CHAPTER 28: The Opera: Act III; Pt. 5 [cont. 3]

From "The Saga of One F**ked Mother

Legion sneaks visits with her boys for an entire week in various places around the new town five states away from Iowa to which Herry has legally kidnapped them. They are all so happy to see each other again after 18 whole months with no contact whatsoever—not even calls or letters.

Legion cries and cries on the way home, knowing she will not see or connect with her boys for a long time. Herry has succeeded in his revenge M.O. to keep her precious children completely away from her—with the enabling of Family Court, of course, and the complicity of a wicked second wife, whom he married for that very purpose...

In the last section, Legion arrives in West Virginia and dons her well-prepped disguise as “Sam”. She finds the perfect place for a clandestine meeting with her boys…if only she can find them.

CHAPTER 28 of Mother-Fucking: The Saga of One Fucked Mother begins with Act III, Part 4 of “The Opera” from Book 3. The Opera has three Acts with five Parts—one for each of the three Family Court and two Appellate Court trials. Chapter 28 covers all of Act III: Part 4: the third Family Court trial, and Part 5: the second Appellate 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—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. 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 emailed out every Wednesday so make sure to subscribe if you haven’t yet!

TEASERS

“Mom … Mooo - om! Hi! Hi! You’re here! Wow! Zane said you were here––and you … you are! You’re here!” 13½-year-old Mirzah hugged and hugged and hugged my neck, and I was so trying not to cry in front of them all.

…We four sat on the stone bench and the grassiness out just in front of it and talked and talked and talked and talked…O, they were so … well, so big! All of them teenagers!

…the majority of fathers’ moveaways are, indeed, revenge-taking, plain and pure, “We have to gut the bitch in the belly … but it will get you, Daddee, what ya’ want: the Crazy Pussy … mother-fucked!”

---

BOOK 3: Dr. True's Opera in Three Acts—with Five Parts

CHAPTER 28: The Opera: Act III; Part 5 [cont. 3]

As the Boys advanced toward me, I couldn’t then think on the untold numbers of exhibitionism incidents, the frotteurism with indecent liberties and outright groping perpetrated on Grace Portia at my and her sons’ youth basketball game and gawd knows upon who else––including possibly deep inside that damned pornography-purveying den on Othello Drive upon my very own children, Herry Edinsmaier’s scripted admission of the bestial acts which he executed into cows, dogs, pigs and chickens, the innumerable forms of and daMan’s long-term consumption of pornography and voyeuristic actions, his visits to strip bars that included for those same years and years and years King Herod’s absolute abhorrence of my nearly always being able to actually find him, the Boys’ biodaddee, when he was gone off alone to all of those out-of-state medical meetings, Herry’s similar span of time––conservatively, at least 14 years’ worth––spent spewing malignant and pernicious, everyday language mostly at me … around the many measures of geography we had called our homes. And all of these sexual addiction behaviors, particularly at sexologist and psychotherapist Dr. Patrick Carnes’s Level Two denotation of them in his work, Out of the Shadows, were not to even begin to address, let alone, just mention, how many actual … “such encounters” with “other women” there have been––while “bound in legal union” to me or to Ms. Fannie Issicran McLive. Nor those Shameful Eight Pages’ disclosures: the proof of daMan’s prurient proclivities from directly under Herry Edinsmaier’s own hand. Nor the non-existence, the absolute absence actually, … of any emotional components to any of Herry’s relationships … sexual or otherwise! I just could not think, right then at any rate, on all of the years’ worth of holocaustic destruction which Herry, as the Truemaier Boys’ custodial daddee with his ongoing behaviors, had wrought down upon my children––especially now in their adolescences … this mother-fucking. Thoroughly sanctioned, as it so is, over and over by family court judges … about whom my obstetrically beleaguered and harassed, 28-year-old girlfriend and discriminated-against mama-also-without-custody, Rachel, is known to have so wisely observed … and advised me, “And, ya’ know Legion, there’s no judge who himself doesn’t surf porn!”

And, at this moment most grievously, I also could not let weigh in on me the very fact of just exactly who Juggern Misein Aut Edinsmaier was. Or, of how most sexual addicts are begotten … from out of … close familial association with sexual addicts, not just the almighty paternal Juggern but also some of Herry’s brothers, too, especially Atwater, and that this cycle of violent depravity and degrading perversion might so very well be slowly yet ever so insidiously traveling from sly Juggern through slick Herry and right on into the essences of grandsons––these persons who are mine and who are soooo not Juggern’s and not Herry’s in any way whatsoever … except by way of the androcentric judges’ sperm and fatherhood exalting of patriarchal “laws” which only they, the men, have the power to make and can, then, rain down upon me. All of these things I just could not think on … right now … as Mirzah, Zane and Jesse Truemaier, at this moment, wound their very paths through this burial ground.

