The mustard-yellow, kitchen wall phone rang, changing my life forever.
It was May 20, 1971. I was sitting with my almost two-year-old daughter as she sat in her highchair and happily ate her breakfast. I was telling her about Uncle Dale coming home in a few days and how much fun we were going to have. He’d be staying with Grandpa, who had his home so completely decked out with toys and other paraphernalia for my daughter that it somewhat resembled a daycare center — but Dale was equally enthralled by my little girl, so toys wouldn’t be a problem. My daughter was babbling, “Unc’ Dal!” Throwing her baby-food-filled hands in the air, she cried, “I love my Unc’ Dal!” My brother had recently been home on leave and had captured my daughter’s heart. They were constant companions, as she toddled around after him, jabbering on with her baby talk.
My husband had answered the phone, but I noticed he wasn’t speaking, so I turned around and looked at him. All the color had drained from his face, and he was visibly shaken. I gave him a questioning look, and he said, “It’s your dad. Your brother’s dead.”
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. “What?”
“Your brother is dead.”
“No. No, he isn’t. No, he’s on his way home. I’m picking him up at LAX. Stephen, what’s wrong with you? I talked to Dad last night. He’s at the airport giving a flight lesson this morning. He’s coming by for lunch, and he’s going to watch his granddaughter while I run a few errands.”
“Pam, your brother is dead. He was shot and fatally wounded on May 18th.”
I remember little of what happened thereafter. They say your mind blocks out certain things, important things, yet I remember such trivial things, like the time I purchased a Halloween apron at the deli. When I brought it home and put it on, strong feelings of home descended over me. I carved the pumpkin and roasted seeds. How can I remember that and not remember the details of learning of my brother’s death? I know I sat on the couch in the living room, stunned and unable to speak. I stared out the window of our quaint little Santa Monica home with its vast lawn. Wait! No, he’s not dead. The 18th was his birthday. No one dies on their birthday. I ran back into the kitchen. “No, Stephen, Dale isn’t dead. It’s a mistake. They have the wrong person. People don’t die on their birthdays.” I almost felt a sense of relief knowing it couldn’t have happened. But it did, and that’s when the nightmare began.
It took two very long, heart-wrenching weeks for Dale’s body to arrive home. I was on edge waiting to find out that they’d made a mistake. One of the military personnel, who meant well, told us we were lucky to get his body back so quickly. I wanted to slap him, but I was raised not do such things, so I sat on my hands so they couldn’t betray me. I wanted to see my brother, but they — the men in the family— wouldn’t let me. Identifying a body wasn’t a job for a young woman, a mother, a sister. Though I know they were only trying to protect me, I hated them for that. I had to know that this was all a horrible mistake. While my dad and husband went to the funeral home, I sat on pins and needles, repeating positive thoughts that they’d sent the body to the wrong family. When the men finally returned, I jumped up and ran to them with hope in my heart, but there was no hope.
“It’s Dale,” Stephen said. My baby brother, who had a huge heart, always considering how what he said or did would affect other people. Childhood memories came flooding back to me; how we would conspire to play jokes on our parents, the late-night games of Monopoly, the Hardy Boys books I bought for him with my babysitting money, his smile that lit up the world, how he cried when I got married. No. No, this wasn’t supposed to happen. We had plans for our lives. He was going to go to law school, he’d been playing pro baseball, he flew Dad’s helicopters and his little Cessna. People like my brother don’t die; they live on to make a difference in the world.
I don’t think I ever really did accept Dale’s death. I asked the universe every day to right this wrong. Finally, I began to ask the universe to at least send me a nephew or niece. Please, let him have loved and had a child. I waited desperately for that call, but I never received it.
My parents fought over the funeral arrangements, dragging me into the brawl. In the last few years, they’d divorced and both remarried. Since Dad had had an affair with the woman he eventually married, it was a rather hateful and bitter divorce, which was compounded by the fact that buckets of money were involved and my mother and her new husband were suing my dad. To add to the torture, they both blamed each other for my brother’s death because, if it hadn’t been for all the infighting, Dale might not have enlisted in the Army. He and I had been ripped apart by our parents wanting us to choose sides. Dale went into the military to escape. If I’d known then what I know now, I’d have convinced him to go to college out of state. I’d have begged, I’d have pleaded, I’d have won.
