Loose Cannons: A Memoir of Mania and Mayhem in a Mormon Family

Part One

Little Blue Suitcase

Painted by Diana 2018

Chapter One

January 1962

My baby sister Messer and I sat on the kitchen floor playing near my brother Tip’s feet as he leaned over the stove cooking our family dinner, not a parent in sight. Messer (our nickname for Melissa) was only wearing her underwear as she sang to her pink bunny. With one eye on her, I picked at the peeling, gray linoleum floor, getting hungrier by the minute.

Tip was so small that he had to stand on his tippy toes to stir his pot of boiling water.

Even though he was 10 and older than me, at six I was almost as tall as him. Tip pulled a spaghetti noodle out of the water and threw it onto the wall in front of him so it stuck. We all watched it slither down until it was close enough for him to grab again. Right before it came completely unstuck, he popped it in his mouth and kissed his fingers like a chef.

Perfection! he announced with a grin, flicking off the burner and turning to the sauce. Tuesdays were Tip’s night to cook, which meant we could all count on his favorite dish, overcooked spaghetti drenched in canned meat sauce.

My eight-year-old sister Beth, dressed in a faded floral sun-suit, hustled into the kitchen to check on all the noise we were making, while her twin Anna kept playing outside. As Tip rinsed the noodles, she dragged our wobbly yellow metal stool across the floor, clattering the whole way. Nothing glided in our house.

Beth climbed over the stove and grabbed the spoon from Tip, flipping her long brown hair out of her eyes. From below, I saw her belly nearly touch the flame as she stirred the sauce.

Get away from that, Tip yelled, his face red with anger. At three years old, Messer was small and scrawny, so she dove into my lap like a scared baby bird surrounded by hungry cats. We were the only two oddballs with blonde hair in the whole family, so we were two of a kind. I licked my thumb and wiped the crusted milk from Messer’s upper lip as she tucked my ratty hair behind my ear. We looked at each other instead of watching the argument above us.

You don’t know how to do it right! Tip snarled at Beth. Only I know how to cook spaghetti. He snatched the spoon out of her clenched hand and puffed his chest up.

You’re a brat, Beth said.

Tip raised the spoon above his head like he was going to hit her so Beth jumped off the chair, startling Messer and me as she thudded on the floor.

Go back outside! Tip barked. We were being so loud that Anna finally snuck into the kitchen as well. She was eight years old and a dedicated thumb sucker like Messer, only she was a lot more skittish. Still, she was concerned for her twin sister after hearing Tip’s yelling—she was always worried about Beth.

Though not identical, they almost always wore matching clothes. They had even invented their own secret language, which only they understood. Anna twirled her curly red hair and watched Tip shout as her large brown eyes filled with tears.

Boo! Tip hissed at her as she stumbled backward. Anna was the biggest ‘fraidy cat of all of us, and Tip liked to remind her. Anna muttered a few secret words to Beth, who nodded.

Finally, our oldest brother Linc, cool and cocky at 12 years old, strutted in sporting a stained white T-shirt that was way too small and cutoff jeans. He was whistling his favorite song by Herman’s Hermits, I’m Henry VIII, I Am. When Tip joined in, Linc swatted him on the back of the head.

I own that song. And you’re ruining it, Linc said, pointing his finger menacingly in Tip’s face and then grabbing him by the shoulders. Don’t ever sing it again.

Linc turned his attention to the rest of us. Nobody sings that song but me, you hear?

I started humming Linc’s tune under my breath so the others would barely hear it, but Linc glared at me until I stopped. Then he poked his finger into Tip’s chest to drive his point home.

Keep your hands off me, Tip shot back at him, swatting his finger away. You’re not the boss.

Linc’s green eyes narrowed as if he was a snake preparing to strike. My brothers locked eyes like they were about to start punching each other like they always did before Beth jumped in.

Be quiet or you’re gonna wake Mom up, she warned.

