Mad Dad, Fun Dad Read online

  MAD DAD, FUN DAD

  MAD DAD, FUN DAD

  Finding Hope that Things will Get Better

  Doug Draper

  © 2018 Doug Draper

  Mad Dad, Fun Dad

  Finding Hope that Things will Get Better

  All rights reserved. No portion of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, scanning, or other—except for brief quotations in critical reviews or articles, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  Published in Nashville, Tennessee, by Elm Hill, an imprint of Thomas Nelson. Elm Hill and Thomas Nelson are registered trademarks of HarperCollins Christian Publishing, Inc.

  Elm Hill titles may be purchased in bulk for educational, business, fund-raising, or sales promotional use. For information, please e-mail [email protected].

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2018930965

  ISBN 978-1-595541987

  ISBN 978-1-595556257 (eBook)

  Information about External Hyperlinks in this ebook

  Please note that footnotes in this ebook may contain hyperlinks to external websites as part of bibliographic citations. These hyperlinks have not been activated by the publisher, who cannot verify the accuracy of these links beyond the date of publication.

  To my wife, Linda, for her daily love, support, and

  advice and to my friends with OneTeam Leadership

  for their encouragement to share this story.

  CONTENTS

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  CHAPTER 1

  On a scorching summer day in 1965, Ben Baker stood next to his mother, Rachel, taking wet dishes from her and drying them before making a handoff to his big brother Joe who put them away. The team worked silently and quickly, cleaning up from the family’s big Sunday lunch—the same thing they did every week after attending church.

  Joe, age ten, and Ben, a year younger, knew their roles and performed them efficiently. Their parents had taught the boys how to work. When Rachel’s sons grumbled about working too much, she always gave the same answer—“Idle hands are the devil’s workshop.” And she did her part to make sure her boys never had time to make anything for the devil. Keeping her boys busy also helped maintain the family’s five-acre farm, located about two miles northeast from the small town of Alma, Utah.

  After taking a lengthy bathroom break, the head of the family, Al Baker, strolled into the kitchen. “I thought you’d be done by now,” he said. “But, I’m glad to see my boys working without their usual whining and complaining.”

  Al turned to the far corner of the kitchen and noticed his daughters—Debbie, age five, and Becky, less than a year old—playing. “And soon, you girls will be doing your fair share of the work,” he said.

  To soothe hurt feelings from an earlier argument with his wife, Al approached Rachel from behind, wrapped his hairy arms around her chest, and whispered, “When are you going to stop being so grumpy and give me a happy face to look at?”

  Rachel kept her hands in the dishwater but swung her elbows away from her body to loosen Al’s grip. “Don’t touch me. I’m still mad at you.”

  “Is that the proper way to treat your sweet, loving husband?” Al asked and then roughly pushed her toward the sink.

  “Please leave me alone for now,” Rachel cried. “That’s all I’m asking.”

  Al cursed and hit her with one of the firm slaps to the back of the head that he often delivered to his children. She retaliated by spinning around and slapping him across the face with a wet dish rag.

  Joe managed to slip away, but Ben became trapped in the combat zone. In case the anger shifted to him, Ben dropped to a sitting position and held the dish towel against his chest with one hand and tightened the other into a fist at the side of his face to block any blows.

  As soap suds and water streamed down Al’s furious face, he grabbed his wife’s chin with one hand and cocked the other above his head in a fist. With a roar that thundered across the kitchen, he yelled, “I try to be nice to you, but you do everything possible to make my life miserable!”

  Tears covered Rachel’s flushed cheeks. “Why can’t you leave me alone?”

  While shaking his clenched fist at her, Al shouted, “Why can’t you just shut up!”

  Silently, Rachel turned back to the sink and resumed washing the dishes. Al responded by delivering a quick jab to her right shoulder blade. She fell forward and let out a mournful sob.

  A second later, Rachel spun around to face her attacker, but this time she held a paring knife. She pointed it at Al, dripping soapy dishwater on his boots. “Leave me alone.”

  He slapped the knife out of her hand, bouncing it off the refrigerator and onto the floor next to Ben. Rachel ducked her head and darted past Al, leaving the kitchen. “Stand up and get back to work!” Al shouted at Ben. “You look like a baby sitting on the floor like that. What’s wrong with you?”

  Ben quickly stood up, waiting for the next order. Joe had retreated to the far corner of the room when the battle began and remained on the floor next to his sisters. All of them looked terrified.

  Al, red-faced and breathing heavily, picked up the dropped knife and tossed it into the sink. Snatching the towel from Ben, he dried his face and then kicked the cabinet under the sink, leaving a black scuff mark on the white paint. He glared at the few dishes, glasses, and utensils still in the sink. “I suppose your worthless mother isn’t coming back to finish this job, so we’ll have to do it.”

