Innocent Spouse (31 page)

It’s a time of reckoning when what you had isn’t what you have anymore. Money bought ease; less money meant much less ease and less generosity, too. Paying the electric bill was more important than sending off a check to the National Gallery of Art. I had to watch every dime, every dollar. I became a Scrooge in a lot of situations where I used to be first to open my checkbook. It’s called adapting, and I adapted and learned to accept the new reality. Only I didn’t want my friends to see me sweat.

Some moved on. Only a few rejected me outright. It was inevitable. I wasn’t in their club anymore. Also, without a man I was the odd number and hard to place at dinners where everyone else was part of a pair. I was still included, but not as often and rarely on weekends. Weekends were the weirdest time, when the aberrant nature of my new life was underscored by the quiet of no calls and no invitations. I had Spencer, and we had fun, but he wasn’t another adult. I have an
enduring image of myself. It’s a weekend evening. I’m dressed casually in jeans, no makeup, hair in a knot, walking the dog. I’m at a stop sign and a car pulls up. Inside are a man and a woman, dressed for a cocktail party or dinner out, talking to each other in that casual, familiar way married people do. I’m staring at them from the outside, they’re on the inside, and I’m thinking, “I used to be them.” That moment happened many times, and for me it told the whole story.

When I was included in the grown-up fun it felt like winning the lottery. At big formal dinners—galas and charity events, the few where I still had a little mileage from earlier giving—I was invariably seated between the priest and the gay man. At one, the men on either side of me were each almost one hundred, and neither could hear very well. A Washington social secretary volunteered that there was too much risk seating “even remotely attractive” unmarried women next to middle-aged married men. “The wives won’t have it,” she said. I wanted to suggest that maybe having a separate table for “remotely attractive” unmarried women would solve the problem. Instead I sucked it up and went along with the rules, making my way through dinner parties by shouting into hearing aids, talking about Jesus, or trading tips on lipsticks and hairdressers.

There is a myth that widows are looked out for and that people, especially men, feel sorry for them. That’s true up to a point, and that point is reached rather quickly. Women simply have it harder, even the toughest and smartest ones. There always seems to be room and need for an extra man but not an extra woman. Why? Because there are more of us. Men die sooner and younger.

Widows also seem to be hung with a neon sign that shouts
EASY TARGET
. The two-legged sharks find their way to a widow as easily as their brothers in the sea spot chum. They know a husband is not going to step up and call them on their behavior or pop them one. In the course of that first year, I had to fight hard to win battles on many fronts that had to do with just getting through the day—the credit card companies, the utilities, the banks. It was a trial to have a plumber do what needed to be done without trying to sell me an unnecessary bill of goods. Initially I played the widow card, thinking that would inspire compassion and perhaps going the extra yard. Eventually I didn’t reveal
whether there was a man of the house, one way or the other, and asked lots and lots of questions.

The Halkias family, my elderly landlords at Nathans, even though there were three women to two men in the group, seemed to doubt my ability—as a woman—to run the business successfully. Dimitri Mallios told me that for the longest time the men received the rent money and then doled out the women’s share. “That’s why you now have to write five separate checks,” he said. “The girls don’t trust the boys.”

The January anniversaries got to my heart, but my attention had to be focused on other events that happily had to do with moving forward. The closing on our new home was less than a month away. After I sorted and packed what we needed, everything else was up for grabs. I had an open house for friends to come get what they wanted of Howard’s. My brother wanted some of his tools. A sailing friend took his foul-weather gear. Other friends claimed a mirror. Someone else bought the rubber dinghy. A local auction house took worthy items I could no longer use or have room for; the Salvation Army got the surplus of whatever we had in multiples: mattresses and beds, children’s clothing and toys and furniture, kitchen utensils and appliances, towels, blankets, rugs, lamps, odds and ends. At first I was relieved to be lightening our load. We had so much. I couldn’t keep it all. Things had to go. Later I would have little fits of remorse, wondering why I gave a particular item away, but then I got over it. I had to learn that they were material possessions, even the most sentimental. They were totems of the good life, but not necessarily what made life good. Over the years I became very clinical about what we had. If a precious item could go to auction and help pay school tuition, bring down the mortgage, or cover a Nathans debt that attached to me personally, it went to auction. If I worried about these decisions at all it was the effect they had on Spencer. In time, most of our furniture went out the door to auction.

