Borealis.”
“That’s just why I’m doing this. I want to bring as much richness into their lives as I can in the time I have with them.”
“By leaving them?”
“By rediscovering my own playfulness…”
“You mistake shallow for playful, Leo. You think selfish people are wise. You’re a fucking idiot.”
“Now, that is a sweeping statement. And remember, Julie, always use ‘I’ statements. That’s what Cathy, the guru of relationships who lives with her mother, says.”
“What kind of sexist, homophobe bullshit is that?”
“She lives with her mothe r , Julie. She’s thirty-five.”
“I thought you were all for honoring the generations and interdependent communities and all that babble-on.”
“You mistake codependency for respect, Julie. You mistake aberrant behavior for intimacy.”
“I used to be proud of you,” I said suddenly.
“Hmmm,” Leo said. “What changed?”
“I used to be proud of you until you changed.”
“Why didn’t you ever take my last name then?”
This came to me as a direct shot from another galaxy. When we married, Leo couldn’t have cared less whether I became a Steiner or a Steinway baby grand. He liked being married to Ambrose Gillis’s daughter. I could think of nothing to say except, “Huh?” And, then, “But I let the children have your name.”
“So you weren’t all that proud of me. Personally. You were like the up-town girl. Even here. Couldn’t get your nose out of the air. Did you ever think that got to me?”
“Leo, that’s…” True, I thought. “Ridiculous,” I said.
“And then after you became a media star…of Sheboygan and parts of Milwaukee County—”
“Don’t make fun of my job,” I quavered.
“Then don’t make fun of what I care about.”
“What I’m worried about is what you don’t care about. I used to be proud that I wasn’t married to Mark Sorenson or Jack Ellis….”
“Julie, it boils down to this. It wouldn’t occur to you to color outside the lines, so you can’t comprehend it or stand it that someone else does.”
“I could if it didn’t mean that your children are never going to understand, and that I’m going to have to be mother and father to a toddler and two—”
“You practically make all the decisions for them now anyway….”
“Now, I’m married to Leo Steiner, Ex-Former Jerk.”
“I’m not a unicorn anymore, just one of all the other horses, Julieanne, dear,” Leo said, batting his long, tangled eyelashes at me before turning over and dropping into sleep as easily as a man might disappear into a trapdoor.
“Do you love Leo?” Cathy asked, as she replaced the dressings on my by-now green-and-yellow knees.
“Of course,” I said. “I don’t know. That’s not the point. Did you love Saren?”
“Of course. I don’t know. That wasn’t the point,” Cathy said. “I didn’t know anymore whether I loved her, because I got lost in the rage I felt and I couldn’t see anything else. And anyway, it wouldn’t have mattered. What mattered is that the rage turned out to be useful, because one thing you can’t negotiate in therapy is a failure of commitment if one wants it and one doesn’t. And Saren didn’t.”
“Was Saren really gay?”
“I don’t know,” Cathy said. “Maybe not purely. I don’t know that anyone human really is. The most rampant sexual exhibitionist, the guy on the reality TV show with twenty women begging to marry him, is usually either a woman hater or doesn’t know which way he swings.”
“That so?”
“I don’t know that, either. As a fact. I know what I see in practice. What I conjecture.”
“So, did Saren ever try to come back?”
“She wants to be ‘friends.’”
“Oh, Cath.”
“She wants to meet Abby and compare her ultrasound pictures of her fetus with my daughter.”
“Cath.”
“We weren’t talking about Saren. I asked if you love Leo and how much you’re going to be able to stuff down—in terms of residual
“That’s just why I’m doing this. I want to bring as much richness into their lives as I can in the time I have with them.”
“By leaving them?”
“By rediscovering my own playfulness…”
“You mistake shallow for playful, Leo. You think selfish people are wise. You’re a fucking idiot.”
“Now, that is a sweeping statement. And remember, Julie, always use ‘I’ statements. That’s what Cathy, the guru of relationships who lives with her mother, says.”
“What kind of sexist, homophobe bullshit is that?”
“She lives with her mothe r , Julie. She’s thirty-five.”
“I thought you were all for honoring the generations and interdependent communities and all that babble-on.”
“You mistake codependency for respect, Julie. You mistake aberrant behavior for intimacy.”
“I used to be proud of you,” I said suddenly.
“Hmmm,” Leo said. “What changed?”
“I used to be proud of you until you changed.”
“Why didn’t you ever take my last name then?”
This came to me as a direct shot from another galaxy. When we married, Leo couldn’t have cared less whether I became a Steiner or a Steinway baby grand. He liked being married to Ambrose Gillis’s daughter. I could think of nothing to say except, “Huh?” And, then, “But I let the children have your name.”
“So you weren’t all that proud of me. Personally. You were like the up-town girl. Even here. Couldn’t get your nose out of the air. Did you ever think that got to me?”
“Leo, that’s…” True, I thought. “Ridiculous,” I said.
“And then after you became a media star…of Sheboygan and parts of Milwaukee County—”
“Don’t make fun of my job,” I quavered.
“Then don’t make fun of what I care about.”
“What I’m worried about is what you don’t care about. I used to be proud that I wasn’t married to Mark Sorenson or Jack Ellis….”
“Julie, it boils down to this. It wouldn’t occur to you to color outside the lines, so you can’t comprehend it or stand it that someone else does.”
“I could if it didn’t mean that your children are never going to understand, and that I’m going to have to be mother and father to a toddler and two—”
“You practically make all the decisions for them now anyway….”
“Now, I’m married to Leo Steiner, Ex-Former Jerk.”
“I’m not a unicorn anymore, just one of all the other horses, Julieanne, dear,” Leo said, batting his long, tangled eyelashes at me before turning over and dropping into sleep as easily as a man might disappear into a trapdoor.
“Do you love Leo?” Cathy asked, as she replaced the dressings on my by-now green-and-yellow knees.
“Of course,” I said. “I don’t know. That’s not the point. Did you love Saren?”
“Of course. I don’t know. That wasn’t the point,” Cathy said. “I didn’t know anymore whether I loved her, because I got lost in the rage I felt and I couldn’t see anything else. And anyway, it wouldn’t have mattered. What mattered is that the rage turned out to be useful, because one thing you can’t negotiate in therapy is a failure of commitment if one wants it and one doesn’t. And Saren didn’t.”
“Was Saren really gay?”
“I don’t know,” Cathy said. “Maybe not purely. I don’t know that anyone human really is. The most rampant sexual exhibitionist, the guy on the reality TV show with twenty women begging to marry him, is usually either a woman hater or doesn’t know which way he swings.”
“That so?”
“I don’t know that, either. As a fact. I know what I see in practice. What I conjecture.”
“So, did Saren ever try to come back?”
“She wants to be ‘friends.’”
“Oh, Cath.”
“She wants to meet Abby and compare her ultrasound pictures of her fetus with my daughter.”
“Cath.”
“We weren’t talking about Saren. I asked if you love Leo and how much you’re going to be able to stuff down—in terms of residual
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