Ashes to Ink: A Memoir

Ashes to Ink

A Memoir

Lisa Lucca

Copyright © 2021 Lisa Lucca

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, please address JuJu House Publishing.

Published 2021

ISBN: 978-1-7377502-0-8 (Paperback)

ISBN: 978-1-7377502-1-5 (eBook)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2021916504

JuJu House Publishing

Las Cruces, New Mexico

www.jujuhousepublishing.com

Cover design: Lisa Lucca

Interior design: JohnEdgar.Design

Contents

Prologue VII

One 1

Two 13

Three 21

Four 30

Five 49

Six 60

Seven 76

Eight 91

Nine 106

Ten 127

Eleven 140

Twelve 155

Thirteen 170

Fourteen 186

Fifteen 199

Sixteen 212

Seventeen 230

Eighteen 248

Nineteen 259

Twenty 276

Twenty-One 295

Epilogue 304

Gratitudes 308

About theAuthor 312

A Note from the Author

This is a work of memoir, which means my story comes from the vault of my memories, a collection of experiences, thoughts, conversations, and moments that have passed through the filter of my emotional perspective and the veils of time. The names of most people have been changed to protect the privacy of those who have not chosen to share their lives publicly, and who may remember these events differently. It is my truth that is revealed on these pages, with no malice intended toward anyone living or dead who resides within them.

The language used in my story is representative of the time in history when hate speech toward LGBTQ+ people wasn’t only tolerated, it was used on network television where I learned those offensive words as a young girl. I have included words in the book that remain true to the language used at that time and by no means condone the use of anti-LGBTQ+ slurs of any kind.

For My Parents.

There is no me without both of you.

Prologue

I ’ll take his brains and heart, I whispered to my sister when the funeral director presented us with the ashes of our father. Half are enshrined in a plain blue box, the other half in a tube with a photo of a golf club adorning the outside. My father never golfed a day in his life. His interests were more suited to belting out show tunes or shopping for drapes. Since both Deena and I will be scattering Dad’s remains, we chose between the two free temporary containers Saxx Funeral Home had lying around.

I picked the one Dad would hate the least.

Now, that box sits on the coffee table where I put it yesterday after returning home. It draws my attention as I turn on the TV to chase away the quiet. When the screen flickers on, an elderly Frankie Valli appears, singing Can’t Take My Eyes off of You, a song that flowed from the stereo in the dining room of my childhood.

He looks pretty good, Dad, I say to the box, remembering when my father performed that song in a talent show at Nippersink Resort in Wisconsin when I was twelve. Handsome and confident, he sang with gusto while his biggest fans—Mom, Gram, my sister, and I—applauded from the audience.

That was the summer of 1973, before I found out my father was gay.

While Frankie sings, I go into the kitchen and open a bottle of Cabernet, pour myself a generous glass, then sit down on the couch. Frankie’s voice is the opposite of soothing, so I turn off the TV. When the mellow effect of the wine doesn’t take hold, I pull a throw blanket around me even though it’s not cold and accept that nothing feels comforting tonight. Then, I let the tears come.

I will never hear my father’s voice again.

Memories flood in, his death breaching a dam we’d constructed in recent years to keep a fragile peace. So much time spent alternating between longing for and rejecting each other. So much stubborn selfishness.

He can’t really be gone.

Yet here he is inside this boring blue box. Half of him anyway, less the small amount his partner, Benny, will keep ensconced in a gold rose he picked out from the funeral home catalog. Even though there were many signs Dad’s health was failing, the reality of his body reduced to ash startles me each time I glance at the container. It occurs to me that this plain box won’t do until I scatter his ashes. A decorating diva, my flamboyant father could barely stand to see a wall with more than twelve inches of blank space.

Until then he needs something with a bit more flair.