I worked during the day and packed at night. It was the small things that made me cry, like a cowrie shell Howard had found in Florida, or a random anniversary or birthday card he’d given me, or his reading glasses. Most of his clothing went to the church to distribute to the homeless, but I saved some of his fine tailored suits and sport jackets for Spencer. It’s not that I thought Spencer would one day wear them
as much as I wanted him to have them to touch and to get a sense of his father’s style.

One January morning en route to CNN, I was stopped at a light. While I sat there I looked up the street toward the Washington Hospital Center. It was only about ten blocks beyond my turn for work. When the light changed, rather than make my turn to CNN, I drove toward the hospital. It’s a big hulking building. It’s the best hospital in Washington for critical care, but there’s nothing to distinguish its appearance. I drove around back, near the helipad and the entrance to the emergency MedSTAR unit. I stopped the car and sat with my foot on the brake. I leaned against the wheel and looked through the windshield until my eyes caught the big glass window at the end of the hall that I used to call my wailing wall. I looked up and imagined myself standing there, weeping. It seemed both like a decade ago and only yesterday. Then my eyes scanned to the right until I found the sliver of glass that had been Howard’s window. I could see myself at his bedside, overcome with fear, fighting to be strong, begging God to intervene. I stared at the window wondering what poor individual was in there now, fighting for life.

At
Larry King Live
there were a few interviews for me to set up before the end of the month and my move. Paul Newman mattered the most. Newman was private and elusive. He was one of my most challenging pursuits, but eventually he relented. I was proud of that. This was no bizarre pop idol. He was a remarkable person and talent. I’d met him once, in the early 1970s, at a wedding in Connecticut. He was, of course, friendly, approachable, and gorgeous. After the wedding ceremony everyone settled on the lawn for a concert by a string quartet. Over to my right I saw Newman and his wife, Joanne Woodward. She sat on the grass and leaned against a tree. He was on his back, his head in her lap. He looked up at her and she looked down at him, fiddling with his hair. I thought, “Wow! That’s beautiful. That’s the marriage I want.”

From my cubicle at
Larry King Live
I dialed Paul Newman’s number to go over the interview. The voice that answered the phone was immediately familiar and transformed me into the fifteen-year-old girl in the tenth row at the Virginia Theater, watching Hitchcock’s
Torn Curtain
as Newman pulled Julie Andrews behind a curtain to give
her a kiss that gave me goose bumps. If only I could pull him through the phone line. Instead, I shook off my fantasy and we talked about the interview.

“Please tell Larry I’m not a naturally funny guy,” he said.

That was endearing. “Of course you are,” I said.

“I don’t have any jokes.”

“You don’t have to have jokes.”

“I hope not. I don’t do that kind of thing very well.”

“All you’ll have to do is sit and be yourself and answer his questions, have a conversation with him. You’ll be fine.” When we finished talking, and the phone was back in the receiver, I savored the moment. My career of talk-show gets included presidents and vice presidents, world and national leaders, captains of industry; pioneers of medicine, science, art, and music; great writers and innovators; movie stars, rock stars, Broadway stars, comedians, scoundrels, and the people whose roof was torn off by last night’s tornado. Paul Newman was the candle on that cake.

I sent a memo to Becky requesting two weeks of stored up personal time for my move. She scrawled across it “No! Personal time cannot be used for a move. You will have to use vacation time.” Apparently Paul Newman didn’t count for much.

I showed the memo to the unit manager. “Carol, when are you going to get the message?”

The pressure of the move got to me. As the date drew near I was up before dawn to make lists of all the things that still needed to be done. One morning as Spencer was getting ready for school, my thoughts were elsewhere. When he didn’t hustle to get dressed I raised my voice. He sat on his bed, dressed for school, and said his sock hurt. I took off his shoe, took off the sock, and put on a new sock. I put the shoe back on. He said the sock still hurt. “You should put on your own socks and shoes,” I said, “then you can get it right.” He was in tears. I said, “You’re going to miss the bus, you’re going to miss the bus!”

