by Cathy Lamb
“That’s neither here nor there—” he shouted, eyes shifting.
“He did,” I said, quiet, but sure. “He made her pay him back. He’s a millionaire but he made Polly come up with that money herself. We both worked extra hours to pay him back.”
“Stevie, you get out of my house, too!” Herbert roared. “I liked you better when you were fat. You were more pleasant to be around. You didn’t argue, you kept your head down, and you mostly did as you were told. Ever since you lost weight your attitude has been appalling. You think you know everything now. You think you can come in my home and tell me how it is. You have all these radical opinions and you have the temerity to voice them. I have been wanting to speak to you about it for months, privately, but now you’ve forced my hand!”
“Yes, let’s address it as a family. Stevie is a better woman now,” Aunt Janet said, chin up. “She sticks up for herself.” She sat up straight. “She carries herself better. She smiles more. She laughs. She works hard and she walks and she has a job and the partners are always asking her to work late because she’s so good at what she does.” She nodded at me. “She’s so valuable to the firm. She’s wonderful.”
My jaw dropped.
“I am going to take those classes, Herbert, and I am not going to the caterers on Tuesday. If you want to oversee the food, then you go. I don’t care.”
Polly said, “Woo-hoo, Mom!” Lance raised a fist in victory.
“You don’t care? You don’t care about the food for my anniversary party?” he hissed out, knuckles to the table, leaning forward to intimidate her.
“I don’t care, Herbert.”
“You don’t care?” He pounded both fists, once, on the table.
“No. Not at all. I’m sick of this. I’m sick of you. I’m taking classes with Virginia. I’m going to Portland State. I am going to finish my degree and I’m going to get a job. Do you hear that, Herbert? I’m going to get a job and a life.”
With that, she got up, kissed all of us on the forehead, except for Herbert, and left the room.
“Whoa,” Lance breathed. “You should have been nicer to Mom, Dad. Now you’re in trouble. The door is opening to a whole new, colorful world without Godzilla, and I’ll betcha she’s gonna choose that world, I’ll betcha.”
“Way to go, Mom,” Polly said. She laughed, bag at her side. “Way to tell off Dad, the ultimate whack job, and keep it classy.”
I thought of the expression on Aunt Janet’s face. She seemed…confident, victorious, proud of herself.
And on Herbert’s face?
Shock. Total and complete shock.
Lance called me at work the next day.
“Honey, I know you’re busy and I feel bad I’m not doing more for this anniversary torture chamber that Dad’s got going down, so I’ll do the invitations. You’re doing the food, getting the tents, the flowers, so I got ’em, no problem. I got a gal who’s a graphic artist and she said she’d do the invitations for the anniversary torture chamber and for my eighties Hard Rock party the next night and send them out. I met her on the corner of Broadway and Market when she was painting a picture. She’s very cool, although my left ankle didn’t twitch.”
“Hmmm. Well, it’s not a business deal of yours, so maybe it’s okay to work with her even though there was no twitch?”
“Unclear, very unclear, but I’ll handle it. Trixie’s very creative, and we talked about my invitations. They’re going to be red and black with a white skull on the front and an electric guitar. She’s going to use some silver stuff to make the guitar shiny, then there’s going to be a pop-up in the middle—you know when you open up a kid’s book sometimes there’s pop-ups? Well, this is a pop-up of one of my blow-up dolls. I think it’ll be Fiona Butterfly—she’s warm and friendly. Then it’ll say the date and time and to dress up as your favorite hard rocker.”
“And you’ll have her do your parents’ invitations, too? I’ll e-mail you the photos of them, the day of their wedding and the time. Herbert wants the invitations in white with the writing in gold. Thanks, Lance.”
“No, Stevie, thank you. You’re doing most of the work, I know that. And I’m going to take all of us on a cruise when this is all over!”
“Oh, no, no, you don’t have to do that, Lance….” I knew he’d do it. He’d taken us all on cruises before and the three of us had had a great time.
“It’s already done. I called my travel agent. Gotta run, Stevie. Love ya, honey.”
