking to add to that directive of hers the abusing, soooo – ‘excusing
condition’ of the … “because you deserved it” … part.
Frieda met Mehitable, briefly. No cup of tea. No biscuits or pastries, just a hello and an
introduction; then she and I were on our way back to
“But it was only the one time, an’ … and … I deserved it!”
had been Mehitable’s soft, servile, deferent, crouching, kowtowing and cowering
explanation back to me, her adult daughter –– right then and thereby leaving me,
a woman with a passel of male individuals in her life, completely without the
power of my own permission to protect myself in my own relationships with men! And, too, those of mine with large … Boys!
Raw – boned Eric, our introduction over as rapidly as it had
begun, continued his chit – chat with a few words about what was happening
outside the junk – mail factory, a venue when we were at work … we never
saw. Was the rain coming down still and
had it started to fill up the ditches yet?
“No, no it’s nice out finally.
Smells terrific, too. So what’s a
nice guy like yourself hole up in here for anyhow? What are ya’, 17 or something?”
“Bingo, Legion!
You’re goo – od. Ding, ding,
ding: give the lady the washer and
dryer! Here? This joint?
We – eeell, gotta have the money.
Gotta have the coins, ya’ know? Gotta
have the tunes and the wheels and the girls.
Need the money, ya’ know, for gas and tapes and my girlfriend!”
“She high maintenance, Eric?
You’re still in school yet, right?
Your folks don’t mind? 40 hours
every week?! That’s incredible, Eric! You don’t get near ‘nough sleep, do
ya’?! That’s soooo hard on you, Eric!”
“Well, no, she isn’t but I just gotta have some money. Ya’ know how it is, right? Yeah, full – time; come here right after
school lets out. O, my folks? Well, they got other little kids to take care
of. So what’s a nice lady like you doin’
workin’ a joint like this here?”
“Huh? O, me? Me? I
gotta give a doctor … ah, um, … ah … child support.”
Not even a blink. Not
a hesitation. “Whoooooa.” Then? … Then nothing from him but a soul –
searching stare down at me. I put my two
lips back together again and looked up at Eric with a tiny smile, more or less
flattened, a Lionel Portia – sized deadpan one, right into those two blackened
holes somewhere deep upon Eric’s forehead which may have contained
eyeballs.
About 15 to 20 seconds later from betwixt that soft, gaunty
stare, there came the kind of wisdom from out of Eric’s mouth with which only a
guttural teenager pulling down his own full weight in everything that he did
could have been responsible and respectful enough to utter. Four words –– four words incredulously
intoned into Ancestral history –– that deserve to be their very own chapter
title in a book on Accountability
that I shall someday write, … … “And
… he TAKES it?!”
I gave him my extra orange at break and brought a second one
every night after that one. I have never
known Eric’s last name, and I was never assigned – again – to work on another
machine with him. But such wisdom from a
kiddo whose eye sockets holding his windows to the real world which couldn’t
have sunk inside himself any deeper deserved
anything I could do to keep him … growing. A truly righteous Ancestor – in – Training.
As much as the Good and Wonderful Dr. Herod Edinsmaier was legally entitled to child support under
Iowa statute, as much as he had working for him all of the folie à deux
affiliations and liaisons in each and every one of their various forms both in
and out of the Court which included not only the Nottingham Sheriff – like Spouse
Fannie but also the Great Juggern Aut Misein and His Many, Many Ancestral
Progeny, as much as Murderous Herry knew before my first support payment that
he would never, ever need it and that I so, so would, as much as he knew before
my first payment that he would probably go on to misplace some of my checks so
passive aggressively arrogant and entitled (excused away as … ‘forgetfulness’)
was he that he just never bothered himself with the work of remembering to get three of them to the bank before
actually losing them!, … as
much as all that, … high school senior and exhausted and hungry, junk mail
factory production worker and the true, 17 – year – old older brother type,
Eric, was stating the following in just those four words, “And
… he TAKES it?!”
