Stephen King

Memories

From Family and Friends

Stuck in the Barrel

As told by Dottie Ann and Pat

Dottie Ann: Pat, do you remember the time you and Steve and I were playing in the yard before dinner with an old oil barrel Dad had out there? We were taking turns getting inside and rolling each other around. Then Steve got in, but instead of extending his legs he pulled them up with his knees on his belly. We rolled him all around the backyard and he was laughing his behind off. Then Mom called us in for dinner — and we discovered Steve was stuck in the barrel.

That was the first time I saw Steve cry. Dad tried to get him out, but because his knees were bent up, Dad couldn’t budge him. He said he was going to have to call the fire department to cut the barrel open.

Pat: I remember Steve getting stuck in the barrel. Somehow like him — very human, but the problems were small. I think Mom and Dad consulted on getting him out.

Dottie Ann: We were having a great time, taking turns being rolled around the yard. Steve was laughing right up until he realized he was wedged inside and couldn’t get out.

Pat: I think they were coming up with ideas like grease. But instead, Dad figured out how he was stuck, and they squeaked him out without getting too complicated.

Mary:
I don’t have your knack for expressing things. I remember his smile, his cheerfulness. He loved to laugh.

He was an altar boy, and he was very neat — relative to my own slovenly self. He was the first person I ever heard talk about five-year plans for his goals. Steve was reliable, responsible. He was also kind. His presence was reassuring.

I remember sitting in school during a new math lesson and planning on asking Steve to explain it. And how he extinguished the candle with his fingertips after the family rosary. He said only an altar boy can do that without getting burned.

I dreamt of him after he passed and, like they say about heaven, he looked about 33 and completely happy.

Tales of life at 1720 in Brooklyn as told by Dottie Anne

Steve had a teddy bear. If I remember correctly, it was tan and red. He had that bear all through grade school, and he couldn’t sleep without it.

Steve also loved turtles. We used to be able to buy them at the Five-and-Ten-Cent Store or a pet store for about 10 cents. Somewhere along the line they passed a law forbidding that. I think at the time they said it had something to do with disease.

Steve had his little turtles in a plastic turtle bowl with a ramp they could walk up and down and a plastic palm tree on top. He took very good care of them, keeping the bowl clean and feeding them every day. He used to feed them bits of lettuce and chop meat if Mom was making something with beef. He didn’t just guess what they would like. He went to the library, took out books, and read up on how to care for them. He would even take the bowl outside in the backyard and stay with them so they could get some sunshine.

There used to be a picture of Steve in his altar boy clothes out in the backyard with his turtles.

Play at 1720

He loved cowboys and Indians and had a cowboy hat and pistols in a holster. I think Pat and Steve both had them.

He also liked to play war games. Post–World War II kids were very familiar with war. I used to play with Pat and Steve a lot back then because we were all closer in age. Mary is three years behind me.

Steve didn’t necessarily want me playing with the boys, but he was nice enough to let me play once in a while. It would be him and Pat, Kevin Cronin, and a few of the other boys in the neighborhood. Everyone had a helmet and a rifle, a canteen with water, plastic grenades, and other war-related “toys.” Steve would strategize, hiding behind trees and fences, crawling on the ground, and simulating life as a G.I. at war with Pat and the kids. It was exciting imaginary play for that era.

Steve always made me the nurse, and within a few minutes of play he told me I got shot and couldn’t play anymore. He wasn’t mean. He just found a way to get rid of me quickly when I was the only girl in the group.

Crocodile Island

Back when we were kids the asphalt didn’t reach the curb. It was always a stretch where you parked your car between the street and the curb that stayed dirt. When it rained it was messy and when it snowed it was icy.

Pat will probably remember this or maybe he will choose not to LOL but one year when the snow was just starting to melt there was a big puddle in front of Dad’s house between the asphalt and the curb where the dirt was. It was still very cold out but the ice and the snow was melting off so it made a nice big lake in front of Dad’s house.

So Pat and Steve found a wooden board, and something to roll with and pretend to be sailing away on a raft. They were having a great time laughing sailing away on their raft and I asked if I could play and at first, they said no. And then they suddenly decided it would be okay, but I would have to sail by myself. They pulled the board over to the curb, just shy of the ice patch beneath, and waited. It didn’t take long for the board to slip out from under me. I fell on my arse in the water and was eaten by crocodiles.

We never got mad at each other; it was just part of the game. But now that I think about it, I was the only one being killed off all the time.

Honesty and the note

Steve had a very strong character from childhood. He had a very healthy sense of right and wrong, and nothing could move him off the mark. He didn’t like fist fighting. He preferred finding mutual ground by talking things over. He always did his best in that regard, but if he had to defend himself, he did. He looked at it as a failure even if he won. He hated violence as a solution.

And he was honest to a fault.

I remember walking home from school with him after a nightmarish day in first grade where I had a meltdown that included kicking the nun and running out the side door. Steve told me the principal gave him a note to give to Dad. I asked him what was in the note, and he said he didn’t know, just that I was in trouble. I asked him if he had to give the note to Dad, and he said he was sorry, but he had to. He was genuinely sorry for me. He understood that I was in big trouble, but he knew he had to be honest and give the note to Dad. He didn’t want to be in the middle, but by a twist of fate he was, and he had to choose to do the right thing.

When we got in the house, Dad was sitting down talking on the phone. Steve just handed him the note and kept walking. As it turns out, the principal had called Dad about me and let him know that, because of the severity of my crimes, both Pat and Steve had notes to take home.

Steve didn’t stick around to see me get mine. With no fanfare, he did what he had to do and kept going. I remember standing in front of Dad completely unable to explain why I did whatever I did that day. For some reason, Dad went easy on me. And I think no one was more relieved that I didn’t end up over Dad’s knee, or punished for the rest of my life, than Steve.

