He had always loved New York City—the energy, the museums, the restaurants, Central Park, the big library, St. Patrick’s Cathedral, the whole city. An added attraction this year was to be a meeting with Ernie Harburg, Yip’s son. They’d had quite a lot of contact, both email and telephone, during planning and rehearsals of the now ill-fated show. Ernie had been enthused about the project and had been very generous in filling in information that was not easily found in books. “If you’re ever in New York.…” So Mike called him a few weeks before we were to leave and set up a meeting time. He was thrilled with the prospect of talking face-to-face with Ernie.
Mike was watching TV when I returned to the room after the last workshop of the day.
“How was your time with Ernie?”
“He didn’t show up. We were supposed to meet in that coffee shop and he didn’t show up.”
He’d said the coffee shop was just across the street from his apartment, and I knew Mike had his address and phone number.
“Did you call?”
“No. He didn’t show up.”
“Did you go across the street and knock on his door?”
“No! He didn’t show up!”
“Well, maybe you could reschedule for tomorrow. Why don’t you give him a call?”
“I told you. He didn’t show up!”
On the flight home as I reviewed our time in New York, I was aware of how different this trip had been from previous trips. Mike’s usual pattern was to get out early for breakfast. He’d walk the streets, visit a museum, lunch in Central Park, maybe walk through Macy’s, enjoy the city while I was doing conference things. Later we’d go to dinner at a place Mike had chosen, someplace quintessentially New York, respected but not totally out of our price range. Typically we’d see a show that he had arranged for. This time, though, unless I was with him, he spent most of his time in the hotel room. I’d been the one to arrange a meeting with a longtime music friend of Mike’s. A workshop friend had invited us to see the Radio City Rockettes with her and her son, and we did that. But Mike had not taken the initiative for any of this.
When we returned home and people asked about our trip, Mike’s response would be “Wonderful! I love that city!” He might mention the Rockettes, or meeting with his friend, but mostly it was just wonderful.
July 2013
Dear Mike,
Matt, Leesa and 8-year-old Mika flew down from Washington for a week with the California family. The evening of their arrival, Dale and Marg joined us at my place for dinner. We sat outside with martinis and some version of appetizers, talking and laughing while we waited for the River Wok delivery. Once the food arrived, we served ourselves buffet style from the kitchen and regrouped on the patio. It was a balmy Sacramento night, a light Delta breeze, and an overhead crescent moon. One of those evenings when everything seems right.
It’s sometimes a challenge for me not to compare my little patio with the uneven bricks with the Gold River patios you and I had together—artfully planted, the large, sturdy glass table with plenty of comfortable places for eight people to sit. That evening we had to pull out a couple of folding chairs for our River Wok dinner. But really, my present patio served us well. The folding chairs, the smaller basic table, the funky walk down not-to-code steps and through the crowded garage to get to the patio—none of that kept us from enjoying our time together. We could still laugh and eat and drink and talk about what mattered. It turns out I don’t need nearly as much as we once thought we needed together.
Dale and Marg are now party central for our larger family get-togethers. They hosted a delightful evening that, in addition to those who had been assembled on my patio, included the Stockton cousins. Later in the week Sharon and Lena and Corry joined us and, still later, Beth and Cindi. It was truly a reunion. How lucky I am to be a part of this bright, funny, varied family!
It is a delight to see Matt with Mika. He is patient and playful and, at the same time, doesn’t let her get away with murder. She is full of energy and pushes a variety of boundaries, and Matt is firm without being punitive. You should be proud—you, Matt’s main role model for fatherhood.
Mika has not gone to see you with Matt and Leesa these past few visits. I know you would brighten for a moment, only a moment, if you were to see her. You would not be able to interact with her. She would be left confused, watching you walk your loop. I want you to have as many bright moments as you can, no matter how brief. On the other hand, it’s sad to think that her strongest image of you would be that of a demented old man. So I tend to agree with Matt and Leesa’s decision to leave her with me, for ice cream and DVDs, while they make the trip to Orangevale.
When I try to think of what you might want, the old you, I think you, too, might agree with that choice. I know I would. If and when—God help us all, probably when—I become an unpleasant shell of my former self, I’d prefer that the grandkids not see me, that the memories they’re left with are of the alive me, not the half-dead me. And Mika does have memories of you playing the piano and singing “Lydia the Tattooed Lady.” And there’s that wonderful picture of you dressed up in a long royal blue satinish robe with a very tall pointed hat, a wizard with a wand. Facing you is 3-year-old Mika in her sparkly shoes and pink princess outfit. You were both so engrossed in play that you were oblivious to the camera. Such a better memory for her than memories of a visit to you at Sister Sarah’s would be.
You, the real you, are alive in that little Mika soul. When I emailed to ask what DVDs she would like me to have on hand for her visit, I listed every Disney story available, along with a variety of musicals. She chose “Singin’ in the Rain.” I know she watched that with you on at least one visit to Gold River. Later, on that last ill-fated visit, the one when you went missing in the Seattle airport, and again in Walla Walla, you and she sat together on the couch watching “Singin’ in the Rain.” You’d already lost the capacity to know your audience, and you were endlessly repeating stories of Gene Kelly and Donald O’Connor, things way beyond her 4-year-old understanding. But she watched with you for a long time, seemingly mesmerized by the singing and dancing.