“Well, yeah, the law says he can have it, but … but … but … just
how kind and wise and just does that make him?! He’s a TAKER! Plain and simple. Aprovechar
– but with an added, plunged dagger just twisting it around and around inside
you, Legion, just as brutally and bloodily as he can churn it! How much kinder, well, not kinder so much as
magnanimous would he have been, ya’ know, to’ve just muttered there inside
that courtroom, ‘Gee, thanks a lot, Judge – Sir! Thanks for letting me win this one up against
the Bitch – O. I so appreciate
that. Ya’ know, I truly do! But ya’ know, Mistah JudgeMan, I don’t need
it. And, an’ I know that she will. So, … so hey, why don’t you jus’ let her pay
her heating bills with it or somethin’.
Bet she could routinely use it for that at least. Like I said, thanks for lettin’ me legally beat
up my Ex – Pussy, Your Honor – Sir, but I’m gonna be a big, big person here and
just ask that you take it back. Ya’
know, make it official that my ex – Cunt dudn’t owe me. That she dudn’t need to pay me the child
support since, ‘specially ya’ know, … since she can’t!”
* *
* *
More hours if I wanted them materialized at the factory, but
then I’d have to go to days there and, therefore, work less at the supermarket
deli. I took them, 48 cents more per
hour at the factory, and began arriving in
–– clandestinely,
at that –– to see less of my Boys ––
but to expend the same amount as before in my time and my efforts, and theirs,
and on my gasoline in just trying to be
with them. Jesse had DeAndré from the ‘hood
and possibly one other who lived far, far west in an upscale quarter to where
Jesse or the friend would have to be driven back and forth because of the
miles’ worth of distance between the two young boys’ residences. I didn’t know of another friend for Mirzah or
for Zane. Not one other have I ever
known the two of them to have had the entire year plus two weeks that my three Truemaier
Boys spent captive by the King and his Nottingham Sheriff inside
Urbandale.
Using the number I’d given to him, Jesse made at least two
telephone calls from a pay phone, from either the one on school grounds or the one
at a nearby city block park. Jesse
called Mr. Ralph Berg, the former state party politician and one rather well –
known and, likewise, – connected, who was now the
executive director of an advocacy and lobbying agency for kids up to 17 years
and 11 months. The organization is known
as the Children’s Services Coalition in
To absolutely no avail either time.
And Jesse, struggling as one 12
– year – old kiddo with a couple of his quarters for each toll call, would not
prevail.
Not with this man.
This “children’s services” executive director and, obviously, a
politician. … Still.
Mr. Ralph Berg –– so connected as he was –– would
not do one thing.
Not even one phone call would Democrat Berg make to Ms.
Carlotta Klutz, let alone, to any of the pertinent state or US senators or
congresspersons, all father – exalting men for sure and all, including himself,
Iowans who had simply provided haploid, spermatozoal cells
toward the subsequent production, formation and … maternal … growth of biological children –– two male children about
whom he quite publically proclaimed himself as more than just their sperm donor
… two sons grown by his spouse, Therona.
Mr. Berg –– as daddee –– along
with these two sons of hers, had for chris’sake, even watched my Jesse score
goals!
Of course Daddee Ralph had said squat on my behalf to the
party’s county leadership when first he learned that I was taking “the great,
good rest” at The Sixth Floor Hotel.
True that was. Also a resident of
Storm County Mr. Berg had done absolutely nothing to support me nor my quest
for that decently situated recorder post over at the same county courthouse
which he, Mr. Berg, frequented –– an elected position for me as were almost all
of those of his –– until his directorship at the Coalition. Smack in line, too the recorder job would
have been, with my mothering and with the serving of my children, as in
rendering “child services” to my very own … so that agencies and organizations
such as his, the Children’s Services Coalition, were not ‘burdened’ with my kiddos … and did not have to expend
any agency dollars whatsoever ‘to serve’ … them.
No attorney appointed by ‘the Court’ to specifically
represent the children could Jesse get Politician Berg to even try for: no guardian ad litem, no therapist or
psychologist type independently advocating to ‘the Court’ on behalf of only the
children for a change of heart on any part of daJudge's decree … on any ”Rule of Law” of ‘daMan’s Court!’ and, for sure, no lightening up of King
Herod’s androcentric dicta, no stoppage put to the Sheriff of Nottingham’s
implementation and enforcement of all of the King’s orders. Not even one local, no – toll telephone call would (Leftist, Liberal and Progressive!
but O – so Mighty) Patriarch Ralph Berg put in to Jesse’s mother’s attorney,
Ms. Carlotta Klutz, also right there in
I have, since, seen this man alone
or with his wife, Therona, and two children about town a lot; he always has
resided within … Ames –– and actually right inside my own ‘hood here in town,
as a matter of fact. He never acknowledges
that it is I. He knows. He knows that it is. Not so much as a recognizing nod, let alone
at all, the utterance of my actual name as in a mere “Hello there, Legion” in
passing me by. The Edinsmaier Shame Shun.
