Chapter 17 The Gates of Hell

CHAPTER 17 THE GATES OF HELL
Once again Rachelle’s demons took procession of her with "Lit'el" Rags’ relapse in June nineteen eighty-eight one week after he graduated from high school. We spent a week with him in San Francisco undergoing treatments. Over the past eighteen years he relapsed four times and we were blessed each time with the development of a new wonder drug such as Chlorambucil, Cyclophosphamide, Predisone, Cladribine, and every remission brought us closer and closer to Jehovah as we felt he was blessing us for our service to him and his Earthly Organization. I was so sure God would supply us with another miracle with the latest development of three more wonder drugs: Fludarabine, Rituximab, and Alemtuzumad became our new hope--our last hope. He did not respond and we were sent home with the hope the drugs may kick in, they did not and he continued to get worst.

There is nothing worst than knowing your child is going to die except knowing your child knows you know he knows he is going to die and there isn’t a damn thing either can do. You spend your days holding hands, praying, crying and trying to be strong for the other, but god damn all you can do…I did not know what you could do, so we ask Tren and her husband to take the kids to Great America. They had been through so many traumas over the past two weeks and we were expecting "Lit'el Rags to pass away that day, and god knew we did not want the kids to experience their brother’s death.
It was just Trisha and I alone with him and I called the ambulance. We told the ER Doctor to do everything possible to resuscitate him, and I can’t remove his image from my mind. Rachelle fell apart; yes fell apart in hysterics as she lay on the ground sobbing at our answer to her question, "How is "Lit'el" Rags?" Silas and Warren were too young to comprehend what happened while Grandma, Grandpa, and the rest of us sat speechless in denial and grief that afternoon. I do not know how anybody else got through it--but I know--I did not. I could not get a grip on "Lit'el" Rags’ death.

Questions gushed forth as my relationship with Jehovah began to weaken even further, and I began to question him. Why tear my guts out now? He had a job, a girl friend, and just graduated. Why didn’t you let him die when he was a baby before he experienced life? He will never…. I felt betrayed by my God to whom I had put complete faith in for so many years. A great chasm developed and it continued to grow wider with each passing day as I listened for the creak of the back door, the shuffle of his shoes across the floor, the chuckle he produced as he would grab his mama and give her a hug and kiss, and tweak my ear lob and say, "Weenie, weenie ear."
Tears poured and hearts broke each day at five-thirty as Trisha and I waited in denial. Every night one of us would wake up to sounds from his room or his voice, or his visits in our dreams. His first visit came that Saturday night--the day he passed. I woke Trisha. I woke myself shouting, "No! No! No!" I was shaking, and the words How are you Dad? I love you, so don't be sad burned into my brain. I related what happened and what he said, and we both cried hysterically. I wrote his words down and placed the note in a binder that I kept my collection of little ditties in ever since high school and that was the remaining memento my mother did not throw away when I joined the Navy. Over the weeks after his death, if one of his friends asked if they could have this item or that item to keep as a touchstone of him--we let them have it.

We woke up one day looking into his room--there was not anything in it. "We gave everything away," Trisha said in shock. Tears welled into her eyes and all I could see was a magnified glare coming in the window through my own tears. She sobbed, "All we have is that old potted plant that I've watered, and some photographs of him throughout the years. What else? "Memories. That is all we have of "Lit'el" Rags, photographs, potted plants, and memories. Thank God for memories." I open my binder when we returned to the living room and wrote just above his words--photographs, potted plants, and memories. Good title for a song, I thought as I fought back tears and slid it back into its position amongst the albums and Bible literature we collected over the years. Every so often, I would take out the binder and play around with some words--it remained an unfinished work--poem, song, limerick…. I don't know or didn't know what it was--maybe therapy later on but not now. Nothing helped and we continued to grieve, not knowing there was a formula or process for grieving, but we did know the Society's formula, and we once again received grief counseling from the association of brothers, the same encouragement that we received at Mama’s funeral as Brother Newman said, "You must not grieve as the world grieves; for Jehovah is a God of the living, not of the dead." We put on a good front, "Whoopee, we will get to see our son in the New Order, but behind closed doors--we wept together and Trisha called out for "Lit'el Rags in her subconscious process of grieving. I was unable to speak his name or think of him without being crushed.

