Disclaimer: Some names and identifying characteristics of some of the people

mentioned in this book have been changed in an effort to minimize

intrusions on or protect their privacy.

Copyright © 2011 by Libre Diem, LLC

All rights reserved.

Published in the United States by Crown Publishers, an imprint of the Crown
Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.
www.crownpublishing.com

CROWN and the Crown colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon request.

ISBN 978-0-307-59213-2
eISBN 978-0-307-59215-6

Printed in the United States of America

Book design by Gretchen Achilles

Jacket design by David Tran
Jacket photograph by Deborah Feingold

1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2

first ed ition

Lann_9780307592132_4p_all_r1.indd iv 12/16/10 7:59 AM

 Second Chance

A second chance was never sup-

posed to happen to me. I had a lif e sentence without the possibility
of parole, yet in one ma gical stroke of a pen, the gover nor of Mis -
souri, Matthew Blunt, ordered that the pr ison gates be opened f or
me. A fter eig hteen y ears, I was allowed t o be S tacey Ann L annert
instead of Offender #85704.
I’ll never c ompletely shed the number , but I did star t over. The
real world was pur e ma gic. On the outside, I sa w mir acles ever y-
where: birds clustered in trees, snowflakes sticking to my windshield,
a crossing guard guiding children across the int ersection. I sa w my
breath as it hit the c old air outside. I don’t ge t stunned easily , but
seeing my reflection in a mirror did the trick.
Beginning at age eighteen, I spent a total of eighteen years locked
up. At least the numbers ar e neat and tidy , because the r est was a
mess. The trouble started in 1980 at age eight. In 1990, life as I knew
it ended, for better and for worse. I had c ommitted murder, ending
the lif e of m y sexually abusive father . My personal time war p had
begun.
Under incar ceration, a punishment I believe I deser ved, I was
sealed off in a world wher e hugs were not allowed, and the Int ernet
had never been in vented. I couldn’t ima gine a phone with no cor d
that fit in a pocket . I lived in a universe wher e I wasn’t allowed t o
talk, walk , or pee without speci al r ules and per mission. My dr ab,
worn-out clothes had t o be appr oved. A gour met meal was a can of
Hormel beef chili, and I had t o make sure I could afford to buy it. In
the be ginning of m y sent ence, m y mind was t oo numb t o cr y and

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 2 S TA CE Y L A NNE RT

too shut off t o care. I c ould check in and out of m y emotions as if

they were library books. To me, sadness and happiness wer e all the
same. The jail of my own making—before and after I committed the
crime—was as bleak as the one I was locked up in. My pr ison bars
were ironclad, emotionally and physically.
Fast forward to February 2009. I was thirty-six, and the bars had
been completely removed. I’d been shown an act of mercy and grace.
I had been deliver ed fr om sin. I had sacr ificed all of m y adult lif e
purely in hopes of this redemption.
If I am fit for forgiveness, I want to live a wor thy life. I just have
to figure out how t o make m y wa y in this world. Get a job . B uy a
car. Figure out how to use a cell phone, not to mention how to text.
When did or dering coffee get so c omplicated? And wh y would an y-
one want to eat raw fish with rice?
The first time I walked int o a depar tment store after my release,
for example, I was so over whelmed that I be gan to sweat. I usually
like to sweat—I teach step class —just not while shopping . Fabrics
came in mor e colors and patt erns than an L SD tr ip. The sig ns and
sales and people bumped int o me in ever y aisle. I needed br as, but
the store was the size of a football field.
I left.
I decided I would have to live, once again, without the basic items
I needed.
During my eighteen years in pr ison, shopping was sparse. I sub-
mitted a shor t list t o the pr ison staffers whenever I want ed shoes,
shirts, Hormel chili, or whatever. I paid for my goods because all pris-
oners have jobs, albeit with r idiculously low wages. In a f ew days or
months, I’d go to a window, and workers would shove my order back
at me. It wasn’t even a st ore. The system was limited, and it sucked.
But at least it was simple. I longed f or more choices, and when I fi-
nally had them, I panicked.
I asked for help.
My mom volunteered to go shopping with me. It was a warm ges-
ture, because we didn’t shop t ogether when I was g rowing up. S he
was always at school, at work , or on the phone with a fr iend. A s a

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 RE DE MPT ION 3

preteen, I picked out my own hair spray and headbands. Eventually, I

bought most of the groceries, too. I used to shop a lot then, so what
was my problem? I was going to figure it out.
With Mom.
A fresh start.
We br owsed the aisles in a big W almart. A fter fifteen minutes,
she saw me sweating a gain, and she t ook action. I needed only two
bras, and ther e were about 250,000 t o choose fr om. The garments
came with ad justable straps I’d never seen be fore. Some didn’t ha ve
straps at all. They all promised miracles—perfect fits, lifts, pure com-
fort, flexibility, and control. Meanwhile, I didn’t even know m y size.
When I was in pr ison, I wore only spor ts bras. Every time I or dered
regular ones, they never fit r ight. I f I or dered a small spor ts bra—
just about any kind—I’d be all set.
My mom sa w m y e yes spinning . In two minut es, she d ashed
around and br ought back five choices f or me. S he held up the br as
and ask ed me t o choose on e. I c ould br eathe. I st opped sw eating.
Five bras were doable; 250,000 wer e a panic attack . I picked one I
liked; it didn’t work. I went to the next option; it was not so good ei-
ther. After three tries, we had a winner. Happiness was a bra that fit.
Then I glanced into the full-length mirror.
I froze. I stared. I had not seen my body since I was a teenager. We
did not have full-length mirrors in the maximum-security state peni-
tentiary. Primping wasn’t exactly a priority. In all that time, I hadn’t
thought much about how I looked. W ho was I going t o impr ess?
Prison guards, prisoners, or occasional visitors? Finally, at that mo-
ment, my looks mattered. I was thirty-six, and I wanted to see me.
Was that me?
Really?
How had some plac es gone soft when the y used t o be har d? My
waist was squishier , and so wer e m y thig hs and br easts. Ma ybe if
I’d seen m y body even one time in the last decade, the difference
wouldn’t have been so drastic. I wanted to cry, and I felt tears coming
on in the back of my eyes. I stopped myself, though.
This —everything—was ridiculous.

