Schuller’s Buick

This story is set in September 1967, about a month after Karen and her son Erik Fern moved to the Village of Birch Clump. See "Side Notes" in the left hand column for more background on this story and the 4th book I am preparing.

     Karen Schuler-Fern walked up to her father’s bedroom door no less than six times that evening. Her approach was determined sometimes, hesitant, meek or nervous at other times. He was seldom sympathetic towards her when it came to troubles with Erik and wasn’t at all discrete in showing his impatience over the imposition of his daughter and grandson had on his life. He never said they were an imposition, but Karen saw it that way. Elder Schuller had raised his family and wasn’t up to raising another at his age.
     She made a loose fist to rap on the door, but backed off each time. He didn’t do such a grand time with the family he did raise, her older, Nazi sympathizing, hard-drinking brothers, and their days in jail after rampaging in town time and again. Sure, Erik was difficult, but he’s nothing like the sons of Old Man Schuller; sweet Erin being the exception and he’s buried someplace France.
     Erik had half an excuse, not that she was going to let her son get away with things, but she understood. Grandpa, her dad, over compensated for what Erik went through the last few years when David abducted him. Job called it enabling.
     Oh, God, why couldn’t she dump Erik on Job and Jacob?
     Erik fearfully respected the two men, ’loved them also. They were compassionate, but could be tough with the kid. Erik respected toughness and tough guys. Erik fancied himself as a tough guy, but it was just to cover his little boy fears. Mothers can see through that; no problem.
     She giggled. Richard, or Jacob as he’s called, was no tough guy. Well, he was or could be; he just didn’t come across that way. Neither did Job, but folks knew to back off at first glance once his truly righteous dander was up.
     Slow, firm heavy steps neared the bedroom door. She anticipated her Dad’s grumpy look that showed he clearly acknowledged who it was that disturbed him, followed by his manner of turning his back to express his distaste to get in between the troubled mother / son relationship. His cold shoulder attitude could hit harder than if he yelled, threw a fit, told her off or if he would have demanded to be left alone. It was a progressive response from her dad since she and his grandson came back to the Birch Clump homestead; not on all subjects, but in matters pertaining to Erik’s delinquent behavior.
     The steps moved away. That’s when she realized she didn’t knock. Karen returned to the living room.
     Her seventh approach was determined. The old man had to come out and face reality, do something about the grandkid, tell her how to handle things or what ever. A knock on the main door stayed her.
     She sensed who it was. She knew practically every old neighbor’s approach. Little has changed in the years since she slipped out of Birch Clump one gray morning on the Greyhound. That was what? 1948?
     It sounded just like Rachael, but that wasn’t possible anymore. She wished it was. Rache, as some called her, but only after she was confined, was Grandmotherly sweet on Erik in some ways, and just her plain own delightful flirty self making innocent passes at her son. He used to listen to her. The sister was another matter, no less a town gossip than Rachael, but she didn’t have her older sister’s finesse. No one minded Rachael spreading stories. She was funny and meant no harm. The younger one dug deep and disapproved. Rachael spread Schuller-Fern gossip but always included, “The poor dear, after what he went through. With his mother’s loving patience, God bless her, he’ll turn out fine; you wait and see.”
     The one at the door might tell the same gossip and include, “It’s no wonder; what from a family like that and God knows what he learned from that David. Nothing good will come of him; you mark my words.”

     Rachel’s sister let herself in. Karen couldn’t or wouldn’t think of persusing the matter in front of company; and certainly not for the likes of Marti.

