In the car, she handed me a copy of the eulogy which I read on the way home while Glenn and Mother bickered about creation versus evolution in the front seat.
By the time we arrived home, tears slid down my face. Glenn showed Mother to her room then took me aside.
“Why are you crying?” he asked.
“When I read Francis’ eulogy, I saw so much of myself in him,” I said, feeling a proud, previously unknown kinship with my uncle: both of us struggling to find our place in this world, a shared admiration of Emerson and Thoreau, simplicity. I wished I was more like him.
“It’s sad that your uncle was so ‘out there’ that no one wanted anything to do with him,” Glenn said, heading down a different path. “I see the similarity in you, too. You need to be careful so you don’t alienate yourself from other people like he did.”
Becoming upset that Glenn had attacked my blood, I said, “I wasn’t crying because he was a social misfit and too bad for him he was like that.” I stared at Glenn, wondering again, who I had married. “You don’t get it, do you? I couldn’t read through that eulogy without crying because I felt bad that I didn’t treat him better.” And then I felt worse, thinking of Glenn’s comment and that he still didn’t seem to love and accept me the way I was. I felt a touch of the same persecution my uncle must have felt, but for him it had been much worse; this awareness intensified my empathetic and guilty pain.
“You treated him bad?”
“No, I didn’t really treat him like anything.” Tears of hurt and shame stung my eyes. I was ashamed of myself because I’d behaved poorly, not reaching out when I should have: now he was dead. “He scared me because he was different. He was so off-the-scale smart, it was like he was retarded, if that makes sense.”
“No, it doesn’t.”
“He was protarded,” I chuckled at my coined word, breaking the moment.
“Protarded?” Glenn looked at me as if I was ill.
I continued in all seriousness. “He was so intelligent and forthright that he was a social reject. I should have seen in him what his friends saw, his honesty, his being himself without bowing to what others thought he should be, his innocent goodness, but I didn’t get to know him well enough. I didn’t try.”
How Glenn interpreted my feeling that Francis and I had been more alike than I had known, as ‘you shouldn’t be like your weird uncle because people won’t like you’ was beyond my realm of comprehension. It wasn’t about being liked, it was about being real, true and honest, accepting, non-judgmental and open. Our differing views on this typified our views on almost everything.
I excused myself, let down, but not surprised, that Glenn and I were not of one mind, and went to check on Mother who had gotten a drink in the kitchen.
“Camryn, you do know that God created the heavens and the earth, don’t you?” she said immediately, still reeling from her conversation with Glenn on the way home.
“Of course,” I said to Mother, “but if the Adam and Eve story is for real, then Adam and Eve would have to be cavemen.”
“No. They weren’t,” she said, voicing her opinion that the idea was ludicrous.
“Well, think about it. It’s been proven that the first humans were prehistoric beings. Cavemen. If Adam and Eve were real people, then they would have had to be cavemen too.” The concept made an interesting visual. Nothing like the fig-leaf-clad, apple-eating, snake-entwined, fair-skinned couple I had been Sunday schooled with. “Don’t you think God created man by setting all things into motion for man to evolve?”
My soul bubbled to life when Bible stories—which had made no sense—became clear; the light bulb turned on.
“Think about it. It doesn’t have to be evolution or creation. It could be both, in perfect harmony. I think God created man via the indirect route, through evolution, not through some hocus-pocus method.”
Using the term hocus-pocus and God in the same sentence threw Mother into a near spasm.
I went on, ignoring her horror-stricken face. “Both theories are correct.”
“Well, I don’t know how all that works, but Adam and Eve were not cavemen,” she said with the voice of someone who knew, one hundred percent certain.
“You know, I think maybe you’re right. Adam and Eve weren’t cavemen,” I said.
Mother had a look of victory on her face, but it was short lived.
