Read an Excerpt
A Father's Double Life
By Michael Cavicante
AuthorHouse
Copyright © 2011 Michael Cavicante
All right reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4634-0648-6
Chapter One
Beaned Out
The United States is in the middle of the Vietnam War as American Troops escalate to 250,000; Texas Western upset the Kentucky Wildcats to be the first NCAA Basketball Team to win the National Championship by starting an all African-American starting line-up; Fidel Castro declares Martial Law; Dr. Martin Luther King Junior is leading the Civil Rights Movement; Actor Ronald Reagan is elected Governor of California; Walt Disney Dies; Mass Murderer Richard Speck is arrested; the Beatles perform their last concert at Candlestick Park in San Francisco and Lyndon B. Johnson is President; the year—1966.
It would only be fitting, that amidst the chaos, controversy, prejudice and wars, I, Michael Cavicante, would be born to Raymond and Juanita, at Los Angeles County General Hospital, February 28th the same year. I was the second of three kids they would have together, as my older brother was born just eleven months earlier, April 8th, 1965.
Three years removed from my mother's womb, she decided that she didn't want her kids raised in such a big city, so the five of us boarded a train and arrived in the great state of Tennessee. She was pregnant with a third child.
We moved next door to the wicked witch, into a roach infested, four-room duplex on East Trigg Avenue in South Memphis in 1969. You will find out who the wicked witch is shortly.
Memphis was a relatively small city, but becoming famous due to it being the home of Elvis Presley at the time, but also infamous, because it was the city in which civil rights leader, Reverend Martin Luther King was assassinated just a year prior, in 1968.
The house itself had a living room, bedroom, kitchen and a bathroom. The home might have been six hundred square feet at best. The walls were some hideous shade of green and the ceilings were cracking all over, looking as if they would fall at any time. The floor was covered with cheap linoleum that was peeling up from the floor, just enough that one would trip over it, if not watching where they were going.
The front yard was big enough to change your mind if you needed to and the front porch was made of rotting wooden slats and also looked as if termites were eating away at it before my very eyes. The backyard was nothing more than dirt with little to no grass and a stoop off of the back door that had three steps.
The outside of the home wasn't brick, stucco, wood or siding. It was like roofing material and therefore resembled asbestos shingles. I occasionally tore a piece off the side of the house and slung it like a boomerang once or twice.
The style of house was called a shotgun house, which by definition meant that you could stand at the front door with a shotgun, aim at the back door straight ahead only sixty feet away, shoot and the pellets would go straight through and out the rear of the house, without touching anything else. That was where we lived for the next several years.
I saw rats or mice scurrying across the floor every so often, and again. Roaches were the norm. So normal in fact, that I woke up some mornings with one sitting on my pillow and staring me right in the eye as if to say,
"Good Morning."
The roaches were so bad that I had awful dreams they were crawling all over me and woke up only to find out that the dreadful dream was my reality as I brushed them off of my arms and legs, totally freaking out at times while yelling and screaming. At that point, my mother would run into the room and hold me while I fell to sleep in her arms as she sang The Carpenters' song, "Close to You".
The song was beautiful, and the lyrics along with her melodic voice always soothed me. These were the little things that my mother did to ease any hurt, pain, or otherwise, in order to comfort me in the time of need.
Born in 1935, my mother was of Irish/Black descent. She was fair skinned and therefore, people didn't know what to make of her, but she was accepted by most as being white. Though full-figured, she was very pretty and had hazel eyes that changed colors. She also had a particularly outgoing personality and was liked by everyone that she met.
Shortly after arriving in Memphis, my father went on to finish trucking school and was hired by some small firm as a truck driver, while my mother worked at Hyde Park laundry.
My father, born in San Francisco in 1927, was of Italian descent. He had jet black, wavy hair, which was also curly at the ends. He was five foot seven inches tall, slender and had the customary, heavy, Italian eyebrows and mustache; he was also accepted as Caucasian. I must say that my father was a very handsome man and knew it.
He had very few bad habits and was extremely meticulous and an anal- retentive. He kept his nails trimmed and stayed in the mirror primping. He couldn't pass a mirror without looking into it. When at home and not asleep, he planted himself on the couch, no matter where we were living. Everything had its place on the coffee table in front of him as his cigarettes and lighter was neatly arranged, along with his ashtray.
He also loved drinking milk from the container while standing at the refrigerator, which was probably the only bad habit he had, next to smoking cigarettes that is. All in all, he was a hard worker while seemingly wanting better for us to a degree and, therefore, tried to be a devoted father.
