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  BANDIT

  A DAUGHTER’S

  MEMOIR

  MOLLY

  BRODAK

  Black Cat

  New York

  Copyright © 2016 by Molly Brodak

  Cover design by Nicole Caputo

  Portions of this book originally appeared in

  LIT, the Fanzine, and Granta.

  The epigraph to this book is an excerpt from “XVII. Sometimes above the gross and palpable things of this diurnal sphere wrote Keats (Not a doctor but he danced as an apothecary) who also recommended strengthening the intellect by making up one’s mind about nothing” from The Beauty of the Husband by Anne Carson, copyright © 2001 by Anne Carson. Used by permission of Alfred A. Knopf, an imprint of the Knopf Doubleday Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Random House LLC. All rights reserved.

  The Friedrich Nietzsche quote that appears on page 168 is an excerpt from Ecce Homo by Friedrich Nietzsche, translated by R. J. Hollingdale, translation copyright © R. J. Hollingdale, 1979. Used by permission of Penguin Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Random House LLC. All rights reserved.

  The Walter Benjamin quote that appears on page 260 is an excerpt from “On Some Motifs in Baudelaire” from Illuminations by Walter Benjamin, translated by Harry Zohn, English translation copyright © 1968 by Harcourt Brace Jovanovich, Inc.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review. Scanning, uploading, and electronic distribution of this book or the facilitation of such without the permission of the publisher is prohibited. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated. Any member of educational institutions wishing to photocopy part or all of the work for classroom use, or anthology, should send inquiries to Grove Atlantic, 154 West 14th Street, New York, NY 10011 or [email protected].

  Published simultaneously in Canada

  Printed in the United States of America

  FIRST EDITION

  First published by Grove Atlantic, October 2016

  ISBN: 978-0-8021-2563-7

  eISBN: 978-0-8021-8961-5

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication data is available for this title.

  Black Cat

  an imprint of Grove Atlantic

  154 West 14th Street

  New York, NY 10011

  Distributed by Publishers Group West

  groveatlantic.com

  16 17 18 19 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  For Boo

  Fiction forms what streams in us.

  Naturally it is suspect.

  —Anne Carson, The Beauty of the Husband

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  37

  38

  39

  40

  41

  42

  43

  44

  45

  46

  47

  48

  49

  50

  51

  52

  53

  54

  55

  56

  57

  58

  59

  60

  61

  62

  63

  64

  65

  66

  67

  68

  69

  70

  71

  72

  73

  74

  75

  76

  77

  78

  79

  80

  81

  82

  Acknowledgments

  1

  I was with my dad the first time I stole something.

  It was a little booklet of baby names. I was seven and I devoured word lists: dictionaries, vocabulary sheets, menus. The appeal of this string of names, their pleasing shapes and neat order, felt like a puzzle impossible to solve. I couldn’t ask for it but I couldn’t leave it. I pressed it to my chest as we walked out of Kroger. It was pale blue with the word BABY spelled out in pastel blocks above a stock photo of a smiling white baby in a white diaper. I stood next to Dad, absorbed in page one, as he put the bags in the trunk of his crappy gold Chevette, and he stopped when he saw it. At first he said nothing. He avoided my eyes. He just pressed hard into my back and marched me back into the store, to the lane we’d left, plucked the stupid booklet out of my hand, and presented it to the cashier.

  “My daughter stole this. I apologize for her.” He beamed a righteous look over a sweep of people nearby. The droopy cashier winced and muttered that it was OK, chuckling mildly. Then stooping over me he shouted, “Now you apologize. You will never do this again.” The cold anger in his face was edged with some kind of glint I didn’t recognize. As he gripped my shoulders he was almost smiling. I remember his shining eyes above me and the high ceiling of the gigantic store and the brightness of it. I am sure I cried but I don’t remember. I do remember an acidic boiling in my chest and a rinse of sweaty cold on my skin, disgusted with my own desire and what it did, how awful all of us felt now because of me. I didn’t steal again until I was a teenager, when he was in prison.

  2

  Dad robbed banks one summer.

  He robbed the Community Choice Credit Union on 13 Mile Road in Warren.

  He robbed the Warren Bank on 19 Mile Road.

  He robbed the NBD Bank in Madison Heights.

  He robbed the NBD Bank in Utica.

  He robbed the TCF Bank on 10 Mile Road in Warren.

  He robbed the TCF Bank on 14 Mile Road in Clawson, where I would open my first checking account when I turned seventeen. That’s the one with the little baskets of Dum-Dums at each window and the sour herb smell from the health food store next door.

  He robbed the Credit Union One on 15 Mile Road in Sterling Heights.

  He robbed the Michigan First Credit Union on Gratiot in Eastpointe.