“I don’t think Adam and Eve ever existed at all.” A look of not only horror, but also one that shouted blasphemy, returned to her face. It was fun playing with her. Like a cat seizing a rabbit, letting it go to its glorious freedom, then seizing it again. It wasn’t for sadistic pleasure, but for practicing skills. I knew what I believed. It didn’t really matter if she believed the same thing. “Don’t you think the Adam and Eve story was just that, a story? You said yourself that the Bible was a great piece of literature. You know, literature, filled with metaphor.” I over-emphasized the word metaphor.
“It isn’t strictly a historical record. Don’t you think Adam and Eve were representations of humanity as a whole, illustrating the decisions between right and wrong, we, as a society, are confronted with every single day?”
She would hear none of it. “You just don’t understand,” she said, disgusted, then pouted all the way down the hall to her room. I was sure she’d go bury her head in Biblical text. She held words in higher regard than their meaning.
CHAPTER 31
“Bear one another’s burdens . . .”
Galatians 6:2 (NASB)
It had been exactly two years since I last heard from Reese, a fact that caused my intense emotion to go into remission. It was for the best, even though the supposed slight stung, stung in the same way a child’s hand stings when slapped for reaching toward a flame. I came to accept that the course of a normal day would not include an e-mail from Reese. The reflex was still uncontrollable: it waned on its own, nothing I consciously made happen. I became adept. I could now hear Reese’s name, listen to ‘our song,’ and discuss our past in the same unaffected way I could hear about daily homicides and not think twice about it. Years ago, news of a murder used to cause a disturbing excitement, an almost unheard-of event that created a nauseating and worrisome ruckus in the community. Likewise, haunting memories of Reese had subsided into something I knew had existed, yet were difficult to imagine ever having been there. My memories of Reese no longer sent me to the edge of dysfunction. He entered my mind for a few moments each day, but sometimes not until nine o’clock in the morning instead of upon waking. I was at a new mental health plateau. I pat the little monkey on my back, this one getting smaller with age. And on each September 11th I thought of Reese, just as everyone else who has lost anyone thinks of their loved ones on 9/11. I was adjusted to the new normal.
The new normal was more of the same, minus being on the cusp of total mental collapse. I remained a good ‘self-help book distance’ away.
“Let’s go to Sturgis this year,” Glenn said in total seriousness.
I looked at him, armed with all the ammunition about what would we do with our two- and seven-year-olds when we were away in South Dakota at a bike rally, where would we get the money, the fact that we’d use all of our vacation time—leaving none for emergencies etc., but instead I said, “You don’t have a motorcycle.”
“I could fix that,” he said with a cunning expression on his face.
“No way!” I had just finished mitigating a cash-flow disaster he had caused from the last ‘toy’ purchase, a snowmobile he’d only use during the Mojave winter.
“Well, what do you want?” Glenn asked, “You’ve got to want something.”
“I want to have six months’ salary in the bank in case of hard times. I want money to travel, and I want to not worry if our budget can handle eating out this week, ever!” It was outside of my capacity to dream of excess, particularly before my financial safety net was cast.
“I don’t mean like that, I mean what do you want? Don’t you want a BMW, or a b
oat, or a full-size RV? How about an airplane? I know—you want a motorcycle. I want a motorcycle. You’ve got to have goals. You’ve got to have dreams. Life isn’t worth living if you don’t dream.”
Glenn looked at me like my ambition was nil. The conversation left me drained and confused. “I can’t keep up with you! You want and want and want! I can’t even get you a birthday gift. You wonder why I’m so cheap. It’s because you’ve already spent the money!” I spun out of control, frustration raging in my head. I wondered why I stayed married.
We were alike in our material desires with this notable exception: I wanted to have money in case I needed some thing. Glenn wanted to have things in case a need arose. Never mind the fiscal and logistical problems associated with the stockpile of painfully underused gear of every sort—remote control everythings (accessories included), woodworking equipment, lumber, tools, beer-brewing equipment, riding and push lawnmowers whether we had a lawn or not, more tools, the latest video-gaming system from two years ago (still in the box), auto parts, airplane parts, parts parts, and yet more tools.
