No Way Out

In 1954, on a hot August Sunday morning, I was six years old when I watched my mom grab a shovel in our backyard, walk up behind my dad, and swing it at his head while he was dozing in a lawn chair.

Dad had come home drunk the night before, as usual, and looking for a cool place to sleep, found my older brother, Jack, snoozing in our only outdoor recliner. Swearing loudly enough that the neighbors could hear, he yanked the chair from underneath him. Jack, at seventeen and six foot three, had had enough. Fists were thrown, bodies entangled, and blood was everywhere. When the police arrived, I ran upstairs and hid. The next morning, my brother was gone, Dad was asleep in the lawn chair, and Mom was outside holding a shovel. I was confused and scared about last night, but I was also worried about getting to church. We were Catholic, it was Sunday, and missing mass was a mortal sin.

I watched in disbelief as Dad dropped to the ground, and after Mom carefully laid the shovel down, she took my hand and walked back into the house. She was holding me tightly when the back door opened and Dad stumbled in, dazed and confused, asking what had happened. She never told him, nor did I.

Now that I’m older, I understand what happened that day. My mother didn’t act out of anger or impulse; she was protecting our family, the only way she knew how. The Catholic church forgives taking a life, but not divorce, so she chose to kill him rather than lose her soul. But he didn’t die, and I often wonder how much she suffered knowing divorce was the only option left. And that’s what she did.