CHAPTER 27: THE OPERA: ACT II, Part 2
From "The Saga of One F**ked Mother"
In this section of Chapter 27, Act I finishes up and Act II, Part 2 begins. After Legion is awarded primary custody, things seem to be OK…for a minute. But Herry gets the boys for the entire 1989/90 holidays and she has to spend them alone. To cap off the miserable season, she is told that her job as an assistant Microbiology professor would not be renewed in the spring semester.
The 1990 New Year brings even more bad news. With the ink barely dry on the divorce decree, Herry files for primary custody and child support, despite the fact the law prohibits modification unless there is a significant change of circumstances. Act II begins with Legion needing a new attorney to prepare for the second custody trial. Meanwhile, Herry’s got a replacement mother in the works.
In the last section, the divorce is finalized and Legion is given primary custody. She dissects the Findings made by “daJudgeMan” noting how double standards prevail throughout and how the judge degrades her and uplifts Herry. Herry’s misbehavior, crimes, and history of terrible parenting were dismissed and she was ordered to “overlook” all that. She and the boys move into a cozy condo just walking distance from their school.
CHAPTER 27 of Mother-Fucking: The Saga of One Fucked Mother begins with Act I of “The Opera”—from Book 3, the last part of the book. The Opera has three Acts with five Parts—one part for each of the three Family Court trials and two Appellate trials. Chapter 27 covers Acts I and II: the first two Family Court trials and the first Appellate Court trial. [This is a long chapter and will be published in newsletter-sized bites.]
Dr. Blue’s novel is based on her own experience of the Custody Crisis. It uniquely conveys how Family Court judges are “mother-fucking” women—a form of systemic oppression and violence directed at ex-wives—as protagonist Legion is systematically and methodically deprived of her children and money and reduced to “one fucked mother”.
Chapters are stand-alone interesting so you can begin reading anywhere. A Cast of Characters follows to help readers at any point [on the web page]. All published chapters are included in the Section: “Saga of One F**ked Mother” accessible on the top bar of the home page of Women’s Coalition News & Views. Sequential chapters are published every Wednesday and subscribers will find them in their inboxes, so make sure to subscribe if you haven’t yet!
TEASERS
Mother‑fucking, conniving conundrum this was right off after the official divorce for the holiday seasons of both 1989 and 1990. Mother’s rights?! Ha! Mother’s rights be damned. They be fucked. Fucked up any which way. Pillared‑Man Herod Edinsmaier was going to—and did—have the Truemaier Boys for Thanksgiving Day night, Christmas Eve, Christmas Day, New Year’s Eve and New Year’s Day.
17 January 1990. Again in the Iowa District Court for Storm County and in Case #9215–8801, the sheets were stapled together and entitled also again in capital letters, PETITION FOR MODIFICATION and first began, “The Decree provided (a) Respondent is to have the children’s primary physical care and (b) Petitioner is to pay child support in the amount of $1,800.00 per month.”
CHAPTER 27
Dr. True's Opera in Three Acts—with Five Parts
ACT II, Part 2
Zane began walking or bicycling a Des Moines Register paper route mornings and Sundays, too. Bill payments were automatically sent in or put onto credit cards by subscribers. No collecting for him as I had had to do with the Ames Daily Tribune when only 13 years old myself and delivering it in the same town afternoons and on Saturday mornings around the married students’ complexes. That was so cool for Zane. Collecting soooo sucked, and I have never forgotten that it did. Jesse helped him, too, nearly every day because all had to be folded, bagged, delivered and in folks’ doorways by 6:30 am, and I drove them both around our Teacup ‘hood on Sundays with the Shitbox Dodge wagon’s hatch window open and up since the individual paper size that specific day was humongous and burdened me, the adult, to an extent that I could not imagine it for them as youths. Besides after breakfast, that of their own worlds’ everyday, I did not want that of the newspapers’ weight also on both of their shoulders––as well.
