"Dad, may we take a walk down to the river? You can show me some of the things you did here."
"I'll stay here, guys. You go reminisce with your son," Frank said looking at me.
Bobby was wearing his Speedo bikini. I was still dressed in my golfing outfit. We started walking down through the gardens and the massive green slope leading to the Hudson. Alphy followed. Bobby sometimes walked ahead of me and threw sticks for Alphy to run and catch and bring back. Oh, how I wished I could have had a walk like that with my father.
Bobby is so open, free and relaxed with me. He's all boy. I had to be reserved, pretend to be the little gentleman around my father. He never got to see me swing from tree to tree playing Tarzan. Bobby wouldn't hesitate in a moment to do a stunt like that in front of me. In fact, I would love watching him do it. And he would love to have me watching him.
About three quarters of the way down to the river, Bobby stopped and looked back at White Hall. The place was huge, even from this distance. He kept asking questions about where I played by myself and with friends. I said I usually didn't do it this close to the mansion.
"This close? Dad, we have to be a quarter mile or more from White Hall. You mean you would not play here? That's crazy."
"You don't understand, Bobby. We are still on the formal grounds. If I got caught playing here, I'd be dead. I did it, though, much to my regret."
"That's nuts. A kid should be able to play anywhere. This is your home. Dad, how about a little play whipping? I'm going to be you caught playing in the formal areas. And you're going to punish me."
That said, he stripped off his bikini, picked up a switch and ran to an old oak tree. He clung to it ready to be punished.
Why in the _f_u_c_k_ did he choose that god_d_a_m_n_ oak tree, of all the _f_u_c_k_ing trees on the estate?
Chester was the major-domo of White Hall when I was a kid. That man hated me, and I hated him. I thought the bastard must have worked with Queen Victoria before coming here to torment me. Chester was always trying to get me into trouble, as if I didn't have an easy enough time doing it myself. He loved catching me "defacing" White Hall. That means he would catch me doing something to the furniture or the gardens and rat on me to my parents. I always got punished.
Many times Chester would give me that punishment by spanking me, most often with a switch. My father didn't like to do that. It took up too much of his time and energy. He gave that chore to Chester, who loved it. I can't remember the number of times that _s_h_i_t_head whipped me. I would lay on my bed crying. The only person coming to my aid was my sister. Without her, I would have killed that son-of-a-bitch.
Chester hated dirt, lint or anything that might be filthy to him. What normal preteen kid doesn't love dirt and filth? I used to devise means to get Chester dirty. He was always immaculately dressed. My goal in life was to try and get Chester as filthy as possible. Knowing that Chester was going to sit someplace or walk under some doorway or any other opportunity, I would find some means to sprinkle dust and dirt on him. He knew it was me, but he couldn't prove it. I would always be somewhere else when he landed in the _s_h_i_t_ I planed for him. That was the biggest joy of my childhood, making Chester dirty.
Chester hated the stables, horses and the outskirts of White Hall. I could deface the _f_u_c_k_ing place as much as I wanted away from the areas that bastard feared to travel. Chester would never find me, because he was such a pussy that he'd never go away from the mansion and the formal gardens.
I wasn't totally free to do what I wanted outside Chester's domain. Once away from Chester, I was in Jerome's turf. He caught me many times doing things I shouldn't. But he didn't whip me. He scolded me. He reprimanded me. It always made me feel bad that I disappointed Jerome. But the man was a fatherly figure who explained in a child's terms why something that was done was not something that should be done. I respected Jerome. I did not respect Chester.
Chester found me playing with Jerome's kids close to the formal areas. Jerome and his family are African-Americans. My mother thought that was beneath my class. She forbade me to play with Jerome's kids whom I loved. Chester was ordered to whip me. Jerome was deeply hurt.
That didn't stop me. Jerome's kids and I went far out on the estate where pussy Chester couldn't find us and played to our heart's content. Jerome was pleased.
As a baby I had nannies, then preschool tutors, then boarding school until I went to college. The only time I got to see my parents were holidays, vacations and time at White Hall. During my preteens they wanted to spend most of their time in Europe. A kid would be in the way of their "royal" lifestyle. They wanted to shuttle me off to a summer boarding school. I would rather take Chester's beatings than go to another _f_u_c_k_ing boarding school in the summer. I often wondered why my parents had me, if they wanted so little to do with being involved with my upbringing. Why have a kid if you don't want to raise him yourself?