I only thanked my newly flowering inner strength, truly flourishing for the very first time in all of my life there inside my 45½-year-old core, and the support and the faith of my fabulous friends from back in the one place where it all initially went down––or, more appropriately worded, came crashing down––and in which place I then had steadfastly, these many long, long months which had by now melded into years of suffering, also determined to live out the rest of my days––Ames, Iowa. Not a one of the Boys even looked back around themselves in fear of some others following after them! They just came straight … at me!

“Mom … Mooo - om! Hi! Hi! You’re here! Wow! Zane said you were here––and you … you are! You’re here!” 13½-year-old Mirzah hugged and hugged and hugged my neck, and I was so trying not to cry in front of them all. This was the person whom I had remembered as … the kindest one to ever walk the World. What a smile Mirzah has always had!

Of course, nearly right off, judiciously practical and orderly Jesse Truemaier wanted to see Sam’s costume––all parts of it and to get from me the skinny on just exactly how all of that disguise was working out for me so far! And what were my plans to be for it and the three of them, with it, in the very next, upcoming days? Were they to call me “Mom” or were they supposed to call me “Sam”––even right there on this sacred soil when no one appeared to be around us? We four sat on the stone bench and the grassiness out just in front of it and talked and talked and talked and talked. Completely hidden from and oblivious to the rest of … West Virginia and just exactly who the hell else resided there.

O, they were so … well, so big! All of them teenagers! I’d brought along plenty of beverages and snacks, enough for days’ worth of legendary bottomless pits. Three hours passed by in catching up. Every single one of the three required an update on every single one of their friends back in Ames and extending down to DeAndré Taylor in Urbandale … and whether or not I knew anything of the other one of Jesse’s compadres there who’d aided him, now 14½ years old, in running away into the forested, urban fort that late October night … nearly now some 18 months ago.

Peer-reviewed research, since, specifically on “relocating” parents clearly shows the destruction done to children by fathers who isolate and keep away the mother from the children by their vengeance-waging, moveaway strategies. And, as specifically, not the other way around! That is, there is not only no damage done to the children if mama moves them far, far away from biodaddee, but the kiddos actually thrive! Children do best when not moved away from either parent (defined as “beyond an hour’s drive”); but when it happens, which is more frequent than not, then the children do best––in all parameters studied––when moved away by only their mothers. So astounding are the scientifically collected and gathered data now––results that any mom just about anywhere in the World even without the science and merely basing her instincts in this matter upon Nature, the World Order of Things and Women’s Ways of Knowing alone could’ve told us–– … so astounding are the data now that Fathers’ Rights groups have had to back way the hell off on their manipulation of this “excuse”, one which they had so been contriving … in order to promote it to their aprovechar advantage. Trying to hide the fact that the majority of fathers’ moveaways are, indeed, revenge-taking, plain and pure, “We have to gut the bitch in the belly … but it will get you, Daddee, what ya’ want: the Crazy Pussy … mother-fucked!” This revenge-taking is accomplished by the biodaddees’ using the “excuse” that these resettlements are “needed” or are “necessary for job placement or career advancement,” … matters which happen to be, actually, quite true for mothers who work outside of the home! The Fathers’ Rightsters seek to stop custodial moms from moving away while, at the very same time, stating that relocating is, “without a doubt,” “a necessity for custodial dads,” … for themselves!

Activists and advocates for justice and for children’s health…from

http://www.thelizlibrary.org

and

http://www.nnflp.org

to http://www.nnflp.org/press/030630-1-braver-study.html, http://www.nnflp.org/press/030630-2-braver-study.html and from all around the country then––have had to long and loudly expose the Fathers’ Rights’ factions on this massive matter of custody after divorce and these groups’ trickery in deploying the word “parents” in these studies’ results and conclusions now … instead of the Truth which is that children do better when they stay and live with their mothers––wherever she is! What fathers rights’ groups had really wanted from the research data in their aprovechar abuse of the children as their own property and as their pawns is to exact revenge against the children’s mothers by either preventing her, if she had physical custody, from leaving the territory to better herself or, if biodaddee was the decreed custodian as in the case of Dr. Herod Edinsmaier with Zane, Jesse and Mirzah, by stealing her kiddos far, far away, thus for a poor woman, to enormously effect the stoppage of all contact with her … thereby successfully crafting and rendering mother invisible to the children––and, likewise and most intentionally, them to her.