“So what’s your problem?” Glenn asked, ignoring my reality.
“My problem is,” I said, now having two problems—Glenn’s materialistic nature and being pissed off that he wouldn’t bother trying to see my problem—“that you run around wondering why I don’t give you what you want, when you’ve already taken it! You take all the fun out of giving. I get no appreciation because you steal my opportunity to give, again and again, and you rob yourself too. You don’t even know how awesome it is to receive something freely given, because you don’t let me give. You take.” He looked at me like I was speaking a foreign language.
If Glenn wanted something, he’d pursue it right away—running down anyone or anything in his path of desire, including me—trampling my feelings. He had a knack for snakelike persuasion, coercion, rationalizing and laying guilt trips.
I remembered the time he wanted a rowing machine, the one with state-of-the-art everything, that I knew he would hardly, if ever, use. He yelled at me when I doubted its usefulness. “You don’t care about my health, do you?” he had roared. It sat in our garage for years, holding up the recycling bins, after he had taken it for a few laps straight out of the box, racing. He won.
There were times I had tried to surprise him and saved my pocket money to get him a nice gift, just to find that he’d already bought that power saw he’d been talking about—two days before. Eventually, I stopped trying.
“You just want stuff because it makes you feel important, like you are somebody. It’s like material wealth is your life’s goal or something,” I said, going off, leaving no doubt that I thought this was stupid. “But you know what? It won’t last. Because your attitude will make people treat you like a nobody.”
“Don’t raise your voice to me,” Glenn shouted. “You have gone too far. Way too far and made this into something it’s not.”
“Oh, please . . .” I started to say.
“No, you listen to me. You and the girls are the most important things in my life. If I didn’t have anything else, but you three, I’d still be the happiest man on earth,” he yelled in my face, causing me to cry.
I was sure he was lying. His actions spoke louder, different words. In retrospect, I saw that the manipulation had started early on in our relationship and I resented him for it. Inside, he was insecure; outside, a control freak, sly and subtle. I kicked myself for not seeing it sooner and not walking away.
He went on, trying to redeem himself. “You like the stuff I buy too. You watch the big-screen, listen to the surround sound.”
Of course I got use of some things, but it was never worth the cost. Marriage atrophy was a high price to pay. I finally realized that it wasn’t just the material things he railroaded into his life. It was particular behaviors and actions from others too.
Because our wants rarely crossed paths and were mutually exclusive, we could not both have what we wanted, a point of contention that raised its loathsome head with disgusting regularity.
“Most husbands would love it if their wives didn’t spend money. And you’re upset with me because I don’t! You’d let me buy a new car I don’t need, but you won’t let me save so I’ll have the cash when I do need one. I don’t get you!” I screamed. “Do you realize most men would love to have a wife like me? You have one and don’t even care!”
“Of course I care. I love it that you keep us out of trouble.”
I wanted to throw something. Pound my fist.
“Okay, I won’t get a motorcycle, but I’ll have to cancel the order.”
“You already bought one,” I said, calmed after the storm.
“There’s a twenty-five percent cancellation fee though, special order.” He looked the other way. “I thought you wouldn’t mind, so it’d be a non-issue.”
Coursing through my shivering body, acid quickly replaced my calm. In cold, metered words I said, “I so fucking hate you right now.”
I wished him dead.
* * *
The next Thursday, driving home for a quick bathroom stop before going to the dentist, Sydney said, “Hayden, at school, said his dad is a jerk. My daddy’s a jerk too.”
I wanted to agree with her, but instead I said, “No he’s not.”
“Mommy,” she said with every confidence that I had all the answers, “what’s a jerk?”
“A jerk is someone who is mean and doesn’t act right.”
“Then daddy’s a jerk,” she said. It was that simple.
I pulled into the house, leaving the ignition running. To my surprise, Glenn’s car was already in the garage. He must have gotten off work early. I walked in expecting to find Glenn on the sofa watching TV.
