“Your mother and I just worry about you Jacqueline, that’s all,” my father popped into the conversation eyeing me. “Tell us about school – how’s it going?”
“School is great – I like my new textile instructor, and I’m starting a sculpture class when I get back. Actually, I’ve been thinking about changing my major,” I added in an off-the-cuff manner.
“What? What would you change to?” my father asked.
My mother, sounding concerned said, “Oh Jackie, you can’t give up the idea of teaching… you don’t even know how to type or take shorthand or anything. What kind of work will you do?”
“No, no, that’s not what I meant, I’m going to stay in the teaching program, it’s my studio major I want to change,” I replied, easing her mind. “I just don’t think fashion design is right for me – I enjoy textiles, glass and sculptural things much more.”
“Hmph, well I suppose that won’t present a problem – an art teacher is an art teacher after all,” my father stated ending that subject, and switched to something more immediate. “Why don’t you tell her about the plans for Christmas, Betty?”
“This year we’re all going to Aunt Martha and Uncle Hank’s instead of Aunt Edie’s house. Your Aunt Edie, hasn’t been feeling very well lately – we’re afraid she has breast cancer – so everyone thought it best if we had the family gathering at Martha’s instead.”
“I’m sorry to hear that, Mom,” I said.
“Well say your prayers for her. They’ll all be happy to see you – of course I’m not sure what we’re going to say about Stephen not being there, but I guess we have a little time to come up with something,” my mother stated.
“Is the truth out of the question?” I asked. My voice oozed sarcasm.
“Well we don’t know ‘the truth’ now do we Jacqueline?” my father said.
Snapping my head up in his direction I answered his unspoken question with, “Yeah, well… I’ve been driving all day and night, and I’d like to leave that subject until tomorrow, if you don’t mind?”
They shot each other a glance across the table, and my father nodded saying, “Okay, tomorrow.”
Had they always looked at each other like that, I wondered. It was as if they were conspiring against me, or if not against me, at least conspiring with each other, and I didn’t remember seeing that before. My father and I fought ‘like cats and dogs’, or at least that was what my mother called it. She said it was because we were so much alike – a thought that did not sit well with me. I didn’t want to be like anyone in her family, but I sure didn’t want to be like him either. When he and I got into a major argument, my mother usually ended up being on my side and vice versa… like each of us feeling we had to stand with the proverbial underdog. But now, if that glance meant what I thought it did, I was going to be on my own.
Then it occurred to me that I came by my ‘lying’ naturally, at least when it came to family stories. What was important to my mother’s family was what things looked like; they never admitted what things actually were. They judged everything by how much it cost. When my mother bought a new dress, one of her sisters would ask how much it was, and then tell her how she should have gone to Filene’s basement because she would have found the same thing for less. On bigger items, the more that was spent, the better – like the Cadillac, Bart, one of the brothers had purchased before I left for college. Of course then, they’d just go home, and talk about the other one behind their backs, so really it was a ‘no win’ situation. The trick seemed to be knowing ahead of time which way to adjust the story or which part to fabricate to get approval of the majority. It all seemed so hypocritical to me.
For that matter, I probably came by my recent ‘insanity’ naturally too. My father, Antonio, Tony for short, was an orphan who ended up being raised by a distant cousin. By the time he was 12-years-old, the cousin had been locked up in ‘the looney bin’ for sending President Coolidge threatening letters. Yep, I could blame this all on genetics.
~~~~~~~~
In the morning my mother woke me before she and my father went off to work to say goodbye, let me know about the food she had made for the day, and ask me to do various errands. My mother was an executive secretary turned mail room supervisor for a local subsidiary of Johnson & Johnson, thus her concern that I steadfastly refused to learn how to type or take dictation. I didn’t want any part of that shit: if I couldn’t type, then I didn’t have to support myself by being subservient to some controlling male. My mother went to Katharine Gibbs at a time when they had to wear white gloves, pumps, and nylon stockings with the seam perfectly straight each day to class. Learning to type would have been helpful in some ways, but practicality had nothing to do with my sense of it. I actually had no idea what kind of work I wanted to do, wasn’t sure I wanted to teach either; all I knew was I didn’t want to do that.