I didn't mind not going to Europe with them. It wouldn't be any fun for me. Someday I'd do Europe on my own and enjoy it without my parents. No sense in enjoying something with somebody who doesn't want to enjoy it with you.
I won and got to stay at White Hall in the summers. Chester was put in charge of me, a chore both of us hated. I was instructed to stay with only kids of my own "class" and "status" in life. _f_u_c_k_ that _s_h_i_t_. I'd find ways to have fun with real kids. Some of the stuffy upper class _s_h_i_t_head kids of the Hudson Valley were so spaced out on drugs they were no fun.
That oak tree that Bobby clung himself to pretending to be me awaiting punishment holds a bitter memory.
To avoid trouble, I had been warned by Jerome not to build my tree houses and forts on the formal grounds. Unfortunately, I violated Jerome's warning. What the hell? I was a 12- year-old kid and wanted a tree house near where I lived. Is there a crime in that? I found some spare plywood on the grounds and hauled it to this oak tree. About 15 feet up from the ground, I arranged a neat platform, some steps to the ground. I was building other things that would allow me to look over the Hudson, be close to the dock and look back at my home. What the _f_u_c_k_'s wrong with that?
Chester found the tree house. He noticed my building and spied on me using binoculars. The bastard was waiting to get enough evidence that I had been "defacing" the formal grounds of sacred White Hall. He had me cold. He loved it and told my Father. Big trouble for me.
My Father and Chester came down to the tree house. Alphy was sitting by the tree. I was busy working on the platform and didn't notice them coming down the slope. As they got closer, Alphy stood up and barked. The dog didn't like the two, and they didn't like the dog. I turned to look at what Alphy was barking at: my father and Chester. Oh _s_h_i_t_.
These two men were dressed to the nines, as usual. If you saw them, you'd think they were going to a wedding or a funeral or something. I looked like any 12-year-old kid in the summer: shorts, no shirt and no shoes. Why don't these guys get a life and relax a little?
I sat on the edge of the platform of the tree house dangling my legs over the edge. I'm 15 feet up. There's a dog down below who hates these guys. And my Father and Chester wouldn't be caught dead climbing up that tree to get me. I had to be safe, right? Wrong, big time!
Chester had a club. I mean a real club. The bastard came prepared to chase Alphy away or worse, kill the dog. My Father looked like the stock market took a slight plunge and he lost a little 50-million bucks and was ready to take the nation's economy out on me.
The dog was barking hysterically. Chester was waving that club every which way at the dog. Chester was so frantic at waving that club, I thought he might hit himself. Too bad he didn't.
"David, come down here, now!" my Father yelled. Father is usually soft spoken and always reserved. I've never heard him yell so loud, except at me.
I came down from the tree house very slowly. I had the feeling my life was about to come to an end. For what, I didn't know.
"What have I done wrong, Father?"
"You have defaced White Hall. That is intolerable and you should be ashamed. These are sacred grounds. You have defaced this oak tree. I'm going to punish you."
Sacred? Is this where Jesus was crucified or something? I thought this father of mine has all of his priorities grossly mixed up.
My Father was going to punish me? The old man always gives that chore to Chester or someone else. I never thought he cared enough about me to punish me himself. In fact, I never thought he cared about me at all. I see him so infrequently I'm often surprised he remembers who I am. "Remember me, Dad? I'm that blond, blue-eyed little boy that has some resemblance to you. I'm your son," I so often wanted to say that to him.
"How have I defaced White Hall, Father? All I did was build a little tree house to play in. What's so bad about that?"
Chester had given Alphy a bone with meat to chew on. The dog, my only protector, was decommissioned. Thanks for loyalty when I need it most. Chester had a broad smile on his awful looking face. He was clearly enjoying my predicament.
"David, take off your shorts and stand facing that tree. Chester, get me some switches. David, I'm going to whip you very hard. By this time tomorrow, you are to dismantle this awful thing you did to the oak tree. You will not be able to do it today after I have finished with you."
