Sputterpub's Blog

Wayne got stuck being Mom’s main assistant. Junior mom. That’s probably why he never had kids, why he married a bitch who only wants to be served. I remember when he made his one strike for survival. I was 8 and he was 17. That’s when he began using his middle name. I never understood how my parents could name a boy Leslie. He switched to Wayne and said he wanted to join the Army. And Mom threw a fit. He got the name but not the career.

Bruce is the only one of us who has a real life. That’s because he was the emotional runt of the litter. He used to say Mom loved Wayne more, and Matt, and of course me. We all acted like it was a family joke but we knew he was right. Mom relied on Wayne. She totally babied Matt; he was the best-looking of us and she had some kind of Hollywood dreams about him. And then there was me. Bruce was awkward, kind of ugly, different. Mom paid him much less attention. Lucky boy.

I guess he had a sad go of it as a child, but then he escaped. He went to college. He stayed away. He married Nancy. They had their son and their house and their lives without us.

Okay, if I’m honest, Matt got away too. First into meth and then crack and then death. And now there are 3. Two really, since we never see Bruce.

Near the end of his visit, I tried to talk to Wayne about Mom. He was helping me prepare all her nighttime meds, so we had plenty of time. But he was as usual deaf/dumb/blind. I read somewhere that when there’s more than one son and a dominant mom, the first son never really leaves. Shit, maybe that’s my problem with Bobby.

Anyway, Wayne was useless. Just like when Dad was dying; he listened to the doctors as if they were gods, and he never listened to me. I know Dad would have lived longer if I’d been in full charge; that’s part of the reason I shut out Uncle David and Aunt Ruth. I don’t think Uncle David ever forgave me for that time I stood outside the hospital room door and wouldn’t let him in. Ruth sure hasn’t.

“I think part of Mom’s problem is she’s overmedicated,” I told Wayne. “Every time I take her in they add a new prescription.” But he wasn’t paying attention. Instead he told me how I have to be careful now that her regimen is so complex. Then he went back into Mom’s room, for 5 more minutes of adoration. He must have told her he loved her a dozen times. She loved him back, with her smug grin and pats from her gnarly old hands, and then started whining for me to bring her fresh juice.

Tomorrow

I know the shape of tomorrow. Every tomorrow, unless I do something about it. I’ll have to be here to answer Mom’s demands, to take care of 32-year old Bobby, to respond or not to Aunt Ruth’s bids for attention. I know I can’t count on Wayne for support. Bruce is gone. And Freddy, wherever he is, is as lost to us as Matthew was and probably just as terminal. It’s been over a quarter century since I had sex, and more than that since I had love. I don’t know whether I’m more sad or angry.

I have to get out. I have to escape this sorry life.

I could follow Matt and Freddy. I squirreled away Freddy’s last stash – I didn’t intend to use it or sell it but I remember feeling like I needed a secret, some sort of privacy, and I hid his drugs in the false drawer-back that Matt created when he was still living here. I could learn to use, and leave. It’s Mom’s house anyway; Wayne can move in and see how much he really loves her.

For that matter I could use Mom’s morphine. I’ve cut back on administering it to her lately anyway – she doesn’t seem to be in that much pain, or maybe I’m turning into a sadist – but I’ve been careful to refill the prescription when expected, so there’s a comfortable quantity here.

Or I could stop withholding it from Mom. Make it up to her by letting her have what I’ve denied her these last several weeks. It wouldn’t take that much. I’m sure even if it were discovered there’d be no doubt it was accidental. I’ve been so unhappy lately I think they all think I’m confused.

Then I could call Aunt Ruth. Give her the sad news. Let her know that Mom’s been sicker than we all thought. If I act sorrowful enough she’ll come around. Probably visit and start telling me what to do. Then I’ll rise up and show my anger. Finally. Maybe I’ll visit the medicine cabinet: make someone a special cocktail. Bitch.

Yesterday

I got another email from Aunt Ruth last week. I intended to answer it immediately but I couldn’t figure out what to say. So I gave it some time and as usual my intention faded. Now six days have passed – I’m sure she’s angry and it won’t matter what I say – so why bother? It’s not like I have nothing else to do.

She’s not really my aunt anyway. She’s been in my life all my life, but Ruth isn’t blood. She’s my aunt because she married my mother’s brother. But she and Uncle David were close to my parents till after Dad died, and I try to be respectful. She’s such a pest…

No matter what I say or write, Aunt Ruth won’t be satisfied. She’ll think she knows how to fix whatever, and she’ll fill me with “shouldas.” I think I’ve had enough of those.