“Hurry and go potty.” I rushed Sydney down the hall and while doing so, noticed the laptop unplugged and missing. No Glenn on the couch. My heart beat double-time, my ears reddened, and my face flushed in a way that hadn’t happened in five months. The flush shot down my spine and through my arms causing each tiny hair to stand on end.
As I entered the bedroom, I saw the laptop splayed out on the bed. Glenn was in the walk-in closet, hurriedly pulling on his jeans over his boxers. “I was just taking a little nap,” Glenn said while acting as if he’d just happened to be getting dressed. His face, his anxious demeanor, said that we both knew he was lying. Even an idiot knew that people didn’t cuddle up with laptops for an unexpected afternoon nap. Feeling sick, I imagined the tryst, Glenn, Rosie, computer—ménage a trois, on my bed. Walking in on him like that didn’t make my blood boil. It made my blood curdle, rendering me a nervous, useless wreck.
In spite of my internal tremors, I managed to say, “We’ve got to go. We’ll be late.”
Sydney stuck her head through the door, hurrying me up. “Mommy, you ready?”
I turned to Glenn, still avoiding his eye, and said, “See you later.” Then I gave him a goodbye peck on the cheek like I normally would have except that I wanted to bite his head off instead.
As my body alternated between distressed sweats and shakes, fifty thousand things scrimmaged in my mind while I drove to the dentist, waited through Sydney’s appointment, picked up Elizabeth (making normal chitchat with her sitter), and drove back home. Stay calm . . . A leopard doesn’t change his spots . . . You made this bed, lie in it . . . Why me? . . . What’s wrong with me? The Serenity Prayer, acceptance, and forgiveness were dominant scrimmaging concepts, rising above the other forty-nine thousand nine hundred and some. Players such as divorce, revenge, and retaliation had brief play time, but were benched, not making the cut. Give him another chance . . . I know what it feels like . . . Father’s words flowed through my mind. I shouldn’t be hurtful . . . Leaving would be selfish . . . Be strong. Another Fatherism popped in. The Bible said to forgive how many times, I thought, 756,294 times seven? I felt like I was getting close, although I had surmised the dictum wasn’t supposed to prescribe a finite number, but an infinite one. Turning the other c
heek didn’t mean becoming a whipping boy and inviting more abuse; it meant stopping the destructive cycle by not escalating the situation—not continuing the fight by fighting back, but instead, calm the ending.
The laptop was nestled back in its station when we arrived home.
“Go wash up for dinner,” I said to the girls. I ignored Glenn, didn’t know what to say. And the tension was thick—measured in miles, not feet.
“I had a hard day at work,” Glenn said quietly.
And you had a hard day at home too. The seething ice-cold venom inside me had not completely gone away. “That’s nice.” I said.
* * *
It was later, after I tucked the children into bed that I brought it up.
“If you have to do that with the computer,” I said, swallowing hard, “at least have the decency to cover your tracks. I don’t want to know about it, and I don’t want the girls to know about it.”
“I won’t do it again,” Glenn said, shell-shocked.
“I don’t want Sydney using the computer and have some nudie barely legal girls show up.” The teen sites were the most disturbing, making me question his judgment and think he wasn’t so kidding when he said he’d trade me in for two twenty-year-olds.
“Please . . .” Glenn tried interrupting.
“This isn’t something happily married men with children do. This is what high school and college boys do, experimenting before they grow up, marry, and have responsibilities. Think how you’d feel if one day Sydney came home, crying because her husband replaced her with a computer. Would it be okay for your daughter to be treated like that?” I asked, raising my tear-filled voice.
“No.”
“Then why is it okay to treat me that way?” I wiped my eyes, trying to stay strong, knowing he may never change and knowing that even if he did, a difficult road would follow. It felt as though the only thing that mattered to Glenn was Glenn. His impenetrable selfishness stood as a mighty fortress against love, a disservice to us both.
Love, Carry My Bags Page 38