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 4 S TA CE Y L A NNE RT

My mom was standing outside the dr essing room. A fter a long

silence, she peeked in t o check on me. S he r ead m y fac e, and she
was quiet for a few seconds. Then she said, “ We all ge t older and go
through changes.” As she closed the curtain again, she added, “Things
sag.”
“I had no idea I’ d get old in pr ison,” I said, only half -joking. My
friends used to say that prison preserves a person—an inmate’s body
doesn’t get abused by alc ohol, drugs, late nights, and other people.
My friends had been wrong.
I couldn’t get sad. I wouldn’t allow it; I was free. There was no de-
nying that while my world stood still, my body had grown older. But
my body had also grown up, and my mind had grown wise.
Even though I’ve alwa ys been five feet, two inches and athletic ,
my middle had taken on a touch of fat. As a certified fitness instruc-
tor, I kne w I’d have to exercise five hours a d ay to get r id of it . If I
were still incarcerated, I could find those hours—and more—to work
out. B ut then I would not ha ve a full-leng th mir ror t o admir e m y
tummy. I kne w which option was bett er. I would love m y flab and
French fries too—we weren’t allowed to have them in prison.
Most impor tant, aft er so man y y ears, I would love m y mother.
She’s the only parent I have.
Clemency had g ranted me a deep look at m yself—in a mir ror.
I thoug ht about m y life’s jour ney. How did I get her e? I wonder ed
where God would lead me nex t. I planned t o use all that I’ d learned
to make my world, and the world ar ound me, a better place. If I was
worthy of a second chance, I hoped I could fulfill that promise. Could
I finally become the person I dreamed of being?
I was set free on January 16, 2009.
I was given a shot at r edemption, and I didn’t int end to waste it.
My life would have meaning; I would make sure of that.
I am living proof that anyone—even a convicted felon sentenced
to life in pr ison without par ole—can walk a spir itual journey. I am
proof that people can change. I am pr oof that people can lear n and
love and keep on living . Even the most tr oubled person can tr ans-

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 RE DE MPT ION 5

form her life, just as an artist can turn raw materials into an entirely
new creation. A glassblower, through persistence, care, and skill, can
convert a few shards of glass into a gleaming thing of beauty. Not a
lightweight, fragile object, but a well-formed, solid work of art worth
saving, collecting, and protecting.
We are all worth saving and protecting.

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 I n the B e g i nn i ng

M ost people do not take an-

other person’ s lif e. The act is ug ly, off limits , appr opriate only in
scary movies. B ut many people do use the wor ds, “I’m going t o kill
you.” A wif e might say it t o a husband when he br ings home a ne w
Ford tr uck without ask ing. A father mig ht sa y it t o a son aft er he
wrecks that new truck. The words are normal when they’re meaning-
less. Thankfully, the line “I’ll kill you” isn’t usually backed up by much
threat.
Usually.
But what about when those words are said to a woman or girl who
is in pain? A g irl who is abused? A g irl who is told she is a worthless
whore almost ever y d ay of her lif e? I was that g irl. The threat, “B e
quiet, or I’ll kill you,” was real. So I stayed quiet. I made as little noise
as possible almost all of the time. At the same time, my shame, isola-
tion, and rage built up over the years while I prayed for an end to my
problems. I prayed to be left alone, to be left unviolated for any short
length of time. People like me are the caged birds.
My cage was my house.
My cage was my own bed.
Ending a life is the most grisly, uncivilized way of solving a prob-
lem. But it doesn’t happen in a vacuum when other wise sane people
are involved. Instead, tension builds over time in a domestic pr es-
sure cooker. Is my abuser going t o push too hard the nex t time and
kill me? S hould I k ill m yself so I don’t ha ve t o f eel the hur t an y-
more?
To people with these ex periences, killing is r eal. Anyone can be

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 RE DE MPT ION 7

dead with the snap of the fingers. More often than not, victims con-
sider suicide. But sometimes—guilt-ridden—we fantasize about the
deaths of our abusers. W e don’t necessarily want to do it ourselv es.
In our fantasies , he goes quick ly in a car cr ash; it makes sense be-
cause he dr ives drunk all the time. O r maybe he star ts a fight with
someone who actually can—and does—kick his ass. But what if, hy-
pothetically thinking , the abuser gets int o a fight with his victim,
and she magically overpowers him and gets a way? She runs off to a
happier life where she can get a full nig ht’s rest. She goes to a place
where shadows don’t scar e her half t o death. In dr eams, that sc e-
nario could be true.
In r eality, over powering a str ong man usually takes a weapon.
So the h ypothesizing continues: What if, in some wa y, she’s able t o
get that weapon? W hat if she uses it ? What if she k ills him herself ?
That’s how the words “I’ll kill you” become warped reality.
Women ar en’t known f or homicides —according t o the Justic e
Department, f emales c ommit only 10 per cent of mur ders. W hen
they do kill, they take the life of an intimate partner or family mem-
ber one-third of the time. Cr iminology researchers have found that
women usually didn’t mean t o do the cr ime; they didn’t even think
they were capable, and the y didn’t plan their attack s for more than
a few seconds. Male mur derers more commonly act deliber ately in-
stead of impulsively. They know exactly what is about to happen long
in advance. Men don’t disassoci ate from their cr imes, either. But a
woman, especially a victim of abuse, may not remember exactly how
she did it. If she remembers clearly, she can’t find breath—only bile
rising in her chest . She’ll have a panic attack or a br eakdown. She’s
in too much pain over what she did—and why she did it—to remem-
ber the details , according to researcher Jack Levin at N ortheastern
University. More often than not , women k ill because the y’re afraid
they’ll be killed.
Most people don’t have these thoughts about death, but I did for
most of my life.

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 8 S TA CE Y L A NNE RT

Killing is best le ft to animals like the bald ea gle. They must hunt t o
feed themselves and their young, and they do not have to be taught.
My hometown of St. Louis is known for the bald eagles in the winter-
time. People don’t realize it, but Missouri can be c old. We get snow,
ice, and sleet. That’s when the eagles appear.
Snow days away from school were fun for most kids. But as I grew
older, they were less ex citing for me. S taying home was not a v aca-
tion; it was often a punishment. I wanted to be a bald eagle—big and
strong with a shar p, pointy beak f or protection. I wished f or wings
to take me t o some other plac e during the different seasons. W hen
it was c oldest outside, I’ d catch sig ht of them near the Mississippi
River. The birds liked to hang out in the areas surrounding its muddy
waters. Apparently, that’s the best place to find food and build nests
in sy camore tr ees. B ald ea gles hunt fish, r eptiles, mammals , and
human picnic food. They don’t care if the food is dead or alive when
they swoop down with their lethal talons. They learn how t o adapt
and survive. These muscular creatures are tough, scrappy scavengers.
When I was a k id, they were on the end angered species list . So if I
caught sight of one, I was excited.
If I had been a different kid with a different family, I would have
seen the ea gle as noble in a patr iotic way. I would ha ve focused on
its pluma ge and beauty inst ead of on how the a wesome cr eature
managed to stay alive. I saw the bird as a tough victim of our human
invasion—clawing and clut ching for its sur vival. That’s exactly how
I felt I lived, t oo, from age nine on ward. With so much taken a way
from me, I wasn’t fr ee to think about k ickball and BFFs and br ace-
lets made out of embroidery floss. I took refuge in sports, and in my
imagination. I found comfort in our cat , Buttercup; my dog, Prince;
the track team; and my schoolwork.
Before a ge eig ht, my life was wa y better. I sa w the ea gles more
innocently. I smiled mor e oft en because I want ed t o—not just f or
other people ’s ben efit. B orn on Ma y 28, 1972, just outside of S t.
Louis, Missouri, I was a happy baby with a sta y-at-home mom who
loved me and took care of me. I had a dad who came home after work,
though he was often studying, tucked away behind his office door.