Pouring myself a second glass of wine, I slide the Fleetwood Mac Rumours CD into the player and collect scissors and a glue stick from my desk drawer, then pull a handful of magazines from a basket beside the couch and sink back down. Flipping through while Stevie sings of crystal visions, I rip out clichéd words of bereavement and inspiration; pictures of hearts and clocks are torn out along with a tampon ad filled with butterflies. Some things for my father—Threshold, Serenity—and some he has left behind for me—Wisdom. A love that can endure. They all land in a pile on my lap.

A large, colorful Feeling Good gets fastened across the top of the box. To be pain-free is the thing Dad wanted most and what eluded him for the last decade of his life; so many years were focused on numbing his pain, real and imagined. As I glue each slip of paper, tears fall. Sadness and relief fill my broken heart in that peculiar way they do when someone you love dies and their freedom from pain is a blessing—no matter how hard the hurt is for you. Like a ransom note, I piece together the words Remember your family all love you—a message to be deciphered in the afterlife since I’m not sure he knew this while he was living, at least not all of us loving him at the same time. Now the tears and wine are really flowing.

Christine McVie sings about Daddy making her cry. Oh, Daddy, you made me cry, too, I think, then drain the last of the bottle into my glass, letting my feelings for him soften with each stroke of the glue stick. A deep feeling of compassion settles me as if now that he can’t upset me anymore, everything between us is okay. My sticky fingers smooth the edges of the paper and I sob, shaking loose thousands of memories of my father. An entire lifetime of joy and sorrow, inquiries and lessons, scathing tirades and tender hugs. All the secrets that broke my heart. All the resentment that broke his. I see the futility and the necessity of all of it.

Flipping through the last magazine, I find the letters RIP on one page in an elegant, curvy script; an exciting find. Rest in Peace. I cut them out and carefully glue them beside a purple heart for the wounds he suffered—especially those inflicted by me.

One

When I wake with a start, I’m still on the couch. The clock on the cable box reads 3:03 a.m. Across the room, the dark television screen reflects an image of a middle-aged woman with a colorfully decorated box in her lap. This is a new version of me, one altered by my father’s death. It’s barely visible, but I know she’s changed.

I peel off my clothes and crawl into bed knowing my head will hurt in the morning from wine and crying. A car passes below my window and a streak of light falls across the room as the sound fades. Tossing and turning, I think about my grandmother, wishing I could talk to her. The anniversary of her death just passed—thirteen years—on the day before my father died. This week will be even sadder now, I realize. The death anniversary week.

Gram, do you think my dad will take us out tomorrow? I said as we watched The Song of Bernadette, an old black and white movie she loved. I was on pins and needles waiting for my father to call about going out on Sunday.

Oh, I don’t know. Maybe so. She swept a thin, wrinkled hand across my bangs, her red fingernails grazing my cheek as she tucked my hair behind my ear. Gram was a comfort on Saturday nights after my parents divorced, staying with Deena and me while Mom went out. Her steady love was a life raft to save me from drowning in the tumultuous sea of my adolescent emotions. You’ll see him soon, she said, before sending me off to bed. Try not to get too worked up over it.

But I couldn’t help it. Waiting for Dad to call had become my weekend obsession, as if sitting by the phone would make it ring. Without any set visitation, Dad was able to see his daughters whenever he wanted to, which wasn’t every weekend.

We’ll see, honey, he said each time I asked when we’d see him again, hoping to pin him to a date. I’ll call you. Maybe a movie next weekend. What I heard was: I will see you next weekend, and maybe we can go to a movie.

By Sunday morning I was in a panic, listening to the phone ring off the hook as I dialed his number over and over while my insides knotted like tangled yarn.

Lisa, call one of your friends and go do something, Mom suggested, but I was sure he was just at the store, or in the shower. But he said... So I kept dialing. When he finally answered sometime Sunday evening, the sound of his voice untied the knot in my chest, allowing me to breathe again, as if my very existence depended on hearing him say hello.

"But you said we could go to a movie on Sunday. I tried calling you all day!" I wailed.

Lisa, that’s enough. I never promised to see you girls today. I said we’ll see. Now if you don’t stop crying, I won’t see you next week, either. Just stop it, he warned.