While it was nice to finally now have the official, scientific research results that demonstrated and bore out this fact of children’s welfare and upbringing, women’s ways of just knowing these things about the nurturance of kids, our knowing plus the actual knowledge and information that we do know––both aspects repeatedly dissed in The Opera by daMan and daJudges––would have meant nothing to ‘the Court’, nothing to Sol Wacotler Seizor or to Harley Butcher, even if, back that decade and more ago, there had been this official data, let alone, research work performed by … male investigators! What only mattered to all of these men, laws or no laws, research data or no truthful research data, was not being challenged any which way, and definitely not being called to accountability for their respective behaviors and possibly ultimately thwarted in their chosen ‘conduct’, by … a woman. And a gaaaawddamn uppity blondie woman––at that! “These guys tweak and twist the laws!” Political Science Professor Schmidt had announced about the men of the judiciary––even before there has been any so-called “evidence” of any kind … presented!

I told the Boys all about my job at the Forestry Department. Jesse and Zane, my certified safe Iowa hunters, particularly wanted to know what all of that entailed as well as about the stuff college students learned in that major! They especially liked hearing about its Wild Game Banquet activity! This was most pleasing to me, and I was honored to tell them all, too, of the upcoming Third International Agroforestry Conference and my role in our Department’s hosting of it. It appeared not to concern any one of them whether or not I, now a Grade I, 3/4-time secretary in the Merit echelon, the lowest of the three levels of university employees, who worked evenings and weekends as the breakfast grill cook and pots-and-pans scrubber at the supermarket delicatessen, would ever attain the alleged status and glory or acquire the usual $assets$ of … a practicing animal doc or, particularly, of a veterinary microbiology professor … again.

Even eldest Zane was still too naïve to fully understand the impact on that whole section of my life of Gutting-the-Bitch Herry’s vengeance and sabotage. That by way of Dr. Herod Edinsmaier with the androcentric assistance of ‘the Court’ and definitely with the fully cognizant and cooperating Shyster Shindy Scheisser and the matching folie à deuxs of the King’s with both Scheisser and Ms. Male-Identified Fannie Issicran McLive so manipulatively wielding … multiple times … that career-smearing Ames Tribune roadside bomb blast, my calling as a healer of critters and as the teacher of the next generation of us healers was … haltingly, compulsorily, forcibly blown to bits.

It was now around 3 or 3:30 p.m., and I became concerned––as a parent of minor children––that wouldn’t … also … Daddee-Herry, wouldn’t Ms. Fannie Issicran McLive, themselves parents of minor children as well … both be wondering and questioning where the Truemaier Boys all were ... by now? “Hell no, Mom. That’s a laugh!” Zane replied, “although maybe we outta think about getting back. Just cuz all of us’ve been gone at the same time. And, ya’ know, for the exact same amount of time.”

“Okay. Well then, aaaahh, what’s with tomorrow and school with spring break over now?”

“What do ya’ mean, Mom?” asked Mirzah.

“O, I mean like with sports’ practices. Ya’ know, like with your and Jesse’s track and Zane’s baseball? I’ll just hang out at the state park east of here till you all get done with school. The one off Route #50? I brought along a ton of things with me to read. And springtime in the woods? Why, it’ll be just like a real vacation at the lake for me, not?! I looked up some about it when I was making my plans to come out here. Say, you all probably know of it: Tygart State Park ?”

“Yup! Well, Jesse does. That’s for sure!” Mirzah with that so endearing turned-down, left-sided lip commissure of his grinned at me and at Jesse, like he knew more than he was acknowledging or saying.

“’For sure’? By that, Mirzah, you meeeean …?” I purposefully stretched out the last word and coaxed both him and Jesse with my questioning gaze first to one, then to the other of their two faces. They were both fit to burst, more or less, and it was obvious that they so wanted to tell me––but, at the very same time, worried that … well, that I myself would be worried––once they did so!

They were right! Those three guys definitely still knew me! I half expected to hear, or not––depending upon whether they decided to tell me or not––sordid tales of just barely 14-year-olds parking together in the backseats of 16-year-olds’ cars or, worse yet, alcohol and illicit drug use within the confines of Tygart State’s campfire areas or, the worst, the use of handguns or long guns and target-shooting within its public grounds but, say, alone or with other young adolescents but unaccompanied by and not under the watchful eye of their father––something along those lines.