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 RE DE MPT ION 9

My mom held everything together for as long as she could.

She was used t o life’s difficulties—she’d g rown up with enoug h
of them. Her maiden name was Debor ah Paulson, and she was bor n
on October 17, 1951, in Gr anite City, Illinois. She was the oldest of
five k ids, and she longed t o lea ve the r ural c ountryside wher e she
grew up. The first house she remembers had two bedrooms. The kids
shared one, and her par ents shared the other . W hen my mom was
seven, she came down with rheumati c fever and was in the hospital
for a long str etch. Then she had t o stay out of school f or more than
a year. She had to take it easy and c ouldn’t even walk to the second
floor of the house. She slept on a rollaway bed in the living room. Her
mom brought her a bedpan because the house ’s one bathr oom was
upstairs. The doctor said Debbie would never ha ve children, and she
might even come down with the dreaded rheumatic fever again later
in life. With great worry and care, my grandmother waited on Debbie
hand and foot. During that time my grandmother was really good to
my mother.
Debbie recovered fully and t ook on r esponsibilities of her own.
She was oft en in charge of her siblings , especi ally the littlest one,
Deanna, who was thir teen y ears y ounger. B y then, the family had
moved int o a thr ee-bedroom house closer t o the small downt own.
They needed t o be near m y g randfather’s work . Debbie was just
happy she had fewer siblings to bunk with in a slig htly larger house.
Privacy was another matt er—she still hoped f or more of that . B ut
her family was what it was. They had r ules, like the y stuck together
no matter what. Debbie’s parents were strict, and it wasn’t easy f or
Debbie to be herself, to have friends, and to get out.
My maternal grandfather was R ichard Paulson. My mother t old
me his story. He grew up picking cotton in Pearl, Mississippi, along-
side his mother. He had t o quit school t o earn money when he was
in the eighth grade. The oldest of eight children, he became the man
of the house when his own father, a drunk, walked out on the family.
Richard led a tough life with one goal: survival. When he grew up he
headed to Illinois, looking for better work. He landed in Granite City,
the small town just outside St. Louis that my grandmother, Marilyn,

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 10 S TA CE Y L A NNE RT

called home. Mar ilyn was the baby in a family that included seven
children. By the time she was six , her father had hit the road, so she
barely kne w him. R ichard and Mar ilyn had a lot in c ommon. They
both craved a bond the y didn’t get g rowing up, and the y both knew
that sur viving in this world was har d, and t ook hard work. Neither
had gotten a pr oper education. Marilyn dropped out of hig h school
for Richard, skipping her senior year. She married him when she was
seventeen on October 27, 1950. They shared the notion that a mar -
riage should stay together no matter what. A man should alwa ys be
in the family. A couple should never, under any circumstances, aban-
don their children.
Richard had strong opinions about things, too, and he was tough
on his childr en, especially Debbie. O ne of R ichard’s younger sisters
had gotten pregnant as a teenager, which had been a great source of
shame and embarrassment for him. As a result, even at age eighteen,
Debbie was not allowed t o go out on the weekends without speci al
permission. And she was rarely allowed to go out on both Friday and
Saturday nig hts—she had t o pick one activity and sta y home the
next night with her parents. That was only proper. After all, she was
the oldest, and it was up to her to set a good example for the others.
But some of the r ules made absolut ely no sense. F or example, Deb-
bie was allowed t o close the bathr oom door, but she c ouldn’t lock it
when she showered. She surely wasn’t allowed to say no to her father
for an y r eason. H e ga ve her c ountless bloody noses with the back
of his hand. One time, the last slic e of pie in the house had disap-
peared. Richard lined up the childr en—Daniel, Daphne, Derek, and
Debbie—and demanded t o k now who had eat en it . No one owned
up, so he beat each of them with a belt until one of them claimed
guilt. Then that child got dr agged down t o the basement and was
beaten worse.
He might use and abuse his d aughters, but no one else w ould—
Richard was fiercely protective of his family. It wouldn’t be a surprise
to see him sitting on the front porch with a gun if any of his children
were ever threatened.
Despite his st ernness, R ichard was not a larger -than-life per -

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 RE DE MPT ION 11

sonality. He was tall and thin, even thoug h he liked t o eat. He was
actually a sh y, soft-spoken man who didn’t ha ve much of a lif e out-
side of his two oc cupations: cotton picker and local tr uck driver. He
didn’t have a lot of soci al skills, and he was self -conscious about his
eighth-grade education. The only time he could really talk was when
he drank beer—then he could be funnier, more opinionated, and feel
more important. So he star ted going t o the ta vern, where he c ould
become a whole ne w person, mor e and mor e often. He’d also dr ink
simply to relax after a har d d ay of work . To Mar ilyn’s dismay, he ’d
come home drunk. The drinking repulsed my mother as well. To this
day, she can’t stand alcohol. She especially cannot stand the smell of
beer; it makes her sick.
Richard started sexually abusing D ebbie when she was thir teen.
Mom didn’t tell me about specific incidents, but I overheard the con-
versations she had with my dad. Over the years, I picked up on what
happened t o her. S he ev entually w ent public with the abuse in an
affidavit to support my legal case.
She stated in an affidavit that Grandpa Paulson had fondled her.
He might have abused his other daughters, too; I’m not sure what he
did to each one. I do know my mother suffered at his hands from the
time she was thirteen until she started dating my father. My mother
was so ashamed she didn’t even t ell her closest sist er. Years lat er,
they confessed to each other and found out their f ather had abused
them simultaneously.
When Mom was sixteen, all of the children were sleeping on pal-
lets in the living r oom because their bedr ooms were too hot—there
was no air c onditioning. Richard crept over t o her and star ted fon-
dling her.
“Stop it, Dad!” she yelled. “Stop!”
Marilyn woke up and asked her husband what was going on.
“Nothing,” he said.
Marilyn asked Debbie for an explanation.
“Dad won’t lea ve me alone. H e keeps t ouching me, ” she said,
crying.
At those words, Richard jerked my mother up from the prone po-