But I thought you said— I caught myself. Don’t argue with him. It was clear that letting him know how upset I was would make him withdraw his attention even further, instilling in me the notion that compliance with a man’s desire would keep his affection. So, rather than risk losing my daddy’s love, I kept my mouth shut while my anxiety grew sturdy stalks of insecurity, its deep roots taking hold.

• • •

Girls, this is Terry, Dad said, holding the seat forward for me and my little sister while we climbed into the back of his Cutlass Supreme. A young man was sitting in the front.

He’s cute, I thought, and nudged Deena with a slight shove. Move, Deen. She shot me a look and scooted over. Thank you. I shot her one back as I flipped down the armrest to separate us.

C’mon, you two. Be nice, Dad said, though without his usual authoritarian tone. He was in an exceptionally good mood.

Good to finally meet you, girls. Are you ready for bowling? Terry flashed a bright smile at me, and I could feel my cheeks burn. Man, he’s a fox.

The warm rush I felt when a good-looking guy glanced my way was unnerving but felt good. This new friend of my father’s looked to be about ten or twelve years older than I was, halfway between my dad’s age and mine. Kinda young to be friends with Dad, I thought.

At the bowling alley, we got shoes and balls, then found an end lane. As usual, I jockeyed to sit next to my father, soaking up as much of his attention as I could during the few afternoons we spent with him each month. Not that it mattered where I sat this time. Dad was preoccupied with Terry, a constant source of playful joking around, making comments only they would understand.

Just wait till you live with me, honey, he quipped, smiling at Dad before sashaying down the alley to throw the ball. Live with him? Is this guy gonna be his roommate? I shrugged off the thought for the rest of the game and, by the time we got to Eva’s Diner later, had forgotten all about it.

But that night in bed, the excitement of the day still buzzing in my mind, I remembered Terry’s comment, and began wondering why my father didn’t have a girlfriend. Not that I wanted to share him with another female—my sister was bad enough—but while Mom had started dating Harry, a nice Jewish man who took her dancing, Dad never mentioned dating anyone. As someone so smart and handsome, it seemed to me any woman would be thrilled to date him. Drifting off to sleep, I realized it was fine with me if he never remarried. I always wanted to be his favorite girl.

• • •

Hey, Dad? I asked when he picked me up from school a few weeks later. It was rare to see him during the week, alone. You know, Mom has been going out on dates. Do you date anybody? We had opened my first bank account with money from my recent fourteenth birthday, a rite of passage he had suggested. I was a little nervous asking him such a personal question, and I studied his face for signs of disapproval. I mean, do you have a girlfriend? I’m sure you could find one if you wanted to. He glanced over from behind the wheel and smiled as he pulled into the gravel parking lot of the townhouse I shared with Mom and my sister.

Well, honey, that’s a complicated question, but no, I don’t have a girlfriend.

Why not? I pushed, feeling like there was something he wasn’t telling me. Terry joined most of our outings, but Dad never brought a date.

Having a girlfriend doesn’t fit in with my lifestyle. Let’s just leave it at that.

Lifestyle? Okay, Dad. I just thought— He gave me a look that said, enough, then leaned over to kiss my cheek.

I’ll talk to you soon. I’m happy we got your account set up today, he said. You sure are growing up. Say hello to your mother and Deena, he added before I pushed open the door.

I will. As I walked up the porch steps, a thought stopped me in my tracks: Terry. Turning back to look for Dad’s car, I caught only a glimpse of his taillight as he merged into traffic.

He spends all his time with Terry. I realized I hadn’t been to my dad’s place in a couple of months. Did he move in? Oh my God, what if that’s why Dad doesn’t have a girlfriend?

Suddenly, snippets of television references to men being queer ran rampant through my head; my stomach churned at the thought of what this might mean. I dropped my book bag inside the front door and went straight to the kitchen to call my mom. After dialing her number on the wall phone, my stomachache worsened while it rang. What do I even want to know?

