Write for God

Connie May Fowler and Katie

I read the way drunks guzzle six-packs of cheap beer:  indiscriminately and to the exclusion of nourishment and common sense at times.  I am Henry Bemis, the myopic bank clerk in the quirky Twilight Zone episode where the revenge wreaked on the little man who just wants time to read is to have his Coke-bottom glasses shatter without hope of finding another pair.

It’s no wonder that a book on my boss’ shelf caught my eye while I was in her office talking about work. My eyes wandered past the document we were discussing and fixed on the title When Katie Wakes on the shelf.  The author’s name, Connie May Fowler, was instantly familiar. I had interviewed her years before during my newspaper days and I had read two of the novels based on her heartbreaking childhood. My supervisor told me how she had purchased the book at a Fowler reading. One of the neighborhoods in the book was my boss’  little area of St. Petersburg, FL.

When Katie Wakes is a memoir that tells the story behind the abusive childhood tales in Before Women Had Wings, a novel I’d read and one which Oprah Winfrey had also liked. In fact, the queen of daytime TV produced and had a role in the film version of the novel a decade ago.  The little girl in the book lived in Suitcase City, the very real transient part of town in Tampa, which in itself is a city of tourists and transplants, anyway. 

The tale of the abused little girl, her hopeless mother and the grim part of town where they exist on the fringes of society resonated with me. I recognized the real Suitcase City, which is still crime-ridden and dotted with cheap motels where hookers and addicts compete with the poor for temporary lodging.

In the case of When Katie Wakes,  my boss and I had no trouble identifying the unnamed older man who beats Fowler during their abusive relationship. It took me just a page or two to realize that a famous voice I’d heard a million times on Tampa Bay radio and a face I’d seen on Tampa Bay TV belonged to the sadistic opportunist who lived off Fowler’s bartender earnings after he’d been fired from the media posts he had held.

That smooth, silver-haired, sophisticated talking head who had been the king of Tampa Bay’s airwaves was  really a nasty drunk enslaved by his demons, which included a desperate need to be back at the top of the heap.

Worst of all, I had worked with one of his ex-wives. She had told me about their fast lifestyle and his being courted by people at the highest levels of influence back when he was a somebody. He was much older than she was and she had traveled with him to glamorous sports events and expensive hotels and it had all been dazzling for a while.  There had been plenty of money and booze, but their marriage ended long before I knew her. Reading Fowler’s memoirs, I was haunted by the possibility that this man had abused the woman I knew. Abusers and leopards don’t change their spots.

Stories about abused women are always told under a mantle of shame and secrecy. Fowler explains how her childhood abuse and her physical bruises from Mr. Airwaves remained her secret and how she became adept at covering them up.  The red and purple marks where Mr. Airwaves choked her and the wound where he stubbed out a cigarette on her cheek are hidden by scarves or makeup.  Mr. Airwaves treats her like a mangy dog and she can’t bring herself to move on. Patterns of childhood abuse are etched deeply into the soul and, in Fowler’s case, are inherited from the abusive parents who, in turn, were abused during their early years.

The Katie of the title is a friendly mutt who helps Fowler break free of her own insecurities and grief. Connie May Fowler is one of Florida’s best writers and she now has a supportive husband and an impressive list of books. If only the lives of all abused women had the grace that Fowler’s writing talent and intelligence bestowed on her.

The shock of seeing such an ugly side of Mr. Airwaves, whom most Tampa Bay residents of a certain age could easily identify from reading Fowler’s book, pales next to the horror of the lifelong abuse that Fowler writes about.  The soul murder that physical, mental and emotional abuse commits upon children lasts for the rest of their lives. The cycle of violence is almost impossible to break when the wounded child becomes a wounded adult.

My mother has been volunteering at a Tampa shelter for abused women and their children for more than a decade. She works with the kids who spend their days in a one-room schoolhouse while their mothers try to get their lives together.  Some children have told her they never want to see their fathers again and others have been witnesses to terrible violence perpetrated against their mothers by men.

The kids don’t stay long enough for my mother to follow their progress after their time in the shelter is up but, unfortunately, there’s always a fresh crop of children to tend to. Lately, she has been seeing more Eastern European children in the shelter. A little Russian’s face lit up when my mother used the two or three words she knew in his language. A simple word made him happy.

Children are resilient and fragile at the same time. They survive the most unspeakable abuse, but their psyches can shatter into pieces. Fowler’s book is a beautiful reminder that sometimes blessings come from a God-given talent, from the love of a good man and from the devotion of a faithful mutt.  It’s a testament to triumphing over pain.