While my father was busy primping in the mirror, I was introduced to my Aunt Mattie who just so happened to be in Memphis on a visit from her home in Kansas City, Missouri. She was actually my great aunt and the sister of my grandfather John, who she was visiting.
Aunt Mattie was a very pretty, light-skinned, of average size, black lady. When about to leave for Kansas on her way back home, she asked my mother if she could keep me for the summer. I was three years old, very obedient, talked proper and more than anything else, I looked as if I could have been Mattie's son.
My mother initially squashed the idea, but then thought that maybe a break would be perfect while she adjusted to life in Memphis, so ultimately, she approved of the trip, but asked Mattie if she was also willing to take my brother.
Robin was deemed by doctors as mentally retarded, however, as he got older, we found out that Robin indeed had a lot of brains; more so than most people gave him credit for as well as a lot of common sense, but Mattie wanted no part of him.
Mattie wanted me because I was the model child, but mainly because she had no kids of her own. However, there was a specific reason behind why Mattie couldn't have kids.
My mother later explained to me how, when Mamie Echols found out Mattie was pregnant years prior, she took a coat hanger and shoved it up Mattie's vagina and into her birth canal, not only killing the fetus, but also ruining Mattie for life from ever being able have a child. I guess you can figure out that it was Mamie Echols who was the wicked witch I mentioned earlier; the one that we moved next door to. She also happened to be my great-grandmother.
Hmmm—Mamie Echols, it didn't even sound like a pleasant name. Who would name their daughter Mamie? She was an evil and wretched old lady who was despicable in every imaginary, or should I say un-imaginary way. She loved no one, cared about no one, not even herself.
She was a very miserable person and lived a miserable life and it seemed that her sole purpose of living was to make everyone around her unhappy. It actually sounds like someone else I currently know, but I don't dare mention their name. She never offered a kind word, gesture or act towards anyone and condemned anyone who tried to show kindness to her or anyone else. She was a ruthless person by all accounts. While my great-grandmother was busy making everyone else miserable, Mattie and I were on a plane and on our way Kansas.
During my stay in Kansas, Aunt Mattie spoiled me no end, buying me whatever I wanted. She took me to see the Kansas City Royals which was in their first year as an expansion team. We also went shopping all of the time, so I was always dressed in the best of clothes. She bought me my first tricycle and I also had a pet Chihuahua that I played with. I even had my very own room; yeah, I was living the life for a little while; however there was a saying,
"Nothing good lasts forever."
As the summer months zoomed by, we were well into mid-Autumn and my mother was getting closer to delivery. She wanted me back in Memphis to be part of my sister's birth. However, I wasn't missing the deplorable living conditions in which my parents were living and wanted to stay with Aunt Mattie. There would then be a struggle between my mother and Aunt, because Mattie tried to keep me for herself, but my mother finally got me back and just in time for my sister to be born, November 25th, 1969. Her name was Wendy.
After giving birth to my new sibling, we were all babysat next door in the adjoining duplex by none other than, Mamie Echols, the wicked witch, which meant when I described our house, I was describing hers as well.
Her home was cluttered, so much to the degree that it seemed as if she had saved everything she had ever been given over the entire seventy years of her life. There was hardly any room to walk and you had to weave your way through a maze of junk.
Let's not even talk about the roaches. Oh my goodness how the roaches had invaded her house. They were climbing up and down the walls, across the floors, on the ceilings, out of the faucet, over the dishes, and when I opened a drawer to get silverware, they practically handed me a utensil. I watched my great-grandmother swat and kill them with her bare hands; how revolting.
Standing five foot six inches, Mamie was light-skinned, wiry, and her face looked of worn leather. She also wore thin-rimmed, wire framed glasses and a hair net over her head. That's right; she not only acted like a witch, but also looked like one.
We were under her reign for two more years, until 1971. It was March and I had just turned five years old when Mamie Echols was babysitting my siblings and me. For the last couple of years, beans were all we had ever eaten, nothing different, nothing new, just beans.
Every Sunday, her routine was the same. She would go into the kitchen, clean a big, three-gallon pot, pour four or five packages of beans into it and then fill with water. She then brought the pot to a boil, while cutting onions, bacon, ham and other seasonings into it. After stirring and boiling for about thirty minutes, she would let the pot simmer for several hours and ultimately the legumes were ready to eat.
Navy Beans, Army Beans, Pinto Beans or Kidney Beans, take your choice, it really didn't matter; they were beans just the same. And they weren't just for dinner; we also ate them for breakfast and lunch. To say the least, there had to come a point and time where beans can't be wanted for any meal; forget three times a day.
