by Pat Conroy
“I told you, Sallie,” I said, studying Jennifer’s hair. “If you raise children in the South, you produce southerners. And a southerner is one of God’s natural fools.”
“We’re southern and we’re not fools,” said Sallie.
“Aberrations, dear. It happens once or twice every generation.”
“Girls, go on upstairs and wash up. Lila is going to be here soon.”
“Why doesn’t she like us to call her Grandma?” Lucy asked.
“Because it makes her feel old. Run along now,” Sallie said, moving the girls inside the house.
When she returned, Sallie leaned down and brushed her lips on my forehead. “I’m sorry Lucy said that. She’s so goddamn conventional.”
“It doesn’t bother me, Sallie, I swear it doesn’t. You know I adore the role of martyrdom—how I blossom in an atmosphere of self-pity. Poor nutless Tom Wingo, polishing the silver while his wife discovers a cure for cancer. Sad Tom Wingo making the perfect soufflé while his wife knocks down a hundred grand a year. We knew this would happen, Sallie. We talked about it.”
“I still don’t like it worth a shit. I don’t trust that male ego strutting around inside you. I know it’s got to hurt. It makes me feel guilty as hell because I know the girls don’t understand why I’m not there with cookies and milk when they get home from school.”
“But they’re proud that their mama is a doctor.”
“But they don’t seem proud that you’re a teacher and a coach, Tom.”
“Was, Sallie. Past tense. I was fired, remember? I’m not proud of it either, Sallie. So we can’t really blame them. Oh, God, is that my mother’s car I hear pulling up in the driveway? May I have three Valiums, Doctor?”
“I needed them for myself, Tom. Remember, I’ll have to endure your mother’s house inspection before she turns on you,” said Sallie.
“Liquor’s not helping,” I moaned. “Why does liquor fail to numb my senses when I need it most? Should I invite Mom for dinner?”
“Of course, but you know she won’t stay.”
“Great, then I’ll invite her.”
“Be nice to your mother, Tom,” Sallie said. “She seems so sad and so desperate to be your friend again.”
“Friendship and motherhood are not compatible.”
“Do you think our kids will think that?”
“No, our kids will only hate their father. Have you noticed they’re already sick of my sense of humor and the oldest is only ten years old? I’ve got to develop some new routines.”
“I like your routines, Tom. I think they’re funny. That’s one of the reasons I married you. I knew we’d spend a great deal of the time laughing.”
“Bless you, Doctor. Okay, here’s Mom. Could you tie some garlic around my throat and bring me a crucifix?”
“Hush, Tom, she’ll hear you.”
My mother appeared in the doorway, immaculately dressed and groomed, and her perfume walked out on the porch several moments before she did. My mother always carried herself as if she were approaching the inner chamber of a queen. She was as finely made as a yacht—clean lines, efficient, expensive. She was always far too pretty to be my mother and there was a time in my life when I was mistaken for her husband. I cannot tell you how much my mother loved that time.
“There you are,” my mother said. “How are you, dears?”
She kissed both of us, was cheerful, but the bad news lay heavy in her eyes.
“You get more beautiful every time I see you, Sallie. Don’t you agree, Tom?”
“I certainly do, Mother. And so do you,” I answered, suppressing a groan. My mother could bring inanities tumbling out of me in a loose, ceaseless cascade.
“Well, thank you, Tom. That’s so sweet of you to say to your old mother.”
“My old mother has the best figure in the state of South Carolina,” I replied, counting my second rapid-fire inanity.
“Well, I work hard at it, I can tell you. The menfolk don’t know what we girls suffer to retain these girlish figures, do they, Sallie?”
“They certainly don’t.”
“You’ve gained weight again, Tom,” my mother noticed cheerfully.
“You girls don’t know what we menfolk put ourselves through to become fat shits.”
“Well, I certainly didn’t mean it critically, Tom,” my mother said, her voice hurt and sanctimonious. “If you’re that sensitive, I won’t mention it again. The extra weight is very becoming to you. You always look better when your face is filled out. But I didn’t come to fight with you today. I’ve got some very bad news. May I sit down?”
