Chapter 1
Cherisse
Time and trouble will tame an
advanced young woman, but an
advanced old woman is uncontrollable
by any earthly force.
Dorothy L. Sayers
We all have regrets. Every one of us: from the guy standing on the street corner talking to his invisible friend, to the billionaire taking lines off a young woman’s belly and drinking Cristal. It doesn’t matter your social standing, your job, your lifestyle, we’d all like to turn back the clock from time to time. Those moments in our past we look back on and wish we would have turned left instead of right. Whether it’s that first time in the back of some guy’s car, that first cigarette, that first drink or that spouse that has sucked the life out of you, we all have decisions we wish we could change.
Instead, we find ways to cope with the situations we find ourselves in, after all, you can’t unring a bell. Some of us use alcohol, or drugs, or religion to hide from ourselves– to find an answer that isn’t there, or numb the pain so we don’t have to look in the mirror and admit our own problems. They are moderately successful strategies to make reality fade into the background so we can make it through another week.
The rest of us just shove the mistake so far back into our minds that we simply wander through the day, accepting our lot, never fully happy, never completely miserable. We pretend that by ignoring the truth, life will magically get better all on its own.
Me? I like to diversify. I like to try everything until I find what works. When I was young, I slept with anything that moved. In college, I went from one high, and one party, to the next until I passed out for a week in an exhausted stupor. In my mid-twenties, I drank until the bottle was empty and the bars were closed. The thirties, threw myself into religion with a gusto that would have made St. Paul proud. Tried the whole workaholic thing, but that didn’t last long. By my forties, I was numb, about to accept my fate, put the demons aside and coast my way through life until I died.
And then I met, Cherisse.
This isn’t one of those, older man meets a younger woman and feels alive again stories. Nor is this one of those I fell in love with another woman, and she saved me stories. Although, at a deep level I did, in fact, love Cherisse. It just wasn’t in the way a middle-aged man sleeps with a younger woman and runs away with her, kind of love. It was really more meaningful than that. But really, what isn’t….
Cherisse was ninety, full of life, active and fully engaged in the world. She had experienced the gamut the universe had to offer, and survived and thrived. She had suffered through the depression, lived through World War Two, Korea, Vietnam and all of the miscellaneous little conflicts the world seems to always be in. Through all of that, Cherisse had raised her kid, outlived two husbands, and experienced the tragedy of the death of her one and only son. The woman, at ninety, was nothing short of a tornado upending people’s lives and dropping them back down to earth when she was done with them. When Cherisse was young, she must have been nothing short of a hurricane leaving paths of destruction and broken men in her wake.
Even at ninety, she could walk into a room and everyone would know she had arrived and it was time to pay homage to the queen. Frail was not a term that was ever used to describe her. She was dynamic, tough as nails and still beautiful right down to her soul. Her five-foot-four frame moved like it was two-thirds her age, and her thick waist-length silver hair contrasted with her jade-colored eyes like two gems amongst a cascading waterfall. The trials of her life hadn’t broken her, they had merely chipped away the chaff and left a work of art behind. Whatever shallowness she may have had in her youth had been burned away, and only a deep pool of wisdom and love remained.
I had the great fortune to become her neighbor.
I remember the first day I moved in as clear as day. My U-Haul truck, filled to capacity, was parked in the driveway. I was carrying in box after box, while my wife and kids unpacked. On my three-hundredth trip to the back of the truck, I almost plowed over a woman carrying one of my smaller boxes in her hands.
“I’m sorry ma’am. What are you doing?” I asked in confusion.
“Obviously, I’m helping you darling. I assumed that was apparent.” she responded with a glint in her eye.
And that was my first meeting with Cherisse. Within thirty seconds, she had sized me up, and taken me down with a charm and sweetness that was positively masterful. Here was this old woman, probably old enough to be in a retirement home somewhere, carrying one of my boxes and helping me move. I can’t think of the number of times I had skated out of helping good friends move just because it seemed like a lot of work and I’d rather be doing something else. Needless to say, it was love at first sight.
“Well thank you, but you really don’t need to help. Maybe you’d like to come inside and meet my wife Mary, she could use some help unpacking,” I suggested.
She kicked me. Not the metaphorical kind of kick either. It wasn’t hard, Cherisse wasn’t mean, but she wanted me to know that she planned on doing what she wanted to do, and was not going to be pandered to because of her age.
“Ow! Why’d did you do that?”
“I’d love to help your wife, but I just wanted to make sure you knew it would be my choice, not yours. I decide when and where I want to help, and right now you’re slowing me down.”
With a devilish smile she was off with her box to vanish inside. Which was fine with me. I was sure Mary was far more capable of corralling that fiery old lady than I was. Besides, my shin hurt, and I didn’t want the somewhat charming woman to see me limp. Never show weakness in front of an enemy.
By the time I had the next box in the house, no more than a minute, she was already enchanting my kids with stories of their new neighborhood. Cherisse told them all about the family that had previously lived here and then inviting them over for cookies. Apparently, nobody besides me was worth kicking today.
Shaking my head, I wondered if I had chosen the wrong house. Either this was going to be a fantastic experience or one constant life interruption after another. Only time would tell I guess, but the decision was already made. I was moving in, and it was too late to back-out.
Mary was laughing as Cherisse was telling my children a story about how the previous residents had kids who were nothing short of demons. It seemed like hearing about another mothers’ misery was nothing short of a euphoric hit of happy gas. It had been a long time since I had heard Mary laugh. In fact, I couldn’t even remember what it sounded like until that day. It made me smile for a minute. Made me remember the good times, before life happened. Maybe this move would be good for us. Maybe it would bring us back together, but I doubted it. Too much water under the bridge to ever bring us close again. Too many walls had been built. We had developed an unspoken detente in the marriage, it wasn’t perfect, but I could have chosen a worse roommate when all was said and done.