  Ben nodded in agreement, having learned that cooperating fully and enthusiastically with his father kept him safe in such moments. Al tossed the towel to Ben, saying, “I’ll wash. You dry.”

  Ben prepared to get back to work, but his mother returned to the kitchen with the family’s shotgun braced against her shoulder and pointed at Al.

  “You’re never going to hit me again,” she stated with a steely blue-eyed stare. “And I’m not bluffing.”

  Seeing the shotgun aimed at him, Al seized the barrel and yanked the gun out of Rachel’s hands. In a single motion, he spun the gun around and clubbed his wife in the forehead with the butt.

  The blow dropped Rachel to the floor where she rolled to her right side, holding one hand to her quivering mouth and the other to her head. Ben
stood inches away, frozen in fear, and watched as blood began to flow across his mother’s forehead. She stayed on the floor, sobbing and groaning.

  “That’s a lesson for all of you!” Al shouted. “I’m in charge here and you had better learn that right now. Things will be a lot less painful if you do.”

  To reinforce his message, he kicked the refrigerator, making it rattle. Then, he spouted reasons why his wife deserved to be punished.

  Rachel endured his vile deluge of insults until she recovered her senses and could stagger to her feet. She took the dish towel from Ben and held it over the bloody gash in her forehead, but blood continued to roll down her face and drip on her blouse and the floor. Without a word, she walked to the far corner of the kitchen, picked up Becky, and waved at Debbie to follow. They left the kitchen while Al did nothing but watch. A few minutes later, she left the house and drove away.

  Joe continued to sit in the far corner of the kitchen and Ben held his position near the sink. The boys didn’t move or make a sound.

  Al muttered a series of profanities, which often served as his way to recover from one of his “mad Dad” outbursts. At this point, Joe usually took charge of helping his father calm down, but on this day, Joe had no solution and remained silent like Ben, waiting for orders.

  “Boys, it looks like you’ll need to finish doing the dishes,” Al said unemotionally, waving his hand around the kitchen. “Make sure everything is clean and put away.”

  Pointing at a trail of blood from the sink to the kitchen door, he added, “And wipe up this mess your worthless, stupid mother made.”

  Joe and Ben obeyed and worked quickly to finish the dishes and remove the evidence of their mother leaving the house injured, which included blood drops from the kitchen to her bedroom and to the front door. Al avoided his sons for the next few hours, fiddling in the kitchen with an old radio that he had been trying to fix.

  In a whisper, Ben asked Joe if their mother might be dying, but Joe scolded him for talking. “Keep your mouth shut unless you want your head bashed in with that gun.”

  For the rest of the day, Ben hovered near the front door and looked for a car to pull into the gravel driveway, but none arrived. And no phone calls came in from his mother or grandparents to let him know that everything would be all right.

  Three days passed with no news. When Rachel and her daughters returned home, they came unannounced, acting like nothing had happened. The homecoming received less fanfare than a trip to the grocery store. Ben wanted an explanation of the violence and a promise that it would never happen again. Instead, he received silence and stone faces.

  CHAPTER 2

  Four days after the fight in the kitchen, George Oaks ambled across the narrow country road that separated his family’s house from the Bakers’ farm. Bored with listening to his teenage sisters argue about which boy in Alma was the dreamiest, George searched for Ben to see if he had time to play or go for a hike. As always, he found Ben at work—this time, picking weeds from a twelve-foot-long flower garden behind the house.

  “What are you doing?” George asked, slowly taking a seat on the top step of the back porch next to the flowers. The cracked and chipped concrete porch had absorbed so much heat from the summer sun that George could barely sit on it.

  “What else? I’m working,” Ben said, glancing up to acknowledge his neighbor who occasionally left his house to see if Ben could take a break from his chores.

  George had plenty of reasons to stay home—toys that every boy his age coveted, subscriptions to popular comic books, and a color TV with a clear picture. As a result, he spent little time outdoors and looked as white as one of his favorite cartoon characters—Casper the Ghost. George also limited his excursions because other kids teased him about his spindly arms and legs, thick glasses, and cleft palate. They mocked him for how his birth defect twisted his upper lip and made the way he talked a little different from everyone else. George hung out with Ben because he never made fun of him.

  Except for his library books, Ben had no distractions to keep him indoors and plenty of chores to keep him outside, especially in the summer when the animals needed more water and weeds overwhelmed the farm. On this day, Ben worked to save his mother’s wilted flowers. During the school year Ben had a fair complexion, but he was tanned in the summer from spending most of his daylight hours outdoors. His tan matched his light brown hair and made his dark blue eyes stand out. Ben liked being tanned. He thought it made him look like a tough Apache brave.

  Instead of tackling the weeding project with a lightweight garden hoe, Ben used a much heavier pickaxe, to dig up the hardy weeds that threatened to conquer his mother’s flower garden. The pickaxe sliced deep into the sandy soil and allowed Ben to remove the weeds by their roots and keep them from coming back soon.