Anna took the opportunity to slide behind Beth, trying to disappear. She was always attempting to be invisible, which was a good skill to have in our house.

Linc shoved Tip, knocking him into the stove and almost spilling the hot spaghetti sauce.

You’re gonna ruin dinner! Tip shouted. Get out of my kitchen! Tip sure had a mean temper, especially when it came to his spaghetti.

I looked up at the stove, my stomach growling. The pot was boiling over, and clumps of sauce were splotching all over the floor like lava from a volcano. When a hot blob hit Messer on the forehead, she started screaming. Not knowing what to do, I dragged her into the dining room where we hid under the dinner table. I started kissing the red spots that had popped up on her skin, but she wouldn’t stop crying.

Mommy, Mommy, Mommy! she sobbed. I cradled her closer, bringing my lips close to her ear.

Shhhh, I whispered, hoping my voice didn’t sound scared. Mommy’s in her room sleeping. Please don’t wake her up. It was fine if Linc and Tip fought or Anna and Beth got caught up in it, but nobody could wake up Mom.

From under the table, I watched Linc and Tip crash into the wall with a loud bang as they wrestled each other in a tangle. Behind them, Anna clung to Beth as they both inched toward the back door.

A moment later, I smelled exhaust through the window and felt the rumble of our old ‘55 Chevy pulling into the driveway. The engine cut off and the driver’s door opened with a high-pitched creak.

Just like that, everyone else in the kitchen scattered—it reminded me of when Dad’s sister Aunt Mary Ann switched on the dim red light in our filthy basement and cockroaches ran to hide in every direction.

Anna and Beth jack-rabbited out back and hid under our grungy patio furniture. My brothers raced into the TV room and propped their feet up on the coffee table, as if they’d been sitting there quietly all afternoon watching The Three Stooges. I stayed under the dining room table with Messer, who immediately stopped crying.

Dad barreled into the kitchen, the screen door slamming behind him, and we watched his long skinny legs shuffle past the dining room table. He wore the same clothes to work every day: a pair of tan trousers that didn’t quite reach his shoes (and that showed a thin line of black sock around each of his ankles) and an old white-collared shirt with a skinny black tie. He rattled his keys like a guard in a jail.

The house got quiet except for the laugh track on TV. Messer and I were silent, frozen in our hiding spot.

Dad went straight into the TV room, and I shuffled around under the table to get a better view. Ignoring Linc and Tip, he turned off the box and put on his favorite record by Herb Alpert & the Tijuana Brass. Tinny trumpet notes filled the household and he started tapping his scuffed penny loafers along to the beat. He made his way to his worn easy chair, which was a sorry shade of beige.

Joyce, where’s my drink? He barked over the music. Dad was tall at six-foot-two, and when he sat in his chair, all you could see were spindly legs.

Snatching the newspaper from the coffee table, he pulled his trusty red pen from his pocket and uncapped it, all while chewing on a wooden matchstick resting on his lower lip. He pushed his thick black-framed glasses down to the point of his nose and disappeared behind the paper. Mom still hadn’t answered.

Dad crumpled the newsprint into his lap and flung the pen across the room, startling Linc and Tip as he stormed to the base of the stairs with a face like a tomato.

Joyce! he boomed, his voice echoing through the house.

He took another step but changed his mind and walked back into the TV room, grumbling to himself and saying cuss words. Linc picked at a scab on his ankle as Tip quietly made his way back into the kitchen to check on whatever was left of his precious sauce.

Where’d my pen go? Dad snapped.

Linc dropped to his knees to look for the pen under our decrepit couch as I heard Mom finally coming downstairs. I could smell her before I saw her: she had an overpowering scent of cheap Tigress cologne—strong enough to hide the odor of burnt spaghetti sauce. I peered out from under the table to see that Mom was still wearing her faded housecoat and dirty slippers from the morning, but she had taken the time to put on bright pink lipstick (even if it looked clumpy on her thin lips). I tried to see how she was feeling from her face—she wasn’t mad or happy. She just looked empty.

