On the Divinity of Second Chances (19 page)

I dig deep into my memory and try to remember how I felt in the beginning with Phil. I try to remember loving him.

I try to remember what attracted me to him in the first place. I remember being in high school. I had exactly two dresses to wear to school and one more to wear to church. I hated that, hated being poor as church mice. Phil didn’t have a dime, either, when we met, but something about him exuded capableness. I knew that this was a man who would never let his family go without. I didn’t know then the extreme to which he would take this. In the beginning, he seemed so taken with me, and I never did know why, but whatever the reason, it seemed everything he did in his professional life, he did as an act of love for me. When did that change? When did he become consumed? In the beginning, I loved receiving his tokens of love. When did tokens of love turn into tokens of guilt—guilt for not being there when it counted? I hated his tokens of guilt. And when did my gratitude turn into resentment? I think about how men are often attracted to a spirited woman, but when they win her heart, the first thing they try to do is change the very thing they were attracted to in the first place—break her spirit and control her. Is my feeling toward my husband any different from that? I was attracted to his ambition in the beginning, only to grow to want to break it in the end. Is that fair? Is this really about fair?

I let my mind drift back, back to when I rode this path last. I used to sneak away on my Schwinn Cruiser to meet Phil when my father was focused on planting or harvesting and my mother was focused on cooking or something. Phil hung long ropes from a branch of the old cottonwood that stood alone in a field near a spring halfway between our houses, and made a swing for me. It would take five full seconds to complete swinging in each direction—the swing was that tall. He would push me, and I would lean way back and look at the leaves, the branches, the sky, and feel a freedom I didn’t feel in the atmosphere of my home. The way the air filled my skirt made me feel like more than the dreary women of my hometown. I felt a little wild. Not wild like a woman without her own boundaries. No, I felt wild like a woman without the boundaries imposed on her by others. It was those sessions on the swing, oftentimes in silence, that I felt the sensation of being who I truly was, where I felt my spark, my spunk, my spirit. I loved Phil for that. He was my sanctuary from shame. Time with him strengthened me and revitalized me, so I could go back into my home without my spirit dying. Push, swing forward, swing back, push, swing forward, swing back. Just thinking about it puts me in a meditative state. Gosh, I haven’t thought about that in a long time. The wind in my hair, the wind in my skirt, the wind on my feet after I kicked off my Keds, and his hands on my back every ten seconds. Push, swing forward, swing back. Push, swing forward, swing back. Nothing but Phil, the tree, and the sky. Freedom.

At last, I see the cottonwood. I anxiously search for the swing, but I only see a small bit of frayed rope hanging from the branch. I stop and study it. Then I notice the old seat on the ground, the wood grayed with age. The only evidence of good times between us, pretty much gone.

Anna on the Thunderellas
(July 2)

Beatrice and Mom made a cake while I was out looking for the swing. It sits on the table by the wine in the old Summerville Grange Hall. Not one of my better birthdays, despite their efforts. I stand on the other side of the hall from Olive. We have successfully avoided each other since lunch. I don’t know where to go from here with her.

Naturally, tonight’s topic is marriage.

“You need to love the way your man smells, and I’m not talking about his aftershave or deodorant. I’m talking about his smell. I could never leave John because I find his smell so sexy,” Hazel tells me. “There’s going to be times where you’re not friends and it’s just the sex that keeps you together.” Amazing. Hazel. I can’t picture it. I don’t really want to. “Do you love Phil’s smell?”

“I don’t remember,” I say.

Hazel looks puzzled.

“She’s been sleeping on a lawn chair on the back porch for a while now!” Mom blurts out. How does Mom know this? I look at Olive. God damn it. Now, the whole damn town of Summerville is not only going to know I have an illegitimate grandchild, but that I’m sleeping on a lawn chair as well. Perfect. Humiliation is just what I needed.

“Anna, nothing said here leaves here. Those are the rules. We all abide by the rules. So drink some wine and stop glaring at your family,” Beatrice says.

“Whatever you do, don’t go to counseling,” Fiona advises adamantly. “I handle a lot of divorces. I don’t know anyone whose marriage turned around because of counseling. If you need counseling, it’s pretty much over. Save your money for court costs and a good lawyer.”