"Lit'el" Rags’ death led us into another crisis. Trisha’s Dad was diagnosed in an advanced stage of Alzheimers Disease which explained his memory lose, living and talking about his experiences as a young boy back in Missouri. The two people Rachelle loved most were gone--one in death, and the other mentally. Grandpa no longer remember his family and it broke Rachelle’s heart because she love him more than life itself, and she began a new journey which weaved down the straight and narrow road in which she veered off and found herself in a living hell. She adopted a new way of "life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness," and disposed of everything Trisha and I tried to inculcate in her while playing us like ignoramus fools.

Rachelle applied at the local theatre and turned in the application the same morning. It seemed Rachelle was heading in the right direction, by taking the initiative of wanting to work. This made Trisha and me pleased, because we knew keeping Rachelle’s mind occupied would help her get over her grandpa’s death since he passed away the week before. His illness had taken a toll on everyone, but Rachelle was effected the most because she was her grandpa’s "bright and morning star." Grandpa’s death rated right up there with the death of her brother. These two tragedies were the tip of the iceberg and we did not know how deep her problems ran, because we were still dealing with our own grief.

She came home and told us she was "hired on the spot" and was to start that afternoon. "You can use the car Rachelle, but come home after you get off work," I suggested with a twinkle in my eye.

"Thanks, Dad. I’ll be back around five this afternoon after the feature is over. Love ya!" Rachelle always said that when she got her way either by asking or by hinting for something. There were not too many things she did not get because she made life hell for the family, and if Trisha or I was unable to get it for her then Grandma was her next target and Grandma made sure Rachelle was happy. This is what hurt the most, because we went beyond the call of duty to make her happy. Rachelle was the only child out of the five not to appreciate the sacrifices made. Her attitude was--we drove clunkers and lived in a mobile home just to embarrass her, not realizing, or caring I was struggling getting the construction business going and her Mom was working at a local bakery. The recapitulation of the entire situation concerning our family was Mama’s Family without the canned laughter.
True to her word, Rachelle arrived at home a little past five o’clock. Dashing into the house full of vim and vigor she exclaimed, "Guess what! I did so well the manager wants me to come back this evening so I can learn how to use the cash register, and open the snack stand."

In reply, Trisha with a big hug stated, "I’m so happy for you, because it will get your mind off of everything for awhile each day. You should be proud of yourself."
I blurted out," What are they paying you?" The question rolled off my inquisitive tongue, because I did not have much faith in her.

"Since I am in training, Don asked me to work for one week before they put me on the payroll. So I won’t be getting paid for the first week." This sounded out of place, because I knew the state laws did not allow for a free training period, but I decided not to press the matter. Hell, it was a common practice in the Lake County construction industry for the contractors to pay under the table--even not paying. All she could lose was some time. All she could gain was experience; therefore, I was not going to rock the boat.

Trisha and I agreed to let Rachelle return to work that evening and as I dropped her off; I pointed my finger at her said, "Call me when you get off work, because I’ll come get you. I have to work late tonight anyway to finish the insurance estimate."

"Okay, thanks Dad. See you later. Love you."

"Love you too. Be sweet and have fun." I replied as I watched her head toward the entrance and saw a young girl open the door for Rachelle.

"It must be on the up and up," I muttered to myself. Satisfied with what I saw I turned on the ignition and drove away. I reported everything to Trisha, and eased her mind as she gave me a good night kiss and headed for bed. She had to wake up at two o’ clock in the morning, because she had to "break out" the entire day’s baking products, which took all of her energy.

Eleven o’ clock came and the phone rang.

"Hello."

