Дуглас Кеннеди - Five Days

But the way we talked about words, the way he got me to recite that poem by Frost, the way this man — who struck me initially as rather gray and fusty — suddenly came alive when we got discussing matters literary. He really seemed to get me on a level that.

Oh, will you listen to yourself. ‘He got you?’ Now you sound like an adolescent who’s met the fellow class geek and is dazzled by the fact that he seems genuinely interested in what you yourself so value.

And what is so wrong with meeting someone who actually thinks there is worth in language spoken and written? And why the hell are you classifying yourself and Richard as geeks?

Because I married a man who told me once he feared his son had ‘inherited the geek gene from his mom’.

Of course, I never said anything about this remark (made just before Ben had his breakdown and was already displaying signs of fragility). Of course, when Dan saw my shocked expression in the wake of this comment, he then backpedaled, telling me he was just jesting, ha-ha. Me being me I let it drop. But it has nagged at me since. Because it struck me as so unkind. And because, before that, Dan had never done unkind.

And now.

Once contempt is finally articulated in a marriage, it never really stops.

Bing.

Another text on my phone.

Hey Mom — weird thing happened today. Out of nowhere Allison dropped by my studio.

Oh God. Why do manipulative heartbreakers always come back to wreak more havoc? I read on.

She was being all-friendly. Saying what a brilliant artist I am. Making really complimentary noises about the new painting I’m working on. Dropping all these hints that she really missed me. I know you’re going to say not to go near her. But the thing is, I want to. Even if I get burnt again. Maybe will be a bit more flame-resistant this time. No lectures, please, but would like to know your thoughts. B xxx

Oh God. Allison the Arch Manipulator. Having aided and abetted my son’s breakdown she now has probably sniffed out the fact that he’s gotten over her and is back painting. So, naturally, she has to see if she can inflict more damage on him. But, reading through Ben’s text around five more times, what intrigued and pleased me most was the hint that he knew she might do her best to hurt him, but he could handle it. Part of me wanted to tell him: Slam the door in that vixen’s face. But I knew that Ben would interpret this as far too maternal, edging perhaps into the puritanical. Ben saw himself as a bohemian — and one who reacted badly when lectured on morality or the need to ‘be responsible’ or act like ‘some dull asshole who sells insurance’.

I thought about phoning Ben right back — he never got to bed before three on most nights — but also knew that this was not a wise idea. When Ben wanted to talk he’d phone me. When he wanted to limit the communication to the written word he’d email. When he wanted an immediate response — without direct conversation — he’d text. So I resisted the temptation to dial his number. Instead I punched out the following message:

Ben — all cliches are true, especially: leopards don’t change their spots. I think she’s toxic. But I am not you. If you feel you can get involved again — and not get hurt — then by all means enjoy the sex, but don’t think it’s romance, let alone love. Those are my words of wisdom for Friday night. Call me whenever you want to talk. I love you — Mom

As always I read through the text several times before sending it, making certain it didn’t sound too cloying. I hit the ‘send’ button, then sent a text to Sally:

Hi hon — in Boston. Hotel isn’t much, but nice having a little time away. Hope you’re having a chilled weekend. You deserve some serious downtime. Around if you need me. Otherwise see you Sunday night. Love — Mom

Again I scrutinized the message carefully before sending it, taking out the word ‘chilled’, as that was an expression Sally used all the time (as in: ‘I so wish I could chill’ — something she genuinely found hard to do). Coming from me it would sound a hollow note, as if I was trying to use her generation’s argot and could stand accused of trying to be ‘with it’ (to use my generation’s argot). Just as I know that Sally certainly didn’t need some ‘serious downtime’. She needed seriousness.

Children: the ongoing open wound. And the two people without whom life would be unimaginable. As I once told Sally when she went into a ‘I know you’d prefer a brainier daughter’ routine:

‘I have never — and would never — think that. You are my daughter — and I love you without condition.’

‘Love always has conditions.’

‘Who told you that?’

‘I just know it.’

‘Well, between a parent and a child. ’

‘You mean, your mother loved you unconditionally?’

Ouch. Though I hadn’t talked much with Sally about my mother’s pronounced chilliness, I did drop some hints to her that our relationship was less than a close one (even though I remained a dutiful daughter until the end of her life). Yet Sally had far more emotional insight than she gave herself credit for.

‘My mother was my mother,’ I replied to her rather tart (and painfully acute) question. ‘But I am not my mother — and I do love you unconditionally.’

‘I’ll quote that back to you when you find me smoking crack.’

‘That will never happen.’

‘How can you be so sure?’ she asked.

‘Because if given the choice between five hundred dollars a week on drugs and spending the same amount of money on clothes. ’

‘I’m going with the clothes.’

We both laughed.

‘You know, Mom, sometimes you can actually “do” cool.’

High praise from my daughter.

The text scoured for any possible tricky phrases, I hit the ‘send’ button, then tossed my cellphone on the bed, kicked off my shoes, and collapsed backwards against the synthetic floral bedspread. I closed my eyes.

Bing. A text. From Ben.

Mom — never thought my mother would say have sex with someone and dump her at first sign of trouble. Know if I start I might get smitten again. That’s the thing about love, right? You have to take risks. Which invites possibility of hurt. So — is it potential for pain, or caution, hesitation, no risk? Am sleeping on it. B xxx

My son the philosopher. Reading through his text again I couldn’t help but marvel (maternal pride talking once more) at the way Ben could get to the heart of the matter when it came to the nature of choice. Especially the choice that sends you onto a little island of safety that becomes sterile and confining.

‘Yep. Followed Dad right into the family firm.’

Out of nowhere that comment popped into my head. But when is anything ‘out of nowhere’? Especially as Richard had been there, seated opposite me, much of the evening. Ever since then, he’d been clouding my thoughts.

You have to take risks.

My son the purveyor of uncomfortable, ever-so-evident truths.

I sat up. I reached into my pocket and dug out the card that Richard had given me — the card with his cellphone number. I picked up my phone. I sent a text.

Sorry about hasty exit tonight. Not my best moment. As contrition, how about lunch in Boston tomorrow? Should be able to meet around 1 p.m. Any thoughts? Best — Laura

I hesitated for a moment before hitting ‘send’. But less than a minute after it was dispatched, bing — a reply:

Laura — no need to apologize. I had a lovely evening. And am happy to meet you for lunch tomorrow. I’m buying. Will make a reservation and text details anon. So — can I say this? — it’s a date. Best — Richard

I smiled. After all my objections before when he had dropped that word, now.