We say that some dates will live forever, will never be forgotten. And when we make that pledge, we mean it. If only life would stand still, would not keep rolling inexorably forward, diminishing the strength of our memories by replacing them with newer and stronger memories.
I started walking back toward my car parked at the Omni and before I knew it I was jogging and then trotting and then running at a full sprint. And then I was in the Escalade and speeding and I knew that I’d play every card – political and the brotherhood of cops and prosecutors and personal friendship if that would help get me out of a ticket if I was stopped. Because I wasn’t going to be stopped.
I was almost there when I realized she might not be there. Maybe I wasn’t the only one who’d forgotten. What would I do then? She had a life, too, and maybe new loves and new plans had replaced the old memories. It was such a small thing, this ceremony we held each November 12th. But-
It would break my heart, I realized, if it ended tonight. It would be as if he were once, and forever, and finally forgotten. Gone as if he had never existed.
I pulled up in the driveway. The house was dark. Her car might be in the garage.
I walked up the driveway onto the steps of the house and listened. I heard nothing. No radio, no television. I knocked on the door. Nothing. I knocked again, and then hit the doorbell, and knocked, and hit the doorbell and each time I knocked I hit harder, with more force. And I knew then that she wasn’t there and we would not keep a memory alive. We might get together on another day. But it wouldn’t be the same.
The light came on around me. And then the door opening a small bit, and then it was pulled back.
Her hair sprawled across her face, bangs down across her eyes. They were red, her face still wet with tears.
“I thought you’d forgotten. I didn’t think you were coming.”
“I almost did forget. I’m sorry.”
She turned around and went back into the house. I followed, locking the front door behind me. She walked into the den. A bottle and two glasses sat on the coffee table. The other items were there as well. She poured me a finger of Bushmills. Actually it was Bushmills Original Irish Whisky which my mother said my father and his family had called White Bush.
I had never had the chance to drink with my father, but when I was old enough, she had told me that the day I was born my father had toasted my birth with White Bush. And when he had been born, his father had toasted his birth with the same whisky. It had been a tradition in the Maitland family.
So with my mother and Debbie, once the stress of labor had passed, we had toasted the birth of a our first child with White Bush. As we had toasted BJ’s birth.
“To Roy Brian Ewan Maitland,” she said, lifting her glass high in the air, so the whiskey caught the light and hurled it back.
“To Roy Brian Ewan Maitland,” I replied, lifting the glass and touching it to hers.
Without looking at each other, we drained our glasses.
She picked up the long, slender candle that sat in the center of the table.
“I’m glad you waited and didn’t light it.”
She finally looked at me.
“I was going to, Bill, but I couldn’t. I decided if you couldn’t be here, I’d just drink a toast to him.”
“You could have called me.”
“If we begin to forget him, there’s no point to any of this.”
I grabbed the box of matches and struck one, then lit the candle. We watched the flame twist in the air.
“Happy birthday, Brian,” I made myself say. It didn’t sound like me. We had just missed it. The actual date was November 18 at 11 p.m. But it was close enough.
Debbie had turned away from me, her body shaking. It felt so strange, but I put my hands on her shoulders and turned her around. She buried her face in my chest. Tactile memory really is stronger than sensory memory. She felt RIGHT against me, no matter how much my mind told me this was wrong.
We sat there for a while and eventually she relaxed into me and we lay back against the couch.
“How did all this go so wrong?”
“I don’t know, Deb. I’ve never understood any of it. Even when it began with Brian.”
“Do you ever think about him, anymore? I mean, except for tonight?”
“Sometimes. But the memories fade. Today was a wild day, and his memory – got pushed away. But I remembered him.”
“Kelly and BJ are forgetting him. Bj was too young, but even Kelly, I don’t think she remembers.”
“That’s what we wanted. There was no reason why they had to live with his death, forever. As long as we remember him, that’s what counts.”
“But we’re forgetting him, too.”
“No, Deb, no. I haven’t forgotten him and I don’t think you have.”
She leaned into me again.
“I think a lot of times- it was my fault.”
“No, don’t ever think that.”
“I drank a lot. It could have been what caused – his loss. I just didn’t know. I had no idea.”
“The doctors said there’s no way drinking in the first few months could have caused it. And there’s no way you could have known. You were on the pill and it doesn’t fail that often. Besides, it was a spontaneous miscarriage. Your body just wasn’t ready for a baby then. It wasn’t your fault, Deb. You have to believe that.”
“You can say that, Bill, because you didn’t carry him. He wasn’t a part of you.”
“He was a part of me, Deb. I felt him kick. I saw the pictures. He was mine, too.”
She reached out to the last item on the coffee table. The picture in black and white was encased in plastic. It would never age. It showed his little body curved in the fetal position. You could make out his arms and legs, his little fingers and toes. It was the only picture we’d ever have of our third child, our second son. He would have been nine tonight, if you counted the night he died as the night he would have been born.
She ran her fingers over the sonogram.
“It’s not fair,” she whispered. “We will never see what his baby pictures would have looked like. Or his first grade class photo. Or know who his first crush would have been. We’ll never see him graduate, or hold his children. It’s not fair.”
