Learning to Cry

by Christopher C. Payne

  A couple of weeks after I moved in they had Marcia’s 5th birthday. They were nice enough to invite us over. Actually, I was holed up in the house, but Cassandra was in our back yard playing. She saw all of the party favors, the balloons, and cake, and she probably invited herself. She ran inside so happy and full of life that day. Jumping up and down, asking if she could go over, telling me she was invited. I went, knocked on the door and introduced myself. Then, I had a couple of beers. It was still too soon after the divorce for me to be up for socializing, but I was ecstatic to have a place for Cassandra to hang out.

  They don’t really tell you about that during the divorce proceedings, you lose your social life. The ex-wife usually gets the house and all the neighborhood benefits. The men are stuck rebuilding not only their lives but their children’s lives, as well. It is all about starting over. I’ve come to realize that has many more positives than negatives, but it is still a difficult endeavor.

  I sometimes reflect back on the times when those two little girls played in my house. They ran up the stairs, chased the dogs or harassed Karen’s cat. Rachel loved grabbing our little Chihuahua, throwing him up in the air like a stuffed animal. I was lucky enough to have two dogs that any little girl could easily play with. The animals were both so gentle and tolerated so much. The ear-pulling and tail-grabbing was relentless.

  My black lab’s only problem was getting a little too excited. She loved it immeasurably when the kids would play with her. So much that she almost jumped out of her skin with unleashed exuberance. That was always her problem, really. She had such a good heart. She wouldn’t hurt anyone intentionally. Still she was so big that it was always inevitable somebody would get stepped on or knocked over by her 80-pound frame. She just couldn’t stop herself once she got going.

  I try to remember things like this. The happy times. I still find myself wondering what my dog is doing right now. Is she lying in the backyard, all stretched out as the sun reflects off her shiny black coat? Is the little Chihuahua biting her ears as she bats him away over and over again with her oversized paws. Damn, that dog had some huge feet.

  I guess in the end is there anything more to life than sitting around and playing a board game with your children and the neighbors? The most enjoyable memories I have are of flopping down on the floor next to the coffee table with my daughters, my girlfriend, and the neighbor kids playing games. I even loved the state game, though it showed me how little I actually knew and how my children knew even less about our country. It makes you wonder what we learn in schools when most of us know so few details about where we live and call home. It borders on embarrassing to forget where Idaho is located on a map. God forbid I should know what the capital is.

  I wonder if I should spend all of my newfound time learning the states. Maybe I could memorize them, along with their capitals, their state birds, and whatever else might be pertinent to a good game of trivia. I know of other guys who are getting high school diplomas and college degrees. I guess I should start to figure out something to fill my time. I am not sure how much more energy I can continue to invest in crying every single day. Crying might be cleansing, but at some point I will have to move on, right? I mean, everyone does.

  I wonder if Melvin and Sandra are moving on. I will never forget when I last saw them. I think their images are burned inside my memory bank, like a branding iron forms its mark on a cow. My mind and body are nothing more than a vessel to carry their images around for the rest of my span on earth. They are a part of me now. They will always be a part of me. Not like a neighbor in passing who I once knew, but one who is really a part of who I am. Sadly, I guess they feel the same of me. Not in a good way, but more with thoughts of hatred and resentment. How do you know when you first meet somebody to whom you will one day wish you had never actually been introduced?

  I wonder if Melvin thinks of his daughter’s 5th birthday with sadness and resentment? Contemplating how life would be different if he would have not invited Cassandra over to his house? How might Melissa’s life be different if our families had not become connected? How can you ever understand the significance of an event and what role relationships will play years down the road?

  I had never seen Melvin in a suit before that last day. He had on a shiny dark blue, pin-striped pants and jacket. His tie was black and red striped. I had wondered if he purchased it from that warehouse store I used to see advertised on TV all the time. It looked like one of those suits. Maybe he had a black one, as well, and had gotten them on a buy one-get one free day. I really didn’t even understand how those kinds of things worked. Buy one-get one free. What did that even mean?

  Sandra had looked beautiful that day. She was a very pretty woman all of the time, anyway. I had originally thought her slightly overweight when we first met, but now realize it was just the baby fat hanging around from when she had given birth to Rachel. Damn, that little girl was so cute. Both of the daughters had gotten their looks from their mother. Not that Melvin wasn’t a handsome man, but, being a man myself, I can only get so excited about another guy’s looks.

  She had been wearing a black dress. It cut off around her knees and was simple yet elegant. Her jet black hair had been hanging down, a few strands hovering over her left cheek. I hadn’t seen her parents and didn’t know them that well. I can only assume they were stoically planted in the back somewhere. I am sure the entire family was out in support that afternoon.

  I hadn’t been able to look at Karen, but I knew she would have been there, as well. That would have been the last time I saw her, if I would have had the courage to gaze in her direction. What was the point, there was nothing left to be said? What is that saying, water under the bridge, or something like that? I guess it makes sense. Once the water passes by you can’t really bring it back again. If it were possible, God knows I would be down there slinging my pail like crazy.