  While the weeds embraced the intense sunlight and dry air, his mother’s bed of yellow marigolds and pink petunias failed to thrive with no rain and temperatures near one hundred degrees. The flowers turned their faces to the ground and many drooped so low that they rested on the baked soil.

  “Do you want to build a fort in the gully or go hiking?” George asked as he continued to watch Ben swing the pickaxe and use his bare hands to grab weeds and throw them into a pile. Sweat poured down Ben’s face and soaked his T-shirt, and splotches of dirt covered the bottom of his shirt where he had wiped his hands.

  “I’d like to, but I have to finish this project for my mom,” Ben said while swinging the pickaxe. “The flowers will be dead by tomorrow if I don’t get the weeds out today. Do you want to help?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. It’s kind of hot and my mom would get mad if I got as dirty as you.”

  Ben paused to examine his filthy shirt, shorts, and socks. Dirt covered every inch of them and his bare arms and legs, except where tiny rivers of sweat had cut lines.

  “Yep, she probably would. I could throw you in the cow trough to clean you up.”

  George laughed, remembering the last time that happened. After building a castle behind the Baker’s barn, the boys had used the trough as a bathtub.

  When Ben returned to digging up weeds, George’s patience faded. “Why isn’t your mom doing this?” he asked. “I thought these were her flowers.”

  “They are, but she has a headache today and asked me to do it.”

  “My mom gets headaches too—usually from listening to my sisters playing their Beatles’ records too loud.”

  While pounding the flowerbed with the pickaxe, Ben said, “My mom got her headache from getting hit in the head with the butt of a shotgun.”

  “What? A shotgun?”

  “Yep, it happened just like this,” Ben said, turning to face George and using the pickaxe to demonstrate the blow. “Dad grabbed the gun out of mom’s hands and slammed the butt into her forehead. Pow! She fell down and blood gushed out all over the floor.”

  “You’re making that up,” George said. “Why would your dad do that?”

  “Because Mom aimed the gun at his head and promised to pull the trigger.”

  “That doesn’t sound like something your mom would do.”

  “Before getting the gun, she tried to stab him with a knife.”

  The screen door on the back of the house suddenly swung open and Rachel stepped out next to George. He jumped off the porch and turned to look at her. Ben dropped the pickaxe, put his hands in his pockets, and bowed his head.

  With a large bandage on Rachel’s forehead, George could see that Ben’s story might be true, not a tall tale to entertain him. He stared at the bandage.

  “George, I think you’d better go home now,” Rachel said flatly.

  Without waiting for an explanation, George dashed for home. Rachel took a few steps off the porch to gain a better view of his retreat, and she watched as George ran down the gravel driveway that led him away from the Bakers’ home.

  While taking a deep breath, Rachel faced Ben and said, “Benjamin, look at me.”

  He obeyed,
and Rachel said, “There are some things that must stay secret. Do you understand?”

  Ben nodded but Rachel continued to frown, making it clear that her son had committed an enormous mistake. “I’m surprised you thought it was acceptable to tell George about something that happened in the privacy of our home. Do you want his mother spreading rumors about our family up and down this road?”

  Rachel pointed at George’s house across the street and added a sweeping gesture to include the nearby homes, trailers, and farms sca­ttered across that dirt-poor slice of Utah. Ben looked down at the pickaxe. “No,” he whispered sheepishly.

  His mother continued without a reassuring smile. “You need to do your part to keep family matters private. Will you?”

  Ben nodded and muttered, “Yes.”

  “What do you think your father would do if he found out that you started a rumor about us?” Rachel asked, before going back into the house.

  Ben returned to weeding the flowers but with much less vigor. He couldn’t stop worrying about what his father might do if he found out that he had blabbed about the fight in the kitchen.

  The next day George showed up and, when away from potential eavesdroppers, he asked Ben to finish the story about the fight.

  “I’m not supposed to tell you anything about it. So shut up before you get me into trouble again.”

  CHAPTER 3

  Ben’s earliest memory took place at the same place where his mother made it clear that the Baker family keeps secrets. Shortly before his fourth birthday, he stood next to Joe as they watched their father fall from a ladder while trying to fix a rain gutter. The boys stared in horror as Al plunged face-first to the concrete porch below. When he stood up, blood trickled out of his mouth and dripped on his white shirt.

  “Ben, run to the barn!” Joe shouted, grabbing Ben’s arm and pulling him away from their father.

  As the boys sprinted away, Joe delivered a statement that became a motto for the Baker children. “When Dad is mad, someone is going to get hurt.”

  From experience, Joe knew “mad Dad” would blame and punish the boys for what had happened. And Ben had already learned to trust Joe.