My name is Barbara and I’m finally in charge. I’ve earned it.

I was the last born of my parents’ 4 kids, and the only girl. I’ll admit I enjoyed the early attention; for all of my childhood I was the family treasure. I was my parents’ princess, the sister my brothers all protected, the angel with the strawberry blonde curls and the pretty clothes and the smarts they all bragged about. Until I was 25 I don’t think they had any complaints about me. And since then: although I’ve seen some iffy looks sometimes, I think the criticisms I’ve heard have come from Aunt Ruth and Uncle David. Even my ex is less judgmental about me than they were and Ruth still is.

Wow. 25. I was 25 almost 30 years ago. The most surprising thing I’ve learned about life is how fast it goes.

Even then the complaints were totally unfair. After all, I picked Craig because of how well he’d fit with my family. If it weren’t for my parents and my brothers too, I would have gone away to college, met someone who rang my bells, had a separate life. But I was doing what they all wanted. I was staying close to home. Daughtering. Marrying to please them all. Then they decide they don’t like Craig and they start blaming me.

Too late. I was pregnant then with Freddy and Bobby was almost 3. I didn’t have a diploma or a job and my folks sure couldn’t support us. Shit: Mom never worked and Dad’s foundry job wasn’t exactly lucrative. Wayne worked at a gas station, Bruce was on the way to leaving us, and Matt had already dedicated his life to his drugs. Craig was my only option and I hung onto him till he couldn’t hold onto a job. When he took the last position, that construction gig in Arizona, it looked for awhile like we might make it. Enough money came in and he was away so much we started to get along again. But then he lost that and moved back in here … and well, looking back now, I see it was just a matter of time. The man drove me nuts with his cockamamie schemes and his slowness.

So for the last 25 years I’ve had no one but me. I’ve been taking care of my sons and my parents and sometimes even my brothers. Wayne and Matt anyway – Bruce became the property of Nancy as soon as they married. He never comes around. I’m in charge of this domain.

Now I’m tired. I figured I’d learn stuff once I started actually writing this journal, but I had no idea it would happen so fast. A page ago all I felt was anger, and now that’s been overrun with weariness. Mom’s asleep. Bobby’s asleep. Freddy is God knows where. I can continue this tomorrow.

Today

Wayne came by today and tried to take Mom out for a drive, but she was having none of it. She only wants to be here, in her chair all day and the bed all night, whining at me for what she thinks she needs. I know that sounds disloyal but the older we both get, the more I realize how long it’s been since I actually loved her.

Better not let Wayne read this. Fuckin’ Mama’s boy. Nearly eligible for Medicare now, and he still won’t challenge her. I’m a fine one to talk (write); I don’t either.

I guess he never had a chance. Mom was always demanding and overprotective and Dad, sweet Dad, worked so much he was only around nights and weekends. Besides, back then the men all trusted the moms to know what they were doing. Like girls are born mother-wise or something. Really: the only thing Dad did wrong was let Mom run the show at home.

Owen only got worse. He acquired the idea that he was doomed to alcoholism and suicide, like his mother and her father before her, even though he didn’t like to drink. His eating and sleeping slid even further off kilter, and he grew preoccupied with what he called obvious conspiracies in government and industry. He saw four different psychotherapists in the space of six months, and tried seven courses of psychotropic drugs.

I tried to be there for him. His family was exhausting but I wanted to make the effort for Owen. Yet more and more, I found myself hanging out with my friend Bill instead. He was a comparatively simple soul. It seemed strange that I wanted to spend time with a man I didn’t love, while I shied away from being with Owen.

There still might have been a chance. There might have been a moment or two, when Owen and I could have reached into our relationship and saved it. But that’s when his father took me out for coffee and bared his soul.

He parked the car outside the Dennys restaurant and we got a booth near the door. He ordered coffee and apple pie and, like Owen, he stirred sugar into his coffee first, before adding the cream. I drank mine black, and I’d ordered no food, so I watched him. He settled back on the bench seat, cleared his throat, apparently thought he’d try another posture, and shifted his upper body forward, elbows on the table and fingers laced beneath his chin. He made a pretty speech. He begged me to take care of his son.

I was stunned. I was floored to silence with surprise. That was before I knew how ignorant most adults are. It was one of those rare moments in life, alone with another person, when we are thinking poles apart. So it took me a few moments to comprehend. Owen’s father as much as said to me: “I’m too busy with myself right now. You’ll have to parent my kid.”

As soon as I got it I pulled away with revulsion, my back slapping the leatherette booth, but it took years for me to realize how his father had emasculated Owen for me. A long time later I knew our last chance was killed in that coffee shop, by his abnegating dad.