  It isn’t even so much about me at this point, although I think I shed more than my fair share of tears for myself. It actually shames me that I feel sorry for myself. I wonder if it is a self-preservation instinct that keeps us all thinking about ourselves more than anyone else. God only knows that Melissa thought of nobody else, but that is the truth of most teenagers.

  I think I have even found a spot in my heart to forgive my father for what I went through as a teenager. It wasn’t the best experience for either one of us, but in retrospect maybe it wasn’t entirely his fault. He could have handled so many things better than what he did. The beatings with a wire fly swatter being one of them. Talk about something imbedded in my psyche for an eternity. I wonder if he anticipated, at the time, that spankings with the wire fly swatter would be some of my few childhood memories that stayed with me forever?

  I now realize I wasn’t that easiest teenager to live with. I was very moody and prone to quickly changing direction at the slightest provocation. Melissa and I shared the same teenage genes. I wish I were smart enough to discover how to help kids in general navigate their lives so they can manage those tumultuous times more pleasantly. It puts such a needless strain on life when you have to deal with family members who are completely out of control.

  I wonder if her drinking came from me. I know I used to drink more when she was around that is for sure. There were some nights I don’t think I could have made it without a glass of scotch to help me through. Her attitude alone was enough to kill most average people. It makes me admire Karen more than I would have otherwise.

  I can’t help but feel that she is one of the most scarred of all of us by what happened. She chose to enter our lives. She wasn’t born into our family, but she was swayed by my affections. I did love her more than anything in the world. She gave me some of the happiest months I had ever known. Her affectionate touch was electrifying as she brushed her fingers through my hair. Again, it is one of the little things that I think about.

  My teen daughter in her moods, so I have a drink. Karen brushing her fingers through my hair as I get slightly distract
ed with her loving touch. Amelia and Cassandra playing in the background as I take a glance. Hundreds of things coming together to form what? A change in life? A change in death? A change in everyone and anyone who has ever known all of us as a family unit?

  Melissa spent so much of her young life in sadness. I guess the appropriate word is depression. I still wonder what was a lie and what was real. Can you ever fully trust somebody who has spent so much energy and focus on ensuring everything they ever told you was false? How does trust every get rebuilt? Is there any wonder that Elin was finally going to file for divorce from Tiger Woods? How do you ever get that comfort back once it has been blatantly smashed into pieces, hundreds of times?

  I seem to have all the questions, but none of the answers. Maybe none of us really have any answers. We all seem to be full of one thing, ourselves. We look to religion or God to fill this void, but if there were a God would he not protect the innocent? Why would he not wrap his arms around a little girl and make sure that nothing bad ever happened to her. Is it really God’s will that a small child get molested, beaten and killed? I don’t claim to be an atheist, I actually believe in God, but it clouds the validity if he would allow the death of a little girl.

  Is there anyone who will ever forget the tragedy of 9-11 and how many of our religious leaders claimed it was the fault of the devil? How many said it was our punishment for being a nation that openly accepted homosexuals. How many of these fanatics claim that AIDS is nothing more than God inflicting punishment on individuals for openly being gay.

  It makes me sick what people are capable of and yet are my actions any better?

  I can do nothing now. There is no hope for me. I sit in a corner and cry myself to sleep. I stand in line and do nothing but weep. You get what you deserve in the end I guess. You plant your seed and sew what you reap.

  Is it really like child, like parent?

  Wrong place, wrong time

  Father

  June 7, 2010.

  Can you be in the wrong place at the wrong time? Jesus, I no longer have any idea what makes sense.

  I woke up that morning as I did so many other days that I’ve forgotten. How can anyone remember every moment of their lives? They all blend together, forming one at some point. I lay in bed, snuggling Karen. I had not gotten on the computer, which always drove her crazy by the way, but had chosen to lie for a few minutes with her in my arms. She always smelled like some kind of fruit or flower. She had lotions for everything, it seemed.

  She would rub anti-aging lotion on her face and anti-wrinkle cream on her forehead. There was this one wrinkle or line she always pointed to, telling me how she could now tell she was getting older. She was 13 years younger than I was, so it really seemed irrelevant. She still got carded every single time we went out for drinks. It wasn’t that she looked underage at 30 years old, but she did look young. In reality I wouldn’t have cared what she looked like.

  You always get those questions in relationships asking “what if.” “What if” I were burned beyond repair, or “what if” I lost my arms, or legs, or “what if” I were dying in two years, or my face was smashed beyond recognition, would you still love me? I am not sure I understood the question before I met Karen, but I did once she came into my life. It wouldn’t matter what she looked like, what happened to her, how old she got or how her body might change. I loved her with my whole heart. Every fiber of my being loved that woman. Jesus Christ, I still love her, but I have to let her go now, don’t I?

  I lay there with her that morning, and we held each other. She rubbed her fingers through my hair, as she so often did. It was the most amazing feeling. I can still remember it if I close my eyes and imagine. It is those memories that keep me going, I think.

  The clock hit 6:15, and I knew the girls would be up, so I pulled myself out of bed and let the dogs out. I never really paid enough attention to my two dogs. They were good dogs. I wish I would have lain on the floor with them a little more often and just scratched their ears. They loved that. It would have been so simple to get out of my recliner and give them some much needed affection.