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 12 S TA CE Y L A NNE RT

sition and hit her as har d as he could in the face. He flew into a vio-
lent rage, and Marilyn ran next door to the neighbor’s house, where
the police were called. Debbie suffered a black e ye, dislocated shoul-
der, and swollen jaw. The police did not question Debbie, and Richard
convinced the c ops that he had been so violent only because some-
one had slipped a mickey in his dr ink at the lodge. Mar ilyn believed
her husband.
But Mom and her siblings kne w better. Richard was mean. Mari-
lyn could see the physical violence, but what about the sexual abuse?
I know my mother told her about everything when she was an adult
and could finally speak the wor ds. Mar ilyn said, “I wish y ou would
have t old me sooner .” Mar ilyn, who was shor t and pr etty, put up
with a lot fr om her husband. The drinking was bad. B ut the sexual
abuse going on under her r oof was nev er acknowledged. S he knew
about some of the fondling because the girls complained to her, even
as k ids. B ut because alle gations wer en’t made— the wor ds “I am
being molested” were never spoken— the situation c ould be quie tly
ignored. Marilyn always excused Richard’s advances, saying, “Dad is
just like that.”
Marilyn didn’t have the time to fuss and fret. By this time, she had
five kids to take care of, and when money got tight, she got a job in a
department store in Granite City to help out. She was a busy person.
My mom sa ys Mar ilyn would ir on clothes in the k itchen while she
served her kids breakfast. She washed clothes with a wringer washer
long after many mothers had ma chines. Debbie remembers hearing
about how Marilyn climbed to the roof of their two-bedroom house
to drive nails int o some loose shing les when she was eig ht months
pregnant. She did what she thought needed to be done.
Debbie was r eady t o ge t out . And she did. S he attr acted men
easily—she was cute, with her dusty blond hair, green eyes, and thin,
womanly body. She’s five feet, two inches tall and back then weighed
barely a hundr ed pounds. I t’s t oo bad she alwa ys thoug ht she was
ugly. More proof that she wasn’t : she got asked out on d ates often,
despite being allowed only one date per weekend. Men liked her soft,
gentle v oice, a v oice that was understanding and submissive. That

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 RE DE MPT ION 13

voice could be both quietly disagreeable and flirty. She was feisty and
vulnerable wrapped into a kind package. It was no accident that she
ended up with my father.
They met when she was eighteen. He was twenty-three, and they
both worked at General American Life Insurance in St. Louis. She was
a transcriber and copy girl, and he, Thomas Lannert, was on his way
to becoming an actuar y. My father was sitting with his work buddy
when he first saw her acr oss the c ompany cafeteria. He nudged his
friend and said, “That’s the woman I’m going t o marry.” After that,
he never stopped believing that my mother was beautiful. He used to
sit me on his lap and get wistful talk ing about her. He probably told
me the st ory of meeting her a hundr ed times. F orever in his mind,
other women would pale in comparison to Debbie.
The way she t ells the st ory about the d ay the y met is a bit dif -
ferent: she certainly saw Tom wave at her that d ay at work , but she
smiled back because she thought his friend was cute.
In her eyes, Tom was just okay at first. He wore these baggy flan-
nel pants with pleats in the fr ont. He was disting uished and hand-
some, but Debbie thought he really needed to learn how to dress. His
clothes were put together, but in an old-man k ind of way. He always
wore a mustache, too, which made him look even older—much older
than the mere five years that separated them.
He’d often come by her desk in the copy room and ask her to copy
pages for him. He’d also dictate letters to clients and bring them over
to Debbie on little r ed disks for transcription. She’d call him on the
company phone when his documents wer e ready. One day, he asked
her if she’d like to have a cup of coffee.
Debbie said no. First of all, she was in the middle of a tr anscrip-
tion. And second, she just didn’t drink coffee. Five minutes later, my
mother told a coworker what had happened. Her friend nudged her,
saying, “Ma ybe y ou c ould ha ve said y ou’d like some hot choc olate
some other time. ” Then it d awned on Debbie that he seemed nice.
But then a gain, she just didn’t dr ink coffee. And what about those
ugly pants?
My dad never took no for an answer.

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 14 S TA CE Y L A NNE RT

He asked her out a second time, and she told him, “I have a previ-
ous commitment.” Debbie ex plained that she had a d ate with a boy
on Friday, and she just c ouldn’t commit to anything on Saturday. It
was all true—she just didn’t tell him that she had t o get special per-
mission from her par ents to go out twic e on a sing le weekend. S he
didn’t even k now if her par ents would allow it if she asked. Debbie
told Tom she’d let him know. It turned out that her parents did allow
the d ate, and m y parents went t o dinner that Satur day evening in
August of 1970. She found out he’d already been in the Marines, that
his brother had died a few years back, and that he had gone to Tahiti
after college graduation. She was impressed. And he was handsome,
with deep, shocking blue eyes.
They had been together just three months when Tom asked her to
marry him. Debbie had want ed to wait—to get to know him a little
better. But he kept pushing the issue. He said he had to get married
quickly because he was tr ying to get his f ellowship in the Society of
Actuaries. That meant he’d be able to get his license and practice. The
society offered the test only every six months, and he had just failed
one. He told Debbie he just c ouldn’t keep going on like this because
he had t o study so much. Flir ting with her and wor rying about her
made him too distracted to pass. He needed to focus for three to four
hours every night. He just couldn’t afford to fail the next test, he told
Debbie. If he failed, it would be her fault , and he had a whole car eer
riding on this.
So they had t o get married. Debbie said the y could tie the k not
in June of 1971. Tom said it had t o be that N ovember. She thought
they would end up married anyway, so she obliged; their anniversary
date was November 27, 1970.
Debbie believed she was in love with him. A fter all, T om didn’t
seem to be anything like Richard Paulson; he was a heck of a lot nicer.
Her dad was a country man with backward beliefs and a vicious mean
streak; Tom was worldly and smar t. He was sweet about things. H e
had the kind of charisma that could make a person think the sky was
not blue but fluorescent pink. Best of all, he knew what he wanted to

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 RE DE MPT ION 15

do with his lif e. Tom L annert was mor e determined and ambitious
than any man she’d ever met.
He was a heck of a lot bett er than what she had g rown up with.
She c ouldn’t take the fights, housew ork, dr inking, and abuse a t
home. She had wanted out of her dad’s house since she was thirteen.
When she f ound an educat ed boyfriend, she wr ote to her c ousin in
Mississippi that Tom was her “knight in shining armor.”
Her knight was in love with her . But Debbie hadn’t fallen madly,
head-over-heels for him like so man y other women had. N aturally,
the more she held back , the mor e he want ed her. S he didn’t mind
giving him a har d time. F or one, she want ed him t o wear different
clothes. And she didn’t like an y dr inking; she want ed a man who
could provide for his family . She voiced her opinion as needed—in
her soft, gentle voice. That soft voice meant business.
Her one dr eam in life was for joy. She hoped t o get mar ried and
have children and live happily ever af ter, like in a fair y tale. S he ad-
mired Tom’s intellect and dr ive; he was look ing at five years of dif -
ficult actuarial tests. My mother did everything a dutiful wife should
do. She picked out stylish suits and took those suits to the dry clean-
ers. She did their g rocery shopping, laundry, and ever y other chor e
while Tom pored over math equation s. He’d come home fr om work
to their two-bedroom apartment in St. Louis, eat dinner, then sit at
his desk to study. Tom would disappear into a world of statistics and
financial theor y. A ll she had t o do was chor es. S he quick ly became
lonely—and bored. When she complained, he told her she should go
back to school. At the time, she wasn’t int erested. She said studying
wasn’t easy f or her like it was f or him. Ma ybe she ’d a ttend college
later. In the meantime, there was something else she wanted.
She wanted a baby.
He told her oka y. But he point ed out that he had never want ed
kids until he me t Debbie. He would oblige f or her. He reminded her
that she was lucky she had said y es to that sec ond date. He said he
wouldn’t have asked for a third.
Defying her childhood doct or’s predictions, my mother had me