Messer and I stayed where we were, eating morsels off the floor, when I heard a sound I knew well: three ice cubes clinking against the bottom of Dad’s favorite glass before she twisted open a bottle of liquor.

Mom’s slippered feet shuffled by, and the smell of scotch burned my nose, making me gag. I turned to watch her trudge into the TV room.

"These idiot writers at The Tribune," Dad muttered, busy marking up the paper with his red pen that Linc must’ve found (What a miracle, I thought). She quietly handed the drink to Dad without a word, before turning and marching upstairs again.

You worthless bitch! he shouted at her as she kept walking. Come back down here and take care of these half-wits. They’re going to burn the house down! She didn’t change what she was doing and was upstairs again, but Dad kept hollering from his throne.

"Get dressed and bring that fat ass down here, or I’ll come up and drag you down those stairs!" I covered Messer’s ears with my hands and made silly faces at her so she would laugh, but all of the hollering made her pee and suddenly we were sitting in a warm pool of urine, and we couldn’t move without coming out of our hiding place. My stomach growled louder but I ignored it, just hoping it wasn’t loud enough to make anyone look under the table.

Tip knew to wait until Dad finished his first drink to ring the bell hanging from a chain on our closed-in porch and announce that dinner was finally ready. Dad had told us before that the bell was from the Cannon family farm by the Jordan River in South Salt Lake. He was proud that it was old and came from the 1800s, but we didn’t see why that was such a big deal—it was just a giant piece of cast iron somebody spray painted silver a long time ago.

Anna and Beth raced into the kitchen to take their seats, and from under the table, Messer and I watched their feet line up side by side. Linc sat in his place at one end of the table as Dad sat at the opposite end, his restless feet nearly kicking Messer in the head. When Mom’s slippers finally reappeared, I knew it was finally safe to come out. I pulled Messer out from under the table who was wearing nothing but urine-soaked underwear. With all my strength, I lifted her into her sticky wooden high chair—nobody helped me or cared that her underwear had left a big wet spot on my faded blue tank top. After she was in her seat, I sat down and peeked over at Mom, her eyes looking red and puffy.

Messer started climbing out of her high chair toward the comfort of Mom’s soft lap.

Put her back! Dad yelled. Mom’s face went blank as she put Messer back, staring straight ahead and saying nothing. Tip ignored the fighting and went around the table serving his spaghetti with pride (even though there was no salad or bread along with it).

As we ate dinner, Dad was in the middle of telling Linc about all the suspicious cars passing in front of our house. Nobody was feeding Messer, so I was doing it until Dad noticed that I hadn’t touched my food.

Diana! he snarled loud enough to make me drop my knife. Let Joyce feed that baby and you eat your damn dinner. Mom didn’t react. Instead, she kept putting food on her fork and lifting it to her mouth.

I’m telling you, Linc, I’ve been battling with divine manifestations, Dad said between mouthfuls. I call it The Game. All those cars driving by the house at timed intervals are spies. They’re watching me and sending messages about how I’m supposed to feel and act. A white car means I’m to feel pure; red means anger. I think they’re after me. You’re going to have to help me run this household, you know.

No one knew what to say to Dad’s ranting so we all kept eating—except for me. I just kept twirling my noodles. Suddenly, Dad whipped his head to the left toward Tip.

Non-chompus! he shouted, his teeth and jaw looking tight. It was what he always said to people who chewed loudly around him—no crunchy things were allowed around him, especially chips and carrots. Non-chompus was his warning before a backhand.

I watched as Messer snuck food to Ginger, our deaf cocker spaniel who had taken our hiding spot under the table. When the morsels stopped coming, Ginger started humping Dad’s leg.

Somebody put this goddamn dog outside, he roared as he kicked her, making her yelp. Mom slumped her shoulders and sobbed. Her tears caused a ripple effect: Mom started crying, then we four girls started crying, too. Linc and Tip’s faces looked hard, and they both drummed their fingers on the table. With tears streaming down my cheeks, I realized Mom never looked pretty anymore—she didn’t comb her hair or wear makeup like she used to. She was only 33, but she looked like a sad old grandma.