Among the arrangements Dad made for the funeral, he chose “Danny Boy” and “Puff the Magic Dragon,” along with other heart-twisting recordings, for music. To this day, I can’t listen to either of those songs, nor “The Star-Spangled Banner,” without bursting into tears. As if the funeral wasn’t tragic enough, Dad took offense to something my mother’s new husband Bob said or did and punched him in the face, breaking Bob’s jaw. Blood spurted all over, while two men jumped up and tried to pull my dad and Bob apart. I don’t remember much after that. They say the mind blocks out such torturous events.
Life went on. Stephen had closed the doors on his scrap business and accepted a job in Corona, California, so we rented out our Santa Monica house and moved to a lovely home on a golf course in Corona, about an hour’s drive from Santa Monica. Dad had begun to withdraw from my daughter and me. He was melancholy and distant. Dad’s new wife — who had been so nice to us and seemingly loved my daughter, treating her as her own granddaughter, even though his new wife was only thirty-seven years old at the time — began to change, too. My parents were still fighting bitterly, and my stepmother told me I couldn’t ride the fence, I had to choose between my mom and dad. I told her I couldn’t do that and to please get my dad some help. He needed grief counseling, which wasn’t too popular then. The attitude was more that time will heal. My stepmother and I ended our conversation with her saying she couldn’t — or was it “wouldn’t?” — get my dad into therapy. I never heard from her nor my dad again.
We settled into a routine. I was attending the University of California at Riverside and had my little girl in a fantastic preschool program there. Stephen was enjoying his new job. Friends came to visit, and we spent a lot of Sundays at Mom’s, barbecuing and swimming in the pool. Valentine’s Day 1972, my daughter had a playdate with a friend, and I was home cleaning house — vacuuming, to be exact. I had the radio turned up loud to compensate for the noise of the vacuum. Suddenly, I heard an announcement. “We interrupt this program for breaking news: Bill Dehnke, prominent Santa Monica businessman and owner of the Helicopter Center in Van Nuys, was found dead on his son’s grave.” I didn’t hear any more because the room began to spin and everything turned white as I sank to the carpet.
Stephen came running through the door shouting my name. I was struggling to get up off the floor and stammering, “It’s Dad. He’s dead.” I was sobbing uncontrollably. This was all my fault. I should have insisted he get help. Dad’s wife had him buried the very next day. We weren’t consulted, not even asked what we might want. She just had him thrown in the ground and gave all his personal possessions to an orphanage. We had no closure, nothing to remind us of him. He just disappeared.
Only a few weeks had passed when Dad’s Aunt Lil asked to see me. I adored Aunt Lil. She had a spark about her that made her an intriguing woman to be around, so I piled my daughter in the car and off we went. Aunt Lil was always the responsible sibling that took care of the rest of my grandfather’s brothers and sisters when they were young. She was practical and well respected, but what she told me gave me pause to think she’d lost her mind. “Some of us think your dad’s wife killed him. She’s pregnant with his business manager’s child.”
“What?” I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. She continued, “Your stepmother forged all his business and legal documents into her name, packed up the house, and moved with the guy to Denver, or some such place. Your dad was worth well over a million dollars. That money should have gone to you and your sister. We want you to go to the sheriff’s office and reopen the case. You’re the only one who can do it. That woman shouldn’t get away with this.”
No. No, I thought. Dad took his own life. The headstone he preordered for his own grave was a suicide note: “With love and pride, I raised a perfect son, in battle’s strife, he gave his life, my mission here is done.”
I went home more confused than ever. So much had been happening so fast. A few days later I had a phone call from Bob C., one of Dad’s best friends. They’d recently been working on a simulator project for training pilots. Bob affirmed what Aunt Lil had said. “I don’t think your dad really wanted to take his own life, but if that was his intention, I think he changed his mind,” Bob continued. “The pain was eating him up. He felt alone and isolated. He was screaming in agony, but nobody heard him; thus, the headstone. But I’d convinced him to seek therapy, giving him the name of a friend. Your father loved your daughter. He wanted to be the best grandfather and watch her grow. That gave him strength.”
