Breaking the Ruhls Read online

  “Do you have AIDS?”

  Caught off guard, I abruptly answered, “No.”

  “Have you had sex with men?”

  I nodded yes, but was unsure. Did she consider masturbation sex? Kissing? Getting a blowjob? The lines were blurred, but I was glad I answered yes, based on what I had written on those envelopes.

  “What kind of sex have you had with men?”

  “Mom, that’s personal.”

  She looked back at me, eyebrows raised in disbelief. “Personal? Nothing is personal as long as you live in my house. Are you doing drugs?”

  “No.” I answered definitively.

  “Show me your arms.”

  “What?”

  “Show me your arms.” She sounded exasperated.

  “I don’t understand.”

  She grabbed my right arm forcefully and pushed up the sleeve, looking at the underside of my elbow and wrist.

  “What are you doing?” I asked, trying not to let my fear and annoyance show.

  “Checking for track marks. Drug addicts have them. Don’t think I’m an idiot, Larry J.”

  Shoving my arm aside aggressively, she said, “I don’t ever want to talk about this again.”

  For the next two days, my mother avoided me. Meals were excruciating, as she refused to look at me and disappeared into the garage at times to smoke, leaving me with my father, who also refused any interaction. I was confused and vulnerable, wondering if she had changed her mind about loving me “no matter what.” On the third day, she unleashed her fury, telling me what she thought of homosexuality and of me, the word faggot puncturing my heart over and over.

  After she stormed away from me, I called Eileen, who rescued me by offering to let me stay with her and her husband, Brian, for the duration of the summer. At least I now had a plan of escape; I had always needed a plan. I went upstairs and grabbed my mostly still-packed bags. With the whole summer ahead of me, I longed to be back in the anonymity of New York City, carousing with my roommate in seedy bars and art galleries, two of my new favorite scenes.

  I breathed a sigh of relief as I pulled into Eileen’s driveway and out of the hellhole of my parents’ house. Thankfully, I had a job lined up to keep my mind occupied, and to earn some much-needed money.

  I went to work at a home furnishings store in bucolic upper Bucks County. It was the antithesis of Levittown. Winding up River Road, my anxiety settled, and I could focus on handling beautiful objects and greeting customers of a different ilk than my parents and those I grew up with—an escape from what was familiar.

  In conversations with clients and coworkers, I avoided giving up any details of where I was from, feeling the stigma of Levittown and the stain it left on me. The first few weeks went along smoothly, with no contact from my parents. In the evenings, Eileen, told me about their fighting, and said my dad thought it was best I wasn’t there to hear what my mother was saying.

  As the summer trudged along, I developed a friendship with one of the partners of the store. He included me in decisions to remerchandise, and he left me in charge more frequently. After one long weekend, he asked if I might like to join him and some friends for drinks. There was never a discussion about my age, but he knew I had yet to turn twenty-one. While I watched him and his friends order their cocktails with confidence, I felt embarrassed, both by my underage status and lack of knowledge in the alcohol department. I wanted what these people had: self-confidence. Noticing my discomfort, he slid his glass of champagne toward me, and with a wink, he offered me a sip.

  My relationship with him developed outside of the business. He started referring to me as his houseboy, which meant housesitting, being his designated driver, and staying at his place after a long night out, along with drunken attempts at sex.

  Within a few weeks, I sensed I was wearing out my welcome, so I developed an updated plan. I called FIT and asked what it would cost for me to come back early. I was given a prorated rate, and working backward I calculated how many days I could afford, down to the penny, as my urgency to flee felt dire. I could leave Levittown, hopefully for good.

  Eileen felt badly about my decision and wanted me to stay. She felt things could still turn around, as my father had started calling her frequently to check up on me. But I didn’t care. I stood by my parents through unspeakable moments, and now they turned against me.