As a matter of fact, I am thinking that the whole deal was Jesse’s idea in the first place, that is, to even start up a delivery route. Jesse may have only been 11, but he had for quite some time before then appreciated the value and everyday commitment of hard work and a dollar; and when word came down to him through his many, many friends that a newspaper route in the neighborhood was opening up, Jesse was the one to jump on it. Very reliable, very, very dependable Zane was––for a young man who couldn’t indeed end a day and had not, before taking on this accountability, begun a day too easily either. Zane, as I have often written before and exactly like his Ancestor‑in‑the‑Making AmTaham, read and read and read and just could not seem to turn off the cellar lamp on his headboard at night. Consequently as is plausible, it was fucking hard for him to wake up in the morning. Every morning. But he did. And Jesse gently encouraged him to get up and to get going, and the two of them together were quite the diligent, entrepreneurial pair. Too, a warm, furry memory: when Jesse was two years old in footed flannel sleepers I remembered his following similarly fuzzy fleeced four‑year‑old Zane into hellfire if that’s where the action and adventure took the two of them inside the Hershey Medical Center housing complex. Now, with the delivery route, I wondered if maybe it hadn’t also been Jesse’s thinkings and doings back then in P A during the early, early 1980’s as well and that Zane was more than complicit in abetting the ittier bittier one of them by facilitating and helping to implement Jesse’s comings and goings. As far as walking routes and carrying newspaper dailies locally, needless to say, they reminded me of me. And of AmTaham. Accountable, hardworking Righteous Ancestors in Training … all of us then.
Judge Sol Wacotler Seizor’s divorce order specifically decreed on its page 12, “In the even numbered years, Herry should be entitled to have the children for twenty‑four (24) hours commencing at 6:00 p.m. on the days preceding New Year’s Day, July 04th and Thanksgiving.” But the paragraph just immediately above that one stated that “Herry should have visitation from 6:00 p.m. on Friday until 6:00 p.m. Sunday on the first and third Fridays of each month. He should be able to have the children with him over night [daJudge’s idea of ‘overnight’] commencing at 6:00 p.m. on the Thursday of the week that he will not be exercising weekend visitation.” This from the paragraph that came first before the Thanksgiving one or the Christmastime paragraph which ordered me to give the Boys over to Herry for a period of at least four consecutive days and “in the odd numbered years, this is to commence on December 24th at 6:00 p.m.”
Then came its patriarchal, belly‑gutting, mother‑fucking kicker: New Year’s of course, could never, ever be in the same odd or same even year as had just been the Christmas Eve or the Christmas Day of the week earlier, could it? That is, if 25 December was in 1989, then that specific Season’s New Year’s Day would be one of the even year of 1990, seven days hence, not?! And the Decree’s word “preceding” of “commencing at 6:00 p.m. on the days preceding” means, of course, then … New Year’s Eve. The visit for the even New Year’s Day was to start at 6 pm of the preceding evening. Pillared Herry was to have the Truemaier Boys all of the celebrating of New Year’s Eve of the odd‑numbered years––or at least the most significant six hours of it before the ball drops at midnight and it’s then the next even‑numbered year … in the order of things––androcentrically––calendar‑like!
Funny judge. The stuff of funny judging. And, … fuzzier math. Like I wrote before, I had had to read these details only one time through to know them––and I myself, unlike any family law court judge, was … shall I say, “getting this”––for just the very first time. I picked up on this clutter, this ‘dis’order of an order, this mother‑fucking snafu right the hell off.
And, with Herry also not too dumb on the uptake of this court order’s declarations and his most easily interpreting “the math” of patriarchal religions’ calendar configurations, he likewise did, too––to the extent even of pronouncing and demanding of me that his routine Thursday overnight visitations during the weeks that didn’t include his weekends with the Boys took precedence––both because of the sequence of their respective paragraphs in the Decree and because of the perceived importance and necessity to him of his getting from me all that he felt entitled to take away. To take away from me … aprovechar‑style. As every other working‑outside‑the‑home mama I know in like manner has to do on Thanksgiving morning, I also took noooo holiday hours of extra rest off at all and, as with any other ordinary workday,––again––arose at dawn on the day of Thursday, 23 November 1989, to bake the Peking duck with glazed orange sauce plus prepare and cook all of the dressing, trimmings, side dishes and pumpkin pies––since Zane, Jesse and Mirzah Truemaier were, according to Taker Herry‑Daddee, absolutely having to go to him by no later than 6 pm that very night––to keep in accordance with his, the father’s right! Daddee’s so, so saaaacred sperms’ exaltation! And the mama? The mother was most certainly not to have her very own babies even for a leisurely and completely uninterrupted, 24‑hour Thanksgiving holiday! Uh‑uh!