With Bob’s confirmation of what Aunt Lil told me, I went to the sheriff’s office and spoke to the officer in charge of the investigation. “Honey,” he said as I sat in front of his desk with my little girl in my lap, “you don’t want to reopen this case. The crime scene photos are among the worst I’ve ever seen.”
“What do you mean, crime scene? I thought my father killed himself.”
“That’s not likely. There were three bullets in the body, suggesting that he was shot by somebody else. He couldn’t have fired all those bullets. We thought the wife did it, and we investigated her, but that was a dead end.”
“What? If you thought my dad’s wife killed him, why didn’t you arrest her?”
“Honey,” he said in his silky, calming voice, “husbands and wives kill each other every day, and we can’t prove it. Now, you take your little girl home and forget this.”
I wanted to smack him. He was brushing me off, treating me like a child, a dumb blonde. I was shaking. I hugged my little girl to me, pulled myself up to my full five foot two, looked him in the eye and said, “Good day, officer.”
I was still reeling from speaking to the officer when a few nights later my husband didn’t return home from work. He’d been called in just after dinner, something that did happen on occasion. I’d cleaned up the kitchen, played with my daughter, and put her to bed. Then I went into my sewing room and lost track of time. Suddenly, I realized it was 3:00 in the morning. Where was Stephen? I began to panic. Corona is a complete fog belt and extremely difficult to drive in at night. What if he’d been in an accident? Gone off the road? I called the hospital; no one had been brought in. I called the police, but there were no reports of accidents. Finally, I called his boss to see if perhaps Stephen was still at the plant. His boss said, “There was no problem at the plant tonight.”
“What?” Is that my new catchword?
“Did you ever think that maybe he’s having an affair?” asked the boss.
“For God’s sake, I’m worried sick about my husband and you come up with that ridiculous statement!” I slammed the phone down and paced the floors. I was scared to death. I’d just lost my father and my brother. I couldn’t lose my husband, too.
Finally, as I paced, Stephen came through the front door. I was so relieved to see him. “Where have you been? I’ve been so worried, I called the police, the hospital, and your boss — who stupidly suggested you were having an affair.”
“I’m sorry,” he said, as he sat down on the couch next to me, “but I have been having an affair.”
“What?” There I go again.
“I’ve been having an affair with my cousin,” he continued.
“Your cousin?” This is unbelievable, but why would he make up such a thing?
“It hasn’t been going on very long,” he entreated, as though he were asking for forgiveness.
“It hasn’t been going on very long? That makes it okay? We’ve been trying to get pregnant again, and you’re sleeping with another woman?” I screamed at him to get out and leave the house key — he wouldn’t be coming back.
Within a nine-month period of time, I’d lost the three most important men in my life. What was wrong with me that they were all leaving? What did I do? I stayed in the house for days crying and trying to understand what had happened. I cleaned and cooked, played with my daughter, watched Perry Mason, and taught myself how to knit. I thought about my daughter and how much I wanted for her in life. In that moment I knew that what I wanted for my daughter, I had to do for myself. I was her mother, her role model. If I wanted her to be strong, I had to be strong. If I wanted her to be educated, I had to educate myself. I knew I couldn’t just put on a happy face and pretend I was okay. I got myself in therapy and learned how to deal effectively with my grief and abandonment, and move on. I will say, however, that abandonment has plagued me all my life — but that’s a story for another day.
I continued attending college classes, but eventually switched from English literature to a court reporting program. Stephen and I got back together a few times, but finally divorced when I found he’d been cheating on me financially. Mom’s husband died, and Mom and I became closer than ever. She told me that Dad had been the love of her life. I confided in her that Dad had told me he’d wished he’d never divorced her. We’d had an idyllic childhood until our family fell apart soon after I graduated from high school, so their admissions gave me some comfort. Sometimes, with all the trauma and drama of the divorce, I began to wonder if I’d imagined that my family had ever been happy.
I joined an organization of brothers and sisters of men lost in Vietnam and went to a conference they held in Washington, D.C. A short time later, I was invited to the Vietnam Helicopter Pilots Association, which I attended, again in Washington, D.C. During my first trip to D.C., I met a woman whose husband had died in Vietnam, and she’d written a book about her loss. As it turned out, she lived not far from me in the San Francisco Bay Area, and I hosted a book-launching event for her. We had close to fifty people in my little cottage home, and — what all authors love to hear — she sold out of books. We continued to stay in touch and spoke together at a few events. She invited me to a writers’ retreat where Maxine Hong Kingston, author of The Woman Warrior, was present. I was so completely captivated by the creativity and intellect of the people around me, I felt like I’d stepped into another dimension.
