All the photographs in
this article are of the same piece of redwood.
On the Spring Equinox
the sunlight came down through the skylight at just the right angle to
illuminate the large piece of driftwood that has been the centerpiece of my
living room life since the spring of my first year in Mendocino fifteen years
ago.
When I first moved here, I was wild about collecting rocks and pieces of driftwood, nearly all of which I have subsequently returned to the ocean. My first winter here was incredibly rainy. We got eighty inches of rain. The most we’ve gotten since then is forty inches, and this year we’ve gotten twenty-one. In any case, that year Big River was in constant flood and a whole section of Big River Beach was inaccessible for several months.
Then in early spring
there came a big negative tide and I was determined to get to that previously
inaccessible stretch of beach before too many other peeps beat me to the
driftwood goodies we hoped would be waiting there.
I took my backpack with
me, got down to the beach in the early morning, and waded through knee-high
surf to get around a point of land jutting out into the bay to reach those happy
hunting grounds. And as I came around the point to the unsullied beach, here
before me, standing on the sand, was this piece of wood that looked from thirty
feet away like a sculpture by Rodin. It was very heavy, and as I was wrestling
it into my backpack, three other people with pack frames made it around the
point to where I was.
One of the people, a
woman wearing all black, her hair tied back in a ponytail, asked politely if
she might see what I was stowing in my pack. So I got the Rodin out, and
without missing a beat she offered me a hundred dollars for it. I said No thank
you, and she said two hundred.
By the time I got the
Rodin loaded into my pack again, there were several other prospectors scouring
the little caves and inlets that had been receiving driftwood throughout the
winter months. But I didn’t do any more hunting and carried my prize the mile back
to my car.
And the funny thing is,
once I got this piece home and situated on a living room table, I was done
collecting driftwood forever. Oh occasionally I’ll see something I’m tempted to
bring home, but the pieces I’d like to have are too big to lift, let alone
carry.
This piece stands up
without any other external support, and each orientation is equally beautiful.
Today’s Max Portrait is one of my favorites in the series so far, for all sorts of reasons. Your focus in the moment illustrates what I’m aiming for in my daily work, really seeing what you’re doing, where you’re going. Careful strength and concentration. And the form of the photo, the composition is really nice, that side-lit Vermeerish effect, your large amorphous shadow, the calm physical act captured.
And your short-sleeved dress shirt and the task of carrying the
large framed painting reminds me of my acquaintances Peter and Evan, guys I
knew long ago who had the enviable jobs of hanging and lighting the shows at
the local art museum, framing things in need of framing, and doing whatever each
new show required. They got paid really well, had lots of time for each task,
and they were forever buying new tools and equipment, the museum well endowed
and then expanding wildly with the coming of big money to town.
They always dressed nicely, casually nicely, and went about their
business in a careful measured way. They took lots of breaks and were often
“working” when I’d run into them at a favorite café. They were both artisans
before landing their museum gigs, Evan a jeweler, Peter a woodworker. They were
both so hip it sometimes made my teeth ache.
They would occasionally hire me to help with installations
requiring an extra hand or when the work was beneath them. One time they hired
me and another guy to assemble an installation I may have told you about, but
I’ll briefly tell you again. It’s kind of a cool story.
So an artist had come up with this installation and made several
kits that were doing the rounds of art museums all over America and the world.
The installation was a big art museum hit because it gave museum visitors something
neato to experience and talk about.
The kit made a rectangular plywood room sixteen-feet-long,
twelve-feet-wide, and eight-feet-tall with a flat ceiling, the pieces of
plywood screwed to a simple frame of two-by-fours. There was also a little anteroom,
four-feet-long, four-feet-wide, and eight-feet-tall, the larger room accessed from
the smaller room by going through a thick lightproof floor-to-ceiling curtain.
Once the room was assembled, we had to apply two layers of gray
duct tape over all the seams between the pieces of plywood, inside and out.
That was tiring work, and doing the ceiling seams was a killer.
When the box was done and all the seams sealed, a large triangle
of plywood was placed in a corner of the room farthest from the entrance
creating a small well behind it, and in the bottom of that well was placed a
tiny light source so dim you could not see the light at all outside the room or
even in the room until you had been
in the room for at least fifteen minutes, and then, somehow, our eyes and brains,
with just that miniscule light source, could see quite a lot in the otherwise
pitch black room.
And that was the point of the box. People went in, experienced
total darkness, and though encouraged by museum docents to sit down and stay a
while, most people found the total darkness unnerving and got out pretty fast.
But if you stayed for twenty minutes or longer, your sensory system adjusted
and you could see other people quite clearly, not just their vague forms.
For the first seven to ten minutes you could see absolutely
nothing. But if you stayed for a half-hour, you could see incredibly well. And
then there was the experience of returning to the outside world, which, for
several hours after being in the box, seemed almost too incredible, too full of
fantastic parts. A seriously trippy experience.
Your nice shirt and your purposefulness with that framed canvas
brought it all back to me.
Emily, thirty-five, a marriage and family therapist, and her son Andre, twelve, live with Emily’s father Neal, sixty-seven, a community college English professor. On a lovely sunny day in May, Emily and Andre arrive home in the late afternoon and find Neal still dressed for work in suit and tie, sitting on the deck with Niko, a big friendly ten-year-old mutt. Andre comes out on the deck to greet his grandfather.
Andre: Hi Poppy. We didn’t think
you’d be home yet. (sits in an adjoining deck chair) We got Chinese takeout to celebrate
Mom’s big success and cheer me up. We got Kung Pao Chicken and Snow Peas with
Black Mushrooms and Shrimp Chao Fun.
Neal: Sounds fabulous. What’s made
you so blue?
Andre: We just had my interview at the
Waldorf high school and they don’t want me.
Neal: Why not?
Andre: Well, it’s not entirely true
to say they don’t want me, but they are adamant I can’t finish high school
there unless I first go through Waldorf Eighth Grade and all four years of
their high school.
Neal: Because?
Andre: It’s a different system than
public school. A different way of learning, and since I’m only twelve they
would want me to become accustomed to the Waldorf ethos and have their entire
high school experience which they say has nothing to do with how smart you are.
It’s more about psychic and spiritual growth specific to my age, which actually
sounds pretty good to me, but… I just want to be done with high school.
Emily: (coming out on the deck) I
explained he’d been largely homeschooled and skipped four grades, but they were
adamant he should do five years with them.
Andre: So I think I’m going to home
school for another year, pass the high school equivalency exam, and then take
classes at the community college. I can’t possibly survive another year at
Woodbury High. It’s like a prison. The classes are idiotic, and Desmond and
Caroline are my only friends, and we’re just a pod of little freaks there.
Neal: I’m sure you’re not just
little freaks there. But this is momentous news. And it coincides with my news.
Emily: What’s your news?
Neal: (gets up) Before I tell you, and
before you tell me about your great success, I’m going to change my clothes and
have a beer. I got home five minutes before you and I’m still in the throes of
wonderment.
Emily: I’ll get you a beer. You want
anything Andre?
Andre: Yeah. I’ll have a beer, too.
Emily: How about some kombucha?
Andre: With a shot of Kahlua.
Emily: Stop.
Andre: (follows her into the house) In
Ireland kids my age drink beer.
Emily: Yes, but we don’t live in
Ireland.
Andre: We should move there. Or
France. I’d love a glass of wine.
Emily: Fine. I’ll give you a little
glass of wine.
Andre: (excited) Really?
Emily: Emphasis on little. As in tiny.
Andre: Oh my God. (shouting) Poppy!
Mom is giving me a tiny glass of wine.
Neal: (from his bedroom down the
hall) Excellent. Sip don’t gulp.
Andre: (to Emily) This is so exciting.
Emily: And it will not be a regular thing.
Andre: No, no, of course not.
Absolutely never more than once a
day.
Emily: We are speaking of the
occasional ceremonial taste.
Andre: How exotic. Shall we burn
some sage?
Neal: (arriving in sweatshirt and
loose trousers) Yes. Let’s burn some sage to usher in the new era of our lives.
Emily: (handing Neal a beer) New
era? Tell us more.
Neal: Well… Andre home schooling again
and… (pauses momentously)
Emily: And?
Neal: Shall we return to the deck?
Such a lovely day.
They
carry drinks and an old ceramic bowl full of sage out onto the deck and set the
bowl on the table. Andre lights the sage and passes his small glass of red wine
through the smoke.
Andre: Blessings on the new era.
Emily: Tell us, Papa. The suspense
is killing me.
Neal
passes his bottle of beer through the sage smoke and takes a drink.
Neal: There is a very good
possibility that five weeks from today I will teach my last class as a
full-time professor at the community college, and possibly my last class ever.
Emily: (shocked) What? You just told
me a few days ago you wanted to teach until you were seventy-two.
Neal: That was before Janet Escobar,
the charming new president of the college, assembled the eleven members of the
faculty who are over sixty-five and asked us to please retire now rather than
later. Generous severance packages were offered, and save for Archie Fitzgerald
who called Janet an ageist idiot, we all agreed to consider her offer.
Emily: Well… it is ageist.
Andre: And I was going to take your
classes.
Neal: I suspected something like
this was in the works when Janet took the helm. Nine of the eleven of us are
long past meaningful functioning, and I knew the new administration was keen to
youthify the faculty.
Andre: Youthify? Is that even an
actual word?
Emily: No. But you know your
grandfather loves to verbify nouns.
Neal: A noble calling.
Verbification. A field of endeavor you might want to consider, Andre. Not
lucrative, but deeply fulfilling.
Andre: So does this mean that
someone resembling you will be free to be my homeschool teacher for the next
year or so? And teach Desmond and Caroline, too, if they want to homeschool
with me?
Neal: If I retire, yes.
Emily: Is Karen retiring?
Neal: Oh yeah. She’s thrilled. So
are most of the others. And the more I think about it, the more appealing
retirement sounds, though after the meeting, Janet took me aside and whispered,
“But not you. Please. Not you.”
Emily: What’s that about? Does she
fancy you? She’s a bit young for you, but she is a dish.
Neal: I agree about her dishness,
but I seriously doubt she fancies me. No, she had to include me, and Diana, in the cattle call or it would have
been a terrible insult to the others, asking them to retire but not me or
Diana.