My father was the manager of Sweeney’s Campus Shop, a small men’s clothing store in the neighboring town of Quincy. I had worked there part-time during my senior year of high school, and again during the summer after finishing my first year at SAIC… during the months leading up to my wedding. He pretty much hated it there: the owners of the store were ‘slick’, and always pulling some kind of under handed bullshit in the name of business – currently it had something to do with the profit sharing program they had promised the employees, but then reneged on. He would’ve been a good attorney, but being an orphan, only had an 8th grade education, so he moved from job to job as I was growing up. Or even better than attorney, he should have stayed in the Air Force – he made a great Master Sergeant. He had enlisted before WWII, but left when my mother refused to join him in Japan after the end of the Korean War; in my opinion, she should have gone. He tried to get me to enlist after high school, but being a confirmed anti-Vietnam War believer, there was, I told him in no uncertain terms, ‘a snowball’s chance in hell’ of that happening. Just one more disappointment for him. I was supposed to be born a boy; I can’t count the number of times I heard that growing up. My name was supposed to be Richard – if I had been, then maybe I would’ve had a low draft number, and he would have gotten his way.
One of the items on my list was to stop by the store. My father allegedly wanted me to say ‘hello’ to everyone, but I knew he wanted me to do his Christmas shopping for him – my mother always seemed to like the things I picked better than when he did it by himself, and I got the sizes right. I made it through the visit without incident, and deflected questions about how married life was treating me with relative ease (thank God I had remembered to bring my wedding ring with me and had put it on again before this visit). At least now I knew, for sure, that my separation had not been mentioned at work. With that in mind, I stopped to see Mary Beth on my way home; she was having her own family stress situations, so we got stoned. The pot Michael had given me was strong, and I was hoping the high would carry me through the conversation I had to have with my parents that evening.
After dinner that night my father stood up, and announced that we all needed to go sit in the living room. When I lived there, he ate on a folding tray watching TV, my mother and I waiting on him while we ate at the kitchen table. I already knew something different was up because he sat with us for the second night in a row, but I decided not to ask why. I still had my buzz on, so for a minute I thought I heard him wrong when he said we needed to go to the living room; this family never sat down and talked – we just sniped and yelled. But I hadn’t misheard. He headed for the brocade upholstered couch. My mother sat next to him, which left only one empty spot for me – in the matching chair across from them both. This is uncomfortable, I thought.
My father began. “Jacqueline, you need to tell us the truth about what’s happening with you and Stephen. We’re concerned about both of you, and just want to do whatever we can to help.”
Thank God I was stoned – it held my panic at bay, letting me be in the situation, actually have this conversation, but still separate from mysel
f, and watch the whole show as if my twin was perched on the windowsill observing, giving an unbiased opinion from some neutral vantage place. Well maybe not impartial. Holy shit! What was this? I was actually conjuring up a little female elf, or fairy, no maybe it was a pixie with wings. I had imagined watching a situation from outside my body before, but my mind had never actually given that feeling a form before. If I’m going to see things I thought, it damn well better be on my side. I remember thinking about that for a moment while I was gathering my thoughts, and trying to remember the words I had practiced with Mary Beth on the drive here. Well if this is going to be a battle, then at least I’m not outnumbered… There are two of them – two of me: me and the pixie who was now perched on the edge of the TV.
“I know… I should have explained before, but I just didn’t know what to say. I’m still not sure I can find the right words.” My pixie friend gave me a little wink, as if to say not a bad start.
“That’s right, you should have. You know you can always talk to us,” my father said, my mother nodding in agreement and saying “yes, of course, we love you.”
What the fuck??? Who are these people sitting across from me? Was this pot laced with acid or some other hallucinogenic? Whose family is this – it sure as hell isn’t mine! The other me… my pixie, was looking confused too.
