from Chapter 27, pp 281 - 283: 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 Iowa City sanitarium and got better;
came back to drive batch truck and drop out of grad school. I thought I
would call it off when I went to Iowa City. I did not expect to marry
Legion. Entered med school. Went out, girls and booze. Often lonely;
wanted to be as successful with girls as my friend was. I did not feel
committed to Legion but didn’t send her away either. She came down at
Thanksgiving for the weekend; she got pregnant. I don’t recall ever
going to Ames to visit her there. My birthday she told me she was
pregnant. I spent my weekends with other girls though; best I’d ever
had. Getting by in med school ‘working under half steam.’ Felt
isolated from other med students; blamed it on difference in my age from
them. I WANTED ABORTION; EASY FOR ME TO GET HER ONE at the med
school. Legion’d rejected it outright. Knew she would; she’d always
been for choice but it was her choice she’d always said to keep any baby
she’d ever came up pregnant with. [ ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! Herry wanted Zane ABORTED! Very usual abuser thinking! Like it is ever the man’s choice!]
AmTaham came to Iowa City, called me selfish and made threats of what
sounded like he was going to try to obtain custody of the baby. He
asked if my parents knew. I said I would tell them when we knew what we
would do. He replied that if I had not told them in one week, he
would. I contacted student legal services; said there’d be no way he
could get custody as long as Legion didn’t consent. Continued med
school. Rented trailer to friend. Discussed how a new baby could be
managed; Legion couldn’t do it and stay in school. Dean said I could
leave and get back in in a year if I wanted; was subject to any changes
in the curriculum was all. We moved into Pammel Court in Ames; I got
work at the factory. I enjoyed my life and work. We had lots of sex.”
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 Ames he didn’t. He had vacated his and Ms. Fannie McLive’s apartment complex in Ames’ west section and moved her and Mary Jane once again. Down to a two – level bungalow on 69th in Urbandale, a northwest suburb of Des Moines, and 65 minutes of interstate driving time door to door from mine. Apparently it was his ‘plan’ to practice pathology around that metro in a per diem, locum tenens capacity at various laboratories while all the while seeking permanency with an outfit that suited him. Guess the White Law Firm outta Kansas City, the buckos who represented the legal concerns for the Downshim Pathology Laboratories and its branches, of which the Ames one had been, had had their full – up fill with Slacker Herry’s base and boorish bunkum –– his tardiness, his contrariness and Dr. Edinsmaier’s outright absence at inappropriate times –– as, er, with deeply anesthetized and, therefore, very unconscious women! –– and … shall we say, had “released” him. Something else that never seemed to much matter to the High Aggrandizier although Judge Seizor did know, too, of Dr. Herod Edinsmaier’s work habits. Or, rather, Herry – Daddee’s such dearth thereof!
I had 30 days to appeal and did. AmTaham and Mehitable left me alone and went back to Williamsburg, of course. I had pinned inside Jesse’s pocket along with all of the other important telephone numbers the one of a children’s legal advocacy agency in the capital city, Des Moines, where one of the Democratic Party’s former state senators was now its director, an attorney, too, with two small boys himself, Mr. Ralph Berg, a man all three of my children had met and against whose kiddos Jesse had played soccer from time to time. Of course, they all had Grace and Lionel’s telephone numbers, too.
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!