That was our last visit together to Walla Walla. I can see you now, sitting at the table in the breakfast nook of that spacious Craftsman-style house they’d rented from the college. I was sitting across from you, finishing my eggs and toast. Finished with her breakfast, Mika stood at the end of the table, looking at you as if trying to figure things out. Finally she said to you, “I heard you have trouble remembering.” You, who had never admitted to any such trouble to the rest of us, said, “I forget things sometimes. But I’ll always remember you.”
On this trip, after watching “Singing’ in the Rain” for the second time, Mika asked me, “Do you have ‘American in Paris?’” Somewhere within her, probably within her DNA, I believe she will also always remember you.
We will have been married for 46 years this coming Monday. The day will be like any other. Nothing to distinguish it except that memories of that long ago wedding day may push their way forward. I’ll let them linger, but not for long. The contrast between early happy memories and now is heartbreaking. It breaks my heart that we’re not celebrating together. That we’re not traveling, or exploring new restaurants, or having people in for dinner, or going to concerts, or sharing books or, together, watching this amazing time for Subei as she makes her way to college, or any of the other things we might reasonably have expected for our retirement years.
On this coming anniversary, I will take a moment to honor you. To honor what we had together. And I thank you for somewhere around 38 good years. I wouldn’t trade them for anything.
Still yours,
Marilyn
NOT SUCH A MERRY CHRISTMAS
December 2007
Ever since Mike and I married in 1967, we’d hosted the family Christmases. Mike loved Christmas. The music. Decorating. Buying and wrapping presents. Making our traditional Christmas lasagna. Da
le’s birthday is on Christmas day, and Mike always took great pleasure in coming up with some over-the-top fancy dessert for that part of the celebration. The most memorable outrageous dessert he accomplished was the Baked Alaska of 1985. With such fancy recipes, Mike put everything together, carefully following each detailed step, and I walked around behind him, cleaning up and putting away. On that occasion, everything went as outlined in the Gourmet magazine recipe until he poured the ¼ cup of rum over the top and it didn’t light. The next pour was more generous, and flambé it did. Mike carried the inferno to the table singing happy birthday to the ooohs and ahhhs of the gathered celebrants. I stayed in the kitchen dousing the flaming dish towel.
It was the tradition to gather at our house for Christmas Eve. Some years we did a big dinner both on Christmas Eve and on Christmas Day, but this year, 2007, we decided to make it easy on ourselves and have an early Christmas Eve dinner at a nearby restaurant before exchanging gifts back at our place.
Things took a turn at dinner when Mike asked Ashley, our 15-year-old granddaughter, how she was liking Rio Americano High School. She said she didn’t like high school and she’d shifted to independent studies through a local charter school. When Mike referred to her as a dropout, it was clear she was hurt by his remark. Mike had been totally enamored of her, and she of him in her younger days. Her teenage years were a challenge for them both, but I was surprised and saddened by the hurtfulness of Mike’s accusation.
Later in the evening, presents opened, dessert served, Mike started on a rant about how any parent who would let their kid go to independent studies should have the kid removed from the home.
“Traditional high schools don’t work for everyone, Mike,” Jeannie said.
“Well, they should!”
He went on to say that kids shouldn’t be allowed to attend alternative high schools. It was a waste of time. They didn’t learn anything. And on and on. When he finished his rant, he went upstairs to bed. The rest of us sat stunned. Three of us—Dale, Jeannie and I—had taught for decades at alternative high schools. We had seen kids who had been on the verge of dropping out do some spectacular turnarounds. Small classes, more choices for study, a sense of community, close and caring guidance, worked quite well for many who had not been able to fit into the large school machine. No, they couldn’t do high school sports there, or be in a chorus, or on debate team. But they got a program more in keeping with their own needs.
“How could he say that?” Jeannie asked. “How could he say that to us?”
I just shook my head. I didn’t get it.
That night I did something I had only done four or five times in our whole lives together. I slept on the couch. Well, I didn’t exactly sleep, but I stayed on the couch during sleep time. The few other times I had gone elsewhere to sleep, Mike had appeared after a few hours, saying something like, “Let’s talk. I miss you.” This was the first time he didn’t come to get me, the first time I’d stayed away all night long.
Early the next morning, Mike was downstairs finishing the cleanup. I showered, then joined him. Sharon, Doug, Subei, and Lena were still sleeping. The others wouldn’t arrive until early afternoon.
“Come for a walk with me,” I said.
We walked in silence, a short way down the nature path that winds through Gold River and ends up at the edge of the American River. It was a beautiful, clear, sunny day.
I took Mike’s hand and led him off the path. We stood under one of the many giant oak trees and I began telling him how unhappy I’d been with his behavior. I mentioned his hurtful remark to Ashley.
“Did you see the look on her face when you said that?” I asked.