‘I know, Debbie. It’s not fair.”
She was silent for a long time. Then:
“It doesn’t matter what happened between us. He was our son. And no one understands that. He was real.”
“We understand it, Deb. We’re the only ones who count.”
After a bit, she turned my face toward her.
“You’ve turned into a brawler in your old age, haven’t you? You were fighting over her, weren’t you?”
“I definitely had better sense when I was married to you.”
At 2:30 a.m. she began to nod off.
“Bill, you don’t have to leave. It’s okay tonight. You can sleep out on the couch. Or the bed.”
“It’s not a good idea, Deb. We kept the faith with him. And we’ll do it next year. But you need to get into bed and I’ll let myself out. I never did get rid of my keys.”
We walked together back to what had been our bedroom. She stared at me for a moment before sliding into the bed. I pulled the covers up and then knelt down beside her. She stared at me and I couldn’t read her eyes. I kissed her on the forehead and stood.
“Good night, Deb.”
I think we both had tears in our eyes. It had never been so clear before, what we had lost. Every other night that we had marked our son’s brief life, no matter how bad it had gotten for us, we lay in each other’s arms and declared a truce for that one night.
It was even colder when I stood on what had been my front porch. Things had changed and they’d never be the same again. But, we had remembered and celebrated his life and told him without words that we loved him. It was enough.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN: LIFE IS WHAT HAPPENS…
November 15, 2005
Monday
morning, 10 A.M.
I set my alarm for 5 a.m. Monday morning and hit the bed by 10 p.m. Sunday night. I woke up feeling physically rested and emotionally exhausted. I still hadn’t gotten my head around that phone call at Myra’s condo. The weekend had blown all my circuit breakers. Between the confrontation with Bludwurth and his goons, the upcoming trials, the wild night at the Mexican Rose, the meeting with Anderson, an old and still painful memory of our dead son, the feel of Debbie in my arms, and that phone call, I'd spent an odd, unsettled Sunday.
At 3 p.m. my head was sore with thinking and I swung by Carlos’ gym. Ernesto was shooting the shit with a couple of other young wanna-bes when I walked in. He acknowledged me with a nod, but that was a lot friendlier than he was most of the time. I slipped on gloves and started punching the heavy bag. It felt good. The more I hit, the better I felt. And when I imagined that the bag was that fucking mystery man who was going to make Myra scream in Monaco, who was probably dark, handsome, tall and hung, I felt even better.
The world went away and it felt good to think about nothing other than getting my hands up over and over in shifting patterns and trying to hit the bag a little harder each time. After a while I noticed that Ernesto was standing on the other side of the bag.
“Who is it?”
When I didn’t answer, he stepped in between me and the bag and was able to deflect my last punch which would have probably paralyzed his vocal cords if it had connected. I backed up.
“Who you trying to beat to death, Maitland?”
“Just a guy. I think he’s one of your countrymen.”
“It’s a woman, right?”
“A woman?”
He grinned at me.
“Guys don’t hit that hard unless it’s over a woman. Just surprises me.”
“What?”
“Didn’t think guys as old as you could still get that upset about somebody poaching your pussy.”
“Carlos must have told you that you have a big mouth.”
“Yeah, but I can back it up.”
I looked him over. He was just as big as he had been then. But he didn’t scare me anymore.
“This isn’t seven months ago, Ernesto. And Carlos isn’t here to save your ass.”
He smiled.
“Ooohhh. Somebody must have had a bad weekend. You feeling tough today?”
“Just royally pissed off.”
“Step on up into the ring. Let’s see how tough you are.”
I thought about it for about two seconds. My face wouldn’t look much worse. And I didn’t really have anything against Ernesto. But I really, really wanted to pound that asshole who’d left the message for Myra, even if in absencia.
I stepped into the ring. Ernesto was stepping in behind me, through the ropes, when I turned and caught him with a right to the jaw as he was off balance. He toppled backward off the ring. He rolled to his feet outside the ring and grabbed a rope to pull himself up.
“You son of a bitch.”
“You forget that lesson about never letting your guard down? I didn’t.”
He bruised me up pretty good with body blows and gave me a bloody lip, but I think he took it easy on me.
The rest of the day slipped by fairly quietly. Around 6 p.m. my cell rang. It was Kelly.
“Daddy, have you made any plans for Thanksgiving?”
“No not really. Why?”
“Grandma and grandpa are having it at their place this year. BJ and I were wondering-do you think you could come by? Just for a few hours.”
“I don’t know. What does your mother think?”
“She was kind of quiet when we brought it up, but Grandma and Grandpa love the idea and she hasn’t objected too hard. It doesn’t have to be any big deal, but it would be nice. For us – to be together…for a few hours.”
‘I’ll think about it. You talk to her and make sure it’s okay with her. I don’t want to come if it’s going to cause problems.”
A few hours later my cell rang again.
“Hello, Bill. This is your mother, who is still, by the way, alive and looking forward once in a while to a call from her only son. Or maybe, even, a visit once a year.”
“I came by in September, mom, remember ? It’s been a busy year.”