Andre: Who is Diana and what’s a
cattle call?
Neal: Diana is the Drama department
incarnate in a single ageless wonder, and a cattle call is a show biz term that
refers to an audition open to everyone, not just a select few.
Emily: So that means you don’t have to quit if you don’t want to.
Neal: No one has to. But the offer is there and it’s a very good one. And I do
grow weary of correcting essays written by people who spent twelve years in
school yet still don’t know how to write complete sentences, let alone coherent
paragraphs.
Andre: Why don’t they want older
people teaching at the college?
Neal: Because they think most of us
are out of touch with the nineteen and twenty-year-olds composing eighty per
cent of our student body. And if you knew the nine teachers they want to get
rid of, you would agree with their assessment.
Emily: I’m stunned. I don’t know
what to say.
Neal: Yeah, I know. It’s a shock. (to
Andre) How do you like the wine?
Andre: The taste is dreadful, but
I’m enjoying the… the… oh what’s the word? (giggles) I can’t think of it.
Neal: Buzz?
Emily: Are you dizzy?
Andre: No. I’m… everything seems to
be kind of flowing together. The various separate things are not so distinct
from each other as they were in my sobriety.
Emily: I think you’ve had enough.
Andre: Oh come on, Mom. I’ve only
got another sixteenth of an inch to drink. But I see why they say don’t drink
and drive. I wouldn’t want to ride my bicycle
feeling like this, let alone drive a car. I do see the appeal though. Certainly
smooths the rough edges.
Emily: Listen to you. What rough
edges do you have?
Andre: What do you mean? I’m a
twelve-year-old about to enter my senior year of high school. I’m surrounded by
giant goons who push me around whenever the fancy takes them, and gorgeous
young women who think I’m adorable or invisible or merely freakish. I hate
school and school takes up most of my life. Is that enough rough edges for you?
Emily: I’m sorry, dear. I really am.
We should have had you in Waldorf from the get go but we didn’t have the money
then. And now we have the money and they want you for five years.
Neal: Well then I’ve decided. I’m
retiring from the community college and will henceforth be your teacher until further
notice.
Andre: Great! This is the happiest
day of my life.
Neal: Mine, too. I was sick of
teaching there.
Emily: You weren’t sick of teaching there
when you went off to work this morning whistling a happy tune.
Neal: I felt safe teaching there. I
was afraid not to be teaching there.
Emily: (going inside) I’m gonna set
the table. I’m starving.
Andre: (to Neal) But first we’ll
have the summer off. Right? We’ll start our formal studies in the fall.
Neal: The truth is, Andre, you could
pass the equivalency exam now. You could have passed it two years ago. So what
is it you formally want to study?
Andre: Desmond and Caroline and I
are all keen on Music, Literature, and Cuisine. And Frisbee. And Geography. And
Cinema. And Biology and Astronomy and Anthropology and Theatre, of course.
Neal: We shall ponder the
possibilities and create a curriculum including Mendelssohn, Miles Davis, Dickens,
Wharton, Kazantzakis, Shakespeare, and Larousse
Gastronomique as cornerstones of your educational edifice.
Andre: Sounds wonderful, Poppy. But for
now… I don’t feel very well. Is that the wine?
Neal: Yes. That is your body wanting
water. Alcohol dehydrates. Go have a big glass of water and then we’ll take
you-know-who for his you-know-what.
Niko
perks up, suspecting a walk is in the offing. Andre goes inside to get a drink
of water and Neal has a little cry before he joins Emily and Andre in the
kitchen.
Emily: (to Andre) Feel better?
Andre: (belching) Now I do.
Emily: Charming. (to Neal) You’re
sure you want to quit, Papa?
Neal: I’m sure.
Emily: Well then I’m glad. If anyone
deserves a nice severance package, you do.
Neal: Maybe I’ll take us all to
England.
Andre: To Ireland where I can
legally drink beer! And then drink lots of water.
Emily: Sounds wonderful.
Neal: But first I must gird my loins
for another five weeks of labor at the place where I have toiled for thirty-seven
years. Astounding but true.
Andre: Three times my age and a
year.
Neal: Shall we walk?
Andre: We shall. You coming Mom?
Emily: I want to, but I’m starving.
Andre: Eat a handful of nuts. That’s
what you always say to me.
Emily: Good idea.
Emily
has a handful of nuts and they go for a walk, Andre holding Niko’s leash as
they stroll along.
Neal: And now my darling daughter,
tell us of your great success.
Emily: Well two things happened
today that made me glad I became a therapist, not that I wasn’t already glad,
but there are days and weeks, as you know, when I’m not sure I’m doing anybody
much good.
Andre: But not today.
Emily. No, not today because one of
my clients told me she has finally ended the abusive relationship she’s been in
for eleven years, and she said she could never have done it without me. She was
radiant and happier than I’ve ever known her to be.
Neal: Bravo! That outshines my news
by a mile.
Andre: And that’s not all.
Neal: There’s more?
Emily: There is. A couple I’ve been
counseling for two years who came to me unable to speak to each other and about
to be divorced, asked me today if I would come to their remarriage ceremony.
Neal: That’s fantastic. (gives Emily
a hug) I’m so proud of you.
Emily: I never thought they’d stay
together, let alone fall in love again. But they really have. They just love each other now.
Andre: How did you do it, Mom?
Emily: After our first session,
during which they almost killed each other, I saw them separately for several
months, then together and separately
for several more months, and then together for the last four months. And they
both learned to talk about their feelings and really listen to each other, and
they stopped comparing themselves to each other and to other couples, and they
really got to know each other and like each other, and they fell in love again.
Andre: Wow. Maybe I’ll become a
therapist.
Emily: I thought you wanted to be an
actor.
Andre: I do. Caroline and Desmond
and I are going to have a theatre company and be a famous team of movie stars.
We’ll write and direct our own movies and plays, and I’ll be a therapist.
Neal: Good idea. Why limit yourself
to just one occupation?
Andre: We also want to have an
organic avocado farm and a café featuring entrees from around the world.
A warm sunny day at the beach, Neal, sixty-four, a community college English professor, is sitting on a big beach blanket with his daughter Emily, thirty-two, a marriage and family therapist. Emily’s son Andre and Andre’s friend Joshua, both nine, are in the distance, playing Frisbee at the water’s edge.
Neal: Could there be a more
beautiful day?
Emily: No, I don’t think so. They’ve even provided us with puffy white storybook clouds.
Neal: How are you doing in the
aftermath?
Emily: I’m okay. A little depressed.
Find myself saying less to my clients these days, allowing the silence to speak
for me. What do I know about relationships? I know how to start them, but sustaining
them is a mystery to me.
Neal: I don’t think sustaining your
relationship with Michael had anything to do with you, except that you chose to
be in a relationship with someone who had no experience of sustaining any emotional connection to another
person until you came along and showed him how.
Emily: Which begs the question: why
did I choose to pursue a relationship with someone like Michael?
Neal: Because he’s a wonderful
person and you wanted to get close to him. Most of your two years together were
fine. Don’t you think?
Emily: Except he was never
comfortable with Andre or you, and that always made me uneasy. I kept thinking
he’d eventually relax around you, but he never did. He was only comfortable
when we were alone, which was wonderful, but I have a son and a father and
friends, and he found the inclusion of anyone else overwhelming. He only wanted
it to be the two of us.
Neal: I’m sorry, dear. I hope you
don’t think it was all for naught.
Emily: No, I loved being in love and
being loved. It was a big healing for me. I’m just sad about not seeing him
anymore, though I know it’s for the best.
Neal: I’m sure I’ve told you about Rosalie,
but your two years with Michael reminds me of my three years with her, without
which I would not have been prepared to sustain a relationship with your
mother.
Emily: You’ve mentioned Rosalie, but
you never told me you were with her for three
years.
Neal: Shall I tell you about her?
Emily: If you want to, I’d love to
hear.
Neal: So… other than a high school
romance that never went beyond smooching and a brief college fling during which
I lost my virginity but learned little about sex, I was at twenty-seven completely
inexperienced in the ways of love. I was teaching English at a private high
school while slaving away on my doctoral thesis exploring the complete works of
Nikos Kazantzakis, and sharing an apartment with an ever-changing cast of male
characters, most of them graduate students. And then Will Ciardi moved in, we
became fast friends, and I became a regular at the pub where Will was a
bartender and Rosalie was a waitress.
Emily: And she took you in hand.
Neal: Indeed she did. Rosalie was
the most straightforward person I have ever known. The night Will introduced
us, Rosalie looked me up and down and said, “Are you involved with anybody?” And
when I said No, she said, “Quelle coïncidence. Nor am I. Why not
ask me out?”
Emily: But you didn’t because you
were too shy.
Neal: No, I did. Right then. And she
smiled and said, “I thought you’d never ask.”
Emily: Where did you go on your
first date?
Neal: An Italian restaurant. We
shared a bottle of wine, went to her apartment, and didn’t leave for two days.
Emily: Papa. I’m shocked. You never
told me that. And then you were with her for three years.
Neal: Three wonderful years. During
which time she helped me complete my thesis, we went to Europe twice for two
months each time, and I was blissfully happy and she was happy, too.
Emily: Did you want to marry her?
Neal: More than anything. And she
wanted to marry me.
Emily: So what happened?
Neal: I met your mother. Or I should
say… your mother arrived.
Emily: You left Rosalie for Mama?
Neal: Yes.
Emily: Was Rosalie crushed?
Neal: Devastated.
Emily: You never told me this.
Neal: And I’m still ashamed for
hurting her as I did.
Emily: But you loved Mama more.
Neal: Yes and no.
Emily: How no?
Neal: Your mother was a beautiful powerful
alluring woman. We met on my first day of teaching at the college where I teach
to this day, and by the time I woke from my bedazzlement, I had left Rosalie
and there was no going back, though I wanted to.
Emily: You mean after you and Mama
were married?
Neal: Long before we were married.
Emily: Oh Papa, why didn’t you ever
tell me this?
Neal: I never had a reason to.
Emily: What’s your reason now?
Neal: I’m not sure. I just had the
feeling it might help you.
Emily: It does. Because I’ll always
remember the good lessons of loving Michael and being loved by him.
