Mean Uncle Joe

Chapter One

Mean Uncle Joe

Mark Lui

I grew up generally knowing I was a childhood murderer. Today psychologists would worry about childhood trauma and adult abusive behavior, but in the 1960's, my great aunts and uncles called me the kid who killed poor Uncle Joe. But he wasn't always called poor Uncle Joe. Earlier in my life he was referred to as "the drunken sot" or "that worthless piece of trash". I think I need to lay some background here.
My father's side of the family was German and colorful, but less so than my mother's side. My maternal grandmother's family was also German and my maternal grandfather was Irish. This side of the family was colorful and weird. The three German families were Catholic and migrated to the United States in the same year 1894. This may seem a coincidence, but sadly, the families were purged from Germany because they were Catholic. The Irish part of the family was purged from Ireland because they were starving.
My maternal grandmother had eight sisters, Mary, May, Monte, Morgan, Millie, Missy, Mildred and Molly. My grandmother's name was Florence. Not sure if the great grandparents ran out of M names or they sensed that this was going to be the black sheep! My grandfather had three brothers Peter, Paul and Phillip. My grandfather's name was Patrick. Alliteration ran deep in the late 19th century. Grandma's family was the prudish side of Catholic, temperate, devote, evangelical and daily mass was an absolute. They could not be trusted. Grandpa's family was - Irish.
Like a lot of families, my childhood was dominated by my mother's side of the family. There were always a lot of great aunt "M"s around. At least four or five and they all talked incessantly and simultaneously. I'm not sure any ever listened to the others. None of them were over five foot tall and each weighed somewhere around two hundred pounds. Walking through a kitchen, I felt like a pinball bouncing from bumper to bumper. Occasionally my grandmother would ask me to give some item to one of the great aunt M's, but how was I supposed to tell them apart? They all looked and sounded the same at five years old.
Family get-togethers were frequent and they all followed the same pattern. The kitchen contained six to nine short rotund talking machines with bursts of laughter and gossip. Through all this a meal was being miraculously produced. The living room contained the four uncle P's, Uncle Joe, my mother, father, brother and myself and a case of beer in the center of the room. Almost nothing was ever said since a ball game was on and any discussion was taboo. My sister was banished to the kitchen. I felt sorry for her and admired her. Somehow my mother avoided the kitchen - a mystery to me some fifty years later. Dinner would be served and consumed. The conversation was entirely female. I never remember a male saying anything out loud. Occasionally an uncle P would snicker an obscenity under his breath and four or five great uncles would laugh with only their eyes. No smile - just an accumulation of excess saline in the eye socket. Following dinner the aunt M's were back in the kitchen and the men plus mom in the living room. The game would be over, but Mitch Miller or some other musical program would be on and the case would be consumed. Loud surprisingly harmonious male voices dominated the house - mom never sang a word. If I happened into the kitchen there were six to nine aunt M's whispering their disapproval and shaking their heads.
Ok back to the "murder" and some background on myself. At age 5, I almost never spoke. My parents never worried about it. Had I been the oldest perhaps a specialist would have been consulted, but probably not. It was the early 60's and families solved their own problems. The parents had a normal eight year old boy and a very talkative six year old girl. A silent third boy was considered a blessing from God! My older brother had his own take on the situation. He introduced me as "my brother the retard". Now don't get all 21st century politically correct on me. Kids addressed each other as "retard" and "spazz" on a daily basis. Later we learned such words were cruel and inappropriate. Actually we probably knew they were cruel and inappropriate in 1960 but didn't care.
My father grew up with a brother who was mentally challenged from a childhood disease at age four. My brother never introduced me as a retard with my father present. My parents knew I was not mentally challenged. I knew how to read at age five from following my sister's reading homework in first grade. We did everything together. I could also do my brothers third grade arithmetic homework. The first time that happened is when I saw a worried look on my mother's face. Normal was desirable.
Mean Uncle Joe was a mysterious figure. He never drank from the case in the middle of the living room. He drank from a metal canteen that he kept in his back pocket. I never saw him refill. I never saw him without a three day stubble on his face. As children, you learned to keep out of arms reach, because Uncle Joe would grab you and rub his whiskers across your face to see you cry. No parent ever intervened. He had been injured in some past war, which one I never knew. The four P's had been in World War I but Uncle Joe was older. Perhaps it was the Spanish-American war, even Uncle Joe wasn't old enough for the civil war. Joe swore like he was still a soldier and burped after every swig from his canteen. Joe had maybe only fifty hairs on top of his head. He kept these very long and wove them like a tapestry to give the appearance of hair. He also had the longest ear hair. I could and did sit for minutes and stare at his ears.
I was probably the only one in the room who actually liked mean Uncle Joe. My brother and sister dreaded Joe. The eight M's reviled him. The four P's tolerated him, I think because the eight M's reviled him. My parents kept an eye on him, but like I said, I liked him. When Joe picked me up, he would never really rub my face in his whiskers. He would pretend. He smelled of peppermint - there must have been schnapps in that canteen. Instead of crying in terror, I would laugh at Joe when he picked me up. Again that worried look would come on my parents face when this happened.