“I should feel honored to see you once a year? I wonder how often a year President Bush makes time to see HIS mother. I suppose you’re busier than he is, though.”
“Where is that College that all mothers go to learn how to make their children feel guilt?”
“Sarcasm is not your most attractive feature.”
“I’m sorry, Mom. This has been a bitch of a year. But I am sorry I haven’t been down there.”
“You can make it up by coming down for Thanksgiving.”
“I don’t know, Mom.”
“Why not? I’m doing a turkey, cornbread dressing, giblet gravy, whole berry cranberry sauce, mashed potatoes. Everything you love. Charles has invited his son and daughter and they’ll be coming with their children. You’ve only seen them a few times since we married, and they’re family now.”
When I didn’t say anything she said, “DO NOT tell me you’re going to spend Thanksgiving with HER, Bill. Please don’t tell me that. You are, aren’t you? What does that woman have to do to you to break her hold on you?”
“It’s not what you’re thinking, Mom.”
“You’re going to spend it with her.”
“Sort of.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“Kelly called me a few minutes ago. The Bascombs are having a Thanksgiving dinner and the kids are going to be there – and Debbie. Kelly asked me to come. KELLY asked me. Apparently BJ wants me to spend some time there. What am I supposed to do? They’re my kids. I spent years ignoring them. We haven’t spent much if any time together since the split, and for the FIRST time, the first real holiday since our break-up, they want me there. I can’t not go, Mom.”
“When will they be eating?”
“I didn’t ask but I assume it will be Thursday. That’s the 24th. The Bascombs usually eat around 1 or 2 p.m.”
“I suppose…we eat our main meal Thursday and have another Thanksgiving Friday. Charles’ children are planning on spending the weekend down here and probably taking their kids to Disneyworld on Saturday.”
“Let’s do this, Mom. If – If I go because I’m not sure Debbie wants me there and I’m not going if it’s going to be causing problems, I’ll get there in the morning, eat and then take off by 3 or 4 p.m. and drive straight South. I could be at your place by 7 or 8 p.m. In time for a late turkey dinner. And then I’ll stay and visit the next day. How does that sound?”
“It sounds good, Bill. Charles and I will look forward to seeing you. And it will do you good to get away from Jacksonville. I know you want to see Kelly and BJ, but try not to let it get you down when you see HER. Don’t say anything, but it is going to be hard. This will be the first time you’ve been with her since everything went bad. Holidays can be hard and, like you said, this will be the first one after your divorce.”
“I expect it will be hard, but I’ll survive.”
“Just be careful. And remember what she did to you.”
“Mom. We’re divorced. The war’s over.”
“It’s never going to be over for the two of you.”
“Mom, for Christ’s sake. I love you and I know you’re going to be on my side, and I know you’ve never been Debbie’s greatest fan, but you have to let it go. We got divorced. We didn’t declare a war to the death.”
“It won’t be over until you stop loving her, and you can lie to yourself and everyone else, but I know you’re not there.”
“How long did it take for you to stop loving dad, how many years after he was cold and in the ground?”
“It’s not the same, Bill. Your father loved me until the last moment of his life. I know he did. And I never gave him reason to doubt my love for him. But she betrayed you. She had another man in your bed while it was
still warm with your body heat.”
“I know what she did. I haven’t forgotten anything.”
“You say that, but the biggest fear I’ve got is that one day I’ll pick up the phone and you’ll be telling me that you two are back together and you’re going to try to make it work.”
I took a deep breath before I could control myself enough not to snap at her.
“It isn’t going to happen, Mom. It will never happen. But if it did,, I’m 42 years old. I can make up my own damned mind. I love you for your concern, but I’m not a college kid. I’m a grown man, a father myself. It’s my life.”
“You made up your own mind once before. You are a grown man and I can’t tell you what to do. But, I can tell you this. I was always faithful to your father. I loved him with everything that was in me, but if I had done to him what she did to you, he would have thrown me out. He would have divorced me. And I wouldn't have blamed him.”
She was silent for a long moment. I could hear her ragged breathing on the phone.
“And, if – if – he had taken me back, I would have lost all my respect for him. I would have taken you and left him. How could I respect a man that would swallow his pride and respect like that? That’s what you need to always remember, Bill. I am a woman, and I know what I am talking about. If you take her back, she won’t love you for it. She will have contempt for you, even if she doesn’t admit it. And she will do it again. Because you can’t love a man you have no respect for.”
After another silence, she hung up on me. I wondered what it would have been like to have lived in one of those fictional happy all-American families where wife and mother-in-law loved each other and there was affection rather than a 20-year-long Cold War.
After I got up at 5 a.m. Monday morning I made it to Hurly’s Gym by 6:45 and was able to put in an hour and a half and be to the courthouse by 9 a.m. I walked into my office and did some preliminary clearing of the undergrowth, the unruly jungle of papers and memos that seemed to grow like kudzu if you didn’t stay after it every day.
I hadn’t talked to Myra since early Saturday morning. About 10 a.m. I got to thinking about her. Not that I’d ever NOT thought about her since that damned phone message. A part of me didn’t want to talk to her. And a part of me wanted to talk to her more than I wanted not to.
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