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 16 S TA CE Y L A NNE RT

without c omplications. S he was twenty -one y ears old when I was

born in Ma y of 1972. I was going t o be called Lisa Mar ie, but the
Presleys got t o that name first. My mom had been lobbying f or the
name Case y, but m y d ad said no—I was a baby and not a do g. He
really liked the t ough, troubled male act or Stacy Keach, but he sa w
the name Stacy as too masculine. It was Grandma Lannert who sug-
gested Stacey with an e. She said the prettiest girl in her school went
by that name. So the matter was settled. If I’d been a boy, I would’ve
been Scott Thomas.
Even after she got her wish for a baby, my mom was always yearn-
ing for something mor e, never qui te knowing what that something
was. That yearning was apparent to me from the time I could remem-
ber, but only in a f oggy little-kid kind of way. I sensed one thing in-
stinctively: Tom loved her more than she loved him.
When I was young, she was a great mom, but I don’t think my par-
ents ever had a great marriage. In the beginning, they had stretches
where the y got along . B ut the y bicker ed fr om as far back as I can
remember. She was usually upset because he was gone so much, and
they fought about his dr inking, which continued despite her earlier
insistence. I found it all very confusing.
I saw her cook, clean, shop, and do all the typical domestic chores.
She didn’t go out and par ty or r un ar ound with her fr iends. S he
wasn’t unhappy then, but she wasn’t completely satisfied either. She
loved learning, and she liked teaching, too. She taught me the ABCs
by age two. She showed me how t o write my telephone number and
name by a ge three. I could read before age four. My early education
was thank s t o her dedication. Dur ing her y ears of being a house-
wife, Mom made baby books for me, and later for my younger sister,
Christy. She took us to those baby swimming classes. I ha ve memo-
ries of a water-skiing trip with her when I was four, and Christy was
almost three. W hen I see the phot os, I bar ely recognize us because
we look so happy. Momma—that’s what I called her—taught us how
to be t ough and stand up f or ourselves. S he always said, “Anything
boys can do, g irls can do bett er.” We had all of her att ention in the

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 RE DE MPT ION 17

early years. I wish we c ould have frozen time and just sta yed in that
place forever.

My dad, Thomas Lannert, was twenty -six when I was bor n. He was
five feet nine and trim then, though he’d balloon up to three hundred
pounds and then back t o normal as I g rew up. He was strong and in
good shape. H e was handsome, with a pr ominent nose and str ong
chin. He had a warm laugh and was bursting with charm. He wore his
sandy brown hair with side chops in the 1980s. He had beautiful blue
eyes that could melt or destroy me—it was his choice. He was the fun
parent who would thr ow us way up in the air and cat ch us when we
came back down. H e would hold me on his lap f or hours—late into
the night—just talking and wat ching T V and being silly . We stayed
up late together even when I was really little. He held me all the time
when he finished work or studying.
My mom had the k ind of int elligence that c omes from years of
being in charge of her own large—and largely dysfunctional—family.
My dad was just plain smart. He made high grades at Missouri State
University and was a proud alumnus. He liked to watch Mizzou foot-
ball games and root for the Tigers. He studied math and decided he’d
use it f or an actuar ial career. An actuar y uses c omplicated math t o
predict good and bad out comes, mostly bad. A ctuaries help c ompa-
nies save money by figuring out their risks. For example, does it cost
more to deal with the r isk or t o prevent the r isk in the first place?
Most actuaries, including my father, work for insurance companies.
For instance, they compute how many people are likely to die, called
mortality tables, or how man y houses ar e likely t o bur n down in a
given time frame. The work is more complicated than that, of course,
but he alwa ys had a job with good pa y. He easily tack led math that
was too challenging for most people. He seemed to like his work, but
despite his success, this wasn’t the career path he had planned.
He wanted to fly planes and helic opters, but he had a c ondition
called night blindness. He would never be allowed to man an aircraft,

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and he was always resentful of that fact. At age eighteen, he wanted

to be like his older brother and join the militar y. Tom chose the Ma-
rines. His br other B ill, the uncle I never met , was in the air f orce.
They both want ed to ser ve their c ountry dur ing the Vietnam W ar.
They hoped to protect our freedom, show their patr iotism, and play
with g uns. B ut things went badly . W hile on active duty , Uncle B ill
was swimming recreationally and suffered an aneurysm. He was in a
coma for seventy-two days. The family st ood by his bedside all that
time, completely devastated. No amount of pr aying could help B ill.
He didn’t make it.
My father was still in basic tr aining, and he really didn’t want to
be there. He was discovering that the militar y wasn’t ever ything he
thought it would be. He just didn’t like living by other people’s rules.
As he pr epared for Bill’s funeral, he decided he wouldn’t go back t o
basic training.
The funeral was not without dr ama. The whole family was ther e.
After the bur ial, m y pat ernal g randmother, Una Mae L annert, ut -
tered these words to Tom: “Bill was always your father’s favorite son.”
Maybe she hadn’t meant t o be evil, but her wor ds plant ed evil
seeds in him. I believe she just wanted Tom to love her more than he
loved his dad. My grandparents’ marriage was deeply troubled. I can
only guess that these wer e not the first unhealthy, unloving wor ds
my grandmother said to my dad. And it wasn’t the first time Tom felt
completely let down by his father.
As far back as I r emember, m y g randfather, K en L annert, was
a nice, loving man. Like Mae, he g rew up in Eminenc e, Missouri, a
southern town with fewer than five hundred people. He was an only
child, and short, but he was not poor. Quite the contrary—he was a
brilliant, educated man from a decent background.
Mae was several years older than Ken, and she was several inches
taller. At age twenty-four, Mae married Ken after his mother passed
away. Grandma Lannert once told my mother that she mar ried Ken
because she felt sorry for him. She pitied him for losing his mom and
for being so shor t. But Mae also radically changed her quality of lif e
when she married Kenneth Lannert. She had grown up the oldest of

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 RE DE MPT ION 19

eight kids in a two-r oom cabin with a dir t floor. Once she mar ried
my grandfather, she became well-to-do. As a young woman, she wore
tasteful yet saucy black dresses. She was always stylish, and her hair
was always done. She even got herself the most popular house of the
time. It was c ommon back then f or couples to buy kit homes fr om
stores like Sears and Roebuck and build their own dwellings. Mae
and K en spent $12,000 f or their r ed br ick cottage and settled in a
nice St. Louis neighborhood called St. John. They finished it by 1941
or 1942. I sta yed in that house man y times; it was a plac e I loved
dearly.
In that home, m y grandparents’ marriage was r ife with sadness
and pr oblems. Their first child, Mar y, ar rived with the umbilical
cord wrapped around her n eck twice. If the dea th of their d aughter
wasn’t hear tbreaking enoug h, Mae c ouldn’t hide her f eelings—or
lack ther eof—for K en. S he t old m y mother she had never been in
love with him.
She gave him a hard time about his job, thoug h it provided them
with mone y. K en was an eng ineer. H e desig ned assembly line ma-
chines f or H ostess and other big c ompanies. H e tr aveled ever y
Sunday through Friday evening, as he had to be on site while his cre-
ations were being built , used, and ser viced. In the limit ed time he
was home, he headed int o the basement t o tinker. He made tr ans-
mitters and r adios and other gadgets in the basement of the br ick
house he built himself. He smoked pipes filled with cherry tobacco.
He and Mae lived in that house until they died.
Mae couldn’t get used t o Ken’s work schedule. R aising two boys
was hard, and she didn’t like doing it alone all week long . She’d tell
her sons that Ken could’ve chosen to work closer to their home in St.
Louis, but instead wanted to be away from them and t o travel a lot.
Tom loved his father, and he wanted love in return. He felt he wasn’t
getting it , so he g rew up r esenting K en tr emendously. I t was bad
enough that Ken wasn’t around for track meets and baseball games.
Mae’s words, he chose a job requiring travel, stung worse.
While Ken was a way, Mae believed he was cheating on her . She
was probably r ight. A family st ory is that when K en had a bad car