Touch Football

Dad once played touch football with Pat and Steve in the street in front of the house. He asked me if I wanted to play because they needed one more. I understood tossing the football around, I didn’t understand the touch part. When I caught it, I found out you’re supposed to get rid of it pronto, bc everyone piles on top of you. That was the touch part.

Betty Botta

Betty Botta was one of the girls on our block. She lived in a house right next to the three houses where Vinny Pavone lived down the street. Everyone called her Betty Body because she developed early. She was only maybe 10 years old at the time.

She was sitting on her stoop with Carolyn Bennett and a few other girls from the block. Steve was in the street with Kevin Cronin, maybe Jackie Kelly, and the neighborhood boys that played together regularly. They were just throwing the football back and forth.

Steve was probably 11 or so — definitely preteen. Everyone knew Betty had a mad crush on Steve. She didn’t care who knew it. She sat on her stoop giggling and trying to get the boys to look at them. When that wasn’t going well — because Steve couldn’t have cared less about girls at that time — Betty decided she would go up to Steve and give him a kiss.

She strolled past him and gave him a peck on the cheek. Steve turned around and punched her right in the stomach. He was absolutely furious. He went home. He didn’t want to hang out anymore. He was embarrassed and humiliated.

A short time after that, Mr. and Mrs. Botta were at the front door screaming. Dad came out, and they kept screaming about teaching his sons not to beat up girls. Dad always tried to de-escalate these things, but they just kept yelling and talking about calling the police.

I kept thinking Dad was going to really give it to Steve when they left. But Dad didn’t take Steve apart over it when he found out she brought it on herself by kissing him in front of his friends. He kind of sympathized, knowing Steve had been humiliated, but he did give him a talk about why he shouldn’t hit girls.

I think at that time Steve didn’t see a difference in genders at all. He wasn’t in that mindset so young. He was really very innocent, and he was a gentleman and very respectful — but romantically speaking, no way.

The Bear and the Turtles

The Russian Tea Room

Just before I turned 18, Steve informed me he was taking me out to dinner to celebrate. He was in the seminary at that time, waiting tables and off-loading trucks part time to make pocket money. He told me I could invite a friend or two. I don’t remember if I invited anybody. I think maybe Frank was with us because we were dating at that time. I don’t remember how we got there, but we ended up in New York City at the Russian Tea Room. That was a very very high-end place back then. Very expensive and very fancy inside. At least to us po’ folk whose idea of “dining out” was the drive-thru at Wetson’s Burgers. Steve let us order anything we wanted. Everything was so expensive I was afraid to order anything. I think he finally did it for me. When it came to dessert, he had arranged beforehand for the waiters to sing happy birthday and bring a cake to the table. Everyone had coffee. I ordered tea, because I didn’t really drink coffee. When we were leaving, Steve complimented me for being the only one to order tea at the Russian Tea Room (their specialty). I only ordered it because I didn’t drink coffee at all at my age back then, but I let him think I was just very sophisticated and New York savvy.

When Steve complimented you, it was always a special moment. You knew it was sincere because he didn’t throw those things out just to fill a gap in the conversation. He took note of the little things and made you feel special. I still remember roller skating with him and a bunch of the kids on our block. I did some silly little maneuver on the skates and Steve said he liked watching me skate because I was so graceful lol. I guess you think things are like that when you’re six or seven years old, but I wasn’t graceful. I spent most of those years with scabs on my knees and elbows. But you never forget how wonderful it felt to see yourself through the eyes of someone who always looked for good in people. I can honestly say I never heard Steve say a negative thing about anyone.

The Mary Queen of Heaven story was sitting in my drafts from 2017. — Margaret

Mary Queen of Heaven

The woman standing in front of me on line at Costco stopped short of criticizing the weather. “We could use the rain, she said. Water levels are low this year.” Hard to imagine that in light of the deluge we were under. But okay, I can do positive.

Please God.

It wasn't a snowy winter, but the early burst of spring in the northeast just before Easter induced buds and the emergence of tender shoots. Just as I shed layers of winter garb and eyed warehouse bags of charcoal, the sunshine receded into a steel grey sky, and the cold felt vengeful and worse than before. And, as I said, rain. The rain that is good for water levels. 

As Dad would say, you can deny it when something's bugging you, but it's in there, working on your head. 

I don't recall him complaining about weather, nor did he lament the commotion of snow. In the city and parts of the suburbs, you have to shovel because you're liable to a lawsuit if somebody falls on your sidewalk, and the mail carrier needs a path to the mailbox. But perhaps the most compelling reason Dad got right out was to meet a challenge, conquer an obstacle. He'd shovel out a path along our sidewalk and dig out his car, invigorated, giddy at times.

Last time I paused in front of Dad's house in Brooklyn, a new stoop with a matching raised deck was under construction. There were new wood blinds in the bay window and a large, decorative vase. I knew Dad was smiling on the other side of heaven’s veil because the old homestead was being loved.

On Facebook, many who moved away from Brooklyn still call it home. And whatever negativity they might have felt when they packed the moving van for regions with better parking and spacious living, now they're homesick and posting photos so sweet and familiar, it takes us all back. 

I saw a feed of our old parochial school, Mary Queen of Heaven. Black and white photos can make life look uncomplicated, but maybe that's just how a kid remembers childhood. It was simple because we knew what was expected, and a great deal of the time we feared not living up to it. As the grades advanced, so did the expectations and the scariest teachers of all were grades five through eight.

I was absorbed into people's beautiful memories of growing up in our Brooklyn neighborhood and spotted one or two familiar names. I scanned class photos, hoping to see one of my sibling's faces, and then I did - my brother, Steve.

Right to left, bottom row, Steve is the third boy: S King