     “Hey, hon,” the younger sister of the village’s famous saintly flirt set the tone of self welcome, “Rachael’s sleeping and I’ve been asked to leave.”
     Karen checked her watch. "’Doesn’t surprise me," Karen sucked the inside of her lower lip before that slipped out.
     Marti assumed a reason for Karen’s time check, “Well, they usually let me stay past visiting hours. I told them I’ve been thrown out of better places.”
     She wasn’t all that welcome at the Schuler’s at that particular moment, but it wasn’t worth saying anything. Her drop ins were usually accepted and well accommodated.
     “Car’s gone.”
     She would notice that, Karen’s forehead screamed.
     “Need fixing?”
     Karen never lied. Avoiding the question altogether often worked.
     “Eh?”
     “Eh?” Karen came back. Her tone, though not sharp, came across as a challenge to have the person consider carefully if they really wanted to know the answer, or if they were prepared to explain if she (or he) had the right and need to know something even so simple as if a car is having mechanical problems, but the information would be guarded as if it were a deep dark family secret.
     “Nothing; just noticed your car aint in the drive.”
     “It’s not always in the drive,” Karen shot back; her tone taking on a sharp edge. Then she backed off, “Sorry, you know how it is when you fret about such things. So how are you doing?”
     It wasn’t a lie. Karen didn’t reveal her suspicions for the whereabouts of her father’s ’64 Buick, but the response permitted Marti to assume of her own accord it was out for repairs. Let a person assume what they wanted; that was Mrs. Karen Fern’s policy.
     Her privacy and that of her family was indispensable. She learned that early on as a girl covering up the dysfunctional family conduct brought on by her father’s alcoholism. Silence and cover up presented an image of dignity when all rectitude household harmony had been drowned during the uncountable night of shipwreck terror, and the family’s matron humiliated with thirty lashes of her father’s tongue.
     Ah, but the father never laid a hand on his wife, Karen was told, as if that made him so noble as to be beyond reproach; or less a monster and not to be feared.
     The vow of silence groomed her older brothers to grow in the Father’s image. And she grew to imitate her mother when at last she was old enough for a new name, that of Mrs. Karen Wright. Silence was such that she was the last to learn her good for nothing absent husband was jailed in another state. The first truly gentle strong one in the village that came and told her about David Wright was Fr. Jacob.
     She left Birch Clump quietly and in time became known as Mrs. Karen Fern. He was gentle and yet so strong he had no fear or shame, (perhaps those are one in the same thing, she reasoned over the years) to speak of anything. He boasted of her and boasted of their child, Erik. Though she had not learned to say much of her new family in public places, she adored how her Frederick Ferdinand Fern held his head high and told people that here is his family. Life was good and it was sweet far from Birch Clump. She vowed, not in words, but through tacit habit never to return.
     Then David, the monster, left prison and they fled from Milwaukee to Chicago and obtained an unlisted number. Fred had advised them to stay in Good Earth, but relented realizing her fear could not be abated.

     The hum of the car’s engine some thousand feet or so down the road pricked Karen’s ear. “Dang, out past curfew, but did you have to wait for Marti to witness this?”
     The guest tipped her head when the car turned into the drive. This wasn’t an hour for a mechanic to return a car. Not that local mechanics returned cars for customers. She figured it was Erik. What was a fourteen or fifteen year old doing driving and worse at this hour? This poor family!