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accident, there was another lady in the car with him. H e de fended
himself, sa ying he was just tak ing her home fr om a par ty. N o one
believed that, though. Mae would sometimes threaten to leave Ken,
but Tom would tell her to stay. Tom told Mae he would never speak
to her again if she ever left Ken.
My mother believes that Grandma Lannert did a lot of psycholog-
ical damage to my father. Mae didn’t int end to enrage my father or
make him a monster. She wasn’t a consciously cruel person; she was
just desperate for her sons t o love her. From the rumors I’ve always
heard, her mar riage c ertainly wasn’t satisf ying. And f or what ever
reason, she needed Tom to be totally dependent on her. She smoth-
ered him, and he was her baby . Tom grew up mad at his father and
spoiled by his mother.
I don’t know why my grandmother did the things she did—I saw
only the wonder ful side of her . Gr andma L annert was the sweet -
est person; she was like an older , wiser mother and I loved her ver y
much. I called her Mee Maw and my grandpa Paw Paw.
When I was older, I recognized her fierce and frequent manipula-
tive streak. To maintain her control, she would turn family members
against each other. She’d bad-mouth loved ones behind their back s.
She especially didn’t like m y mother aft er she le ft my dad. Thro ugh
all the y ears, I never hear d my father speak badly of Mee Ma w. He
didn’t fault her . He didn’t question her . He believed what she said
and cared what she thought.
Tom’s parents were complicated, and that mig ht be why he grew
up with little r espect f or author ity. On paper , he was an ex cellent
student, member of the student c ouncil, and top runner on the var-
sity track team. But in his 1964 senior yearbook, there are references
to partying and mischief in almost all of his classmates’ signatures.
One guy wrote: “Thanks for barfing all over my cabin. Keep blow-
ing off.”
Someone named Di anne was clearly d ating him. Among other
flirtations, she wr ote, “Here’s hoping that y ou stay with y our word
and stay off the booze . . . Take up women. I’ ll clue you in, they’re a
lot more fun.”

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 RE DE MPT ION 21

My d ad wanted ever ything to seem oka y from the outside—he

wanted teachers and adults to think he was squeaky clean. His class-
mates’ opinions show a very different side of my father.
He wasn’t just being a k id; some of his tr oubles were serious. In
his senior year, he star ted hanging around with the wr ong crowd—
one boy in particular was bad news. He tried to get Tom to steal cars
and commit petty crimes. He and Tom got into a fight one night. Ap-
parently, Tom wanted out; he didn’t want t o be associ ated with the
gang anymore. This one boy wouldn’t allow Tom to leave that easily.
He continued to bully Tom to do things he didn’t want to do. Dad got
sick of it. He swiped a gun from his parents’ attic and threatened the
boy with it at their nex t confrontation. They fought. My father shot
the kid square in the shoulder and then ran away. He ditched the gun
somewhere, hiding the evidenc e so his actions wouldn’t c ome back
to haunt him. As my dad suspected, the kid never reported the inci-
dent. Years later, after he was mar ried, his par ents confronted him
about the missing gun. He acted like he didn’t know what the y were
talking about. But that night, he told my mother the real story. That
was the first time she was truly scared of her husband.
My dad told me about the incident, too. When I was younger, he’d
use it as a war ning t o hang out with the good k ids and sta y on a
straight path. When I was older, when things got really bad, Dad told
me he had shot one k id, and he ’d be happy t o shoot me, t oo. Ther e
were two sides to my father, Good Dad and Bad Dad.
He told me how hard his life was growing up. He complained that
his dad was never home. He told me that his father liked his brother
better. Tom hated K en sometimes. H e hated K en because he loved
him—if that makes sense. My father held on t o deep r esentment
while constantly striving for his father’s approval. Ken rarely gave it.
He was kind, but he did not know how to praise, acknowledge, or pat
his son on the back . Tom could be an actuar y ten times over, and it
would still not be quit e enough for Ken. At least , not in m y father’s
eyes.
Tom did not think he could please Ken by staying in the military,
so after his brother died, Tom left. My father used the sole surviving

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 22 S TA CE Y L A NNE RT

son military rule to get himself discharged. No questions were asked,

and Tom was no longer a Mar ine. Ken called my dad The Baron, and
the sarcasm must’ve stung. My dad would never be a pilot.
Once out of the Marines, my dad was a mess over Bill’s death. To
make him f eel better, his par ents boug ht him a c ool convertible, a
Plymouth Barracuda. But a car didn’t do the tr ick. Tom took off for
Tahiti, where he lost all control. He was a big drunk there, he admit-
ted to my mother. He came home only when his visa expired and the
country kicked him out. Then my father accepted the car, cleaned up
his act, and enrolled at Mizzou. The rest is history.
I can r emember D ad studying f or the r igorous, infamously dif -
ficult actuarial exams, which he had t o pass to get his lic ense. Once
he did, he immediately found jobs and worked his way up to partner
in various actuarial companies. His career kept him out at all hours
of the day and night. At least, that’s what he told us—it was business
that made him lat e all the time. I missed him t erribly when he was
gone.
I was a little girl, and I didn’t know about his past. I just knew he
was my daddy who hug ged and k issed me. H e lavished me with at -
tention, and I could see no wrong in my father.
He was just it for me.

