Chapter Two: Childhood
It was four months into the marriage of Laurence and Marian Caffrey that their full-term son Neal was born. Marian's family had turned away from her for getting pregnant out of wedlock. Laurence's family paid little mind to the situation. The young couple was on their own.
Laurence and Marian had been high school sweethearts, and Laurence had gone on to college to become a police officer in their home town. Marian had maintained her job in a small café and had used the downstairs neighbor to watch their infant son when she worked. Once her infant had been born, Marian no longer found time to paint. She put that aspect of her life on hold. Laurence's hours were long and grueling, but they believed one day he would be a rising star in the police department where he was serving as a cop.
Both Marian and Laurence knew from the beginning that their son was special. He had maintained eye contact with them as a very young infant. He had started speaking in complete sentences at about ten months of age. He had been able to read and write by his second birthday. His voice had held perfect pitch, and his hand had drawn pictures too beautiful to be scotch-tapped to the Frigidaire.
Neal had been the most beautiful child everyone who had contact with the small family had ever seen. He was small framed with dark curly hair and the most perfect blue eyes to set off his face. He was shy and introverted. He had loved books and engaging adults in conversation on topics well beyond his years. His mind was brilliant and never stopped working.
As a toddler, Neal would smile broadly as he would hear his father gingerly turn the key to their apartment door and come inside to his family. Laurence's large hands would often scoop up his young son and talk to him or listen to him read as they would wait on their couch to be called for dinner. He would smile and pat the toddler on his head, his pride evident. The three would talk pleasantries during dinner, and Laurence was always donned in his neatly pressed officer's uniform.
A few months past Neal's third birthday, the boy knew something was no longer right in his family as he would catch bits and pieces of his parents' hushed-toned conversations from his bedroom where he had been banished. Then, Laurence began taking up the drink to self-medicate through his obvious mental anguish.
Laurence's drunkenness became a nightly ritual, and he then began barging through their apartment door demanding his dinner be warm and on the table immediately upon his arrival even though the times were never consistent. So, it was the child's responsibility to watch the street for his mother to alert her as to when his father was approaching their building. Neal had started to dread his father's arrival home. It changed his smiling mother into a nervous, flighty person who was desperately trying to please the husband she so loved.
Laurence's physical abuse toward his son started about the time Neal was five and in kindergarten. At first, he would usually smack his son several times on his butt, legs, or back with just his hands so there would be nothing apparent to outsiders. But within a year, the physical punishments increased drastically because Laurence no longer cared what others might think. He knew what was best for his ill-behaved child and everyone else, including his own family, could go to hell.
"What the fuck is this? Laurence yelled at Neal as he kicked his six year old son in his back, knocking him down. Before Neal could answer his father and tell him that the teacher's note about his bad grade was because he wasn't able to do his homework, Laurence placed his shoed foot between the child's shoulders and skull. Neal tried to turn his head to the side so he could breathe better, but his father's foot prevented any movement in his upper body. As quickly as he had knocked the boy down, Laurence grabbed him by his hair and jerked him to his feet.
"What? What do you have to say for yourself?" his father yelled down into his face.
"My backpack was in the den last night," Neal softly answered.
"So?" Laurence challenged.
"My door was locked, and I couldn't get it," Neal responded in almost a whisper. He stopped short of saying that his parents also didn't unlock the door for him to have dinner last night but thought better of it.
"Oh, I get it," Laurence screamed at Neal, his face so close that Neal could smell the bitter sweet smell of bourbon. "Did you hear that, Marian? Young Neal here thinks it's our fault he brought home this nasty letter from his teacher. It's always someone else's fault, isn't it son?" Laurence roared.
Neal hated the way his father dragged out the word son when he was drunk. He knew the note from his teacher wasn't nasty. It was just a formality to inform them that Neal had missed enough homework assignments that some of his grades on his Report Card that marking period would be F's. He didn't answer his father and didn't see it coming because he had turned in the direction of his mother, who stood silently by the stove.
Neal felt the impact of the back of his father's hand against his nose and upper lip and then his father's foot in his stomach, causing him to lose his breath.
Neal's mother stood emotionless and motionless.
Gasping for air, the child spoke quietly, "I'm sorry. It's my fault, sir."
"Now that's more like it," Laurence responded.
Neal watched his father fumble with his belt buckle. He knew what that meant. Depending on how much alcohol he had consumed determined the extent of the whacks with his belt. That night he appeared to be unsteady on his feet, so maybe it wouldn't be so bad, Neal hoped.
When Laurence no longer had the energy to continue striking his son with his belt, he commanded that his wife take Neal to his room. "No snibbling," Laurence ordered.
Neal drew in a breath. The pain was excruciating for the little boy. "Yes, sir," he whimpered.