"Dad, the manager told me he would give me a ride home tonight since his girlfriend lives in our direction. Is that okay?

"Yes, that will be fine. Tell Don I said thanks. See you in a few minutes, bye, bye."

"That worked out nicely, saves me a trip," I thought aloud and smiled to myself as I placed a log in the wood burner and returned to the insurance bid. Rachelle was home in about fifteen minutes that was about how long it should take to get home from the theatre. I was gaining confidence in her little by little, and it felt good, no, it felt great.

This scenario went on until the week Rachelle was to be paid. Friday night Rachelle came home at eleven o’ clock. I met her at the door with a smile on my face and pleased with my daughter. She, at last, accomplished something by herself. "Well, young lady lets see your first pay check. I bet you are pleased with yourself," I said expecting her to whip out her check and show me.

The blood drained from her face. "What’s wrong, Honey?" I asked concerned from watching the transformation of her physical appearance.
She stammered, "D-d-dad, the checks didn’t come in today. Don said they will be here tomorrow."

"Don’t worry, those things happen when checks have to come from out of town. It’s not pleasant, but the world won’t come to an end even though you were expecting to be paid today. You’ll appreciate it tomorrow."

She seemed consoled by my reasoning and in turn said with a yawn, "I’m tired Daddy, I’m going to bed. All that standing around made my legs hurt."

"You'll get used to that type of work and then you’ll be able to stand all night and all day. Takes time. See you in the morning gal," I said slapping her on her butt in a affable manner like a football player, which brought a smile to her beautiful face.
This turn of events started me to think about the last two weeks and how happy Rachelle was. She had nothing negative to say about anybody, which was unusual for her. There has to be something going on that she is hiding, I thought so I mentioned to Trisha what had crossed my mind, and Trisha said, "You ought to be ashamed of yourself." I did feel guilty, but not guilty enough to stop me from playing chauffer for her that evening. Rachelle’s response was of total shock, and she threw a fit which reminded me of the old Rachelle when I told her I was taking her to work and picking her up. Yes sir re bob, I had hit a nerve and I was going to take it to the limits. There was going to be no, "ifs, ands, or buts" about tonight. I took her to work at six o’ clock, and said, "I’ll be here at eleven. Have a good night." She slammed the car door and headed for the entrance. I felt disturbed, and a little evil for doubting her, but there were too many loose threads on all her stories: training period with out pay, manager willing to bring her home every night, paycheck not arriving on time, and now the latest, Don having them stay until midnight to clean the theatre. Rachelle might have gotten away with all of the fabrications, but I knew the theatre chain put out a cleaning contract to the local janitorial services, because Ralph Bowden, a friend of ours won the bid. I felt I had to check out her stories, and if they were true, I would have to hope she would forgive me for my lack of faith in her. I needed peace of mind first; then I could work on our relationship again. It was a sad situation, one, not of pride.
The evening seemed to crawl by, because I wanted to get to the bottom of the problem. When the hands of the "Hobo Clock" reached ten thirty, and the old drunken hobo started to whistle the tune, "It’s two o’clock in the mor-r-r-ninggg..." I picked the car keys up and told Trisha I was going to the theatre a little early just in case the movie let out before eleven. I wanted to be there when she came out. It was quarter to eleven as I arrived at the theatre, as the disk jockey wrapped up the news headlines and began to play a classic golden oldie when the theatre doors opened. The customers started filing out in a smooth flow with the older people leading the way until they reached the stairs, and at that point the teenagers started to run and jump past them in a manner that caused me to squirm in the seat expecting to see somebody get knocked down. It was now top of the hour, the lobby lights were off, and three young girls exited the building, none of which was Rachelle. The last person to come out was a tall slender man who turned toward the doors and with a twist of his wrist locked the main entry doors. The description of Don fit this man, so as he turned around I walked over and introduced himself as Rachelle’s father, and a puzzled look appeared on the man’s face.

"You are Don the manager of this theatre aren’t you?" I asked, "I’m Rachelle’s f-f-father," I stammered feeling like a fool. I was getting embarrassed from the reaction of the man.

