by Bill Clegg
Robert was a fussy toddler. Easily upset, quick to cry. After kindergarten he calmed down and became quiet. Smart as hell and skipped the fourth grade, but he never appeared comfortable in his own skin. Didn’t make friends easily. He had one friend from the neighborhood, Tim, a chubby, redheaded boy whom he played Dungeons & Dragons with and wrote adventure stories for, which Tim would illustrate with complicated pictures of four-armed, sword-wielding soldiers and magic fairies with no eyes. Robert never liked to share with us the little books they made. Kay and I would sneak peeks from time to time when Robert was in the bath just to check what was going on. Mostly the stories and pictures were pure fantasy. Occasionally you’d see something upsetting that suggested what our old family therapist would call displaced anger. I’m thinking now of the twin monkeys who got their heads snapped off by a flying griffin with an enormous beak. If the visual symbolism wasn’t obvious enough, Robert’s story described the death of the twin monkeys as necessary for the survival of the human race. That they would eat all Time, and without killing them the world would run out of hours. Impressive on the one hand for a ten-year-old, but especially disturbing since his room was across the hall from his twin sisters, who from their premature birth required lots of developmental and physical therapy and who ate up a lot of, well, time. Still, as rattled as I remember us being by that particular story, I don’t remember talking to Robert about it, at the time, anyway; or discussing with him any of the books he and Tim made. I’m sure we should have, just as I’m sure we should have done many other things differently. But I think we were grateful he had a friend in Tim, creepy and aloof as he might be. Together, they had a sneaky air about them, and they’d spend hours in each other’s room scribbling away and talking in a kind of code that Kay and I could never crack. Maybe all that sneakiness and escapism should have been a sign of what would happen later with Robert, but as a parent you just have no idea what anything means. On some level everything your kids do and say is in code. I’m sure some parents are expert at translating, but with Robert we didn’t know where to begin. Also, we had a lot of other things to focus on at that time. The girls needed attention, and when they were three, Kay was diagnosed with stage-three breast cancer. Robert was ten then and often left alone to fend for himself. Between the girls and chemo appointments and trying to keep afloat the real estate development business my brother and I owned, there wasn’t a lot of time to play basketball or go over homework assignments. The funny thing is that Robert was the one person, the one area of our lives, we didn’t worry about. He was so tidy and bright, so self-contained and quiet, that I assumed he didn’t need me as much as everyone else did. Sure he had a spooky side, but he never got in any trouble. I was putting out a lot of fires then, and because with him there was no smoke, no flame, no alarms, I wasn’t paying attention. Nothing that wasn’t on fire got much of my time, which was something he must have understood from an early age. For the most part, I took him for granted. That he would shower and brush his teeth in the morning, get dressed and pour his own bowl of cereal. You’d think I would have been grateful to have a self-sufficient kid. I think for the most part I was. But a few times he drove me crazy. I remember one morning loading the girls into their car seats while Kay sat in the front sobbing from a migraine brought on by the chemo. The girls were fidgeting and whining and making it impossible to buckle their seat belts. We were late for school, for Kay’s doctor’s appointment, and at the time my brother was threatening to sell his half of the business if I didn’t get in the game, as he put it. At the edge of all this sat Robert, cross-legged on the front step of the house, scribbling in his black-and-white composition book, writing one of those wild stories with fire-breathing turtles and dusty witches, completely oblivious to what was going on. I remember looking at him and feeling furious that he was exempt from responsibility, untouched by struggle. This is, of course, what you are supposed to want for your children, but in that moment it seemed unfair. What I wanted was to hit him, shake him violently, rattle his calm, and inflict some of what I was experiencing. It sounds insane, but a part of me felt that if I went near him in that moment, I might kill him. That’s how angry I was. I couldn’t stand it that nothing seemed to register with him, and I could not have been more wrong.
