When I’d returned home thirty-five years ago, I researched everything possible about Acrotomophilia. I also processed feelings and events from my childhood.
This obsession comes as no surprise. The environment I’d been raised in definitely shaped it. Born an only child in 1946, Dad had been a career military man and very strong willed, though gentle when he had a mind to be. My mother died when I was six years old. It had been hard, very hard. Understanding she was never coming back had been difficult to piece together. All I’d known was I wanted my mom. Daddy had done a wonderful job in raising me. After all, the entire responsibility had been thrown on him without warning or reason. It seems like yesterday, him picking me up, placing me on his strong knee, and whispering in my ear with his gentle, but confident voice. “The days will be dark and sad, but as time passes, it will get brighter and happier.” Not understanding how that could have been possible, I’d trusted him. Daddy would never tell me something that wasn’t true. Believing those words, I’d carried on. The days did get easier. Unfortunately, before getting better, things sometimes have to get worse. Weeks passed. I’d wake up running into the kitchen to hug her good morning, but all I’d find was sadness and an empty kitchen. No eggs frying on the stove, no empty cereal bowl on the table, nothing but my salty tears on the floor beside my bare feet. If I closed my eyes hard enough, I could still see Mom cooking breakfast, standing at the stove wrapped in a white terrycloth robe with her favorite black handled spatula flipping the eggs and pancakes. A little ouch would come from Mom’s lips when grease popped onto her hand while frying bacon. She’d slide the eggs onto Dad’s clean white plate once he sat down to drink his coffee. The memories seemed so real. I’d drop to my knees, clutching Kermit tight, while my tears cleansed the yellow tile. Months passed. I’d still smell Mom all over the house. I remember going into Mother’s closet and smelling her clothes. I’d fall asleep cuddled in her robe, surrounded by such comfort. Daddy would find me and take me back to bed. Many times, I’d cry myself to sleep, waking up with eyes so swollen, I resembled a boxer after a fight. Confused, I’d never understood why Mother was no longer there. Daddy spent so much time out on maneuvers overseas before Mother’s death. Within a month, he’d gone back on duty, and I’d gone back to school. A new normal developed, though change was just around the corner. A year after Mother’s death, Daddy shipped to Korea. Aunt Sally looked after me while he was gone. ---------------------- My name is Jack Mann. I love the army and teaching men to be leaders. I’m a Lieutenant Platoon leader. Soldiers always say that if you’re in a firefight, just follow the man. The men like to tease me about my last name. I’m not one to joke around with the men often. If things don’t run the right way, or if one of my men steps out of line, I’m an expert at redirecting them. Although hard, I’m respected. I’ve led my men into many firefights while here in Korea. I’ve gotten the majority of them back safe. I’ve lost some, but I’ve gotten most of them through the worst of situations, even if it means not getting through it myself. Harm finds me on July 5, 1955, while standing in the back of a jeep behind a mounted machine gun firing at Korean soldiers. The driver of the vehicle has been shot and killed by a sniper. Our jeep flips over several times, landing on my legs, crushing them to the point I’d almost lost them completely. Soldiers pry the jeep up enough to pull me out from under it. Three days later, I wake up in a VA hospital. Both of my legs are missing from mid-thigh. A few months later, I recover enough to leave the hospital and fly back home. On the flight home, I think about how Mary will react once she sees that I have no legs. Going back home to everyone terrifies me. I don’t know what the hell I’ll do for the rest of my life. At twenty-seven years of age, I feel useless. My flight soon arrives at the base in Memphis. It’s here where I meet Aunt Sally, who’s driving me home. The weather is bright and sunny. Severely depressed and fucking pissed at the world, I want nothing more than to hug my little Mary and forget everything else. Aunt Sally soon turns the huge Pontiac into the rocky driveway of our home. The ball joints pop on the right side of the car as if they’re going to break. Several neighbors wait in the driveway. All look eager and ready to check out the freak, the sideshow. The urge to holler at the top of my lungs consumes me. “This is what getting drafted by this country will do to you. I’m a fucking freak. Are you all fucking happy, motherfuckers? Fuck you!” Freddie, my next-door neighbor, opens the passenger door. Aunt Sally and another neighbor pull the wheelchair out of the trunk. Freddie and a couple of other fellows pick me up and gently help me onto the chair. At last, my sad, sore, and tired eyes focus on my daughter.
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AuthorKeith Kelly currently lives in Rio Rancho New Mexico. Archives
October 2020
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