"So, what does that have to do with me?" Don inquired more mystified than concerned.

"What do you mean, 'What does that have to do with you?' I asked. "You’re her boss aren’t you?" I began trembling not from the cold and not from fear of Don, but from the anger and the embarrassment, I felt standing before a man who was supposed to be his daughter’s boss.

Where was this man’s head for two weeks, up his butt! That was what I was thinking Don was thinking, as I heard Don reply, "Hell no, she just hangs out here with several guys. We had to run them out today, because they were disturbing the patrons. She left with three guys earlier this evening. She has been doing this everyday."

Matter of fact, the tone in Don’s voice gave proof he was thinking what I was thinking he was thinking, where is your head, up your butt? With that exclusive thought, I excused myself and said, "I’m sorry to have bothered you. Thanks for the information." Yes, if a hole opened up at that time I would have jumped in and pulled the hole over me. God, did I feel like a fool. I sure was played as one; one well tuned fool. Damn, I’m angry. I was shaking; shaking so hard I had a hard time breathing. My heart was beating as if I sprinted hundred yards. I was thinking about how I was going to handle the situation, and the thought, I’ll kill her, I’ll kill them all, played over and over. I was now obsessed with finding that bunch of worthless humanity. I reached the car, opened the door, and slid behind the steering wheel all the while muttering to myself, Damn! Damn! Damn! Damn, how she played me, what a conniving, little bitch she was, damn her anyway! This was no way to talk about your own daughter, but damn her! I could not compose myself, but most of all I wanted to beat the living hell out of her, and I would have, if she was here. That attitude prevailed as I reached into my pocket with trembling hands, searching for the keys. My eyes were focusing on the ignition switch as I started the engine. I flipped on the headlights. The lights must have surprised the driver of the black Chevy, because at that moment the sound of squealing tires caught my attention as it raced out from the shadows of the side street.

My headlights broke the darkness inside the Chevy and I recognized Rachelle’s face staring out of the rear window with what I used to consider in my Navy days as a "shit eating grin."

I took off like a herd of turtles, cursing the little Hyundai. They lost me after a half block, and since I was realistic, I headed for home knowing it was hopeless to try to follow them. I was still seething as I jolted to a stop in the driveway; stumbling out of the car I almost tore the door off the hinges. Unable to control my anger I pushed the front door so hard when it hit the wall it woke both Trisha and the boys. Words were coming out of my mouth which I had not used for over twenty years, words my children never knew I knew existed. Their wide eyes and startled faces caused me to burst into tears, not because of Rachelle’s actions, but because I felt I had lost my integrity to God, not to mention the high esteem my boys held for me.

It was not long before the phone rang and Trisha with fear and tears answered with a shaking voice, "H-h-hello," and then "Okay." There was no emotion in those words; just words letting the other party know they were acknowledged. Trisha turned toward me and said, "That was Rachelle, she told me to tell you she is off work, and you can come get her now."

"Off work, hell!" I shrieked. "The only work she’s been doing is screwing. Screwing all those S O Bs. Does she think I am stupid, or what? Good god doesn’t she realize the game is over. She was caught red handed. I swear she must be doing drugs. Yeah, I’ll go get her, but by god she’ll regret the day she was born." I stepped toward the door in the direction of the parked car.

Trisha grabbed my coat sleeve and pleaded, "For god’s sake, please don’t do anything rash! Bring her home. We’ll get to the bottom of this. Please, don’t hurt her! Let me go get her." The tears were streaming down Trisha’s contorted face from the agony of having to go through this situation again.

"No, you stay here and get those boys settled down. Now, let go of my arm," I said as I twisted away from Trisha’s grip, and ran to the truck. I was not going to let them get away this time, so I took the truck instead of that funky little car. As I backed out of the drive onto the street, I popped the clutch and the truck shot off in a jolt of spewing mud and gravel from the unpaved street.