and Chapter 28, pp 300 - 303: The Truemaier Boys had been gone from me a year now and, at least as far as my 65 minutes’ drive, most of those months gone down to Urbandale. After nothing at all whatsoever back to me in the way of a response for their three birthdays’ worth of sacks of stuff that I’d quietly delivered right onto the 69th Street bungalow stoop where Ms. McLive, also quite quietly, puffed and puffed and after my pointfuckingblank asking all three kiddos in my continued, clandestine visits to the fall school term’s sports fields if they had gotten the gifts which I had left there for them, I believed purposefully gone missing then the books and the brand – new volleyball and Jesse’s special cherry – flavored cough medicine that he liked and that truly clobbered his mild, exercise – induced asthma and a tin of smoked oysters along with a jar of pickled herring for Zane plus one of grey poupon, country – style Dijon mustard along with a wrapped half pound package of Lorraine Swiss cheese from my Save – U – More delicatessen and salted sunflower seeds for Mirzah. Especially, too, the homegrown Beefmaster and Early Girl tomatoes which I hadn’t grown but that the farmer with acres off in the Storm County countryside had and who also lived on 24th Street and sold them to us so – faithful customers out of her double garage there every July and August. Just freshly vine – ripened and right ready for Jesse’s and Zane’s and Mirzah’s all – time favorite sandwich, their belovéd BLT, the goooo - od sandwich! Even the multiple books of 29 – cent United States postage stamps plus the sheets of the ones meant to cover the cost of sending only solo postcards. After we four had heard nothing about the two sweatshirts with the I – Cubs logo and the spittin’– new, unoiled outfielder’s mitt that I knew Zane would know how to break in himself along with that extra pair of plain, black, also brand – new Thinsulate gloves I’d always had cached in the bottom drawer of the coat hutch on Havencourt along with all of their other pairs and knit caps, I believed that all of these items were taken from the Truemaier Boys.
I deemed them all stolen.
An especially wicked execution of the practice of aprovechar in that the Boys’ favorite foods and books and toys and warm, winter apparel and sports equipment, even their very medicines, not to mention my special – occasion cards and other letters, being withheld and hidden from the Truemaier Boys was right up Herry Edinsmaier’s alley and smack in line with his plan to make me The Invisible Mother. Of the sort that Ralph Ellison wrote in The Invisible Man. Only as a DEhuman, that is, as a woman. And not as a man at all, of course. “SONS, YOU HAVE NO MOTHER. MOTHER, YOU HAVE NO SONS!”
A shunning, a mother – fucking of murdering proportions. Killing the memories and swindling by way of lethal silence three Truemaiers and, at the least, as many Trues out of any bonding and attachment to each other as happened to get in this King’s way. Before the pair’s folie à deux in this massive shuck – and – jive of theirs no longer worked, that is, when Zane, Jesse and Mirzah’d all grown old enough so that the Sheriff of Nottingham Ms. Fannie Issicran McLive and her King could no longer get away with lying to them or defrauding me or when the intervening seven years had seen the Boys all graduate from high school, become 18 years old and physically gone, a total of at least $5,000.00 worth of items which I alone had packaged up and sent to the Truemaier Boys either in the United States mails or by some other route both Daddee – Herry and Ms. Fannie Issicran McLive had concertedly, had corruptly ripped off from them. And from me.
It doesn’t matter that I cannot remember because I cannot. I cannot remember if the long – distance toll charges on the telephone calls which I placed just to visit with my Boys are or are not included in this total amount of dollars, but I think not. I am, of course, referring here in this specific mother – swindling to all of those phone – call fees where I would do the dialing up, Ms. Fannie Issicran McLive would always be the person to answer the Edinsmaier – Truemaier landline as if right on staged cue from the Kingdom’s monarch; but where I, the Boys’ mama, would be immediately and summarily hung up upon without one word spoken or, at the very most, I would receive across my right eardrum the salutations of eleven or twelve of the nastiest utterances Noah’s dictionary contains and defines –– and, then, be slammed up upon.
To all queries – ever – of mine about how to even reach Herry in order for myself to openly seek from the Grand Pooh – Bah himself his most – high permission to chat with my own Boys, the standard measure of all passively aggressive, narcissistic replies always, always, always hurtled back to me off of Ms. Fannie Issicran McLive’s glossal organ as to where Herry was and if, perhaps, I could speak with him directly at another phone number, “I have no idea” –– plus a few more of her own glossary’s invectives, new oaths or Ms. McLive’s same old ones. Then, at my call’s last, into that one hearing ear of mine and straightaway from out of the Good and Wonderful Doctor’s prearranged directives, King Herod’s several commands … this corrupted and aprovechar swindler – sheriff’s crash, smash, thump – thud –– followed by a dial tone.