“Mary, I see you’ve already met Cherisse. Be careful, she’s a kicker.” I laughed as I put the next box down.
“Well, you probably deserved it. I know there are plenty of times I’d like to kick you myself.” It would have been funny, except the sound of her voice made me cringe. I could feel the underlying truth of the attempted joke, and knew that I probably deserved it. The stress of moving had put us both on edge over the last several weeks. It didn’t matter, there wasn’t any fight left in me. If she decided to kick me, I’d take it and move on with my day. It’s just what I did. Fortunately, Mary had given up as well, so the kicks were coming less and less frequently every year.
“Mary, kicking me would be an improvement over most days, at least I’d know you were paying attention.” I threw back at her.
“Oh dear . . . I see . . . will you have time to cook dinner tonight, or would you like me to bring you something over? I make a wonderful macaroni casserole.” Cherisse interjected, trying to break up the stress in the room.
With the grace and charm that had always made me envious, Mary responded with “That’s a lovely offer Cherisse, and I would love to take advantage of it, but I’ve promised the children pizza and pop as soon as we get their rooms put together. We were going to sit on their bed, eat pizza, and have a slumber party while their father goes back to our old place and finishes the final load. You’re more than welcome to have pizza with us though.”
“Thank you dear, I just might take you up on that. My doctor would be appalled that I ate pizza, but I live to shock him. Perhaps I’ll throw on some pajamas, I’ve always loved a slumber party!” Cherisse laughed.
2
You Can Never Go Home Again
ж
I have many regrets, and I’m sure
everyone does. The stupid things you
do, you regret . . . if you have any sense,
and if you don’t regret them,
maybe you’re stupid.
Katharine Hepburn
The drive back to the old place was four hours of brain-numbing travel away. I planned on spending a final night sleeping on the floor in a sleeping bag, and driving back in the morning. It would be good to be alone, to be away from the cursed woman that I strangely still loved. At least loved her enough not to keep driving that truck south until I ran out of either gas or solid land. Besides, I loved my kids and not going back to them wasn’t an option I was willing to seriously entertain. I wasn’t the greatest father in the world. I certainly didn’t spend the time with them that I should, but I was better than nothing and that’s what they’d have if I never came home. At least I hoped I was better than nothing. Their mom spent so much time ragging on me in front of them, that I wasn’t sure they wouldn’t be better off without me. At least they were learning patience and tolerance from the way I handled the conflicts with their mother. Learning that going to work, doing your job, and coming home almost every night was a normal way for a grown man to act. It was the way my father behaved and his father before him. That old axiom “Work to live, don’t live to work” was all well and good as long as the lives, and comforts, of other people didn’t rely upon you. Whoever made up that fucking quote must have been a bachelor, or just some jerk trying to make everyone else feel bad.
Life wasn’t all work and no play, I did leave for occasional nights, not coming home and staying with a friend, or an occasional business trip. The feel of freedom, of not having to justify what I was doing to someone that had practically become a stranger, was almost like being young again. Mary seemed to find it liberating as well, she seldom complained about those odd breaks in our relationship unless it was to remind me of all of the things I wouldn’t be getting done at home while I was gone. The one time she had taken a weekend to go to a retreat with her fellow church ladies, I hadn’t tried to make her feel bad for going. Hell, I had even offered to do laundry while she was gone. It wasn’t my fault the kids destroyed the living room and kitchen while I was watching the game, I thought they knew how to pick up after themselves.
The solitary drive back to the old neighborhood gave me lots of time to think, to review my life, to reflect upon my mistakes. It was always bittersweet to move, to leave your neighbors, to create a new life in a new town, but the downside of leaving what you knew was outweighed by the opportunity to start again. To try again; to feel again. I think Mary must have felt the same way. When we discussed the new job opportunity, she kind of shrugged her shoulders and said, “It doesn’t matter. It has to be a better place than where we’re at now.”
It wasn’t a ringing endorsement filled with hope and joy, but it was better than it could have been. The move would be a new start for her as well. Mary had never really found her “people” in the old community. She had plenty of friendly associates, people she could call “friends” but few who could really get in close and get to know her for what she was really all about. Hopefully, in the new bigger town, she’d find people with similar interests. Just because I didn’t make her happy, didn’t mean I wanted her to be miserable. She deserved to have people in her life that set her soul on fire as I had once been able to do.
The miles burned by under the humming of the moving van and the songs on the radio. The thing about driving alone in the early evening, on a long stretch of boring road, is that your mind wanders. You start thinking about the good and the bad; dreaming of what was and what could have been. After the first hour or so on the road, thoughts of the lifetime of regrets seeped into my brain. The radio had gotten boring. The same songs were playing that I had heard on the trip north in the morning. Surely there were more than fifteen songs in the world worth playing. Undoubtedly radio stations could do better than that the endless repetitive loop they seemed to insist upon.
I remembered that when Mary and I dated we used to go to concerts, sit around and listen to music, sing together with my awful voice. We’d discover new songs and share them with each other, each one having some special meaning in our lives. Now when Mary is in the car and I hear one of those songs, I just change the station. I know it’s a dick move. Sometimes I’d see Mary start to mouth the words to the song, but the memories of what the songs might have meant were like shoving pine cones up my ass. The good times were too short; the music had died like our relationship.
To say Mary was my biggest life regret probably isn’t fair. I had made my share of mistakes too, so she didn’t get all the blame. It certainly wasn’t all her fault our relationship was in the place we were in. Still, she certainly ranks in the top ten. She was definitely not-as-advertised while we were dating. It reminded me of that old joke, “What’s the greatest form of birth control? Wedding cake.” I’m sure there is a female equivalent, something along the lines of “You never really know a man until you marry him, and then it’s too late.”