Shaking my head, I just said, “I know you do, and I love you too, but… Well this, I mean, I don’t know what happened – it just dissolved, that’s all. I wish we’d never gotten married. It would all be so much easier now.”
“Then why did you?” my father asked.
My pixie friend was jumping up and down protesting that question, and I could feel my own body tensing, getting ready to pounce too. No don’t… stay calm – I can’t! I just can’t, not with that question, are they out of their minds… does he have no memory of the battles we had? I thought.
“Seriously? You’re seriously asking me why we got married.” The question came out of my mouth before I thought about the conversation it would lead me into, but I just couldn’t believe he was asking me that.
“Yes, that’s exactly what I asked. If it just dissolved, why did you get married?” His voice starting to raise just a little.
“We got married because the two of you made us get married and …”
My mother cut me off exclaiming, “You were living in sin, Jacqueline!”
“Oh my God, Mom! Yes, we were living together – the only people that had a problem with it were you two! It’s the 1970s for Christ’s sake, not 1870!” I hissed back losing control as I noticed the little elf creature standing on the TV with her hands on her hips – spewing smoke from her nostrils, cheering me on. “We got married last year to please you! Or don’t you remember telling me that you wouldn’t help pay for school any more if I didn’t get married… because what would the relatives think? Oh the scandal of having a daughter that wasn’t married, and wasn’t a fuckin’ virgin!” I bellowed as the pixie’s smoke and fire started coming from my eyes and nose too.
“You ungrateful little bitch, don’t you use that language!” my father yelled back. “We were only doing what was best for you!”
“I’ll use any language I want to use! We were planning on getting married – someday… later – but not then. If you hadn’t insisted that we get married, then maybe I’d have found things out in time, and I wouldn’t be sitting here now telling you I was going to get a divorce! How the hell are you going to explain that to the family?”
“Jacqueline, no you can’t!” my mother exclaimed. “No one in our family has ever gotten a divorce, and you’re not going to be the first.”
“Oh yes, I am!” I snapped back, setting my jaw for the battle I knew was about to ensue. The façade of the perfect family talking about a problem was gone – I was used to the term ‘bitch’ – I knew these people very well, ‘bitch’ only meant they were paying attention, like a fucked up term of endearment.
My thoughts whirled – I stared at the pixie who had now moved to the end table next to the couch my parents were sitting on with her mouth hanging open. What the fuck’s your problem, I thought, and then realized that I had actually said the word ‘divorce’ out loud. It had been there, tucked in a back crevasse of my brain, long before I got to this conversation with my parents – most likely since this nightmare started – but it was no more than an elusive thought. It had never come out of my mouth as a statement before.
“Why… You still haven’t said why?” my father asked again. I was silent. “Let me make this easy on you then,” he continued taking a deep breath, “Have you been having an affair?”
“What… What the hell? Why do you assume it was me?”
“Well then did Stephen find another girl?”
“No, he didn’t find another… girl,” I stated, standing up looking around the room for my pixie for support – where had that little creature gone now? Panic set in as I realized the damn thing had up and disappeared, and I’d have to finish this battle on my own with no moral support. I turned to face my parents, “I knew you’d blame me, think it was my fault, and maybe it was, but I am not going to stay married to him. He left me! He has a new life. It’s over – it’s been over since last February.”
“Your mother and I have been married for 30 years, Jacqueline – it wasn’t always easy, but we worked our way through it. You can’t just walk out!”
“I didn’t walk out. He did! And I sure as hell wouldn’t hold your marriage up as some shining example to follow. You spend more time arguing than anything else. And how many times did you, mother, come to me when I was a kid asking who I wanted to live with when you left, so don’t…” I lashed out at them just wanting to inflict pain. Both of them reacted as I knew they would, yelling at me at the same time. My head felt like it would explode any second, I grabbed it, pulled my hair, pacing two steps in one direction, then two steps in the other then finally, painfully just screaming AAAAAAAHHH!
