A condolence call

"Evil becomes obvious only in retrospect."
- Gloria Steinem

My father had passed and he'd come to pay his respects. My mother had just finished mopping the kitchen floor and I was sitting at the table impatiently waiting for it to dry. "You're going to get stuck there," she'd warned as she worked toward the table, "You won't be able to walk on the floor until it's dry." I didn't care. I was six years old and couldn't imagine a better place to be than anywhere she was. At thirty-five, I still can't.

It was a humid summer day and my brothers were, as usual, outside getting dirty and climbing on everything. "Mom," I yelled, "someone's here." I'd seen his car pull into the driveway through the kitchen window and was waiting for him to get out. "Who is it," she asked as she turned off the vacuum cleaner and walked toward the front door. "I don't know," I replied with a shrug.

Though my parents had been seperated for some time when my father passed, it was unusal for my mother to receive male vistors. I was intrigued. Knowing I'd be sent outside to play with my brothers if I made a sound, I watched silently as he walked through the door into the living room. He was tall, thin, wore glasses and had a slightly receding hairline. My mother invited him to sit down and offerred him a cup of coffee. He declined and said he wouldn't be staying long. He'd only just learned of my father's passing and wanted to offer his condolences. He'd gone to school with my mother but hadn't seen her in years. He'd known my father through her and had run into him from time to time. He claimed to have liked my father and was sorry to learn of his death. Fifteen minutes later he left.

A year later he moved in.

The abuse began shortly after they married... first of her, then, quickly, of us. The years that followed were full of cruelities too shameful to describe. One cannot imagine such depravity unless they've witnessed it. If they have witnessed it, then it need not be described. He was a monster.

My mother only enjoyed a few peaceful years after the divorce before she fell ill. I still struggle to understand why she sufferred so terribly and was taken so young, yet the monster lives. He's much older now, of course, and in poor health. He's returned to our home town to die a slow, suffocating death. I no longer fear or hate him, as anger exhausts the soul. I do hope, however, that as he lay there, gasping for air and praying for death, he acknowledges and regrets the evil he's done.

I doubt he will, but I live on hope.

His call

You don't marry someone you can live with - you marry the person who you cannot live without.
- unknown

It was to be my first night alone in the new house. He was attending a seminar and, as it was some distance away, he would not be returning home in the evenings. Remembering all too well the anxiety I'd suffered during his last seminar, I was determined to relax and enjoy the solitude. I would treat myself to dinner and a movie. After work I popped into the market and purchased the ingredients for a new recipe I'd been meaning to try. After dinner I would watch one of the DVDs he'd given me the day before. He knew that I was dreading the time alone and the movies would be a welcome distraction. He was thoughtful that way.

As I walked into the kitchen, groceries in hand, I looked at the clock and wondered how long it would be before he called. Sighing, I placed the groceries on the counter and decided a martini was called for. I'd put the groceries away, relax for a bit, enjoy my cocktail then start dinner. Martini in hand and Lucy, as always, at my side, I sank into the sofa and opened the magazine I'd purchased at the market. Feeling at ease and confident that I could weather the time alone, I began flipping through the pages looking for the cover story.

An hour later, however, he still hadn't called and the anxiety was beginning to settle in. As is my practice when I'm anxious and alone, I began to to inventory my symptoms. Would I be sufferring a neurodegenerative disease or cancer this evening? Only time would tell. He'd forgotten to charge the battery on his cell phone, of course, but had given me the telephone number to his room at the institute. I'd written it down at work, however, and had forgotten to take it with me at the end of the day. Annoyed that I'd forgotten the number, I turned on the television and began watching the nightly entertainment news. I probably wouldn't have called him anyway, I reasoned, as I had no desire to add "needy" to my lengthy list of shortcomings. My desire to make dinner quickly dissapating, I mixed another martini and returned to the sofa.

Two long, lonely hours later he called.

Two hours after that, he called again to say good night.

I began to feel better. A martini, or two, and his telephone call... that was all I needed to get me through the night. I decided to go to bed. I'd do dinner and a movie tomorrow night, maybe.

Poor, pitiful me

A perfect summer day is when the sun is shining, the breeze is blowing, the birds are singing, and the lawn mower is broken.
- James Dent

Despite the extreme heat, and my low tolerance for it, I was determined to be helpful in the yard. Our previous property, in my opinion, had been easily maintained by one so I'd rarely been of assistance in the yard. I'd cleaned the house the night before and dedicated the morning to mowing the lawn. He'd promised that if I completed this considerable task, then he'd spend a couple of hours by the pool with me and my martini... the rarest of treats.

Happily humming the Green Acres' theme, I hopped onto the ancient lawn tractor with a chuckle. As I'd mowed the lawn once before, I considered myself a seasoned professional and was confident that my task would be completed directly. Proud to be contributing, and thankful for the distraction, I completed the back, side and front yards without incident. As I crossed the driveway and began the last leg of my journey, the substantial stretch of land leading to the road, I felt a fabulous sense of accomplishment.

As I was not yet familiar with the property lines, he walked ahead of me down to the road to point out the marker. From the bounce in his step, I could tell he was smiling even though his back was turned to me. Giddy with the knowledge that my task was all but complete, I rapidly descended the stretch toward him and his big, bright smile... god he was handsome. Three quarters of the way down, however, the tractor came to a sudden, silent stop. There were no warning signs. Immediately his smile faded. This was not the first time the tractor had come up short. He'd now have to mow the remainder of the lawn with the push mower, which would take several, sweltering hours. Though I'd substantially completed my task, he would not be joining me by the pool.