In our case it wasn’t the dessert that killed the passion, it was the first child. The wedding cake didn’t really change much except I didn’t always have to wear a condom. That was nice. Right up until the day I asked myself, “Jesus, why didn’t I wear a condom???”
I remember the distressed look in her face, and the slight quiver in her voice, the day she told me she was pregnant with our first child. She knew I loved kids, but Mary also knew I wasn’t ready to be a dad. Sadly, what I didn’t know until that day, was that having children was not something she was really hoping for out of life. A baby was going to change her life, change her plans and ability to follow her dreams. She’d have to pull back on her selfish nature and share her time with someone besides herself and her ever-increasing eclectic interests. That’s probably one of those things we should have talked about before marriage, but frankly we were too busy drinking, partying and fucking to do much life planning. We were young, who wanted to think about the future when the present was so much fun?
I felt her relief when I hugged and kissed her, showing my excitement. She wasn’t totally selfish; she wanted me to be happy. Wanted to give me a child to love and care for. She believed I’d be there to pick up the pieces and share the burden, and the child wouldn’t be completely left to her care. She’d just have to make a few adjustments to her life. Some things were going to have to get less time in order to raise the child. Maybe she could just take a little from everywhere and add the child in as one more project to work into her busy schedule. How bad could it be? How much time could one kid really take? Obviously, neither one of us had a clue about being a parent.
As the months progressed, I could see the uncertainty set in. The fear of change, the “can I do this” quotient, the “do I really want to do this?” factor. Moments of anger came fast; the blame of “I did this for you. This is your fault. I hope you’re happy” could be felt in every word and motion of her day. Moments of happiness, and sadness, came even faster. She could yell at me, laugh at herself, and then cry about her feelings all within the same three-minute conversation. I wrote it off as uncontrollable hormones. I had been warned this could happen, and it was normal. I tried to take it all, support it all, accept it all for what it was. I was even moderately successful at it. When things got really bad, when I really couldn’t cope, I just stood out of the way and tossed chocolate and ice cream her way and hoped for the best. It was a desperate ploy, and totally transparent, but nine times out of ten it worked like a charm.
The day our first child was born was perhaps the happiest day of my life, maybe even the last one hundred percent happy day I can remember. Of course, the other children’s births were momentous moments of joy, but each progressive child was tainted with the thoughts of why again? Why am I extending out my imprisonment and what am I doing bringing these innocents into this kind of relationship? They deserve better parents, a better chance, than what we can offer them. I looked it up once and read that some of the reincarnation based religions believe the child picks the parents before they are born so they can learn something new this time around. I discounted that theory immediately. What kind of idiot would choose to be born into this? I can just imagine how that conversation went, “I’m sorry, all of the good parents have been taken. The only two choices left to you are the couple who feed bad children to the alligators for fun, and Steve and Mary. Take your time, I know it’s a tough decision…”
Anyone that thinks postpartum depression is a made-up syndrome, or not a real thing, should have spent the next year in my shoes. Granted, breastfeeding, raising a child, and waking up several times a night to check on the little demon, would be exhausting to anyone. I know I was tired, as I tried to be awake and take some of the burden by bottle feeding during the two in the morning snack fest. But I swear the woman didn’t get out of her bathrobe for weeks on end. Sitting in her chair, or on the couch all day reading self-help books, and sleeping when she wasn’t, had become her entire non-mommy life.
Any communication we had revolved around her and her feelings. Her thoughts and her regrets. It would have been nice to come home from work, even once, to a hug and a kiss, or a smiling face and a warm dinner. Anything but yet another conversation about the latest self-help book, the latest “I’ll be happy if I just try this” conversation.
That’s the problem with brilliance. The belief that you can figure things out on your own. Mary was, and is without a doubt, one of the most intelligent people I have ever known; which always leads to the question, “How can someone so smart be so stupid?”
Most people in the same position would have gone to the doctor and gotten some help, or at least reached a “fuck it!” point in their life and started to fight back. In Mary’s case, she took the battle inside her brilliant mind and looked to the “Masters” to find an answer. It was there, somewhere, and she knew it. She just had to keep trying to find it until she figured it out. Somewhere after the fourth or fifth book, she lost me. I think it was somewhere between meditation and a no-sugar diet. Foolishly, I suggested she should possibly consider taking a quality anti-depressant and seeking counseling. I wasn’t calling her crazy, but that was how it came across and she responded with an hour-long tirade about how I had been the cause of all her problems and probably responsible for the centuries of male-dominated suppression of women. I left her to her books, and her studies, and started to focus on work. At least I knew what I was supposed to do there.
Apparently, motherhood wasn’t quite as bad as she thought it was going to be, although from what I had observed it certainly wasn’t something we should have embarked on without a full psychiatric exam. The child was barely a year old, and Mary was already informing me that we would not be raising an only child.
Having already concluded that I had possibly made a mistake, I can’t say I was thrilled with the idea. As wonderful as this child was, it seemed like I had given up a portion of my life I had really enjoyed. A part of my life that I was going to miss. I’d do my best to be a good dad, but it was going to be a long haul unless Mary had some type of miraculous transformation back to the woman I knew prior to our marriage. Still, if we were going to try and have another child, at least I would be getting laid again. I wasn’t about to complain about that. I wasn’t even sure I could remember the last time she had let me touch her, or the last time she hadn’t just fallen asleep on the couch and wandered to bed in the middle of the night, only to stay there until long after I had left for work in the morning.
3
Pizza Night
ж
Marriage is a lottery, but you can’t
tear up your ticket if you lose.
