My dad disappeared when I was 10.
Ok, so, he didn't vanish forever. This isn't that type of story.
Instead, he only dropped off the grid for a couple of hours so he could secure a compound for the family clan.
Yup. This is that type of story, so I hope y'all are cool with polygamous cults, or else things are about to get awkward.
For two full months, I served as an adolescent acolyte of Southeast Iowa's most prominent sect. Or at least, I think it was the most prominent. Few public rankings exist for these type of things.
Anyway, as a cult, my family had it all -- dozens of roaming children,a bricked-up compound on the outskirts of a backwoods hamlet, religious fervor, and ritualistic feline slayings
Oh, you are bothered by the dead cat bit? Well, welcome to the party, but we're just going to have to deal, because dead cats really are the make-or-break component in my cult's success.
Anyway, back to my foreboding first sentence: My dad disappeared when I was 10. Upon his return, he held in his hands the deed to a 5-story tall brick school building deceptively named Pleasant Lawn. It came with five acres, a bus barn, a playground, a baseball diamond, a gym, and a boiler room that supposedly housed a janitor's ghost.
Now, normally when I tell people that I grew up in a school, they give me this adorable little nod, as if to say, "Oh, how quaint you think you are. You grew up in a little one-room clapboard school house, and now you think you are Laura Ingells on the prairie.
Um, no, haters. It's not like that at all, so stick your smugness right back up your shorts. This school loomed above the surrounding corn fields, a stark red testament to what brick builders with no real imagination can create when the school district offers the contract to the lowest bidders.
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| This is the family compound. |
No, really. This is true. My dad bought a school. On a whim. At an auction. While my mother treated us kids to a picnic in the park.
Surprising? Not in the least.
When something ticked my father's fancy, he pursued those follies with the same determination as a hungry lion would a plump preschoolers. But with less bloodshed. At least, I think so. To my knowledge, my father has never consumed a toddler.
Anyway, let's skip way ahead and introduce the villain of our story. And yes, that villain is, in fact, exactly what you'd expect him to be -- an Iowa church deacon who served in a prominent position on the local historical society board. He was the Boss Tweed of this small town's version of Tammany Hall.
This man, who we'll call Dean Bean, had served as the only real competitive bidder my father encountered in his auction for the school. Bean's vision encompassed converting part of the school into apartments for his proft, with the remainder of the building serving as a historical museum of sorts, also for his profit. My dad was just there on a whim, so, yeah, you can see the ideological bifurcation there.
One day, as my mother stood in the grocery line, the man behind her started chatting. In Iowa, this comes as no surprise. We're Midwestern, and we're nice, and when you're in a grocery line, you ask the person in front of you how their day's going. That's just what you do, unless you're a rude son of a bitch.
My mother and the man discussed the weather, how the weather affected the crops, how the crops were impacting the farmers, and other, you know, typical small talk. Then the man leaned in and whispered, "Did you hear about the polygamous cult that moved into Pleasant Lawn school?"
Turns out, my mom was top diva of the harem in question. Or, at least, Dean Bean (who you had to know was the grocery line guy) assumed she was. Except, he didn't even know who "she" was. Despite his self-promoted position of town crier, he knew little about our cute little cult out in the corn fields. He was so bad with reconnaissance that when the queen of the whole thing stood in front of him, he hadn't a clue. I'd feel sorry for him, if he weren't such a meddling, petty dick.
For the first weeks that we occupied the school, Dean Bean told everybody who would listen that my father had four wives and 20-some children. In fairness, on any given day, that many women and children could be on our property. My grandmothers came over often, as did my aunt, and several lady visitors from our church (which, for the record, was one of those houses of worship that believes in speaking in tongues, faith healing, and snake handling. Okay, not the snake handling. That's just ridiculous.) And with seven children on the property, sleepovers could rapidly mutate into any adult's worst nightmare.
As with any good plot arc, thus enters the necessary flat character -- you know, the one known only for a single characteristic that drastically shifts the direction of the story. In this case, this character is a wire hair fox terrier named Curly.
The one thing Curly was known for was cats.
Cats. Cats. Cats. Cats. Cats.
He adored them. But not in a snuggly way. The dog wanted to suck off their faces and then lick the kitties' souls from their eye sockets. He was a sick bastard, that Curly. A sweetie if you didn't belong to the feline species, but bring a cat into the picture, and it was a blood bath up in there.
Curly wandered the countryside, seeking kittens to kill, and he'd proudly plop his pulpy prey right on our frot doorstep, a trophy intended to prompt praise. The murder sprees became such an issue that my aunt Julie (who owned this monster) finally consulted a vet as to what could be to prevent future slaughter.
“Easy,” the vet said. “The next time he kills a cat, take that cat and tie it around Curly’s neck. Leave it there for a week. By then he’ll never want to see — let alone kill — another cat again.”So my aunt tied a dead kitty around Curly’s neck.
And he loved it.
He used that cat as a freaking pillow and snoozed away contentedly on the bloated belly of his hapless victim. He flung it to and fro, jumping in joy that he had his own dead cat to carry around as a notch in his proverbial kitty-killing belt. That cat was his badge of honor.
Which is why, when Dean Bean came to church the following Sunday, Curly pranced right up to the man and rubbed the cat against the man’s best trousers.
“Cult!” Bean yelped, pointing intermittently at my family and at Curly. “Satan worshipers! CULT!”
And thus our polygamous cult status was forever cemented in the town of Mt. Pleasant, Iowa, which, aside from our family’s debauchery, is best known for it’s field thresher festival.
I don’t know whatever happened to Dean Bean, but I’m assuming that the sacrificial cats Curly offered up on our behalf accomplished our goal of turning him into a warthog. Or, even better, a cat, in which case, he and Curly should be meeting soon.
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