Click.
Cherie got another interesting divorce case. She was representing a woman named Tabitha Ruhn.
Tabitha was livid, and then delighted, when she found out her husband was cheating on her. Livid because it enraged her that the balding, plumpish, dough-boy man had cheated, delighted because she had an excuse to clean him dry and could move on to a man younger and more virile. “I want a man with power in his pants,” she told Cherie. “Power. But I sure as hell am not going to get married again. That would end my alimony, right?”
Tabitha’s a computer whiz and tapped into not only Husband’s e-mail at home but also two secret e-mail accounts he had set up. She made a big deal out of leaving town for a few days and noted that her husband quickly made arrangements for one of his girlfriends to meet at their charming, yellow Queen Anne house in the country.
Tabitha Ruhn was supposed to be hiking the Appalachian Trail. As Tabitha wears four-inch heels and never hikes, Husband should have gotten a clue. He did not, because he was following his floppy appendage and not his brain.
Tabitha was not in a tent on the trail, hunkered down in a sleeping bag kicking off raccoons. She was in a nearby bed-and-breakfast that specialized in blueberry pancakes after making sure that the multitude of cameras an investigator had inserted into the ceiling of their charming, yellow Queen Anne home were not malfunctioning as they filmed the lovebirds. She sat on top of a four-poster bed, eating blueberry pancakes and drinking coffee, while she alternately seethed in anger and cackled at the impressive amount of money that would soon be hers.
The two lovebirds giggled their way in, all alight in the danger and excitement of their affair. They went at it like rabbits, not forsaking fishnets, high heels, and a pink feathered hat that Husband wore, along with the pink silk dress his girlfriend had him slide into. His girlfriend, Chantal—exactly the name you would imagine your husband’s girlfriend would have—had a thing for bondage, leather, a whip, and a little black policeman’s hat.
It was a busy weekend for the three of them.
The lovebirds thrived in their role-playing! One time Husband dressed as King Tut and Chantal dressed as Cleopatra, and they both applied thick black eyeliner. They played a game they gigglingly referred to as Egypt Sex Scene. Cleopatra dominated and Tut willingly turned up his butt for a swat or two with Cleopatra’s whip.
Another time Chantal brought in a human-sized cage and Husband crawled in. Chantal locked him in the cage until he promised to do all sorts of wild things to her including, but not limited to, tying her up on the kitchen table that Tabitha had purchased from Italy and nibbling on her bottom.
It was unfortunate that Tabitha felt it was necessary to put the lovebirds’ video on YouTube.
That Husband was a judge and Chantal a prosecuting attorney made things a tad bit more complicated.
Husband, the judge, in our conference room, said he was going to “burn his wife to pieces in a mega-lawsuit before hell could get to her.”
“Go ahead,” Cherie said cheerily. She was wearing a purple jacket, purple skirt to midthigh, and black boots that rose over her knees. “The resulting publicity will be fabulous for my firm. I’ll have to hire three more people, poor me, as I did three months ago in another star-studded divorce case. How did Chantal’s bottom taste?”
Husband threatened to sue for defamation. “Defamation!”
“Onward ho!” Cherie said. “You have defamed yourself, but if you want a jury and the good people of Portland to have more opportunities to watc
h the videos, you’re welcome to it. How did it feel being in the cage? Did you feel dominated? Sexily out of control?”
Husband declared, so self-righteously, “That was illegal!”
And Cherie said, “Laws were made to be broken. How did it feel to play King Tut? Powerful? Dead?”
Husband huffed. “You will regret this, Cherie.”
“Nah. I don’t think so. I still have one more video. Tell me about where you got the Little Bo Peep costume? I loved it!”
Husband hissed, squirming. “You don’t have another video.”
“I do.” Cherie swung her boot. “Chantal made a great wolf. I loved how she wore a wolf mask and nothing else but a tail! And you, Judge! Who knew that you would make such a fun Tarzan!” She made the call of Tarzan. It echoed through our offices. When Husband protested, she howled a second time.
