Clayton Texas East 

Redmond, Washington, USA

My parents separated when I was six or seven. It’s hard to pinpoint an exit after the years of conflict between them.

That’s what I remember, anyway.

Lots of physical violence, some involving my older brothers, some just between my Mom and my Dad, but lots of noise—the sounds of slaps or punches, grappling or collisions with solid objects like walls, door, or floors.

JFK got assassinated the end of November 1963, and that was all we talked about for a couple of months. I stayed home from school and watched TV when Jack Ruby shot Lee Harvey Oswald in Dallas, Texas.  

In January of ‘64, my father kidnapped me. He picked me up at school, saying it was okay, he just planned to share the story of my origins.

My dad was sixty-one, twenty years older than my mom. They had been in a negotiated marriage for a decade. His part of the deal involved adopting  her existing four children and moving the family away from her parents. She agreed to give him a male heir. The contract had been signed and delivered, but now the parties were about to brutally break it.  

My father refused to release influence over his child. He insisted on educating me, revealing my historic reality and expected obligation.

The trip my father took me on turned into a journey back through time, even though we never traveled farther from Seattle, than Salem, Oregon. I heard stories about  old Louisiana, before Jim Crow. My father, born in 1903, was a relic of the slavery era. The old ways persisted through his childhood.

During the amazing and scary journey, I met his wife of 20 years. He had left her to marry my mother, so she could bear an heir. No one else in his family had been able to do it. The discarded wife adored me and taught me to make a simple cookie, a simple recipe from a magazine.

We stayed in a hotel, my first. I did the things my dad did. We ate steak, a salad with Wishbone dressing, bread with real butter.

He took me to federal government offices, to introduce me to his former co-workers. He had been a senior member of General Services Administration. He told me hours of stories about his life. He told me the truth about my origin, the reason for my name, and what he had done to make sure his family name and blood line continued.

Fascinating and scary, so while I enjoyed being away, I also worried. Would Mom be angry? Was she scared? Where was this going?

Even at nine, the whole thing felt like a final chapter.

My father—Clayton Leon East—after 5 days away, brought me back to a hidden rental house, less than fifteen miles from  our family home. He had kept the place a secret. Rental of the little studio cottage had been arranged by a business friend. We settled in for a day or two. He continued to school me in random things. I learned to make sure dishes were rinsed of soap, beef got cooked medium rare, that a man never says more than ‘yup’ or ‘nope’ when being questioned. and the color of a man’s skin is not a measure of his character. I felt pretty proud of my new knowledge.

I also waited for the other shoe to drop.

And, it did. The next morning, at daybreak, the door rattled. A fist banged against the glass. My mom stood outside with my eighteen-year-old brother, who had earlier sniffed out my dad’s secret by following him.

My dad, already up, got the door open. As my mom cut loose with a barrage of accusations, a rapid-fire verbal assault, he pulled his pistol and had pointed it at her. My brother stepped back. I got pulled from my cot to stand with my father. His gun casually moved between the three of us. 

Mom and my brother left under protest, but they left. A handgun is a compelling advantage. Between pointing it at them and holding it against my head, they retreated.

Shaking and sobbing, I told him that I had lost physical control. I needed to go home—I had to go home—I must go home. He gave up. My dad drove me, sitting in my shame, and dropped me at the bottom of the family driveway.

Monday came, so I went back to school. Everyone wanted to know why I had missed a week. I told them my Dad had taken me on a vacation, and I made up all the wonderful things he had let me do and all the fun places we had gone. My teachers knew enough of the truth. Some kids had heard their parents whisper a different reason for my absence.

 I stuck with my story.

For the next week, the phone rang every afternoon. I listened to more lessons from my father.

I had breached the yup-nope credo he said a man should live by. I told my Mom about  a liquor store receipt I found on my dad’s dresser. She used that to fan the flames of divorce.

My dad had been institutionalized the year before, for depression and alcohol addiction. Since he got out, he took powerful anti-psychotic drugs which mixed badly with booze. Along with my abduction, the liquor would certainly close the door on visitation with me. There would be no more lessons.

I had provided the final nail. I didn’t mean to. He told me on his last call, a Saturday afternoon,  that he forgave me and that I should not feel bad about it. He added that he had bought the liquor for a friend, as a favor.

Sunday stayed quiet. If the phone rang, I went outside or covered my head with a pillow. Sometimes, I went into the furnace room where no noise could be heard besides the huge oil burner. I went to school again Monday. My week away was no longer a hot topic.

No phone call, that evening. No warnings, no good-byes.

Tuesday afternoon, when I came home from school, my mother, my sister and brothers, were all there.  Another presence foretold the end of the story.

The preacher sat in the small living room—the incredibly tight-small-stuffy-spinning living room that felt way too warm and way too close. I sat down and put my head between my knees, as my dad had taught me. I heard the words I already knew.

Clayton Leon East had taken his own life.

I cried.