My number at the conference is . Feel free to call anytime if you have a question or a problem…
Dear Registry,
This letter confirms that I have lost my license. Since my license has been suspended for sixty days, I turn in this document in its place. Thank you for your attention and patience.
Sincerely,
Stephen P. Digges
Dear Franchise Tax Board:
Enclosed is the Head of Household Audit, which you requested regarding taxes on a poetry prize awarded me by the Claremont Colleges there in California. Also as requested, I have enclosed a copy of my divorce decree and the transfer of property given to me as Grantee. Enclosed also is the first page of my taxes for 1996 with the name of my tax person at H & R Block, the person who has prepared my taxes for the last three years, each year listing me correctly as head of household.
The only people who have lived with me in the last three years are my son Stephen Digges and, from 1994 to 96, my foster son, Trevor Clunes. I did not claim Trevor as a dependent during these years because the state did pay child support for some of the time he was with us.
Sincerely…
To: Trevor and Stephen:
DAILY STUFF:
1. Feed all animals and medicate dogs. (It is SO important that Buster get his meds between 7 and 8 in the morning! Hard as it is to get up, just do it, and then go back to bed!)
2. Water gardens (in front of house, in corner of yard, AND geraniums out back).
3. Walk dogs for a good 40 minutes, either by taking them to the stables, OR walking them down the street and back (Rufus MUST be on a leash on street).
EVERY TWO- TO THREE-DAY STUFF:
1. Change cat litter boxes.
2. Water plants in new room (take out back and water with watering can or hose).
3. Check upstairs dehumidifiers and empty.
4. Put sprinklers on for front lawn grass and new grass over in corner.
LITTLE REMINDERS, HELPFUL HINTS:
The more often you change the litter boxes, the easier it is to clean them up.
Take in mail, keep it all together.
Try to keep little things—cat balls, bottle caps, etc.—off floor since Buster might eat them.
Keep counters in kitchen free of dirty dishes and sticky stuff to keep away ants.
Hang out upstairs at night as much as possible and give Buster, especially, lots of affection. Feel free to change my sheets and sleep upstairs in my room!
Maria will be here on Tues. or Wed. so try to straighten up for her… .
Dear Mr. P.
I am writing regarding my son Stephen Digges. We are requesting that you allow him a waiver of his absences, which have exceeded the allotted twenty for the year. The courses in which he has exceeded twenty absences are listed on the waiver sheet.
Stephen has had a difficult but exciting and rewarding year. To begin, I was unaware, until his Accounting teacher Mr. H mentioned the possibility to me in conference this past fall, that Stephen, as a student with attention deficit disorder, could be part of ARHS's IEP. I had consulted with Ms. M last spring about Stephen's clinical and psychological evaluations through his therapist, but I was not told at that time that in the public schools such a program existed.
I would add that since January I have also employed a tutor who works with Stephen four hours a week.
I hope that you will carefully consider Stephen's progress, his maturity, and his recent upswing toward achievement. It would be a terrible shame for him to lose credit because of his absences. He is a spirited and gifted child who has taken a little longer than most to find his way… .
Dear Mr. C,
Thanks so much for your recent letter. Enclosed are Trevor's transcripts for this year to date, his basic skills tests, and a photo.
Your concern about his academic status is on the mark! And after talking again with his guidance counselor this morning, this is the situation. If Trevor successfully completes his credits at Wolfeboro he will be close to moving on to junior status. But he will still be lacking in credits if and when he has completed his work at Wolfeboro. Perhaps another summer school (at Wolfeboro again next summer?) will bring him up to his appropriate class standing.
I wanted you to know that I have spoken with the Educational and Instructional Director at ARHS to BE SURE that all credits from Wolfeboro will transfer back, and there is absolutely no problem on this. It might help, however, were you to call Mr. P as you offered, to confirm. Many times this year we have felt as if we were pushing against a system that, no doubt unintentionally, overlooked Trevor's needs. No IEP was in place for him, etc., and it took us nearly the whole year to see that through.
Though Trev has done poorly in school, a healing has and continues to take place in him, and as I tell him, this year he got an A in life! He has been feeling much better about himself, has always been wholly cooperative within the household, and now I begin to see a joy in living come through his eyes! He is VERY excited and committed to the Wolfeboro Program.
We look forward to hearing from you regarding a schedule, and many, many thanks for all you have done and continue to do.
Sincerely…
P.S. Trev is scheduled for his physical on Mon., May 15, so as soon as we have all the documentation I'll send this on. I am also hoping that the state will help to fund some of Trevor's tuition and have been working hard at this end to see this through, so if monies come in in fits and starts, please be patient! We will have it paid in full as soon as possible!
Dear Attorney Whitney,
I want to thank you once again for coming to Steve's aid. I would add that with this exception, he has done so very well in getting his life straightened out. He has worked hard in school and made the honor roll this semester!
Recall that his probation was completed a year and a half ago and since then there has been no trouble with the law until now. During his probation, as you remember, he did community service at the planetarium. I have copies of his work papers on file.
I should tell you too that Steve successfully completed driver's retraining education last spring at Holyoke Community College.