F.M. Knowles
“Thank you for sharing your family with me Mary. The pizza was wonderful. I hardly ever get to eat spicy food anymore. My doctor thinks he’s saving my life, but at my age I’d rather love every minute I have left. What fun would it be to live another ten years if all I ever got to eat was soda crackers and vanilla pudding?” Cherisse smiled as she daintily wiped her greasy lips with the cheap restaurant napkin. Somehow the woman made the paper plate and red plastic cup look like fine china and crystal even while sitting on the edge of a child’s small bed.
“Well the wine you brought with you, Cherisse, certainly made it better. Too bad I didn’t unpack the wine glasses yet; these plastic cups certainly don’t do it justice.”
“Don’t be silly, Mary. The plastic cups make it a memory instead of just a beverage. Don’t let my doctor know though, he says it’s okay for me to have a glass from time to time, so obviously I have at least two just to get his goat. It’s silly things like plastic cups that make the memories we cherish you know. I remember when my second husband asked me to marry him. We were sitting on the hood of his car, parked by the lake, drinking champagne from his thermos lid because he forgot to bring glasses. He was always one for big plans and big gestures, but not very good at execution. Eventually, he learned just to tell me what he wanted and let me do the actual organization. We turned into quite a team. I’m not much of a dreamer, but I can make a list like nobody’s business. I can barely remember the words he used when he asked me to be his wife, but I’ll never forget the taste of the wine or the feel of that little metal thermos lid on my lips. Or how we celebrated after I told him yes, also on the hood of that old Ford.”
“Cherisse! That’s just incredibly naughty! And kind of amazing! Steve used to be like that. All talk, and plans, and dreams. He couldn’t get the job done though. He just failed and failed until he finally woke up and put his nose to the grindstone. I wanted to help him, wanted to try and make a dream come true, but with the kids and everything I just didn’t have the time or energy. Besides, every time I tried, he just snapped at me like I was attempting to take over. After a while I gave up trying. It wasn’t worth the effort if all I was going to get was rejected.”
“Well, were you? Occasionally I found myself looking at Henry’s idea and thinking “this is never going to work unless I change everything.” Every time I tried that, it turned into my idea, my dream, and he moved on. It was a fine line to walk in our marriage. A line I had to work hard on not crossing. Back in my day, the only thing worse than a woman with an idea was a wife willing to disagree with her husband.”
“Of course I wasn’t trying to take over. I just wanted to make it better. I wanted to help him, and show him how to make his dreams come true. He just wanted to jump in and go for it, without even thinking about all of the groundwork that needed to be done in advance. He never wanted to talk about “how” to get from point A to point B. He just wanted to start at B and assume everything was going to turn out okay.”
“I don’t want to meddle Mary, but I noticed you were both a little tense this afternoon. Is it just the move, or is there something more? I have a few years and lots of life behind me. I’d be happy to listen and share whatever experiences I might still remember.”
“Steve and I are fine. At least as happy as anyone else that has been together as long as we have. We aren’t newlyweds anymore, but at least we’re still friendly with each other. I appreciate your concern though. Can I ask what happened to your first husband?”
“Certainly, there isn’t much to tell really. He was my first true love. My first for everything if you know what I mean. We were married right out of high school. He joined the Army, and we traveled together quite a bit, as he never wanted to be stationed too far away from his son and myself. And then the war happened. He was deployed overseas with a group of medics before our country was even officially part of the war effort, and I couldn’t go. It was the last time I ever saw him. He had told me before he left that if anything happened to him, he wanted me to remarry and be happy. The problem was that he didn’t just die in battle, he vanished. He was a field medic on a humanitarian mission and his group was attacked, the entire team was taken as prisoners of war. Three years later, there was a prisoner exchange that he was supposed to be part of, but he didn’t come back. Some of the other men said that they had seen him, but he was injured so badly that they thought he had died in prison, but they weren’t positive. It took another five years to get his remains. I was luckier than many. Lots of wives never got a chance to bury their husbands.”
“I’m so sorry Cherisse, I shouldn’t have asked. I didn’t mean to bring up painful memories.”
“Don’t be silly dear. It was a long time ago, and he was an excellent man. I’ll always have the memories of a man I loved, and who loved me. Because I lost him so early, I never got the chance to tire or get sick of him, so I can think about him with only positive memories.”
“Well I certainly wouldn’t wish Steve dead, but not being sick of him would sure be nice. Seems like these days, the only memories I have are the ones where I end up wishing he’d just find something better to do than hang around here. By the time he gets home from work, all he ever wants to do is watch television and go to bed. I sometimes wish he’d just go and find someone else that wanted to live like that, I sure don’t.”
Thoughtfully, knowingly, with wisdom in her eyes, Cherisse took a deep breath, making sure she phrased her comment with the proper tone and feeling. She was very conscious that words had meaning and power. Seldom would she say something that wasn’t exactly as intended.
“You don’t mean that you know. Certainly, you might be happier on your own, but there’s a certain comfort and normality to having the same man in your life driving you crazy. It’s a sickness women have: We want men to be here when we need them but invisible and silent when we don’t. We want them to be interested and engaged with us, pay attention and appreciate us on our schedule and then we want them to go away so we can accomplish our own goals. We are very similar to men in that regard. It’s really a wonder anyone ever stays married these days. Women in my day didn’t have much of a choice, we just made the best of the husband and life we had, and hoped things would turn out.”
“The staying married part is easy. You just have to look around and realize how hard it would be to start over. Even if things aren’t great, they could be a lot worse. I guess it’s better to stay with the devil you know.”
“Mary, I’ve been with angels and devils and frankly the devils tended to be more fun. They were useless for any type of long term relationship, but for a weekend… or a night, you really can’t go wrong. Your husband seems like a decent man, if a bit on the tame side. Maybe you’d be happier if a little of that ‘devil’ showed its face from time to time. Have you ever considered tempting the devil inside Steve with a little forbidden fruit of your own?”