Neal: There. That’s why I told you
about Rosalie. Because I remembered the good lessons of loving her and being
loved by her, and those lessons made it possible for me to have a good
relationship with your mother for as long as it lasted.
Emily: Life can be so sad.
Neal: Sometimes sad, sometimes
joyful. Ever changing.
Emily: Speaking of which, how are
things going with Karen?
Neal: Fine.
Emily: Do you think if Andre and I
didn’t live with you, you’d ask Karen to marry you?
Neal: I am sure I would not.
Emily: Why not?
Neal: Because save for a fortuitous
affinity in the sack, we are different as two people from the same society
could be.
Emily: How so?
Neal: She’s a compulsive neatnik. Every
object on every surface in her house is arranged just so, as if the rooms are
soon be photographed for a spread in Architectural
Digest. My surfaces, as you know, are otherwise. Her politics are distinctly
right of center, mine are far to the left. She is obsessed with her appearance
and spends lots of time and money trying to beat back the hands of time,
whereas I have only a vague notion of what I look like from one day to the next
and don’t give a hoot about getting old. I love dogs and cats; she finds them
annoying. I am a gardener and a cook; she abhors dirt and would rather eat at a
swank restaurant than eat anything I cook. I like classical music and jazz, she
has her radio ever tuned to easy listening elevator music that makes my teeth
ache. And so forth.
Emily: Don’t you ever long for
something more in the way of a relationship?
Neal: In the absence of you and
Andre, I suppose I might. But in the meantime, Karen is a lovely person to be
with now and then, and she seems to feel the same way about me.
Emily: Do you ever wonder what happened to Rosalie?
Neal: Often. But I know the last
thing she would want is to hear from me again, so I do not seek her out.
Emily: How do you know she wouldn’t
want to hear from you again?
Neal: Because I know how much I hurt
her. And the last thing I would ever want to do is remind her of my terrible
betrayal of our love.
Andre
and Joshua return from the edge of the sea and flop down on the beach blanket.
Andre: Mom? Can we have our dessert
now?
Emily: Yes you may.
Emily
opens the little ice chest and brings forth two ice cream bars for the boys.
Emily: You want one, Papa?
Neal: No gracias. But might there be
a beer in there?
Emily: You know there is.
Emily
opens the bottle of beer and hands it to Neal, then gets herself an ice cream
bar.
Neal: How went the flinging of the
disk?
Andre: Fun. Kind of windy. But fun.
Joshua: I’m not very good at it.
Andre is, but I’m not.
Andre: You’re quite good, Josh, especially when you don’t have to throw into the
wind. Once we got our positioning right, you were great.
Joshua: I’m not a very good athlete.
Neal: Looked good to me.
Joshua: My dad says I’m a klutz.
Andre: You’re not a klutz. You just
need practice. I’ve been playing Frisbee since I was a small child. That’s the
only reason I’m so good at it.
Joshua: (to Emily) Is there any more
of those ice cream bars?
Emily: One more. You two want to
share it?
Andre: That’s okay. I’m pretty full.
You can have it, Josh.
Joshua: (taking the ice cream bar
from Emily) Thanks.
Silence
falls.
Neal: So… any travel plans for the
summer, Joshua?
Joshua: I think we might go to Lake
Tahoe.
Emily: That sounds fun.
Joshua: Not really. I mostly stay in
the motel room while my mom and dad go gambling. But maybe we’ll go water
skiing.
Emily: Water skiing sounds exciting.
Joshua: Yeah. Do you have any Coke?
Emily: Lemonade.
Joshua: Never mind.
Joshua
gets out his phone and starts playing a video game.
Neal: I think I’ll go for a swim. Anybody
want to join me?
Andre: (jumping up) I do. You wanna jump
in Josh?
Joshua: No. It’s too cold.
Neal: You coming, Em?
Emily: No, I’m gonna stay here and
keep Joshua company.
Joshua: You don’t have to.
Emily: I want to.
Neal
and Andre head for the water. Emily gets out a book and starts to read.
Joshua: What are you reading?
Emily: These are case studies of
people in therapy and how therapy helps them.
Joshua: What’s therapy?
Emily: Therapy is when someone goes
to a counselor or a psychologist for help with an emotional problem they’re
having. Did you know I’m a counselor?
Joshua: Yeah, Andre told me. You
mean like for depression?
Emily: Yes.
Joshua: My mom takes meds for
depression.
Emily: Yes, she told me.
Joshua: Are you on meds?
Emily: No. But I have some clients
who are on meds.
Joshua: What is a med anyway? Like a
vitamin?
Emily: It’s medicine that helps
people with chemical imbalances that make them anxious or depressed.
Joshua: What is depression anyway?
Emily: It’s a kind of persistent
sadness that makes a person feel exhausted.
Joshua: What’s persistent?
Emily: Persistent means it won’t go
away.
Joshua: Oh.
Emily: You know how sometimes we’ll
be sad, but then the sadness goes away and we’re not sad anymore. But if the
sadness won’t go away, we say it persists.
Joshua: I’m sad some of the time.
But not all the time.
Emily: There’s nothing wrong with
being sad some of the time. It’s a natural feeling. Everyone is sad some of the
time.
Joshua: I’ll be sad when Andre skips
two grades. I don’t really have any other friends.
Emily: Well you’ll still be friends with
Andre even though he’s in a different grade.
Joshua: Probably not. He’s too smart
for me anyway.
Emily: Oh come on. You’re just as
smart as he is. Just in different ways.
Joshua: I’m better at video games,
but that’s only because he doesn’t get to do it very much because he doesn’t
have a phone.
Emily: Not yet.
Joshua: Hey how come you guys don’t even
have a television?
Emily: I never had one when I was
growing up because my father didn’t want one. He finds them annoying. So I
never got in the habit of watching television and never wanted one.
Joshua: Oh.
Joshua
resumes playing a video game on his phone.
Emily: What game are you playing?
Joshua: Fight To the Death. It’s the
main one kids play now.
Emily: What happens in the game?
Joshua: Well… you’re going through
this multiverse and these aliens and cyborgs and monsters are attacking you and
you have to kill them before they kill you. And your powers change when you
enter a new universe. Stuff like that.
Emily: You have different kinds of
power?
Joshua: Yeah, different ways to kill
them and dodge them and get past them.
Emily: Like what kinds of power do
you have?
Joshua: You have lasers and
lightning bolts and stunners and you can fly at different speeds and make yourself
invisible. And you have shields and you can morph into different things. Stuff
like that.
Emily: How do you win?
Joshua: You just go as far as you
can and try to beat your best score.
Emily: You never come to the end?
Joshua: No. There is no end. You
just try to get your highest score.
Emily: I see.
Joshua: Do you think it’s stupid?
Emily: No.
Joshua: Then how come you won’t get
Andre a phone?
Emily: I don’t want him to have a
phone yet.
Joshua: Why not?
Emily: I want him to learn other
things first before he has a phone.
Joshua: Like what other things? He’s
already smarter than all the other kids. Even if he skips two grades he’ll be
smarter than all the other kids. And if he had a phone, then I could text him
and he could text me any time we wanted. What’s wrong with that?
Emily: Nothing is wrong with that. I
just want him to experience life without a phone for a few more years.
Joshua: But what if he gets
depressed because he doesn’t have a phone and everybody else does? Wouldn’t it
be better for him to have a phone than be on meds?
Emily: Yes, it would.
Emily
stands up to give the returning swimmers beach towels.
Andre: The water was freezing!
Neal: But it felt fantastic!
They
take the towels from Emily and dry themselves.
Neal, sixty-two, arrives home in suit and tie from the community college where he is an English professor, and is greeted by his dog Niko, a big friendly five-year-old mutt. Neal’s daughter Emily, thirty, is in the kitchen making supper. Emily and her son Andre have lived with Neal for five years now. Andre is about to turn seven and Emily is in her final year of training to become a marriage and family therapist.
Emily: Hi Papa. You’re home early
today. Just in time to chop vegetables for the chicken soup.
Neal: Oh joy. But first allow me to
dispense with my briefcase and change into more appropriate sous-cheffing garb.
Emily: You are allowed.
Neal: (bows to her) I shall return.
Emily
continues cooking while Neal deposits his briefcase in his office and goes to
his bedroom to change into old trousers and sweatshirt before returning to the
kitchen where he gives Niko a good petting before sitting down at the counter.
Neal: Much better. Unharnessed. Where’s
the boy?
Emily: (serves Neal a bottle of
beer) He went to Joshua’s after school today. Should be home any minute.
Neal: (has a swig of beer) How was
your day?
Emily: Good. Got lots done. Saw two
clients with Amy supervising, and she said I did very well considering how
intractable they both were. Mired in existential dread. She’s always so complimentary, says I’m a natural, as
opposed to Ramon who says I either talk too much or don’t talk enough. (hands Neal a cutting board, cleaver, onion,
and carrots.) And I got lots of reading done, mostly Winnecott and Klein, and
then I went to yoga, which was glorious, and then I spent a fortune on
groceries. A good day, all in all. How about your day?
Neal: Not bad. Somewhat bittersweet
as many of them are nowadays.
Emily: Why so?
Neal: You know… one of those days
when I was frequently aware that the vast majority of my students would rather gaze
into their phones than listen to me or to each other. But I did have a rousing
discussion about A Tale of Two Cities
with the three of my students who are actually reading the book, the other
thirty-seven present in body only. And I had lunch with Karen, which was fun.
So… like that.
Emily: How about we invite Karen for
supper on Saturday. Yeah?
Neal: Well… um… I don’t know. Seems…
not sure.
Emily: You’re not sure or she’s not sure?
Neal: Oh I’m sure she’d love to
come. I just… I’m… I’m enjoying having lunch with her a couple times a week and
that feels like enough for now.
Emily: You know you don’t have to
marry her if she comes for supper. I just think it would be fun to meet your
new friend. I know Andre would like to meet her.
Neal: Well she’s not really new. I mean… having lunch together,
that’s relatively new, but…
Emily: Never mind. I don’t want to
do anything that makes you uncomfortable.
Neal: (begins chopping onion) And you’re
sure I wouldn’t have to marry her if she came for supper?
Emily: Not right away.
Neal: Well in that case… I’ll think
about it.