I was not rocking anymore now at all, no warming blankets enwrapping my legs nor cradling my arms. And Mirzah was correct when he’d told Daddee’s Canard what he had –– that I would not be undone after being dressed down but that I would come after the Truemaier Boys, no matter the outcome of the appeal.
The one thing I could not do was run away with Jesse Truemaier, Mirzah Truemaier and Zane Truemaier.
I would have. And I should have tried to, I believe, in retrospect. I just didn’t have one child only, though. I had three. Three not – so – tiny ones anymore, and I still cannot envisage in my mind’s eye just exactly how it is that I could have managed that: on the run. On next to no money. Even initially. Even before being caught and rounded up –– which I know would have happened. We were soooo visible –– we were. Because we are so cool – and we are – we four are so visible and would’ve been spotted pronto. Platinum, blue – eyed Aryan woman with three blondish, blue – eyed Aryan boy buckoes! How easy is that to detect and recognize? Plus, unlike Washington DC’s Dr. Elizabeth Morgan whose parents Antonia and William Morgan, escaped the United States with her one baby girl, Hillary, and were able to protect her with political asylum until she grew older then by their taking up citizenship in New Zealand –– as their own child, Dr. Morgan, rotted over two years in prison for civil, not criminal, contempt, I certainly did not have the help nor supporting backing from Mehitable for me to try any such thing on my own. AmTaham would’ve moved mountains, gone to the ends of the Earth and to any judicial, legal or financial mat for me had I run and had he been able to try to help us all ... alone. But Mehitable was around, very around: everywhere where the Mister Doctor Wonderful Edinsmaier and his three Truemaier Boys were concerned. And Grand Mehitable would have actively eaten me, her young, alive: turned me right over Me hit able would have. Either over to the authorities or in to King Herod himself –– which, as far as my United States Constitutional parental and parenting rights to anyone, was the same thing as the cops and the legal system.
I also begged Zane, Mirzah and Jesse to promise never to flee away back to me because I was just too justifiably afraid of stranger danger, as rightfully were they –– if they had put themselves out there on the run alone. The three obeyed. And to my knowledge only one time did Jesse bolt out of a U – Haul parked at a McDonald’s in Columbia, Missouri, to escape his father for a period of two weeks’ time and to go utterly missing from West Virginia –– before Herry’d had a hired man sicced onto Jesse, him found and, of course, the recalcitrant returned back to the calculated tyranny of Dr. Horrid Herod Edinsmaier’s master plan for the invisibility and subsequent disappearance of the Truemaier Boys’ mother. From their lives. Altogether.
Together we were so highly visible. But with us four now geographically separated so far from each other, it became a very cunning tactic of Herry’s in addition to his driving that 13 October 1990 Ryder away with them inside it … to sledgehammer, as well, a wedge wide enough between the Boys and me in order to separate all of them from any memories which they may’ve had of their mother and of their past lives with me. Soothingly cooing came Daddee – Herry’s cadence to each child separately and individually –– but only initially –– for never again would the topic, let alone … as always before and as recently as our family’s existence inside that man’s Othello Drive bachelor pad, would even just the verbal or written name, of Mother Legion True come up. The Velvet Voice of the Emperor Edinsmaier could talk and charm and explain and clarify and cajole and rationalize and enlighten and describe and validate and inveigle and authenticate and excuse and defend and shield and support and “prove” with such a tenor of supposed wisdom, understanding, “in your best interests” – operatic style and “evidence” … about exactly why it was that the Boys were to never speak to me – again. And, in like manner as well, why then he and his Next Cunt would never – again – sing of me either. All tolled –– including those times before the divorce was finalized and official, nine consecutive Christmas Eves, Christmas Days, New Year’s Eves, New Year’s Days, Mother’s Days and my annual Winter Solstice birthdays came and went ... without one note nor one telephone call sent to me from any one, two or three of my children. I knew. I knew it was not of their doing.
