deep into the subject with me. It was asif she were watching a house on fire, paralyzed, transfixed by the flames, and unable to do anything but stare. She really didn’t know what else to do. Years later she would ask, “What was the hurt in Howard that no one could reach?” but in the early days of coming to grips she was, like me, in a state of mystification. When we talked about Howard, every conversation ended with Martha asking the same question: “What was he thinking?”
Thinking?
Is that what you call it? Maybe he was thinking about the merits of Iranian versus Russian caviar; he certainly wasn’t thinking about the survivors who would have to clean up the mess he left behind.
While some friends with whom I’d shared the dirty laundry were beginning to show anger toward Howard, I wasn’t there with them—yet. He had died while we were in love. Love just doesn’t turn off, or it didn’t in my case, even with the avalanches of dreck that were landing squarely on my head and in my heart. The love had become different, though. As I slogged through one pile of his crap after another, it shifted more to the kind of love a parent has for a child who is self-destructive and always in trouble. It’s still love but no longer unconditional. It becomes colored by frustration, regret, and heartache. The way I saw it, there was nothing I could do but pick up the pieces and survive. Making sense of it would have to wait.
Some nights I checked out of my new reality. I would invite Martha and a group of girlfriends for an after-dinner dance party—ten to fifteen women, all mothers, married, near to middle age, usually at least one pregnant, jumping around to Top 40 dance hits spun by a Nathans deejay until midnight. My anthem was the hit “Tubthumping,” with the lyrics “I get knocked down, but I get up again, you’re never going to keep me down.” It was as if Chumbawamba wrote it with me in mind. The dance parties lasted for a year. I wish they’d lasted longer. The whirling, jumping, and sweating cleared my head and boosted my spirits.
The best way to get away from the constant stress of my life was spending time with Spencer. My goal was to wrap my arms around us and our home, to protect us from the government, from problems at Nathans, problems with lawyers—from the horrible way our lives hadbeen upended. I couldn’t get enough of Spencer nor give him enough of me. Hand in hand, we’d take walks along the C&O Canal, wander aimlessly (me, not him) through FAO Schwarz, catch an afternoon movie, or go for ice cream. Occasionally I’d pile him and the dog in the car for a drive without any particular destination in mind. From the backseat I’d hear, “Now, remember, I don’t like mommies who cry.”
The car became a place for us to talk. It would be that way for years. As a little boy, Spencer would begin the same way every time—“Mommy, tell me about Daddy”—and when I did tell him about his father I had to remember that in his eyes, the man was God: not flawed, not fallen. It was that glorious, funny, and—above all—loving father I recalled for him in story after story. Only down the road—well down the road—would I begin to dole out the truth. Sometimes our car talk turned to loopy discussions about life and death. “Can you have a baby and have the baby be Daddy and he can come back that way?” Then, just like that, he’d fall silent and stare out the back window, sucking his thumb and cuddling Baby. I’d stare ahead into traffic, sneaking glances at him in the mirror. When he fell asleep, that’s when I’d cry—not about any one thing, just everything. It was a release.
Howard, literally, had left us all alone. He’d brought me into his world, took me to an enchanted place where I’d be safe, and assured me everything would always work out because he had my back. Then he left me there. The reality he left us was not enchanting and not safe, but dangerous and frightening.
Thinking?
Is that what you call it? Maybe he was thinking about the merits of Iranian versus Russian caviar; he certainly wasn’t thinking about the survivors who would have to clean up the mess he left behind.
While some friends with whom I’d shared the dirty laundry were beginning to show anger toward Howard, I wasn’t there with them—yet. He had died while we were in love. Love just doesn’t turn off, or it didn’t in my case, even with the avalanches of dreck that were landing squarely on my head and in my heart. The love had become different, though. As I slogged through one pile of his crap after another, it shifted more to the kind of love a parent has for a child who is self-destructive and always in trouble. It’s still love but no longer unconditional. It becomes colored by frustration, regret, and heartache. The way I saw it, there was nothing I could do but pick up the pieces and survive. Making sense of it would have to wait.
Some nights I checked out of my new reality. I would invite Martha and a group of girlfriends for an after-dinner dance party—ten to fifteen women, all mothers, married, near to middle age, usually at least one pregnant, jumping around to Top 40 dance hits spun by a Nathans deejay until midnight. My anthem was the hit “Tubthumping,” with the lyrics “I get knocked down, but I get up again, you’re never going to keep me down.” It was as if Chumbawamba wrote it with me in mind. The dance parties lasted for a year. I wish they’d lasted longer. The whirling, jumping, and sweating cleared my head and boosted my spirits.
The best way to get away from the constant stress of my life was spending time with Spencer. My goal was to wrap my arms around us and our home, to protect us from the government, from problems at Nathans, problems with lawyers—from the horrible way our lives hadbeen upended. I couldn’t get enough of Spencer nor give him enough of me. Hand in hand, we’d take walks along the C&O Canal, wander aimlessly (me, not him) through FAO Schwarz, catch an afternoon movie, or go for ice cream. Occasionally I’d pile him and the dog in the car for a drive without any particular destination in mind. From the backseat I’d hear, “Now, remember, I don’t like mommies who cry.”
The car became a place for us to talk. It would be that way for years. As a little boy, Spencer would begin the same way every time—“Mommy, tell me about Daddy”—and when I did tell him about his father I had to remember that in his eyes, the man was God: not flawed, not fallen. It was that glorious, funny, and—above all—loving father I recalled for him in story after story. Only down the road—well down the road—would I begin to dole out the truth. Sometimes our car talk turned to loopy discussions about life and death. “Can you have a baby and have the baby be Daddy and he can come back that way?” Then, just like that, he’d fall silent and stare out the back window, sucking his thumb and cuddling Baby. I’d stare ahead into traffic, sneaking glances at him in the mirror. When he fell asleep, that’s when I’d cry—not about any one thing, just everything. It was a release.
Howard, literally, had left us all alone. He’d brought me into his world, took me to an enchanted place where I’d be safe, and assured me everything would always work out because he had my back. Then he left me there. The reality he left us was not enchanting and not safe, but dangerous and frightening.
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