At the time, I went about my business and fell in love with Bill. Owen was interviewing his fifth shrink when I rediscovered the joys of simple lusty sex.

Owen wrestled his demons with faith and a vegetarian diet. He leveled himself. He gave up being rambunctious and brilliant, in exchange for sleep and a railing at the precipice. After he got used to speaking more softly and driving with his lights on, he settled in and embraced the benefits of humble labor. He adjusted to abstinence.

His sisters both grew up to be gay and in stable monogamous unions. Their father maintains that toxic relationships with their mother drove them to it, but everyone knows orientation isn’t a matter of choice.

I married Bill, had three children with him, and eventually left him. But I never regretted the marriage, and I really like the kids.

Owen spent some time on SSI after his bipolar diagnosis. He got his credentials once he stabilized, and he worked a few years as a substitute elementary teacher before returning to school for himself. It took him five years to finish his master’s. He hopes to have his doctorate in another three. Then he’ll look for a job. At fifty-seven.

I see him once or twice a year. I always feel fond when I’m with him and a little sad afterward. I can’t forget the other Owen, the earlier guy. I remember what that brain could have done.

Sometimes I wonder what life would have been like if I’d married him. I know now it wouldn’t have been the union of struggling great writers that played so well in my undergraduate imagination. But we might have had a child or two. I probably would have developed a financial district career somewhere, and he would have gone into teaching. We might have propped each other up at tough times, and maybe we would have written, individually or together. He would have driven me nuts with his little obsessions. I would have irritated him to mimicry with my self-conscious laugh. I might leave the house more readily. He might drive faster, and break some rules.

Then I remember a cup of coffee with his father, and feeling forced to agree to be Owen’s parent. One was dead and the other was preoccupied. I could never have married that.

Right. I couldn’t have. Not the person I was then. In the ensuing thirty years and in the parlance of my many therapists, I have given myself permission to be sweet. The person I am now might have been able to keep loving Owen. But young I never could have done it; I was too busy reacting to my own father and his unrelenting ideas. Given my dad’s expectations, young I could no more have been sweet than my brother could have been slim. But that’s another story about how things could have been better.

As far as Owen goes, his life never changes much after now. His story, for better or worse, is done.

The end was as simple as catastrophe. When Owen was twenty-two, his mother went from the kitchen to the garage, got comfortable in the front seat of the car with a lumbar pillow and her favorite family picture, started the station wagon engine, and opened the car window. The garage door sealed so well that it only took fourteen minutes for her to asphyxiate herself.

She had called her husband first. But they’d been through almost eighteen years of sporadic counseling and three brief separations, and he was used to her threats by then, and the fact is he opted not to leave work for her. Owen and Sharon and Sheila no longer lived at home, and they didn’t get calls.

Owen’s world fell apart when his mother died. It wasn’t so much her absence as the sudden removal of the foundation of his existence. Because even with all the fights and threats and estrangements, Owen had thought he came from a happy family. His mother’s suicide was an abrupt and undebatable statement to the contrary.

He was just twenty-two. He was a new college graduate, recently single after three years with me, on the cusp of discovering himself as a writer or a graduate student or a stud or all three. Actually, he’d been rather happy in our relationship – he’d only broken up in an impulsive week of wondering what it would be like to fuck someone else – and after two months apart and three unsatisfactory liaisons he’d been trying to patch things up when his mother started her car to nowhere. In the initial, crazy, chest-searing aftermath Owen made a dozen desperate telephone calls to me, and two fevered proposals of marriage.

I was moved but not toward a wedding. I first fell in love with Owen’s way with words on paper and stayed to appreciate his unruly passions, and I’d had several rough weeks after he left me. But I also had time to notice how peaceful the evenings were without his frequent attempts to discuss dissertation ideas, and how restful the weekends were without his plans for our improvement. I was shocked and sympathetic, but I rushed neither to his side nor to acquiescence.

And in the ensuing silence Owen’s insanity was first heard.

He mostly stopped sleeping. The dining habits of the whole household were off, so no one noticed that he wasn’t eating. And by the time I got there, for I did get there after a few weeks, Owen was no longer functioning as a man.

The house was a mess. No one had cleaned since the funeral four weeks earlier. The family had two cats and the place reeked of them. There was hair all over the kitchen counter and stove.

The refrigerator was stocked with canned drinks and the freezer held stacks of casseroles from neighbors. I couldn’t find fresh fruit. The potatoes had sprouted in their drawer.