I can’t do this anymore, she mumbled. She was standing up to leave when Dad reached out to stop her and ripped the pocket off her housecoat. Mom twisted around until she got out of Dad’s grasp and ran off blubbering up the stairs.

I have valuable information that they need, Dad said to Linc as if nothing had happened. We could all still hear Mom crying upstairs as Dad twirled his spaghetti. They’re after me for sure. I had no idea what he was talking about. From everyone’s faces, nobody else did either.

Dad turned and glared at me to make sure I was eating, so I shoved a huge bite of noodles in my mouth and tried to swallow. The noodles got stuck because I swallowed too fast, and it felt like my throat was closing—and then it actually was closing and I was choking. I couldn’t breathe and thought I was going to die but no one moved to help me. Everyone was looking at their plates, away from Dad.

Just then, we heard a loud crash above us, and Dad jumped up from the table and into the hallway, skipping up two or three stairs at a time on his way to the second floor. I jumped up from the table too and over to the kitchen sink to spit out the spaghetti, coughing up what was still stuck in my throat. I started walking away when I felt sick again, so I ran back to the sink to barf up the rest of my stomach, leaving noodles everywhere.

I could still hear scuffling and arguing upstairs, plus lots of swearing and heavy thumps as furniture fell over. Then my dad shouted, What the hell are you doing?

Without cleaning up my mess, I went back to my place at the table. Everyone sat quietly, poking at their food and each other and ignoring the racket upstairs. I wondered if my parents had tipped over the vial of mercury that Dad kept hidden in the study, which was off limits to us kids. When Dad wasn’t home though, we’d sneak into the room and play with the liquid metal, squishing it with our index fingers and watching it turn into tiny silver beads that bounced across the floor. We were always in awe that it could keep coming back together like a little miracle, like it was a magical living creature.

Linc and Tip’s whispers caught my attention.

I think maybe he’s right. Maybe somebody is spying on us and tapping our phones, Tip said quietly.

Don’t be an idiot, Linc shot back. Dad works at the newspaper. What could they possibly want from him?

Since I threw everything up, I was suddenly hungry again. I wondered if any cookies had fallen behind the food drawer, which was my secret stash. While Linc and Tip argued, I snuck off into the kitchen, pulled out the heavy wooden drawer and stuck my whole arm in to feel around for anything bigger than a quarter. Finally, jackpot! There was a whole chunk of bread back there, and it was only a little stale! Without letting anybody see me, I snuck out to the back porch and climbed onto the squeaky swing, humming Linc’s forbidden Henry VIII, I Am song and enjoying my little feast.

I rocked and sang until a flood of flashing red and blue lights swept across the screened windows. Carefully stashing the last of my bread under the cushion, I raced back inside where two police officers stood in the hallway, speaking to Dad.

She was just discharged last week, Dad exclaimed, gritting his teeth and walking around in circles. He looked nervous and sweaty. I swear I’m gonna take her back to that looney bin and leave her there for good!

The younger of the two cops with a baby face tried to calm my father down. You’re not taking her anywhere, he said. You’re in no condition to drive.

The other officer was older and had a big scary nose. A moment later, he saw me peering from around the corner.

Are you okay, honey? he asked. Where’s your mommy? I pointed to the top of the stairs, and big nose ran up there to find her. After that, I heard him calling for an ambulance on his radio.

I knew those bastards were after me, Dad said, throwing his arms in the air. Fucking FBI!

Please calm down, sir, the baby face said. Dad pointed to the door.

Shut that—they can’t know what’s going on, he said. They’re trying to use this against me!

Who is, Mr. Cannon?

The house is bugged, Dad said quietly. He started reaching into his pocket when the baby face pulled out a gun and pointed it at him.