He threw himself on the bed sobbing. “But Mommy, my sock hurts me.”

“Well, go to school with no socks, then. Wear your Uggs.” He followed me down the hall, still crying.

“But I have to go to the bathroom.”

“Haven’t you gone already?” I asked.

“No, Mom. I have to go.”

“You better hurry,” I said. “You’ve got to make that bus. We’ve wasted too much time already. I’m getting your jacket right now.” I pulled his jacket from the closet. “Where are your gloves and hat?”

He stood in the bathroom, crying. “I don’t know,” he said.

“Hurry. Hurry!” I yelled.

He ran out, pulled on his jacket, grabbed his backpack, and raced with me to the street to wait for the bus. He stood there, looking pitiful. I felt horrible. “I have to go to the bathroom really bad,” he said, grimacing.

“Didn’t you go inside?” I asked.

“No. You were rushing me,” he said.

“Can you hold it until you get to school?”

“No.” He pressed his legs together.

“Well, go in the corner there,” I said, gesturing toward a big bush in the corner of the building.

“No, Mom,” he said.

He stood, eyes red-rimmed from crying, knees locked together, a little kid whose mom had started his day with a stressed-out fit. I sagged. “Oh, honey, I’m sorry. I hope you know that I don’t mean to start your day this way. I have too much to do. It’s not your fault. I’m so sorry.” He dashed into my arms. “Do you understand?” I asked, as I held the back of his head with my hand.

“Yeah,” he said, but he looked miserable.

“Run back inside real quick and use the lobby bathroom,” I said. “Okay?”

“But what about the bus?”

“Well, be quick and I’ll ask Fred to wait.”

Two days before the closing on the new house, we both got sick with stuffed-up noses and fevers. We stayed in my bed together for a whole day. We were side by side, sharing the Kleenex, the thermometer, the orange juice, and the television remote. The dog flopped on the bed between us. We were Mutt and Jeff in pajamas. We wrestled with the covers and argued about which movies to watch.
Crocodile Dundee
came out on top. The next morning we were both better, and I treated
him to a drive to school. I stopped the car in front of the school, we kissed good-bye, and he got out. But then he stopped at the school door and deliberately leaned over and untied his shoes.

“Why did you do that?” I called out. “Now I have to get out and retie them.”

“I know,” he said. “That’s why I did it, to be with you longer.”

Moments like that helped carry me through each day.

F
EBRUARY
1, 1998, the anniversary of Howard’s death, was a Sunday. Spencer, Martha, and I went to Christ Episcopal Church, where the rector, Stuart Kenworthy, mentioned Howard’s name in the prayers and where the altar flowers were dedicated to his memory. I felt serene and peaceful. After services we walked to Oak Hill Cemetery to put flowers on Howard’s grave. Apart from that, it was a Sunday like any other. The next day, after school, Spencer rode with me to Capitol Hill to the offices of the title agency where I signed the papers and closed on our new home. I paid attention to every one of the many documents that required my signature. I may not have understood every word, but I read through page after page. The settlement lawyer handed me the keys, shook my hand and Spencer’s hand, and said, “Congratulations. Good luck in your new home.”

It was late afternoon as we drove down Independence Avenue toward Georgetown, passing the Capitol, the Mall, and the Jefferson and Lincoln memorials. The lights of the city glowed golden against the backdrop of a sky streaked with lavender, pink, and orange clouds. “Well, it will be a few days before we move in,” I said to Spencer. “But do you want to go see the new house?”

“Yes,” he said, excited. “I want to see Teddy’s room that’s going to be my room.”

Before unlocking the door we stood on the sidewalk and admired our new yellow brick home. It was not the biggest or most impressive on the block, but it was ours. It looked just right for a mom and a boy. It was dim inside but there was enough twilight for Spencer to scramble about. I wandered behind him, enjoying his joy. The pride and happiness that filled my heart supplanted the agony and loss of
one year earlier and the fear and anxiety that had followed. I opened my heart to everything that was possible and new and just around the corner. This house would get us started.