The sound was agonizing, even to my own ears – almost unearthly, like the noise of a person or large animal being slowly murdered. A trance-like state overtook my whole being. My mother was up trying to hold me saying “it’ll be alright Jackie, it’ll be alright,” but I wrestled away from her. It was my father whose eyes I was focused on.
“What’s wrong with you? Are you crazy screaming like that? Snap out of it – straighten up now!” He was using his military voice. “Now I told you!”
He stood and took a step towards me. I wasn’t afraid of him; I knew he wouldn’t hit me. He hadn’t done that since I was in grade school when I’d turned, and spit at him after a spanking. He was just standing there, close to me, looking at me with a profound sense of disappointment in his steel brown eyes. I was no match for that look, and had to fight with myself not to crumble on the spot; summoning every fiber of my body together, I managed to straighten my back, pulling myself up to my full height, our eyes never deviating from the other’s face.
“Get a hold of yourself and stop this nonsense,” he commanded. “Are you crazy? Do you want to get locked up? No - now pull yourself together.”
My mother was still trying to comfort me, but I was having none of it. I stepped back from both of them, trembling inside, breathing as deeply as possible, trying to push the panic away. I finally sat back in the chair. They both sat again too.
“We’re just trying to talk to you Jackie. Now tell us, why… What happened?”
I could see I was going to have to give them some reason. I did not want to say anything that would turn them against Stephen. They loved him like the son they never had, but shit, I had to say something. Goddamn it I didn’t feel stoned anymore – the stupid-ass fairy creature took my high with her. After breathing through my mouth for several minutes, I regained some control. Looking at them I said, “Stephen has decided he wants a different kind of life – one he can’t have with me.”
“And what kind of life is that? Stop talking in riddles. Just say it.” My father
’s voice had come down several octaves, but he was determined to get a straight answer.
“He’s decided he prefers men,” I said still looking at them but with tears flowing down my cheeks.
They looked at each other – my mother looked away from us both. My father continued, “If he’s not a real man, then no, you can’t stay married to him, but if it’s you – if you refused him the pleasures of a wife and forced him…”
I had lowered my gaze, had leaned back in the chair, but my head bolted up at that remark. I jumped up out of the chair again and headed for the stairs. “That’s right, it’s my fault – it’s always my fault – I’m going to bed!” I retorted half yelling, half crying.
When I reached the top and turned toward my room I hesitated, calling for Satchamo to come with me. My mother yelled up the stairs to me, “Your father and I aren’t paying for a divorce. You’ll be disgraced for the rest of your life if you do that. You need to try to make it work – no matter what happened.”
“I don’t expect you to pay for it, mother!” I screamed back slamming the bedroom door.
~~~~~~~~
I spent the remaining days leading up to Christmas sleeping, wandering around stores, shopping for presents, sleeping some more, and generally feeling like shit. My parents and I had only spoken about inconsequential things since that night, my mother had a hard time even looking at me. Christmas Eve I went to church with her. While driving there she told me she did not want me announcing a divorce to the relatives; she would handle it if the time ever came. I didn’t have the strength to object, and just asked what she wanted me to say about his absence. I was to say that his mother had become ill so he was spending extra time with her.
Every day, all day, I’d watch the clock as the hands stood still. Their comments were ringing around in my head. My own disdainful thoughts fed on theirs as I tried to figure out how to live with it all. By Christmas, I had a charming little scene playing in my mind that involved getting ahold of Uncle Hank’s shot gun that hung on the wall in his study – Did the damn thing even work? Oh well, no matter, this was just a fantasy – taking it into the living room in front of the huge, perfect Christmas tree that I knew would be there and blowing my brains out – then standing back, watching all the women trying to pick the pieces of my skull off the tree cursing me under their breath for making a mess. What I couldn’t figure out was why I was always so intrigued with my skull exploding? If I really wanted to kill myself, I sure as hell wouldn’t do it that way.
Love's Illusions: A Novel Page 13
