14: Just Like a Movie
Originally emailed on Jun. 15, 1998
Hey there.
This past Friday the boys had plans to go camping with their father and Michael. We spent the better part of Thursday evening getting them ready to go, as the men were going to pick them up by 8 on Friday morning. They were so excited that I had a heck of a time getting them to bed Thursday night, and finally gave up, figuring that if they were over-tired the first day of the trip, I wasn't the one who'd have to deal with them whining and fighting with each other on a long car ride. I did have to deal with hauling them out of bed in the morning, which wasn't easy, but by 7:45 I had them freshly bathed and breakfasted, and they were waiting in the entry way, sitting on their duffel bags.
They were still there at 8:15, and at 8:30 the phone rang. I muttered curses under my breath as I went to answer it, hoping in vain that Sam and Michael were just running a little late. It was Michael on the phone. "Louella," he said, "I don't know what happened. We've got everything ready to go, we loaded the gear in the car last night, and then this morning Sam says he's got too much work and can't go. We've been fighting about it all morning. What can have happened between last night and this morning?"
I said, "This trip was your idea, wasn't it?"
"I thought we had come up with the idea together," Michael said, "but Sam says it's been my project from the get-go, and he never wanted to go. And now he's going to stay home and start compiling data for the quarterly financial reports due at the end of the month! I can't believe it!" He sounded near tears.
Mark and Sam had snuck up to me by now. "Who is it, Mom? Is it Dad? When are they coming?"
I said, "No, it's Michael, hold on a minute," and then to Michael, "The boys are ready to go. They've even got bug spray on already because they don't want putting it on to cut into their time at the campground. Do you think there's any hope?"
Michael said, "He's not budging, Louella. Do you think -- I was wondering -- would you let me take them myself?"
I said to the boys, "If your dad couldn't go camping, but Michael wanted to take you anyway, would you promise to be good and obey him all weekend long?" Of course they said they would, so I said they could go with Michael, but after I hung up the phone I had second thoughts. So I went with them.
We had a good weekend. We went canoeing and sang boy scout songs and made s'mores. Michael amused himself, when other campers commented on what a nice family we were, by replying, "Oh, we're not the parents. She's the mother, and I'm the father's lover." But when one friendly woman asked, "But where is the father?" he said, "The father is a heartless prick," and blinked real fast about a hundred times. He was so emotional all weekend that I finally took him aside and said, "Look, Michael, when things like this happen I try to discourage the boys from feeling that their father doesn't care for them. If you mope around and burst into tears every ten minutes and call Sam a heartless prick where the boys can hear you, it depresses their feelings, too. If you could buck up a little, just for their sake, I'd be grateful."
After that, he put on a good face, but whenever the boys were out of earshot he re-opened the topic of his relationship with Sam. They've been seeing each other for eight months, and Michael loves Sam but is beginning to see sides of Sam's character he isn't so comfortable with. Angry at Sam myself for falling back into old habits and disappointing the boys at the last minute, I said, "Be grateful. I was financially dependent on him and the mother of two of his children before I found out what a selfish jerk he is."
"So you think I shouldn't pursue the relationship?" Michael asked.
"You've got to make your own choice," I said, "but don't have his children unless single parenthood is your lifelong dream."
Michael said, "Has he paid June support?"
I said, "He sent me a check that brought him current to the first of May. He owes me two months now."
"Mark said Sam used to always cancel their visits at the last minute, until he started seeing me."
I said, "I had hoped the boys hadn't managed to put that together."
"So you think he was just being a pretend father to make a good impression on me?" Michael asked.
"I preferred to hope that his relationship with you had re-awakened his better self, the part of him that was a good father when we were married," I answered.
Michael dropped the topic after that, but last night when he brought us home he carried Sammy, who had been sleeping in the car, up to bed for me, and as he was leaving stopped in the doorway and said, "I had a good time this weekend, Louella."
"So did I," I answered. "I'm glad we decided to go ahead with the trip."
He said, "I was wondering. If Sam and I were to break up, would you let me keep visiting the boys sometimes?"
I said, "Oh, Michael, they pick their own friends. You could see them as often as you wanted."
He said, "Thanks. That makes it easier," hugged me, and left. I am waiting to hear what happened next between them, but I think I can imagine, and I'm glad. Michael is a good man who deserves better than my snake of an ex-husband.
I emptied out our duffel bags and put a load of damp filthy clothes into the washer, and then checked my answering machine. The light was blinking 11 times, and I thought as I pushed the "play" button that I would hear Ed telling me 11 times how much he had missed me. The first two messages were indeed Ed, but the third was my sister. I knew as soon as I heard her voice that something was wrong, because we don't ordinarily speak. Her first several messages, left during the night on Friday and early Saturday, and interspersed with Ed reporting every few hours that his ardor for me was unabated by our separation, only urged me to call her as soon as possible, but by Saturday evening EmmyLou (though she prefers the more sophisticated "Emily") left this message: "Louella, I know you don't care for our family very much, and so it doesn't surprise me that you've been ignoring my messages. I assure you I don't want to talk to you any more than you want to talk to me, so you can imagine that it this is very important or I would not be trying so very hard to reach you. Please return my call at any hour that is convenient for you, though you always do things for your own convenience in any case, don't you?"
The next several messages were hang-ups, perhaps Em trying to catch me unawares, and then, after the answering machine's robot voice said, "Sunday, 9:30 p.m.," I heard my sister's voice say, "For christ's sake, Louella, this is just like you. You don't care about anyone but yourself. I have been trying to break this to you gently but I give up. Our mother is dead, our father is missing, and you have left me all alone to deal with police and morticians and nosy neighbors, and I don't care if I never speak to you again."