Then his mother dragged him by his arm down the hall to his bedroom. "Your father is a hero," Marian said as she sat in the floor in the corner of his dark bedroom with her hurting son on her lap rocking him back and forth. "He loves you. He's just tired from fighting all those bad men today," Marian whispered in his ear.
Neal knew differently.
Using the back of her shirt sleeve, she wiped the tears that had run down his face and had mixed into the blood under his nose and mouth. "Shhhh. Don't let him hear you cry," Marian warned. Then, upon hearing her name being screamed, she abruptly shot up and ran out of the door, leaving the battered boy alone in the corner with his knees pressed up against his chest, rocking himself back and forth. Marian didn't blame her husband for punishing their son because Neal's impulsive behaviors and poor school performance were becoming more and more difficult for her to excuse and tolerate.
The drinking and abuse became commonplace in the Caffrey apartment. His father was large, dark, and tormented. His mother was quiet and withdrawn.
Neal categorized his childhood by the before and the after even though he didn't exactly know what had occurred to transform his father so drastically.
He didn't find out until later that Laurence Caffrey, a respected officer of the law, had experienced the most horrific shoot-out, killing many officers, including his own partner. That day was the decisive moment in Laurence Caffrey's life, which altered not only his own future but also his wife's and son's. All Neal knew was that his father before was loving and caring; his father after was mean and abusive, becoming someone that Neal came to fear and loathe.
Laurence Caffrey had died-figuratively speaking—when Neal was two and a half years old.
When in the second grade, Neal became obsessed with trying to figure out who this imposter was who was portraying himself as Laurence Caffrey. His brilliant mind began manifesting itself in Neal's inability to sit still and comprehend what was expected of him in school. He was bored with the worksheets, with the expectations of walking robot-like in straight lines for drinks of water or recess. He didn't understand the arbitrary rules set by others largely displayed on the classroom walls above the chalkboards.
Then the phone calls from the local public school worsened. At first the school was concerned about the dark and demented pictures Neal drew of his father and himself. Then, the calls to his mother were ones telling her to come and retrieve her son from school for some behavioral violation.
Marian was no longer intrigued by her son's intelligence but frustrated because leaving work meant less money in her pocket.
And money was tight for the Caffrey family.
Neal was smart enough to comprehend the contradiction. His family sometimes didn't have enough money for bills or food, but there was always the Jim Beam bottle in the brown paper bag in his father's left hand when he barged into their apartment every night.
By the third grade, Neal's school suspension rate for insubordination and un-cooperation had become predictable, which then became problematic for his mother. She was conflicted because she didn't want to see her son physically punished, childcare cost money they didn't have, and she feared what would happen if she held back that information from her husband.
Marian Caffrey worked hard not to raise her hands toward her son. Instead, she used words. She didn't agree with—but also didn't interfere with—her husband's use of corporal punishment, and she didn't understand that words were equally as damaging. There were times, however, that her frustration overtook her sensibility, and she would slap her child or physically force him into his room with fingernails intentionally digging into his arms.
On one particular day in October of Neal's eighth year, Marian had slapped him hard enough across his face to leave a mark for several days. Neal had sat silently in the front seat of their car with his hands holding his face. He had tried every technique possible to concentrate on the worksheets placed squarely on his flip-top school desk, but he just didn't care to draw the lines to match the consonant-vowel-consonant patterns. He didn't understand why leaving the worksheet blank was such a big deal to his teacher. As he sat in their car, feeling the sting on his face, Neal didn't blame his mother for her anger or for slapping him. He knew he was at fault.
"I don't understand you," Marian lamented. "Sometimes I just hate you. You're ruining my life," she confessed to her young son with tears escaping her eyes. She was sorry she had slapped him, but she did hate him for forcing her to use physical force against him and, what she believed, for ruining her life. She had lost her family because of him. She had lost her ability to paint because of him. And now because of him—in her mind—she could lose her husband, too. She didn't want to hurt her own child, but sometimes her frustration levels became too high for her to control.
"I'm sorry," the eight year old Neal Caffrey stammered. The silence between them was deathly.
"Your father will take this up with you when he gets home. I won't protect you anymore," she finally stated as she forced the gear into park and turned the key of the ignition. His mother's words frightened Neal because now he was losing her, too. He lugged his heavy backpack on his small back. It wasn't filled with the school's textbooks but with numerous library books to occupy his time and mind during his two-day suspension. It was in the third grade that the brilliant Neal Caffrey had completely disengaged from school. He was done.
Laurence's drunkenness and abuse continued until Neal left home at the age of 18.
() () () () () () () ()
A/N: Thank you all for reading and commenting. I never thought I would jump in and actually write anything...it's been so long since I've done anything creative. Work and life sometimes consume one's time completely! Anyway, I love White Collar and just wanted to get out of my head this little story that has been floating around for awhile. I have thoroughly enjoyed the numerous pieces I've been reading and reviewing, and I truly do appreciate all of you for including me. Thanks! -Jenny