I imagined that Herry never gave these special days one thought as regards any form the Boys’ involvement with me should take because of the nature of these only male – constructed calendar times. Besides Herry’s purposeful wreaking onto me the vengeance of his not caring any about all of that, it was just too damned much remembering – work for him to want to even start to try to do! And I further imagined that, quite likely instead, the barely fairly fuckable Ms. Fannie Issicran McLive so did and that when she did think of these days’ connections for the Boys to me, she then reminded Herry. And subsequently the two of them together, a folie regarding jolly – folly holidays, would make dead – certain that there was no mention made, no reminding done, no remembrances suggested out loud around the Boys of their maybe, perhaps getting in touch with their mom. No! Mum, mum, mum were they and not in the ol’ English or Aussie Outback sense either. No, actually exactly the opposite. Kept the fuck shut up the two of them did –– and the special events and moments in my and my Boys’ lives together, why, all of these, of course, just passed on by. As time will. And as judges, both district and appellate ones, so know that it will, too. With the children and their growths sooo not standing still, so not being passed by.
Pissed – off and Revenging Edinsmaier’s patriarchal plan has worked out just mightily fine to a colossal extent, … hence Mirzah’s “ ... not before 11 years of age do I remember a thing about my life. And I don’t want to.”
Mirzah’s mother, Legion True, alone, chose to grow Mirzah into himself and to, alone, bulldoze him out in late September of 1979, and to, as well alone! raise him up to his identity of 11 ! ! ! … on into the late year of 1990, at which hour the daddee showed up to abscond with both his body and his brain, (… As a matter of historically fictional, fairy tale – telling factoid, reminds me this scenario most certainly does of a dude named jesus christus and that guy’s daddee after his own mama had, as well, accomplished what should have been her … choices – alone!) … I … I never existed to Mirzah = is what this solo means, ya’ know, Jury. This man –– Mirzah Truemaier –– “has no idea” as to who I … to him … actually am.––from Edinsmaier’s aria: “Gotcha’, Bitch!”
This stated belief of Mirzah’s is from someone who, earlier on, had matched both of his brothers in scoring perfect 36s on the reading portion of their respective SATs. It is sooo not like Mirzah just didn’t have the mental capacity to remember; this murdering of his banding bond to me, the mother, was deliberately and calculatingly perpetrated onto him and to his brothers. Something I still hear out of all three adult sons to this day goes something like thus, “But Herry never bad – mouthed you, Mama. He never said anything bad about you.”
“No? Then how do you explain what he did to us and how he got away with it? He was not talking to you about me, but he was talking to someone. And, likely, to several people. Several were the accomplices in Herry’s terror and tyranny. There was a plan, a mighty androcentric ‘master’ – plan all right and, in it, I was only ... bad – mouthed. Just you never heard. You weren’t ever going to. The plan was: you were never going to hear a thing –– bad or good because I did not exist to you –– immediately and for always after Daddee – Herry spirited all of you out of and away from 6143 Havencourt and The Teacup on that autumnal Saturday.
I ceased to be. And so did you in the sense of your lives before that day, in the sense of your lives … with me.”http://bluemaas.public.iastate.edu/chapter_27.doc
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 Ames he didn’t. He had vacated his and Ms. Fannie McLive’s apartment complex in Ames’ west section and moved her and Mary Jane once again. Down to a two – level bungalow on 69th in Urbandale, a northwest suburb of Des Moines, and 65 minutes of interstate driving time door to door from mine. Apparently it was his ‘plan’ to practice pathology around that metro in a per diem, locum tenens capacity at various laboratories while all the while seeking permanency with an outfit that suited him. Guess the White Law Firm outta Kansas City, the buckos who represented the legal concerns for the Downshim Pathology Laboratories and its branches, of which the Ames one had been, had had their full – up fill with Slacker Herry’s base and boorish bunkum –– his tardiness, his contrariness and Dr. Edinsmaier’s outright absence at inappropriate times –– as, er, with deeply anesthetized and, therefore, very unconscious women! –– and … shall we say, had “released” him. Something else that never seemed to much matter to the High Aggrandizier although Judge Seizor did know, too, of Dr. Herod Edinsmaier’s work habits. Or, rather, Herry – Daddee’s such dearth thereof!
