Alice

People often say that pastor's kids are the worst, and I'd have to agree with them. Pastor's kids are often times much more rebellious, far more promiscuous and are probably behind many children's descent into hell. As a child whose father was the pastor of all pastors,  I can say that I probably taught your child to smoke, to drink, to lie, and probably shared a cigarette with her behind some shed somewhere in the sixth grade. I was bad.

On the outside,  we resembled the perfect family. We were better than the Brady Bunch with fewer children. We had the rainbow household -- black and white kids living together in perfect harmony (cue Stevie Wonder's "Ebony and Ivory" here), sitting in the front pew during church and showing everyone on Main street how to not only tend their own yard, but how to look as holy as possible doing it. No one ever knew our secrets, although many people knew where to look to find them. No one knew about my father's temper, about my mother's passive aggressiveness, my brother's drug addiction, or any of the abuse any of us endured by the hands of another. But every Sunday we would sit there looking as though nothing had ever happened during the week; smiling while the older people pinched our cheeks and patted us on the head while congratulating my parents on a job well done. I knew at an early age that I was part of their report card.

 Sometimes I would imagine the Brady kids having secrets, too. Maybe they knew Carol was unhappy with her marriage or that her husband was really in love with his secretary. Maybe Jan and Marcia really hated each other, and no one really paid attention to Cindy and Bobby unless they were busy trying to break records. And Alice -- well, Alice knew all the family dirt and where to find the broom and dustpan.

I wish she would have been our housekeeper.