“Cherisse, you are a wonderfully cynical, and incredibly naughty, old lady! I sincerely wish I would have met you decades ago.”
“Do you know what the worst part of being ninety is? Someone can say they wish they met me decades ago, and I still would have been old enough to be their grandmother. Now it’s past my bedtime, considerably, and these old bones need their beauty rest. If I can’t work in my garden in the mornings, the weeds will take over, and I’ll never catch up. That’s good advice for the garden of life as well young lady.”
4
Steve’s Night Out
ж
Marriage is like a cage; one sees the
birds outside desperate to get in, and
those inside equally desperate to get out.
Michel de Montaigne
It truly had been a decent house. It didn’t seem so big when we had all of our things filling the rooms and the kids were running around screaming like banshees. It was kind of sad to see it empty and the silence was like a tomb. It was like something important had been lost. Whatever memories lived within the walls would be shoved aside and replaced with new memories from a new family. The last happy moments of our lives had been put away in a box, and only new problems remained to replace them.
I remembered when we bought the place, it was our first home. Mary had just gotten pregnant and we wanted someplace we could feel solid, established, like real adults. We sold everything we could get our hands on, including our furniture, to make the down-payment. It was touch and go, but we managed to come up with enough spare change to avoid selling the bed. Back then, it’s where we spent most of our time together. Who really needed a dining room table when you could eat Chinese food in your underwear next to a beautiful woman?
Before we made our first monthly payment, we had “christened” every room in the house just to find out which one was the best room to make love in; acoustics are important. I think, if we could have gotten away with it, we probably would have set the bed up in the kitchen. It had the best access to both the coffee and the refrigerator. This was when we still had our priorities straight. It really would have been a perfect setup. I suppose, in the new house, we’ll eventually “christen” our bedroom, but we’ll have to make sure the kids are in bed, the stereo is on to cover any noise, and the lights are turned off just in case our youngest decided to wander in. That’s assuming, of course, we both aren’t so tired we don’t just limit ourselves to hallway sex in the morning. You know, flipping each other off as we pass by heading towards the coffee, or back to the shower.
As I packed the final boxes into the truck, I had a decision to make. It wasn’t so late that I couldn’t drive back. I wasn’t so tired that I was worried about the trip. I wasn’t young enough to relish the thought of sleeping on the floor, no matter how much padding the carpet had. There was a reluctance to get back in that truck, though. It wasn’t the drive, or the effort; it was simply that I didn’t want to go home. I didn’t have a desire to walk in and hear that annoying voice, “I thought you were spending the night? It’s not safe to drive when you’re tired. If you kill yourself, I’ll be alone with the kids. You need to think about them!” I knew that was what she’d say. I knew that if there was a chance I’d hear “Hi love! I’m so glad you made it back tonight; I missed you.” I’d turn the key and drive ninety all the home. But that wasn’t going to happen. That sleeping bag was looking pretty good at the moment. I decided to stick to the plan and take advantage of the night off.
My old neighbors were home and although we had an occasional barbecue with the kids, I didn’t really know them very well. I knew the wife was pretty hot, and it was always fun to watch her work in the yard or catch some rays on her deck. He was kind of an ass, but OK I guess. He was loud, drank a lot, a big football fan. One of those “I played ball in high school and would have had a scholarship, except I hurt my knee” kind of guys. He, like the rest of those beer-guzzling bozos, never really left high school. They wanted to relive a part of their life that was over. Instead of simply accepting that they failed at their dream, and making the best out of what’s life had dealt them, they continued to try and live the glory days over in their minds, and then drank to forget that they blew it. They’d be better off if they focused on the now. Who really gives a shit if they ran for two hundred yards when they were a junior, in some crappy little high school in “Crappy Little Town, USA.”
Still, Mary had kept their phone number and our kids were all friends so that made them more than just casual acquaintances. I decided saying goodbye one last time was a relatively decent idea. As many problems as I may have, being impolite was not one of them. It seemed logical that it would be best to do it now, so I could leave first thing in the morning. Besides, I didn’t even have a TV here, what else was I going to do with the rest of the night? Might as well get the final goodbye out of the way, and go out and find a sports bar to hang out in until I got tired.
I knocked on the door and waited . . . and waited . . . and waited. Both of their cars were in the driveway, so I thought maybe they were in their backyard. We weren’t close, but we were friendly enough that I had walked into their backyard uninvited in the past without fear of getting shot. I even borrowed their hot tub from time to time when my back got particularly stiff from sitting at my desk all day.
You have no idea how uncomfortable it was to wander back and find them making love in said hot tub. The wife, Janet, was mortified and even more embarrassed than I was, but Todd, her husband, burst out in his incredibly loud and annoying laugh. “What the hell man! Never see a couple getting it on before? That shit’s free on the Internet now you know!”
I apologized and started to leave, but Janet had recovered from her embarrassment and, ever the hostess called out, “Steve, is everything okay? I thought you had moved out completely today. Are Mary and the kids with you? Let me get a robe and I’ll come over and say hi. Unless you two would like to come over and have a drink of course.”
A couple of things jumped into my mind. The first and most obvious one was “Yeah . . . not getting in that tub until after the next chlorine treatment.” The second, less obvious one perhaps was, “Who gets laid often enough that they don’t get a little pissed about an interruption like this?” My final thought, and I have a little guilt over this, was “Damn she has an awesome rack!”
The words that came out of my mouth, however, were none of those. What I ended up saying was, “I appreciate the offer, but I just drove back alone to get the last load. I just popped back to say goodbye one last time before I left in the morning. You two go back to enjoying your evening; I have to go meet a friend down at Bo’s sports pub in a few, so I thought I better try to hit you up tonight. I didn’t mean hit you up, but make contact… I mean… umm… never mind. Have a good night, OK?”