Mother‑fucking, conniving conundrum this was right off after the official divorce for the holiday seasons of both 1989 and 1990. Mother’s rights?! Ha! Mother’s rights be damned. They be fucked. Fucked up any which way. Pillared‑Man Herod Edinsmaier was going to—and did—have the Truemaier Boys for Thanksgiving Day night, Christmas Eve, Christmas Day, New Year’s Eve and New Year’s Day. Just as he had plotted the 1988 to 1989 seasonal cycle the very year before which had also, according to King Herry’s dicta during our marital separation days, completely played itself out back then in this very same fashion with his I‑must‑have‑the‑Boys‑every‑single‑weekend visitation schema. Fuck, what contriving! Herry’d had my May Mother’s Day 1989 weekend because Act One hadn’t even commenced yet so he was still maneuvering visitation under his every‑weekend deal; and within only a wee bit over a fortnight after the Decree was finalized, why, Dr. Herod Edinsmaier enjoyed his Father’s Day with the Boys as well. Shit, it had been the 18th and June’s third Friday‑to‑Sunday weekend … so, of course, Mirzah, Zane and Jesse were gone from me!
It wasn’t too difficult for me to figure out just who’d done the Edinsmaier decorations, the Christmas turkey, the caroling and the tree or the New Year’s Eve hats and horns—if there had even been any. These had never, ever been the doings and thinkings, the things of Herry’s days––any days or nights––and, least of all, Dr. Edinsmaier’s holidays so if there had been some, then the folie à deux that was Herry with his Next Cunt again kicked in and the Sheriff of Nottingham, Ms. Fannie Issicran McLive, provided the enforcement behind the King’s directives for the Boys’ own labors at getting these things done. All of it––I could be certain of that. The likeliest likelihood was that nothing was done. No tree. Not one strung string of lights anywhere. Not even one song sung. Not even a single round of the Jingle Bells chorus.
Instead by that Christmas Day 1989, exactly seven months’ worth of alimony and child support had been paid out to me and the Boys. Trying now to figure the frost of this to Herry’s financial framework, why, the total froze him out of around $3,500 plus $12,600 or a hundred spot over $16 grand. The fall semester finished, Microbiology Chairman Dr. Eddie Winston had no more ‘instructor’ need for spring and none in sight, “O, we already have the budget prepared, Legion, and it includes in it no new appointment provisions for the foreseeable future.” Dr. True was toast on a cold, cold Solstice, my and AmTaham’s birthdays. Classes, the lab practical and its lecture final were over, “Thank you very much. Good luck in your future endeavors in this field. O yes, Merry Christmas,” Professor Winston’s holiday greeting card in my mid‑December departmental mailbox read just like any standard and routine “We‑regret‑to‑inform‑you” rejection letter.
Dr. Legion True paid off Mr. Jazzy Jinx on Tuesday, the second day of my Happy 1990 New Year! In full––the attorney’s bill balance retired! That Midwestern finishing deal of mine, ya’ know. And I began again then that very day on precisely that: to get figured out what was going to be the degree and level of my “future endeavors in this field.” KIOA, 93.3 on my FM radio dial out of Des Moines and, believe it or not, hosted on its marvelous get‑off‑to‑work morning show by none other than Maximilian Schaeffer, our belovéd Hershey Rosemarie’s firstborn of her three sons too, was playing over and over and over one of my all‑time oldies rock favorites. Its artists, Denny Zager and Rick Evans, only ever had had in all of their years before or since 1969, that world's biggest one‑hit‑wonder of my Woodstock year––and no more ever again, “In the year 2525, If man is still alive, If woman can survive, They may find. In the year 3535, Ain't gonna need to tell the truth, tell no lies. Everything you think, do, and say––Is in the pill you took today.”
An omen, a premonition, a harbinger that tune and their words were and yet Spring 1990, wasn’t even in the air. In fact, it was the dead of dark and frozen wintertime when, into our Sweet Havencourt Home’s regulation black, top‑flapped mailbox arrived another ocher‑colored manila envelope with many, many pages inside it, all of them file‑stamped 17 January 1990. Again in the Iowa District Court for Storm County and in Case #9215–8801, the sheets were stapled together and entitled also again in capital letters, PETITION FOR MODIFICATION and first began, “The Decree provided (a) Respondent is to have the children’s primary physical care and (b) Petitioner is to pay child support in the amount of $1,800.00 per month.”
I choked and read on, to page two, “There has been a substantial and material change of circumstances since the entry of the said Decree, which requires that the physical care, custody, and control of the minor children of the parties to be placed in the Petitioner.” Who would, of course, be … Aprovechar‑Taker King Herry.