     “Blackberry tea?” Karen offered. Nothing showed on her face as the car left the black top drive and crunched over the coarse ground rock gravel.
     Marti couldn’t believe it. Any parent would meet their child coming in at this hour at the door. Joy riding under age made matters worse and Karen didn’t flinch. She simply offered tea as if it was high noon and the kid was in school where he belonged.
     The door’s slight squeak was followed by a pause and then a slam. Silent footsteps were expected at this hour, but his progress towards the door was imagined and excellently timed or anticipated by Karen. She gave Marti a look to encourage a response; tea or no?
     The door slipped open carefully and then, as the youth realized he was caught, Erik marched in bold as anything. He jingled the keys by the leather ID key fob, held them out and casually, almost snobbishly, deposited the keys into his mothers upturned palm. He headed towards the stairs as was his custom.
     Marti focused on the inch long soft denim threads trailing from the lower left corner of his rear left faded blue jean pocket. They had a rebellious fit. All the kids wore them that way. To Marti, all the kids did the same thing, rebelled in the same manner, wore the same clothes. Nothing would come of this generation.
     “Preserve us, O Lord,” Jacob sometimes chanted Melkite style as he jovially complained about the antics of the kids visiting the monastery, “From the perversion of this generation.”
     “Defiant!”
     “Eh?” Karen asked.
     Marti was commenting on the kid’s swagger and way he swung his firmly packed rear in his grotesquely undersized jeans daring his mother to say anything. At least that was Marti’s interpretation.
     “He needs some new britches. Look at his defiant attitude!”
     Rachael, the Grandmotherly flirt, would not have hesitated to treat herself to the firm young muscle with an affectionate slap to Erik’s rear., maybe even pinch the soft clumped denim fibers hanging from the pocket if she was quick enough. The sisters were so opposite of one another.
     Erik would have laughed or at least given her a grand smile for her playful naughtiness. Sometimes he would pass close to Grandma Rachael and smart mouth her, nothing strong or outlandishly disrespectful in sport, giving her a chance to take a swipe at him. Sometimes he could side step her hand, sometimes not. Every now and then he probably slowed down a bit on purpose for her.
     Marti saw defiance.
     Rachael saw cute; she’d say something silly about the kids’ strange fashion trends, “Hope you don’t fart and blow those jeans apart.”
     She’d laugh a dirty laugh. She flirted with men of any age and as years went on found no reason to be coy about it either. The older they were, the more careful the men were around her lest she snag them in their widowhood.

     Karen obligingly turned and watched her son go up stairs toward his bed room but gave no indication that she saw anything out of the ordinary in his attitude. It was her way to get back at Marti for inserting her opinion into family matters. Karen knew she’d get around to Erik’s behavior and serious wrong doing soon enough.
     She went into the kitchen.
     “No, please don’t bother;” Marti began excusing herself, “It’s late. I must be getting home while it’s still dark.”
     Karen looked up at the ceiling light with questioning Marti’s choice of words, While it’s still dark?
     Marti caught her nervous odd choice of words and hoped it went over Karen’s head. Karen continued into the kitchen, but conceded to Marti’s insistence, “Oh no problem at all, but I understand. Give me a sec and I’ll see you out.”
     Though Marti had no qualms letting herself into the house, it was only proper that ladies were accompanied to the door on their way out. That would have been Erik’s task if he was near by, otherwise Karen or Elder Schuller would see to it. For all his other faults, Erik willingly complied with the gentlemanly duties, obligations or expectations as circumstance presented.
     It was amazing how he’d take a bag of groceries and hold the door for his mother without giving it a second thought while arguing with her or talking back. And she would accept the offer while matching him line for line during a heated quarrel. He held doors, she cooked dinner, he washed the dishes.