Drop to your knees! The cop yelled. Dad got down and the cop grabbed his arms and cuffed them behind his back. As the officer pulled Dad to his feet and moved him toward the front door, a stick of Wrigley’s spearmint gum fell out of Dad’s pocket.

At the top of the stairs, I saw the older cop half carrying Mom down the stairs because her legs were as limp as wet rags. He tried asking her questions, but she wouldn’t respond. All my brothers and sisters were standing right behind me scared silent as they carried her out the door. Once the door closed, everyone raced to the front window to watch except me—instead, I snatched the stick of gum off the floor and hid it in my pocket before joining them on the couch.

Linc and Beth pulled back our lace curtains so we could see better. Mom was being strapped into a bed with white sheets in the back of an ambulance. I felt a little jealous—she was going to get to sleep on clean linens! I imagined they smelled like violets, or like our Grandma Dot. My own bed upstairs had no sheets and smelled like pee. Mom almost never did laundry anymore.

Mom disappeared into the ambulance as the doors closed, but I could still see Dad’s shadow in the back of the police car, his head slumped forward. It was getting dark on Second Avenue and a few of our neighbors poked their heads and noses out their doors to see what was happening. Linc pulled Messer in close and none of us made a sound as the flashing lights swept over our faces.

As soon as the cars pulled away and the lights and noises stopped, we were all alone. After a while, when nobody was watching me, I crawled into Dad’s armchair in the corner and shoved the piece of gum in my mouth, chomping as loud as I wanted.

Chapter Two

March 1962

Mom finally came home two months after the night Tip made spaghetti and the cops showed up. Dad pulled up in his Chevy with a cigarette dangling from his mouth and got out of the car. He tried hard to pull Mom’s wheelchair out of the trunk and finally got it free just in time because I thought he couldn’t get any more frustrated without something bad happening. He unfolded it and helped Mom in without losing his cigarette the whole time.

Mom looked weird—she was old and shrunken like Mrs. Love, our 80-year-old neighbor. Her little blue suitcase rested on her lap as Dad wheeled her toward us. I was really worried.

What’s wrong with Mom? I asked Linc. He was the oldest and smartest so I thought he would have a good answer, but he didn’t say anything. All he did was stand there, silent.

After Mom’s discharge, she locked herself away in her bedroom, living like a hermit, unable to cope—and we were lucky if Grandma Dot showed up on Saturdays to help out.

Linc took charge and made a cooking schedule so we wouldn’t starve. Everyone except Messer had a weekly dinner assignment. Anna and Beth shared Wednesday, which meant frozen Morrison Meat Pies, which I hated unless it was doused in ketchup. Linc heated up canned corn and chili on Thursday, and Dad served TV dinners on Fridays. Grandma Dot brought us 25-cent Dee Burgers on Saturday afternoons, so that meant cold cereal with powdered milk at night. On Sunday, we ate soggy tuna sandwiches. I was in charge of frozen fish sticks and tater tots on Monday nights. I hated those, too, but not as much as the meat pies. Everybody (except for me, ‘cause I still choked on the noodles) looked forward to Tuesday when Tip made his special spaghetti, our only real cooked meal that didn’t come out of a box.

One afternoon, Messer and I were swinging in the backyard on our rusty play set, making up songs and listening to the birds. With our parents continuously checked out, we were easy prey. It was my job to watch Messer as usual, and I couldn’t help but admire her white, wispy blonde hair blowing in her face. She was pretty—prettier than the rest of us, with her big blue eyes and a round face. She looked like a little angel.

Mom mustered up the energy to call for Messer from the second-floor bedroom window. Messer jumped up and ran inside, leaving me alone on the creaky swing. I felt like I was going to cry, but I blinked the tears away and pulled an old Oreo out of my jumper pocket. I kept swinging, staring at my dirty bare feet. I could hear Mom softly singing a lullaby upstairs and pictured my baby sister curled up in her arms. She always chooses Messer, I thought. She’s the only one invited into Mom’s weird world.