Though intensely hated, mean Uncle Joe was at every gathering. It was understood that Joe had money - lots of money. Joe had married well sometime in the 19th century. He owned two farms although no one had ever seen him do any farming. Joe always drove Lincoln Continentals and he always cursed at every Cadillac calling it a cheap piece of trash. Joe wore expensive suits, shirts and ties. Joe gave wonderful presents. The Christmas of my fifth year he gave the nine sisters each a fox stole and the four P's a diamond tie clip. I had never seen any of the four P's wear a tie but I assumed they each had one for funerals and soon I would see them wear the diamond tie clip.
No one knew how old mean Uncle Joe was. He was from my grandmother's side and my grandparents and great uncles and aunts were in their seventies. Joe must have been a generation older so he was probably in his nineties. Joe was a cancer survivor. In fact, Joe had survived seven different types of cancer. The eight M's were always saying that Uncle Joe was dying of some cancer. Even at five I could see that the words coming from their mouths did not match the glint in their eye. In one of my rare verbal moments, I pointed this out to my mother when we were alone. Again that worried expression came on her face and she quietly said "Mark never repeat what you just said". This did not help the verbal disorder.
Each time Joe would survive his fight with cancer to the disappointment and supposed relief of my family. Grandpa Pat whispered to me that God wanted nothing to do with Uncle Joe and the devil didn't want the competition. Grandma heard him and smacked him with her fly swatter, but I could see a little smile in the corner of her mouth.
Finally. I get to the murder. It happened on a Saturday family get together. The M's are in the kitchen, the P's, my family and Joe are in the living room with the case in the middle. Joe is sipping from his canteen when he spilled the contents on his shirt and tie. He of course swears profusely and looks for something to wipe his tie. Grandpa Pat says "come on we'll get something in the kitchen". Since I had never seen Uncle Joe in the kitchen, I followed because I pretty much followed Grandpa Pat everywhere. Joe and Pat's presence does not stop the loud chatter emanating from the eight M's and Joe is wiping his tie when there is an unexplained pause in the noise. I had never spoken to the M's before, but during this pause I spoke to the group and said "You make too many words". Eleven adults and my sister turn their heads and stare with their eyes wide open and Grandpa Pat and mean Uncle Joe start to laugh. This is not normal run of the mill laughter. Grandpa Pat is bent at the waist and turning red. Mean Uncle Joe is red also and starts to choke. Soon he is on his knees and then prone on the floor. Aunt Monte scoops me up and out of the room and panic erupts. My dad runs next door to call the rescue squad since there is no phone at my grandparents, and my mom walks us home since we live down the street.
Joe dies of course and my mom has that worried look on her face for a couple days. My brother of course sizes up the situation and says "man you killed him". Being five, I slept like a rock that night, but the next day my brother and his friend Jackie built a hideaway in a room above the garage. They convinced me the cops would never find me. They bring me my favorite book "The Swiss Family Robinson" and two peanut butter sandwiches. Gradually my mom figures out I am too scarce and my sister shows her where I am "on the lam". My brother got shipped off to my other grandparents on the north side of town for a couple days I believe with a sore bottom.
Catholics have quick funerals, so Uncle Joe has a showing the next night and the funeral the day after. Being six and five, my sister and I stayed home, but my brother goes to both and fills us in. Uncle Joe is from the German side so the showing and funerals are somber affairs. There is a lot of standing around and whispering the good qualities of the dead man. At uncle Joe's funeral there was a lot of standing around. The common theme of the evening was at least he died smiling. The four P's basically stood around a whispered "what on earth is this". An Irish showing would have involved a lot of standing around and whispering the good qualities of the dead man along with a keggar, gradually increased laughter with eventual dancing and a fight or two.
At the funeral, my brother's transgression is revealed and the great aunts are very concerned. After the funeral they drop in two or three at a time to reassure me I am not to blame. The main impression I garner from the M's is one of great gratitude and at five I have no idea what they are talking about which is normal since I never have any idea what they are talking about. The four P's I assume were sleeping it off.
Everything settles until the reading of the will the following week. Mean Uncle Joe has Zip. The farms are double mortgaged and the Continental is repossessed. The IRS is involved. There is nothing. My dad comes back from the reading still laughing and he continues laughing the whole night. Mom seems disappointed for grandma and grandpa.
In the next year, things begin to change. The M's attitude to Joe and me begin to change. Joe is no longer referred to as "that drunken sot". He is elevated to that poor man and his hard life. The M's attitude to me changes at the same time. At six years old, I now somehow bear responsibility for both his death and poverty. I completely avoid the kitchen, and I lobby hard to escape family gatherings. I find solace in the four P's. I have somehow been elevated in their eyes. Always a favorite of grandpa Pat, the three other P's take turns holding me on one knee with their brew on the other. But it doesn't make up for the condemnation of the M's. I can see Grandpa Pat getting angrier and angrier and mom is worried.
One day grandma is over at one of the M's and Grandpa Pat has me over to watch TV. There are two westerns - back to back - John Wayne and Gary Cooper. I sit on his lap and watch both movies with hardly a word spoken. Grandpa Pat is not a great talker either. When the last movie is done, Grandpa Pat walks me home and sits on the steps. He says "Mark remember Gary Cooper in that last movie. Don't listen to your aunts - there is just some people that needs Killing.