Secondly, though he had not paid the fees to reinstate his license, he had not driven during his 60-day suspension. This incident followed that 60-day period.
Also, the policeman who arrested him said that Steve was exceptionally polite and cooperative upon arrest.
I'm afraid I have the flu and am pretty sick or I would be there with you.
Sincerely…
To: Franchise Tax Board:
Before I pay the amount supposedly due on this document, I am to be informed of the results of the Head of Household Tax audit which your people are performing at present. When the results of this particular issue are laid to rest, it may be that you will need to refund the $500.001 sent you.
Please pay attention to former correspondence, documents and information regarding my account… .
How to set coffee timer so that you will have coffee when you wake up:
1. Set timer to Off.
2. Set coffee machine to On.
3. Fill coffee machine with water.
4. Put filter in and coffee.
BE SURE TIMER IS SET TO OFF,
AND COFFEE MACHINE TO ON
Wake up and smell the coffee!
Portraits of Kufus and Buster / Photos by Stephen Digges
Summer, 1995
The last gift I happen to give Stan before he leaves is a plum tree that he planted in our yard in Amherst. It's a stunted little sapling that barely survives its first winter. But in the early summer, our divorce pending, there it is, putting out a few white blossoms.
I decide to pull the thing out of the ground. I want no reminders of our life together, a life too full of departures. The sad little tree with its sparse sprigs is testament to the emptiness both of us lived with through the eight years of our long-distance marriage.
Wearing big gloves, shovel in hand, I hea
d for the tree one afternoon. I'm going to dig it up, blossoms and all, and toss it far back into the woods. At first I try simply pulling it out of the ground, grabbing the trunk with both hands, stripping as I do the few blossoms from the shoots. But it won't give.
I try again, this time heaving and shaking the trunk to loosen the roots. Then I pick up the shovel and begin banging it against the trunk, grab it again, and heave.
It's one of the first summer days, late June, most of the foliage out, the air alive with seed fluff and down, a day in which you sense the certainty of the green world. Memory for the stingy cold of the previous winter has almost disappeared, and there's an arrogance in you. You can be careless with the green.
I grab the trunk of the tree close to the ground and pull with all my strength, pull to feel the effort wholly, my weight pitted against it. I exert to the point of blood-rush blindness and deafness, groan and heave. I don't hear Stephen shouting until he's next to me.
“Mom! Stop! Mom! What are you doing!”
Stephen grabs my shoulders and I turn surprised and out of breath. It's Saturday. As usual, he slept late, and he appears now in boxer shorts, his hair sticking out at angles, his young face always younger upon waking.
“I'm getting rid of it,” I huff. “I don't want it in our yard.”
“It's just a tree!” he says, and as he speaks I witness my son's avocation, deep surprise at his mother who would pull a tree out of the ground in an attempt to even some score. He is ashamed of me, his beautiful blue eyes full of hurt; he seems to search past me to find some other woman inside my eyes, someone he can recognize and appeal to.
I let go of the tree and step away. Despite my efforts, it stands rooted, however stripped.
“Anyway,” I offer as I wipe my sweaty hair back from my face, “it won't give.”
As if to prove it for himself, Stephen reaches to it and gives the trunk a light tug.
“Ya,” he says. “I think it's okay.”
We stand silent a few moments looking at the tree, then at each other. Stephen breaks into a wide grin and begins to laugh.
“Mom,” he says. “What in the hell were you doing?”
“I was trying to get rid of this tree.”
“I know, but what were you doing?”
I'm silent. I don't know how to answer.
“Mom,” Stephen laughs as he puts his arms around me. “Never mind. It's just a tree.”
I hide my face, trying not to let Stephen see my tears.
“Aw, Mom,” Stephen comforts me. He laughs again as he hugs me, then picks me up and whirls me around.
“Come on back in, Mom,” he says as he sets me down. “It's okay to be sad, but we can't go pulling out trees, now can we? What would Ed say?”
“He'd say you're supposed to join me.” Now I'm laughing through my tears. Stephen picks up the shovel and steps back to let me go first. I hesitate.
“Go on,” he instructs. “Into the house, Mother. I'll make some coffee,” he says, “and put a few armed guards on that tree.”
Fall, 1995
Northampton's emergency room is crowded this Friday night. I've been waiting over an hour to see a doctor, a blood-soaked towel wrapped around my right wrist. I've left a message at home for the boys explaining my departure by ambulance, along with instructions not to approach G.Q., who earlier attacked me.
The boys weren't at home at the time of the attack. Now and then I dial the pay phone to see if anyone answers.
I hold the towel tight against my wound to keep the bleeding down. Impatient, considering leaving the emergency room to go home and tend to the wound myself, I open the towel to see that no, I'd better stay. The wound is bad, the flesh torn to the bone.
I'm confused about what has happened. Against reason my feelings are deeply hurt over the fact that G.Q. lashed out at me. It's true that we've begun to notice changes in him. At first we attributed those changes to the additions of Rufus and Buster to the household, not to mention the new fitter of cats, whom we kept, every one. No doubt G.'s territory was impinged upon.