  My mom always reassured me our relationship was very special, and even if all else failed, we’d still have each other. She told me I was the only one who knew how to make her feel loved, and for that she would stay devoted to me. Where was that sentiment now? My father’s main objective was to please my mother to maintain peace. He needed more love than anyone could possibly give, and he carried himself as a man burdened by rejection.

  Right before I made my escape back to the safety of New York City, Eileen called to say my parents wanted to see me. She was afraid if I refused, it would fuel the fire. I was cautious but hopeful that we could have a civil conversation. After a restless night, I drove to meet them at a restaurant. I felt better knowing we would be in a public setting.

  Arriving, I immediately felt unsettled. My parents were nestled at a small corner table, with only a handful of other patrons in the restaurant. As I approached, my father stood to give me a firm hug.

  He whispered in my ear, “I love you, Son,” and I felt my skin prickle.

  My mother did not look up, instead staring down trance-like at the menu in front of her.

  “Hi, Mom.” I greeted her warmly, despite the anxious knot in my stomach.

  She said nothing, and my father had a pained look. Quietly, I suggested maybe this was a mistake.

  My mother’s head shot up. She looked awful, with puffy eyes and streaked mascara.

  “A mistake? A mistake? You’re the fucking mistake,” she said, loud enough to make heads turn.

  I sat frozen with embarrassment.

  “You know what you are? A disgusting faggot.” She spat as she spoke. My father tried to quiet her.

  “Shut up. Your son fucks men, and you’re telling me to be quiet? You both make me sick.”

  Knocking her chair to the floor, she stormed to the ladies room. I felt all eyes on me, as I slowly made my way to the exit. I was convinced the other diners agreed with my mother. Soon after I left the parking lot, I pulled off to the side of the road, sobbing, letting the shame and humiliation pour out of me.

  I made the drive back to Eileen’s last as long as I could, weaving through neighborhoods and taking old familiar detours. There I was again, lost in my thoughts, wanting to avoid all human contact. Once home, Eileen greeted me with a hug. There was no need for words.

  I kept a low profile those last few days, praying they’d pass as painlessly as possible. The evening before I was to leave, Eileen walked in the door with a worried look on her face.

  “They want to see you again.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  “No, Dad called and said Mom’s a mess. They want us to stop by tomorrow.”

  My head started to ache, and my mind clouded. Why would I go back there and be humiliated again?

  She wants to see you so she can finally beat you senseless, I told myself.

  Despite all that happened, I felt an agonizing guilt, which made me feel I had to do what they were asking. I had disappointed them so greatly by not being normal; now it was somehow my responsibility to make this better. I felt dirty for having sexual feelings that upset my mother. I knew she felt betrayed. Maybe she had come to her senses and remembered our special bond. I wanted to believe that. I could see my sister felt I had to go. She was, after all, the good daughter who always did whatever they asked of her. I understood it was the easier path, but I secretly wished my sister would stand up to them on my behalf, even just this once.

  I tried to give myself another objective to force me back into that house. The only thing I could come up with was that there were some things in my room I wanted to bring back to the
city with me. Who knew when I’d ever be back? So I made getting my favorite T-shirt, some music, and a photograph the goal of my visit.

  That morning, I was riddled with second thoughts. I imagined my mother hurling more insults, and me hurling my fist in return. I caught myself running with this fantasy, and shook myself out of it with a dismissive laugh.

  My father got up off the couch immediately and embraced me when I walked in the house. I stood rigid in his arms, wanting him to let me go. I did not see my mother. I darted up the stairs and grabbed the few things I wanted, overwhelmed with relief that I never had to live in this house again. As I unzipped one of my bags, I caught a glimpse of something in the pocket. I reached in and pulled out a small cardboard folder. It was part of our welcome kit at FIT, and contained a condom and suggestions for safer sex. Listed on the inside of the folder were instructions on needle-sharing habits. This was what my mother had found, in addition to my journal, that caused her to check me for track marks and ask if I had AIDS. I laughed bitterly under my breath and shoved the folder back in the pocket.

