A Man Named Dave

hand. I gently placed my hands around theirs. “As far as I’m concerned, Mom,” I said as I gazed into Alice’s eyes, “and Dad,” I said, looking at Harold, “I’ve enlisted in the United States Air Force. I leave next week. Any questions?”
     
    The Boeing 727’s sudden downward lurch shook me from my trance. I blinked, struggling to focus on the San Antonio skyline outside the airplane window. The more I stared through the Plexiglas, the more the faces and serenity of my parents faded away. I was on the threshold of my new life. I took a deep breath, then smiled. And so it begins!

3 – Letter From Home
    Air force basic training was no cakewalk, but after stumbling through the first two weeks, I began to get into the groove and felt comfortable with the expectations of my drill sergeants, which in an odd sense reminded me of living with Mother. I had sense enough to keep a low profile and never make eye contact with the instructors whenever they lashed out at my squadron. I performed my duties as quickly and precisely as possible, and, most important, I made certain to keep my stuttering mouth clamped shut. Whenever I had a free moment, I’d crank out epic letters of my mis adventures to my foster parents, my “aviation mentor” Michael Marsh from my days in foster care, and my father. Every day in the late afternoon our squadron received mail call, and every day my heart pounded with excitement. But the only letters I received regularly were crumpled ones addressed to my father with RETURN TO SENDER stamped on the envelope. After a few weeks I gave up trying to reach Father through the mail, so I tried to keep close to him through my prayers.
    After saying my evening prayers I would roll over, feeling relieved that I had truly escaped Mother’s tangled web of hate and deceit. I knew she could no longer manipulate or harm me in any way. For the first time in my life, I was my own person. I had finally locked Mother away in the deep recesses of my mind. I felt so elated, my lifelong quest no longer seemed that important. I was free.
    At night, though, I discovered, as I had in foster care, that The Mother still lived in my dreams. As always, she would stand before me like a marble statue at the end of a long hallway. I stood in front of her – in full view and helpless – but somehow thinking her sculpture could do me no harm. And then her eyes blink open. She smiles before gazing down at her bony hand and pulling out a gleaming silver carving knife. I know I should do something, anything, but my fear paralyzes any defenses. In slow motion The Mother steps toward me. Her glazed eyes pierce my soul. A split second before her foot touches the floor, I turn and flee down the hallway at full speed. As my heart races, I know I am miles ahead of The Mother, but I can somehow feel her presence inches behind me. I run forever, but there is no escape. I frantically hunt for a way out of the maze-like corridors, but I stumble and fall into a void. Above me The Mother stands poised, revealing her yellow teeth and putrid, steamy breath. As I look into her eyes for mercy, her expression seems to laugh before she raises her arm and lunges at me. I close my eyes as the shiny-silvered knife flings from The Mother’s hand and flies through the air. I empty my lungs, screeching, “Why…?”
    “ Hey, Pelz, wake up, man!” my air force “bunk buddy”, Randy, whispered low enough so no one else could hear. “You havin’ one of those dreams again.”
    I wiped the sticky sweat from my forehead as I scanned the outline of the sleeping bay of my fellow airmen. I thanked God that I didn’t wake up my squad, let alone the entire training base. I checked my chest, making certain that The Mother had not crossed over and stabbed me. I thanked Randy for his concern, then spent the remainder of the night sitting on the edge of my cot.
    The next morning after inspection, my drill instructor summoned me into his office. As I stood at attention in front of his desk, I became so terrified that my body began to weave. I kept my eyes glued straight ahead and held my breath, praying the instructor had no idea of my latest anxiety attack. “At ease, airman,” the master sergeant commanded. “Says here,” he stated as he casually read, “in last night’s report… you had one of your episodes … again. Third time this week. What’s your problem? You homesick for Momma?”
    As my mind raced for an answer, I somehow had enough sense to evade the truth. Instead