Page Two continued, “It is in the best interest of the parties’ minor children that the custody provisions and child support of the Decree hereinafter be modified. The Petitioner has no other information of any other custody proceeding concerning ‘my’ children other than this Petition for Modification and knows of no other person not a party to the proceeding who has physical custody of the children or claims to have custody or visitation rights with respect to the children. Application is hereby made for Petitioner’s attorney fees. WHEREFORE, Petitioner prays that the Court set time and place of hearing, and thereupon modify the terms of the original Decree herein to award Petitioner the permanent care, custody and control of the minor children of the parties, award child support and attorney fees to Petitioner, and grant such other further relief as is equitable in the premises, including judgment for costs. Signed, Mr. Shindy Scheisser” … with copy to Mr. Jazzy Jinx, of course, whose paid‑up‑in‑full office staff hadn’t even bothered itself with just one telephone call to me to apprise, let alone, forewarn me that this–––this HOLOCAUST! –––was oncoming by way of them themselves, my own employees, into my future’s mail!
This petition had affixed to it then a second affidavit of Herry’s, this time this next one, before the signature of Dr. Edinsmaier upon it, a mere and putridly paltry 39 words in length, “I, Herod Edinsmaier, after being first sworn, hereby state that I am the Petitioner in the above‑mentioned matter and that I have read the foregoing Petition for Modification and believe that the statements contained therein are true and correct.”
Seven months since plus every single one of them during the separation before the final Decree, I had so attended Mr. Jinx’s prescient and threateningly sober foretaste, “No men, Legion! Not one damn man, you hear me!” And so? So … … there had never been one. Not even one. ––Although three—daily—followed my scent, as well as my essence, during office hours and wanted to continue to do so afterwards, one of them brilliant and tall as a precious mountain.
Herry had had the Petition signed off on and notarized on 12 January 1990, just about the very day that the lovely, … er, the now ‘lovingly’ shrink‑wrapped and mightily wrinkled and pannicular 73‑year‑old … er, (in reality) 43‑year‑old Ms. Fannie Issicran McLive and Dr. Herod Edinsmaier announced their intention to mawwy the following June on a first weekend then and quite before, of course, Father’s Day … again.
O JYeah! There, indeed, surely had been “a substantial and material change of circumstances since the entry of the said Decree” all right! And about just that very change in and of cuntliness we were most assuredly going to hear a passel more!
* * * *
ACT II; Part 2
Act Two Part Two had begun. And I was relentlessly nauseated. Again.
The first of some very many and ghastly episodes to ensue at the mailbox … this particular receipt had been. I grabbed a hooded windbreaker off its crampon in the condo’s 2’ by 4’ foyer, really a piece of wooden furniture at the bottom of the staircase that had in its base a couple of drawers for mittens, gloves and scarves and about eight hooks and, over my sweats, escaped for a run. Where better for this witchy forestwife but, now, the feral ex‑cunt to puke than onto the snows of the tractor paths left inside the few but welcoming and beckoning acres of the State of Iowa Department of Natural Resources’ dormant forest nursery just to the north of our condominium complex.
Detanimod Edinsmaier died in 1985, at age 74 of ovarian cancer metastases after losing her four‑year war with the stuff of it. As well as of … heartbreak.
“When I get better in the spring, I will tell you, Legion,” she had whispered to me in late December nearly breathless then but, like this particular one son’s and my lifelessness in the merry month of a later May, she too succumbed in a May just four years earlier than our mawwiage’s death. Instead of the 14‑time fecund woman either ever getting better or telling me anything by the date of her 50th anniversary knotted to Juggern on the 05th day of June that year about what had taken place to cause, in her opinion, so many of her progeny and her husband to be dangerously unsound, perverted and predatory, Detanimod exhaled her very final breath one month shy of half of a century’s worth of ‘religion‑fully’ coupled and unionized throes to that man. The patriarch had lived in the milk parlor for over two months at one time at least; even both of Herry’s littlest baby sister Murielle, and the nearest‑to‑his‑own‑age brother Marcus, acknowledged to me that much–––with Juggern Aut’s hot meals on trays and laundered pairs of socks brought down there to him so that the cows’ udders would fill and they could be milked. Detanimod often chortled as she kidded me, the veterinarian, that without bestial Juggern Edinsmaier’s comporting clean, matching socks to first meet up with the bodacious Bovinae inside the milkhouse’s morning, “Why, the cows just won’t let down their milk!”
I was more than starting to know about what it would have been that Detanimod Edinsmaier intended to disclose to me–––had she lived. By 1988, and 1989 for certain, Dr. Herod Edinsmaier’s sexual addiction and the rudimentary smatterings of it that had splattered over onto his and his older brother Atwater’s Amish‑styled incestuous activities as countrified teenage boys with their three, fondled baby sisters, Kay, Celeste and Murielle, little more at the time than seven and six and five years of age themselves was becoming more and more evident the less and less that Herry drank beer. All of the fucking folks of alcoholics anonymous and of al‑anon had been downright evil to have admonished me to keep my mouth closed, the big book’s frigging chapter eight, “to wives”, and Herry’s so‑called “sponsor”, Mr. Gary Wussamai, censuring me to just shut my fuck up and, instead, to go on and give this man––Herry––with his velvety, chocolate‑laced voice described as a “verbal massage” on page 152 of Mike Lew’s Victims No Longer … some more loving!
