Okay (1973)

HALF-WAY THROUGH the homily I started to get anxious.

I was wearing the new pale-gray coat I received on my seventh Christmas. It was toasty inside Saint Patrick's, where the brightly-colored figures on the window glass held the crisp morning outside, yet sent prisms of sunlight to bathe the parishioners in warmth.

Nonetheless, I wore my jacket in the polished wooden pew near the front on the left where we always sat. The coat was my favorite; it had snaps everywhere. I had begun experimenting with the snapping combinations on Christmas morning.

The Gerard clan filled a whole row, like the Dernbecks, who chose the middle right and the McCormicks with their bright red hair, who always came in late and got whatever seat they could.

I sat at the end of the pew, closest to God in His tabernacle, trying to get my arms separated. There were two snaps at the end of each sleeve, designed to make the wrist opening smaller. While Father McFarland spoke passionately about Jesus and His immense love for us, I'd discovered that the right sleeve snaps were a perfect fit to the left and had managed to join all four. Initially pleased with this variation, I now struggled to get my hands free. The game's appeal diminished exponentially with my wrists bound.

My oldest brother, Paul, the church organist, launched into Faith of Our Fathers as I lifted both arms and yanked. The snaps didn't yield – but I toppled sideways out of the pew and crashed hard into the center aisle. Hitting the floor with a tremendous thunk, I didn't move for a moment, adjusting to my new perspective.

I saw mortified faces as my oldest sister, Molly, jumped to help. I watched Father McFarland, his long beige robe billowing, as he stepped down from the altar to assist.

In the brief moments before they rescued me and I sat safely back in the pew, I lay there struggling, awash in embarrassment and shame, knowing that the priest and my family and the congregation and God were all watching me, wondering if I was okay.



Chapter One: The Plan (1974)

I WAS VISITING Gram the day I hatched my runaway plan. At eight, the youngest in our crowded Western New York farmhouse – Big Brick – I was different from the rest of them; I sensed it.

Everybody else seemed meant to be born, but I’d overheard that I was “a surprise.” Everybody else had a regular name, but I went by nicknames: The Caboose to my dad; The Baby to my mom; Greg-ums to the others. Everybody else had a little brother, someone to babysit, boss, or tease. Everybody except me.

I longed to get away through the craggy forest behind our property and discover my own adventure. Something like Nancy Drew or the Hardy Boys might encounter. A place to keep my own secrets.


My grandmother's living quarters had originally been a two-car garage attached to our laundry room. Before she moved in, Dad and some workers converted the space into a one-bedroom suite with a kitchenette and separate entrance. A bay window in the dining area looked out over the three-tiered lawn. Beyond, an expansive field ended in a grove of fruit trees down by the creek.

Gram was not satisfied.

Dad gave her the initial tour because she was his mom. I tagged along.

She looked at the new appliances and fresh paint, her old-lady golden wig and large white earrings dipping forward in silent evaluation. As he showcased the living room, bedroom, kitchen, and bath, I watched her bracelets slide back and forth loosely on her bony wrists.

When they had seen the entire apartment, she drew back, clasped her hands, and nodded toward the tan walls of the living area. "Now, if ya had it to do over again, would ya have picked that same color?"

I held my breath and watched my father closely, to see if he'd yell. A heavyset man, he could raise his powerful voice to shout or swear at a moment's notice.
Instead of shouting, he only snapped "Aw, Mom," and brought the tour to a quick finish. I breathed more easily when he left me and Gram, and returned to our end of the house.


"They put me in the garage," Gram told me later, her muted tangerine dress gathered about her legs as she sat in the living room. I knew she meant my mom and dad, but it was hard to understand why she didn't like the place. I had to share a bedroom with my brother, Mike. With five older siblings, somebody was always telling me what to do. To me, her three rooms seemed spacious and private, a place where she could do what she wanted when she wanted.

I visited her often, after school or during summer days, winding down the back hallway of our home, through the laundry room, to the double doors that entered her apartment. She served me maple walnut ice cream when we sat at her small Formica table in front of the bay window. She told true crime stories my mother didn't approve of, stories of life ending mysteriously for unlucky victims she'd encountered in her eighty years. Kids, dads, drunks – no one escaped the cool hand of death in her tales.

"He was never up to no good," she shared one day, about a man she'd known a long time ago. "He was a hard man. A drinkin' man. That night he wandered out on the tracks, he'd been drinkin', don't you doubt it." She stared at me over her gray-framed glasses and stabbed an index finger at my face. "That train came along and good night shirt!"

I recognized one of the strange phrases that often accompanied her stories. Phrases like “Get off my foot!” Or, when she balled her gangly hand into a fist and shook it at someone, “Smella that, Brother.”

My mind spun. A train clacking through the night. The guy – maybe a crook! – crushed like a soda can, right here in our little town. I sat riveted to the chair, soaking up the intrigue between mouthfuls of creamy maple.