Five Days (17 page)

Reaching my room I texted back:

Thanks for doing that. It's really appreciated. Love you – Laura

A text straight back from Dan:

Tell me if you want anything else done around the house.

He really is feeling guilty. Though I don't want to say ‘good', there is a part of me that was pleased he was finally conscious of the fact that his behavior frequently did undermine things between us . . . and actually hurt me. Just as I could only hope that this desire to do something to please me was the start of something more reasonable between us.

Something more reasonable between us.

Just playing those words over in my head saddened me. Because it underscored how distant and flat things had gotten between us; the continental drift that had become our marriage.

Cleaning out the garage will be more than sufficient. I am missing you. L xxx

I hit ‘send'. And moments later:
Bing
.

OK, on the job now.

Reading this I found myself taking a sharp intake of breath. My husband was tone deaf when it came to my gentle entreaties for affection. He couldn't respond to a comment like ‘I am missing you' with even the slightest hint of reciprocal fondness. He had to null and void it all. In doing so he made me feel small . . . and very isolated.

Bing.
Another text. This one from Sally.

Hi Mom – any chance I could borrow fifty dollars from your secret stash?

Some time ago, I let Sally in on the fact that I was the proud owner of an old tin tobacco box, bought at a yard sale for $3 because I liked the 1920s Lucky Strike design on its battered cover. I keep the box on a shelf in my closet and always try to have about $100 in it as emergency,
just-in-case
funds. I told Sally about this box; I wanted to ensure that she had access to cash when she needed it, but also insisted that she would never dip into it without first asking me. Was this a little schoolmarmish on my part? Perhaps – but as Sally was something of a spendthrift, money remained an ongoing drama for her. Though she did regularly ask me for supplements to the $30 allowance she received from me per week – and the babysitting money she accrued – to her credit she never once reached into the money stash without first calling me. She knows that I know that she still owes me $320 (she reminded me of this recently when she did put $40 back in the box after a weekend of waiting shifts in Moody's Diner up in Waldoboro). I haven't pressed her for it. Just as I worry that this need to buy stuff all the time is a reflection of a larger despair – and one which I don't seem to be able to help her shake.

What's the fifty bucks for?
I texted Sally back.

Bing
. Her instant reply:

Cocaine and ecstasy and a tattoo of a Hell's Angel I thought would look really good on my right arm. You cool with that?

I found myself smiling. Sally as Ms Irreverent was so far preferable to Sally as Miss Popularity.

I could live with the Hell's Angel
,
I texted right back.
The question is: could you?

Bing.
Her instant reply.

Thanks for maternal words of wisdom. Jenny has last minute ticket for gig in Portland. All heading down there tonight. Need $15 for ticket, then dinner and stuff. Dad said I've been spending too much recently.

I texted back.

Did he say you couldn't go?

Hasn't grounded me or anything – but giving me no money is his way of keeping me home.

Well, at least he didn't forbid her from going out – as I had never contradicted him when he gave a directive to one of our children.

Who's driving?

Jenny's sister Brenda.

That was reassuring, as Brenda was twenty-three and working as a receptionist at Bath Iron Works. The few times I met her Brenda always struck me as reasonably grounded. Very grounded, as she weighed around three hundred pounds and was trying to lose weight to realize her dream of joining the US Navy. From what I'd heard from Sally since then, she'd gained twenty pounds in the last few months. But even if she couldn't get her girth together she was an absolute teetotaler (as Sally reported she was always lecturing her sister on the dangers of alcohol). So I was reassured that she'd be the designated driver tonight.

If it's Brenda behind the wheel I'm OK with that. Will text your dad and get his OK.

He's cool with all that.

Then let him tell me himself.
And I immediately sent Dan a text, explaining that Sally wanted to go out and—

Bing
. A text back from Dan.

I told her she couldn't go. Why are you over-ruling me here?

Oh God. It never stops. Sally was, as usual, playing us off against each other.

I would never dream of undermining your authority. But is it really a big deal if she goes out tonight? She has money from me, and I see no reason why she should stay at home.

Bing.

She's staying at home because I told her she's staying at home.

I felt myself clench again. Until recently Dan had doted on his daughter – and was, at times, a little too lenient with her. But recently his wide-ranging dyspepsia has also clouded his relationship with Sally – to the point where she recently said to him: ‘When did you start resenting my existence?' (This was after he grounded her for a weekend when she ignored his directive to clean up her catastrophe of a room.) Though I did try to play the diplomat then – even getting Sally to actually do a major tidy – Dan still wouldn't budge.

‘You're still grounded,' he told her after inspecting her now squared-away room. ‘Because you need to be taught a lesson now and then.'

No, you're wrong there, I should have informed Dan at the time – none of us need to be ‘taught' lessons. We need to be shown love. But worried about being seen to undermine his paterfamilias stance I said nothing.

This time, however . . .

I texted:

This is an unwise move. Sally really wants to go out with her friends. Why be punitive here? You're doing yourself no favors. You tell her that she is again grounded and you deal with the fallout.

And I hit ‘send' before even reading it through.

Bing.

Dan's angry reply, no doubt.

But actually it was a text from Richard.

Just out of meeting. Booked a table at the bistro in Beacon Street Hotel – on Beacon Street (no surprise there). See you in an hour? Richard. PS Had a boring morning. How was yours?

I texted back:

An hour it is. Looking forward . . .

