Trash Can Fire

Peter, Beth and I sit in the back room mesmerized by Captain Kangaroo’s bouncing ping pong ball tapping out the words to Old Macdonald Had a Farm. Mom rustles into the room, her arms full of white lace. She barely glances at us, on the floor, knee to knee, too close to the TV. “You three stay out,” she hisses through clenched teeth, before pushing out through the side door.

We look at each other and then race to the door to catch it before it slams. We peek over the cement steps and down to the alley. Three faces stacked like totems, framed by dingy metal and dusty screen. At seven, four, and three, we are the remains of her marriage.

Mom flips the lid with a clatter and drags the metal can away from the house. Her blue eyes blaze, red-rimmed and wet. Black tears stain her cheeks. Angry words scrape her throat. She stuffs the wedding dress into the can, pulls match after match across the rough strip. Sparks fade as she tosses them onto the fabric. Then, a thin thread of smoke floats out; yellow flames flicker. The white satin and lace slowly shrink out of sight. She picks up an album at her feet, rips a photograph from its paper corners, and tosses it into the fire. Some pictures she tears in half, stuffing one part into her pocket before launching the other into the flames. She smashes a framed picture into the can, glass shatters, wood breaks. We three flinch with each violent eruption.

One of the only pictures to survive the trash can fire, given to me decades later by my aunt.

I learned much later that Mom had ignored the paperwork from Texas, refused to respond to the request for divorce from our father, buried her head in the sand of righteousness rather than believe that a court of law could dissolve a sacrament of the Catholic Church.

Her devout family and fourteen years of parochial schooling had instilled confidence that God’s word was above the law. It didn’t register that just five years earlier she had turned her back on church doctrine to marry our Protestant father, a tall, dark and handsome Air Force Captain, who swept her off her feet at a Nursing School graduation dance. She loved life as an officer’s wife on bases in Florida and Texas…until he fell in love with another woman.

Shortly after Mom returned to Scranton with an infant and preschooler in tow (she didn’t yet know she was pregnant with Beth), our grandfather went to the old parish priest to get the marriage annulled.

Was there a way to reverse her excommunication? He wanted to know. Was forgiveness available? Could she return to the Church’s protective fold?

With her father’s encouragement, she began what became five years of weekly pastoral counseling. It was a shot at a fresh start, a chance to erase her shameful past. She eagerly embraced the opportunity.

***

Mom was the first grandchild born to both sides of her large extended family. Her grandparents, like many others, survived weeks in cramped conditions to cross the Atlantic from Ireland in the late 1880’s. They left behind famine and oppression to find work in the coal mines of northeast Pennsylvania. They worked hard, married young, and believed fervently in the dictates of the Catholic Church. There were rules to follow, a catechism for living well, an answer to every question. If you were a good person, you’d have a good life and meet your maker in heaven.

Mom’s parents grew up steps from each other in a predominantly working-class Irish Catholic neighborhood. They attended the same church, walked to the same schools. No one was surprised when they married. Their siblings had worked and played together for years: in the mines, on the fields, in the bars. They’d each lost an uncle in mining accidents. Two brothers, at fifteen and seventeen, had been shot and killed by US Marshals while trying to jump a train out of Scranton. The search for a better life ran in the family blood.

Our mother’s firsts were celebrated as the end of hardship. First words, first steps, every birthday was like light returning. The family had escaped the iron thumb of English nobility to find freedom and opportunity in America. She was the shining medal of their victory and she basked in their adoration even as younger siblings arrived almost annually.

Then, she contracted rheumatic fever at age five. Convulsing with a weeks-long fever, she was not expected to survive. Both grandmothers were vigilant. Mary needs water. Rub her feet. Keep her warm. Refresh the washcloth. Run the bath. They prayed and bargained with God. The fever eventually passed but had invaded her heart. Doctors warned that she wouldn’t survive adolescence. The family should prepare. Enjoy the time they had with her.

Everyone was pressed into her service. If she wheezed, her brother was told: Quick, Tommy, run and get the doctor. If she coughed or sneezed, a guiding hand was there. Let’s get you into bed, Mary. Her every wish was granted. Anne, she wants the doll she left downstairs. Run down and get it for her. She could do no wrong. Jerry, don’t treat your sister like that. She didn’t mean to hurt you.

But, she did survive. She grew to adulthood with a royal demeanor. She expected others to wait on her and to be pleased for the opportunity to do so. Her siblings called her Queen Mary without humor, long-held resentment barely disguised.

***

Is it such a stretch that her spouse and children would become the moon and stars to her sun? Mere satellites orbiting a golden center? Reflections of her readily apparent goodness?

“You belong to me,” she used to say, hugging us close, and wrapped in delight at her own creations. “You are mine, mine, mine. No one can take you away from me.”