Despite my strong suggestion that he leave the lawn for another day, he began the trek to the garage to retrieve the push mower. He would never leave a job undone. Silently cursing his refusal to buy a new tractor, I swallowed my disappointment and followed him back to the house. As I was changing into my swimsuit I heard the push mower roar into action. With a sigh, I walked down the stairs and toward the kitchen. Me and my martini... alone again. At least I would always have vodka and books to keep me company.

You for a mate....

I have lived through much, and now I think I have found what is needed for happiness. A quiet secluded life in the country, with the possibility of being useful to people to whom it is easy to do good, and who are not accustomed to have it done to them; then work which one hopes may be of some use; then rest, nature, books, music, love for one's neighbor - such is my idea of happiness. And then, on top of all that, you for a mate, and children, perhaps - what more can the heart of a man desire?
- Leo Tolstoy

Written for us, perhaps.

A Happy Moment

The Grand essentials of happiness are: something to do, something to love, and something to hope for.
- Allan K. Chalmer

We'd gotten up early, enjoyed our coffee on the porch and headed to the garden center. It was a glorious holiday weekend and we had a lot of planting to do. Despite the small fortune the previous owners had spent on building the country home, they'd completed surprisingly little landscaping. Always the fiscal conservative, he'd insisted upon doing the landscaping himself. I was to be the landscape architect and he'd be my assistant. Fortunately, we had simple taste. We much preferred meadows full of wildflowers to perfectly manicured lawns.

"Pick out whatever you want," he'd said with a big smile as we walked into our new favorite nursery. It was only minutes from our house and full of big, beautiful flower baskets and shrubs. He knew that I loved flowers and would rather shop at the nursery than the department store any day. He grabbed a little red wagon as I began to wonder the rows of plants. As he neared, I smiled and said, "We're definitely going to need another wagon."

Later, as he worked in the garden and I watered the flower baskets he'd hung on the porch, I paused for a moment to watch him. The sun was shining and there was a slight breeze. He was listening to the game on the radio and planting the tomatoes his father had given him as a new garden gift. He was utterly happy, and, in that moment, so was I.

The Delusion of Happiness

"No man is happy without a delusion of some kind. Delusions are as necessary to our happiness as realities."
- Christian Nevel Bovee

"Don't you wish God would give you a little forwarding before he changes things up on you?" she said with a half-hearted laugh as she attempted to sort through the piles of paperwork that had accumulated during her absence. "You should suggest that to him," I replied dryly. If he'd listen to anyone, he'd listen to her. Despite the insurmountable obstacles that lay ahead of her, she'd returned to work as upbeat and positive as ever. "We've done all we can to slow the progression," she said, "It's in God's hands now." I admired her calm, blind faith. I'd always lacked faith.

Though his faith was not in God, he had a similar strength. He had faith in himself, us and the the natural order of things. He never feared illness or death. It would certainly come, though not anytime soon, and when it did it would be managed. Fortunately, he'd never been touched or tainted by tragedy. If he had, his perspective would necessarily have been different.

I, on the other hand, suffered an immobilizing fear of illness and death. Though I often expressed it in a comical way, it was a constant, crushing fear. Disapproving of our Prozac nation, I'd resisted prescriptive assistance and turned instead to vodka and books. They eased the obsessive thoughts and checking that plagued my every waking moment, and helped me through the anxious, sleepless nights. Though he understood and indulged me during the days, I'd suffered the endless nights alone. I'd forced myself to stay awake night after night, allowing only brief naps on the sofa, reasoning that if I didn't go to sleep then tomorrow couldn't be any worse than today... and I'd survived today.

As I listened to her retrieve her voice messages, I decided I'd rather not be forewarned. Despite all evidence to the contrary, because of him, I still believed that one day I might be happy. Why destroy the delusion?

Lucy

"To live long, eat like a cat, drink like a dog."

- German Proverb

"Look how lucky we are," he said as he bent over and began playing tug of war with Lucy. She'd been sitting patiently at his feet, staring at him intently, as she waited for the joyous moment he would attempt to snatch the blue scrap of rope she was holding tightly in her teeth. "We have a great life. We're living the dream," he said. He was sentimental and favored cliche. Though I often rolled my eyes, I secretly loved that about him.

He'd begrudgingly agreed to bring Lucy home from my brother's house. My brother bred English bulldogs and Lucy was by far the sweetest of his latest litter. A little, white, wrinkly, cuddly lump with tiny brown spots on her ears, she'd slept in my lap all Christmas day. Employing the "if I still wanted her in a week" strategy, I'd left her that Christmas day and pouted the entire ride home. A week later, on New Year's Eve, Lucy came home.

Despite a gloomy forecast, it'd been a warm, sunny Saturday. "Come outside with us," he said as he walked toward the front door. Lucy had, of course, beaten him there and was wiggling excitedly as he opened the door. I told him I'd be there in a minute and walked toward the kitchen. Moments later I emerged from the house, a dirty martini in hand, to see Lucy chasing him - and her blue rope - wildly around the yard. He was slightly out of breath and laughing that big, belly laugh that everyone loved. My heart swelled. She was quickly edging me out as his best friend. "Who's that," he asked her as they paused for the briefest moment to acknowledge my presence. Wanting in on the fun, I took a quick sip, set the drink on the white wicker stand and headed down the porch steps. As I walked toward them he threw the rope to me and she charged. He laughed even harder. Smiling, I silently agreed, we were living the dream.