Extracts from The Diaries of 'Professor' Cornelius Crane
March 28th, 1969

Today my father arrived home minutes ahead of the two pickup trucks andstarted blowing the hooter.

“Guess what?” he had beamed at meand my mother after we went out to see what all the ruckus was about. “Santacame a little early this year!” He opened the back door of the Buick and lifteda large gift-wrapped parcel off the seat. There was a smaller one on top of thebigger. He handed the large one to my mother and the smaller to me. “You’regonna love yours!” he said ruffling my hair. “You’ve been going on about itlong enough.”

We enthusiastically tore off the wrapping paper. My mother’s present wasthe latest Kenwood Chef, mine a Timex wristwatch.

“Wow!” I exclaimed in delight. “You’re right! I love it!” I gave him ahug. “And I love you too.”

At that moment the trucks pulled into our drive.

“What’s this, Claude? What’s going on?” my mother asked with an uncertainand uneasy smile.

“That, my dear Elizabeth, is the cake under the cherry.”

“Don’t you mean…”

“Uh-uh, come an’ look!” he said moving towards the trucks. One had tenrose bushes and a couple of sacks of special rose fertilizer. The other had abrand new fridge, washing machine, vacuum cleaner and four-piece living roomset. “I would definitely say ‘The cake under the cherry!”

“Oh my, Claude? How?” Then she clapped her hands together. “You got thepromotion?”

After a slight hesitation he said, “Uh, no. Not yet, honey. But that’sstill coming. That’s gonna happen any day now.”

“Then how?”

“I decided to use the money in a more practical way. I also got myself somenew tools and paid off the car.”

“What?”

“That’s right!” he said patting the roof of the Buick. “She’s all oursnow, every last nut, bolt, rattle and backfire. And you know what else?”

“What?”

“We even have enough left over to afford ourselves a really decentvacation this year. How does Miami sound?” Then he turned to me. “You hearthat, Con? Next summer we’re all off to Miami.”

Mother was ecstatic – I, understandably, was furious. Words cannotdescribe the rage that was boiling up inside of me.

At first I had just stood there flabbergasted, feeling the bile and angerrising in my throat. When I finally erupted, it was ugly and uncontrolled.

“You…idiot! You…stupid shifty deceiving asshole.

You miserable fucking lyingbastard. Do you have any idea what I went through to get that money? I couldhave helped you to help this family. How you always manage to screw things upis beyond me?

“You earn a ridiculous salary working for a boss you despise; doing amenial job that you hate even more.

“Day after day you eat up Sallinger’s shit - and for what? I’ll tell youwhat? So you can brag to us what a great provider you are. Yeah, no matter howtough things get you always put enough food on the table. Well, that’s notgoing to be the case when Sallinger gives the promotion to Fred Waring.

“Did you think you were doing us a favor when you killed yourself? Howstupid can one man be? Not only were you an idiot, but a coward as well. Youleft us to suffer, not only the pain of your loss, but also that of the many yearsof struggle to climb out of the hole of poverty that you buried us in! Don’tyou know that insurance companies don’t pay out in the case of suicide?Couldn’t you have driven off a cliff or stepped in front of a bus? Yeah,something a bit more spectacular than shoving a piece of hose up the Buick’sexhaust and gassing yourself. No! Because that’s just like you. No imagination!No vision! And no fucking backbone!”

My mother and the four guys who had arrived in the pickups all stoodthere with their jaws hanging on the ground. They stared at me, then at myfather, who had been stunned into temporary silence himself.

“Wh…what? What did you say? Wh…what did you just call me?”

“You heard me you sorry excuse for a human being. You heard every lastfucking word I said you miserable lying insect. I wish I could squash you likea bug under my shoe!”

“Get to your room!”

“No!”

“Get to your room! You’re grounded for life, young man! Don’t think forone instant that because you’ve got a high I.Q. and attend some fancy specialclass that it gives you the right to talk to me that way. I’m your father, andI’m telling you to go to your room! Now!”

“No!”

“Get to your room! Go now or you’re going to get the beating of yourlife.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah!”

“What’s that gonna help? It still won’t change the fact that you’re alying, deceitful arsehole!”

“Go!”

“No! You go to your room! You’re the one who did wrong – not me!” I threwthe watch at him. “And while you’re there, you can shove that up your arse.” Heswiftly removed his belt and brought it forcibly against my backside with aloud thwack. It stung like hell, but I just sneered at him and said, “What wasthat? My grandmother can hit harder than you.” There was another thwack. “Youhappy now?” And another. “Please sir, may I have some more?” And another, muchharder this time. “Please sir, may I have some more?” Another hard one. “Isthis making you feel any better, yet? Or do you want to see blood first” Threeswift thwacks. “Go on! Because blood is the only thing you’re gonna get outtame today. I won’t cry a single tear for the likes of you!” And I didn’t.

It is with much pain, bothmentally and physically that I am now writing these words.

Hopefully to my father’s delight, I have finally gone to my room,although this occurred only after my mother’s urging as well.

[(Note: The last paragraphs in this March 28, 1969 entry are being addedon this day of October 23, 1969 as I have suddenly had some recollections ofother events that occurred on that…this terrible day.

As can be expected, I was in a rather heightened emotional state and notthinking too rationally at the time of the initial entry. )

Since my father’s second death, I’ve felt urged to read through mymemoirs to hopefully gain a better perspective of my second life.

March 28th, 1969 would be the last time that my father would ever punishme. It may have been the hatred, instead of fear, that he saw in my eyes, orperhaps the fact that I never cried out once or shed a single tear.

If not for my mother intervening, I cannot say how long the beating wouldhave continued. My whole body was blackened by the bruises that I would carryfor weeks thereafter. They were a constant reminder to us all of my father’sshame.

I recall now that something strange happened that night. I heard myparents arguing in their bedroom. Later I heard my father sobbing whilst mymother tried to console him.

What a pathetic excuse of a human being he was. How my mother ever fellin love with him remains a total mystery.

I would say that the only one really good thing that he ever managed toaccomplish in his useless lifetime was the son that he sired - me!

Oh, yeah –thank God that little Claudia was having her nap at the time ofthe incident and saw none of her father’s brutality. I hope she turns out to bea better adult and parent than he ever was – it shouldn’t be too difficult.]