Making Betrayal into Lemonade, Part 12
By: Joy Ellsworth
Tags: Aging, Housing Crisis, Geriatrics, Mental Health, Schizophrenia

As the weeks passed, Ward was damaging more and more of our possessions. One morning we were getting dressed in our bedroom and heard a sharp clatter and tinkling noises. We rushed out to discover Ward sweeping up one of our stoneware teacups. The handle had become brittle from being ‘double-boiled’ while resting directly on the bottom of a saucepan. When it broke, the cup fell and shattered on the ground. Beyond the stoneware in the kitchen, Ward apparently didn’t know that using metal mixing utensils in non-stick cookware ruins it for safe use.

When I was at work on the couch with my laptop, Ward would find something inconsequential in the corner of the room on the other side of my laptop power-cord that he wanted to investigate. He’d trip over the cord every time, even though it laid flat on the floor. My laptop stopped charging after the millionth time. Thankfully, Luke is familiar with coaxial cable repair. Otherwise our only means of earning money would have been gone.

One by one, the list of things we would have to either replace or repair was getting longer. Three weeks of entertaining morning stories and midnight hallway yelling later, I called Bob to ask how his progress was coming on Ward’s living quarters.

“He’s still screaming at night, Bob. And he truly thinks that the Illuminati are out to get him. And we’re running out of stuff for him to break. Please tell me you’ll be done with construction soon.”

Bob apologized that he didn’t have a completion estimate yet. “We’re waiting on some plumbing parts to come in, and then it’s going to have to be warm enough to work.”

Being late February, it had been extremely cold recently, I had to admit. Lately we were running the propane heater much more often to keep the house a decent temperature, and the tank beside the house had run dry.

“We’re out of propane over here, and we’re running out of scrap wood from the yard to keep a fire going.” The house’s fireplace was actually only intended to be used for cosmetic purposes only, but we were desperate for warmth and stretching its capabilities.

“I’ll see what I can do. Oh, and I called Ward’s daughter to ask about that screaming, and about the stories. She says he’s pulling your leg. He likes to joke around like that.”

“Bob, nobody jokes around like this. He’s very serious.”

Bob wasn’t convinced, but he did come over and chop down one of the nearly dead trees in the front yard so that we could better heat our home with the cosmetic fireplace that lost 80% of its heat out of the back wall. It was sweet of him for at least trying.

About six weeks into his stay with us, Ward got morbidly serious about a number of things relating to our life choices. He didn’t agree that Luke should be content staying home with Tora while I was out seeking new business. After Luke repaired and double-reinforced the laptop power cord, Ward finally voiced that he didn’t like the way my constant attention on work bled into the time that he considered adult play time in the evening hours. (I suppose he did have a point there, but we were desperate for earnings.) He would have preferred to watch television or movies instead of watching me work.

Ward voiced his opinion that we were bad parents to Tora for a few reasons: The first was that I was the mother, the more natural nurturer in his opinion, and I wasn’t insisting upon staying home; The second was that we weren’t doing enough to keep the house warm, in his opinion; The third was that we allowed cats with sharp claws to occupy our home with our toddler.

One day Tora had started crying about being scratched on the hand by one of the cats. It was the kind of minor scratch that was likely to be healed and gone in a matter of hours, but her feelings had been hurt. Luke, as always, was quickly on the scene and comforted her like a champ.

Ward ambled into the living room where I was taking a break from website design to do some yoga. Looking down at where I was twisted into a ball on the floor, he declared, “Someone’s going to find out that you allow your daughter to be abused by the cats in your home. And the spirits had an all-out party in her room last night. Are you going to do anything about them? Someone’s going to find out about that too, eventually.”

Ward continually refreshed my memory on which population groups he didn’t approve of living. He didn’t like the government for controlling lives more than what was laid out in the original constitution, for asking him to pay taxes (which he didn’t pay on principle.) He didn’t like Germans because they were conniving and evil. He didn’t like Asians because they were too smart and sneaky. I certainly remembered that he didn’t like Catholics. And then he didn’t like Jews because of their secret holy documents allowing the rape of two-year-old children.

“Let me stop you right there. You know that Tora is two, right?” I could feel my blood pressure rising.

“I know!” He blurted. “That’s why I knew you’d want to be well informed about what they’re capable of.”

“Well, I guess it’s a good thing that Jewish people don’t live in the Ozarks, huh.” My snarky comment covered up the battle that was happening in my mind. Why was he so specific about the age of the alleged rape victims of Jews? Was he setting up a scapegoat scenario to avoid punishment for a future crime that he’d perpetrate on my daughter? This man was getting to me.

If he was kidding, as Bob had suggested, his humor resembled that of a sociopath. If he wasn’t kidding, then he was, at best, battling schizophrenia. And at the very worst, he was a pedophile grooming a situation where he could freely justify his urges, likely fueled on by the E. D. pills. Adult sexual predation was never not a possibility in our living situation. I had to keep my Tora safe.

At one of Patty’s performance group rehearsals, I relayed the state of things to her. “Patty, it’s like a looney bin in our house right now. We’re not getting sleep. I’m not totally sure that Tora is safe around Ward, and that possibility is eating me up inside.” The truth was, we did not know this man who was suddenly sleeping in the bedroom next to our daughter’s, using our new bedding, breaking our dishes and accusing us of being unfit parents.

“Joy, I don’t know what you want me to say. You’re living in my dad’s house. This is his factory. It’s all we have to give. He’s doing the best he can with what he has. Do you want me to say that he’s mistreating you? Because I can’t say that. He’s my dad.”

Patty was right, of course. It was just time to end the experiment.