Todd’s, “Have fun, man! You get a bachelor’s night ya lucky bastard!” earned him a withering glare and probably an end to his evening sexcapades. Janet, however, maintained her dignity and open heart, “Well Steve, I know you have everything packed so if it your night doesn’t work out, and you need a couch to crash on, just give me a call and I’ll throw some sheets on ours. You’re more than welcome to sleep here if you want.”
The woman really was sweet, but it was hard to concentrate on anything other than that rack floating just below the surface of the water, “Uh… that’s okay. I appreciate it, I really do, but I have it covered. I kinda want to spend one last night in the old house… just for memory’s sake. I better go, I don’t want to be late for my buddy at Bo’s. Thanks again.”
I didn’t actually have anyone waiting for me at the pub. In fact, I couldn’t even think of a friend I wanted to meet, but it did manage to get me out of that uncomfortable situation with at least a little grace and tact. Besides, who’s to say there wouldn’t be somebody from work down at Bo’s. It’s where we all met after work on Friday’s for a drink before heading home. There was no reason to believe someone I knew wouldn’t be there on a Tuesday night. Worst case scenario… I knew the bartender’s name. I wouldn’t be totally without another human that would acknowledge my presence.
I drove the flipping moving van to the bar. If I had any, remotely secret, fantasy that I might meet some gorgeous woman just looking for a middle-aged man to spend one night with no questions asked, it was crushed as I rumbled down the road. I played the scenario out through my head and every time it just stopped the moment she got a look at my “sweet ride.” Oh well, I thought, at least the Philly Cheesesteaks were good at Bo’s, and there was sure to be something worth watching on one of their wall of televisions that identified this as a true sports pub. OK, in fairness there were only four screens, but the bar was so small it made them seem like the only thing of importance in the entire establishment.
Parking my sex mobile across the street I walked into the bar. To my complete surprise, I found absolutely nobody I knew inside. Apparently even the Friday night bartender had better things to do on a Tuesday evening than hang out in his own establishment.
Sitting at the bar, I order a hard apple cider, my Philly Cheesesteak sandwich, and smiled at the pretty young server girl in her too tight cutoffs and tube top. Honestly, she wasn’t that young, wasn’t that pretty, and had no right to be wearing too tight cut-offs and a tube top, but she was better to look at than any of the miscellaneous football, soccer or news stations playing on the screens, so I made due.
After an hour of sitting there, drinking one apple cider after another and wondering when it would be the appropriate time to leave, and still feel good about myself for making acceptable use of my night of bachelorhood, my phone rang. Sure enough, it was Mary.
I had a couple of choices. I could answer the phone, and she would hear the noise in the background knowing I was in a bar, which was never good. I could ignore the call, and she would assume I was in a strip bar letting naked young ladies climb all over me for money, which was worse. Or I could pretend to miss it and step outside and call her right back. In which case, she would probably assume I was up to something even more inappropriate, and feeling guilty, and I’d have to deal with that. Best to just answer it and take my beating.
“Hi Mary. How are the kids?”
“They’re fine. Guess what I did tonight?”
“Umm . . . unpacked boxes like you promised?”
“I unpacked half of them. But no, I spent the night with our new neighbor Cherisse drinking wine and talking. Where are you, by the way, what’s that noise in the background?”
“That’s nice, how was your chat with the old lady?”
It was great. She’s not as old as her age, though. It was like talking to the wild old aunt I never had. So many years of experience and wisdom. She’s really a fountain of knowledge and seems to really like to share what she knows. But don’t avoid my question, where are you?”
“I’m at Bo’s having a drink. Or two.”
“It’s the middle of the week. Why the hell would you be there? How are you getting back to the house? You could barely drive that van in a straight line when you were sober.”
“Yeah . . . I miss you too. I’ll be careful . . . thanks for checking on me.” And with that I hit the little hang-up button on my phone as hard as I possibly could. I knew it wouldn’t make a rat’s ass bit of difference in her ear whether I hit it hard or soft, but somehow it just made me feel better. Without a doubt, the worst part of the whole conversation was the fact that she was right. That stupid moving van was kind of hard to drive. I decided I better switch to coffee or cola and go play pool until I was completely sober. If I got pulled over, there was no chance she’d come and bail me out tonight. She’d come in the morning, of course, but the satisfaction on her face as I came out to meet her, and her comments to the kids, “See, this is what happens when you let alcohol become a crutch” or some other similar tripe, just wasn’t worth the risk of driving drunk.
5
Smashing the Cans
ж
To keep your marriage brimming,
With love in the loving cup,
Whenever you’re wrong, admit it;
Whenever you’re right, shut up.
Ogden Nash
I had sobered up enough to drive back to the old house the night before without incident but as always, there was a price to pay for momentary indiscretions. Too many ciders make a man’s colon remind him why he shouldn’t be drinking so many ciders. During the supposedly four-hour drive home, I stopped at two rest areas, one fast food restaurant, and two gas stations. It took five sphincter-clenching hours to get home instead of four. It was an unpleasant trip, but I had nobody to blame but myself… Oh well.
I backed into the driveway of the new house, managed to avoid hitting a kid, but unfortunately ran over one of the stupid toys they left lying on the concrete. There’s nothing like being greeted with the excitement of a child who missed their dad, except perhaps the excitement of a dog that has been left alone for fifteen minutes. It’s about the same thing if you think about it. They are both just hoping you’d brought back a treat. About the only difference is that kids don’t drool on your shoes, or hump your leg . . . normally. It took at least ten minutes for the tears to start when he realized his favorite toy, of the moment, was now crushed beyond repair. Score one for dad and the victorious homecoming.