Trisha’s voice pleading, "Please, don’t hurt her," kept passing through my mind. It was more of a warning to me now than anything else was.

Hell, I thought. I’m not going to hurt her, because I don’t want to spend the night in jail. I would like to kill them all, but I’m not going to hurt them. This thought was a continual loop and I kept vocalizing it for the fifteen minutes it took to get to the theatre. Knowing there was nothing I could do, and what was done, was done; seemed to settle me down to a degree I was able to control my anger. There was no Rachelle at the theatre, so I headed for the shopping center a block away. Sure enough, there she stood looking like an angel. God almighty! She was smiling, actually smiling, and acting as if nothing was wrong. I pulled to the curb reached over and unlocked the passenger’s side door and pushed the door opened.
"Get in, Rachelle! What in the hell is going on!

"What are you talking about, Daddy?" Rachelle asked answering my question with a question of her own. Sometimes that is a smart maneuver, but not this time.
I saw the "spit ball" coming and I shot a line drive straight back to the pitcher as I said, "Don’t play me for a fool; you know damn well what I’m talking about. You did not work today!"

"Don let me off early this evening, so I spent the afternoon with my friends," answered Rachelle with the decorum of an angle.

"Rachelle, please shut up! The game is over. You have out smarted yourself this time. You didn’t work today. You didn’t work yesterday, or the day before or ever," my voice was increasing in pitch, pace, and power to emphasize I knew what I was talking about.

"Ask Don, if you don’t believe me," Rachelle said belligerently, and her eyes blazed into me without any fear of being caught in a lie. She used this stratagem often, and she got away with it. We never checked on her tales of grandeur, so mark up one: parents five, Rachelle five.

"At last I took my head out of my butt, and I did talk to Don today. You were never hired. You lied to me and your Mom so you could run around with all those guys and act like a whore. What is wrong with you? Shut up! I don’t know why I am asking you anything, because I know all I’ll get out of you is one lie after another. You are a compulsive, if not a pathological liar, that is all you have ever been and that is all you will ever be. I hate your guts Rachelle. You are just a whore, and you will never make me believe you are anything else." I knew what I said should shame an ordinary person into repentance, but as we entered the house, Rachelle was denying everything.

Trisha listen to the entire story from me then as usual asked Rachelle to tell her side of the story. I cut Rachelle statement off short, as I told Trisha, "All you’re gonna get is a bunch of lies Trisha, that is all that girl knows how to do, is to lie. Hell, she has told the same story so often to herself that she believes it’s true. Good god, you know she is nothing but a compulsive liar-"

"Shut up, you’re badgering the hell out of her, and I can’t take it anymore," Trisha shouted. The use of the word hell shocked me, because she never cursed. Realizing Trisha meant what she said I shut up, cooled down, and listened as Trisha with tears streaming down her face and a strained voice ask, "Rachelle are you on drugs? Please tell us the truth. We want to help you, but we can’t if you won’t let us."
Rachelle lifting her head erect and facing me screamed, "Okay, okay, god damn it! I’m doing drugs, and have been doing them for over a year. Now get out of my face, and leave me alone!"

That did it--I was back on my feet shouting, "I’ll get out of your face all right. I’ll knock you’re face to the other side of your head. Don’t you ever speak to your mom or to me in that tone of voice; drugs or no drugs!"

"I hate it here, I hate you, and I hate this house!" Rachelle screamed as she stomped down the hall to her room.

"If you want to leave, then leave, get out now and let us get on with our lives. If you stay here, you’ll live by the family rules." Rachelle placed the exclamation point on the word "rules" as her bedroom door made a resounding echo in the house, as it met the doorstop.

"Tear the house down," I said under my breath, grinning at Trisha, letting her see I had not lost my sense of humor. I was too tired to care anyway. I poured a cup of coffee, and Trisha went to bed, though I do not know how she could. She had about two and a half hours before she had to head for the bakery.
There was another problem I was faced with, it dealt with the spiritual aspect of our lives. Though I resigned as an elder, I still felt the need to keep the congregation clean; therefore, I called Brother Moorse and arranged for a meeting at our home for spiritual guidance.