  At the bottom of the stairs, I turned and saw her on the couch. She was crying, holding her head with one hand and the other in her lap.

  “I need to get going,” I announced, trying to sound confident.

  My mother looked up. I did not see rage, disgust, or hatred. I saw sadness. Incredible emotion hovered over her, and I felt myself softening like I had done on so many other occasions. My father stood to hug me goodbye and slipped twenty dollars into my hand.

  “Have a safe trip. Call us when you get settled back in.”

  He was resorting to his own way of dealing, pretending nothing had happened. He was a master at this.

  My mother stood and approached me, stumbling. I wondered if she had been drinking. I knew what was coming next. She expected me to comfort her. I held my arms out, and as she pulled me in close, she sobbed.

  “Please don’t go.”

  “I have to, Mom. I need to go back.”

  “Not today. Please stay a few more days with me. Please, Larry J.?”

  “I love you, Mom, but I’m going back.” My voice was soft, even as I tried to sound determined.

  She cried harder. I looked up at Eileen; she too was crying, but my father looked away. I attempted to break free, but she tightened her grip.

  “Don’t go. Don’t leave me. Please don’t leave me.”

  “I’ll come back soon to see you.”

  “Promise? Please promise me you’ll come see me. Just us two for lunch? You’ll take me to lunch?” She used her best childlike voice.

  “Okay, Mom. I’ll take you to lunch.” My voice was steady and reassuring. I knew the routine. Despite all she’d said and done, it was now my job to make sure she felt loved.

  She followed me outside, still clinging to my arm. Eileen was already in the car, and I was worried I might miss the train. As I turned to pry my mother from me, she broke down into guttural sobs, falling onto the lawn.

  “I’m so sorry, Larry J.”

  I reassured her it was okay, but she kept on.

  “I didn’t mean to say those things to you. Those words were not meant for you.”

  Pulling back and looking at her face, I tried to make eye contact, but she couldn’t focus back on me. Her eyes darted around into the space behind my head, causing the hair on my neck to stand up. A voice in my head was screaming, What the fuck is happening here?

  “Mom, what are you trying to say? Please tell me what you mean.”

  Her hand remained clenched around my wrist, but she refused to look at me. I felt powerless over her as my fear escalated.

  “Your father is the disgusting one, not you. I hate him. Do you understand?”

  My chest started to tighten, and I couldn’t breathe. I needed to get away. I released her grip and turned my back on her. I got in the car. My head swarmed with hazy images of my father and his hovering body. I still couldn’t find my breath, and when Eileen asked what our mother had said, I answered her quietly.

  “Nothing,” I replied. “Nothing important.”

  As we drove off, my mother remained on the ground, crying.

  Chapter Two

  In 1962, folksinger and songwriter Malvina Reynolds wrote and performed “Little Boxes,” a satirical song about middle-class suburban housing developments popping up across America.

  Little boxes on the hillside,

  Little boxes made of ticky tacky,

  Little boxes on the hillside,

  Little boxes all the same.

  There’s a green one and a pink one

  And a blue one and a yellow one,

  And they’re all made out of ticky tacky

  And they all look just the same.1

  None fit her description more than post-war Levittown, Pennsylvania, a suburb of nearby Philadelphia.

  Created by William J. Levitt as an affordable housing option for returning veterans, these assembly line-style homes sprouted up in 1950s New York and Pennsylvania. They came with a long list of conforming requirements—like no laundry hung out on Sundays and restrictions about the types of fences you could erect—in an effort to maintain a cohesive vision. Levitt also refused to sell his homes to black families, his homogenous master plan for neighborhoods extending to the residents who inhabited them. Still, he insisted he wasn’t a racist.

  But as the houses were resold by their original owners, nothing prevented people from selling to any demographic, and over time the population shifted, with an undercurrent of bigotry still in place.