We sent Robert to boarding school when he was fifteen, which was when Kay’s cancer came back and had spread to her lymph nodes. This time it was stage four and we panicked. The girls were eight by then and we reasoned that if Robert could focus on high school away from the chaos, it would be better for him. He had few friends, and Tim had left for Harkness the year before. Robert wanted to go, too, but at the time we didn’t take the idea seriously. It was expensive and in the hills of Connecticut, where none of us had ever been. But a year later we felt under siege. We told ourselves it was what he wanted, and on some level by then I think we trusted his instincts about how he should be raised better than our own, so we said yes. What we didn’t know was that by that time Tim had become quite the little drug czar at Harkness. I don’t blame Tim, though for a long time I did. I’ve since learned that addicts are born, not made, so if it wasn’t coke and heroin at Harkness, it might have been liquor and pills in Atlanta. Who knows. What I do know is that when I got the phone call from the headmaster at Harkness telling me that Robert had overdosed on drugs and was in a coma at the local hospital, I thought it was a joke. I’d never seen my son smoke a cigarette or even sip a beer. He was a straight-A student and played trumpet in the school marching band. He was a homebody and scarcely made a peep. The headmaster walked me through the prior twenty-four hours—a hiking trip that Tim and Robert and another student did not return from, a search party, a woman calling the police when she heard voices in her barn, and finding Robert unconscious when they arrived and the two other boys running away down the back field. You need to come right away, the headmaster said, and so I did.
After I landed in Hartford, checked into the motel in Wells, and visited Robert at the hospital, I saw clearly that the situation could change at any moment. My sister and mother moved in with Kay and the girls, and we agreed I should stay put until, hopefully, Robert could be moved—back home or to a rehab somewhere. I was out of my mind. I remember that strange little motel—with a girl’s name, the Betsy—with bad art on the walls and orange Dial soap in the shower and by the sink. Not the little motel-size soaps, but the big, thick ones you buy in a grocery store. Something about that place was makeshift; definitely not a chain motel. It was clean and quiet and I spent the first two weeks coming back at night from the hospital and wondering how on earth I’d ended up in this room with flowers painted on the headboard and my son in a coma on the other side of this white, Norman Rockwell Connecticut town. Not until after Robert came out of the coma and was eventually moved from the ICU to the rehab unit did I see that motel room in daylight. This was when I met Lydia.
Dale
There is always one who goes away. This is what Mimi first said when Will sat us down his junior year in high school to tell us he wanted to go to college on the East Coast. His sister went to Reed, which felt like a world away, and his brother went to the University of Puget Sound in Tacoma. Both were within driving distance of Moclips, where we lived and raised our family: one north, one south. It was selfish of us, but we’d hoped Will would do the same. Don’t get me wrong: we wanted them to go where they wanted to go, but our kids have been our life for the last two decades—we’ve been a team—and the change is hard. Both Mimi and I are only children and had parents who died young, so our kids are it. Maybe we just got lucky. Our kids were always great, better company even in their teens than most adults we know. Maybe it sounds unhealthy, or codependent, but it’s true. Will’s sister, Pru, took an interest in gardening when she was nine and inspired all of us to start seeding vegetables and herbs in the winter to plant in the spring. She organized a system of mulching that Mimi and I still follow to the letter today. By the time Pru left for college every one of us could ha
ve showed up on an organic farm anywhere ready to go to work. And Mike, Will’s older brother, he’s been turning us on to all kinds of new music since he was in the third grade. Through Mike we started listening to indie singer-songwriters like Ray LaMontagne and Cat Power. Through Mike we first heard Moby and then later Phoenix and Daft Punk. He also introduced us to the music of our own generation, which we for the most part missed: Sex Pistols, Kate Bush, Joy Division, Blondie. Lately he’s fixated on eighties metal bands like AC/DC and Def Leppard, and that’s where we part ways. And Will, he was more alert to what was happening politically and socially in the world than any of us. From an early age he was committed to the environment, the homeless. Later, he became obsessed with Rachel Corrie, the activist from Olympia who was killed by an IDF bulldozer while protesting the demolition of Palestinian homes. He followed every beat of that story: after she was killed the censorship in New York of the play based on her writings, the stonewalling of the US Congress to block an investigation into her death. Will was fourteen and writing letters to our congressman, letters of support to the Corrie family, insisting our whole family attend the rallies and memorials in her honor. He was a committed kid. He marched, he sat in, he sang, he organized. And we joined him. Neither Mimi nor I had ever been terribly political, but with Will he just brought these issues to life, and his sense of urgency and injustice and responsibility was infectious. His brother and sister teased him a little, but before they left for college, and even after, they showed up to nearly everything he asked them to. They were even arrested with Will when they chained themselves to a homeless shelter in Olympia that was scheduled for demolition due to budget cuts and a plan to develop the land where it stood. Mimi and I got the call from Mike, and we dropped everything right away to bail them out. We were not angry with them or disappointed. Just the opposite. The three of them chained to each other in support of something they believed in was evidence to us that, as parents, we’d done something right.