What activity I never even considered was the one ‘behavior’ behind their nervous chuckles and sideways glances to each other. By lifeguards, I have had within my lifetime to be pulled out of deep water on three, separate occasions. Three times! And all of these events occurred because of panicking episodes during swimming excursions within pools, not even one time from out of a calm pond or a placid lake, let alone, from, say, my having been thrown overboard into raging ocean waters!

When the Boys, Husband Herry and I all lived in Columbia, Missouri, in the mid 1980s, there had been that nursing student/babysitter, Stacey, with whom Herry had so often loved flirting, only about 20 years old and although studying to be in “the health care-providing” business, not too friggin’ smart at all about providing it herself! One summer afternoon when Herry and I were both at work, she let Zane, Jesse and Mirzah, each without one lifejacket between the three of them, occupy and paddle-kick from the sides of … one, mostly flaccid air mattress … as they, only 8, 6 and 5 years old! ! ! !, all struggled to swim some 500 yards! ! ! ! there in deep, state park waters out to an island!

When that night I learned of this stupidity, this idiocy, I was simply horror-struck! I wanted to fire the woman on the mother-fucking spot, but no! Herry––who, no doubt, would’ve whiningly missed his sweet, widdl’, coquettish tête-à-têtes with Stacey, thought I, the children’s mother! should just shut my whacko crazy - fuck up, be quietly grateful and forget about it––since “nothing happened. Nothing at all!” Fahgettaboudit! ! ! ! Dr. Legion True did not prevail: this person did remain on as the Boys’ … daily “care”giver! I actually had to not only keep her as the Kiddos’ nanny––but to also handsomely pay the mother-fucker for “this watch” … to boot!

And? And I did have to shut my fuck up about it all! From that point forward! Loving-Husband Herry … thus … commanded! ! ! !

Now within Tygart State Park right there inside gloriously beautiful central West Virginia it so seemed that, likewise unbeknownst to Dr. Herod Edinsmaier who wouldn’t have cared even if he had known, Jesse and some of his new Grubtrop friends had many, many times visited the 30- to 40-foot cliffs above its lake––and, from atop there, jumped the hell off! “O, m’god!” gasped I. “You what?!”

“Told jya’ she’d freak out!” Jesse didn’t hide his disgust with Mirzah’s telling. He had but he hadn’t––wanted to tell me himself, that is. Jesse was … I could definitely see this … wholly proud of his supposed prowess and wanted me to be, too––but for a teenager who hadn’t seen nor spoken to his mother in over a year and a half, Jesse was not the slightest bit concerned about his being stopped from continuing those solo flights off the lake’s rock face overhangs. He just didn’t want me thinking he would die––or worse, paralyze himself––which is exactly what I was thinking!

Jesse knew I couldn’t stop him––if he wanted to keep doing it. For that matter, Mirzah and Zane knew I couldn’t stop Jesse –– or them either –– from doing anything which they all three might have been “up to” because of, well … because of my lowly level to nonexistent position within their sperm source’s mind. The only good thing about this standoff of sorts, this impasse, was that, without my ever even having to ask any one of the three Boys––to be sure, I totally trusted that their tattling to Daddee-Herry or the Next Cunt in His Stash that Dr. Legion True was “around” wasn’t even in their own minds either!

Thank goddess that I had given the Boys swimming lessons, though, back in Columbia––after learning about the Finger Lakes State Park fiasco there. Lessons for which fees I myself slaved and paid out a couple thousand dollars’ worth––private water safety lessons for all three of them then––to which Herry, at the least, rubberstamped his patriarchal and paternal sanction … that Stacey should take them! Of course, I knew those lessons of the preceding decade would not protect Jesse against jagged rocks, protruding boulders and other hidden menaces, but he was o–so smart and wise beyond his years and most certainly, beyond those of Stacey’s and even of 17-year-old, older brother-like, Joy Toy Boy Herry’s, so I simply had to believe that Jesse would take good, vigilant care of himself––even if he persisted in taking these flying leaps.

One other thing: If there is anyone I have ever known who has had a knack for making friends, it is Jesse. He learned this art form from Zane––and, together, the two of them passed it on over to Mirzah! These men never, never, ever lack for having at their sides admiring and honoring friends who will follow them into whatever adventure is on tap––even if it is into hellfire itself––if that is where the action is going on today! Take it from me, that is, take this knowledge and this knack from one who truly knows: for that there is no price equal!

