Eloquent Silence (42 page)

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I
’m going to attempt to write a story, although perhaps I have a certain audacity to assume I can do so. Still, here I go, coming ready or not. Just a few comments on this imperfect world we live in—or the part of it I have been inhabiting, at least.

I’m told a short story has a beginning, a middle and an end, a plot, a theme, even a moral and God knows what all, objects I can’t even name, nor do I care diddly squat about them. But this is the Valerie Purcell version of a short story, come what may. Like it or lump it, down the hatch we go. Make whatever you like of it.

The episode of which I write is the second time I’ve been a second wife, so you’d think I’d have known better than to get involved in all that family give-and-take bilge-water again. Some of us never learn. Certainly age does not appear to bring much wisdom only more fine wrinkles around the eyes and mouth, but not wrinkles of erudition.

The first time I was a second wife didn’t take at all, which didn’t surprise me what with my husband being a closet pedophile and all that goes along with the condition. And bulimic into the bargain just as a side interest. He
was
no bargain, that’s for sure. It takes all sorts to make the world, so they say and the police took him.

So that was the end of that and the Department of Child Welfare took his five kids and I took off. Hit the road running and never looked back. Headed for the anonymity of the city where I could hide in the burbs during my time of speculation about what I should do with the remainder of my life, such as it was in its sad and sorry state, what with being penniless, thanks to Prince Charming and his offspring.

After a little contemplation of my stars, astrologically speaking, in rare nostalgic moods during which I longed for family, I swore if I ever married again it would be to a bachelor, preferably one without children. But wouldn’t you know it! Flat on the face again.

The second time it looked as if it could take for a while, at least where Graeme and I were concerned. He had big brown eyes looking like melted chocolate and seemed at the time to be perfectly tender and sincere. It might take, I thought hopefully, always  provided we were given a chance and a tiny weeny bit of encouragement, what with me being a little bit,.....well, er...prickly. Actually, as touchy as all get out.

He was a placid kind of person, with an unfailingly cheerful and careful disposition which I thought could lead to us living together amicably for the rest of our days. He was never intentionally cruel, just caught up in entertaining his family with my idiosyncrasies which I tolerated for a time but eventually the rot set in and I started to revolt. As in ‘The peasants are revolting’. Ha ha. This peasant quietly revolted out of there in the course of time. I’ll tell you how and why.

I’ll admit the collapse was more of a surprise—but then, it shouldn’t have been. The reasons were more subtle or maybe I was more jaded. Try twice as jaded. But I burned my bridges and married him with high hopes, only to learn that love does not, indeed, conquer all. In fact, love between a man and woman conquers very little when push comes to shove and third parties of whatever persuasion are in the mix, be it relatives or members of the opposite sex and are having their say in the background.

It had been a futile line of wishful thinking that had taken me into the state of marriage again. It was another state of wishful thinking—this time for my freedom—that took me out into the wide blue yonder, absolutely fed up to the ears and beyond.

Perhaps, finally, my expectations shifted or I had a reality blast of claustrophobia, wanting only to be free with the wind blowing through my straight, tawny hair, my squinty hazel eyes bulging with the whiff of freedom in the air. Whatever it was, I was out of there as I said, bag and baggage. Me and the budgie, Killer. In the end I have to be there for myself and only I can comprehend my reasons for bailing.

Question: How many psychiatrists does it take to change a light bulb?

Answer: Not many.

Well, what did you expect, a joke or something? Let me tell you, this is not funny.

The bizarre wink, wink, nudge, nudge behavior of Graeme’s son-in-law, Marvin, and sons, Gerald and Garfield, began early in the piece, not long after I was introduced into the bosom of the family. At first they had been on their best behavior and did not frown or twitter or even glare at me. But then the oddness started though I didn’t take much notice of them because I’d never been subjected to open ridicule in my adulthood, (except by a husband or two).

I thought it was a passing rude and childish phase being exhibited by these fully grown adult children of Graeme’s and tried to stay hold of my sense of proportion and not be paranoid. They were interested in making judgments about other people (namely me), and their lives and scaring me off by not letting me get too close to the flames of their intimate little group.