Demar Plating, this is Peg, she said from her desk in the small office where she was a secretary.

Hi, Mom. So, Dad dropped me off after school, and before he left I asked him why he doesn’t have a girlfriend. He said—

Lisa, do we need to get into this now? I’m at work.

I know, but yes, we do need to talk about it now. Dad didn’t really give me a straight answer when I asked him. Something about his lifestyle, he said. I mean, what lifestyle? He hangs out with that guy Terry all the time and I think he’s moved in. There isn’t even a spare room. I mean, that’s pretty weird. I coiled the long yellow phone cord around my finger as I rattled on, forming a picture in my head I didn’t really want to see.

Lisa, please. We’ll talk when I get home.

"Mom. I plowed ahead, unable to contain the question I wasn’t sure how to ask. Uh, does Dad like guys? I mean, like that? A growing panic seized me. Is he queer?" The word felt like profanity when I said it to my mother.

She released a heavy sigh. "Please. I’m at work. We can talk more about this when—"

"Ma, I need to know now! He’s my father." Tears stung my eyes as I waited for her answer, though I already knew the truth.

All right, her voice was not more than a whisper. Yes.

Yes? Oh my God, my dad is a fag.

A deep, guttural laugh escaped me, turning to heaving sobs as I slid down the wall and sat on the floor unable to catch my breath as any remnants of my childhood evaporated like drops of water on a hot stove.

But Mom, I don’t understand. I mean, how could he do this to us? Don’t you hate him?

Lis, c’mon. We’ll talk tonight. Why don’t you go to Mrs. McCall’s and wait there until I pick you up after work? I don’t want you home alone right now. Her insistence that I go to her best friend’s house was a gentle order, not a suggestion. And please don’t tell your sister, do you hear me? Please. I’ll have someone pick her up from practice. Her voice changed in a way that told me someone was standing at her desk. We’ll talk about it more when I get home. Okay? Now go to Mrs. McCall’s.

But—

I have to go. It’ll be okay. We’ll talk later.

I reluctantly hung up, then ran toward Maureen McCall’s house, the heaviness of my new discovery crushing my chest. My dad is queer. I didn’t even fully know what that meant. All I knew was what I had heard Archie Bunker say about queers and fags. They’re fairies. As I ran, each tiny piece of information I had ever heard about homosexuality began to fit together all at once, revealing the whole picture like a jigsaw puzzle.

Dad seemed utterly comfortable in a room full of women; at a party he hung out with the wives instead of drinking beer with the men. He didn’t watch ball games and was meticulous about cleaning. Don’t make me do a white glove test, he warned while overseeing Saturday morning chores. He might have been joking, but I never doubted a white glove could be produced at any time to challenge my diligence. He liked things to be perfect and taught me to comb the fringe of the Oriental rug with an actual wide-tooth comb.

He’s always been different from other dads, I thought as my feet pounded the pavement. He’s never golfed or wrenched on cars. Instead, Dad sang and danced his way through Anything Goes as a stowaway belting out You’re the Top, dashing in white trousers and a navy jacket. I was so proud to be my father’s daughter on that opening night, thrilled by the chaos and glory of being backstage at the theater. Now that I knew his lewd secret, I felt ashamed.

Our whole life has been an act! How could he betray us like this?

The late sun cast long shadows of the bare trees as I traveled block after block, tears clinging to my cold face. A memory from the year my parents divorced played like a movie in my head, of the night before Easter when I woke up to hear my mother crying softly in the living room. Sneaking down the stairs, I found her hiding Easter eggs, alone. It was after midnight and Dad was still out. She was startled, caught in front of the mantel, a blue plastic egg in her hand, poised to disappear behind a picture frame. She stifled a sob when I hugged her waist. Are you okay? I asked. She nodded, and we stood there for a long time. Then she sent me back to bed, her eyes red. I cried myself to sleep that night when it dawned on me how often my father went out without her.

Where did he go on those nights out?

