My father was an elusive fellow. He and my mother, Anna Bechan, fell in love and were close for several years, gave birth to me, and wove a covenant of secrecy that took over six decades to unravel. Because he was a prominent citizen, already with a wife and children, it was necessary to invent a myth about the birth of their child. A petition filed with the Oklahoma County Juvenile Court reported that my parents were separated and divorced before I was born. This gave me a legitimate beginning and let Momma save face. In the 1930s, there was no greater sin than to have a child outside a marriage.

Momma was tall with gentle hands and a loving nature, but she suffered from weak lungs and hard times. One lady recalled her as an attractive woman with a heap of blonde hair turning gray, blue eyes under light brows, a finely shaped nose, and rosy cheeks. She smelled of rose water and Ivory soap.

Momma and I lived in a small prairie town where by the middle of May, the cumulus clouds ghosted across the sky like fluffs of spun candy, and the fields were strewn with bluebonnets and blankets of daisies and yellow buttercups. My earliest childhood memories encompass hours of running barefooted, catching grasshoppers and roly-poly bugs, playing hide-and-seek, driving my yellow dump truck, and riding the trolley into Oklahoma City. All was right with the world.

My mind often searches into that lingering past where, on a warm Saturday in May 1932, a fresh breeze ruffled my hair as I stirred from the bliss of a six-year-old boy's nap. I watched sleepily as Momma walked into the room and paused by the chest of drawers. She pulled out a pair of my pants, a shirt, underwear, and socks. Folding them neatly, she packed them into a small cardboard box, closed the lid, and tied it with one of her cloth belts.

I leaned up on one elbow. "Why pack my clothes?"

"Staying overnight in the city."

I hopped out of bed and slipped on my white shirt and long pants, looking forward to visiting with our friend, Uncle Paul.

I followed Momma across the hall and watched as she tossed off her housecoat and put on a yellow summer dress. Turning side to side, she adjusted her slip and brushed her hair. She sat down and looked into a hand mirror, powdered her face and put on lipstick. Appearing rushed, she stood up and tied on a white head scarf.

"Come, Roger. It's growing late." She handed me my box of clothes.

Under the warm but descending sun, we walked a block up College Avenue to Main Street, purchased our tickets, and took a seat outside the Bethany Interurban Station. From around a stand of trees the red-and-white trolley clanged into view. I loved the colorful machine that flashed blue and yellow sparks and smelled of hot iron. Within minutes the car squealed to a halt, and the blue-suited motorman looked down at us.

We stepped aboard and handed our tickets to the cigar-puffing gentleman. He doffed his cap in greeting and shoved a lever forward. Clutching the handrails, we stumbled to our seats. With her head tilted to one side, Momma held a silent conversation with herself, from time to time pressing my hand into hers. The trolley clattered and swayed from side to side as we sped down the nine miles of track, but the rattling didn't quiet the noisy children who scuffled in the rear.

As we sped through green fields, other trolleys flashed past, and, on each side, small wooden houses with open windows looked out on us. I strained to see the skyscrapers as the city loomed ahead. With the bell ringing, we skirted the tall buildings and rushed through a canyon of shadows. Within a few blocks, we approached Hudson Street and screeched to a stop in the Oklahoma City terminal, an arched metal structure open at both ends.

"Hurry along," Momma said as we swung down, scattering a flock of pigeons, and boarded a waiting streetcar.

The car rumbled northward, block after block, leaving the tall buildings behind. Finally, we approached a wide avenue. With a hiss of air, the streetcar jolted to a stop and the door sprang open. We stepped down and entered the full growth of summer. Leafy elms arched overhead. Rows of sweet smelling honeysuckle, intertwined with red roses, crowded the street.

Swinging my box to and fro, I hopped and skipped down the sidewalk in my Buster Brown shoes. For good luck, I avoided every joint in the walk as I hummed, "Jumping jack, if you step on a crack, you'll break your mother's back." On the second corner I tugged on Momma's skirt. "Where are we going?"

She grasped my hand. "Be patient. We'll soon be there."

In the next block we walked alongside a rock wall and paused before an opening. I looked through an iron gate and saw a path leading to a brick mansion with tall windows and an ivy-covered tower on each side. From the distance, it beckoned like a gingerbread house.

Maybe we will visit here for a bit before we go see Uncle Paul. In the approaching twilight, Momma unlatched the gate and we walked down the path and onto the front porch where a woman in a white dress greeted us. She possessed a narrow face heightened by a stiff manner, a mop of gray hair, and wore black-rimmed glasses resting on the tip of her nose.

"I'm sorry for being late," Momma said.

"It doesn't matter." The woman opened the screen door and ushered us into the house, down a carpeted hallway, and into a lofty room lighted by a round chandelier. She closed the door behind us. I looked up into Momma's face, startled to see tears flowing down her cheeks.

"What's wrong?" I tugged on her skirt.

Instead of replying, Momma slipped off her scarf and blotted her face. Then she knelt down and ran her fingers through my hair. She kissed me—soft brush of her warm lips on my forehead. "Give me a hug." She held out her hands.

I set my clothes down and stretched my arms up around her but only for a moment. Without a word, the woman in white spun me around and grabbed my box. I turned to Momma for help, but she rushed out, her yellow skirt brushing the wall. The door banged behind her.

"Momma! Wait! Wait for me!" I dashed forward and pounded on the door, my heart hammering against my chest. This couldn't be true! Momma had never left me before. My knees gave way and I slumped on the floor, sobbing. Why had she left? What was happening? Panic and despair flooded in as my strength ebbed.

The woman stepped to where I crouched near the door. "You're staying here. Get up."

I looked up at her through tears. She yanked me onto my feet and as I pulled away, she slapped me. I kicked back. She grabbed my collar and marched me upstairs. We entered a sweltering chamber with three windows at each end. Under a beamed ceiling, a row of baby cribs, several iron beds, and a couple of rocking chairs stood on a bare wood floor.

The woman shoved me onto one of the beds. Dim lightbulbs dangled from above. The cries and sniffles of babies filled the air. Several black oscillating fans stood before the windows, swinging from side to side like angry doodlebugs, whirring and clicking, straining to clear the stench of soiled diapers from the long room.

I lay in disbelief, clenching the edge of the sheet between my teeth as the onrush of night, like a giant bogeyman, grasped me and tossed me into a dungeon. It is black now. I am trembling and wrapped in a blanket of fear. The darkness has no corners, no shape, no movement. My mind quivers with the...