Scooping up my youngest, there was no way I was carrying the twelve-year-old, into my arms, I wandered into the house looking forward to being greeted with a warm hello from my lovely wife. I was confronted with what looked like the aftermath of a tornado in a trailer park. Boxes were everywhere, and the contents were strewn across the room. The only place to sit, not covered in a lifetime of belongings, was currently occupied by Mary. She was sitting on one of the wooden dining chairs, looking through an old photo album. I stood and watched her for a moment. She was decked out in one of my old t-shirts and a pair of baggy sweat pants. It was oddly appealing, and somehow made her look ten years younger. I had a brief flashback to the days when I used to come back from work to find her splashing paint on a canvas in an attempt to create a work of art worthy of a museum, or at least someone’s wall that was willing to pay for the privilege of seeing it every day. I could almost close my eyes and see her look back over her shoulder, flash me her heartbreakingly radiant smile, and ask me what I thought of her current project. I didn’t know much about art, but I tried my best to compliment the colors. I can still remember the day when she ended up throwing the paintbrush at me in frustration and wandered off in a huff, mumbling something about marrying a man that couldn’t think deeper than seven inches. I would have been offended, but seven inches is above-average, and she knew it… I had even shown her the Men’s Health article the previous week.
There was really no denying that Mary was still a beautiful woman. Sure, age and children had changed her once lithe young body. Age had… rounded her a bit. Her breasts were heavier, her hips a bit wider, her butt not quite as firm as it once was, but in many ways, she was more beautiful and womanly now than when I had married her. She was a woman, not a girl and she wore it well. Better than me, in fact. I was certainly no longer the 190 lbs. of hunky man-flesh that she had married. How many times had I heard, “Steve, you’re a lucky man” over the years from envious men? It reminded me of the old adage, “for every beautiful woman, there’s at least one man tired of her shit.”
In fairness there’s probably a female equivalent that goes something like, “For every hunky male there’s at least one woman waiting for him to take out the trash.” I’ve never verified that, probably because I’ve never heard anyone tell Mary, “You’re a lucky woman to have Steve!”
“Hi, Dear, I’m home,” I mistakenly drew her attention. It would have been better to just wander into the bathroom and take a much-needed shower. I was sore and cranky from the drive, and the rest area toilet paper had sanded my nether regions with sixty-grit. It hadn’t been a great morning.
“Steve, why do we have so many things? Everything that matters is right here in these photos.” I swear to God there was a quiver in her voice and tear in her eye. I knew in advance how this was supposed to go. I’d respond with some type of understanding comment and then be forced to sit and reminisce over photo after photo until I wanted to pull my remaining hair out. After the night on the floor, and a five-hour drive in an uncomfortable truck, I was just too tired and grumpy to play the game.
“I’m not sure, but I wish you would have asked that question before we boxed it all up and moved it four hours away. That would have been a definite time saver.” Yup . . . I thought that was funny. Evidently, I was mistaken. The tear in Mary’s eye must have frozen because the look she gave me was cold enough to make my man-parts shrink and shrivel. Escaping to that warm shower was becoming an imperative.
“Don’t be such an ass all of the time. You don’t always have to make jokes out of everything. I’m serious. The most important things in our lives, the memories, the best parts of our marriage and our family are right here in these pages. The kids are growing and someday all we are going to have is pictures to remind us of what we had, and what we missed.”
I knew better, and I knew the moment I opened my mouth and the words escaped I was about to doom myself to another month of “you don’t understand, and you don’t care” glares and comments, but I truly couldn’t help myself, “Really? I thought the best parts of our marriage I wasn’t allowed to take pictures of. You said you were afraid they might get into the wrong hands, or used in a future divorce proceeding.”
And with that, it was over. I actually saw her soul leave her body. I swear it. It flew out of her eyes, pinned me to the wall for a second and left the building. I would have considered apologizing, but I wasn’t in the mood for the “You insensitive son of a bitch” diatribe that would follow. I knew beyond a doubt that I was in the wrong. The thought of swallowing my pride and admitting it out loud, however, was an ego hit I just wasn’t willing to take right then.
Being the experienced veteran of the husbandiac wars, I took the natural choice and implemented a strategic fighting retreat. “Tell you what, I’m going to go unload the rest of your shit, that you now regret you bought, and go take a shower. I slept on the floor last night, and I’m a little stiff since the hot water has already been shut off at the old place and Todd and Janet’s hot tub was… umm… unavailable.”
I’m not sure if she flipped me the bird or her other four fingers just had a cramp, but I like to think the latter. It was pleasant to imagine we were actually having an intimate moment in the living room, even though there were so many other things that needed to get done.
As I was carrying the last box of crap inside, I assume it was her crap, because anything that wasn’t meant to be put in the garage, and belonged to me, actually fit in about three mid-sized boxes, Cherisse called out, “Steve, I hate to bother you, I know you’re busy but when you’re done with that, could you help me for a couple of minutes?”
The downside was simply that I was tired, dirty, sore, maybe a little hungover, and not in a terribly good mood. The upside was a couple more minutes without having to pay the price for my smart-ass comments earlier. The upside totally won. “Sure, just let me drop this box off inside and I’ll be right over.”
Dropping the box off, debating whether to let Mary know I would be right back, I concluded that I might get at least a small brownie point for doing something nice for an old lady she evidently had begun to care about. “Mary, I’m going to go help Cherisse with something for a second. I’m not sure what, or how long, but she asked me and I said yes.”
“Fine, I’ll just be here unpacking my “shit”, keeping track of the kids, putting things away, thinking about either cooking dinner or calling out for Chinese food, which you’ll have to go pick up because I don’t even know where my keys are in this mess.”
“That’s fine. Just out of curiosity, why didn’t you just put your keys . . . uh . . . never mind, we’ll find them.” See I do have the ability to hold back from time to time. Normally I’m in so deep, going further isn’t going to hurt anything, but every once in a while, I catch myself before it’s too late.