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 H ap p y B a b y

I ha ve a fa vorite phot o album

from when I was young. The cover is bright poppy red, and the edges
are so do g-eared that br own cardboard pokes out under neath. The
requisite words Photo Album are written in gold, 1970s-style cursive
script that reminds me of Charlie’s Angels. For long stretches of time,
I ha ven’t looked at the pictur es. Sometimes I want t o walk down
memory lane, and sometimes I want to run away from it. Whether I
look at the album or not, I keep it with me now that I’m out.
Like me, it’s getting old. Some of the photos are crooked and loose
because the sticky backing is worn out. Some of the plastic coverings
are bent, scratched, or torn. I like them this way.
On d ays I decide t o open the album, I can’t help but wonder
what mig ht have happened t o that blue-e yed baby —me—if things
had been different. There were so man y twists and tur ns as I g rew
up. W hat if, just one time, s omething bad that happened had been
something good instead? Were there different options for my future?
Could I ha ve been an athlet e f or a c ollege tr ack t eam? That would
have been fun. Ma ybe I would ha ve bec ome an Eng lish t eacher.
Would I ha ve had a family? I c ould’ve had two k ids, maybe four, by
now. I’ll never know.
I can’t help but be wistful. Being wishful is a lot better than being
angry about cir cumstances I cannot change. A cceptance isn’t easy ,
but it’s the only way. Thank God I was a happy baby, and I didn’t have
to wish for anything then.
I was a peanut of a kid. In one photo, I’m wearing a purple, ironed
shirtdress decorated with duck ies and lace around the edges. I’m so

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 24 S TA CE Y L A NNE RT

young tha t I must be pr opped up by a hidden hand or pillow . I’ m

wearing white patent leather shoes over thick, warm baby tights and
have a great big smile. A baby’s face can’t lie. I look at the picture and
see all the love and joy I felt. My chubby cheeks are filled with happi-
ness, and I’m sure they were kissed often. It’s almost like I remember
it, and I can cling to the memory and feel it. But of course, I was only
six months old. I’m just guessing.
During those years, in the early 1970s we lived in Ced ar Rapids,
Iowa. My mom loved being a mother . S he car ried me with her ev -
erywhere. I was bald ex cept for a whit e-blond ring right on the t op
of my head. She’d brush it up and keep me in a ke wpie curl, always.
She gave up only when at a ge one I finally g rew golden hair. It flew
away from my head in soft , opinionated wisps. In one pictur e of me
at eig ht months or so, she look s like she ’s d ancing with me in our
house in Iowa . My momma smiled wide as she car ried me with her
left arm, her right hand holding mine. H er long, straight blond hair
matched the strands in my kewpie curl. The shade of our skin—pale
and golden all at once—was exactly the same. Our smiles were simi-
lar, but the c orners of my mouth tur ned down just slig htly—a trait
I inher ited from Grandma L annert. O ur clothes also mat ched. S he
wore a blue dr ess with r ed and whit e dots. My pr essed cotton out-
fit was patchwork-blue with white dots and yellow trim. She used to
sew many of my clothes herself, and probably these outfits, too.
Maybe taken on the same d ay, there’s another pictur e of me in
that same pat chwork dress. My d ad looked so y oung and gentle as
he held me out in fr ont of him by m y armpits. My hands waved out
in the air, flapping in giggles. My smile, once again, was so much like
my mom’s. His ex pression was soft , and he looked like he mig ht be
melting. He had br own hair that was par ted on the r ight side and
combed neatly. His skin was perfect—smooth and healthy. His eyes
were as blue as the oc ean; they were clean and calm like a quiet la-
goon. I can tell he was sober. I loved him when he looked like that—
when he was so crystal clear.
My father hadn’t been big on ha ving k ids, but he changed his

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 RE DE MPT ION 25

mind once I came home from the hospital. He was proud of his baby.
As far back as I can remember, he could hardly put me down when he
got home from work.
I was his Little Kewpie. That’s what they called me for my first few
years.
Grandma L annert also dot ed on me. I was her first grandchild,
and she bought me more baby clothes than one k id could wear. She
made a lot of them, t oo; she loved t o se w. Mee Ma w and P aw Paw
meant the world t o me then. They constantly fussed over me, mor e
than the Paulson side of the family did. My mother had four siblings
who started having kids at about the same time. The Paulsons helped
Mom as much as they could, but they had other grandkids. The Lan-
nerts had a lot mor e mone y t o spoil us with. They helped us with
down payments on our houses. My par ents were just star ting out ,
but when we lived in Iowa, Missouri, and Kansas, we always had nice
places. I remember big one- or two- story homes, usually four or five
bedrooms, always with basements.
Grandma and Gr andpa’s most impor tant pur chase, t o me at
least, was a Winnie-the-Pooh play set I loved—and eventually shared
with my baby sist er. The set included a vin yl chair, tiny table, and
toy chest. It was whit e with gold and r ed checked W innie-the-Pooh
bears. I still dream about that play set, maybe because I’m next to it
in so many of these old photographs.
From ever ything m y mother sa ys, all m y needs wer e met and
then some. Babies want to be dry, fed, and hugged, and I know that I
was. I know for sure because I remember my mom taking such good
care of my sister, and I remember how warm and close we all felt.
Life was wonder ful then, and I still get lost in the thoug hts of
that time. As a very young child, I could mentally hold on to comfort.
I could reach for my parents. I could soothe myself with the blankies
and stuffed animals the y gave me. I f they fought when I was a t od-
dler, I don’t r emember it . That stuff happen ed later. My babyhood
was about bonding . We wer e a family ther e f or a minut e, thr ough
thick and thin. I f my d ad had a d ark side, if he dr ank too much, I

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 26 S TA CE Y L A NNE RT

didn’t know. My mother shielded me fr om his moods —she did this

for years, while she was still ar ound. She would send me off some-
where or g ive me something speci al to play with. Ig norance is bliss.
I even like t o think that m y dad didn’t dr ink much at that time. In
my mind, he was a d ad who was int o his k ids and wif e—instead of
alcohol.

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 A New Baby

I was two y ears old when C hristy

came along, and I was a proud big sister. We’d sit in our momma’s lap
together, and I’d hold her hand. I’ d hold her hand as oft en as she ’d
let me, and m y photo album is pr oof. In one pictur e, we’re standing
in front of the wood-paneled door t o our house in K ansas—we had
moved—and I’m leading her somewhere in my green and red polyes-
ter shirt with matching pants. She’s wearing a purple polyester pant-
suit, both sewn by either Mom or Grandma Lannert. She has chubby
little cheeks just like mine. W e both have the exact same little mole
on the right side of our faces. I loved Christy with all my heart.
As she g rew into a t oddler, I’d hug her all the time. C hristy was
just so cut e. Her blond hair was whit er than mine, and it mat ched
her lig htning personality. S he never had a ke wpie curl because she
was born with thick hair all over her head. I had been k ind of bald.
She looked vibr ant and health y and per fect, even then. S he smiled
all the time, like nothing ever bother ed her. She was so pr etty that
I called her my little doll. I’d just hold her and k iss her. That is, until
she stopped letting me. She started shrugging and pushing me off. I
was smothering her and making her feel like a little baby.
As much as I tr ied, we didn’t alwa ys play together. We were two
years apar t, and some things —like our mat ching dolly car riages—
were fun to play with as a team. But I didn’t want to play with the toy
xylophone with her; I had outgrown it. And she wasn’t interested in
my big-girl books. We played together half the time, and then we ’d
go our separate ways. I needed to be outside with other kids; Christy
was more independent and oft en preferred to play alone. W hen we

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 28 S TA CE Y L A NNE RT

were together, one of our fa vorite things to do was make up games.