  He robbed the Comerica Bank on 8 Mile and Mound. That was as close as he got to the Detroit neighborhood he grew up in, Poletown East, about ten miles south.

  He robbed the Comerica Bank inside a Kroger on 12 Mile and Dequindre. All of the shoppers gliding by as Dad passed a note to the teller in silence: “This is a robbery, I have a gun.”

  He robbed the Citizens State Bank on Hayes Road in Shelby Township. Afterward the cops caught up with him finally, at Tee-J’s Golf Course on 23 Mile Road. They peeked into his parked car: a bag of money and his disguise in the backseat, plain as day. He was sitting at the bar, drinking a beer and eating a hot ham sandwich.

  I was thirteen that summer. He went to prison for seven years after a lengthy trial, delayed by constant objections and rounds of him firing his public defender
s. After his release he lived a normal life for seven years, and then robbed banks again.

  3

  There: see? Done with the facts already. The facts are easy to say; I say them all the time. They leave me out. They cover over the trouble like a lid. This isn’t about them.

  This is about whatever is cut from the frame of narrative. The fat remnants, broke bones, gristle, untender bits. Me, and Mom, and my sister, and him, the actual him beyond the Bandit version on the evening news.

  I see my little self there, under the stories. It’s 1987 and I am set between my parents like a tape recorder: Dad on the couch, fixed to the TV, Mom leaning in from the kitchen, me in between on the clumpy beige carpet with spelling worksheets. I am writing out the word people, watching the word slip off of my pencil lead, but then I start listening so carefully that I cease to see what I’m doing. Mom is grumbling what do I know and what is wrong with you again and again and Dad is talking over her steadily and laughing in a friendly way without taking his eyes off the game. More words are forming under my hand in an uneasy cursive. My sister, age nine, stomps through the scene and out the back door, slamming it for all of us. Mom and Dad’s voices rise but are cut off at a strange cracking sound. We all turn to the picture window to see my sister smashing walnut-sized white decorative rocks from the neighbor’s garden with a hammer on the concrete patio. She pulls the hammer as far above her shoulder as she can and brings it down on a rock, splitting it into dust and flying shards. Dad looks back to the TV. Mom rushes out the door and now my sister hugs the weapon to her chest; Mom appears and rips it away from her. I am recording this so carefully that I don’t see it while it is happening.

  Where am I when I am listening and watching so carefully?

  At the dinner table I am watching my parents’ simmering volley crescendo from pissy fork drops to plate slams to stomps off and squeals away, my sister biting into the cruel talk just to feel included, me just watching as if on the living room side of a television screen: I could see them but they could definitely not see me. I squashed my wet veggies around on my plate, eyes fixed to their drama, exactly as I’d do in front of Scooby Doo or G.I. Joe. I could sleep, I could squirm off, I could hum, dance, or even talk, safe in their blind spot. I could write, I discovered, and no one could hear me.

  One survival technique is to get small. When resources are thin and you must stay where you are, as you must as a child, it helps to stay invisible. This family, collected together occasionally in one house, or more often, in various split combinations of children and adults, netted around me like a loose constellation of problems. On my small ground, as if in another country, I was not a problem. I kept quiet, was good and smart and secret and neat, reading and playing alone, catching bugs, collecting rocks, reading and drawing. And I wanted to become even less, a nothing, because I thought they could all at least have that, this one non-problem in the house, to not yell and not cry, to sweep the kitchen and pick up the thrown things and secretly restore order to whole fought-apart rooms and even to sometimes sing softly, happily, maybe for them to hear. I have kept quiet about all this my whole life.

  4

  Suddenly one day, like a membrane breached: before, Dad was like all other dads and then not. We sat together in a booth at the Big Boy, the winter-black windows reflecting back a weak pair of us, and I idly asked him what recording studios are like and how they work. I was something like eleven, and I had a cloudy notion that it would be exciting and romantic to work in a recording studio, to help create music but not have to play it. He fluttered his eyes upward, as he often did, and answered without hesitation.

  He told me about the equipment, and how bands work with producers, how much money sound engineers make, and what their schedules are like. Details, I started to realize, he could not possibly know. Some giant drum began turning behind my eyes.

  I could see he was lying. Something changed around his eyes when he spoke, a kind of haze or color shift, and I could always see it from then on.

  As he talked, I felt my belief, something I didn’t know was there until I felt it moving, turn away from him until it was gone, and I was just alone, nodding and smiling. But what a marvel to watch him construct bullshit and to finally see it right. He stopped in the middle of a sentence about groupies.

  “Finish your chicken,” he said. I stared at him in silence. His face went blank as a wall.

  “I’m full thank you,” I said cheerily, trying to hide my thoughts. I watched the new man in his seat. He withdrew money from his wallet for the bill and watched me back. A barrier of pressure between us he would not cross. He’d lost his mark.

