Who the Hell is Frank Mitchell?

Life is good on this beautiful spring day. The birds are singing. My new job as a journeyman meat cutter at the grocery store is going great. But the real reason for my bliss today is that last night Betty and I set a date for our wedding, May 7, 1950. Betty McManis and I have been seeing each other for a couple of years now, but I knew after just a few dates with Betty that she was the one that God had chosen for me to spend my life with. I can’t remember now exactly what I said when I proposed. I was so nervous. I just remember how happy we both were.

That night my Aunt Goldie and Uncle Ollie were coming over for dinner. I couldn’t wait to share the news with them and celebrate our upcoming nuptials. Ollie and Goldie arrived with the usual hugs and hellos.

I yelled at Mom in the kitchen, “Mom, I’m gonna go pick up Betty for dinner. I will be right back.”

“OK, Clyde. I will keep everything warm in the oven until you get back. I hope Betty is hungry. I have cooked all day.”

Uncle Ollie snagged me on the way out the door. He looked very somber. “Clyde, could we talk for a minute?” We walked outside together. He lit a cigar.

“Your Mom tells me that you and Betty are gettin’ hitched. Congratulations, Clyde. I guess you have grown up into a man right in front of our eyes.”

“Thank you, Ollie. I appreciate that.”

“Lord knows, you haven’t had many good examples of men in your life, including me. But you will make a fine husband and a good father.”

“I have every intention to be.”

“Before you enter into any legal agreements as an adult, your Mom wanted me to give you a copy of your birth certificate. You have been raised with the “Foreman” name, but the last name on your birth certificate is “Mitchell.”

“In 1929 your Mom was involved very briefly with a man named Frank Mitchell. I have no idea where they met or how they knew each other. It was a whirlwind romance. He took off and we have never seen or heard from him since. Although I heard he is currently locked up in the state penitentiary in Jefferson City. But we never gave a hoot about contacting him. He is nothing but trouble. Your Mom doesn’t need anymore heartache, that is for sure. When you started school, your Mom registered you as Foreman. It was easier at the time. And I know you are registered with the Social Security office and the Draft Board under the name Foreman. So we think it’s best if we go up to the courthouse and get your last name legally changed to Foreman before you get married.”

I was stunned. I took the birth certificate from him and stared at it for the longest time. Who the hell is Frank Mitchell? What did he do to end up in the state penitentiary? Why would Mom take up with the likes of him? Why did he leave? Do I look like him? Does he know about me?

“Ollie, I need to excuse myself from dinner tonight. Tell Mom I'm sorry. I need to spend some time alone with Betty and talk this over.”

I don’t remember driving to her house, but Betty was watching for me and came running out to the car. She took one look at my face and knew there was a problem. We sat in my car outside her house and I told Betty the whole story. She was furious with Mom for putting me in this situation.

Betty said, “Why did Ollie tell you this? Why didn’t your mother sit you down and tell you something this important?”

I just shook my head.

Finally, Betty spoke softly, “Well, what’s done, is done. We can’t change the past. But it is only natural to be curious about this man. He is your biological father. Let’s sit down with your Mom tomorrow and talk about this. But now let's go get something to eat and try to calm down.”

I really didn’t want to go home that night, but I sure couldn’t stay with Betty at her parents’ house. Her folks would skin me alive if I tried to spend the night. So I reluctantly said good night to Betty, kissed her, and went back home. I was hoping Mom would still be up, and we could talk, but she wasn’t.

This morning I was so happy. Betty and I made a commitment to spend the rest of our lives together; but instead of celebrating the beginning of our new life, I am trying to sort out who I really am.

All I know about my biological father is that he was born in 1901 in Joplin, Missouri. He was a concrete contractor. And, according to Ollie, he is probably locked up in the state penitentiary in Jeff City. The next day, I went to the courthouse and filled out the name change petition to legally change my name to Foreman.

Later that month, I had a new bride and a new life. A year later little Arlene was born. She was Daddy’s little princess and the joy of our lives.

I called Betty after work one evening, “Hon, I need to stop at the post office and get some stamps. Is there anything I can get for you? “

“No thanks. Arlene just woke up from her nap. And I have dinner almost ready. See you when you get home. Love you”.

“I love you, too”.

I rushed into the post office thinking about how hungry I was. I couldn’t wait to get home to my dinner and my family. As I was standing in line to buy stamps, I noticed an old wanted poster on the wall from the 1930s. There was that name, “Frank Mitchell”. I walked over to the wanted poster and read the words,

“Wanted. Charles Arthur Floyd, alias Frank Mitchell, aka Pretty Boy Floyd.”

I continued reading, “Charles Arthur Floyd is wanted in connection with the murder of Otto Reed, Chief of Police of McAlester, Oklahoma.”

“I wonder if this is the same Frank Mitchell on my birth certificate. Could my father be ‘Pretty Boy Floyd’? That would explain where I got my good looks. This is crazy. I better get home and forget about Pretty Boy Floyd.”

That night I dreamed of Charles Arthur Floyd. It was just before Christmas at the Missouri State Penitentiary. Charles lived in a dismal cell packed with seven other inmates. All he wanted was to do the time and get the hell out of there. Workdays were twelve long hours. Laborers worked in silence. One false move during work hours meant a billy club on the shoulder or maybe even solitary confinement. When his time was up, Charles planned to go home to his wife, Ruby, and his son, Dempsey. But, two months before his release, he received a letter saying his wife had filed for divorce. Not long after he was released from prison, Charles returned to Cookson Hills, Oklahoma, to attend his father's funeral. Walter Floyd had been killed by a neighbor during an argument over the price of a pile of lumber. Charles was grief-stricken. He had lost his wife and child and now his father. A friend introduced Charles to a man named Warren Ashcraft. He was a friendly man who made moonshine for medicinal purposes. He was willing to sell it for $1.50 a pint to anyone who needed it. After all, times were hard. Warren had a daughter named Maudie. She was a kind young woman with a pretty smile. It was comforting just to talk to her and be with her. They enjoyed a whirlwind romance for a few short days. Then Charles disappeared from her life as quickly as he had entered it.

The next morning at breakfast, I excitedly told Betty about the dream.

“Clyde, Pretty Boy Floyd is not your father. Would you like two eggs or three?”

“Three, please.”

That weekend, Betty, Arlene, and I went to Grandma Maudie’s house for a visit.

“Mom, I had the most outrageous dream about the bank robber, Pretty Boy Floyd. It all started at the post office last week when I saw a wanted poster for Pretty Boy Floyd. One of his aliases was Frank Mitchell. I dreamed that you and Pretty Boy Floyd got together and then I was born.”

Maudie got very quiet.

I said, “Isn’t it funny, the crazy things we dream?”

Maudie’s voice trailed off, “Yes… funny.”