For instance, we would put blankets on the floor and drive each other
around on them for hours.
Sometimes, we c ould just be ar ound each other doing nothing .
Being sisters was fun, and it was enough—usually.
We’d also get on each other’s nerves. When we fought, it was usu-
ally because I was bugging her. I was older, so I could grab a toy from
her easily. I’d childishly slap her sometimes , like when she t ook my
crayons. S he c ould get even, thoug h. S he’d swipe m y t oys and zip
down the hallway with them just for fun. I’d have to chase her to get
my necklace or finger puppet back. She did that to me a lot.
Then, she got big enoug h to fend for herself and fight back. And
it hurt. I decided I wasn’t going to bug Christy anymore. Besides, she
was my sister, and I didn’t want us to hurt each other.

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 D av e n p o rt, Io w a

I owa was a wesome. I was in pr e-

school and f elt smar t because I kne w how t o wr ite m y name. Lif e
was pretty fantastic at that a ge. I loved m y little sist er. I even had
a little boy friend named B obby. My mom and his mom wer e close
friends, so we sa w each other oft en. He wasn’t really my boyfriend,
but our moms would sa y stuff like that . We would hold hands , and
the grown-ups would go on about how cut e we wer e. I ha ve mostly
fond memories of that time. Mostly.
One d ay we wer e outside pla ying while our moms wer e inside
doing mom stuff. Bobby didn’t like what ever I was pla ying with, so
he pushed me. I got mad. H e had no right to push me; we wer e sup-
posed to be ha ving fun t ogether. So I decided enoug h was enoug h,
and I hit him as har d as my preschool self could. I think it was mor e
of a shove than a punch, but either way, it was enough to scare Bobby
and make him leave me alone.
What I r emember most is how m y mom r eacted. S he was so
proud of me. She was glad I hadn’t been scared. She said to his mom
and the two of us, “I’m glad Stacey won’t take anything off of a boy.”
She really believed that, as if shoving a boy would be the answer if a
male attacked me.
No one was mad for long that day. The moms stayed friends, and
so did Bobby and I. B ut I felt more powerful. My mom boug ht me a
figurine with a girl holding a bat. At the bottom, it stated, “Anything
boys can do, girls can do better.”
I really didn’t fight much. Mostly, I was just a little k id who liked
to take bubble baths with Mr . B ubble—I c ould make the big gest

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 30 S TA CE Y L A NNE RT

bubble wigs in the bathtub that my mom had ever seen. Sometimes,
Christy and I would take baths t ogether. That stopped when I r eal-
ized that she peed in the water.
We dr essed alike, and we f elt so pr etty. Mee Ma w boug ht us
matching Easter outfits every year. And anytime we had special pho-
tos taken, she made sur e we had ne w clothes. S he loved t o buy us
things. We would get anything we wanted—toy phones, books, baby
dolls, whatever. All we had to do was ask. She was so sweet to Christy
and me. She was retired then, and wasn’t in volved in a lot of things
outside of family . S he just t ook car e of K en and wat ched Wheel of
Fortune. I’m sur e there was mor e to her life than that , but that ’s all
I remember. She seemed to live for her grandchildren—and my dad.
She spoiled us. Mee Maw knew Mom wouldn’t let us have sugary ce-
real because we had ca vities in our baby t eeth, so when we got t o
her house, we’d get to choose a box from those six-packs of assorted
sweet cereals. It was heaven. I loved visiting her, and I would do any-
thing for her. I did do everything for her later, when I was a teenager.
Whenever we saw her, she’d say, “Oh, here are my baby girls!”
Grandpa didn’t sa y much, and I don’t r emember him as the
tanned, bespectacled, mechanical genius that he was. He had a dam-
aging str oke be fore I tur ned five. Gr andma L annert had t o dev ote
her life to taking care of him. I don’t think she liked it, but she didn’t
concern us with the situation as much as she did m y parents. S he
complained to them.
My dad also liked sugary cereal, but unlike Grandma Lannert, he
would not give us any. He ate Trix, but it was off limits to us.
Christy and I would beg him, “Let us have Trix!”
“Nope,” he’d say from his spot on his bright orange velour chair.
We’d jump up and down. “Trix are for kids!”
“Trix are for Dad.” He was smiling, but he wasn’t kidding.
We girls got Kix instead. That was the bland, healthy stuff shaped
like little balls. But sometimes, Mom would bring home a box of Trix
for Dad, and we would get to it before either of them found out.
When he got home, he’d complain, “Who’s been in my Trix?”

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 RE DE MPT ION 31

We would giggle and hide.

At least he let us eat his popc orn sometimes—but not out of his
bowl. His famous bowl was the big gest, yellowest piece of T upper-
ware y ou can ima gine. W hen he made popc orn, it was speci al. H e
stood over the st ove shaking the metal pan as the k ernels hopped
around. He popped it on the stove using lots of oil and topped it with
this salty, butt ery, br ight or ange seasoning . W hen D ad made pop-
corn, he was happy.
My mom boug ht him one of those air poppers. S he’d tr y to get
him t o use it because it was healthier . H e didn’t want an y par t of
it; he wanted to pop it himself, and shake it, shake it, shake it. Some-
times he was just so much fun.
Mom was fun, t oo, but she was the ser ious parent. S he was r e-
sponsible for discipline because that’s the way Dad thought it should
be. W hen he was a k id, his mom had done the punishing while his
father traveled, so Dad thought that discipline was the mother’s job.
Mom corrected us and did the spank ing, rarely Dad. Instead, he was
goofy. He’d take the whole box of Trix and mix it with his popcorn in
his yellow bowl. Then he’d tease us with it . Eventually, he’d get out
two little bowls, and we’d get a treat, too.
It was c ommon f or him t o c ome home, ha ve dinner , and then
relax and eat popc orn while wat ching spor ts. Football and baseball
were his pick s; he didn’t car e for basketball. He spent Sund ay after-
noons in fr ont of the T V. He loved his c ollege team and other Mid-
western teams. I sat on his lap and wat ched with him. We’d talk for
hours and hours. C hristy was usually with Mom; she ’d sit still and
color when I was with my dad.
If he wasn’t watching TV, Dad was down on the floor playing with
me. He wouldn’t even take off his work clothes first—he’d be in his
polo shir t and br own pants fr om a nic e st ore called F amous B arr.
He always wore the same leather loaf ers. Sometimes, he wor e suits
when he was work ing. I r emember him shopping at a st ore called
Grandpa P igeon’s, which despit e the name, was sur prisingly nic e.
The only time he dressed down was on the weekends. He wore ringer

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 32 S TA CE Y L A NNE RT

T-shirts and shorts that were frayed on the ends and splattered with
paint. He often wore his Marines jacket when he wasn’t working. He
usually looked more put together than other dads.
When I was a baby, I had a little g host on a stick that he ’d wiggle
behind my head. He’d throw me high up in the air until I got too big;
then he’d just hold me. I ha ve a phot o of him look ing totally hand-
some and happy —baby Christy is sleeping in the cr ook of his r ight
arm; I’m on the le ft, with his left arm around me, and I’m thr illed. I
have both hands pressed against my cheeks. I’m smiling because I’m
with Daddy.

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