The divorce was settled quite quickly, and Husband and Chantal had to move. Husband moved to Iowa, and Chantal moved to Missouri. Tabitha made out with six million, the house in Portland, and the condo in Maui. Not bad.
A bunch of us from Poitras and Associates went that night to watch Zena in her roller derby bout, then out for beers to celebrate. Zena almost lost a tooth, but they won! We cheered ourselves hoarse. Cherie yelled like Tarzan.
I kept studying garden books and magazines when my insomnia caught me in its jaws. I was planning how I would use my yard, where the raised beds would go, the walkways, the arbor and trellises, and so on. I was getting to know all the scientific names for plants instead of calling them water lily (Nymphea dauberyana), swordfern (Macrothelypteris torresiana), and sweet alyssum (Lobularia maritima).
In fact, I knew about thirty scientific plant names right off the top of my head.
Folks, when you memorize the scientific names of plants, you have gone over the edge gardening-wise, and yes, you are a gardening maniac.
Don’t let anyone tell you differently.
Get your gloves on and accept it.
I listened to Herbert’s voice on my answering machine after a twelve-hour day at the office. When I was done I had to go to bed and read my gardening magazines and draw pictures of flowers to calm down.
“My anniversary celebration is right around the corner, as you know, Stevie. For the sake of your aunt and the importance of this occasion to her, I am willing to put behind us the regrettable dinner at our house. I know you three are under some stress. You all have your own problems at the moment, and perhaps, I can admit, I was a little hard on your aunt. She needs to get out of the house, away from the laundry and household chores, and this is the way she’s choosing to rebel from her natural and rightful place. It’s a phase she’s going through. She’s asserting herself, and I know it will end. I am a patient man, indulgent, and she can go to her classes. It’s a waste of my money, but I have agreed to pay for it. Her allowance will take a cut, however, to help cover the cost.”
I had talked to Aunt Janet the other day on the phone and she loved her classes. “I’m learning so much, I think my brain was shut down and now it’s opened up.” She loved going downtown with Virginia. “Such an adventure!” Loved her teachers and all the people they were meeting. “I think I’m finally learning how to think.”
“I’m having a midlife crisis, dear,” she told me. “It’s this fortieth anniversary party that I’m so, so dreading. I started to study my life, up close, you know, dear, and I was so unhappy with what I found.”
“What did you find?”
“I found a mouse. A very unhappy, timid, scared little mouse who had used up decades of her life being unhappy, timid, and scared.”
“I’m sorry, Aunt Janet,” I whispered, my heart heavy.
“Me, too, dear. I’m way past the halfway point. I may have only twenty years left, maybe less. I started thinking about dying and I wondered how I’d feel on my death bed about the life I’m living and that…” She stopped, and I heard her crying. “That depressed me beyond all else. I do not want to die knowing that I was unhappy and, worse, knowing that I did nothing—nothing—to change my own life, to put happiness in it. So my midlife crisis involves changing me.”
“Good for you.”
“I need to find myself. I need to be more than I am. I need to dare and I need to get out of the house!”
“You’ve certainly done that. You’re out of the house most days, aren’t you?”
“I am, dear! And Virginia and I have started volunteering with a medical clinic here for the poor. Every day. Four hours a day. And sweetie, this has helped me with your mother. There are so many people in Portland who come in muttering to themselves, talking to voices, violent and angry and scared, and by helping them, I feel…I feel that I’m reaching out to your mother through them. Do you know what I mean?”
“I do, I so do, Aunt Janet.”
“You always understand, dear Stevie.” She paused, and I knew she was getting control of herself. “Every time I see you, sugar, you look more like your mother. She was so beautiful, sweetie, as you are. I’m so sorry for what you went through, Stevie, I am. And when you came to live with us, I’m so sorry…” Her voice caught. “I was not there for you….”
“Aunt Janet, you’ve already apologized to me about this so many times, don’t torture yourself, please, I understand. You had lost your sister, your parents, your niece, you were in this lousy marriage…”
“No excuses, none, sweetie,” she said, her voice breaking. “I was weak. And I did not take care of you, the granddaughter of my parents, daughter of my dear sister, the way I should have. I was too caught up in my own grief, my own depression. My drinking.”