“Of course, Lila. Let me fix you a drink,” said Sallie.
“A gin and tonic, darling. With a squeeze of lime if you have it. Where are the children, Tom? I don’t want them to hear.”
“Upstairs,” I said, looking toward the sunset, waiting.
“Savannah tried to kill herself again.”
“Oh my God,” Sallie said, stopping outside the door. “When?”
“Last week, evidently. They’re not sure. She was in a coma when they found her. She’s out of the coma, but…”
“But what?” I murmured.
“But she’s in one of those silly states she goes into when she wants attention.”
“It’s called a psychotic interlude, Mother.”
“She claims she’s a psychotic,” my mother snapped back at me. “She’s not a true psychotic, I can tell you that.”
Before I could answer, Sallie jumped in with a question. “Where is she, Lila?”
“In a psychiatric hospital in New York City. Bellevue or someplace like that. I have it written down at home. A doctor called. A woman doctor like you, Sallie, only a psychiatrist. I’m sure she couldn’t make it in any real field of medicine, but each to his own, I always say.”
“I almost went into psychiatry,” Sallie said.
“Well, it certainly affords a lot of pleasure to see young women doing so well in the professions. I didn’t have those kinds of opportunities when I was a girl. Anyway, this woman called to tell me the tragic news.”
“How did she try to do it, Mom?” I said, attempting to retain control. I was slipping; I could feel it.
“She slit her wrists again, Tom,” my mother said, starting to cry. “Why does she want to do those things to me? Haven’t I suffered enough?”
“She did it to herself, Mom.”
“I’ll get your drink, Lila.” Sallie spoke as she moved inside the house.
My mother dried her tears on a handkerchief she pulled out of her purse. Then she said, “The doctor’s Jewish, I believe. She has one of those impossible names. Maybe Aaron knows her.”
“Aaron’s from South Carolina, Mom. Just because he’s Jewish doesn’t mean he knows every Jew in America.”
“But he’d know how to find out about her. To see if she’s on the up and up. Aaron’s family is very tight.”
“If she is a Jew, Aaron’s family is certain to have a file on her all right.”
“You don’t have to be sarcastic with me, Tom. How do you think I feel? How do you think I feel when my children do these terrible things to themselves? It makes me feel like such a failure. You can’t imagine how good society people look at me when they find out who I am.”
“Are you going to New York?”
“Oh, I can’t possibly go, Tom. This is a real hard time for me. We’re giving a dinner party Saturday night and it’s been planned for months. And the expense. I’m sure she’s in good hands and there’s nothing we can really do.”
“Being there is doing something, Mom. You’ve never realized that.”
“I told the psychiatrist you might go,” my mother said, tentative and hopeful.
“Of course I’ll go.”
“You don’t have a job now and it’ll be easy for you to arrange.”
“My job is looking for a job.”
“I think you should have taken that job selling insurance. That’s my honest opinion,
though you certainly didn’t ask my advice.”
“How did you know about that?”
“Sallie told me.”
“She did?”
“She’s very worried about you. We all are, Tom. She can’t be expected to support you the rest of your life.”
“Did she tell you that, too?”
“No. I’m just telling you what I know. You’ve got to face facts. You’re never going to be able to teach or coach again as long as you live in South Carolina. You need to start afresh, work your way up from the bottom, prove yourself to some employer willing to give you a chance.”
“You talk like I’ve never had a job in my life, Mom,” I said, weary and needing to escape my mother’s eyes, wanting the sun to set faster, in need of darkness.
“It’s been a good long while since you had a job,” Mom persisted. “And a woman just doesn’t respect a man who doesn’t help bring home the bacon; that I can tell you. Sallie’s been an angel, but she can’t be expected to make all the money while you sit brooding on this porch.”
“I’ve applied for over seventy jobs, Mom.”