So when Will told us he wanted to go to Amherst College, we were speechless. Tucked away in the hills of Massachusetts, the school might as well have been on Mars as far as we were concerned. Still, Will broke it to us sweetly, and the three of us cried and decided to call his sister and brother together to give them the news. It was the last year we lived in the house in Moclips. When Will left for college, we sold it to a couple who taught at the college in Aberdeen. They were newly married and planning a family, and what better fit could we have found. As teachers ourselves, elementary school, not college, we thought it was a good omen. We had bought the place from a widow who had never had children with her husband, but from what we gathered over the years, they’d been a tight pair, good people. We would still see her all the time, walking the road between the Moonstone where she worked and her sister’s place, but Cissy was never much for small talk. We thought she was on the rude side of things when we first met her. We imagined that maybe she was holding a grudge against the young family who barged into her home and took over, but once we got to know Cissy, we began to understand that this was just her way. She didn’t have a lot to say. After we moved in, she still came around, flipped the fuse switch when the power blew, jiggled the toilet just so when it wouldn’t flush, even would bring overflow of firewood and kindling from her place to our porch in the winters. The one time I tried to pay her for cleaning the gutters she turned her back to me and walked away.
As a kid, Will was mesmerized by Cissy. It’s understandable: she was over six feet tall and had a long, black braid with silver streaks the size of an anaconda. For a little guy she was an absolute giant. The summer we moved in, Will offered to help her clean the rooms at the Moonstone, and she said sure. He’d asked our permission and we just expected she’d say no, but when he came back from across the road and said he’d be back in a few hours, we couldn’t go back on our word.
She paid him a buck each day. He was ten years old, scrubbing toilets and making beds and hauling garbage. Of course he soon began to give us cleaning lessons. Among other things, he showed us the secret to creasing hospital corners when making a bed and how to fold and hang towels properly. We’d ask him what he and Cissy talked about. Oh, nothing, he’d say. Cissy doesn’t talk. Funny that a restless kid like Will never got impatient with that silence of hers. He was precocious, a talkative boy full of questions and opinions. To be honest, it’s impossible to imagine the two of them in the Moonstone rooms—him emptying wastepaper baskets and putting new rolls of toilet paper in the dispensers and Cissy scrubbing the tubs and vacuuming. But the two were quite a pair, and it lasted on and off until the summer Will turned thirteen, when he began to become interested in the Quinault, the Native American tribe that had an active and large reservation up the beach. After that summer, he spent most of his time getting involved in any way he could on the reservation. He did anything they asked. He scraped and painted garages, the canoe sheds, their houses. A guy there named Joe Chenois, an elder, took a shine to Will and told him he’d spend one hour teaching him canoe carving for every week he worked on the reservation. Joe led Will to be interested in the law. Joe had been instrumental in the eighties in leading the fight to reclaim thousands of acres of Quinault land. He wasn’t a lawyer, but he was an organizer and an activist, a leader, and he became expert in Native American laws, and the Constitution as it pertained to tribal sovereignty. Joe was Will’s hero, and when he died of lung cancer in the fall of Will’s freshman year in college, Will flew back to Seattle and drove down the coast to the memorial. We’d sold the house by then and it was the first time Will would stay at the Moonstone as a guest. Moonstone Beach, Moclips, and the history of the area was always more important to Will than it was to the rest of us. He’d read books on the massacres and the government land steals and tell us the stories with tears in his eyes. On the reservation they called him Little Cedar, a name Joe gave him the year Will carved his first and only canoe.