     Karen stood at the base of the stairway with one hand on the Schuller’s hand sculpted post supporting the last foot and half of the thick, smoothly routed, maple hand railing. A plain round, but polished oak pole railing was on the other side. It was an unusual combination, but certainly gave the old house a grand look. She contemplated how to approach her son about tonight’s adventure.
     Grandpa’s door opened and firm serious footsteps led to Erik’s door. “Open up!” Erik complied and stood in the frame of his bedroom door. The look on Erik’s face was a nonchalant expression of, “What do you want at this hour?” He knew better than to give audible form to such a thought.
     “Downstairs.”
     Erik was stayed in disbelief. The Grandfather’s special look sufficed for a verbal repeat. Karen backed away to give the two men plenty of room to come down and get by her.
     “What’s wrong with you?” Grandfather demanded.
     That was a moment mother and son held their breath while Erik tried to work up some sort of retort. “Could we talk about this in the morning? I’m sure we are all tired . . .”
     The crack of Schuller’s powerful back hand to the side of Erik’s head interrupted. The kid was off his feet and gave a half twill in the air, his arms and legs spread out wide to were it looked like he might split the seam of the seat of his jeans. His fingers were spread out like a kitten baring claws being tossed into the water. His face was not unlike that of a kitten’s would be under such circumstance.
     Karen’s mind and heart was flooded with conflicting emotions in that instance. She wanted to step in fearing Schuller had suddenly reverted to his abusive days of drink and quick temper when he would browbeat her older brothers something terrible. At the same time, she felt the old guy might not go that far anymore and the shock might do her son some good.
     The kid landed hard and with quick reflex rolled to a sprawled sitting position covering four steps. He yielded to the grandfather’s force, the tough guy approach, the only thing Erik respected without question. He respected toughness from anyone bigger than him, the same size or smaller. He showed no fear of another person’s toughness, just respect.
     The grandfather maintained his aggressive stance, but his voice calmed. It was almost artificially soft, “Tomorrow will be fine.”
     The boy was stared into making the first move to go upstairs and retire for the night. Grandfather Schuller followed. Karen waited until both doors shut and then she headed for her room.

     The older ones were sipping coffee when Erik came down the next day. Crumbs on the plates attested to toast dunked in coffee. Erik was mildly squeamish at the sight of butter oil and bits of soaked toast crumbs floating on the surface of their lukewarm coffee. He got over it quick enough, but the revolting smell always stayed him a moment before he sat down. He could practically taste the slime.
     Grandpa was staring at Erik’s front right pocket when the kid finished his oatmeal and hot hard boiled egg and positioned himself to push away from the table as was done most mornings. Grandpa raised his palm down hand a couple inches from the table. The old German discipline needed no words if it was to handle a child or train a guard dog.
     The old man kept his gaze on the kid’s pocket, “Cough up fifty cents.”
     “Huh?”
     “Four bits!”
     Erik realized the old guy calculated the thickness of the two back to back coins pressed against his pocket to be exactly fifty cents. Erik scooted around and inched the coins out of his pockets with the fingers of one hand while the fingers of the other held the white cotton pocket from following the coins. He set the coins still pressed together before his Grandfather.
     The old man brushed the coins with his left hand into the right and effortlessly let them fall into his over sized brown cotton trousers. “I’ll give you a lift to school this morning. Let me know when you’re ready.”
     Nothing was said between the three of them while Erik ate; nothing was said to the boy as he readied himself for school. Erik rarely got a ride to school and never from his Grandfather. He had plenty of time to conjure up and fret out all sorts of scenarios of how Grandpa might handle last night’s episode.
     Mother and son, softer than usual for fear of riling up the older one, muttered their normal morning send off. Then, while Erik dutifully held the front door for Grandpa, the elder gave Karen his reason for driving the boy in, “I’ll fill up fifty cents worth after I drop him off.”

Notes of Interest: Gas in those days was around eighteen cents a gallon. Jeans ran $5 to $7 a pair, tapered with flared cuffs, but designer jeans were still about a decade away. Haircuts, something Erik and many other youths avoided like the plague, were fifty to seventy-five cents. Minimum wage went from $1.25 to $1.40 in 1967; most Birch Clump hourly workers made little more than that in the ’60s. That came to around $40 to $50 a week for most households after income taxes and Social Security was withheld from the paycheck. A nickel raise, therefore, could possibly afford a new pair of ordinary pants and a shirt for one person per month.
     Many women, as was Karen Schuller-Fern’s case, were often paid below minimum. In this story, widow Fern and son had recently fled trouble in Chicago and moved in with Katrina’s father. Poverty wages held them partially dependant upon the Grandfather. A nickel raise, ($1.50 extra in a 30-hour part time work week) for her would still have kept her and her son below the poverty line.
     The nature of the trouble back in Chicago is spelled out in the first novel, Hawk Dancer.

_________________________________________________________________________