Count also amongst those same, certain mother‑fuckers Mr. Larry Brouhaha and Ms. Carrie Canard and all of the friggin’ thousands of dollars I had paid out to those two, too. Dr. Patrick J. Carnes of the Twin Cities area clinic there and Out of the Shadows: Understanding Sexual Addiction authorship and others including Dr. Ralph Earle and Dr. Gregory Crowe with their work, Lonely All The Time: Recognizing, Understanding and Overcoming Sexual Addiction for Addicts and Co‑Dependents, have a name for what Detanimod Edinsmaier could not. A name for what she had never even one time had a chance to term it––in all of those damned and so mother‑fucked years of hers so frickin’ isolated out there rurally in Bass County with so many, many baby girls to protect and so many, many baby calves and chicks to brood over and nooooo help at all forthcoming from the republican party’s county sheriff or from the saints john and jude priests and nuns for all of the crimes committed against the children and her. Not to mention any admission or apology or accountability or any restitution or restoration or reconciliation from anybody to her, least of all to her from Mr. Juggern Aut Misein Edinsmaier or to her and to me from merely even just one of those gazillion’s of ruthless and relentless, squirted, spurted spermatozoal donations of Juggern’s, … Herod Edinsmaier!
Fifty years. And then the DEhuman, Detanimod, was dead … is all.
Secrets and the violence of silence … enabling and enmeshing: this had been “the advice” to me from so many so far, persons who knew better and, yet, … chose … for me and for my sons their same unwillingness to change their counsel as was fueling Herry’s freely taken choice to continue his scourging, scorched‑earth conflagration among at least the four of us. The local interlibrary loan service secured for me copies of Out of the Shadows and Lonely All the Time. These books named it sexual addiction all right. Carnes, Earle and Crowe named as specific markers of it the innumerable formats of pornography, exhibitionism, voyeurism, bestiality, ‘humor’, indecent liberties stolen in frotteuristic gropes during the press of a crowd, behind closed doors, elsewhere. All and any of these––these crimes––involving minors and on and on and on. Even actions involving spouses or otherwise consenting adults when they’d decided not to participate in acts which then became forced upon them, thus, therefore, … also crimes. Not to mention the addict’s punishing his partner through the withholding of coitus in favor, instead, of extended lengths of self‑masturbation or his visits to prostitutes or conjugally with anyone else anywhere else one could find for the purposes of penetration or masturbatory blow‑jobs outside the realm of health and happiness for the addicted’s family.
Dr. Carnes and the words in other sources from other experts explained that not only were these actions of and characteristics seen in the addicts’ sex lives but also that variations and atavisms of them all carried over into other angles of their lives. Even—at times—into all aspects of their lives.
I could not have agreed more. I and the Truemaier Boys had been living … exactly this … all along––duped as easy marks, as Aprovechar‑Taking Addict Herry’s prey. As had also been my dearest friend, Grace. And, of course, as had also been Detanimod and her several small daughters. Casualties we were. Suckers. All of us DEhumans–––the mightily mother‑fucked.
With an advertisement in the Des Moines Register’s Thursday calendar of weekly events, I started to put a stop to my complicity in this now‑named choice of Herry’s plaguing and violating my Boys and me. “Think you drink too much, think you need AA? You don’t. Believe me. You don’t. You do need Sex and Love Addicts Anonymous though. Weekly Friday evening meetings at the Franklin Avenue Christian Church, 7 pm. Come. It will change your life. Almost guaranteed.” It was that italicized adverb. No lies here, Zager and Evans, “Tell no lies.” They weren’t going to promise me the moon, just correct information. And these folks, soooo unlike the al‑anon ones, sure’s hell weren’t going to stay the fuck shut up. Or, tell me that … I had to.
In that––that is, in my staying utterly shut up and remaining the quite silent wifely woman––I had been spot‑on. I had excelled at that androcentrically dictated role. On just the pornography crime of Dr. Herod Edinsmaier’s addiction alone! Subscribed to, as well as arriving via the United States Postal Service,—it was—in Minor Son Zane’s entire first and last names—to boot! I remember Eldest Child’s later querying me in an almost whining‑like, pouty tone not more than two years hence, more stating it as fact than indeed asking me if it were really true, “But, Mama, you were never against pornography before, were you?”