In about 2000, the son of our childhood friend Doug M., whom he’d named Dale, turned twenty-three, the age my brother was when he died. Doug decided to research men my brother may have served with in Vietnam. Doug’s perseverance led us to a SOAR reunion in Las Vegas. My mother, sister, and I were guests of honor, and that conference was a memorial to my brother. It was an honor and privilege to meet these men, some of whom had known Dale. I attended and reported on a meeting the following year, but then the year after that I’d met a guy, a real bad boy type, and thought I was head over heels in love. We were dating long distance, California to Texas, which is probably why I missed the conference that year; however, my sister attended.
That weekend I was at home. I’d gone out to Lafayette, a suburb in the Bay Area, to do some shopping, scoping out a new pet store. As I returned to my car, my cell phone rang. It was my sister. What she said as I opened my car door knocked me in the chest and nearly sent me crashing to the cement. This is almost a direct quote. “We were in the bar having cocktails before dinner when a man came up to me and said, ‘I’m Doug L. I’ve been hoping to meet you and your sister. Is she here?’ I told him you didn’t come this year. Then he said he wanted to talk to us because he was there the night Dad died.’”
I believe my sister said that she felt sick or faint and had to go to her room. Meanwhile, I was swept back to the radio announcement of my dad’s death, only now I was so angry. There were three bullets in the body, and, as the officer had said, it was extremely unlikely that Dad could have shot himself three times. Doug L. was there that night, by his own admission. Did he murder my father? Feeling shaky and sick, I drove home. I couldn’t believe what I’d heard. I called my mother, of course; I always called my mother. Her response to the news was, “Your dad probably paid the guy to do it. Let it go. Your father wanted to die.”
Let it go? I was enraged. “You know I can’t let this go. Maybe Dad changed his mind. Mom, what kind of a person doesn’t tell the family that their father is talking about suicide? That’s just not normal.”
My sister told me that Doug L. was anxious to speak to me and gave me his number. Taking some deep breaths, I sat down in a comfortable chair by the fireplace of my little cottage home, trying to calm myself down, and dialed the number. Doug L. cheerfully answered the phone. I told him who I was and he said, “I’m so happy you called. I’ve been wanting to speak to you. I was there the night your dad died.”
“Yes,” I replied, feeling that now-familiar sharp blow to my chest, “that’s what my sister said. How did you get in?” What a dumb question to ask, but I was really nervous speaking to the man I thought had fired the fatal shots and not let me know that my dad was suicidal.
“I climbed the fence,” he replied. We continued to talk. I don’t remember now what was said. They say shutting out the memory is our body’s way of protecting us. I wish I could remember. I was just so hurt and angry, and this killer was so proud of himself.
Finally, I said, “Doug, I’m pretty sure you killed my father. There were three bullets in the body. Did you think we wouldn’t know that? What were you thinking? Why didn’t you contact my family and tell us my father was suicidal?” Doug L. hung up on me.
The next thing I did was call an attorney. We had several conversations and decided to sue Doug L. on the grounds that he had a moral obligation to inform the family that my father was suicidal. We’d have Dad’s body exhumed, and perhaps with the DNA now available, we could prove that Doug L. fired the fatal shot or shots.
I called my sister and told her what I was doing, and she was in complete agreement. A few days later, however, she called me and told me not to pursue this. I was stunned. “Are you serious? We have reason to believe this man killed our father. In fact, he’s so proud of it, he couldn’t wait to tell us all about being there. Why would we let a potential murderer get away?”
My sister, who had begun dating one of the men we met at the SOAR reunion, replied, “Because my boyfriend told me the other members of the group wouldn’t want this to get out. They do this all the time, and they stick together.”
“What? Are you telling me that because a man is despondent and suicidal, they kill him?” I was livid. “They don’t try to get him help? This isn’t mercy killing; it’s murder. And the war is over. Didn’t these men leave Vietnam in the past, return home to educate themselves, have careers and raise families? You can’t murder someone and get away with it.”
