Memory, sadness, and resolve
Beth and the boy are away in Maine this week.
I remember back in March or April Beth asking me what kind of cabin we should get for Maine this year. I remember saying something like “What we had last year, is fine,” knowing that it was unlikely I’d be in Maine with them this summer.
I had a hard time understanding why she was making plans for the future when she had all but sealed the end of our marriage by January.
Before they left, the boy spent most of last Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday with me. I love how he has taken to my house. He feels very much at home in it. Every time he goes back to Beth’s house, his room is a mess of clothes, Legos, Lincoln Logs, and drawings. We’ll have to work on that.
He usually wants to play tag on the green, and now I try to get some of the kids to play with us. The other day there was a woman her son and daughter sitting under the tree. I was chasing the boy, and asked them if they wanted to play. The boy stood up, hesitated, then got into the game. The boy told him the rules as we played: the walkways are the boundary lines, and no tagbacks.
At some point, the two boys started playing around the trees, climbing, pulling grass, throwing it at other. The other boy was older (9) and a little bigger. They got into a minor scuffle with grass, and the boy (my son – these sobriquets are annoying, I know) came running up to me. The other boy’s mother called to him and told him to cut it out.
“Why did he do that, Dad?” the boy asked me, crying.
“He was playing, sweetie. Some older boys play rough. If you don’t like it, tell him to stop and move away.”
“But he shouldn’t play rough!”
“Well, sit with me for a minute, then”
“Dad? Can you get his number?”
“Why do you want his number?”
“So I can have a playdate with him.”
When girls like each other, they tell each other how pretty they are. When boys like each other, they wrestle.
On Friday I took him to a playdate at a friend’s house. I sat and talked to the mother for a little while. I know her, but she’s really a friend of Beth’s. I’m not sure what the protocol is.
I told Beth that I’d be going to her house to finish packling up my books while they were in Maine. Walking into that house, I realized two things: The rooms are small and cluttered, and it doesn’t feel like home at all anymore.
It’s a little like visiting the classroom of a teacher you were fond of. She’s still the same. The classroom is more or less the same. But the soul of the place is different. No matter how many hours you spent there, now it’s not the same place. And when the new students come in, they’re not the people you sat with.
So there is Beth’s couch. Her sun room. Her kitchen. I installed that microwave oven, but it’s someone else’s now. Up in my office – what used to be my office – my books are still there in the book cases. When did I manage to acquire so many books on Judaism? Why are they so heavy?
I pack box after box. I carry each one down the stairs and stage them in the kitchen. It’s a good thing I’ve been working out because — no, it doesn’t make them any lighter.
I’ve spent so much of my life here, and I can’t make it feel like a place I know.
Back in the office I keep on packing. Between the wall and a file cabinet, I see it. I take it out. The glass is cracked like a trite metaphor.
A few months after we married, Beth asked me what I wanted for Valentine’s day.
“A picture of you,” I said.
“You have lots of pictures.”
“No, a portrait, a large black and white picture of you.”
“I don’t think I could sit for a picture like that,” she said.
So I dropped it.
Then in early February, she came to me with a manila folder.
“I wanted to wait until Valentine’s day, but I think it’s better if you choose the one you like.”
She spread out proof sheets, pictures of her. She had gone to the woman who photographed our wedding and had had a photo shoot. I chose the one I liked best.
It’s a large photograph, 16 x 24. It hung in my office when I worked in Bedford. It’s a picture of Beth in a white silk blouse, a paisely patterened skirt, and a tweed jacket. She has her hands on her hips, her head tilted down so her hair covers the right side of her face, and she’s looking out with – well, with the way she used to look at me.
That was fifteen years ago. It’s that girl I miss. The one who did something uncomfortable for her because it was something I wanted. The woman who posed for the picture as if I were standing in front of her, had it framed, and gave it to me.
And I’m sure she misses that man as well.
Nosotros, los de entonces, ya no somos los mismos.
I decided to take the picture. It was a gift she gave me. I’ll keep it in the attic, and give it to the boy when he wants it.