That particular day eventually arrived for me, one March afternoon in 1971, when Mamie served up guess what? Yeah you got it—beans.
As I sat at a small table in the kitchen, a plate of beans sat there before me in a midst of an army of crawling roaches. I had actually gotten used to the roaches sadly enough. Okay maybe I'm fibbing just a bit; I could never get used to the roaches, but compared to the beans; those little, ugly, brown, contemptible, detestable little beans, just sickened me to my stomach. For me at that particular time, they were worse than any roach could ever be.
Before lifting my spoon, a nauseas feeling came over me and as my throat got tighter, I was choking before even taking my first bite.
I sat there thinking to myself as to how mean my great-grandmother was and wondering what would happen if I chose not to eat. What would she do? How would she react? I was left with very few options, and therefore, I knew that I had to eat that plate of beans.
As I slowly guided the spoon to my mouth, I had to close my eyes as just the look of them made me cringe. I opened my mouth and got bitter-beer face as I began to bite down. While removing the utensil from my lips and on the second bite, just as the first spoonful was about to hit the back of my throat, I regurgitated not only the beans, but also anything that was left in my digestive tract from the last several meals, which just so happened to be—beans.
With vomit all over me and in my plate, I sat there wondering what to do next. I felt her eerie presence around me when she approached my side,
"What's wrong?" in her crackling, old voice.
"I just can't eat another bean, grandma. Do I have to eat them?"
"You will eat those damn beans or else!"
I started crying and pleaded with her,
"Please grandma, please don't make me eat any more beans."
I suddenly felt her cold, callused hands, which felt more like three- hundred grit sandpaper, grab me by the back of my neck and shove my face into the plate of yesterday's meal.
"Eat those damn beans!"
I struggled mightily and was able to break away from her talon-like grip. I lifted my head while crying as the conglomerate of bean juice and puke covered my innocent face.
I got up from the table and ran to the bathroom, knowing that she was about to somehow discipline me. She went outside and pulled a branch off of an old oak tree, stripped the leaves off of it, came into the bathroom and started to hit me with it.
She had me cornered between the bathtub and toilet while I sat on the floor covering my head. I felt the pain of that switch and as it lashed my skin, the pain got worse. I was screaming and crying when I got up and ran past her. She chased me through the little shack of a house and it wasn't the love shack either.
Being early March, it was still very cool outside, so there was a gas heater in operation in the middle room. While trying to escape her wrath, I tripped over a piece of that darned, torn linoleum and fell over the gas heater, only to burn my stomach. While smelling the melting of my burning flesh, I screamed at the top of my lungs and then seemingly went unconscious.
When I awoke, my mother was putting salve on the burn that stretched at least eight inches across my stomach and navel. My mother soon thereafter, quit her job at Hyde Park laundry and stayed home with us full time. I thought to myself,
"If this was a taste of what the rest of my life would be like, then maybe I should jump back into my mother's womb and reverse this whole transaction."
But it was too late for that, for I was already born and very much alive."
Chapter Two
Life Goes On
You won't hear me talk a lot about Christmas in this story—mainly because we didn't have many Christmases to remember; I personally only remember maybe one or two. We seemingly always had a tree with lights every year, but I honestly don't remember anything special, aside from the fact that my mother read Bible Stories to us and explained the true meaning of what Christmas is all about. That was all well and good, but kids want presents and not reasons as to why we don't have them.
While growing up I was liked by most kids, but there were always bullies that picked on me for whatever reason. While living on Trigg, the bullies were Johnny and Damon, who were teenagers. They never laid a hand on me though. I think they just got a kick out of running me back into the house, which happened when I got a little older.
My brother, even though mentally handicapped, was accepted more than I was; why I don't know, but for whatever reason, he just fitted in better with the other kids. They knew he was mentally slow, so yeah, he was made fun of at times, but for the most part, kids had compassion for him. Even though a little slow, Robin did seem to have a lot more common sense than I did as a kid.
It was September, 1971, and time for me to start Kindergarten at Southside. I don't remember a lot about Kindergarten, except for the teacher making us lie down on mats and take naps. It seemed like that was all we ever did.
What I do recall as if it were yesterday was my mother making me wear a hot, itchy, short-sleeve, wool shirt to take school day pictures in May of 1972. I was absolutely miserable that day and it must have been a hundred degrees outside. I itched, scratched and was gloomy all day long as my picture on the front cover just might indicate.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from A Father's Double Life by Michael Cavicante Copyright © 2011 by Michael Cavicante. Excerpted by permission of AuthorHouse. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