We four wrapped up the gathering; and from my distant deportment on that ghostly rise, I watched the three of them till they completely disappeared from view. Again as I stood there alone I wondered, “How do we do this? This’s just got to be the second hardest thing that a woman––in her lifetime––ever, ever does … ‘let my peoples goooo – oooo’ … ”And, of course, there in literally a land of the spirits the answer ethereally wafted from AmTaham True’s secreting of it back to me––for then, for right then: splitting. I just split. This specific spell Legion True split off back … into ‘safe’ Sam … who got into ‘his’ Aspire and drove on out of the cemetery. And … off.

* * * *

I was correct. Not another did any of the three tell. No one. No one, that is, capable of exacting untoward consequence from me or from the Boys. The entire week I came by the cinder track oval or stood alone and in back-fence, right-field solitude at the ballpark––always as the Non-Edinsmaier, Sam, and quite a ways away from any set of bleachers where a couple of times that particular week I did happen to sight Herry Edinsmaier among all of the other players’ parents and friends who were actually watching Zane’s games. Only Narcissist Dr. Edinsmaier, as antisocial as had been repeatedly assessed within Dr. Shark’s four performance reviews of daMan’s mingling during his Hershey work in medicine, continued there in Grubtrop what Daddee-Herry’d always, always done back in Ames at the diamonds inside Brookside Forest for the Little Minors’ and the Little Majors’ baseball games: pretend to be present. Instead of
actually ‘watching’ Zane, his teammates and their opponent players interact, Herry read––the local day’s newspaper or his favorite book of the month or something else––and rarely, if ever, did the man even look up. And, for certain, Herry Edinsmaier never glanced over in Ms. Fannie Issicran McLive’s direction either … because the Next Cunt in His Stash? Why, she was never even in attendance at any of these Truemaier Boys’ events anyhow!

We went out for burgers and fries, not the four of us together, just one and me, and then to a Hardee’s over into neighboring Montclank so as not to be seen together at the one in downtown Grubtrop. Mostly we just sat at picnic tables in the town’s tiny city parks and talked or on the far sides of that one Grubtrop Cemetery. I never moved Ol’ Black one time, and it appeared to me that setting there in his lowdown, graveled parking space on the very bottom rung of the Fairvale Hospital visitors’ lot, he hadn’t been––that I could see––tampered with in any way whatsoever. For myself at Gabe’s Discount inside one of those four shopping malls of Grubtrop, I purchased a navy, white and yellow baseball jersey, my favorite color combination, and a pair of completely white sneakers considering these … the obligatory souvenirs of the place––along with a silvery baseball cap from a local musket and archery shop right on Route #50. Dr. Joplin scored a pewter wind chime of John Deere tractors and for Rosalind Franklin, my immediate boss, and all of my other friends I purchased candles at the gift shop of a local artisan who lived above her store. She thought it “sensitive”––and pleasingly told Sam so––for a man to be buying his co-workers candles!

I sewed––patches and rips, tears and buttons, things for which mending, with the three jobs, I had had absolutely no time … so’d brought these tasks along. I telephoned friends daily with reports and updates––and always to let someone back in Ames know every 24 hours or so that I was okay, and even at times … ecstatic. And I read. O, did I ever read! Best, uninterrupted span of reading for pleasure––since my teenaged youth! But constantly I am so slow, a reader for three decades utterly accustomed to perusing only matters of scientific endeavors who still has to friggin’ study every damned nuance and phrasing to make certain that I’ve … got it!––the curse, I have learned from several professors at Iowa State with whom I have since discussed this illogicality, … … of many a scientist.

Time there even was to teach old Sam a new trick––that of taking showers at commercial trucking concerns’ rest-stops! My friends, Grace, Linda, Cyan Song and I, with our midwinter plans previously, had not forgotten to make special note of how I could handle my hygienic measures for the ten days when I was, more or less, to be on the road. And I had learned about how, with even a credit card, to buy the service and use of a truckstop’s bathing or showering facilities. Besides having my long, blonde hair shampooed and all over getting squeaky clean myself, the mighty finest thing about this whole undertaking was, though, that this woman did not have to, for the three showerings which I bought there over that total time span, … I did not have to one time feign myself off as Sam.