Lolly Reid was not the kind of girl we expected Will to fall for. We always thought he’d team up with the kind of girls he dated in high school. Outdoorsy, political girls. Earnest girls who were often pretty but unpolished. As disorganized and flighty as Lolly could be, she was polished. More beautiful than pretty. She had long blond hair and was stylish in a New York City kind of way. She read books but not about Indian massacres or fracking in the Catskills. She read novels, modern ones about families and secrets and love. She spoke French and Italian and knew a lot about contemporary art from her mother, who ran galleries in New York and London. After college, Lolly worked in the photo department of a fashion magazine in New York. She was sophisticated culturally but not politically and was the kind of girl who, we thought, was invisible to Will. They met on a study-abroad program in Mexico sponsored by Vassar the spring semester of their junior year. Will went to Mexico because he was fascinated by the government’s stewardship of the Mayan tribal culture, and he also wanted to refine his Spanish so that he could be a bilingual public defender. Lolly, on the other hand, decided at the last minute to follow her previous boyfriend into the program, but broke up with him a few days after they arrived, after she met our son. She explained this to us the night we met her, at a small restaurant she and Will liked to go to near their campus in Mexico City.
Who knows what draws people together? Lolly seemed unformed to us. Young. She was colorful and chatty, full of stories, but had few questions. She drew you in, but once you were there, you sensed she could vanish without warning. She had a way of telling two stories at once, looking behind you when she spoke. She seemed like someone who covered her bases, kept several balls in the air so she always knew she would have at least one in hand at the end of the day. She was clever, but not careful. She was, we recognized immediately, someone who could hurt our son. Around Lolly he was fatherly, patient, mesmerized. We watched him sweep up tortilla crumbs that had fallen down and around the table in front of her during the meal. He did this not once but three times, and as he did, she continued to talk, anima
te what she was saying with expressive eyes, passionate tones, and wild hand gestures, all the while absentmindedly spilling crumbs as she took bites of her food between words. Five months after that dinner, from the Moonstone in Moclips, he called to tell us he had proposed.
Lolly was the new Cissy, the new Joe Chenois, the new cause, the new Amherst. She was somewhere Mimi and Pru and Mike and I had not been and could not go. Will always had that knack for frontiers, even if they were in our own backyard. But marrying Lolly felt different, risky and final at the same time.
They both still had their senior years to finish and I’m ashamed to admit that Mimi and I hoped the distance between Amherst and Vassar would be far enough to make their engagement seem like a summer folly. It is true we never got to know her well. Pru spent a week with her before the wedding. She asked Will if it would be okay. She’d only met Lolly twice before, and she said she just wanted to be with them, help in whatever way she could. Pru called us each of those days before we flew East for the wedding. She said she was beginning to understand Will’s connection with Lolly. Twice we patched Mike in on these phone calls. It was like we’d sent an explorer to the new world and we hung on every word she used to describe what she saw and heard and how she felt. She described the old stone farmhouse where June and her boyfriend lived, the wide fields behind the house and the acres of trails on the Unification Church land, which their property bordered. She described everyone: June’s boyfriend, Luke, who was much younger and, she said, beautiful. His mother, Lydia, who was hard to get to know, a bit standoffish but not in an arrogant way, more like a hurt animal would be. And June, who she said reminded her of Will: strong, competent, organized, but, like Will, a little undone around Lolly, deferential, in awe.
