Broken Toys

Table of Contents

Title

Copyright

A Fairy-Tale Beginning

Cinderfella and the Wicked Stepmother

Wolves in Sheep's Clothing

Escaping the Dark Castle

A Broken Toy

Enter Prince Charming

Working on the Fairy-Tale Ending

About the Author

Broken Toys

Robert Gatz

Copyright © 2024 Robert Gatz

All rights reserved

First Edition

NEWMAN SPRINGS PUBLISHING

320 Broad Street

Red Bank, NJ 07701

First originally published by Newman Springs Publishing 2024

ISBN 979-8-89308-612-6 (Paperback)

ISBN 979-8-89308-613-3 (Digital)

Copyright: Lyrics © CONEXION MEDIA GROUP, INC., HORI PRO ENTERTAINMENT GROUP

Writer: GARY STEFAN HARRISON, GLORIA JEAN THOMAS, J. D. MARTIN

Printed in the United States of America

To Timber, Adam, Courtney, and Catherine with love.

Thank you for all your support!

Childhood should be carefree, playing in the sun; not living a nightmare in the darkness of the soul.

—Dave Pelzer

Such a pretty little face,

With a heart that's been torn.

Living in a borrowed space,

From the moment she was born.

How many times she's cried,

But never tears of joy.

Someone's taken a little girl, and made a broken toy.

Two sad little eyes,

Painted heartbreak blue.

The simplest of his dreams,

Never will come true.

Someone else's pain,

Fell on this little boy.

Someone's taken a soldier,

And made a broken toy.

Broken toys,

Who will mend these broken toys?

For every one we break,

A broken life takes its place.

That one day will break toys of its own.

O Lord, we've got to mend these broken toys.

And let them be children again,

Give back the innocence stolen from them.

Broken toys,

Who will mend these broken toys?

For every one we break,

A broken life takes its place.

That one day will break toys of its own.

O Lord, we've got to mend these broken toys.

A Fairy-Tale Beginning

Who doesn't love a good story? There's nothing more exciting in our childhood as a really great fairy tale. As we get older, we seek out romance, crime, drama, comedy, or horror, but there is always a part of us that still yearns for the fairy tales we loved as kids. We can become a part of a tale that will take us to lands we'll probably never visit or be involved in the evolution of people and things that are well beyond what we might normally experience.

Once upon a time—that's how fairy tales begin, right? It's a beautiful land that's far, far away from where we live. There's a princess born, a loving father, a mother who has been taken too soon. A wicked stepmother enters, and there are dragons and battles, sorrow and pain, until one day, a handsome prince rides in on a white stallion to save the day. We love the suspense, the action, the drama, but we ultimately look forward to that happy ending, where everything works out for the character we've been rooting for through the pages.

Most horror stories unfold in a similar way. There's an innocent kid living in some small town where life seems perfect—sunshine, happiness, maybe a puppy. Then enters the villain. It's a creepy clown or some kind of menacing creature crawling out of the fog. There's still a battle, and things seem totally lost—very bleak and dark—until the hero, who will save the day, enters. He or she will fight the monster, save the day, and everyone will live happily ever after. The end. I mean that's what most of us want for the character that we invest so many hours in, I assume—a happy ending or at least a temporary conclusion that leads us to the sequel.

I have a story that's neither fairy tale nor horror. There's some romance, a little action, lots of drama, a dash of happiness along the way, crimes, sorrow, and a lot of pain. It's a tale that's full of twists and turns, ups and downs, and though there's a lot of darkness, there's also light. And there's definitely a wicked stepmother. I mean what story doesn't need a good antagonist or two? There's also some monsters, though maybe not the kind with fangs and claws that creep out of the night, and there are plenty of battles throughout. I'll let you decide whether there's a happy ending or not.

I was born on a wintry day in 1966 amidst the turmoil of the Vietnam War. Lyndon B. Johnson was president, and the nation was torn over this war, which would not be entirely over until 1975. My birth name was Robert, but my family called me Bobby. I never understood why they named me one thing and then called me a completely different name, although it was kind of fitting because I would grow up feeling like two different people.

I'm told I was fighting against facing the world as Darlene, my mom, paced the hallway, trying to encourage the birth of her third child. If I had known what the years ahead were going to bring, I would have fought even harder to stay in the safety of her womb. By the time I was conceived, my mother had fallen out of love with Eddie, my dad. She said she would never change having me, but she felt awful for bringing me into an already-troubled home in the middle of a small town in Central Oklahoma. The birth of another child would not fix the marriage any more than the other two children had.

Mom and Dad met in 1957 and had their first date in a local café in Union City right after their senior trip. They dated off and on until April 1959. They had gone to a rattlesnake hunt in Okemah, and the next day, my dad offered her an engagement ring. She knew he drank a lot and was rumored to have several girls at any given time, but she loved him and believed she could change him, so she accepted. They were married in a Catholic church in June. The wedding day was a foreshadowing of the rest of their life together because Dad showed up late and drunk with another girl by his side. Perhaps Mom should have realized she was making a mistake and run for the hills, but if she had, I would not be here to tell our story.

In September, the draft pulled Dad into the army, and he was sent to Fort Riley, Kansas. He was in the army for a little over two years, and they began to work on having a family soon into the marriage. In 1960, Joe, my eldest brother was born. He came into the world while Dad was out drinking with his brother.

A child did not do much to change my dad or settle him down. He still drank most nights until he passed out in his recliner, and it was not unusual for him to stay gone overnight. Mom would sit up until morning, worrying whether he was dead or alive, but he always showed up eventually, smelling of whiskey and with the faint scent of perfume from other women.