I stopped running to catch my breath, bent over, and held my knees, my lungs burning. I wished I had my Primatene Mist. Did he go to gay bars? The thought repulsed me as I pushed away the image of a bar full of men drinking and dancing together, making out in a dark corner of the room. Is that how he met Terry?

With a couple of blocks left to go, I slowed to a walk, letting the pieces connect and make sense of things I hadn’t understood before. A snapshot flashed in my mind of sitting on the hand-me-down sofa in Dad’s studio apartment a few years before, while my parents were separated. I was ten years old and desperately wanted to know why he left us. He’d told me there were things that I was too young to understand. He left because he liked men. Did Mom know then?

A year later, they got back together. All my anxiety over losing my daddy vanished when he moved us into the beautiful house in Oak Park. We were happy there for three years, until Dad started going out without Mom. What a shock it was when he sat us down on the white brocade couch and told us they were getting divorced.

We still love each other, and of course, we love you girls, he said. My mother nodded quietly. Bereft, I begged to know why he and Mom would break our world apart. They didn’t have a good reason.

Now I know why.

Trees swayed as I walked, resentment at my dad growing as the wind kicked up. I pulled my jacket tighter around me. Poor Mom. My anger at her for moving us back to River Grove subsided as I thought about how hard this must be for her.

I’d begged to stay in Oak Park the day they announced their divorce, arguing that she couldn’t drag me away from my friends in the middle of junior high. But my mother wore Oak Park like a too-large coat, one that looked ill-fitting and heavy on her. She never seemed as happy there as in the working-class suburbs to which her Italian family had migrated in the 1950s from Chicago. She found her joy in the backyards and basements of her sister and cousins, sharing meals and stories with those she loved while the newest family member was passed from lap to lap. Her decision to move us back to River Grove at the end of that school year produced a fierce rage in me that could not be quelled.

Lisa, that’s enough! Your mother can’t afford to keep this house even if she wanted to. Besides, she wants to live near your grandmother and Auntie.

Dad’s words had been final, each one delivering a heavy blow to my young life until it was shattered into little pieces. No more sleepovers in the grand parlors of my friends’ homes, no more walks to Marshall Fields for chocolate after school. It had seemed so unfair to move from a canopied street lined with stately homes in a Frank Lloyd Wright neighborhood to a dumpy complex lined with bent screen doors, a dozen hard-luck stories living behind each one.

Nothing is fair, I thought as I slowly made my way down the final block in a daze, my nose and ears frozen. By the time I got there, Mrs. McCall had been briefed by my mother, and I poured myself into the sanctuary of her warm, ample chest and wept.

Shh, shh, it’ll be all right, she said, holding me.

I looked into her face for validation that it really would be. She smiled, raising the mole above her lip ever so slightly. My breathing returned to normal as she pulled me in tighter.

The phone rang.

Hello? she said, answering on the third ring. Yes, she’s here. Uh-huh. Do you want to talk to her?

It’s your dad, she said, handing me the phone. Panic shot through me. It’s okay. Talk to him.

I took a deep breath and put the receiver to my ear. Hi, honey, he said. Even though I had seen him only an hour before, he felt like a stranger now.

Hi, Dad. I felt sheepish, as if somehow I had done something wrong.

I’m sure you’re a little surprised by what your mother told you, but you seem to have figured it out all by yourself. So, I suppose you’re old enough to understand what this all means.

I’m not really sure I am, or even want to. He kept talking.

It’s important that you know there is absolutely nothing wrong with me, and at some point, I want you to go to the library and read about homosexuality so you can understand that this is normal.

How is this normal? Fresh tears stung my swollen eyes as I listened to him go on and on, barely comprehending his words about genetics and tendencies as they roared through my head. Understand you’re a homosexual? The word felt dirty, like the bad swear words my older cousin taught me. The ones my parents never said in front of us.

Do you have any questions? You can ask me whatever you want, Lisa.

Of course, I had questions. Sex was never talked about in our house, especially by my Catholic mother.