“Listen,” she said, “if you do this, they might come after you. Let it go.”
“That’s ridiculous. This isn’t some thriller movie on TV. This is real life.” I was so mad at her. She was abandoning me and Dad. “We can’t let this go. Doug L. may have been the one who cheated us out of a father. If so, we need to bring him to justice.”
“Dad wanted to die, and he finally succeeded. My boyfriend warned me to let it go, and I’m going to do what he says,” she stated.
I was seething with anger. I felt like my body had been plugged into an electric socket. I was being threatened for pursuing justice? My attorney and I went forward with plans to sue Doug L. We hired a private investigator, who secured quite a bit of information. Then two things intervened. My PI told me I’d go broke with legal fees and other expenses. To quote him, “You’re a nice lady. Let this go.” At the same time, Bad Boy asked me to move to Texas and begin a life with him. Bad boys usually win, and this one did. I continued to seek avenues for financial aid in order to pursue the lawsuit, but eventually hit a dead end.
I rented my little cottage and moved to Texas. I didn’t get the reciprocity to practice as a court reporter in Texas that I thought I’d get — Texas accepted every state’s court reporting requirements except California, confirming that they think we’re crazy — and, as a result, I traveled back to California to work. It was a pleasant life until the Texan began to show his redneck reality. That’s when I knew it was time to move home. I was about to give my tenant notice to move when my mother intervened and asked me to come and stay with her for a while, reasoning that my tenant had children in school and this was a bad time for them to relocate. So I moved in with Mom, and it was wonderful. I’d been very hurt by the redneck, so the comfort of my mother and her cozy home were just what I needed to heal. My daughter and mother and I had spent most of our holidays and summers together, and Mom traveled with me to book conferences, vacations, and to visit family all over the country. We were a natural fit for living together. It was easy and comfortable until Mom contracted shingles and ended up in a subacute nursing facility for a year. That’s a nightmare story for another time.
Meanwhile, my sister and nieces did not like me living with Mom. I didn’t understand that, though, until Mom got sick. I wasn’t paying attention to the family drama. Mom and I were having fun, and my life was busy. Court reporting is a consuming career: I’d often arrive home at seven or eight in the evening and have several more hours of work to do. I’d make our dinner, watch a little TV with Mom, and fall into bed at eleven or twelve, only to get up again at five, prepare Mom’s breakfast and lunch, and hit the infamous LA freeways. Mom was legally blind, so I was her eyes. As I said, it was a lovely few years until she got sick and my sister, who lived on the other side of the U.S., decided she wanted to take long-distance control of Mother’s care. Mom had made me her trustee, put her house in my name, and put me in charge of her bank accounts. During this time, her attorney and I began preparing to put Mom on Medi-Cal because we’d been told she would never be able to leave the subacute nursing facility. Eventually, however, she was transferred to a board and care arrangement. She wanted desperately to come home, but at the time her testing for activities of daily living prevented it.
At the same time, unbeknownst to me, my sister was preparing my mother to sue me as well as suing Mom’s attorney, which she did. I was devastated until I learned that Mom had no real concept of what was happening. To quote her, “I told my attorney this was just a little mother-daughter misunderstanding.” My sister was asking for Mom’s house and a million dollars. I was incredulous. Mom testified during the court trial that she’d only had $300,000 when I took over her finances and that amount was eaten up in ten months at the subacute nursing facility. Being blind and trusting, Mom signed documents she didn’t realize she was signing — this came out in the court trial; not to mention, Mom denied asking for a million dollars. When I told her she was, she said, “That’s ridiculous. I’m not asking for any money.”
“But you are,” I replied. “It’s in the documents you signed. Don’t they read them to you?”
“Yes, and my attorney wouldn’t lie to me. I told him I just want things to be fair between you and your sister. I want the house to go to both of you.”