Graeme’s son-in-law, Marvin, is in his early thirties and has his black hair plastered down on his head like shiny patent leather. He has a mother who is named Valerie, like myself. She is a tall, well-padded woman with a semi-permanent aubergine rinse in her tightly-permed hair and an air of confidence that she has no doubt passed on to Marvin in spades.

When Graeme and I had been together some six months, we gathered together in the name of ‘family’ at Marvin and Wendy’s, (Graeme’s daughter’s), house in downtown Baysville. Valerie, like myself, was a single person. Graeme found no difficult in calling her ‘Valerie’ in every sentence, sometimes even twice should the need arise.

When cause arose for him to address me, he would lift his gaze to me, jut his chin out and speak a little louder and higher, a routine I was finding increasingly irritating. When he and I and the dog were the only ones around, I often had trouble distinguishing whether it was me or the dog he was addressing while avoiding the use of a name. At that time he never used my first name if he could possibly circumvent having to do so. Didn’t until the day I left him.

Something to do with his genes. A Germanic inheritance? Perhaps. I have noticed this trait in people of a similar background, something like the American Indians who never use a given name in case it’s bad luck, I gather. Or raises demons who chases the speaker through the undergrowth to an untimely death or stabs them in the heart with a dagger. Or whatever. I don’t understand the cause as I was brought up to believe that it’s only manners to use people’s names. But I digress.

Anyway, according to his family’s beliefs, there were supposed emotional complexities at play in this imaginary triangle, brought about by two women having the same first name. I objected to what I saw as a degree of benightedness in not using my name but in being able to address the other Valerie freely by her name. I voiced my objections to Graeme, who, I was to find out, went straight with the tale to his children, as fast as his legs would carry him. This became the next subject of jollification, a mirth-provoking indication of my strangeness which they all knew I was harboring in my bosom.

They must have all mulled it over, alert for subtle nuances in our conversations,  deciding I was consumed by jealousy, my gut eaten out by enormous green emotions towards the elite and effervescent Valerie, mother to Marvin the Marvelous. From there on until the time when Graeme and I were married, any time the other Valerie and I were in the same house there was rolling of eyes and snickering behind hands, as well as kicking under the table plus more whispering even than normal. Sick-making childishness.

Meanwhile, all and sundry were closely watching for signs of the pea-green monster rearing its ugly head in me. I felt inclined to vomit but suppressed the urge with some difficulty, knowing the tomato soup or beetroot or red wine I had consumed would do unforgivable things to the muted beige on fawn carpet.

The reasoning was that I was supposed to be consumed by desire for Graeme, my emotions in a turmoil because he was consumed by desire for the other woman with the same name. An imaginary eternal triangle, yet. How do you explain these things to people who haven’t got a clue? With each sneer and snicker I became more humiliated and yet did not feel obliged to explain my emotions to the patronizing multitude.

I never felt able to broach the subject because nothing was ever said outright to me, but only implied by the juvenile goings on I witnessed. I wished for some brilliant comeback to bounce into my head and out through my lips. But nothing came and I was left sitting in tight-lipped silence while around me the merriment went on, a faint glaze over my eyeballs as I waited for the next bout of hilarity at my expense which I was assumed to be too dense to know was about me.

The point regarding Valerie was missed completely, the hypothesis being that I was rabid with jealousy and determined to rip Graeme from her side if getting together was they were both proposing. Claw him by the throat and drag him out to the car.

But then nobody ever gave me an opening to discuss the true facts. Graeme went along with the majority opinion that I was immersed in resentment, barely controlling a need to dispatch my rival with a dose of Belladonna at three paces. Or something more drastic like oleander leaf tea. Hmmm. I believe it’s a very potent brew.

I tried hard on several occasions to explain my feelings to him and he appeared to understand, but perhaps he thought I was simply in denial and the truth would out when Valerie physically swept him from my side.