Oooo, I know I was pissed at myself when I heard him, at 13 or 14, actually question this of me. What had this innocent statement of Zane’s just bespoken? As a matter of fact, Zane had just completely although unknowingly shouted at me that I had been a pissant, wuss‑ass chickenshit for my not confronting Herry‑Daddee’s criminal violence and abusive violation of him, of his two brothers and of me long, long before I finally did so. That is what Zane was saying. Indeed, all that I had ever managed to tell any one of the Truemaier Boys was that their little friends–––when they from the very Teacup neighborhood we now, post‑divorce, lived in–––had, before, come up to play at Othello Drive, couldn’t look at the images since their parents might be disapproving. I essentially served as Criminal‑Daddee’s accomplice in my so perfected al‑anon‑like, spousal condoning capacity! The magazine issues needed to stay hidden away in that Criminal’s den “because some folks don’t like the pictures and don’t want their boys looking at those things.”
I’ll say they fucking didn’t! They would not approve, these parents! Hell, I finally answered Zane, “Honey, I always loathed pornography. I just couldn’t get up the nerve to tell your father to stop doing it with you three Boys. It’s true; you never did hear me go back there to the den and try to put an end to this, did you? And I was wrong not to have. So very wrong, Zane. I should’ve. I should have tried.”
We were, just Zane and I, in the Shitbox Dodge somewhere headed east on Lincoln Way by the Iowa State University Campus when I beckoned him to pick out the very next ten women we passed by who looked to be between the ages of 18 and 60. “How many,” I asked him first before recording any into our respective visual fields, “How many of the next ten women we see, do you believe, Zane, will be of the looks or characteristics that Playboy would want to have in its issues? How many? How many out of the next ten that we drive by?”
Without so much as a split second to decide, this relatively ‘new’ teenager’s answer flew back at me, “Seven.”
“What?!”
“I said seven.”
“You mean you think that seven out of ten female adults are going to be of the shape and size and proportions that the people of Playboy put as pictures onto their pages, is that right, Zane?”
“Aaahh, well, um, ah, five then. Five.”
“Okaaaay, five. Five out of ten. That’s half of all adult women you’re saying?”
Inside my brain I was left immediately blasting, “Who the Fuck gets to give my Boys this frigging expectation?!!!” Adolescent Zane’s two answers screamed out who it was that ‘got to’ teach them as little boys that they could expect, that they could even contemplate, let alone, that they could require this mind‑fucking mind‑numbing … this mother‑fucking … for themselves? When—developmentally—they reached the ages of interest … at which Zane was more than already … with Jesse and even Mirzah hot on his heels, who was it who had taught them all that they could require, inside their nascent expectations, that any of the teen and adult girls and women of their lives should look and should act and should be as those DEhumans’ images on Playboy’s two‑dimensional pages?
Who the Fuck did this to my children?!
Who had “the right” to role‑model this thinking, this belief, this expectation to Zane, to Jesse, to Mirzah?!!! Who perped this crime upon my kiddos?!
Because … of course … not one of the ten females on Lincoln Way out beside the University campus qualified for Zane’s “natural” worldview, I asked him then to repeat the experimental survey as the Shitbox entered the downtown Ames Main Street area. Its results this second time around were again exactly borne out––statistically the very, very same. Zero.
I knew. I knew Who the Fuck it was who had sullied and imperiled my Sons’ minds and hearts. And, … quite likely, more of their anatomies. And Who the Fuck it was who had wounded and insulted and injured me. All three of the Truemaier Boys were fast approaching their teens where it would be very nearly impossible for me their mama, hopeless really–– … that hope‑kills‑woman thing again …––to exert any restorative and healing influences! If they were to change their thinkings and doings and comings and goings away from Herry The Daddee’s, if they themselves were to become loving and kind and just and honoring, accountable boyfriends and later, perhaps such husbands too, then it––the change––would have to come from their own wills to fix themselves. And not from mine. Not now. Not anymore.
The only thing I could do now would be to not stay shut up. To not continue to cover up Herry’s abuses, Herry’s violations … Dr. Herod Edinsmaier’s violence. Herry Edinsmaier’s crimes.