Emily: I hope you will because I want to invite someone for supper and
I think it would be a good idea to have more than a few of us here the first
time.
Neal: (stops chopping) Oh really.
Anyone I know?
Emily: You used to know him, and he
certainly remembers you.
Neal: Are we speaking of a former
student?
Emily: We are.
Neal: Age?
Emily: Thirty-five.
Neal: So let’s see, that would mean
he was a student of mine fifteen or sixteen years ago.
Emily: Both.
Neal: I had him for two years? I
probably do remember him. What’s his name?
Emily: Before I tell you his name, I
want you to remember he is not who he was when he was nineteen and twenty.
Neal: Oh really? He had an identity
transplant?
Emily: No he grew up. Unlike my
father.
Neal: Sorry. Of course he isn’t the
same person. But he has the same name?
Emily: Yes.
Neal: And that name is?
Emily: (hesitates) Michael Bernstein.
Neal: (frowns) I’m sorry, I must
have misheard you. You didn’t say Michael Bernstein, did you?
Emily: That’s what I said.
Neal: You’re kidding.
Emily: No.
Neal: (sets down the cleaver) You’ve
fallen in love with the most difficult student I’ve ever had?
Emily: I have not fallen in love
with him. I just like him. A lot. He’s charming and funny and…
Neal: Hold on. Charming and funny?
We can’t possibly be talking about the same Michael Bernstein. The Michael Bernstein
I suffered with for two years was in every way the antithesis of charming and
funny.
Emily: You saw no glimmerings of
promise in him?
Neal: All he ever wanted to do was
deride everything I said… when he was good enough to show up for class.
Emily: Until the last semester of
his second year with you.
Neal: Is that what he told you?
Emily: No. That’s what I remember.
Neal: What are you talking about?
You didn’t know him then. You were only fourteen.
Emily: And fifteen. And you’re
right, I didn’t know him, but I will never forget the night you were marking up
essays in the living room and you finished reading one and said, “I can hardy
believe what just happened.” And I said, “What, Papa?” And you said, “Michael
Bernstein, my nemesis for the last two years, has written one of the most
beautiful essays I’ve ever read, and appended a note of apology.” I asked if
could see and you handed me the essay. And on the last page he’d written Sorry I have been so horrible to you. Rough
times. You helped me make it through.
Neal: (amazed) I’d completely blocked
that out. I remember now, but… I’d only retained how difficult he was. But
you’re right, those last few months he turned things around and wrote a series
of brilliant essays and got into Cal. (starts to cry) Yet I only remembered the
bad Michael.
Emily: He says he became a writer
because of you.
Neal: He’s a writer? (crying) To be
continued. I gotta blow my nose.
Neal
goes to the bathroom, washes his face, and returns to the kitchen.
Emily: Onions. They always make me
cry, too.
Neal: Yeah. So where did you meet Michael?
Emily: In my yoga class.
Neal: A great place to meet women. Or
so I’ve heard.
Emily: He’s been in the class for
three years and didn’t seem interested in meeting anyone, women or men. I’ve
only been going for four months, but I was intrigued by him so I asked the
teacher about him and she said he was incredibly shy, always unfurled his mat
at the back of the class as far from anyone else as he could, and rarely spoke.
So I took it upon myself to break the ice.
Neal: You asked him out?
Emily: I spoke to him one day after
class. We had a scintillating ten-second conversation. I said something like,
“That felt great.” And he smiled sheepishly and whispered, “Yeah.” And then a
few classes after that we had another thrilling exchange. I said, “Do you take
yoga every day?” And he nodded. And I asked, “With Beth?” And he nodded again.
So you can see how eager he was to get to know me.
Neal: So…
Emily: So finally one day I followed
him outside where he was unlocking his bicycle, and I said, “Hi. Would you like
to go for coffee with me?” And he turned red as a beet and replied so quietly I
only know he said Yes because he was nodding.
Neal: Reminds me of me.
Emily: In so many ways.
Neal: What other ways?
Emily: He’s brilliant and funny and
very sweet.
Neal: How did you find out he was my Michael Bernstein?
Emily: When we exchanged names, his name
rang a bell, though I didn’t know why, and when I said Emily Ramsay, he did a double take and said, “Daughter of Neal
Ramsay?” And I said, “Yes. How do you know my father?” And he said… (hesitates)
Neal: What? What did he say?
Emily: You might cry again, Papa.
Those damn onions.
Neal: No, I’m done crying. I’m onto
the carrots. What did he say?
Emily: He said, “He saved my life.”
Neal: Wow. You’re right. I might cry
again.
Emily: He said you were the first
adult who ever treated him as an equal and praised him when he did good work.
Neal: What a crazy society we live
in. I’ve been told that same thing by many other students, and every time
someone says that to me, I have the hardest time believing it, though I know
it’s true.
Emily: He’s really nice. I think
you’d like him, assuming either of you could get up the nerve to talk to each
other.
Neal: Have you kissed?
Emily: Oh God no. We shook hands for
the first time after our last lunch date, which was our fourth lunch date.
Neal: How was it? The handshake?
Emily: It was the most erotic
handshake I’ve ever had.
Neal: Say no more.
Emily: Can I tell you one more thing
he said about you?
Neal: Oh why not?
Emily: He said you were reflexively
kind, and it made him want to be that way.
Neal: I’m astonished. So what does our
Michael do for a living?
Emily: He has a show on YouTube.
Neal: A show on YouTube? And he gets
paid for that?
Emily: More money than I’ll ever
make, and he also makes lots of money from his books and merch.
Neal: Merch?
Emily: Merchandise. T-shirts and
mugs with things he’s said printed on them.
Neal: He’s a published writer?
Emily: Yeah. Three books so far.
Neal: What are they about?
Emily: Two of them are short story
collections, and one is a novel. They’re contemporary, funny, sweet, sad. Mostly
about teenagers. You might not like them. They owe a lot to television, but I
think they’re quite good.
Neal: And people buy them?
Emily: Yeah, they sell like
hotcakes. He has almost a million subscribers.
Neal: Subscribers to what?
Emily: His YouTube show.
Neal: What does he do on his show?
Emily: He tells stories and reads
stories.
Neal: And a million people watch him?
Emily: More or less.
Neal: Incredible. You wouldn’t think
someone so successful would be shy.
Emily: Oh I think his shyness is a
big part of why he’s successful. Lots of people identify with him.
Neal: So I can just go to YouTube on
my computer and watch him?
Emily: He’s been on for five years
now. I prefer his more recent shows to his old ones, but they’re all charming.
He was almost too shy in the beginning and he has a much better camera now, the
audio much improved. Each episode is about ten to fifteen minutes long, six
days a week. Hundreds and hundreds of episodes to watch.
Neal: Forgive me, but I don’t think
I will.
Emily: It’s okay. He’s definitely
not speaking to your generation. Or even to mine. But young people love him.
A
car horn sounds announcing the homecoming of Andre. Emily goes and opens the
front door and Niko rushes out to greet Andre.
Emily: (calling to Joshua’s mother)
Thanks Terry. We’ll have Joshua after school on Thursday.
Andre,
almost seven, enters the house, sheds his jacket on the floor and races over to
Neal.
Andre: What are you making Poppy?
Neal: I’m chopping vegetables for the
soup. But only people who hang up their jackets will be allowed to have any.
Andre
retrieves his coat and hangs it on a hook by the door.
Andre: Is there going to be sausage
in the soup?
Neal: We must ask the chef.
Andre: (to Emily) Is there, Mom?
Emily: Would you like sausage in the
soup? I was going to use chicken.
Andre: Oh that’s fine. Just so long
as there’s some meat. We’ve had vegetarian for two nights in a row and I could
really use some meat.
Neal: Me, too. Did you have fun with
Joshua?
Andre: (wanders into the kitchen) Kind
of. Only he doesn’t like to play outside so we just mostly watched television.
Mom, can I have a snack?
Emily: Didn’t you have a snack with
Joshua?
Andre: We had potato chips but I’m
still very hungry.
Emily: How about an apple and some
nuts?
Neal: And then we’ll take the beast
for his constitutional before supper.
Andre: Good idea. I am feeling
pretty antsy.
Emily: How unlike you.
Neal: I wonder why Joshua doesn’t
like to play outside.
Andre: He says it’s boring.
Emily: But when he comes here you
play outside.
Andre: Well we don’t have a
television and I have a fort and we have a dog and we have a pond and we
have a rope swing and we sometimes go
to the beach.
Andre
sits at the counter beside Neal. Emily serves him a bowl of nuts and slices of
apple.
Neal: How was school today?
Andre: Good. But I think
I might have to skip a grade.
Emily: Why is that?
Andre: I already know all
the arithmetic and spelling and science and things she gives us because you and
Poppy already taught me those things.
Emily: Would you like to skip a grade?
Andre: No, because then
I wouldn’t be with my friends.
Neal: But then you’d
make new friends.
Andre: But I’d be the
youngest and they’d tease me. The kids in my class already call me Brainiac.
Neal: That’s a
compliment.
Andre: I don’t think so,
Poppy. They say it kind of mean.
Neal: Why do you think
they tease you for being smart?
Andre: I don’t know.
Fortunately I’m also a very good athlete, so they can’t tease me about that.
Neal: Speaking of
athletics, how about a walk?
Niko hears the word walk and rushes to the door where
he spins around in a circle.
Andre: Cool your jets,
Niko. We’re coming.
Emily: Wear your jacket,
please. It’s getting cold.
Neal: We will wear our
jackets.
Andre and Neal go to the door, put on their jackets, and Andre
clips the leash onto Niko’s collar.
Andre: Aren’t you
coming, Mom?
Emily: No, I’m quite
content tending the soup and making the salad. Have fun.
Neal, fifty-seven, a community college English professor, is sitting at the kitchen table in his house with his eighteen-month-old grandson Andre drowsing on his lap. Neal’s daughter Emily, twenty-five, is doing the breakfast dishes. Emily and Andre have just moved in with Neal. The day is sunny and warm, the French doors open.
Neal: Could there be a more
beautiful day?
Emily: If you like drought.
Neal: We live in California, a state
prone to drought. And this particular day, taken out of any long-term context,
is gorgeous. My darling grandson is snoozing on my lap and my darling daughter
is doing the dishes after making us a marvelous breakfast. And after the boy
has his nap, we’re off to the beach. In short… paradise.