And yet G.'s strange behaviors seemed to have little to do with the other animals. For one thing we can no longer walk him off leash because he runs at cars. Recently he bolted straight at a neighbor passing our driveway, hit the passenger side, and bounced off. I was sure the dog was hurt, but on the contrary, he picked himself up and walked back, undaunted, toward me.
Other times as he's sat with the kids on the floor of the living room, he suddenly stiffens. His eyes wild and remote, he begins to pant and growl and lick his lips. Recognizing danger, the boys have known to move away from him—in that split second he has lunged at one of them. Then he's walked away, as if baffled at his own behavior.
I took him to the vet, who suggested that when such an incident occurred I offer him one of Buster's Valiums.
“He might be having a kind of seizure,” the vet explained. “And be careful,” he warned. “This dog could be dangerous. He might just be crazy,” he concluded. “These dogs are overbred. In such cases it's better to put them down.”
I heard what the vet told me. At the same time I could not imagine that what he said was true, until tonight, when G. had lunged at my arm as I set his dinner bowl on the kitchen floor.
Perhaps I had unwittingly connected G.'s behaviors with Stephen's of a few years before, behaviors of aggression that have all but vanished, in part because of his love for this very dog.
G.Q. was the first being in a long time with whom Stephen authentically and positively connected. Through that connection his empathy for others was rekindled.
G.Q. taught me many things as well. The night Stan retrieved Stephen from the police station, I witnessed the dog's unconditional greeting and Stephen's response. And I had coined a phrase that night we've repeated—affecting cheer: “G. doesn't care about criminals …”
After the doctor cleans my wound and stitches me up, I try calling home once more, but no answer. A taxi takes me the ten miles to Amherst. Once home I mop the blood off the kitchen floor, wary of G, who greets me with the old charm and makes his way back to the living room, where he jumps up on the couch and falls asleep.
When they arrive home, Trevor and Stephen are wild with concern. Stephen makes us tea while Trevor paces, trying to make sense of what has happened.
“I don't know,” I say. “I've had many dogs, Trev But I've never seen this before.”
We both look over to G.Q. Sprawled out on his back in his bed, he snores loudly.
“He can't be attacking you,” Trevor states.
The next morning I call a friend of mine, the dean of the Tufts School of Veterinary Medicine in Grafton and a veterinarian himself. He and I became friends a few years ago.
We met through a review in the New York Times of a book I'd written. Frank read the review and noticed that I taught at Tufts on the Medford campus. Because the book, in part, described my childhood relationships with animals, the dean sent me a note through intercampus mail. In the note Frank commented on how much he liked the book, and he extended an invitation to tour the Grafton campus hospitals and wildlife clinic.
Since our meeting, Frank has come to our aid during our many animal crises. He faxed us information on how to care for our orphaned kittens, and he's kept an eye on Buster by way of sending us information regarding canine epilepsy.
Aware of the problems that Stephen encountered in Brookline, Frank also invited Stephen to visit Grafton. On one occasion we brought GQ. with us. Frank walked us among the horses, sheep, and cow barns, sparrows sailing the wide girth of the stables.
Like me, Frank believes in the significance and healing power of human and other animal relationships. As he listens to my story of G's attack, I am afraid he is going to suggest, as our local vet has, that G is too dangerous to remain with us. But Frank has another idea.
“I am going to put you in touch with our animal behaviorist here,” Frank says. “Let's make the appointment right away. There stil
l might be something we can do.”
We live close to one another and to the animals. Stephen and Trevor share a tutor on weeknights. While they work I get dinner ready—four packages of ravioli and two boxes of broccoli dumped in boiling water that steams the kitchen windows, two loaves of bread and a salad, all of which will disappear when we sit down together in front of a fire.
Charles and I take turns feeding and walking the dogs. He usually takes them out in the mornings and midday, while I set out with them in the evenings. Often Stephen or Trevor comes with me. It's a good time to talk about problems they are having at school, or with one another.
Some of our older cats come along on our walks even when winter's at its worst. They dart far out in front to lie in wait behind a bush. As we approach they leap out to surprise us. Other times we find them lounging in the dust at the roadside.
And there is the ritual of the laundry. For most of our last two years together it must be taken to the Laundromat, our dryer hopelessly broken, in pieces on the basement floor.
Once he pronounced it unfixable, the electrician who came out to look at it left in a hurry—happy to escape what must have appeared to him a madhouse of activity and noise, the dogs joyously sniffing and circling him and his tools, the boys at work in the adjoining basement room mixing and recording, our cats batting lint balls around him as Rufus, grunting and growling, would try to corral them; Rufus, whom we believe to be going through interminable postpartum depression regarding the cats. They're fully grown and these days they mostly taunt and/or ignore Rufus, who mothered them in their orphaned infancy.
Because we don't have the money to buy a new dryer, we drop our laundry off to be done by attendants at a local Laundromat. But when we pick it up, we find notes taped to our bags that read, Dear customer, we do not appreciate receiving dirty laundry that contains so much animal hair. Some of our staff is allergic.
The Stardust Lounge Page 11