I wonder if Mother Therona truly
knows what thorns and arrows three Bergs would themselves suffer were she ever
to try to leave this man and to take with her the two sons he calls his –– one
of whom is also named … Jesse. I don’t
care how liberal and liberated and leftist and progressive and mouthing of
feminist freethinking and Democratic – Party broadmindedness she may have,
alongside him and while identifying with
him, heard the lofty Mr. Ralph Berg spout out over all of his years of
“service” –– and most especially about children and families. IF she ever tries to cross him? IF she ever, ever pisses him off … ‘enough’?! O O O, is she down! I mean mother – fucking
down the drain. Flushed. Sperm exaltation! Ask any daddee. I don’t care with whom he allies or
affiliates himself. Any daddee is not ever, ever to be trifled with. And She Who Tries To? She pays.
O she pays. With her and her
babes’ soul – murders –– their Mother – Fucking –– she
soooo pays.
* *
* *
When the appeal decision arrived file – stamped 27 August
1991, it had on its front covering page with all of the top stuff describing
what case and from where, mine being “IN THE COURT OF APPEALS OF IOWA” and
number 1 – 172 / 90 – 3451, the name of
Mr. Shindy Scheisser as Herry’s attorney of record. However, as my attorney of record, I read there the name of a person of whom
I’d never, ever heard –– even before the name of Ms. Carlotta Klutz, was also
given. Now Cousin Wyman would have told
me, had he known, if ‘my case’ now during its appeal had been farmed out to
someone else –– so my best guess is that Ms. Klutz busied herself with the
appeal of that manslaughter conviction for child endangerment, that made – for
– television, or for at least 60 Minutes,
case which had made Ms. Klutz a local celebrity … and that mine –– ‘my
case’ –– had gotten entirely shoved off of her list of things to
do. But, of course, thrown off of it … at my and Wyman and his Natures family’s full
expense! And … this mother – fuck again …
unbeknownst to us both during the entire time its appeal was pending!
At the bottom of that front page there appeared the names of
three people, a “jury” of sorts of only men, not exactly a jury of my peers at
all then, is it? in this world of 53 percent DEhumans and certainly not the
Jury of The Opera, You the Reader, and all of them referred to as persons who
had “considered” [its verb] ‘my case’ with one of those names listed there
being not only the name of the Chief Judge of the Iowa Court of Appeals but
also all that was typed there about him … was this man’s very last name. No first name. No initials.
No title of either Mister or Chief or Judge or His Honor or
any such words. Nothing to identify him,
let alone clearly and outstandingly identify him beyond the fairly common
surname “Donnellson” as in “considered by Donnellson and So – and – So and Such
– and – Such.” But the last two judges
at least had had their initials typed in after their last names and a
comma. How strange. How almost … anonymous of the so – called ‘leader’
of this particular, appellate judiciary.
These “considered” words then
from daMan, the Chief Judge of the Court of Appeals of Iowa, a body of six
judges, five of them men, which was the State’s appellate judging body one rung
below the State’s Supreme Court
whereupon sat its own nine justices, eight of whom then there at the Supreme
Court were men as well. “The trial court
determined both parents possessed adequate child rearing skills and loved their
children.” “Although her conduct has
disrupted Herod’s life, Legion argues that the children have not suffered as a
result of her unorthodox behavior. Our
supreme court has set out the pertinent standard
for modification of custody:
‘To change a custodial provision
of a dissolution decree, the applying party must establish by a preponderance
of evidence that conditions since the decree was entered have so materially and
substantially changed that the children’s best interests make it expedient to
make the requested change. The changed
circumstances must not have been contemplated by the court when the decree was
entered, and they must be more or less permanent, not temporary. They must relate to the welfare of the
children. A parent seeking to take
custody from the other must prove an ability to minister more effectively to
the children’s well being. The heavy
burden upon a party seeking to modify custody stems from the principle that
once custody of children has been fixed it should be disturbed only for the
most cogent reasons.’ ” Easily enough
cut and pasted in just as the paragraph appeared to have been –– from some
other previously used document file.