Emily: And your daughter and her baby
live with you now because they have nowhere else to go because your daughter
married a psychopath who dumped her after she had a baby.
Neal: Shall we talk about this when
little ears are not listening?
Emily: (whispering) You warned me
not to marry him. You begged me not to, but I wouldn’t listen because I am a
supreme idiot.
Neal: Why don’t you put Andre down
for his nap and we’ll continue this conversation on the deck with a pot of freshly
brewed coffee?
Emily: Okay. Sorry. (takes Andre
from Neal) He always fusses a little before he goes to sleep so it might be a
while.
Neal: Take your time.
While
Emily puts Andre down for his nap, Neal makes a fresh pot of coffee and carries
the pot and mugs out to the table on the deck where Emily joins him a few
minutes later.
Emily: He went right to sleep. He’s
so much happier here than he ever was living with Hugo or in that horrid little
apartment we escaped to.
Neal: Do you think he was afraid of
Hugo?
Emily: Of course he was. Big angry
man storming around shouting about how everyone in the world is an idiot. Everyone
except him.
Neal: Were you afraid of Hugo?
Emily: No. I just hated him.
Neal: Since when?
Emily: I can tell you exactly since
when. I was five months pregnant and Hugo was supposed to come with me for my
ultrasound, and when he didn’t come home to get me I called him and he didn’t
answer. So I left a message and waited until the last minute, and then I went
by myself. And when he came home that night and I asked where he’d been, he
said, ‘None of your fucking business.’ And I’ve hated him ever since.
Neal: Yet you stayed with him for
another nine months.
Emily: I was pregnant and then I had a newborn baby. And I thought things might get better. I didn’t want to believe I was just another in a series of his conquests. He married me, after all. He’d only done that once before me. Or so he said.
Neal: I wonder how he’s managed to
keep his position at the university all these years, after all the women he’s
abused.
Emily: He’s careful not to sleep
with anyone under twenty-one. He’s a very clever psychopath.
Neal: A mesmerist.
Emily: I feel like such a fool, such
a loser.
Neal: You’re not a fool or a loser.
You’re a human being.
Emily: But how could I have believed
him for even a moment? He’s such a
phony. It’s laughable what a fraud he is.
Neal: He dazzled you when you were
most vulnerable. And sex can numb our rational minds.
Emily: But how could I not see
through him? I’m not stupid. You never would have married such a charlatan. Nor
would Mama.
Neal: Your mother left me for
another man when you were eight and didn’t even want partial custody of you. I couldn’t
believe it. I couldn’t believe she wouldn’t fight to keep you. But she didn’t.
And the wonderful woman I thought I would know forever hasn’t spoken to me in
seventeen years. But I wasn’t a fool for being happy with her. They were
marvelous years, and she gave me the gift of you.
Emily: It’s not the same.
Neal: How is it not the same?
Emily: You were happy for ten years
because you had a loving relationship. I was happy for eight months because I
was delusional.
Neal: And now you have a wonderful
child and the rest of your life to explore the mysteries of being alive.
Emily: I’m a failure. In every way.
I’m not even a good mother.
Neal: How are you not a good mother?
Emily: I don’t have a job. I have no
money. I’m entirely dependent on you.
Neal: For the time being you don’t
need a job or money, and I love having you and Andre here with me.
Emily: I am the quintessential
loser. I gave up my career to marry a man twenty years older than me, a
renowned lothario, had his baby, he dumped me, and now…
Neal: (interrupting) You must stop telling this story. To
yourself or anyone else. You must
change the narrative.
Emily: Oh great. You’re gonna
lecture me now?
Neal: With your permission, yes.
Emily: (laughs) With my permission?
Okay. Fine. I give you permission to lecture me. It’s the least I can do in
exchange for a place to live.
Neal: Let me preface my lecture by
saying I love you and I have no doubt you are going to emerge from this seeming
catastrophe stronger and wiser than ever.
Emily: Seeming catastrophe? You think I’m imagining what happened? I’m not
that delusional.
Neal: Happened. Past tense. It
happened. It isn’t happening now. What’s happening now is that you are living
with me. You and Andre are as safe as human beings can ever hope to be. We have
food to eat, money in the bank, and relatively friendly neighbors.
Emily: For which I am grateful.
Neal: Good. Which brings me to my
lecture.
Emily: Does your lecture have a
title? I love a good lecture title. Hugo baits his hook with his lecture
titles.
Neal: Yes. The title of my lecture
is How Andre Knows How To Be.
Emily: (subdued) Go on.
Neal: As you know, I am an avid
reader of books and articles about neuroscience. I am also keen on all things
having to do with child psychology and personality development.
Emily: And you don’t want me talking
about Hugo in front of Andre.
Neal: That is not what my lecture is about.
Emily: Sorry.
Neal: Don’t be sorry. You have every
right to feel hurt and outraged and angry and sad. You lived with a terrible
person for seventeen months and you were traumatized. And you also may be angry
with me and your mother for doing whatever we did or didn’t do that predisposed
you to fall under the spell of someone like Hugo. But that isn’t what my
lecture is about either. My lecture is about how you and I will influence your
son from this moment on.
Emily: I’m listening.
Neal: He is a psychic sponge. All
young children are. His brain and nervous system and body will learn more in
the next three years than he will learn thereafter for the rest of his life. If
you and I are morose, he will become morose. If we are angry most of the time,
he will be angry, too. If we believe we are failures and life is terrible, he
will believe he is a failure and his life is terrible. I am not
overstating this. That’s how mirror neurons work. That’s how the brain and
psyche develop at his age. And I am so glad he’s a happy, curious, intelligent child,
and every bit as good-natured as you were when you were eighteen-months-old.
Which means you’ve been a fine mother despite the difficulties you’ve endured.
And it means we can continue your good work by being glad and grateful to be
alive, glad and grateful to be with each other, happy to get up in the morning,
happy doing what we have to do and what we want to do.
Emily: So I should pretend to be
someone I’m not?
Neal: No. No pretending. Kids know
when we’re not genuine. You need to change your attitude. You need to let go of
the ideas that you failed, that your life is ruined, and know you are a good mother to a wonderful child and you live in a
lovely place with your doting father who is overjoyed to have his daughter and grandchild
living with him. We are going to make the best of every day. We are going to be
kind and generous and helpful and funny and good listeners and excellent cooks,
and we’re going to provide him with lots of hugs and stories and attention and freedom
to find his own way.
Emily: And find him some other kids
to play with.
Neal: Yes. And maybe we’ll get a
puppy, and the puppy will become a dog.
Emily: But at night sometimes after Andre
goes to sleep, I’ll whine and complain and you’ll let me do that for a while before
giving me another lecture.
Neal: Yes. But soon you won’t be
whining and complaining because it will no longer be your habit. You’ll have
made peace with yourself and be concerned with now and the future and only
rarely with the past.
Emily: I’ll try, Papa. But I’m prone
to self-pity. I don’t know why, but I am. You never were. But I am.
Neal: Your mother left us at a
critical time in your life and I was shattered for a long time after, though I
put on a brave face. So perhaps something from that era got into you, and I’m
sorry. But I know the essential you is not self-pitying. The essential you is
strong and confident and loves life and loves a good challenge.
Emily: Then I should be overjoyed,
because I have never felt so challenged.
Neal: I’ll help you in any way I can.
Emily: You aren’t disappointed in
me?
Neal: On the contrary, you are my
hero.
Emily: Why? I feel like such an
anti-hero.
Neal: You ran a dangerous gauntlet, Emily,
and you did so while pregnant and then with a newborn baby. And you emerged
intact and strong and wanting to go on.
Emily: I do want to go on.
Neal: Of course you do. And look who
you have to go on with. Your darling Andre.
Emily: And you, Papa.
Neal: And me. And you.
Emily: And me.
They
sit quietly for a time.
Neal: Could there be a more
beautiful day?
Emily: (looks up at the sky) A few more
clouds would be nice.
Neal, a man in his late forties, is walking barefoot on a vast beach with his sixteen-year-old daughter Emily, who is barefoot, too. The day is sunny and warm, the ocean barely audible in the distance.
Neal: Could there be a more beautiful
day?
Emily: A few feathery white clouds
in the sky would be nice. Break up the monotony of the blue.
Neal: Ah yes. Celestial art drifting
across the cerulean.
Emily: Hey Papa?
Neal: Yes, my darling daughter?
Emily: Do you ever miss Mama?
Neal: I did for a time, and then one
day I realized I didn’t miss her anymore. I still think about her, but I don’t
miss her. Do you?
Emily: I’m sometimes keenly aware she
isn’t here, but I wouldn’t say I still miss her.
Neal: Why did you ask?
Emily: I wonder why you don’t find a
new partner. I thought maybe it was because you still felt wedded to Mama.
Neal: I don’t think so. I think I
don’t find a new partner because I’ve never
looked for a partner. Your mother, as you know, pursued me, and I think something
like that would probably have to happen again. Someone else initiating the
proceedings. I’m formidably shy.
Emily: I know. (muses) I wish I
could marry you and never have to leave when I get older.
Neal: You can live with me as long
as you want, and you don’t have to marry me.
Emily: We are kind of married
already. We just don’t sleep together.
Neal: We’re best friends.
Emily: True, but just so you know… I
have kind of fallen in love with
someone at school. Two someones actually. A boy and a girl. Well… he’s really a
young man and she’s really a young woman.
Neal: And are they also kind of in
love with each other?
Emily: No. They don’t know each
other. But they’re both kind of in love with me.
Neal: Well that’s nice.
Emily: You would be okay with me
being in a relationship with a woman?
Neal: Sure. I want you to be happy.
Just so long as she isn’t a mass murderer or a Republican.
Emily: In some ways it’s much easier
being in love with a woman. For one thing, we don’t have to worry about getting
pregnant.
Neal: Oh. Are you…
Emily: Not yet. But we’re talking
about it.
Neal: You and the young woman?
Emily: And the young man. We’re all
sixteen. It’s what sixteen-year-olds obsess about, among other things. It’s
what all the songs we listen to are about, all the books we read, movies we
see, etcetera. I don’t know if that was true when you were sixteen, but it’s true
now.