Oh, my God. Am I going to need a good lawyer? Is that where I’m headed?

“It must not be that bad,” Beatrice speculates. “Or else Olive wouldn’t want a husband and kids. See, now, Fiona’s parents were bad, and that’s why she’s still single.”

“Did you really just say that?” Fiona asks Beatrice. “Clearly, you’re turning into Pearl! So there!”

“What does she mean by that?” Mom calls to Beatrice.

“She means you’re tactless,” Beatrice answers.

“You’re just truthful,” Hazel says, trying to soften the blow.

“And have we established that Olive wants to be married?” Fiona asks. “I mean, it looks to me like she doesn’t. She’s choosing not to.” She turns to Olive. “Olive, do you want to be married?”

“I don’t think that’s the answer for me,” she replies. Even though I feel angry with Olive for the choices she’s making, there’s something about the hopelessness in her expression that tugs at my heart.

“Olive wants to be married, but not to some poor excuse of a man. If a good man presented himself, I think she’d be interested,” Hazel starts, eyes distorted through her colossal glasses. “Olive, I’ve been thinking about your predicament.” I warm up my ankles with some shuffles and listen. “I was thinking about the Earth . . . Earth energy . . . how it transforms waste into something useful. I was thinking of the creative powers we have when we consciously join energies with her. I thought since your main motivation for being married would be to have support while you’re in a state of creation, that perhaps you could marry the Earth and achieve the same results. See, like right now, your energies are everywhere. They’re out there.” Hazel raises her arms. “Like they’re looking for that husband, but really they’re just pushing away what you want. I can feel your energy from my house. It’s strong. Nothing can get through it. Marry the Earth. Direct your energies down into her. She will be thankful. She will transform that chaos energy into something useful. It will allow that which you desire to get through your field.” Hazel nods. “Have a ceremony and marry the Earth.” She continues to nod and look Olive in the eye, and then reties the knot in her tap shoe and walks over to the wine table.

I wish just one of these women would tell Olive to try to make it work with Matt, that it’s in her highest interest and that of her child. Really, I fail to see how marrying the Earth is going to offer any practical solutions. Oh, my God, I’m turning into Phil. “I think she should marry Matt,” I announce.

The room is now deathly quiet. All eyes are turned to me, except those of Olive, which merely look down. The silence hangs in the air until Olive gets up and walks out.

“Now that’s what I call a pregnant pause!” Mom tries to break the tension.

Rather than laugh, Hazel approaches me and quietly says, “You’re going to lose your daughter if you keep pushing for what you understand. She just took a step farther away. You have no idea what she’s going through. None of us do. She needs people she can trust. She obviously can’t trust this Matt fellow. You might want to ask her why she doesn’t trust him before you insist she should marry him. You might find out that her choices are logical given her circumstances.”

“It’s a different game now,” Fiona explains gently.

Hazel continues, “If you show her now in her time of greatest need that she can’t trust you to make things better instead of worse, she’s going to cut off contact with you just like she did with Matt. She cannot afford to be drained by your judgment.”

“She’s making a huge mistake!” I know what I’m talking about. “It’s not too late to change it yet, if she’d only listen. This is a crucial time. She can change the outcome if she acts now.”

“You don’t have all the facts . . .” Beatrice says. I bristle.

Hazel looks up through her thick lenses. Her eyes appear to bulge. “You can go out there now and listen to her, or you can dig in your heels and let this become such a big deal that you never get to meet your grandchild.”

I reluctantly walk out the door of the hall. Olive sits on a bench to my left. I sit down next to her, but I can’t bring myself to say I’m sorry. I’m not sorry.

“You really think I should marry Matt?” she asks.

“I really do.”

“Really? That’s what you’d really want for your grandchild? To live in a tipi through the cold winter because her father likes his eight-dollar-an-hour job tuning snowboards and doesn’t want to spend his money on rent anymore? You want your grandchild raised in day care so no one in our family remembers her first steps or her first word? At least here, even if I have to get a job off the farm and leave her with someone else, her stories won’t get lost. They’ll stay in this town, which is like a big family. She’ll be treated like family here. I know you wanted a perfect ending for me, Mom, but Matt isn’t the man I thought he was. I’m not going to have the perfect ending. I’m just not.” Her voice quivers as she fights to hold it together.