I had 30 days to appeal and did. AmTaham and Mehitable left me alone and went back to Williamsburg, of course. I had pinned inside Jesse’s pocket along with all of the other important telephone numbers the one of a children’s legal advocacy agency in the capital city, Des Moines, where one of the Democratic Party’s former state senators was now its director, an attorney, too, with two small boys himself, Mr. Ralph Berg, a man all three of my children had met and against whose kiddos Jesse had played soccer from time to time. Of course, they all had Grace and Lionel’s telephone numbers, too.
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!
and Chapter 28, pp 300 - 303: The Truemaier Boys had been gone from me a year now and, at least as far as my 65 minutes’ drive, most of those months gone down to Urbandale. After nothing at all whatsoever back to me in the way of a response for their three birthdays’ worth of sacks of stuff that I’d quietly delivered right onto the 69th Street bungalow stoop where Ms. McLive, also quite quietly, puffed and puffed and after my pointfuckingblank asking all three kiddos in my continued, clandestine visits to the fall school term’s sports fields if they had gotten the gifts which I had left there for them, I believed purposefully gone missing then the books and the brand – new volleyball and Jesse’s special cherry – flavored cough medicine that he liked and that truly clobbered his mild, exercise – induced asthma and a tin of smoked oysters along with a jar of pickled herring for Zane plus one of grey poupon, country – style Dijon mustard along with a wrapped half pound package of Lorraine Swiss cheese from my Save – U – More delicatessen and salted sunflower seeds for Mirzah. Especially, too, the homegrown Beefmaster and Early Girl tomatoes which I hadn’t grown but that the farmer with acres off in the Storm County countryside had and who also lived on 24th Street and sold them to us so – faithful customers out of her double garage there every July and August. Just freshly vine – ripened and right ready for Jesse’s and Zane’s and Mirzah’s all – time favorite sandwich, their belovéd BLT, the goooo - od sandwich! Even the multiple books of 29 – cent United States postage stamps plus the sheets of the ones meant to cover the cost of sending only solo postcards. After we four had heard nothing about the two sweatshirts with the I – Cubs logo and the spittin’– new, unoiled outfielder’s mitt that I knew Zane would know how to break in himself along with that extra pair of plain, black, also brand – new Thinsulate gloves I’d always had cached in the bottom drawer of the coat hutch on Havencourt along with all of their other pairs and knit caps, I believed that all of these items were taken from the Truemaier Boys.
I deemed them all stolen.
An especially wicked execution of the practice of aprovechar in that the Boys’ favorite foods and books and toys and warm, winter apparel and sports equipment, even their very medicines, not to mention my special – occasion cards and other letters, being withheld and hidden from the Truemaier Boys was right up Herry Edinsmaier’s alley and smack in line with his plan to make me The Invisible Mother. Of the sort that Ralph Ellison wrote in The Invisible Man. Only as a DEhuman, that is, as a woman. And not as a man at all, of course. “SONS, YOU HAVE NO MOTHER. MOTHER, YOU HAVE NO SONS!”
A shunning, a mother – fucking of murdering proportions. Killing the memories and swindling by way of lethal silence three Truemaiers and, at the least, as many Trues out of any bonding and attachment to each other as happened to get in this King’s way. Before the pair’s folie à deux in this massive shuck – and – jive of theirs no longer worked, that is, when Zane, Jesse and Mirzah’d all grown old enough so that the Sheriff of Nottingham Ms. Fannie Issicran McLive and her King could no longer get away with lying to them or defrauding me or when the intervening seven years had seen the Boys all graduate from high school, become 18 years old and physically gone, a total of at least $5,000.00 worth of items which I alone had packaged up and sent to the Truemaier Boys either in the United States mails or by some other route both Daddee – Herry and Ms. Fannie Issicran McLive had concertedly, had corruptly ripped off from them. And from me.
It doesn’t matter that I cannot remember because I cannot. I cannot remember if the long – distance toll charges on the telephone calls which I placed just to visit with my Boys are or are not included in this total amount of dollars, but I think not. I am, of course, referring here in this specific mother – swindling to all of those phone – call fees where I would do the dialing up, Ms. Fannie Issicran McLive would always be the person to answer the Edinsmaier – Truemaier landline as if right on staged cue from the Kingdom’s monarch; but where I, the Boys’ mama, would be immediately and summarily hung up upon without one word spoken or, at the very most, I would receive across my right eardrum the salutations of eleven or twelve of the nastiest utterances Noah’s dictionary contains and defines –– and, then, be slammed up upon.