Neal: And you’re up to speed on the
whole getting-pregnant not-getting-pregnant… system?
Emily: Yes, I’m well up to speed on
that system.
Neal: Good. So… let me know if you
need money for supplies or…
Emily: (laughs) Supplies? You make
it sound like I’m going on an expedition.
Neal: You know what I mean. If you
want to consult a doctor about birth control. I’m happy to help in any way I can.
Emily: I was thinking of getting an
implant. No fuss no muss. No worry about forgetting to take the pill. Etcetera.
Neal: Well okay. Shall I make you an
appointment?
Emily: I kind of already did.
Neal: Kind of?
Emily: Did.
Neal: With Dr. Ornstein?
Emily: No, at the women’s health
clinic.
Neal: Great. And I really do appreciate
you telling me about this.
Emily: Isn’t that why you brought me
here today? To talk about this?
Neal: No. Not… specifically.
Emily: Specifically? That’s…
perplexing. And by the way, are we going somewhere or just meandering?
Neal: (laughs) One of the great philosophical
questions. Along with: What are we doing here? What is our purpose? Is there
any meaning to life? And is there meandering after death?
Emily: At my age I’m more interested
in being in love and being loved and stuff like that. So if you didn’t bring me
here today to review the facts of life, why did
you bring me here today?
Neal: What do you mean? We come to
the beach all the time. Why does this feel like I brought you here for some
special purpose? Maybe we came here because… we came here.
Emily: Papa, you are so transparent to me. I always know when
you have something important you want to talk about.
Neal: Well I don’t know if it’s that important, but it is something I’ve
wanted to tell you for a very long time.
Emily: (stops walking) What?
Neal: How we chose your name?
Emily: Mama already told me. I’m
named after her favorite poet Emily Dickinson.
Neal: Actually that’s not who you’re
named after.
Emily: (taken aback) Seriously? You
waited until I was sixteen to tell me I wasn’t named after Emily Dickinson,
after I’ve told everyone I’ve ever known I’m named after her?
Neal: Your mother asked me not to
tell you, but after she was gone I decided I would. And I was just about to tell you when you bought not
one but two Emily Dickinson
sweatshirts and spent months on that big school project writing fifty poems in
the style of Emily Dickinson, and you dressed up as Emily Dickinson, and you
did your hair like Emily Dickinson, and you made those videos of you being Emily Dickinson reading her poems,
and so… I just let it go.
Emily: This is upsetting, Papa. Why
are you telling me now?
Neal: I’m not sure. Maybe I sensed
you were becoming a sexual being and… I don’t know. I just wanted to set the
record straight before any more time passed. And I might not have said anything
about it today if you hadn’t brought up the whole meandering issue.
Emily: (sits down on the sand) So
tell me.
Neal
takes a piece of paper out of his back pocket.
Emily: You wrote a speech?
Neal: I copied something out of a
book to read to you.
Emily: Is this book the source of my
name? The true source?
Neal: Yes.
Emily: What’s the book?
Neal: Larousse Gastronomique.
Emily: That big fat cookbook?
Neal: Larousse Gastronomique is far more than a cookbook. It is an
encyclopedia of the history of cuisine, specifically French cuisine.
Emily: I’m named after a French Emily?
Neal: Yes.
Emily: Well that’s not so bad.
Unless she was some horrible queen or countess, and even that would be kind of
cool.
Neal: I don’t actually know what she
was.
Emily: Oh great. I’m named after
somebody you know nothing about?
Neal: I know you’re named after
somebody who happens to have the same first name as Emily Dickinson.
Emily: Read the cookbook excerpt.
Neal: But first I want to set the
scene.
Emily: Which scene?
Neal: The moment when we chose your
name.
Emily: Fine. Set the scene.
Neal: So your mother and I had been
married for five months. She was eight months pregnant with you.
Emily: She got pregnant before you
got married? No one ever told me that either. How do you know I’m yours?
Neal: You have my nose.
Emily: (laughs) I certainly do. Go
on.
Neal: So we were sitting on the sofa
together one evening and your mother was having cocoa and I was reading aloud
to her from Larousse Gastronomique.
Emily: How romantic.
Neal: It was, actually. Food is a very
sensual subject.
Emily: Did you do this a lot? Read
to her from the big fat cookbook?
Neal: We read aloud to each other every
item in Larousse from A to Z. It took
us three years. We finished when you were two and a half. You liked to sit at
your little table and draw with your crayons while we read aloud from the book.
Emily: That’s so sweet. I guess it
is kind of romantic. So read the thing you brought.
Neal: Well we had gotten to the Cs
on that fateful night, and I came upon the entry for conversation.
Emily: You mean like what we’re
having now? People talking to each other?
Neal: Yes and no. So… (reads) conversation a small
pastry with an almond filling. According to the Dictionnaire de
l’Academie des gastronomes, they were created at the end of the 18th
century, taking their name from the title of a popular work, Les
Conversations d’Emilie, by Mm d’Epinay (1774) They consist of covered puff
pastry tartlets filled with a rum-flavoured frangipane or with almond cream and
topped by a layer of royal icing. The tartlets are decorated with thin bands of
pastries crisscrossed over the top.
Emily: I’m named after a
tartlet?
Neal: You’re named after
Emilie from the popular work Les
Conversations d’Emilie. Your mother heard that title and said, “Oh honey, if
we have a girl, let’s name her Emily. I love that name.”
Emily: (gets up) And she
loves that name because she loved Emily Dickinson’s poetry, so really the title
of that ancient novel or whatever it was just reminded her of how much she
liked the name. So I’m not really
named after that particular Emilie but after all Emilys including Emily Dickinson.
Neal: Except not really.
Emily: Why not really?
Neal: Your mother…
(hesitates)
Emily: Tell me.
Neal: Didn’t love Emily
Dickinson’s poems.
Emily: But she told me
she did.
Neal: She told you she loved
Emily Dickinson. She identified with her as an unrecognized poet, as Dickinson
was unrecognized until after her death. But your mother didn’t like Dickinson’s poems. They were too rhymey for her.
Emily: Rhyming was the
style of the time when Emily Dickinson was alive.
Neal: I know.
Emily: So whose poems did Mama love?
Neal: Denise Levertov. Philip
Whalen. Sylvia Plath. e.e. Cummings.
Emily: Maybe I’ll change
my name to Denise Cummings or e.e. Plath.
Neal: Emily is a lovely
name.
Emily: I appreciate your
telling me the truth, Papa. I like the truth. And I have no regrets about my
Emily Dickinson phase. I was only eleven and it was a way of staying connected
to Mama even if Mama found Emily Dickinson too rhymey, which is not even a real
word.
Neal: Ryhmish?
Emily: You’re an ass.
Make it up to me somehow.
Neal: Shall we go to
Chico’s for fish & chips?
Emily: Yes, and then I
will forgive you for not telling me sooner.
Neal: I don’t think you
were ready until now. Or I wasn’t ready. Or something.
They set off together across the sand.
Emily: I think it was
more about you not being ready than me not being ready.
Neal: I think you’re
right.
Emily: You don’t have to
agree with everything I say. I won’t bite you.
Neal: So tell me about
these people you’re in love with.
Emily: I’m not quite ready
to tell you about them. I’m waiting to see if the infatuation lasts more than a
couple weeks.
Neal: I remember.
Emily: What do you
remember?
Neal: The fleeting
nature of infatuation when I was sixteen.
Emily: It’s
disconcerting how fleeting it can be. One day I’m insanely in love with
someone, the next day I find them repulsive.
There once was a dog named Cozy Fart Head who was the reincarnation of Mozart. We realize that may seem implausible, but tell us something that isn’t essentially implausible. We are, after all, each the result of one little nearly invisible spermatozoa out of millions and millions in a single ejaculation that against all odds somehow got admitted into the egg before the fortress wall closed. Had any other spermatozoa been selected, we wouldn’t exist. If we’re not implausible, we’re highly unlikely.
Why, you may ask, would anyone name
their dog Cozy Fart Head? Here’s what happened. When Hank Testaverde, known to
his acquaintances as Testosterone, was thirty-seven, he hooked up with Sheila
Sunrise who was twenty-four, and early on in their six-year cohabitation Sheila
got pregnant and gave birth to a boy she named Maurice. Hank thought Maurice
was his kid, but actually Sheila conceived Maurice with a guy she met at a
Laundromat while Hank was in Reno gambling away his disability check. The guy who
impregnated Sheila told her his name was Maurice, and though she didn’t believe
him, she named their kid that.
Maurice was sweet and super smart,
and Hank was actually an okay parent to him as long as Sheila was around, which
was until Maurice was five, at which point Sheila had had enough of life with Hank
in his cruddy old trailer in a low-life trailer park called Shangri-La Haven in
a town we will not name in California. And because she was an irresponsible promiscuous
alcoholic, Sheila did not take Maurice with her, after which Hank was not such
a good parent to Maurice and started calling him Bummer.
Even so, for Christmas a few weeks
after Sheila split, Hank gave Maurice a puppy to keep him company in the
absence of his mother. The pup was a mix of Pit Bull, Chocolate Lab, and
Siberian Husky. Maurice called the pup Cozy, but Hank said that was a pussy
name and called the dog Fart Head. Hence the dog initially thought his name was
Cozy Fart Head.
Then about six months after Sheila
split, Hank hooked up with Angela, another promiscuous alcoholic, and when
Angela and her three-year-old daughter Tess moved into the cruddy little
trailer, Hank called Child Protection Services and said a woman had abandoned
her little boy and a dog at his place and they should come get the child and
the dog.
As luck would have it, the social
worker assigned to Maurice’s case was a woman named Margot Morningstar who
loved dogs and had recently lost her beloved old mutt Casey. She also
recognized in Maurice an inherently kind and generous soul, so she adopted Cozy
Fart Head and placed Maurice in a foster home with a cousin of hers named Rose
Black Feather and Rose’s partner Thomas Gray Hawk. On Saturdays Margot would
babysit Maurice and he’d get to be with Cozy Fart Head, which is when Margot
learned the boy’s name for the dog was Cozy and he never appended those
additional two derogatory words.
