Life Lessons from Lollipops

August, 1985

My brother, Adam just turned three, and I, not yet five, waited in the truck at the 7 - 11 while my father pumped his last ten dollars into the truck. When he went in to pay, we went with him. We always did. We wanted candy, but my father only had money for gas. We knew that, so we didn't even ask; we just decided to take it anyway. We knew that stealing was wrong, not that we'd ever done anything like this before. However, in the past when we'd whined, begged, and pleaded for candy, my father always said, "You have to pay for that stuff, and you know we don't have extra money." We'd always snivel and sometimes even start to cry. The conversation always ended with him picking us up, one in each arm, and saying, "If you are good and don't cry about it, maybe the Easter Bunny will bring you chocolate." He was right. Somehow there was always candy on Easter and Christmas, but that was it. That afternoon we each left the store with one Tootsie Roll lollypop we'd shoved in our pockets while my dad had his back to us as he paid the clerk. Mine had a red wrapper, Adam's a purple.

My father lifted us into the truck and made sure we were buckled before we left the parking lot and headed home. The only person who said anything on the way home was my father. I don't remember exactly what he said, but it had to do with how good we were in the store, and he wondered why his normally babbling children were silent. As soon as the tuck pulled into the driveway, my brother and I climbed out, ran inside to his room, and slammed the door. We sat on the bed, looked slowly at each other, and slowly we took our candy out +and set it on the bed between us. We starred at the suckers. Tugging off the wrapper. Holding the white stick. The fruity scent filling my nostrils. My tongue moving in my mouth in anticipation of the sweet, sugary, stolen treat. None of these ideas were even in my mind. I was consumed with guilt.

Until that moment I'd never known such agony. I'd been in trouble before for repeating a word I'd heard on television or for bickering with my brother, but somehow I knew this was different. In the bottom of my stomach, pounds of lead pulled and throbbed. The little hairs on the back of my neck and the sides of my arms stood on end. The top of my head and cheeks were on fire. Tiny sweat droplets gathered on my forehead. My palms were damp. I had trouble sucking air into my lungs. I tried to open my mouth and speak to say something to Adam, but my throat was slammed like the bedroom door. I was sure that at any minute I was going to vomit. My mind raced. Bad girl. Naughty children. Spanking.

We heard a knock on the door. Of course. My feelings of guilt intensified, and my eyes exploded out of my head.

"Who is it?" My brother called.

"Daddy. What are you two doing? Don't you want to play outside? It's still light out. Let's get the ball and gloves."

"We're playing in here," I answered. My throat had opened, but either my ears weren't working or someone else was talking because it didn't sound like me. It felt like sandpaper - the kind my father kept in the garage - was raking over my throat and skin.

My father opened the door. Adam and I scrambled, grabbing our candy and sitting on it. I looked at my brother, and he looked at me, and I knew he felt just as horrible. I don't remember who started to cry first, but we were both nearly hysterical within seconds.

My father crossed the room, kneeled down, and put one hand on each our shoulders. I looked through my tears at him. "Sweet girl, what's wrong?" The look of concern on his face, the question in his eyes, and the fear in his voice made my guilt unbearable.

"Daddy, we did something very naughty," I sobbed.

"Please, don't be mad!" Adam managed between sobs.

Trying to be supportive, "It can't be that bad. What did you do?"

I didn't know how or couldn't find the words to explain my torrent or tears. I turned toward Adam and together we pulled out the suckers and held them for him to take. He looked from the candy to each of us and back to the candy. Those few seconds where I watched his expression - concern, question, and fear turn to shame - are etched permanently in my mind. He took the candy from our hands and rolled it over his palm. His eyes closed for a long moment.

Slowly he raised his eyelids. "Let's go." He stood up.

"Where?" My brother and I said simultaneously. Fear dried tears on our cheeks; we'd been given time out and occasionally spanked for what we knew were far lesser crimes. I wondered if what we'd done was so horrible he was going to take us away to an orphanage or a place for bad kids.

"Back to the store. You didn't pay for this!" The way he said it. My father is a large man, over six feet and rarely under 250 pounds. He can yell; the neighbors could testify. Before that day, I remember trembling at the idea that I had made him raise his voice. But this time he didn't raise his voice. He didn't yell. The volume was that of a whisper, but the impact made his voice the loudest sound I've ever heard. To this day, the way he said those words still make tears want to tumble down my cheeks. Adam and I rose and followed my father out of the room.

We climbed into the truck and sat the entire ride in silence. We were statues, not daring do anything more than sit there and listen to my father's words echoing in our minds. Normally before we were even out of the neighborhood Adam would have bumped his leg against mine and I'd have kicked him - hard. He'd have cried. My father would have said, "Beth Ann, leave your brother alone." I'd have echoed the line, "But he started it. He touched me!" Not this time. My father even had the radio turned off.