“I have told you that I forgive you, because you asked me for forgiveness—”
“And you forgave me because you are a gracious and giving person. Your mother, Stevie”—She paused, gained control. “Your mother would have been so proud of you.”
“Now you’re making me cry, Aunt Janet.” You see, I understood Aunt Janet. I was scared to death that I would never live, like her, never become who I wanted to be, although I didn’t know quite yet who it was I wanted to become.
My uncle’s commanding, irritating voice intruded.
“Stevie! Continue helping the kids with my anniversary celebration. I am handling the political side, so all you have to do is make a couple of calls to the caterers and florist and make sure those invitations get out on the list I gave you. Remember I will not swallow scallops. Remember no pepper on anything. And don’t forget that we will not be having anything chocolate for dessert. Get back to me immediately with your report.”
He hung up.
He was such an awful person.
The chicken job was still available, I noticed. Ten dollars an hour.
I sighed.
I absolutely could not apply for that.
I had a lot of emotional issues with chickens and I couldn’t do it.
I could not.
I am not a chicken.
Am I?
On Saturday morning I went on my walk. I hadn’t fallen asleep until about two in the morning and I woke up at six because in my dreams Sunshine was staring through my mirror, tears rolling down her flushed cheeks. On the other side of the mirror was me. She was screaming for me, hands outstretched. I tried to reach through the mirror for her hands, but a bridge arched up between us, and then water swamped the bridge and carried Sunshine off into a whirlpool. She turned purple because she had no air, then exploded, and the glass from the mirror lacerated my face.
I woke up shaking, exhausted, depressed, sweating.
I was exhausted from the shaking, depressed about the sweating. I wanted to pull the covers over my head but knew that wouldn’t work, so I set out on my walk, hoping it would take away the shakes.
I trudged out the door, into a spring drizzle, but then stepped up my pace as my muscles woke up and my body leaped into a rhythm. Though the mirror dream was clawing on my mind, I tried to leave it in the tangle of sweaty sheets with every step I took.
I love watching the seasons change close up on my walks.
Before my operation I wasn’t able to “do” seasons. Now I can. The blustery wind that blows my hair around, the rain that trickles down my face, the snow that sticks to my eyelashes, the sun that warms me, the darkness in the morning when I watch the sun inch up, my feet pounding out a familiar pattern…. The colors are so tasty to me, almost magical. The leaves change—greens, reds, yellow, brown, then there are no leaves, only the branches crisscrossing like millions of tree freeways. I stare up at trees, I crouch down to see little flowers blooming, I catch hail in my mittens, and I stop to watch birds and ladybugs and spiders on webs and a garter snake or two.
I pause when the geese fly overhead and I pet dogs on leashes and grin at cats that sidle up to greet me. When I walk through the park I embrace the silence, and when I walk through the woods I listen to the sounds of the forest, the crunch of pine needles, the rustling of little animals, the croak of a frog, the tweet of a bird.
I was a window person.
Now I’m a nature person.
I have missed out on so much for so long, months ago I vowed I would never miss a day of nature again in my life.
So I walk.
Every day.
And hope I can fend off a nervous breakdown.
“I’m lonely.”
I gripped the phone in my hands and sat down in an Adirondack chair on my deck, the stars twinkling at me between my cherry trees.
“Lance, I’m sorry,” I said.
“I know,” he sniffled. “But I am. I want to get married, I want to have kids, a bunch of them. Maybe ten. But I’ve never met anyone I want to marry. Not one woman made my ankle twitch, ever. No twitching.”
“One will make your ankle twitch, honey.”
I so understood Lance. I knew he was lonely. I was, too, sometimes.
I thought losing weight would take some of my loneliness away, and it has somewhat. It has certainly taken away the massive isolation I felt from the rest of society, to whom I was invisible and judged to be “less than,” but it certainly didn’t magically alleviate my loneliness, or aloneness.