I heard something behind me, and when I turned around to look, I saw Nasty Jim crouched in the bushes behind the fence. My family called him Nasty Jim, but I guess his real name was just Jim.

Psst! Come over here, he said. His hands were moving around in the pockets of his dirty overalls. I’ve got puppies in my house. Do you want to see them?

I jumped off the swing too fast and my cookie fell in the dirt. Everyone had warned me to stay away from him because there were a few times that Nasty Jim asked my sisters and me to pull our dresses up and our underwear down, and then he would show his ugly nasty parts to us. My stomach felt all twisted because I knew I shouldn’t be going anywhere near him, but there was nothing to do because my cookie was gone and Messer left me alone outside. And I wanted to see the puppies.

I climbed over the rusty fence and looked back at our house, secretly hoping my mother and sister might rescue me. All I saw was my half-eaten cookie in the dirt and the empty swing still swinging. The second-story window was empty, too. I kept walking toward the brown brick building in our backyard where Nasty Jim lived in the basement. I still just wanted to be curled up in bed with Mom and Messer.

When I got down there, Nasty Jim pulled a brown-and-white puppy with a wet nose out of a box and handed him to me to play with. I was glad it wasn’t a trick and that there was a cute puppy, but I had only just started petting him when to my shock I heard my mom outside.

Let me in! Let me in now! she yelled. She was pounding on Nasty Jim’s door. I know you’re in there you sick son of a bitch! If you have my daughter in there I’ll kill you! She kept banging and then pushed the door open until she was right next to us. I looked at Nasty Jim and he seemed confused about why she was so angry.

You fucking pervert! I’ll call the police! She screamed. My mom grabbed my hand and dragged me out of the house, tugging my arm so hard it hurt.

Ouch, I cried, but she didn’t seem to hear me as she was ranting and mumbling to herself. I could only make out the cuss words.

Once we were inside again, Mom shut and locked the door behind us and told me to go watch TV. Instead, I followed her upstairs quietly thinking maybe she would let me in bed with her and Messer now, but Mom shut the door and clicked the lock before I could get in. I fell down on the hardwood floor and waited. After a few moments, I crawled into a dirty laundry pile next to me and wrapped as many clothes as I could around myself. I put my fingers in my mouth like I still did sometimes from when I was really little and lay there, still as stone. I could only hear the television blasting her favorite soap opera like normal and I cried and cried until I fell asleep.

Chapter Three

June 1964

We were always hungry because Mom and Dad rarely cooked or stocked the pantry for us, or because they were gone somewhere. If we wanted to eat, we had to find food for ourselves. There was a dumpster by the fence between our house and the old apartments that my parents called The Roach Motel. One day, Messer and I were looking out the window and saw an older man throwing garbage in the dumpster. We waited until he went away to come up with a plan. We tied our sheets and blankets into a rope, just like I had seen on TV a few times. I tied one side of the rope inside the room to the leg of our bed and threw the other part out of the window so I could climb down from the second-story window against the brick wall. When my bare feet hit the fence, I balanced one foot on it and put the other on the edge of the dumpster, being careful not to fall in.

I held onto the rope with my left hand and dug in the trash—and found an unopened package of Oscar Mayer bologna! I climbed back up the rope into our bedroom (it was a lot harder on the way back up) while Messer kept watch and held tight to the sheets, struggling to hold my weight.

We were so excited to open the package, even though the meat smelled kind of funny. Still, it was good enough. We dug in Messer’s closet for the light blue Easy Bake Oven she got for Christmas one year and turned it on so we could cook the bologna. Through the tiny window of the toy oven, we watched the meat curl up into little bowls—and when it came out, it tasted so good that we ate the whole package in one sitting.

A friendly Hispanic family with a lot of kids lived across the street from our house, and one of the daughters named Eva was my friend. She was the same age as me and I was jealous of her long beautiful black hair, so I pretended not to notice that she smelled kind of