  Amelia and Cassandra were awake. They were busy getting dressed and yelled good morning to me as I let the dogs in the backyard. I didn’t even check if they needed food and water. I hope that Karen remembers to feed and water them. I am sure she will, but she does get a little distracted now and then. She forgets to feed her 18-year-old cat at times, and I used to drop food and water in her bowls. I really didn’t mind much, but I gave Karen a hard time about it.

  I knocked on Melissa’s door, and she still wasn’t out of bed yet. She yelled at me that she was awake, but I could tell by her voice she wasn’t moving. She was always so mean when she woke up. Karen used to refuse to rouse her for fear of being on the short end of one of Melissa’s temper flair ups. Melissa really had no control over her anger during any point of her teen years.

  I made it to the kitchen and started breakfast. That morning was pancakes and eggs for everyone. I started Karen’s gluten-free pancakes first. That doesn’t even seem like a real allergy, but she holds fast that it is. I sometimes wonder since she has never even been tested for it, but in the end it is such a small thing to overlook for somebody as remarkable as she is. Damn, maybe she really is allergic, anyway. How the hell do I know one way or the other? At some point shouldn’t I just take her word for it? I made pumpkin-spiced pancakes again, which the kids loved. They had been as leery as I was when Karen first introduced us, but it had only taken one bite for me to be convinced. Mine were not quite as good as the restaurant version since I only used a pumpkin pie spice to flavor them, but they were better than the average plain version. Once breakfast was made, we all sat down and ate together. It was a little rushed as usual in the morning, but sitting down as a family to eat a meal was important to both Karen and me. This was something that never occurred in my previous marriage, and Karen was so thoughtfully adamant about how important the time was.

  As normal, I yelled at everyone that we had to leave once breakfast was done and everything was cleaned up. The last minute touches of make-up and hair brushing occurred every morning. When you live with four girls in a one-bathroom house, you have to show some patience with their fighting over the mirror and sink. Even my little one got in the mix, and she was only 8 years old.

  I then drove them over the coast for my hour-and a-half commute to all of their schools. My ex-wife insisted that my little ones remain in school on the coast despite the inferior quality of the entire district. I remember a parent conference with Cassandra’s teacher, and he asked me if it were true that I lived in Burlingame. When I confirmed this he asked me why she didn’t go to school in that district since it was so much better than the one he taught in. I told him to talk to her mother. She refused to give up the social aspects of her involvement in school functions, and that was more important to her than the quality of our daughter’s education.

  He laughed at the time but when I saw him the next time he nodded his head in understanding. She really did care more about her own involvement than her children’s education. It is sad in a way, but on the other hand, she is involved so what can I say. After the debacle with Melissa and her switching districts, then switching back, I had lost my energy to fight with their mother on quality. I figured I would just help them all the best I could wherever they went to school.

  Once I arrived back home, I spent the day writing as I had done the last few months. I made the bed, picked up the remnants of clothes left in the wake of our early morning rush for school, and watched one of my new favorite shows “Spartacus.” I am not even sure it was that good, but I did enjoy the reprieve from sanity once a week while I watched it. I think it was scheduled on Friday nights but I never managed to watch it until later the following week. Karen hated the violence and refused to have it on while she was in the room.

  Today was Karen’s turn to pick up the kids, so I had some extra time at home by myself. I actually enjoyed p
icking them up, but it was also nice having a break. Karen was such a help with the children. They weren’t even hers, we were not even married, and yet she jumped in and helped in every aspect of rearing them. Being a school psychologist she was wonderful with all three, but she also said on many occasions it was so much more difficult when they were children living with you, under the same roof. Being with those damn little vixens was not always the easiest thing. Still, I miss it more than anything else in life.

  When Karen and the girls arrived from their day at school, we decided to go to Hola’s for dinner. It was becoming quite the tradition for us to venture down to our favorite Mexican restaurant once a week, if not twice a week on the rare occasion. It had not been long before that Karen and the kids introduced me to Taco Tuesday. I, for some reason, thought it was Taco Wednesday, but that doesn’t seem to make much sense. Still it was happy hour every day from 4 p.m. to 7 p.m., and that was enough incentive for us to make the commitment.

  We knew the staff there pretty well by this time, so we sat down in the bar area on our own that day, and they quickly gave us our free appetizer plates. We, then, ordered our usual round of drinks. The kids always had lemonades, I had the house margarita, and Karen had a pomegranate martini. We had quite the colorful table setting. We stayed for a couple of hours, had some food, and by the time we left, I had polished off three margaritas. This was actually a normal occurrence so it was nothing out of the ordinary. The one big difference was that night, I drove.

  On most occasions, we walked down to Burlingame Avenue. I loved the walk. If it were up to me I would have always walked, not that I am pointing blame at anyone. I’m just stating a fact, really. I enjoyed the fresh air and liked the exercise. That night the kids were tired, it was a little breezy, and I gave in to the relentless demands of everyone concerned. It wasn’t that far away, so it didn’t seem to be a big deal.