I had to take charge. Somebody had to do it. I put nineteen year-old Sharon and eighteen year-old Sheila to work on laundry. I set Owen to vacuuming. I dispatched their father to the grocery store, with a list. Then I went to the bathroom and locked the door. I turned on the water, pulled down my jeans, and sat on the toilet. Leaning forward, elbows on knees, I sobbed for a minute into my own hot palms.

Then I peed and flushed and used the running sink water to splash my wet eyes and cheeks. I patted my face with the cleanest towel I could find. I think I even squared my shoulders before I returned to the family.

Within a day the place showed improvement. Postures straightened and glances were met. It wasn’t a profound turnaround, but restoring a little order to the household had a beneficial effect. Except on Owen.

Those first nights we tried every technique we’d ever used but he wasn’t able to come. I even offered to attempt a few ideas we’d heard of and not yet dared, but Owen was frustrated and self-conscious. We said goodnight but he couldn’t relax on the mattress and I couldn’t ignore his tension. We talked, caressed, hassled and wrestled most of the night.

His life might have been different. If his mother hadn’t killed herself, Owen probably would have married, produced, and reproduced. Instead he labors alone.

It’s not a bad life. He shrugs his shoulders when asked if he’s happy, twists his lips before speaking, and says like any fifty-four year old that it’s good enough as long as he doesn’t expect too much.

His home is a plain one-bedroom apartment near the campus where he studies philosophy. Its only ornament is a bronze bust of Newman. He gets by on student loans and teaching assistant stipends, so he doesn’t spend much money. His old friends claim he lives like a monk.

Owen rises from his twin bed at six every morning. He brushes his teeth and washes his face and then he makes his coffee, sweetened with a teaspoon of sugar and tanned with a plop of half-and-half, which he sips while he reads his Bible. He makes such a ritual of the procedure that it’s like a morning prayer.

At 6:45 he showers and shaves. He breakfasts on cheese and bread and he’s usually out of his place by 7:30, to his small office on campus or his spot in the library. He contemplates categorical imperatives and tries to develop new Christian ethics. He reads the same material again and again.

He tries to exercise but his knees are too worn for the jogging he used to do; most days he doesn’t get more than the walks to campus and back.

He’s usually home by 3:00. He resists the urge to nap then; he tries to correct papers or work on his dissertation till evening Mass. After that he makes his big meal: meat and starch and vegetables. He rarely goes out nights or weekends. He’s friendly but doesn’t have friends where he lives. He’s busy enough, though, and he sleeps okay.

His vacations are trips north to see his father and sisters, or backpacking alone in the mountains. He does the former out of obligation and the latter for his own punishing satisfaction. He doesn’t mind being alone but he still has a hard time around his dad.

You might say Owen’s doing all right. Things could be much worse. That’s what most people claim. Some even maintain that he’s doing exactly what he wants to do. They’re wrong. He didn’t choose all this. Things could be much better.

Owen grew up thinking his family was normal. He knew his parents fought a lot, especially when they drank, but his father was smart enough and his mother was pretty enough, and the Learys fit rather well into their integrated Bay Area neighborhood.

He was a rambunctious kid. Mischievous and very active. Owen was his parents’ first child and only boy, and his energy intimidated them. His two younger sisters were more agreeable and easy. Sharon and Sheila were a year apart, looked alike and shared a room; often they were treated like twins. They had their father’s wavy dark hair and stocky build. Owen stuck out in that family: lanky and impulsive, solo in his bedroom, flame-haired and potential as a match.

His gender permitted him to ignore much of the bickering. He tuned out and wandered away, usually to the fields beyond the houses and into investigations concerning caves and trees and rodent traps. It was left to Sharon and Sheila to watch their mother, gimlet in one hand and Chesterfield in the other, peel their father’s satisfaction away with her list of little bitters. Then they saw their father turn his attention inward, hunching, or else he straightened up, hissed “bitch” with nasty eyes, and stomped out of the room.

And drank. Often while their mother slammed kitchen cabinets and finished her gin their father continued sipping Jack Daniels, in his study. He worked for a newspaper, and he imagined he was like Hemingway, or Steinbeck. Or Salinger. Not J.D: Pierre. Owen’s father once worked for a man who assisted Pierre Salinger, and sometimes he tried to derive some status from it. He often emerged from his study petulant and sentimental. But Owen was usually away then, outside or in his room.

Owen grew up in that family, with his mother getting progressively sadder and his father responding with ever cooler concern and a self-protective hesitation, and he didn’t mark his parents’ degeneration any more than he noticed the aging of the family’s golden retriever or the fading in the color of the house’s exterior. He was devastated when the marriage ended.