Parking the wagon I determined then and there right in front of one of Ames’s busiest establishments, the Main Post Office and also its Federal Building (allegedly, then, purveying for all of us United States citizens the freest of speech), that I was not anymore silent about pornography nor about any other of the manifestations of sexual abuse to my children and to me. Uh‑uh. Of what is it that Ms. Andrea Dworkin teaches us all in her seminal, 1989 Letters from a War Zone–––about an oooold, old federal paper––quite likely thought up by––yet most certainly and actually constructed by absolutely not one female person and, most assuredly, never done so with the intent of its enactment to ever, ever safeguard any such of us DEhumans either, “If the First Amendment doesn’t work for women, then … it doesn’t work! ! ! !”
If I myself were going to at least try, as Ancestor in Training, to protect three teenage girls or adult women––and quite possibly many, many more––whom I did not know and had not even yet met, those future girlfriends and maybe eventual spouses and, consequently, my direct descendants too out of Jesse’s, Zane’s and Mirzah’s spermaries or as their other fosterlings, then I was not about to turn another blind eye, cower and kowtow––ya’ remember: to continue to comport myself as male-identified Mehitable’s soft, servile and deferent successor––one damned, mother‑fucked day longer. To learn, particularly proaction, I began attending the evening meetings of Sex and Love Addicts Anonymous.
What not a one of us at SLAA meetings ever knew at our beginnings there, though, was what our newly gained knowledge and self‑action to bring ourselves and our littlest loved ones back to healthy ways of interacting with other real people, with all people, meant––meant specifically inside an American, small county family law courtroom, that is. What it would mean to the deciding of the primary care custody of children or to the infamously bogus “parental alienation syndrome” and its vicious, vengeance‑seeking application against me or what our insight had to do with some faking fuck named Richard Gardner, Junk Scientist. Least of all, we attending students knew nothing about what our lessons on and acts of protecting and safeguarding would legally mean to my three Boys, to me, to maternal‑child bonding and, most perilously, to keeping intact and whole and pure my (constitutionally conferred!) human right to parent the very beings whom I alone chose to grow: Mirzah, Jesse and Zane. On the month’s first and third Friday nights when Zane, Mirzah and Jesse were not with me for their weekend, Comrade László and I commuted to Des Moines meetings together; but he, a distinguished and highly decorated university chemistry professor, didn’t then know about any of this––this impending HOLOCAUST––either.
Now Ms. Fannie Issicran McLive was 74—nearly, too. Appearing after a gastric bypass operation, apparently her idea of a surgical stoppage of some caloric consumption, Ms. McLive resembled in strikingly crinkled and wrinkled physiognomy … Herry’s mother. Physically this likening included the balding hairstyle pattern but at no time Detanimod’s countenance, demeanor and kindness. Ms. McLive actually looked as though she were the very same age that Detanimod had been at the time of her death from losing out to the primary ovarian cancer war waging within her body.
But she wasn’t. Uh‑uh. Ms. Fannie Issicran McLive was 43, one year older than I, when in the first part of June 1990, Herry again quickly locked himself inside a patriarchal, churchly mawwiage yoke. To his mommy. Er, to an “other mother.” Uh, to his deadened mama‑lookalike, Detanimod not actually the woman present at all in Fatlantic at the androcentric altar of Juggern Aut Misein Edinsmaier’s saints john and jude, of course.
It rained in Ames that specific mawwying morning, a Saturday, of course; and I again went jogging in the State Nursery Forest. The storm clouds and lightning didn’t seem to matter to me; on my face the falling water felt so refreshing.
I should have been worried.
Not only had the belovéd husband, Dixon, of my long‑ , long‑time friend and college roommate from a thousand years ago, Teri Lynn, been struck and killed by a bolt out of the Goodair County heavens on a bone‑dry haying day the very same Memorial Holiday weekend that my marriage to Herry had itself implosively dropped dead the 1989 year before, but some ominous and portentous events were also unfolding this dire wedding day. Taking place they were with Juggern Aut and his whole gang of mind‑ and body‑bandits inside Bass County just west of and adjacent to that which was the Widow Teri Lynn’s county.
As these events were developing, the two who are my littler sons were literally being force‑fed––what The Four Horsemen, Atheists Dawkins, Hitchens, Dennett and Harris, unequivocally define as outright, outrageous CHILD ABUSE––someone’s idea of frackin’, unleavened crackers under the patriarchal incantations of superstitious and magical males’‑only, crucifix‑gesticulating, ‘blessing’ hands; and my eldest was himself … bolting. Zane vaulted out the front passenger door of Dr. Edinsmaier’s moving vehicle enroute to saints john and jude and, at 13, at the same age in the early 1930s as had occurred his Grandpa AmTaham’s areligious enlightenment, simply refused to be known as any sort whatsoever of a witnessing presence at the burlesqued farce which Zane recognized as the 44‑year‑old Sperm Source’s mawwiage to the Next Cunt in Daddee’s Stash, Ms. Fannie Issicran McLive. If I, Dr. Legion True, have to deal at all with matters magic and mythical, then I thank the World’s nymphal goddesses––Reason and Balance––that the loveliest of firstborn babes everywhere, Zane, was not himself physically mashed or mangled by the jump that he felt compelled to make the same morning during which Dr. True blitzfully charged through that springtime’s cleansing, drenching downpour a hundred miles off!