To all queries – ever – of mine about how to even reach Herry in order for myself to openly seek from the Grand Pooh – Bah himself his most – high permission to chat with my own Boys, the standard measure of all passively aggressive, narcissistic replies always, always, always hurtled back to me off of Ms. Fannie Issicran McLive’s glossal organ as to where Herry was and if, perhaps, I could speak with him directly at another phone number, “I have no idea” –– plus a few more of her own glossary’s invectives, new oaths or Ms. McLive’s same old ones. Then, at my call’s last, into that one hearing ear of mine and straightaway from out of the Good and Wonderful Doctor’s prearranged directives, King Herod’s several commands … this corrupted and aprovechar swindler – sheriff’s crash, smash, thump – thud –– followed by a dial tone.
I was not rocking anymore now at all, no warming blankets enwrapping my legs nor cradling my arms. And Mirzah was correct when he’d told Daddee’s Canard what he had –– that I would not be undone after being dressed down but that I would come after the Truemaier Boys, no matter the outcome of the appeal.
The one thing I could not do was run away with Jesse Truemaier, Mirzah Truemaier and Zane Truemaier.
I would have. And I should have tried to, I believe, in retrospect. I just didn’t have one child only, though. I had three. Three not – so – tiny ones anymore, and I still cannot envisage in my mind’s eye just exactly how it is that I could have managed that: on the run. On next to no money. Even initially. Even before being caught and rounded up –– which I know would have happened. We were soooo visible –– we were. Because we are so cool – and we are – we four are so visible and would’ve been spotted pronto. Platinum, blue – eyed Aryan woman with three blondish, blue – eyed Aryan boy buckoes! How easy is that to detect and recognize? Plus, unlike Washington DC’s Dr. Elizabeth Morgan whose parents Antonia and William Morgan, escaped the United States with her one baby girl, Hillary, and were able to protect her with political asylum until she grew older then by their taking up citizenship in New Zealand –– as their own child, Dr. Morgan, rotted over two years in prison for civil, not criminal, contempt, I certainly did not have the help nor supporting backing from Mehitable for me to try any such thing on my own. AmTaham would’ve moved mountains, gone to the ends of the Earth and to any judicial, legal or financial mat for me had I run and had he been able to try to help us all ... alone. But Mehitable was around, very around: everywhere where the Mister Doctor Wonderful Edinsmaier and his three Truemaier Boys were concerned. And Grand Mehitable would have actively eaten me, her young, alive: turned me right over Me hit able would have. Either over to the authorities or in to King Herod himself –– which, as far as my United States Constitutional parental and parenting rights to anyone, was the same thing as the cops and the legal system.
I also begged Zane, Mirzah and Jesse to promise never to flee away back to me because I was just too justifiably afraid of stranger danger, as rightfully were they –– if they had put themselves out there on the run alone. The three obeyed. And to my knowledge only one time did Jesse bolt out of a U – Haul parked at a McDonald’s in Columbia, Missouri, to escape his father for a period of two weeks’ time and to go utterly missing from West Virginia –– before Herry’d had a hired man sicced onto Jesse, him found and, of course, the recalcitrant returned back to the calculated tyranny of Dr. Horrid Herod Edinsmaier’s master plan for the invisibility and subsequent disappearance of the Truemaier Boys’ mother. From their lives. Altogether.