Chester quickly and eagerly gathered some switches from some nearby plants. He picked a few that had thorns, God bless his soul. I was already in tears.
I pulled off my shorts but had on my underpants.
"David, take off your underpants. I want you naked."
I trembled and cried but did as I was told.
"Please, Father, I will take down the tree house. I will do anything you want me to do, but please don't beat me."
I embraced the tree. I clung to it so hard that the bark was hurting my chest and the side of my face.
With all his might, my father began whipping me across my back, ass and legs. I screamed and cried and pleaded with him to stop. As a switch broke, lovely Chester gave my father another one.
My entire backside from shoulders to the bottom of my thighs were a crisscrossing of welts. I was crying so hard and hurting so bad, I knelt to my knees but still clung to the tree. I was afraid and scared.
A switch broke and sadistic Chester gave my father a switch with thorns. I thought I would die. That _f_u_c_k_ing switch tore into my skin. My father didn't care. Chester was delighted.
My sister, Joan, arrived home from a day of tennis and saw mother on the South Portico terrace sipping tea under an umbrella.
"Hello, Mother, where's Father and David?"
"Your Father is punishing David for defacing White Hall. They are down there by a grand old oak tree."
Joan looked down but could barely see us, although she saw people. She did hear screaming, very loud screaming.
"What is Father doing to David? He's screaming."
"I believe Father is whipping David. He deserves it," she said calmly sipping her tea.
Joan began running down the slope as fast as she could. She knew how vicious Chester was and the uncontrolled temper of her father.
"Father, stop that now. You are beating David horribly. He's just a boy. His back is scarred and bloody."
"Stay out of this Joan. It is none of your business how I punish David." The man kept on whipping me.
"Stop it, Father, or I'll be forced to stop you. I'll throw rocks at you. I'll call the police. You have no right to do this to your son or any other human being."
My father stopped beating me and glared at his daughter. He threw down the switch in his hand and briskly walked back to White Hall with Chester following. I was laying on the ground in a fetal position crying has hard as I could. My sister knelt down to soothe and comfort me as best she could.
Jerome had witnessed the beating and was about to step in to stop it, even if it cost him his job. Joan beat him to it. After my father and Chester left, Jerome ran over to the tree and picked me up and carried me back to White Hall with Joan alongside.
Jerome had blood on his hands from the wounds on my back. I was still sobbing. My sister was angry, very angry.
My mother was still sipping tea when we arrived at the terrace.
"Mother, look at what Father did to David. This is horrible. How could he have been so cruel?"
"He deserved it, Joan. Jerome, thank you for carrying David to White Hall. But you know you are not permitted inside. David will have to walk to his room," she looked at no one and poured more tea in her cup.
Joan was beside herself with disgust at her parents. Jerome was deeply hurt that he couldn't care more for me. Being a black groundsman, he wasn't allowed to be inside White Hall with the other black servants who were dressed and trained for their duties.
Martin, a compassionate member of the household staff, took me from Jerome's arms and carried me to my room. Before he turned to enter the mansion, my mother stopped him.
"Martin, do not get any blood on the carpeting or furnishings."
"MOTHER, you are a heartless bitch. You don't care about your son, his pain or his injuries. You care more about this mausoleum than David. That's disgusting. You should be ashamed," Joan said with great anger.
My mother turned away from her daughter and wiped a tear from her eyes. Was she shedding a tear because of the way Joan talked to her or that White Hall was called a mausoleum or that her son had been badly beaten by his father? We never knew the answer to that one.
My father was probably in his study, and Chester was nowhere to be seen. Martin carried me to my room.
When the family is in residence at White Hall, a registered nurse is always on duty. There are three assigned to the mansion to cover the shifts. Reserves are sent in on weekends. Brenda was on duty that afternoon and came to examine my injuries.
She brought along a first aid kit and used some ointment to clean the wounds and prevent infections. However, she noted those cuts on my back that caused the bleeding from the switches with thorns were beginning to show up in spots as welts at places as large as a quarter. This worried her. She thought it was an indication that I had some allergic reaction to those plants. That would need to be determined by a doctor.