Herry moved Next One and that woman’s adopted girl #2, Mary Jane, up from the Kansas back country to his three‑bedroom apartment on the west side of Ames, its only redeeming condition being that the Truemaier Boys now had there a piano, too––if only inside Herry’s garage. I construed that he and she kept it stashed there until their next moving day. I did not know but guessed, like always before when Herry had been mawwied to and moving and moving and moving and moving and moving around with me, that when Dr. Edinsmaier exercised his court‑ordered access to them, the Boys once again were relegated––all three of them––to their lives altogether stuck inside one bedroom.
[to be continued…]
CAST OF CHARACTERS
Dr. Legion True: One Fucked Mother
Dr. Herod (Herry) Edinsmaier: Legion’s husband/Sperm Source [“re: I am snide” backwards]
Zane Truemaier: Legion’s son
Mirzah Truemaier: Legion’s son
Jesse Truemaier: Legion’s son
AmTaham True: Legion’s father [Mahatma backwards]
Mehitable True: Legion’s mother [Me hit-able—i.e. she was abusive]
Ardys and Endys: Legion’s sisters [names backwards]
Sterling: Legion’s brother [her mother’s planned name of next son (who never came)]
Mi Sprision O'Revinnoco: Herry’s sister [misprision: concealing knowledge of treason/O'Revinnoco = O'Connivero backwards]
Juggern Aut Misein Edinsmaier: Legion’s father-in-law [juggernaut; aut = 0; misein = “to hate (misogyny)”]
Detanimod Edinsmaier: Legion’s mother-in-law [dominated backwards]
Ava Saffron True and Zebulon True: respectively, Legion's paternal grandmother and her husband, Legion's paternal grandfather
Rowland and Wyman Natures: respectively, Legion's most favored uncle and most favored male first cousin
Fannie Issicran McLive: fawning enabler of ex [narcissi(st) and Mc(Evil) backwards]
Legion’s Friends: Margaret, Mona, Yanira, Stormy, Lynda, László, Jane, Kincaid, Joseph, Sheryl
Legion’s Best Friends: Ms Grace and Dr Lionel Portia and Rachel
Wende: = Legion's friend after divorce [committed suicide due to Custody Crisis]
Jim Cornball: Herry’s acquaintance from AA and realtor
Loser Lorn: Insurance agent referred by Cornball
Judge Harley Butcher: Family Court judge
Judge Sol Wacotler Seizor: Family Court judge
Judge Barry Crowrook: Appellate Court judge
Judge Pansy Shawshank: Appellate Court judge
Jazzy Jinx: Legion’s Family Court lawyer who sold her out
Shindy Scheisser: Herry’s lawyer [shindy = noisy; scheisser = German for shithead]
Li Zhang: Herry’s Aussie affair
Dr Freddie Goldstein & Ella: Herry’s colleague and wife
Mick: = Herry's acquaintance from high school; best man [not in Herry’s life after that as he had no true friends]
Varry Wussamai: Herry's AA sponsor (not a real friend) [I am a wuss backwards]
David Humes: nursing student; classmate of Legion's, y1968 - y1971, New York City
Edmund Silver: Legion's boyfriend pre-Herry
Braemore St: where Legion and her family lived, y1983 - y1986
Havencourt condominium: Legion's Ames apartment; after separation
Zephyr: tabby cat of Zane's, Mirzah's, Jesse's [pronounced “Zay – fear”]
Rex: Jesse’s pet Eastern Florida Kingsnake, female
Lady: Zane's pet Zebra Finch, female
Madonna: realtor
Larry Brouhaha: court-mandated marriage counselor
Carlotta Klutz: Legion’s Family Court attorney
Judge Sol Wacotler Seizor: District Court judge on first two trials
Judge Harley Butcher: District Court judge for third trial
Dr. Shark: Herry’s residency supervisor who fired him
Carrie Canard: twice judge-mandated custody evaluator
Author: Dr. Blue, aka Ofherod, BSN, DVM, PhD = Commander Edinsmaier's Handmaid (Commander reiamsnidE's Handmaid)
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