After sending the text I decided that there was no further reason to stay put and listen to any more of this radiographic sales pitch. So I headed up to my room. Once there I changed my clothes, putting on a pair of jeans, a black turtleneck and the black trenchcoat that I'd had for around ten years – and which Ben had always complimented me on, saying that it made me look ‘Parisian'. Applying a little makeup to my face I paid particular attention to the area under my eyes. I seriously don't like the ever-darkening crescent moons that now exist there. No amount of generic anti-aging serum (I can hardly afford the absurdly expensive stuff) or sleep seems to lighten them. With all those fine lines hovering nearby – lines that would ever deepen in the coming years – all I could feel (as I so often do whenever I have to face myself in a mirror) is that this middle passage of life is so much about damage limitation. But applying a slightly bolder shade of lipstick than I ever wear at work I also reminded myself of something my mother said in one of her few ruminative moments when she knew time was something she no longer had much of:

‘Until they bury you, you're still young.'

I checked my lipstick again, thinking Mom wouldn't approve of this shade. A little too rougey for her. A little too showy. Would Richard think the same?

Oh please. It's hardly Electric Red. Just a shade up from what I usually wear. There you go again, endlessly examining the motivations behind a simple decision like choosing a shade of . . .

I re-rouged my lips, deepening the color. There. An act of defiance against that part of me which always acts like a permanent restraining order on myself.

Then, turning up the collar of my black raincoat (Mata Hari in an airport hotel?), I headed out. I didn't get far, as my cellphone binged again.

Dad just gave me fifty bucks himself and said he'd be asleep when I got back and please not to wake him. Don't know what you did to make him change his mind . . . but, hey, I'm not complaining. S xxx. PS Thanks.

So Dan had a volte-face after all. He was obviously trying to make amends.

Bing
.

This time it was from Dan.

All agreed with Sally. I hope you're happy.

Yes, I'm pleased. But are you happy?

I texted back:

Glad it all got resolved. Thank you.

No terms of endearment this time. No entreaties for affection. Because what I so wanted to hear I knew would not be forthcoming.

There was a shuttle bus from the hotel to the airport T-stop. I was the sole passenger. For the first time today I was outside and cognizant of the fact that it was a peerless autumn afternoon. Getting into the shuttle bus outside the hotel I chose not to look at the big long-term parking lot across the street, or the series of gas stations that lined the road in all directions. Rather I turned my gaze up towards the hard azure sky, all the while blinking into the high-intensity sun. When the bus reached the T-stop a mere $2 whisked me away from all the concrete realities of Route 1. Ten minutes later it deposited me in front of the first public park ever erected in this once New World.

The rural girl in me – who's always dreamed of living in a city – loves the idea of subways. The notion of criss-crossing a city subterraneanly. Of plunging through tunnels to a new destination. Of the noise and sense of possibility and sheer urbanity that comes from the rush of an underground train.

But as the subway charged towards central Boston, I found myself looking at four exhausted Latino women who had also gotten on with me at the airport stop. They were all dressed in maid's uniforms. They all must have been working since four that morning, as they were now clearly going home. From the way they were slumped across their respective seats, so enervated and fatigued by that early Saturday shift, I'm certain they found this daily ride to and from the airport less than an uplifting experience. Especially with the drunk crashed out opposite them, his scrubby beard flecked with food and drool.

Still, when I got off at Park Street and came right up the escalator, the first sounds I heard were a couple of street guitarists singing that great Kurt Cobain number, ‘Moist Vagina'. Yes, I was a fan of Nirvana back in the 1990s. I remember one particularly happy moment just after we met when Dan and I were driving somewhere, a Nirvana cassette in the deck of his twenty-year-old Chevy, and he was crooning that tune at the top of his lungs. Back then Dan had frequent moments of sheer irreverence. He actually believed in the idea of fun.

Songs do that to us, don't they? They bring us back to a moment in our respective stories. Because we seem to benchmark so much of our adolescence and early adulthood with music, a certain song will always trigger, later in life, an instant flashback to a time when, perhaps, life seemed so less serious, so less cluttered.

The two guys singing this Kurt Cobain classic (well, I think it a classic) were both very much carrying on the grunge look that he pioneered. Neither of them could have been more than twenty, and despite appearing just a little strung out, their musicianship and vocal harmonies were just sublime. The area around this entrance to the Common was bustling. Tourists in guided groups. Locals on bicycles or jogging or pushing baby chairs. Couples everywhere. The newly in-love ones with their arms entwined around each other's waists. A few teenagers kissing a little too passionately on park benches, and one duo courting arrest up against a tree. A few evident first-date types, all caution and nervousness. The new parents with their babies in strollers, all so sleep-deprived, the domestic strain so apparent. The middle-aged couples – some distant with each other, some affable. And an elderly man and woman, sitting on a bench at the entrance to the park, both reading sections of that morning's
Globe
, holding hands.

Naturally I was envious of that couple, and wanted to know their story. Were they childhood sweethearts who had met sixty years ago and had been in love ever since (a very
Reader's Digest
version of marriage)? Or had they gotten together much later in life, after being widowed, divorced, profoundly lonely? Was theirs one of those marriages that had gone through huge upheavals and periods of true disaffection, only to find an equilibrium as it edged into twilight? Had they stuck together out of fear, or resistance to seismic upheaval or the pursuit of something better . . . and now were two old people on a park bench, holding each other's hand, resigned to the fact that life held no further possibilities beyond this other person, whom they should have jettisoned years ago?

Of course I so wanted to believe the first scenario – the devoted couple for over sixty years
.
Of course I knew that this was the stuff of fantasy – that no relationship of such calendric magnitude could have been one long love song from the outset. But how we so want to buy into that fairy tale and how we always wonder if conjugal happiness is just outside our reach.

I checked my watch: 1:18. I was now three minutes late – and Beacon Street was . . . where, exactly? I asked someone for directions. He pointed me towards the State House on a raised piece of land just above the Common, and told me to turn left when I reached it.