He whispered his instructions after we sat. Never buy popcorn, which was overpriced and stale. If you bought candy in a bag, it was best to open it in a swift rip, because the long, slow sound of tearing paper was distracting. Boxes of candy presented another problem, particularly jawbreakers. You had to open the box in a way that allowed it to be reclosed. If the structure of the box prevented that, it was crucial to hold the box upright to avoid spilling the candy. The issue was not waste but disturbance. The sound of jawbreakers rolling down the sloped theater floor was deeply offensive to Dad.
The movie impressed me with its use of the word “fuck” and a blurred image of a female breast. The character Billy Jack used martial arts to fight for the rights of hippies and Native Americans. After the movie we went to the restroom and stood at the urinal. Dad told me that I was an alpha male. I nodded. He asked if I knew what that meant and I shook my head. He explained that an alpha male was more or less the boss dog of any outfit. It meant that beautiful women liked to talk to you, and men naturally looked to you for orders. He said that beta males were plumbers, doctors, mechanics, and engineers. Below them were delta males, which included everyone else.
He explained the three types of alpha—I was an alpha three and Billy Jack was an alpha two. Dad waited long enough for me to understand that I was supposed to ask who was an alpha one, which I did.
“Me,” he said, and zipped his pants.
I went to the sink, but he told me I didn’t need to wash up.
“Alphas don’t piss on their hands.”
Years later Dad fondly recalled Billy Jack as the last movie we saw together. I didn’t have the heart to tell him it was the only one.
Chapter Twelve
LIKE MOST young couples, my parents responded to situations as well as they could with limited information, conforming to convention and social expectation. They were good Catholics, both virgins when they married at age twenty-three.
Mom was a McCabe and a McCarney, from Lexington’s tough Irish-Catholic community. Her grandfather, a career bartender, was known for having shot and killed a drunken customer. Other family members were bookies and gamblers. Her uncle embalmed the great racehorse Man o’ War. Her great-uncle studied for the priesthood, and her aunt became a nun. In high school, Mom began caring for her ill mother, a responsibility that steadily increased for four years. As eldest daughter, she took over the household—preparing meals for her sister and father—and began working at a bank.
At age twenty-two, she met Dad at a Catholic Youth Organization dance. On their subsequent first date Dad wore a suit and took her to the nicest restaurant in town. She was flattered by his attention—he was handsome, funny, and very smart. He behaved like a gentleman, which meant “not trying any funny business.” They were the same age, born a few months apart. At seventeen, Mom had lost her mother. Dad’s father had died the same year. They’d endured loss and economic deprivation, but they also shared a strong hope for the future, motivated by the prosperity and enthusiasm of the 1950s. Ten months after meeting, they were married and remained deeply in love the rest of their lives. I never heard them argue or even disagree.
Dad sold products for Procter & Gamble, supplying to small country stores, then coming home and writing late into the night. My mother read Dr. Spock and cooked from cans. In the evenings they drank martinis. Energetic and ambitious, my father moved into the insurance business and was offered a promotion selling policies to college students in the eastern hills. Not yet thirty, he related well to undergraduates. With three kids and a pregnant wife, he could bring his own circumstances to bear in a sales pitch: If something happened to me, what would my wife do? Who would feed my kids? You should ask yourself the same questions.
In 1963, weary from driving a hundred miles a day, Dad moved the family to a small rental house in the conservative town of Morehead. My parents strove for upward mobility in a place that offered little in the way of a toehold. They socialized with college professors and doctors. Mom was intimidated by their levels of education but learned to hide it behind an increasingly polished patina of appropriate conversation. Dad was contemptuous of medical personnel, whom he referred to as “body plumbers.” He believed himself far more intelligent than the professors and considered a Ph.D. nothing more than a union card to teach.