I walked across the lawn to Cherisse’s house, fully intent on knocking on the door, but instead found it open. I called inside to let her know I was there, and wandered into the cutest little dollhouse I had ever seen. I don’t use the word cute often, but there really was no other word for what I was experiencing. It was like something out of every little girl’s dream. China cabinets with tiny cups and trinkets galore. Beautiful antique furniture, that looked like it was made for show more than comfort. China dolls on shelves along the wall. And doilies, my God, doilies everywhere!
“Welcome to my home Steve.” And with a hug she drew me in to become part of her collection of trinkets and dolls. There was no better way to say it. I had entered the woman’s playground, and she had decided I belonged as one of the permanent residents of her little world.
“Yeah… umm… Thanks. You said you needed help with something?”
“Yes dear. This is totally silly, and just a few years ago, I wouldn’t have bothered anyone with it, but lately my hands just aren’t as strong as they used to be.”
“Well, that would go without saying I would think. I don’t know that I’ve met many ninety-year-olds, but I certainly have met plenty of people in their seventies that aren’t nearly as spry as you and need help from time to time.”
“That’s sweet of you to say dear. Here’s what I need, I made a mistake and crushed these beer cans. I didn’t know that you have to be able to read the little lines on them to return them these days. I used to give them to the neighbor kids, but they’ve moved. I was wondering if you would straighten them for me so I can return them.”
“Cherisse, there’s like sixty cents worth of cans here. How about I just give you a buck, and we toss them?”
“No dear. That simply won’t do. I intend to leave this world in at least the same condition as it was when I came into it. Or as close as possible, I can only do much, I’m on a fixed income, but recycling is certainly something I’m capable of.”
“Seriously? Why do you have these cans anyway, you don’t look like a beer drinker.”
“I like to have a sip of beer before I go to bed. It reminds me of my second boyfriend after my first husband died. We used to drink beer together during the evenings. I never finish them, but you just can’t buy a sip at the supermarket.”
“I’ll give it a shot, but it seems kind of silly to me. Why do you drink it before you go to bed instead of in the evenings while you’re watching television or something? It would give you more time to finish the whole beer.”
“Because dear, the memories I want to remember are all about going to bed, not watching television.”
I don’t think I’ve seen a wicked glint in the eye of a ninety-year-old woman before. I didn’t know if I was totally creeped out or if I’d just decided I wished I had known her forty, no make that sixty years ago.
Regardless, I was speechless. Instead of commenting back with my normal wit and charm, I picked up a can and started to pull it apart, straighten it and tried to clean up those stupid bar codes. I thought the first one was actually pretty good, so I held it up and said, “How’s that Cherisse, good enough?”
“I wish it were rounder, closer to the original, but I guess it will have to do.”
I finished the next four with about the same amount of success, but by the time I was done with the fifth and had them all stacked on the table, I could tell I had started getting sloppy about half way through the third. Noting that there were only five, I decided to see if the old lady had a sense of humor. “Guess you have a good time planned for this evening, you still have one beer left.”
“Oh I forgot. I tried to do one in the kitchen but couldn’t get it straight. I even tried re-smashing it a couple of times and starting over. Let me go grab it for you.”
“One more and out the door” I quipped.
She handed me the most mangled can I think I had ever seen. Not only was it crushed flat like the rest, but it looked like it had been squished sideways, flattened vertically, then flattened again multiple times. This one was hopeless, and I told her so. “Cherisse, there isn’t enough of this can left to work with, even if I managed to get it somewhat straight, the bar code is practically worn off.”
“I was afraid of that dear. It’s very similar to what you and your wife are doing to each other you know.”
Damn that annoying, and knowing, look she had on her face. Cherisse barely knew us. What gave her the right to be so perceptive? I’m a reasonably smart guy, well read, and I thought knew where she was going with this. There was no way I was going to give her the satisfaction of knowing that though. Let her play her silly game, she was ninety and probably thought she was handing out years of wisdom.
“Cherisse, I honestly have no idea what you’re talking about. Mary and I have a decent marriage. It’s not perfect, but we don’t hate each other. Maybe you should get to know us a bit before you start judging us.”
Okay, that sounded defensive and belligerent even to me.
“Dear boy, every small argument a couple has, smashes the can of your marriage a little more. Every insult, every unthinking comment, every missed opportunity to touch and be together, is simply one more stomp on that can. Eventually you’re going to make that can so weak the metal collapses and tears and then it will be useless.”
“You’ve known us for less than a day. What makes you think you have a clue what’s going on in our marriage? I’m not saying you’re wrong. I’m not even saying we don’t have problems like any other marriage, but it’s not all my fault and I’m not taking all the responsibility.” I tried to be as civil as possible, after all she was old and not being mean, but I’m sure my annoyance seeped through in my tone.
“I know more than you may think dear boy. These old eyes have seen a lot over the years. This old body knows the touch of a man, and this old heart knows the pain of losing what it loves. It’s easy to see what you are doing to each other. It’s in the way you don’t look at each other, and the way your children do, when you are together. You can fool yourself for a while, but eventually you’ll look in the mirror and see what everyone else has been seeing for years.”
It was a struggle to not lash out. It was hard not to tell Cherisse to mind her own business, but at the end of the day it would have been like being rude to your grandmother. You just couldn’t bring yourself to do it. Instead, I took a deep breath and replied, “Cherisse, I appreciate your concern. I’m going to repeat this one more time and then I’m headed home for a hot shower. Before you judge my marriage, at least take the time to get to know us longer than a day…”
“I’m ninety dear. How many days do you think I have left to get to know you? I may not get the chance to tell you tomorrow, let alone next week.”
end of excerpt
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