We agreed to meet Friday night. Eight O’clock rolled around and Brothers Thaxter and Moorse arrived. We brought Rachelle in and we sat around the dinning table where they interviewed, interrogated, prayed, counseled, probed, and prodded her to come back into Jehovah’s Ark of protection. They promised they would place her on restriction and read a letter of public reproof and in six months, they would work with her to restore her relationship with Jehovah and his Organization.
It sounded fine with Trisha and me, and Brother Moorse said,"Rachelle, I’ve known you ever since you were born. You use to sit on my lap, hug and kiss me. It breaks my heart hearing this. I want to help you. Will you let me help you? Will you let Jehovah’s Organization help you? What do you think about what we have discussed?

"I think the organization is the biggest cult on the face of the Earth, and filled with hypocrites."

"Rachelle," I shouted, "apologize!" My face was beet red from embarrassment and Trisha was pale white. Rachelle stormed off in a huff, Brother Thaxter’s squinty eyes shot wide open showing the whites and his mouth twisted into a condescending sneer then said, "Yeah, just what I suspected, head strong and undisciplined."
Brother Moorse, said, Brother Walker, I’m sorry. Just stay faithful and if Jehovah wants her then your good works will be an example for Rachelle."

"I’m sorry we wasted your time," my apology was weak but there was not anything else to say--we had always been faithful in every aspect of our lives.
Brother Thaxter stood up and said, "Brother Moorse, there isn’t anything we can do here, so we might as well go home to our families. Brother Walker, thank you for informing us. We will report to the body and there will be a letter of public reproof read at the service meeting. Our main purpose is keeping the congregation clean."

"I didn’t want our family to be the object to block Jehovah’s Holy Spirit," I replied walking them to the door and wishing them a good night. I turned on the stereo and began listening to some old Elvis tunes, popped a cold beer, guzzled it down, and closed my eyes. Trisha checked on the boys and said, "I’m going to bed. You coming?"

"No, I’m gonna listen to some music then watch the Late Late Movie."
The movie came on and the credits began to run when I thought I heard a thump on the deck by Rachelle’s room. When I opened her door, the window was open and Rachelle was gone. It was no surprise to me, but I sure hated to tell Trisha. I thought, I’ll wait until tomorrow when she gets home. I didn’t have to wait until tomorrow. I felt Trisha shake me and heard her as she said, "Honey, Rachelle’s gone!"

"I know," I answered sitting up letting the covers fall across my lap.

"You didn’t let me know?"

"No, she climbed out her window just after you went to bed. There isn’t or wasn’t anything you could have done, so I let you sleep. I heard a thump on the deck so I checked on her she was gone."

"I have to get to work. I just wanted to tell you Rachelle was gone. We’ll talk later," Trisha said as she gave me a peck on my cheek.

"I always thought that thump was a dog," I muttered as she turned to leave.
It was a mystery how Rachelle could have been so ignorant to have entered the world of drugs. She knew several families which drugs had been the downfall, if not the death of either the child or the parents. Our best friend became addicted to cocaine. What a mess. Ralph Bowden, deteriorated from being a success in the janitorial business to being a bum who could not run his business any longer. Ralph lost all his accounts. The last time Susan Bowden saw her husband, he was pushing a cart in San Francisco’s Mission District. His current circumstances were far from the sixty thousand dollars a year he made cleaning offices. Knowing all this and talking about what happened to Ralph should keep one away from experimenting with any illegal substance, wouldn’t it? I thought so, because I had no desire what so ever to try drugs. The movie, "The Man with the Golden Arm" impressed--no,scared the hell out of me and I never had a desire to use drugs. I was afraid of getting hooked. I also preached and hounded the children about the illegality of the drugs and why drugs were offered free at first. The children were educated about the effects. So what went wrong?