  In our neighborhood, we had one black family, the Robinsons, who had three children. Their son was a little older than me, and the eldest daughter was a peer of Eileen’s. The youngest daughter was my age, and we were friends by kindergarten, declaring ourselves blood brother and sister. My parents were the second owners of our home in Levittown. They purchased our house for less than fifteen thousand dollars. Consistent with assembly-line production, it was “made with ticky tacky.”

  Levitt created six styles for these developments: the Levittowner, Rancher, Country Clubber, Colonial, Pennsylvanian, and ours, the Jubilee. Regardless of the style of home you lived in, you were a “Levittowner” if you lived in Levittown. There was a great divide between Levittowners versus the residents of fancier nearby Yardley and Newtown. That our house was the Jubilee, a name that suggests happy, celebratory occasions, added to the disdain I felt for our life inside those flimsy walls.

  The first floor of our house had two bedrooms, one bathroom, a living/dining room combination, and a small kitchen. The modest amount of space let smells travel freely, infusing everything: the coats in the hall closet, the towels, linens, and the rugs often held cooking smells from the kitchen.

  On the second floor were two additional bedrooms and a bathroom. The ceilings were sloped in a faux-cape style, making the space feel even smaller. We had an attached one-car garage as well. Other families transformed this space into a family room, but with money very tight or nonexistent, we couldn’t afford that luxury. My father made attempts to create a faux family room by hanging cabinets on the walls, placing carpet remnants on the floor, and adding an old table and chairs. However, it was not insulated and was rarely used for that purpose.

  The garage was the chief battleground for my parents’ fights. It was also where my mother ruminated, while she lit one cigarette after the other. Catching a whiff of smoke informed us trouble was brewing.

  One of the better features of our house was the extra-large yard and its proximity around a gentle curve on the street. The backyard was lined with towering pine trees and beds of English ivy, offering me a place to hide and explore. When things got rough inside the house, I climbed trees for hours and watched for signs that things were calm, or, in about half of the cases, worse. Seeing my mother standing in the kitchen was usually a good indicator she was making dinner, and it was safe enough to return. I knew the sap stains on my hands and forearms prompted her to call me “
filthy.” I hated the way she said that word, and quietly scrubbed myself clean before taking my place at the table.

  My mother’s taste in interiors contradicted her personality. It was generic and bland, all beige walls and tonal shaggy carpet. The furniture was purchased in matching sets, including a sofa, love seat, and coordinated chair from an outlet center that specialized in cheap furniture in garish floral or plaid fabrics. She collected porcelain figurines and housed them in an illuminated curio cabinet, often playing with them as if they were dolls. The stereo, a piece of furniture unto itself with its console-like configuration and felted, built-in speakers, provided her with endless, often too-loud music. Our tiny kitchen was adorned with copper pots and pans, not to be used, just admired. My parents’ bedroom, off limits to us except when my mother tried to get me to take a nap with her, was coordinated with valances covering the windows and a five-piece bedroom suite in dark brown wood veneer.

  My mother changed the curtains and switched out accessories, like silk floral arrangements based on the season, taking great care to store them so they were perfectly preserved. She insisted on daily recognition for her efforts. We were to deliver accolades regularly. If we fell short, she made it known through tears, or a meal from of a box, a departure from her frequent efforts at cooking from scratch. It was best for everyone involved to indulge her with praise, warranted or not, as often as possible.

  Eileen and I shared the upstairs. She had the largest of the bedrooms. Her room was my safe haven, and I found myself cowering, sleeping, or escaping there on a regular basis. My room was powder blue with a simple twin bed, dresser, and desk. The decor varied. At one point it was a Star Wars theme, which I loved. But in an effort on my mother’s part to “toughen me up” and force me to be more of a boy, she tried a set of NFL curtains and bedspread. I hated my bedroom.

  Regardless of wall-to-wall carpeting and closed doors, if someone raised their voice slightly, you could hear it as if you were standing next to them. It was unnerving and disruptive. By a young age, I started making forts under my bed or in the deep recesses of my closet as a way to hide from danger. Only then could I sometimes manage to block out my senses.