Margot Morningstar was a Pomo
Indian, her cousin Rose was Pomo, too, and Thomas was Maidu. Rose and Thomas
had two other foster kids, a nine-year-old girl named China and a
seven-year-old boy named Champ. Rose was an RN at the local hospital, Thomas a
car mechanic, and life with them for Maurice was in every way a thousand times
better than his life had been with Sheila and Hank.
*
So, yeah, Cozy was the reincarnation
of Mozart. What a kick. Here was the spirit essence of a genius musician living
out yet another life in the body of a seventy-five-pound dog. Since inhabiting
the body of Mozart, this particular spirit essence had reincarnated dozens of
times, usually in a human body, but four times as a pelican and numerous times
as hummingbirds. Cozy was Mozart’s first dog incarnation, and Mozart enjoyed
many aspects of being a dog, though now and then longed for fingers with which
to tickle the old ivories.
Before this spirit essence was
Mozart, it had incarnated in many people, many elephants, dolphins, and countless
tigers. Making music was always a high
priority when this spirit essence aimed to be reincarnated, but sometimes the targeted
ovum was missed and another ovum became the landing spot.
In the case of Cozy, the spirit
essence of Mozart was aiming for the ovum of a moments-before impregnated woman
who lived two doors down from the home of Hank’s friend Carl. And the spirit essence
of Mozart would have merged with the
ovum of Golda Bernstein, a brilliant violinist, except Golda suddenly got out
of bed where she’d been snoozing beside her husband Eli, a brilliant pianist, and
the spirit essence of Mozart bounced off the Bernstein bed, flew out the
window, and as spirit essences once launched will do, merged with the first
ovum it encountered, which in this case was Carl’s moments-before impregnated
dog Sophie.
That’s the prelude to the story of
how the spirit essence of Mozart, incarnate as a large friendly dog, was able
to share its musical genius with the world yet again.
*
So when Maurice was seven and his
brother Champ was nine and his sister China was eleven, foster parents Rose and
Thomas adopted the trio and the kids were no longer foster kids. To celebrate
this momentous event, Thomas and Rose said the kids could each have a
reasonably priced gift of their choosing. China asked for a basketball hoop and
ball, Champ asked for a fishing pole and fishing reel, and Maurice asked if
Cozy could come live with them.
“If you will take care of him, feed
him, and most importantly pick up his poop,” said Rose. “Okay.”
“What else do you want?” asked
Thomas, encouragingly.
“Well,” said Maurice, who thought
Thomas and Rose were the most wonderful people on earth, “I’d love to have a
guitar.”
We should note here that
reincarnated spirit essences remember all their previous lives when they are
residing in the spirit realm. And most spirit essences can also remember their
previous lives when they inhabit the body of anything other than a human being.
Don’t know why this is, but there you have it.
Thus Cozy remembered being Mozart,
remembered being Stephen Foster, and
remembered being Billie Holiday. And he was one pleased pooch knowing Maurice
was learning to play the guitar. Every time Maurice got out his guitar to
practice, Cozy would sit nearby listening avidly and wagging his tail in time
to the music.
The years passed. When Maurice was
fourteen and Cozy was eight, Maurice started writing a song. It was a pretty
good song, except the melody lacked nuance and soul. One day when Maurice was
singing the song aloud and sang a G note, Cozy made a whining sound that was G
flat. Maurice stopped playing, frowned at Cozy, and sang the G note again. And
again, Cozy whined G flat.
“Okay,” said Maurice, nodding. “I’ll
try that.”
So he sang the line again, flatted
the G, and the music sounded gorgeous and original and full of meaning beyond
the meaning of the prosaic lyrics.
Cozy made seven more note corrections in the course of Maurice’s singing the song for him, and the song became a magnificent original compelling ballad. When Maurice sang the song for Thomas and Rose and Champ and China, they were enthralled.
“You
wrote that?” said Thomas, amazed by the song.
“With a little help from Cozy,” said
Maurice, who always gave credit where credit was due.
“How did Cozy help you write the
song,” asked Champ, who loved Maurice but found him a little odd.
“Suggested several note changes,”
said Maurice, matter-of-factly. “Really took it to a whole other level.”
“Be that as it may,” said Thomas,
thinking Maurice was joking, “I’d like my cousin Marvin Night Owl to hear that
song. He’s a song writer in Nashville and might be able to get a recording
artist to record that.”
“Hey maybe you’ll make enough money
to pay for me to go to college,” said China, who hoped to be a professional
basketball player and a neurosurgeon.
And that’s what ended up happening.
Maurice made a recording of the song with Rose’s phone, they sent the recording
to Marvin Night Owl, he copyrighted the song in Maurice’s name, played the song
for Biff Manly, the Country music star, Biff went bonkers over the song, and
‘I’m Always Someone Else’ was a big hit and made Maurice and his family a nice
chunk of change.
Over the next five years, Maurice
and Cozy wrote forty more songs together. Some of the songs were collaborations
like ‘I’m Always Someone Else’, and some of the songs were whined in their
entirety by Cozy, and Maurice transcribed the melodies and created accompanying
chords. You’ve undoubtedly heard many of their songs, all of which were
recorded by famous singers, perhaps their most famous collaboration being the
iconic ‘Here I Am Again’.
When Maurice was nineteen and Cozy
was thirteen, Cozy died, and the spirit essence of Mozart returned to the
spirit realm. Maurice continued to write songs without his dog, and he composed
several more catchy tunes over the ensuing decades, though none were as great
as the forty classics he and Cozy created together.
“Any
sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic.”Arthur C.
Clarke
2021. Year
of the Ox. I just made a new outgoing message for my answering machine, which reminded
me of the true story about an outgoing message I made in 1983. I thought you
might enjoy this story if you haven’t read it before or even if you have.
*
I was one of the last adults in America to get
an answering machine to go with my phone, and I only got one in 1983 because my
Hollywood agent said he wouldn’t represent me if I didn’t have an answering
machine. That Hollywood agent went on to become a very powerful person in the
entertainment world, but not before he dropped me as a client. Clearly, I was
holding him back.
In those early days of owning an answering
machine, I especially enjoyed making long rambling outgoing messages. Most of
the people who called me seemed to enjoy hearing those messages a few times,
after which they would urge me to change the message lest they go mad. Thus I
got in the habit of making new outgoing messages every few days, which habit
caused my regular callers to complain I was erasing good messages before their
friends got to hear them.
Then one day I made an outgoing message that
went viral before the phenomenon of things going viral existed. I’m speaking
about a time before the ascendancy of the internet, which was not very long ago
but now seems prehistoric. And I tell you, if by some miracle I could remember
that message and put it on YouTube today accompanied by a movie of a neato person
walking on the beach with an adorable dog, or a movie of three cute kids making
cookies from scratch, or a movie of a man reading a book with a cat on his lap,
I have no doubt the message would go viral again and I would become famous and
wealthy from hundreds of millions of hits and links and apps and downloads and
streams and the billions of pennies such prodigious sharing and streaming would
bring me.
Sadly or ironically or luckily, I only remember
the feeling of that once-in-a-lifetime
message, not the words. The feeling was one of deep contentment, of thoroughly
enjoying the moment. I recall the day I made that message was sunny and warm,
my office flooded with light, and I remember being massaged from head to toe by
the feeling—the knowing—that simply being alive was a profoundly fulfilling
adventure.
Within a few days of recording my message, the
phone was ringing off the hook. Many of my friends called multiple times so
their friends could have a listen, and then I started getting calls from people
I did not know, people who had heard about the message from friends of my
friends. And over the next few weeks I got hundreds of calls from all over
America and around the world—people calling to hear my outgoing message and leave
responses.
A poet called from Germany. After listening to
my message, he recited a poem by Rilke, first in German, then in
English—something about the coming of spring.
People partying somewhere in England called,
and when the beep sounded, those Brits applauded and shouted “Bravo!”
An elderly woman called from Seattle and said,
“I see why my daughter wanted me to hear your message. I can’t stop smiling.
I’m going to call again and then tell my friends to call you.”
A man from Scotland left a long friendly-sounding
message ostensibly in English, but no matter how many times I listened to his
enchanting spiel, I could not understand him.
A bunch
of children called, and when the beep sounded, they laughed and giggled and one
kid shouted, “You a silly poo poo!”
A woman called from France and left a message
my neighbor translated for me: “I adore what you say and want to have your
child.”
I felt like I’d won the Pulitzer Prize, minus
the prize money.
That message made people happy. Those words
made people laugh and cry and rejoice; and many callers responded with
impromptu continuations of the message—addenda full of love and humor and
gratitude. That message was an elixir, a soothing salve, and some sort of
answer to the question: why are we here?
I kept that globetrotting zinger on my
answering machine for a month or so until one day I got a call from a friend
who had heard the message one too many times and asked me to please make a new
one. So without a thought for posterity, I hit the Record button, improvised a
new greeting, and thereby erased the greatest outgoing answering-machine
message I’ve ever made.
I only heard the message one time, and that was
immediately after I recorded it and checked to make sure it sounded okay.
Oh I wish I could remember those remarkable words that inspired so many people to call and leave such lovely messages. I remember the tone, a tender fearlessness—but the words elude me.
Speaking of tender fearlessness, my two new books of stories Little Movies tales of love and transformation and Oasis Tales of the Conjuror and other stories are now widely available in paperback and as e-books. You can order copies of the paperbacks from your local bookstore or from various online sources, and e-books from all the various e-book sites. Your reviews are much appreciated.
Mark is about to jump on his bike
and ride the mile through a neighborhood connecting Berkeley and Oakland to
Marlene’s house to help Marlene walk her neighbor’s two large dogs when the
phone rings. He almost doesn’t pick up, but he does, and the caller is Bernice.
We should explain that the pandemic
is still raging, Mark is sixty-four, Marlene is sixty and French, and Bernice
is fifty-seven. Bernice and Mark had five dates before they gave up on trying
to forge a relationship and decided to be friends. And in the course of
pursuing a friendship with Bernice, Mark became friends with Marlene who is
Bernice’s closest friend. And yesterday, Mark walked the aforementioned two
large dogs with Marlene for the first time, which was also the first time he’d
done something with Marlene without Bernice being there, too.
Bernice: Hi Mark. It’s Bernice.
