Robyn Carr - The View From Alameda Island

Beth’s marriage wasn’t perfect. There is stress in the lives of a cop’s family; there is challenge in all relationships. She and Chip had money issues, kid problems—both of her sons were multiracial and hitting that puberty stage. Sometimes it seemed like a constant struggle. But they were happy.

But Lauren was married to an impossible jerk. Sad to say, but that trumped everything. How do you resolve yourself to life with a guy like that? No, he didn’t beat her but he did twist an arm here, squeeze too hard there. No, he didn’t get drunk every week. He’d had at least a couple of flings, but he was so repentant he even bought jewelry and took the whole family on trips so amazing the girls hoped he’d have another one. He treated people badly, told lies, believed he deserved slightly more consideration and a slightly bigger cut than anyone else, bullied his wife, put her down. And...he thought he was always right, no matter what. How do you explain that to your children?

When Lauren left Beth wandered into the den. Oh God, she should never have allowed them to put furniture in here. Chip was stretched out on the couch, Ravon’s legs were hanging off the end of the loveseat. Stefano was lying on the floor with his feet up on the coffee table. It looked like a frat house. Morty, their old chocolate Lab, had his head resting on Stefano’s belly. She was going to have to spray the room down with Febreze.

Something happened on the TV and all of a sudden everyone moved and cheered.

“Hey,” she said. “Why does this den smell like the inside of a tennis shoe?”

“This is not a den,” Chip said indignantly. “This is a man cave!”

“I beg your pardon,” Beth said. “It’s pretty gamey in here. Isn’t it a little early in the year for the Open? Isn’t that a June event?”

“This is an old one,” Chip said. “Ten years old. It’s a replay.”

She was completely stunned for a second. “You have got to be kidding me! My backyard looks like a war zone and you’re in here smelling up the place and watching a ten-year-old sporting event? Come on—get out there and clean up from last night before the sun starts to go down! I mean it!”

The boys dragged themselves to their feet, moaning and groaning, their lazy Sunday afternoon ruined. Chip got up, stretched and dropped an arm around her shoulders. “Thanks, babe. I needed a little nap.”

“Hmph,” she said.

“I heard Lauren’s voice.”

“Yeah, she was here.”

“She having problems?” he asked. “With Brad?”

“Why would you ask that?” Beth asked.

“Because you’re all prickly.”

“Do we have a perfect marriage?” she asked, looking up at him. Beth was five foot three and Chip was a towering six foot three.

He grinned. “I doubt it. But close. Because your wish is my command.”

“Yeah, right. After four hours in front of a ten-year-old golf tournament.”

“But see how much nicer I am now?” he asked. He kissed her forehead. “You can’t do anything about Lauren and Brad.”

“Promise not to say a word. She’s focused on Cassie’s graduation for right now.”

“Beth, she’s never going to do anything, you know that.”

But Beth was thinking, this time she might. And although it made her feel sad and guilty, she desperately hoped her sister would really leave Brad.

Beau carried a forty-pound bag of fertilizer on each shoulder as he walked along the trail of patio stones that led to the vegetable garden. There he found Tim working on building a nice large pile of weeds. “I thought I might find you here,” Beau said. “I brought you a present.” He dropped one bag on the ground and lowered the other. “What are you up to?”

“Just hoeing around,” the priest said.

“You’re hilarious.”

“I know. I haven’t seen you in a couple of weeks,” Tim said. Then he stepped over his plants and gave Beau a firm handshake that brought them shoulder to shoulder. “How’s life?”

“Manageable, but busy,” Beau said, returning the man hug. Tim and Beau had known each other since they were about ten. To say they took different paths in life would be an understatement.

“But is life any good?” Tim pushed.

“Lots of it is,” Beau said. “Work is excellent. I’m almost too busy. Things are quiet at home. I watch sports all night.”

“I guess the divorce is proceeding,” Tim said.

He shrugged. “It’s a little stalled. Pamela wanted to try counseling. I thought it was a waste of time that also cost money. But then Michael asked me why I wouldn’t give it a shot.” He looked down, shaking his head. “I don’t know why Michael gets himself into this—he’s twenty, a sophomore, has a steady relationship...”

“He’s trying to put his life together—the life he wants to have. He doesn’t want the one you and Pamela have. He wants to know how that works.” Tim sank to one knee and stabbed the bag of fertilizer, ripping it open, releasing the rank smell.

“You almost sound like you know anything at all about marriage, Father ,” Beau said.

“I’m well trained,” Tim shot back.

“Michael just needs to pay attention to the women he lets into his life, make sure there aren’t any red flags. Maybe he should be in counseling. Just for his future.”

“Not a bad idea,” the priest agreed. “Have you told him the truth, Beau? That you stayed for them?”

“I might’ve suggested that,” Beau said, sticking a shovel in the fertilizer and scooping out a big load, sprinkling it down the rows. “I told the counselor I’m there in body only. I don’t want to fix it. I want to end it. Our mission in counseling should be to help Pamela let go. So she sobbed for an hour, babbling excuses and trying to explain her change of heart. And there was begging. My head hurt for two days. It’s torture.”

“Stop going,” Tim said. He sat back on his heels. “Seriously, stop going. You are the worst victim sometimes. You can’t do this for her. It was her choice, you gave her many last chances. She needs counseling but not marriage counseling.”

“Well damn,” Beau said. “What about the sanctity of marriage and all that?”

“Everything has an expiration date, my brother,” Tim replied. “Really, I’m in the wrong order. I should be with the Jesuits. I’m living in this century. I can’t tell perfectly miserable people trapped in abusive and unholy relationships to stick it out just because the church prefers it that way and we promised to turn the other cheek and all that. I wouldn’t have lasted a year with Pamela.”

Beau grinned. “If the diocese ever finds out about you, you’re history.”

“Eh,” he grunted. He stood and started spreading the fertilizer with his hoe. “How about Drew?”

“Drew’s good. Graduating in a couple of weeks. I’m having a party for him—mostly his friends and my family. Will you come?”

“Of course, as long as no one dies or gets married.”

“Pamela is trying to get involved, combining families, throw in an ex who may or may not show up. I’m expecting Drew will get a card with some money in it from his dad—anywhere from twenty to a hundred, depending on his guilt. It’s so awkward, my family and I’m sure her family know the circumstances but we have to make nice, act like we’re at least getting along, look as if we’re not getting divorced. I talked to Drew about all the subterfuge and he said, ‘No biggie. Let her do it. Then we’re done until I get married, which I promise you will be many years from now. Between now and then, I’m probably not going to make her unhappy.’ You gotta love that kid. Everything rolls off his back.”