Up Interstate 79 and just outside Fairvale sat a small and surprisingly scoured and bright-appearing combination gas station and greasy spoon with a game room space, television, washing machines and four showers on its second, loft-like level. From my friends’ prior planning and with the further aid of the most current Rand McNally Road Atlas, why, I found it lickety-split, no trouble at all. Sashayed on in with a tapestried bag containing bath soap, shampoo, wide-toothed hair pick and blow dryer, whipped out the old, (well, … the really, really new!) gold MasterCard and, at a rather tiny, glassed-in countertop harboring on its inside casing just a couple of big, heavy, dusty silver belt buckles with raised emblems of encrusted Peterbilts and as many round snuff cans of Red Man and Top Mill alongside a few rectangular tins of Altoids peppermints, I asked to purchase a hot shower. Not even a batted eyelash nor five minutes’ time later Dr. Legion True was climbing the staircase to this establishment’s loft, Jury, with the truckstop’s provided and freshly laundered and loaned Barry-cloth towel and washcloth included in its rental price … to Shower Closet Three or Four or whichever numbered one, each enclosure very well-lit and not only with electrical outlets but also secure locks from the inside, … to whichever one of these four happened to be vacant! All for only four bucks and two bits a splish-splash! As I glanced down through the clear glass while retrieving back my credit card receipts, I was glaringly reminded every single one of the three times when I showered there of Mehitable True’s newspaper clipping which she had mailed me earlier––specifically warning of the dangers of West Virginia’s male children chewing tobacco, that under the age of ten years, the article blurb had announced, six out of every ten of this state’s boys … for a total of at least 60 percent of these kiddos (not to mention, its ‘adult’ … good ol’ ‘boys’) … chewed or sniffed or sucked or plugged smokeless tobacco.

Of all of the activities I did there, alone, in and around Grubtrop, Montclank and Fairvale, … and excepting the taking of my noontime leave of West Virginia altogether upon the very midday of my furtive visit’s second Saturday there, the 17th day of April, … the most heartrending were Sam’s two sittings through Steven Spielberg’s latest blockbuster of the time––up at their largest mall’s theater complex … Schindler's List! The scene with all of the little children scurrying up into the backend of the Nazis’ stock truck I have already written of: the one where the mothers hear their laughing, singing kids and see their antics but then, way, way too late, suddenly come to realize their babies’ fates! The tot in the little red waistcoat: the littlest, yellow-haired girl in all of that black and white. The small child who ran and hid, also like Jesse, by jumping––only the hideout spew into which the little Hebrew boy quietly sunk himself was human excrement and waste––and not at all clear Tygart-Lake liquid. I cried and cried and cried. Tissue after tissue after tissue. Felt sickened. Literally. “How do we do this? How do we mothers do this? How dare we, Jury, … ever, ever … be made to do this?”

And––then––it was, indeed, Legion True’s time to leave this place. This temporary place of my three Children’s footings. Barring another Ol’ Black breakdown and in order for me to be back at my Forestry post early on the Monday morning of the 19th, I felt I needed to leave the central West Virginia areas not too much later than high noon of the first day of that weekend. And I did.

But all throughout southern Ohio I was still weeping … after exiting the western border of the state off to which my Boys’ sperm source had literally, even though allegedly “legally” by the various judges’ pen strokes, … kidnapped them. The backend of Ol’ Black was rather completely disheveled by now after so many days and nights of hostelling use––with blankets, sheets, pillows, papers, books, bags and other items of the Truemaier Boys’ play scattered all about behind the front seat bench. In addition to this back-of-the-wagon scene of the heartbreaking memories which I’d just made, into my rearview mirror flickered flashing cop-car, trooper lights. “O – O – O shit!!!! This is just what I fucking need right now! What the hell could be wrong?! What was I doing?!” my thinking jostled––as I, of course, found the first, safe shoulder off onto which to pull, gather my license and roll down the driver’s side window.

I couldn’t even see above his khaki-uniformed chest wall … he was so tall. “Ma’am, I need to see your license, please,” he boomed. I mean that I literally, out my car window at the levels which both of our visual fields scanned and without either of us straining this way and thataway, … I could not see his face! What I had remembered seeing with that last look of mine into the center mirror before noticing those flashers of his aimed at me … was my face: brown-black mascara had made inroads, forays and encroachments all over and down my cheeks and chin. I looked like shit! The sclerae of both of my eyeballs were as red-streaked as my facial skin sooty-streaked and inked. And I felt like hell, too. “Okay, okay, here ya’ go, Sir. I have it right here, Officer,” I sobbed. And tried, simultaneously, to smear the streaming nasal mucus away with a very, very used and spent Kleenex as delicately and daintily as I could manage.