Together we were so highly visible. But with us four now geographically separated so far from each other, it became a very cunning tactic of Herry’s in addition to his driving that 13 October 1990 Ryder away with them inside it … to sledgehammer, as well, a wedge wide enough between the Boys and me in order to separate all of them from any memories which they may’ve had of their mother and of their past lives with me. Soothingly cooing came Daddee – Herry’s cadence to each child separately and individually –– but only initially –– for never again would the topic, let alone … as always before and as recently as our family’s existence inside that man’s Othello Drive bachelor pad, would even just the verbal or written name, of Mother Legion True come up. The Velvet Voice of the Emperor Edinsmaier could talk and charm and explain and clarify and cajole and rationalize and enlighten and describe and validate and inveigle and authenticate and excuse and defend and shield and support and “prove” with such a tenor of supposed wisdom, understanding, “in your best interests” – operatic style and “evidence” … about exactly why it was that the Boys were to never speak to me – again. And, in like manner as well, why then he and his Next Cunt would never – again – sing of me either. All tolled –– including those times before the divorce was finalized and official, nine consecutive Christmas Eves, Christmas Days, New Year’s Eves, New Year’s Days, Mother’s Days and my annual Winter Solstice birthdays came and went ... without one note nor one telephone call sent to me from any one, two or three of my children. I knew. I knew it was not of their doing.
I imagined that Herry never gave these special days one thought as regards any form the Boys’ involvement with me should take because of the nature of these only male – constructed calendar times. Besides Herry’s purposeful wreaking onto me the vengeance of his not caring any about all of that, it was just too damned much remembering – work for him to want to even start to try to do! And I further imagined that, quite likely instead, the barely fairly fuckable Ms. Fannie Issicran McLive so did and that when she did think of these days’ connections for the Boys to me, she then reminded Herry. And subsequently the two of them together, a folie regarding jolly – folly holidays, would make dead – certain that there was no mention made, no reminding done, no remembrances suggested out loud around the Boys of their maybe, perhaps getting in touch with their mom. No! Mum, mum, mum were they and not in the ol’ English or Aussie Outback sense either. No, actually exactly the opposite. Kept the fuck shut up the two of them did –– and the special events and moments in my and my Boys’ lives together, why, all of these, of course, just passed on by. As time will. And as judges, both district and appellate ones, so know that it will, too. With the children and their growths sooo not standing still, so not being passed by.
Pissed – off and Revenging Edinsmaier’s patriarchal plan has worked out just mightily fine to a colossal extent, … hence Mirzah’s “ ... not before 11 years of age do I remember a thing about my life. And I don’t want to.”
Mirzah’s mother, Legion True, alone, chose to grow Mirzah into himself and to, alone, bulldoze him out in late September of 1979, and to, as well alone! raise him up to his identity of 11 ! ! ! … on into the late year of 1990, at which hour the daddee showed up to abscond with both his body and his brain, (… As a matter of historically fictional, fairy tale – telling factoid, reminds me this scenario most certainly does of a dude named jesus christus and that guy’s daddee after his own mama had, as well, accomplished what should have been her … choices – alone!) … I … I never existed to Mirzah = is what this solo means, ya’ know, Jury. This man –– Mirzah Truemaier –– “has no idea” as to who I … to him … actually am.––from Edinsmaier’s aria: “Gotcha’, Bitch!”
This stated belief of Mirzah’s is from someone who, earlier on, had matched both of his brothers in scoring perfect 36s on the reading portion of their respective SATs. It is sooo not like Mirzah just didn’t have the mental capacity to remember; this murdering of his banding bond to me, the mother, was deliberately and calculatingly perpetrated onto him and to his brothers. Something I still hear out of all three adult sons to this day goes something like thus, “But Herry never bad – mouthed you, Mama. He never said anything bad about you.”
“No? Then how do you explain what he did to us and how he got away with it? He was not talking to you about me, but he was talking to someone. And, likely, to several people. Several were the accomplices in Herry’s terror and tyranny. There was a plan, a mighty androcentric ‘master’ – plan all right and, in it, I was only ... bad – mouthed. Just you never heard. You weren’t ever going to. The plan was: you were never going to hear a thing –– bad or good because I did not exist to you –– immediately and for always after Daddee – Herry spirited all of you out of and away from 6143 Havencourt and The Teacup on that autumnal Saturday.
I ceased to be. And so did you in the sense of your lives before that day, in the sense of your lives … with me.”http://bluemaas.public.iastate.edu/chapter_27.doc
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