Brenda gave me a sedative to induce sleep and calm me down. She suggested to Joan that they call Dr. Sachs in the morning for him to visit me. The rich don't go to doctors for minor things. The doctors make house calls to the rich. The rich don't sit in waiting rooms for an hour; they don't call for appointments. They don't have HMO's to regulate their care. Money is no object.
Joan sat with me putting compresses on my back, butt and legs as the nurse suggested. She wanted to do it out of her love for me rather than have the nurse do it. My sister sat with me for an hour or so as I dozed off an on. The pain was bad. But the thought of being beaten by my father so viciously hurt a hell of a lot more. The lack of compassion from my mother hurt deeply. I was a 12-year-old left feeling that no one cared for me but my sister. And, what would happen to me if she were not here?
The dinner hour was approaching at White Hall. The King and Queen of White Hall were dressed to the nines sitting in an elaborately set dining room with servants ready to serve their every need. Joan came into the room in a disheveled tennis outfit with blood stains on her shirt and her hair a mess.
"Joan, you are not prepared to be here for dinner. You should be ashamed," my father told her.
"You look disgusting, Joan," my mother chimed in.
"Prepare yourself for dinner now, and bring David down here dressed and ready to eat," my father said.
"You pathetic people are disgusting. Your son is badly injured from the beating you gave him. He is in no condition to come down here, even if he wanted to. It might take him a while to ever want to join you two for dinner. If I were David, I'd hate you. I am taking care of my brother, whom I love. That's a word the two of you fail to understand the meaning of. Send dinner to us in David's room. He'll eat, if he's capable."
"David is not ill. He is a bad boy deserving of punishment. If he can't come down here like a man, then he doesn't get anything to eat. If he hates us and our lifestyle, then maybe he should be sent to year round boarding schools," my father said staring at Joan.
"I can't believe you have said this. You are the most hateful parents a child could ever have."
Joan left the room in deep anger. She was going to get back at her parents somehow, someway. She came to my room. I was asleep. The welts on my back were growing and looked ugly, very ugly. The nurse was concerned. She said the doctor should come tonight or the first thing in the morning.
My sister called Dr. Sachs and told him the whole story. She insisted that he not call her parents for more information, because they might lie or certainly shade the truth. She was using a term the doctor didn't want to hear: Child Abuse.
He told her to watch for certain symptoms such as shock, high fever and severe swelling of the welts. If any of these develop, Joan should call 911 and have me put in a hospital. Dr. Sachs should be called immediately, and he would meet her at the hospital with my medical history.
Around 10 P. M. I was going into shock with a temperature of 103. The swelling had increased dramatically. Joan called 911. She then notified my parents.
They came to my room and were horrified at what they saw. Joan said my father was shocked and seemed very much ashamed. My mother was crying.
In the ER it was determined that I had gone into anaphylactic shock and had atopic eczema all due to a severe allergic reaction to the thorny bougainvillea switches used to whip me. There were 86 round and swollen welts on my body from my shoulders to the base of my thighs caused by the thorny switches. Another 30 welts were counted from the other switches. These stripes ranged from one inch to six inches in length.
My parents and Joan were at the hospital explaining what happened to a police officer and a child services officer. They were in trouble. Two of my father's attorneys were with them.
I spent the week in the hospital. Not because I needed to, but because I didn't want to go home to White Hall. I received a lot of psychological counseling during that week about the beating and my parent's seeming indifference toward me as a person let alone a son.
My parent's vast wealth, influence and power prevented the legal system from taking me away from their custody. However, the court did order them into counseling by themselves, together, with me and finally as a family with Joan. That took a month.
My father and mother, especially my father, do not like taking orders or instructions from anyone. But the counseling experience humbled them greatly. The counseling sessions were not one hour once a week quickies. They were day long affairs, group meetings, evening meetings and contacts with similar parents and children who were by no means their equals. The group meetings with parents who had abused their children but were in the advanced stages of counseling particularly humbled my parents. These working class people tore into my rich father with a vengeance that he had not encountered in his entire life.
Some people who go to a Betty Ford type clinic come out little better than they went in. Some come out changed with a different outlook on life and about themselves. My parents were the latter. They changed big time.