Tallest-Ever Ohio Trooper Man took it from my left hand and, with the obvious sounds floating up to his eardrums from Ol’ Black’s driver’s seat as the license was passed to him, his waist did bend to his right side and he did then sort of come down out of the clouds to see who, indeed, had been cry-driving. Or, more accurately according to him, weep-speeding. “Ummmm, from Iowa you are?” Tallest Trooper Man half-ass asked, full-well knowing this fact … from his having just read both the vehicle plates’ and my license’s information.

“O yes … yes, Sir. Yes, I am,” Boo–hoo, sniffle, sniff, sniffle, boo–hoo–hoo.

“Ma’am … Ma’am, did you know you were speeding? Have you clocked, Ma’am, I do, at, ah, ah … … at 75 miles per hour, Ma’am.”

Wail, whimper, sob, sob, “O no! No, I wasn’t! That can’t be!” jettisoned those very words right out of my mouth and now shot straight on over onto a bent-over cop peering at me sort of sideways through the rolled-down window space, a face with no expression whatsoever on it but one with a voice emitting out from under that boulder-size of a trooper hat that definitely matched any timbre and tone of that which belonged to the lovely, although now-late, Barry White!

O, Tallest had a voice on him! “Ex–cuuuu–ze me, Ma’am?! Are you saying that I, um, I, I …?”

“O my, my … my, my, myyyy NO! No, Sir. Not at all. I am not saying that you’re not telling me the Truth, Officer. O my, No! That idn’t what I’m saying at all? I mean …, ah, what I mean, Officer, is that, um, Ol’ Black here, he can’t go that fast! He can’t even get up anywhere near like that fast, Sir! That’s what I’m saying! He’s just too much an ol’ beater, and he can’t get it up that far a’tall. I jus’ don’ think he can go that fast, Sir!”

“Aaaahh–aah, I see.” And Tallest, whose back must’ve been mightily stressing him by then, straightened himself all the way up once more so that I, again, could not view anything more than his torso’s khaki shirt buttons, the solid, chocolate brown tie and the two most massive of human hands of the very same hue. “What is all that in the back of your station wagon there? And what’s the matter anyhow? Why’re you crying so much? You were crying before I stopped you, weren’t you? What’s the matter? What’s the real matter, Ma’am?” Words that wafted down from his humanistic heights that I couldn’t anymore see all the way up to … yet were now said with a resonance and pitch that seemed ever more gentle and tender than some of the phrases he had stated before. In full view to the outside of the car and, therefore to Tallest too of course, had been one of the items from the wagon’s messy backend, a neon orange-colored, three-ring binder with the black letters on its cover identifying it as a manual for Safe Iowa Hunter Education with the silhouetted logo of a young man cradling a long gun with a similarly shadowed, four-legged retriever walking along beside him. And, again, Tallest-Ever asked, “What’s with all that stuff in the back there?”

“O, aaaahh, O, I, uh, I just left … um, I just left my Boys.”

“What?”

“I just left my Boys. Back there in West Virginia.”

“What? What do you mean … ‘ya’ left ‘em’?” Tallest-Ever Ohio Trooper Man was bending over again and gazing at the left side of my down-facing profile. I was staring into my lap … remembering, of course.

“O,” I turned toward him once more, “I was … I was visiting my three Sons in West Virginia.” I didn’t see any true threat now nor need to lie anymore about the purpose of my trip or on my being found here on Tallest-Ever’s particular piece of pristine and sunny roadway and, thank goddess, I wasn’t wearing the Sam stuff because Tallest-Ever Ohio Trooper Man would have, I am sure, seen right through that disguise … first thing! What … with my tears and bleary, bloodshot eyes and all. Plus all of it, the Sam costume, was stashed away in bags which the cop could not see from his stance at Ol’ Black’s door anyhow. “And, an’, aaaahh, now I have to go back home to Iowa without them. And, ah, an’ I, uh, I don’t know when I’ll ever see them again. Or how long it’ll be. Ya’ know? That’s … uh well, that’s what it’s about, Sir.”

“O. Yeah.”

“Yeah.”

“Um. Well, Ma’am. Ah. Um. Why, you … you got a heckuva haul ahead of ya’. You thinkin’ of getting there yet today, are ya’? Ya’ know, all the way back to … to where is it now?” And he glanced back to the driver’s license, “to, ah, … ah, Ames, Iowa, there? Yet today still?”