When we got to the store, my father opened his door, walked around the front of the truck, and said, "Come on, let's go in."

My brother and I unbuckled, climbed down, and followed, our heads hanging low the fear growing with every step. We'd seen starving children in Ethiopia on the television at my grandmother's house. Was my father going to ship us to Ethiopia? My father pulled open the door. I could feel his gaze on the top of my head, but I couldn't force my eyes to meet his. Adam and I stopped just inside the door. One hand on each shoulder, my father guided us to the counter. The clerk remembered us, "Back so soon?" His eyes turning to questions during the silence. My father took his hand off of Adam's shoulder, reached into his pocket, pulled out the suckers, handed them to me, and returned his hand to Adam's shoulder. I still couldn't meet my father's eyes, but I felt him gently squeeze my shoulder. I knew he was angry, but in that moment I knew he loved me and wasn't going to ship us to Ethiopia. I drew strength from his touch and managed to say, "We took this candy without paying."

"We're very, very sorry," my brother said.

I reached up and lead the candy on the counter. My father and the clerk exchanged a knowing look of adults.

"I'm glad you were honest," said the clerk.

My father counted out the change and laid it on the counter next to the candy. We were looking up at him in disbelief. Was he going to buy us the candy? He looked down at us and then his gaze returned to the clerk.

"Do you have any children?" He asked.

"I have two little girls." It was a statement, but the clerk's eyes turned to question.

"Take this candy home to them; my children don't deserve it." My father turned and walked out of the store.

The doorbells jingled from him opening the door and closing behind him, finished, before my brother and I moved. We were stunned. My father never had extra money for candy and he'd paid for it and left it on the counter, but not for us. We were bad kids. I remember the weight of the door as I leaned on it so we could get out. My father was already sitting in the truck; the door on our side left open so we could get in. I lifted Adam's foot, helping him get in the truck.

When we got home, my father told us to go to our rooms and we could come out in the morning for breakfast. I went to my room and sat on my bed crying. I was convinced that I was the worst person on the planet, maybe my father wasn't going to ship us to Ethiopia, but I was sure he would never love me again. I could hear Adam in his room next door; we both cried ourselves to sleep.

The next morning before church my father, Adam, and I were sitting at the table. We each had cereal with milk, but there was no bickering or searching for the toy in the box. I've been to more upbeat funerals. This time it was my father who wouldn't meet my eyes. Wide eyed I peered at him over my spoon as it dripped milk on my nightgown. His eyes had red lines in them and shadows almost like bruises under them. Had he cried over it too? Were we that horrible that we'd made my father cry, I worried.

Abruptly Adam asked, "Do you still love us?"

My eyes blinked and widened in surprise and my father looked at me.

"What, Beth?"

"I don't know."

The look he gave me let me know that, as usual, this answer was unacceptable.

"Maybe we're despicable?"

He raised his eyebrows. "Daffy Duck?" He asked.

"Yeah," I answered.

"Are you going to ship us to Ethiopia?"

This time my father couldn't contain himself; he laughed out loud.

"Ethiopia? Really Beth. Don't you know that I'll never ship you away? No matter what." Then he pushed his chair back and held out his arms. Adam and I glanced tentatively at each other and then rushed to his lap. He nestled and held us for a minute and then explained our punishment. As we got off his lap, Adam asked if we could play baseball. My father smiled and said, "After church and chores."

To pay for the candy, we did chores. Normally we'd take turns setting and clearing the table, each make our own bed, and pick up all of our toys. Adam would wash out the bathroom sink and tub, and I'd vacuum the living room and bedrooms. We had a little chart on the side of the refrigerator to keep track because we earned a nickel a day for the dishes, beds, and toys, a dime for the bathroom and vacuum twice a week. My father kept track and then at someone's birthday or at Christmas, he would give us the money to buy presents for the person. However, this time my father paid us one penny for each day. It took my brother and I twenty-five days to pay off our debt. Everyday we made our bed before breakfast and picked up all of our toys before we went to bed. We washed and vacuumed. At dinner, Adam set the table for dinner twenty-five times, and I cleared it twenty-five times.

* * *

Almost twenty years later, and I can still feel the guilt.

One night a couple of years ago, my brother was at my house and somehow this story came up. He reminded me of some details I'd forgotten - the color of the sucker wrappers, the type of gas station, but we both remembered the guilt. The conversation reached a pause.

"Did you ever - uh - you know, do it again? I mean after that day?"

"No," I answered honestly.

"You?"

"No. I lost a friend in high school because I wouldn't," he revealed.

Of course we had to call our father and asked him if he remembered it. He did. The conversation turned emotional, this time I know my father cried.

That June we each taped a lollipop to my father's cards for Father's Day. He laughed when he saw them. Mine had a red wrapper, Adam's a purple.