  5

  From under the bed I pull a plastic bin stuffed with notebooks: thousands of pages of writings, days I set down, starting at age eight. I would give anything to see the artifacts again—the actual days I spent with my family—to turn them over in my hands and catalogue their facts with my grown-up faculties. Who doesn’t wish for this? Now those days exist only in this bin of paper versions, each entry skewed in the grasp of a child, absent of context.

  The earliest diary is a black-and-white, static-print composition book. The beginning pages are covered in unicorn and rainbow drawings and sketches of bulbous fancy dresses done in crayon and neon-colored pencils. Then some pages stuck in from school writing activities:

  Shoes

  By Molly

  I just got new sandals.

  I have grils black high tops to.

  My Shoes are always filled with sand.

  Other pages about puddles or balloons or Halloween are happy and fine, with plenty of exclamation points and normal childhood engagement with the world. I read “Shoes” over and over. I leave it next to me while I pile the rest of the diaries onto my bed, searching farther. My eyes get caught on the By Molly a few times until I let myself look at the page again. I have been ignoring myself for so long. All of this personhood here, catalogued in plodding blindness and thrown into a bin and hidden. My Shoes are always filled with sand.

  I open the composition book again. The first real entry is dated June 25, 1988.

  Today nothing is pland. Well I don’t kno. Yesderday I played where the tree got cut down and mom said its a hot summer. I put food out for farries but it is still here today. My sister got dropped off at dinner. She was mad and didnt talk. She cried and turned red and then stromed outside and said she running away. I ate her plate tuna casaroll. We looked for her she was under the pine tree. She didn’t talk. She only just scramed I hate you. Today Im don’t care what she does.

  Tiny squares of Swiss cheese and mini marshmallows for dessert, I remember that, putting food out for fairies. I don’t remember the rest of this. At that point I was old enough to see that our survival was threadbare compared to the other kids I knew, which explains the remarks about stealing my sister’s portion of tuna casserole as soon as she stromed away, and the feeling of almost sickening marvel at new shoes in the other entry, which seemed too nice for me. And I remember my sister grating against Mom and me, the feeling of grating in my chest when we were together, that exact verb, grating. I kept turning away and away, today Im don’t care, today Im don’t care, but the grating stayed.

  Michigan did see a hot summer in 1988. And it was the last year we’d all live together as a family: Mom, Dad, sister, me. I look at the bin of diaries again, feeling overwhelmed. There’s so much to learn there, so much I don’t know about my family.

  I didn’t know Dad gambled. Sports betting mostly, on football, baseball, or college basketball, point spreads, totals, any angle. Bookies, calls to Vegas, two or three TVs at once.

  I want to say plainly everything I didn’t know. I have a little of it now, and I want to hold it up and out. I can’t help but hold it up and out.

  I knew there were little paper slips and crazy phone calls and intense screaming about sports games—more intense than seemed appropriate—but it only added up to a private tension orbiting around him, buffeting us away. In th
e dark, I grew up.

  The last entry in the black-and-white composition book from 1988 says:

  No one home. Today I went

  It ends there.

  6

  Sports betting is so different from card games or other gambling because the player doesn’t actually play the game he’s betting on. His “game” is in the analysis of its information—knowing which players might secretly be hurt or sick, which refs favor which teams, the particular mood of one stadium over another, the specific combination of one pitcher with a certain kind of weather—and the synthesis of hunches, superstitions, wishes, and loyalties. Beyond that, there are the odds the bookies are offering, which reflect what everyone else is predicting, also a factor to weigh for or against. A perfect game for someone who thinks he’s smarter than everyone else.

  Before Detroit built big casinos downtown there was Windsor Casino right across the border, so there was always blackjack, too. But nobody knows much else about this—my mom, my sister, his coworkers, his brothers and sisters—no one saw his gambling, no one was invited to come along, to share strategies, or even to wish him luck. It was totally private. Mom’s experience of his gambling came to her only in cold losses: an empty savings account, the car suddenly gone, bills and debts, threatening phone calls. Sometimes he’d come home with broken ribs, or a broken nose not to be discussed. The rare big win must have been wasted immediately in private, usually on more gambling, or something showy and useless like a new watch for himself. Or, of course, his debts, eternal debts.

  Outcomes shake out fast in gambling. In real life, big risks take years to reveal themselves, and the pressure of choosing a career, a partner, a home, a family, a whole identity, might overwhelm an impatient man, one who values his own control, not fate’s. He will either want all the options out of a confused greed—hoarding overlapping partners, shallow hobbies, new alternate selves—or he will refuse them all, risking nothing. And really, the first option is the second option. Keeping a few girlfriends or wives around effectively dismisses a true relationship with any one of them. Being a good, hardworking dad and a criminal at the same time is a way of choosing neither.