“O, O yeah. I gotta. I don’t have the money for … ah, well, yeah. Yeah, I am. I’m gonna get back to Ames yet today. That’s the plan, all right! Ya’ know?”

“Okay then. Well. Well, you better get a-goin’ there then. Not a rush, I mean. Don’t be speedin’ now. Not that ya’ could, I mean, with your old beater wagon here ‘n all. But you jus’ best be gettin’ on your way there then.”

“Soooo ... So?” I looked around to him again just as he was straightening himself all the up again––for the last time. In an asking mode, questioning without so many such, exact words about what was to be done with me––now that an Ohio state trooper of the tallest, mountain-like manner had just stopped and pulled me over for an alleged speeding violation on the interstate.

“So, so … ah, so that’s it then, Ma’am. So, so … you just be safe out there then.” And he turned back around and strode to his unit. I watched him from the rearview mirror crawl, nearly literally back into it, take its gear out of park and into drive, pull out around me and Ol’ Black and without facing me again then, his eyes glued on the straightaway in front of him, his right arm and hand waved to me as the trooper’s vehicle tripped off westerly out in front of me––me … still pitched there on the side of the highway.

No ticket. Not even a warning. I could not believe it. Tallest-Ever Ohio Trooper Man, that is, this dude’s involvement in my life and in my life’s story, … as far as I know … had forever vanished from it now. Yet, within just a very few more miles on up this stretch once Ol’ Black and I maneuvered our way back onto the westbound thoroughfare, there appeared off to the right side a rather large and, therefore easily readable, white, rectangular road sign. It was placed there by the State of Ohio’s Transportation Department and in big black letters delineated on it with succinct wording and numbering the gradations of amounts that a speeding motorist could be fined. Totals that that state levied in tickets which could be issued for specific, set increments of miles per hour over the posted limit. In just the time that it took for me to notice the sign and drive 65 miles per hour on passed it, I could see that Tallest-Ever Ohio Trooper Man had just saved me, those few miles back there on the interstate, at least $85.00. The sign stated that Ohio’s very first ticket amount, for just ten or fewer miles per hour over the speed limit, started at a fine of $85.00––and increased upwards from there into the hundreds of dollars for possible violations incurred, depending upon at what rate a speeder was clocked. And that, likely, did not even account for the extra court costs and all of those other specious fees tacked onto a person’s assessment at time of payment besides! I knew Iowa’s fines weren’t that high, and I had not really recognized if penalties in any other of the states through which I had traversed during those past ten days were so huge either!

[to be continued…]

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CAST OF CHARACTERS

Dr. Legion True: One Fucked Mother

Dr. Herod (Herry) Edinsmaier: Legion’s husband/Sperm Source [“re: I am snide” backwards]

Jesse Truemaier: Legion’s son

Mirzah Truemaier: Legion’s son

Zane 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]

Mary Jane: daughter of Fannie Issicran McLive; stepsister of Zane, Jesse, and Mirzah

Legion’s Friends: Margaret, Mona, Yanira, Stormy, Lynda, László, Jane, Kincaid, Joseph, Sheryl, Abraham (Quaker elder), Frieda, Teri Lynn

Legion’s Best Friends: Ms Grace and Dr Lionel Portia and Rachel

Wende: = Legion's friend after divorce [committed suicide due to Custody Crisis]

Cyan Song Goodwater: boys’ art teacher

Jim Cornball: Herry’s acquaintance from AA and realtor

Loser Lorn: Insurance agent referred by Cornball

Judge Sol Wacotler Seizor: 1st Family Court judge

Judge Harley Butcher: 2nd Family Court judge

Judge Barry Crowrook: Appellate Court judge

Judge Pansy Shawshank: Appellate Court judge

Judge Sol Wacotler Seizor: District Court judge on first two trials

Judge Allen Donnellson: Chief, Appellate Court for second and third trials' appeals

Judge Harley Butcher: District Court judge for third trial

Jazzy Jinx: Legion’s first Family Court lawyer

Carlotta Klutz: Legion’s second Family Court attorney

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

Dr. Shark: Herry’s residency supervisor who fired him

Carrie Canard: twice judge-mandated custody evaluator

Ms Tsianina Snowball: Legion's friend who instructs her in re The Look

Fairvale, Montclank & Grubtrop: WV cities Herry moved boys to

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Author: Dr. Blue, aka Ofherod, BSN, DVM, PhD = Commander Edinsmaier's Handmaid (Commander reiamsnidE's Handmaid)

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