I sighed and dialed her number. When she answered, I said, "EmmyLou, I've been out of town all weekend. Tell me what happened."
"The mailman got concerned because nobody was collecting the mail all last week, and the newspapers were piling up. He called the police, and they went in the house, and there was our mother, dead five days in her bed, and no sign of our father at all. This was Friday afternoon. They're doing an autopsy to determine the cause of death. They suspect foul play, because some things in the house were knocked around and she had some bruises on her arms, but nothing bad enough to kill her. Apparently the car is gone, and there was no cash in our mother's purse, and she wasn't wearing her rings. But why the robber would kidnap our father the police just can't say. They actually seem to suspect him, but I told them he would never hurt our mother, he loves her too much. It's just impossible to imagine what happened."
By this time I was leaning my head against the cool plaster wall near the phone. I said, "Emmy, I beg your pardon, but it's perfectly clear what happened. They fought, he cleaned out her purse and took her rings to hock if he hadn't hocked them already, and he's on a bender someplace. She probably just had a heart attack or a stroke or something one night after he left. He'll call in a few days, from a drunk tank in some small town in Ontario, wanting her to bail him out."
Em said, "Louella, your low opinion of our family is the reflection of your own trashy lifestyle."
I said, "When is the funeral, EmmyLou?"
She said, "Not until after the coroner releases the body, that's for sure. And we should wait until Daddy gets back, if we can. He's probably just on a business trip or something we don't know about, and will be home this week. I think she wanted to be cremated, so that can be done any time and then we can hold a memorial later on."
I said, "Do you want help with the arrangements?"
She said, "No, I'll take care of everything just like I always do, but we'd all be so grateful if you'd condescend to put in a brief appearance at the memorial."
"Of course I'll be there. Just let me know where and when," I said. "And do you have a number for a police contact? I'd like to talk to them myself."
"Why?" Emily asked. "So you can tell them lies about our father? I don't think so."
"OK," I said. "Just let me know about the memorial."
"I will," she answered. "I swear, Louella, you sound as cool as a cucumber. I don't believe you have any feelings for our mother at all. For any of us."
"Oh, Emily," I said, "I have more feelings for all of you than you can imagine."
I called Ed over, of course, and cried on his shoulder half the night, not only for my mother being dead but for her sad life with my father. And then this morning I borrowed an answering machine from Harriet (who has a spare one of everything since she moved in with Nona) and had Ed record an outgoing message to my father to call my sister. I drove up to Chesaning and let myself into my parents' house through the sliding glass door with the lock that hasn't worked since I was in junior high. There was yellow police tape on the doors of the house, just like in a movie, and I peeled it off and went on in, just like the heroine in a thriller. I installed the answering machine in the kitchen -- my parents have never had one -- and stood for a few minutes wondering whether I wanted to walk through the rest of the house. I was still standing there when a police officer and my sister came through the front door.
I explained who I was and what I was doing there, and the officer said, "You're sure he'll call?"
I said, "He always does."
The officer said, "Your sister didn't seem to think disappearing like this was in character for your father."
I nodded at her. "My sister and I don't always remember things in the same way. My father is a binge drinker who periodically disappeared for a week or two during all the time we were growing up. My mother told us lies to cover up his disappearances, that he was on important business trips, and my sister chooses to believe the lies."
The officer smiled compassionately at me. She said, "I understand from your sister that you haven't been in touch with your family in some years?"
I said, "I haven't seen any of them since before my oldest son was born, in 1989. I have talked to my mother on the phone occasionally."
She said, "So, you can't be sure that this pattern you observed when you were younger has continued in the last eight or nine years?"
I said, "No, I can't be sure. But EmmyLou's description of events seems to fit it. I think my father will call here soon. He may have tried already. That's why I brought the answering machine."
The officer pushed the outgoing message button and listened to Ed. "That's my boyfriend," I said. "I didn't want to record the message myself, and I thought a strange male voice might have some authority with my father."
"OK, we'll leave it here," she said, "and check it periodically. Hopefully he'll call your sister soon. Have you gone into the rest of the house, touched anything else?"
"No," I said. "And I don't think I will. I've seen enough to know that nothing has changed." At this point EmmyLou came back into the kitchen and said to the officer, "As far as I can tell, all of her jewelry is there except her wedding band and engagement ring, and the emerald necklace he gave her for their thirty-fifth anniversary last year."
I said, "In other words, nothing's missing but the valuable stuff. All the costume junk is safely in the jewelry box. Did you check Dad's jacket pockets for pawn tickets?"
EmmyLou said, "Why, Louella, it's a pleasure to see you. I can see you've been eating well. I hear your husband left you for another man. I swear, I keep expecting to see you on Geraldo or Jerry Springer."
I said, "I think it takes more than a gay husband to make a seven-day wonder these days, EmmyLou. If you'll both excuse me, my boys are in the car, so I shouldn't linger." EmmyLou softened a little at that, and said, "I'll just walk as far as the door with you, Louella, and get a glimpse of my nephews, if you don't mind." And then I softened, and said, "Come on out and say hello, if you'd like," and so she did. She gushed over them, and they mumbled hellos and said they were six and almost nine, and yes, they're good boys in school, and all the usual, and then, as EmmyLou was turning to go back into the house, she said to me, "They're good-looking boys, Louella, if perhaps just a little too pretty. I suppose they favor their father in that regard," and my heart clanged shut like a bank vault, and I mean to keep it that way until my father is found, and the memorial service is over, and my life can get back to normal.
© Copyright 1997-2001 Su Penn. Design by David Dierauer.