Mom did everything she could think of to be a good wife and mother. She learned how to cook some of Dad's favorites from his sisters and would have the table loaded with food every night, although most of the time, his dinner ended up in the oven wrapped in foil because he was late or did not come home. She cooked, kept the house as clean as she could while raising a baby with no help, and when he wanted to be intimate, she never turned him away as she tried to forget the smell of the women she had washed from his clothes. She still clung to the hope that he'd realize how much she loved him and would change, but nothing was ever enough to keep him home or stop his drinking.

She got to the point that she would lock him out of the house when he didn't come home, but after having to replace several doors that he kicked in, she stopped. He would become mean and angry if she asked him where he had been. This anger led to slaps or shoves that followed with flowers or a gift to say he was sorry. He was always sorry and promised it would not happen again, and it didn't…until the next time.

She finally confided in his brother's wife and cried, asking what more she could do to stop the drinking and abuse. She admitted that she wanted to leave him but was shocked by a slap from her sister-in-law. Darlene—my aunt sighed—if you want to have a good marriage, you just have to let him do whatever he wants to do. Be grateful that he comes home to you.

Mom assumed her sister in-law had resigned herself to the same life.

The home they lived in was where his family raised him, and it was in a state of disrepair. Dad promised he would get around to fixing everything but never found the time. It was not unusual to turn the light on and find a rattlesnake coiled on the steps leading upstairs or to open a drawer and find a snake in it. One day, as Mom went to start a bath, she found a snake waiting in the tub. It became a ritual to always turn a light on before entering a room and being cautious before reaching into corners and cabinets. Mom tried to convince herself that their life was normal.

In 1963, she found out she was pregnant with my sister, Darla. Mom said she felt like she was carrying a large watermelon in her belly. She said she got so large, she felt like she waddled like a duck when she walked.

If she believed that this pregnancy would change things, she was wrong. Things only got worse instead of better. Dad stayed gone for several days at a time, and she had no option but to sit at home and pray he would come home. She said her love died on New Year's Eve of 1964. She fixed dinner, dressed up as best an eight-months-pregnant woman could, and waited for him to come home after work. As the night progressed, she finally reached out to his sister, who came over to wait with her. They watched Buddy Hackett and Johnny Carson, but Dad never came home. He didn't return for two days.

Darla was born a month later without her dad because no one could find the bar he was at. If one child didn't help, a second one only meant more work for Mom. Dad stayed away more and more, and when he was home, she was always in a battle with the man she wanted to love. Instead, she became used to the verbal arguments that resulted in screaming and often led to physical fights that left her feeling broken. One fight ended with her nose broken. Another resulted in a broken eardrum. Next was a broken rib. The doctor asked her with concern if everything was okay at home, and she assured him she was just clumsy. Clumsy in the man she had chosen to marry, she thought.

A little over a year after my sister was born, Mom found out she was pregnant again. Feeling like she had no one to talk to, she started telling one of their best friends about how she felt trapped in a loveless marriage. He and his wife went to the bars with her and Dad when she was allowed to go, and they spent a lot of time together.

One night, when they sat alone at the table, Mom confided in him. I love my kids, Mom began, and I once loved my husband very much, but I just can't take any more of the abuse!

Henry held her as she wept uncontrollably. Darlene, he said quietly, I'm not one to tell you what to do because I have plenty of problems in my own marriage, but you have to figure this out.

Pack your kids up, he continued, and get out.

I can't, Mom sobbed. If I ever took the kids away, he'd never stop until he found me. He would kill me. I believe he loves the kids and wouldn't do anything to hurt them, but if I took them away, he'd be furious. He's even said that I could leave whenever I wanted, but if I took the kids, he'd hunt me down and kill me in front of them.

Henry tried to console her. That is why you have to leave. Love yourself enough to take care of yourself.

If I stay, she said cautiously, I think one of us is going to kill the other one.

Eddie has no idea what he's got in you, Henry continued. You are beautiful, and no other woman would put up with all his bullshit for as long as you have!

They would share their hurts and marital problems with one another over the next year. Though there was no magic wand that could fix anything, it felt great for both of them to at least have someone to talk to and, when necessary, a shoulder to cry on.

In late February 1966, on a night filled with snow and howling winds, I was, with a lot of coaxing and a little castor oil, born to a broken home and a loveless marriage. Mom had already resigned herself that nothing was going to change in the marriage, and I became another burden for her to deal with. She loved me but was weary from fighting for survival. She had long forgotten her hope for happiness or a storybook marriage. Now, she just wanted to survive. She tried to focus on her three children, but the evenings after bedtime while she watched the clock were unbearable. She was terrified of what she'd do if he didn't come home but also feared what would happen when he did. She never knew what she might say that would set him off. She found herself trying to cover up the bruises and having to patch the holes he'd put in the walls with his fist.

She and Henry met more and more to talk about their troubled marriages and try to figure out a solution for both of them. Mom said it was not romantic at that point. The thing she wanted least was another man to trust. It was two friends trying to encourage the other through another day. A sort of friendly love grew from that as their friendship deepened. He began writing poems to encourage her and lift her spirits.

One day in early August of 1966, Henry offered a solution. We leave together, he began. No matter how bad my wife is, I won't ever get custody of my kids, and since you fear that if you take your children you'll be killed, we'll leave together. We can go wherever and as far as we need to go for safety. I'll leave as soon as you are settled if you want me to.

Mom shook her head. I don't think I can leave my babies.

You said that if you stayed, one of you was going to kill the other, Henry pressed. What will that solve, and how will that affect your kids? You said you can't take the kids because he'll hunt you down and kill you. I don't know if you have that many choices left.

"I'll