I said he was positively rude to our guests, and to me, when he was so aggressively demeaning of alternative education. “It was as if you were saying our work counted for nothing.”
He started in on other things, as if he’d not heard me. He was angry at the possibility that someone might bring a Coke can to the table and mar the beautiful setting he’d laid out.
“We can pour the Coke into a glass, put the can in the kitchen,” I suggested.
He was angry that Cindi wouldn’t help with cleanup.
“All we have to do is ask.”
The more I offered solutions, the angrier Mike became. There we were, on that beautiful Christmas morning, in that beautiful setting, Mike yelling, me crying.
“Whatever happened to the kind, gentle husband I married?” I choked out.
“I’m not kind! I’m not gentle!”
“I can see that.”
Eventually I said to him, “Let’s just get through the day without ruining everyone else’s Christmas. It’s always been a fun gathering. Something we’ve offered to family and friends for decades. Let’s not ruin it. Just for today,” I asked.
A young family, boy on a tricycle, girl in a stroller, came walking by.
“Merry Christmas,” the dad called out.
“Merry Christmas,” the mother joined in.
“Merry Christmas!” Mike said, all light and warmth. “Beautiful day, isn’t it?”
“Beautiful,” the adults responded.
I was beginning to think that Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde had nothing on Mike.
Dinner went smoothly, though I was constantly aware that Mike’s anger was just under the surface. That became obvious as we heard news of a tragic event that had taken place at the San Francisco Zoo late Christmas afternoon. A 243-pound Siberian tiger, Tatiana, had escaped from the tiger grotto, killed one 17-year-old young man and injured two brothers, one 19 years old and the other 23. When police arrived, the 17-year-old was already dead, and the older brother was lying on the ground with cuts on his face, cornered by the tiger. The four police officers, who were yelling, caught the tiger’s attention and she advanced toward them. All four fired their handguns, killing the tiger. Two witnesses said the three young men had been taunting the tiger. Not smart, or kind, but hardly worthy of a death sentence.
Dale, Mike, and I were in the kitchen, talking about what a sad event that was. The loss of the young man’s life, the death of that beautiful tiger, the likely complications, legal and otherwise, it meant for the zoo.
“They shouldn’t have killed that animal,” Mike said.
“What could they do?” I asked. “It was coming after the officers. It was near the cafe where a few people were still at tables.”
“I don’t care. They shouldn’t have killed her!”
“But Mike,” Dale said, “what if you had been at the zoo with your grandkids and an angry tiger was on the loose?”
“They shouldn’t have killed that tiger!” Mike shouted and left the room.
Later Dale asked if I thought Mike believed the tiger should not have been killed, or if he was just taking an opposite stance. I couldn’t say. I no longer had any idea of what Mike really believed as he tossed extreme, dogmatic statements into a conversation.
Late Christmas night, with everyone gone and Mike in bed, I sat at the dining room table, thinking about the many people who had gathered around it for holiday meals and so many other less crowded dinners. Had the years of laughter and serious conversation somehow seeped into the grain of the wood? How would it be not to gather around this table at Christmastime?
The past two years of growing distance, dissatisfaction, and anger were wearing on me. I began thinking about the details of divorce or of a legal separation. Although Mike seemed to love me less, it was also apparent that he needed me more. I wondered how he would do without me. Well … he wasn’t doing very well with me either. As for me, I was convinced I’d be better off without Mike’s constant emotional turmoil, without the oppression of his black cloud of depression. I was banging my head against a wall, trying to make things better for Mike, and failing. Maybe it was time for me to jump out of the increasingly hot soup pot.
I looked around at our accumulation of china and crystal. Mike could have it all. He cared more a
bout it than I ever did. I’d take the pottery set we’d chosen ages ago as we’d prepared for a life together. He could have the silver. I’d take the stainless steel.
I wandered into the living room and curled up in front of the fire on what we referred to as our “martini” couch. Newly ensconced in Gold River, back around ’98 or ’99, while we wandered through a furniture store in search of a small, occasional table, a big, bright, overstuffed couch caught our attention. I don’t remember who moved toward it first, but we both ended up sitting on it, leaning into the supportive back, leaning into the heavily padded arms. It was unusual for us to gravitate toward the same piece of furniture. Mike usually wanted a more formal style, while I was drawn to things more casual and practical. We bought it right then. No second thoughts. No pros and cons. Who would take the couch?
The couch question moved me onto thoughts of where we each might live. Mike had come to glorify Los Angeles and to resent living in Sacramento. Perhaps he would move back to LA. I would find a much smaller place in Sacramento. But we were already living close to the financial edge. How could we afford two separate places? And how would that be for our kids and grandkids if we split up?
We were generally compatible roommates, easily sharing household chores. Maybe that should be my relationship goal. Forget love, support, deep communication. Settle for a decent roommate. My 2008 New Year’s resolution was to maintain low expectations.
The day after Christmas I told Mike we wouldn’t be having it at our house the next year.
“We’ve always had Christmas!”
“Did you enjoy this Christmas?”
“Yes. I always enjoy Christmas!”
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