Mark: Hey, I’m just going out the
door to go walk the giant dogs again with Marlene.
Bernice: I know. That’s what I’m
calling about.
Mark: You gonna join us?
Bernice: Well… I wasn’t going to,
but… would you like me to?
Mark: Sure.
Bernice: Well, I can’t, but I’m glad
you asked me.
Mark: Is something wrong?
Bernice: No, I just… so did you have
fun yesterday?
Mark: Big fun. The dogs are great
and Marlene made us delicious sandwiches and very strong black tea. She’s a
kick. It’s easy to see why she’s your best friend.
Bernice: Oh good.
Mark: You want to talk later today
when I get back?
Bernice: Yeah, that would be great.
Call me.
Mark: I will.
Bernice: Okay. Bye.
Mark: Bye.
*
Eschewing his bike for his car
because he’s running late now, Mark surmises Bernice is upset and possibly
jealous about him meeting with Marlene yesterday. He makes this surmise because
Bernice has already expressed her fear that he is attracted to Marlene and
Marlene is attracted to him; and so he is very glad not to be entangled in a relationship with Bernice because he’s
been in relationships with jealous partners before, they were routinely unfaithful
to him, and the last thing he wants is a repeat of that kind of experience.
*
Marlene is waiting for Mark in front
of her house, and as he pulls into her driveway he marvels at his good fortune
to be spending time with such a charming woman. He puts on his mask before getting
out of his car, and Marlene puts on her mask, too, though not before she greets
him with an exuberant, “Bon Jour Mark. I’m so happy to see you again.”
*
After their three-mile jaunt with Juno
and Chico, Marlene and Mark return the big dogs to Marlene’s grateful neighbor
Jacqueline who is awaiting hip-replacement surgery, and Mark sits at the big
round glass-topped table on Marlene’s backyard patio. He and Marlene converse
through the open kitchen door as she prepares their tea and lunch, Mark’s
reward for helping Marlene walk Jacqueline’s dogs.
After they discuss the highlights of
their walk with Juno and Chico, Marlene brings out mugs of black tea, sits on
the other side of the table from Mark, and they remove their masks.
Marlene: I made a chicken casserole
today. It will be ready in just a few minutes.
Mark: I’m in no hurry.
Marlene: I’m not either.
Mark: I have momentous news, Marlene.
Marlene: About Bernice?
Mark: No. I have no news about
Bernice.
Marlene: She didn’t call you last
night?
Mark: No, she called this morning as
I was going out the door to come here and I said I’d call her when I got home.
Is she okay?
Marlene: I think so. I shouldn’t
speak for her.
Mark: About?
Marlene: Oh it’s complicated. Tell
me your news.
Mark: My news is… I am no longer an
editor of other people’s prose.
Marlene: (startled) You quit your
job?
Mark: I did. Emboldened by your
encouraging words, I called the publisher, who is my very good friend, and told
him the time had come. He was disappointed but understanding, and he’s giving
me a generous severance package in thanks for my thirty years of service to the
company.
Marlene: Oh Mark I’m so glad for
you. Ah, there’s my alarm for the casserole. Congratulations. I will serve lunch
now.
Marlene
goes into the house and returns with two plates of food. When she is seated
again, Mark raises his mug to her.
Mark: Here’s to you for urging me to
do what I’ve wanted to do for a very long time. And to our new friendship.
Marlene
raises her glass and they drink. Now they each take a bite of the casserole.
Mark: Fantastic.
Marlene: I used coconut oil instead
of butter for you.
Mark: Thank you. I’m so grateful to you for… wanting me to be happy. An enormous weight has been lifted from my weary shoulders.
Marlene: (hesitates) Mark, I need to
tell you something.
Mark: About Bernice?
Marlene: Yes. She came over
yesterday afternoon and asked about our visit. I told her it was fun for both
of us and you were coming again today, and she wanted to know every detail. I
mentioned you cried because you were happy to be coming here every day to walk
the dogs and visit with me, and she said she was a fool not to start a
relationship with you and was going to call you and tell you so.
Mark: What did you say to that?
Marlene: I said I thought she wanted
to be friends with you first, and she got very angry with me and said she knew
I was interested in you, and I said, “I would rather have nothing to do with him
than endanger my friendship with you,” and she said, “Then call him and tell
him not to come tomorrow.” And I said, “You’re acting crazy, Bernice. What’s
wrong? Tell me.” And she burst into tears and apologized and said she was upset
because she knew you needed to be in a relationship now, not someday, and she wanted to try with you. So I said, “Tell
him.” And she said she was going to call you right away, but she didn’t until
this morning, and you still came over so I thought you and she had come to a
new understanding.
Mark: I’ve certainly come to a new understanding. I don’t see any
solution to this except for me to withdraw entirely from our nascent quartet of
friends, though I love knowing you and Angela. I have no interest in disrupting
your troika and even less interest in being in a relationship with Bernice.
She’s betrayed my trust too many times now. I’ve been involved with such people
before, but never again.
Marlene: I’m so sorry, Mark. I like
you so much. I just… Bernice has been my best friend for twenty-five years.
Mark: I understand. (gets up) Your
casserole is delicious but I cannot stay. I think you’re marvelous, and I’m sad
and angry we won’t get to be friends, you and I, but that’s how life goes
sometimes. Bon chance.
Marlene: Bon chance.
*
Mark drives home in a daze of anger
and sorrow, and without waiting to calm down he calls Bernice and recounts what
Marlene told him.
Bernice: Everything she said is
true. I’m ready to be in a relationship with you, Mark. Shall I come over now?
Mark: No. I never want to to see you
again. You pulled the football away one too many times, if you get my Lucy and
Charlie Brown reference. I don’t trust you. You’re not a good friend. And I
don’t want to intrude on your bubble with Marlene and Angela. We gave it a try,
it didn’t work. Have a good life.
*
Six weeks later, on a balmy morning
in early May, Mark is in his front yard fertilizing his rose bushes when
Marlene comes walking by with Juno on a leash. Marlene is masked, her hair in a
ponytail, and she’s wearing shorts and T-shirt and running shoes. Juno is eager
to say hello and drags Marlene closer to Mark so he can pet the friendly dog.
Mark: Bon jour, Marlene. What brings
you to this neck of the woods?
Marlene: I was just passing by and
here you are.
Mark: A new route through the
metropolis for you and Juno?
Marlene: No. (struggles) I wanted to
see you, but I was afraid to call, so… maybe I would have just gone by, but
here you are so…
Mark: Here I am. What did you want
to see me about?
Marlene: Well… um… there have been
some big changes in my life and I thought I would see if you wanted to resume
our friendship… not involving Bernice, of course, because… (starts to cry) my
friendship with her has changed and we are no longer in a bubble together.
Mark: I’m sorry to hear that.
Marlene: No, I think it’s better
this way. It’s a long story. I won’t bore you if you would rather not engage
with me again.
Mark: I’m dying to hear what
happened. Want some tea?
Marlene: (crying) Yes, please.
*
They sit on Mark’s backyard terrace,
Juno sitting obediently beside Marlene. Mark serves tea and oatmeal raisin
cookies, and when he is seated the requisite eight feet from Marlene, they
remove their masks.
Marlene: It always feels so good to take
off my mask.
Mark: Good for me, too. I’m always
pleased to see you nose and mouth and cheeks.
Marlene: So… how does it feel not to
be editing murder mysteries?
Mark: By turns strange and marvelous
and frightening and exhilarating. Mostly exhilarating.
Marlene: What have you been doing
with your days?
Mark: After being in shock for a
couple weeks following the denouement of my connection to your troika, I’ve
been on a sorting and cleaning binge, throwing out lots of old stuff, selling
things, getting ready for whatever comes next. Maybe sell the place. I don’t
know. I’m in a pleasant kind of free fall. But enough about me. What happened
with Bernice?
Marlene: Well I was in shock, too,
after the denouement of our friendship, and Angela and Bernice and I had many
long talks about what happened, and I went to see my therapist several times.
And I realized that in a subtle but pervasive way, Bernice has always
controlled our troika to suit her purposes. Not consciously, but because of the
particular interlocking neuroses of our trio. She’s had many short-lived
relationships in the last twenty years, while Angela has only had three, and I none.
Bernice lived how she wanted to live, and we conformed to her patterns. And
whenever either us deviated from what Bernice wanted, she became upset or depressed
or terribly needy or she acted out as she did when she feared you and I were
becoming friends and might… I don’t know… like each other too much.
Mark: She’d done this before?
Marlene: Not this exactly because I
haven’t been close friends with a man who isn’t gay in twenty years. But
similar. And Angela realized that the three men she was in relationships with
all ended those relationships to pursue Bernice, though she says she didn’t
encourage them. But she must have.
Mark: She’s reflexively seductive.
As were my two wives. It’s not malicious. They simply know no other way to be.
Marlene: It is, as you say, her
habit. And it was also her way of keeping us wedded to her, seducing us again
and again with her charm and her need to be comforted and adored.
Mark: Quite a revelation.
Marlene: Yes, and Bernice sees it
all quite clearly now and says she wants to change.
Mark: You and Angela were her
enablers.
Marlene: Yes. And I might never have
seen this if I hadn’t allowed myself to… to spend time with you and then
Bernice reacted so violently to our liking each other.
Mark: What is your new arrangement
with her?
Marlene: We are still friends, but
we won’t see each other much for the next six months at least, and longer if it
seems a good thing to continue not being so intimate.
Mark: And you and Angela are still
in a bubble together?
Marlene: Yes, and we are encouraging
each other to look outside our bubble for new friends now that we know Bernice
cannot interfere.
Mark: And you’d like to resume your
friendship with me.
Marlene: Very much.
Mark: I accept.
Marlene: You do?
Mark: I do.
Marlene: (crying) Oh thank you,
Mark. This makes me very happy.
Mark: (crying) Me, too.
Marlene: I should go. Get Juno home.
Mark: Shall we go on a walk
tomorrow?
Marlene: Yes. If you come to my
house at eleven, we can have lunch after we walk Juno.
Mark: Sounds divine.
Marlene: What would you like for
lunch?
Mark: I never did get more than a
bite of your fabulous chicken casserole.
Marlene: (smiles) Tomorrow I promise
you more than a bite.