“My husband can get you a job. He’s offered to set you up in business.”
“You know I can’t take help from your husband. You, at least, understand that.”
“I certainly don’t understand it,” my mother half-shouted at me. “Why should I be expected to understand it? He sees your whole family suffering because you can’t get off your fat duff and get a job. He wants to do this to help Sallie and the girls, not to help you. He doesn’t want them to suffer any more than they already have. He’s willing to help you even though he knows how much you hate him.”
“I’m glad he knows how much I hate him,” I said.
Sallie returned to the porch with my mother’s drink and a fresh one for me. I felt like tossing out the drink and eating the glass.
“Tom was just telling me how much he hates me and everything I stand for.”
“Untrue. I merely said, under great provocation, that I hate your husband. You brought the subject up.”
“I brought up the subject of your joblessness. It’s been over a year, Tom, and that’s plenty of time for any man of your abilities to come up with something, anything. Don’t you think it’s embarrassing for Sallie to be supporting a full-grown man with all his limbs attached?”
“That’s enough, Lila,” Sallie said angrily. “You’ve no right to hurt Tom by using me.”
“I’m trying to help Tom. Don’t you see that, Sallie?”
“No. Not like that. Not ever like that. It’s not the way, Lila.”
“I have to go to New York tomorrow, Sallie,” I said.
“Of course you do,” she answered.
“You’ll give her my love, Tom, won’t you?”
“Of course, Mom.”
“I know she’s against me as much as you are,” she whined.
“We’re not against you, Mother.”
“Oh yes you are. Do you think I can’t feel your contempt for me? Do you think that I don’t know how much you hate it that I’m finally happy in my life? You loved it when I was miserable and living with your father.”
“We didn’t love that, Mom. We had a hideous childhood, which launched us prettily into a hideous adulthood.”
“Please stop,” Sallie pleaded. “Please stop hurting each other.”
“I know what it’s like being married to a Wingo male, Sallie. I know what you’re going through.”
“Mom, you’ve got to visit more often. I actually experienced a minute or two of happiness before you arrived.”
Sallie commanded, “I want this to stop and I want it to stop now. We need to think about how we can help Savannah.”
“I’ve done all I can for Savannah,” Mom said. “Whatever she does, she’ll blame me.”
“Savannah’s a sick woman,” Sallie said softly. “You know that, Lila.”
My mother brightened at this, shifted the drink to her left hand, and leaned forward to talk to Sallie.
“You’re a professional, Sallie,” she said. “Do you know that I’ve been reading a lot about psychosis lately? The leading authorities have discovered mat it’s a chemical imbalance and has nothing at all to do with heredity or environment.”
“There’s been an awful lot of chemical imbalance in our family, Mother,” I said, unable to control my raw, blistery anger.
“Some doctors think it’s a lack of salt.”
“I’ve heard something about it, Lila,” Sallie agreed kindly.
“Salt!” I cried out. “I’ll take Savannah a box of Morton’s and let her start spooning it in. If it’s just salt she needs, I’ll put her on a diet that’ll make her look like Lot’s wife.”
“I’m just quoting what the leading authorities say. If you want to make fun of your mother, feel free, Tom. I guess I’m an easy target, an old woman who sacrificed the best years of her life for her children.”
“Mom, why don’t you get a job bottling guilt? We could sell it to all American parents who haven’t mastered the fine art of making their kids feel like shit all the time. You’d be a shoo-in to win the patent.”
“And then maybe you’d finally have a job, son,” she said coldly as she rose from her chair. “Call me, please, after you see Savannah. You can reverse the charges.”
“Why don’t you stay for dinner, Lila? You haven’t seen the children yet,” said Sallie.
“I’ll come visit when Tom’s in New York. I want to take the kids up to Pawleys Island for a couple of weeks. If you don’t mind, of course.”
“That would be lovely.”
“Goodbye, son,” my mother said. “Take good care of your sister.”
“Goodbye, Mother,” I answered, and I rose to kiss her on the cheek. “I always have.”