“I’m sorry,” I say.

She looks at me and nods, but then takes off her tap shoes and socks, sets them on Beatrice’s white Ford, and starts to walk home. I don’t want to walk back, I don’t want to go back inside, and I don’t want to stay on this bench either. It is not a happy birthday.

Jade on Skunks and Pivotal Moments
( July 2)

I hear barking, and then yelping. I run out the door to see what’s going on with Aretha and gather all the information I need with just one whiff.

Josh opens his door and calls out, “Everything okay? . . . Oh, my God! . . .”

Aretha runs to me with her tongue hanging out. It’s purple. She shakes. She’s visibly in pain. It’s clear she’s been skunked at close range, likely a direct hit to the face.

Josh runs to his kitchen and comes out with a jar of New-man’s Organic tomato and basil pasta sauce. “It’s the closest thing I had to tomato juice,” he explains as he hands it to me, his nose buried in his shirt.

I call Aretha to the garden hose. She tries to be cooperative despite her panic from her burning nose, mouth, and eyes. My voice comforts her some, and the cold water from the hose seems to feel good to her. Josh tries to comfort her with kind, encouraging words, too, and I don’t know about Aretha, but I find them very soothing. His voice is like warm, rich cocoa.

I don’t know how to begin to wash Aretha’s face, where the smell is most powerful. My own nose and eyes water from the fumes. I go inside to get a sponge, and that works a little, but I still can’t figure out how to wash right around her eyes without hurting her.

“Whoever said that tomato juice takes away skunk smell was wrong,” I say.

“I think it helped cut it some,” Josh says, trying to be positive, “but it’s definitely not finishing the job.”

“There’s no way Aretha can sleep in the house tonight.” It will be hard enough to sleep just with the fumes wafting in through the windows.

“Going to tie her?” Josh asks.

“Nah, I can’t see any reason. She’s good at sticking around.” I figure I can go to the vet tomorrow, pick up a better product, and maybe get some tips about how to clean her face.

He nods. “Okay, then.” He takes two steps to stand next to me, puts a hand on my lower back, and kisses my cheek. Luckily, he walks back into his apartment before I can say anything stupid. I try to absorb what just happened and wonder if I’m reading too much into it.

Phil on the Business of Marriage
(July 3)

With Anna gone, I can openly go to the library and read
Forbes
. Oh, it feels good. After the heart attack, she cut me off from new issues. She didn’t want me stressing about the economy at all. An article on the dot-com industry. Oh, yes, we all had such high hopes for them, but they just didn’t grow . . . kind of like my marriage when I see it in hindsight.

My marriage is in a delicate state. It doesn’t seem to matter anymore. Actually, my marriage is a terminal illness. I try, and she shoots me down. I try, and she shoots me down. Over and over. Thirty-five years now, and I still have no clue what it is that makes her so angry. I wonder if I strive to keep my marriage together because I truly love her still or do I do it out of sheer distaste for failure? Do I do it because it’s simply easier to tolerate her unresponsiveness and unpredictable ways than it would be to explain to people that we’re no longer married? It hits me that Jade is right: I do love my marriage more than I love my wife. They’re not the same thing. I wonder when Anna stopped being my lover and started being my colleague. Colleague . . . Did I even treat her like a colleague or did I treat her like an employee? Did she choose this? Not likely. Anna isn’t interested much in business. Perhaps it was my fault. Could this be? True, I am a man who values business more than romance. Ultimately, I guess I am a man who turned my love relationship into a business relationship. All evidence points to it. What was I thinking?

Almost forty years ago, I used to sit through seemingly endless sermons for no other reason except to admire her. Church was the one place I could just sit and stare at her for an entire hour. Usually, I would admire the back of her head; her dark hair was shiny and silky. On really hot summer days, oh yes, on those really hot summer days, she would wear her hair up, and I would get a good, long look at her beautiful neck. How sad that infatuation, like the beauty of youth, dies so early in one’s life. How sad that these vital parts of a person die so long before his body.