The appellate decision continued its “considering,” “Our
paramount consideration in determining custody
is ‘the best interests
of the children’.” I swan this
friggin’ swinery swill, “If I have to hear that specifically MOTHER
– FUCKING expression one more time in my life, then I shall have to
utterly banish those five
or six words phrased that way from my entire lexicon. Forever!”
“Her conduct does not promote the children’s relationship
with their father,” further “considers” these collective judicial thugs, these
Sperm Exalters. As it should not!
As my “conduct” should not have
… “promoted” same! Not theirs. Not my
Boys. Not with the true nature of the man who is
Herry – Daddee, who IS Dr. Herod Edinsmaier.
Then, of course, always these judicial patriarchs’ dominion clincher
–– whether in
Or … is she iii) both?
“Her mental disturbance prevents her
from acting in the best interests of the children.” Fuck, there it is again! Right away, “… in the best interests of whose
… chattel … er, ah, children?”
“ … the children.”
And finally daMen’s collective conclusion about the Crazy Bitch’s
not – so – playful gypsy dalliances, about her wicked witchery: that is, actually, about those of her
intolerant interferences with a man’s sperm cell and its exaltation thereof,
“Because we believe the present circumstances were not contemplated by the
court when the decree was entered, our inquiry now turns to whether Herod has
shown an ability to more effectively minister to the children’s well –
being. We agree with the trial court
this relationship can best be advanced if custody is given to Herod. He is a successful person who has good
relationships with others and leads a productive life. Herod had made attempts to improve his
parenting skills and to foster his relationship with the children. This record reveals Herod is more willing
and able to assist the children to develop a strong relationship with both
parents than is Legion. We
affirm the trial court in all respects.
Costs of appeal are taxed to Legion.
AFFIRMED.”
What inappropriate familiarity! Didn’t even give me the dignity of “ … taxed to Dr. Legion True.” And,
O JYeah, we will most definitely need to remember the
sentence, “This record reveals Herod is more willing and able to assist the
children to develop a strong relationship with both parents than is Legion” … for
later! This one, despite
all of the others with ludicrous, laughable lies in them about Herry’s being so
‘relationally’ cool and all, come to find out, is the only key one in the mere
5½ – page statement of … Donnellson and his gang of appellate court, thuggish, father
– exalting thieves!
“No? ‘because we believe the present circumstances were not
contemplated by the Court?’ No, not
wanting to be contemplated by you,
ya’ mean? You judges. You men.
Because all of you men couldn’t believe that you too, or you three is
more accurate, along with the High Aggrandizier himself back at district court and
judges like New York State Supreme Court’s former Chief Justice Saul Wachtler,
would ever have to be called to accountability for your actions and for your
own behaviors including all of those responsibility – abrogated, personal ones!
and for your own hiding away inside countless sanitaria your own ex – cunts!”
“Cuz, maybe your
present Next Cunts in Your Stashes might check into taking your kids off with
them, just like I had tried to protect the three Truemaier Boys, off with them to
higher and safer grounds and away from the holocaustic floods of your
spermatozoic dalliances, too, mightn’t they, Judges?!”
I myself read into the “because we believe the present
circumstances were not contemplated” phrase!
As Rachel had so succinctly and aptly decreed it outright regarding
pillared men judging other pillared men and not at all calling the judged then
to accountability because of the judges’ own fears of having themselves then
also … likewise, called to account.
Without #1 Child Bastian, Mama Rach is the one who had formed and
uttered the proclamation just last Winter Solstice holiday at my Y2002 birthday
Gathering and Potluck … so matter – of – factly. Despite her pain from the pregnancy and her,
back then, growing Victoria Joy and soon having to endure the not – too –
foolish 01 April Y2003 verbal birthing backlash from obstetrical staff specifically and only … against noncustodial
mamas, yawned because it is now so ho – hum and so widely known as true, “And
there isn’t any judge, Legion ya’ know, who himself doesn’t surf porn!”
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