After dinner, Sallie and I helped the girls get ready for bed. Then we went for a walk on the beach. We headed toward the lighthouse, walking barefooted in the surf past Fort Moultrie. Sallie took my hand, and I, distracted and troubled, realized how long it had been since I had touched Sallie, since I had approached her as lover or friend or equal. My body had not felt like an instrument of love or passion for such a long time; it had been a winter of deadening seriousness, when all the illusions and bright dreams of my early twenties had withered and died. I did not yet have the interior resources to dream new dreams; I was far too busy mourning the death of the old ones and wondering how I was to survive without them. I was sure I could replace them somehow, but was not sure I could restore their brassy luster or dazzling impress. So, for months, I had not attended to the needs of my wife, had not stroked or touched her until she glowed and moved like a cat beneath my hands; I had not responded when she moved her bare leg against mine or put her hand against my thigh when we lay in solitude through sleepless nights. My body always betrayed me when the mind was restless and suffering. Sallie moved toward me and together we leaned into the summer wind as the waves broke around our feet. Orion the Hunter walked the skies above us, belted and armed, in the star-struck, moonless night.
Sallie said to me, squeezing my hand, “Tom. Talk to me. Tell me everything you’re thinking. You’re growing so quiet again and I can’t seem to reach you at all.”
“I’m trying to figure out how I ruined my life,” I said to Orion. “I want to know the exact moment it was preordained that I would lead a perfectly miserable life and drag everyone I love down with me.”
“You’ve got something to fight for that’s so valuable— something worth the fight. You seem to be giving up, Tom. Your past is hurting us.”
“There’s the Big Dipper,” I said, pointing halfheartedly.
“I don’t give a shit about the Big Dipper,” Sallie said. “I’m not talking about the Big Dipper and I don’t want you to change the subject. You’re not even good at changing the subject.”
“Why does everything my mother says, every single syllable, every single insincere phoneme, piss me off? Why can’t I ignore her, Sall
ie? Why can’t I simply go limp when she comes over. If I just didn’t respond to her, she couldn’t touch me. I know she loves me with all her heart. But we sit there and say things that wound and damage and destroy. She leaves and we both have blood on our hands. She cries and I drink; then she drinks. You try to intercede and we both ignore you and resent you for even trying. It’s like we’re in some monstrous passion play where she and I take turns crucifying each other. And it’s not her fault and it’s not mine.”
“She just wants you to find a job and be happy,” Sallie said.
“I want that, too. I want it desperately. The truth is I’m having a very rough time finding anyone who wants to hire me. There are dozens of letters I haven’t told you about. All very polite. All saying the same thing. All unbearably humiliating.”
“You could have taken the insurance job.”
“Yes, I could have. But it wasn’t an insurance job, Sallie. I would have been an insurance collector, knocking on sharecroppers’ shacks on Edisto Island, collecting nickels and dimes from poor blacks who bought insurance so they could have a decent burial.”
Sallie squeezed my hand and said, “It would have been a start at something, Tom. It would have been better than sitting around the house clipping recipes. You’d have been doing something to save yourself.”
Hurt, I answered, “I’ve been thinking. I haven’t been wasting my time.”
“I don’t mean this as a criticism, Tom. I really don’t, but . . . ”
“Every time you use that memorable phrase, Sallie,” I interrupted, “you mean it as a bone-crushing criticism, but go ahead. After Mom, I could endure a cavalry charge of Huns and elephants.”
“No, this is not critical. I want it to sound loving. You’ve been so self-pitying, so analytical, and so bitter since what happened to Luke. You’ve got to forget what happened and go on from here, from this moment. Your life isn’t over, Tom. One part of your life is. You’ve got to find out what the next part is going to be.”
For several minutes we walked in silence, in the disturbing solitude that sometimes visits couples at the most incongruous times. It was not a new feeling for me; I had a limitless gift for turning even those sweet souls who loved me best into strangers.