I let the hugger-muggery go on around me in the supposition that in the course of time the ‘children’ would grow up and get over their attitude. Hopefully, as mature adults they would come into the real world and stop huddling in corners at intervals, trying to make mischief.

The green-eyed monster was never the problem. I found nothing to be jealous about in the appearance of this Valerie. The frequent ease of using of her name and unlikelihood of  addressing me by mine was my cause for complaint. I could never comprehend why ‘Valerie’ was so easy to say to one person and yet remained almost impossible to say to another. Apparently I was the only person who got the fine detail involved. It was too hard a concept for the rest of the multitude to grasp.

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A
lso early in the piece, my grandson, Jeremy, gave me a battery-operated key-ring that beeped when approached. I was forever losing my car keys and the child thought to save my sanity, if there was any trace left. It was the kind of present children like to give to addled grandparents and I used it until it was worn out.

One night we were having one of the family gatherings catered for by Marvin and Wendy. Unaccountably, the key-ring went off in my pocket, beeping incessantly for some time. I was queried as to the reason for the noise emanating from me and explained it was a key-ring aimed at informing me where the elusive car keys were.

Much of the usual eye-rolling ensued. Cheeks were puffed full of air and loud ‘Pfffffs’ were exhaled. Graeme’s family never attempted to hide their amusement concerning my perceived strangeness but openly raised eyebrows and poked faces at the weirdness of this person who had come into their midst. She had arrived courtesy of their beloved father and father-in-law whom they hoped would see sense eventually and run screaming away from this extraordinary person.

During the pantomime I deduced that because I said nothing I was assumed to be too thick to know that they were making fun of me. There was plenty I could have said but for Graeme’s sake I chose not to cause an open rift. Nor did I want to say anything that couldn’t be unsaid in the course of the relationship, if it survived.

I wanted to say, ‘If any of you young men live long enough to have grandchildren, they may, if you’re lucky, buy you gifts. First, however, you have to live that long.’

But in my usual style I said nothing and so they thought I knew nothing. Saying nothing equates to denseness, as the more and the louder a person talks, they wiser and more knowledgeable they are assumed to be. Volume equals profundity. All these young men were under forty and have yet to prove their longevity, let alone display their grandchildren’s gifts to them if they are fortunate enough to see them, (the grandchildren, not gifts, that is), come into the world.

Now I’m not big on church-going and spouting Biblical data hither and yon, but I rather like God and I’ve got a soft spot for Jesus. I think He did His best under very difficult circumstances. There weren’t too many courts of appeal in Jerusalem in those days or He may have got a better deal. Maybe He could have been granted a life sentence or early parole or even a bit of community service.

Anyway, I’ve got to come out on the side of Christianity when push comes to shove.

One Christmas Day, Marvin and I had this discussion:-

Marvin: ‘Christmas is strictly for the birds. Doesn’t mean a thing. Christmas wasn’t even Christ’s birthday. They don’t even know when He was born. Just picked a date out of thin air.’

Me: ‘True, to a certain extent, Marvin. Originally the pagans celebrated Saturnalia twice a year. December 25th. June, too. I think at the winter and summer solstice or thereabouts.’

Marvin: ‘So where does Christ come into that?’

Me: ‘The Christians kept on celebrating at that time for the next 300 years because it was in their blood, I suppose, certainly a tradition. They celebrated the twelve days of Christmas, more the season than the exact date. Maybe it suited the powers that be to have the festival at a time when the population was used to celebrating it.’

Marvin: ‘Christ wasn’t even born in the year dot.’

Me: ‘No. They think now more like 6 AD.’

Marvin: ‘So none of it means a pinch of pooh.’

Me: ‘Yes, indeed it all does matter a very large pinch of pooh. People throughout the ages have died in honor of it all, in honor of the man, Christ.’

Marvin: ‘They died for nothing, then, didn’t they?’

Me: ‘Do you really think so? I would disagree with that. No. They died for the idea of God becoming Man and giving us eternal life. They died for the ideals Christ represented—loving your neighbor as yourself, doing unto others and all those ancient concepts that were already around when Christ was born. He personified the ideas and gave them a working title—Christianity.’