The bottom line was that I’d not only offered my sister half the estimated value of the property, as my mother had asked me to do when she put the property in my name, but I finally told my sister’s attorney she could have the house. I just wanted to be done with the craziness. But the guy was ruthless. He actually told me that he’d taken the case on contingency and now the only way he was going to get paid was to get the money from me. If I hadn’t been in the middle of this drama, I never would have believed it. In the end, my sister got less money than she would have had she accepted my many settlement offers, and I spent almost all my retirement funds on legal fees and court costs. Had my brother lived, this would not have happened. I would have had an ally, someone watching my back. The drama would have been quashed before it began.
But Dale died, and, though I miss him and Dad, and now Mom, every day, my life has gone on. I love my life, and I am grateful for all I have and am able to do. When I retired, I purchased Nightingales Bed and Breakfast, where Mom and I stayed for many years while visiting Ashland, Oregon. I also began writing again. In my court reporter mystery series, I’ve brought Dale back as I believe he would have been had he lived into the 1990s. I have him living in Santa Monica, California, on the beach he loved so much. He’s an attorney, an honest one, well respected and highly sought after. I brought my dad back, too. He’s sold his flight school and is now a consultant for anything to do with helicopters and some fixed-wing aircraft. My mother is also alive and well and serves as the mother for Addie, our court reporter protagonist.
Had Dale lived, I believe he would have married and had a family. He was the easiest guy to be with, so I think he’d be married to the same gal and probably be a retired attorney, who still keeps his hand at his craft. He’d be living in California, maybe in Santa Monica or perhaps the Valley. In retirement, he’d be surfing, playing baseball, reading, playing the guitar, and loving his role as a grandfather. Mom and Dad could possibly still be alive; we have amazing longevity in our family. My daughter would have had and still have an uncle and a grandfather. My grandchildren would have known their great-grandfather and great-uncle in person rather than through stories. When they were little, my daughter took them to the cemetery on Veteran’s Day where they placed small flags on my brother’s and father’s graves as well as the graves of other veterans. My grandchildren also wrote a number of stories about my brother for school projects. I’m blessed with incredible love from my family: my daughter and grandchildren, my ex-husband, my partner, my cousins, and my many friends that have traveled this road with me through the years.
So, to sum up how the death of my brother affected my life and that of my family, if Dale hadn’t died: Dad wouldn’t have wanted to kill himself, and I doubt he would have been killed. My sister wouldn’t have had her day in court, and I would have kept the financial security I’d built for myself. Dad would have been devasted by his wife’s betrayal, but isn’t that just what he himself had done to Mother? Karma, they say. Dale likely would have gone to UCLA School of Law and lived with Dad, helping with the Helicopter Center.
After Dale died, I had this immense feeling of having to live for him as well as myself. I saw life through his eyes as well as my own. When I viewed the majestic beauty of the Pacific Northwest, he was with me. When I traveled to Italy, England, and China, he went with me. My brother’s been with me at musical concerts, theatre productions, parties and celebrations. He was with me as I cared for my mother. That feeling of living for both of us has greatly affected the decisions I’ve made, causing me to pursue many interests and take on a pile of responsibilities.
At my tenth high school class reunion, one of my gentleman classmates said, “I’m so sorry to hear about Dale’s death. He died for nothing you know. It was a terrible war.”
I felt nauseous, but summoned up the strength to retort, “Don’t tell me my brother died for nothing.”
In 2016, the Oregon Shakespeare Festival presented a production of Vietgone by Qui Nguyen starring James Ryen. One of James’s lines was, “Don’t tell me my family died for nothing.” I sobbed, as most of the audience did, and afterwards I told James and Qui how much that line meant to me. I was told that Dale should not have gone out on that last mission, but he didn’t want the newbies to go out alone. That speaks volumes to the man my brother was.
I’ve been asked, “How did you live through all that?” My answer used to be, “I thought my life was normal, and I just carried on.” Now I realize what moved me forward: My daughter. My mother. Hope. Resilience. Belief in people, life, and the future. Sometimes we’re victims of horrible circumstances, but we don’t have to remain victims. We have choices.
As I complete this piece, I wish to thank not only Jason C. for making this story possible, but my heart will always be with Ken H. for caring for my brother and staying with him until the helicopter arrived to bring Dale home.
— Pamela Dehnke, author of The Diary of an Extraordinarily Ordinary Woman and her Rather Eccentric Sister; The Sorority Sisters Mysteries; and The Court Reporter Mysteries. Visit Pam at pamdehnke.com.
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