At first, the annual trips to and from Evansville were a real adventure. When I was too young to travel on my own my dad would train out (how it used to be described) from Evansville. When it was from “E-town” it was a trip of several days (from memory three) and sometimes he’d have meetings in Los Angeles and stay over in a hotel. His preference was a corner suite and the views were usually spectacular and completely new to me. The journeys between E-Town and Florida were much shorter.
The goodbyes from my mom always involved an emotional scene and the worst part of leaving my Roberts family every summer. By comparison my annual arrivals and departures from my Feigel family were predictably temperate and warm. My only thought was wondering what spiteful and malicious bullying my stepbrother would have planned for me that summer.
The return scenes could also be a drama that would remind me of my duty to feel guilty for having been the cause of them. For days my mom would grill me for details that would give her an excuse to phone my dad and berate him for how I’d been mistreated. One time I divulged how I thought I’d die after my stepbrother locked me in an upstairs closet for several hours on a blistering hot summer day and how he and his friends laughed and teased me when they thought I’d wet myself. Actually I was drenched in sweat because the closet was like a sweat-box. But I did throw up and that caused them to worry that Mother Alice or my dad would find out. They did, but only because my mom called and told them.
All that aside, the journeys themselves could be great. These were the longest, closest times I got to spend with my dad as we would share a small private sitting/sleeping cabin in one of the Pullman cars. We’d sit on a small sofa during the day between meals watching the scenery as we passed through. At night a porter would come in and make up the beds. The rooms weren’t always the same, but any of them would have been a challenge for dad because he was six foot six or seven and a big man to fit into those beds.
On our first journey from Florida to Evansville he’d keep me entertained by moistening little pieces of paper, sticking them to the fingernails of his huge hands and flick them around while I tried to guess where the little pieces of paper would pop up next. He’d also hide his face behind a hand and change expressions from serious to smiles as he passed his hand in front of his face. Simple stuff, but enough to keep me mesmerized and happy.
The meals were served in the dining car and like going to a top restaurant for every meal. We’d eat an early dinner and often our beds would be made ready for us by the time we returned to our car.
I can’t remember sleeping more peacefully than I did on these train trips. Or travel more peacefully. If the choice was still there I’d much rather travel by train than any other way.
Dad continued to collect me and take me back on the train until I was able to travel on my own being looked after by the porters. He’d give them a big tip to share with the next porter when we’d change trains in St Louis or Chicago and take a less luxurious train down to Evansville and vice-versa.
In Evansville I’d share a bedroom with my stepbrother, always on alert for his next assault. After my disclosure of the closet incident to my mom she immediately called my dad to complain. So the following summer my stepbrother used the silent treatment combined with verbal threats to fulfill his need to bully. Mother Alice was aware of this and explained away his behavior by saying he was the center of attention for three quarters of the year but had to share it with me every summer. In a very real way, it was up to me to feel guilty about causing him to be a bully. He was the victim.
Oddly, I was relieved with that explanation because I’d rather feel guilty than feel that there was something wrong with me that made him hate me. And by that time he’d stopped punching me or throwing me around when nobody was looking. Now he’d have his friends do it for him so I couldn’t blame him without putting myself in an even more vulnerable position.
Of course I know that sibling rivalry and that kind of bullying can be fairly normal between brothers. In fact, I witnessed it often in my friends’ family dynamics. But the bullying engaged in by my stepbrother was so vindictive and malicious that it made my summers increasingly uncomfortable and dangerous.
When I reached a certain age, maybe nine or ten, my dad and stepmom would send my stepbrother and me away to YMCA Camp Carson near Princeton, Indiana for two weeks. I suppose they thought that would give us a chance to get to know each other better.
They couldn’t have been more wrong. We’d arrive and our age difference (he’s four years older) would ensure he’d take the option of staying in one of the tent-cabins out in the woods while I was domiciled in one of the enclosed cabins next to the camp HQ because I was considered too young for any other option.
That meant that all of our activities were age related as well so I would rarely see him except when we’d all be around the lake for various activities. One day I was standing beside the high diving board watching the older kids climbing up to the highest diving board and diving off. Suddenly my stepbrother had his hands around my shoulders marching me to the ladder and forcing me up. I tried to make him stop but the kids behind me started yelling at me to climb. When I got to the top he pushed me out onto the board to the end and pushed me off.
I landed badly. All the air was forced out of my lungs, I took in a mouthful of water and panicked. My stepbrother was nowhere to be seen. He’d dived off, entered the water smoothly and swam off. The lifeguard saw the whole thing, saw me flailing around on the way down and hit the water hard. He rescued me and reported my stepbrother.
My stepbrother got some sort of punishment from the camp councilors and I didn’t see him again until we were picked up to go home. My dad and stepdad had been informed of his actions by the camp manager and he spent the rest of the summer keeping his distance from me being sullen and silent.
I decided not to tell my mom about any of this because I thought her reaction would be worst than the event. My stepbrother’s deep resentment and malevolent behavior had finally been exposed and I didn’t even have to say a word. He knew. I knew. And now Mother Alice and dad knew. From then on I could enjoy my summers in Evansville without having to worry about his next move. The next summer he didn’t accompany me to Camp Carson and I was able to enjoy those two weeks as well. Eventually he built a room in the basement so he didn’t have to share the upstairs bedroom with me the next time I visited. We’d finally gotten to know each other. (Cue ‘Ding Dong The Witch is Dead’ from The Wizard of OZ).
Musical Beds © Robert R. Feigel 2022 – All Rights Reserved
Pieces from a Puzzling Life 