Seventeen
In a 1989 study, the Kinsey Institute conducted a survey of 1,974
American adults. Here’s where those adults got their sexual information growing
up: friend (42%), mother (29%), books (22%), boyfriend or girlfriend (17%), sex
education (14%), magazines (13%) – and in seventh place, at 12%, fathers.
Thirty-seven percent of married men said they’d had affairs, 29 percent of
married women.
And this: only twenty
percent of divorces were caused by infidelity or adultery. “Disagreements about
money, family and personal goals, how to spend nonwork hours, and other
nonsexual conflicts are the most commonly stated causes of divorce.”
I’m reduced to renting a car and spying on my own children. The drive
is beautiful, ridges of granite knife-sharp against the blue. I feel guilty,
enjoying it so much, but perhaps I am due. I reach the lake, head eastward past
summering ski runs, then back uphill toward the sprawling Zwei cabin. (Funny
thing about that word; in ski country, even a five-bedroom house is a “cabin.”)
I edge the nose of my
temporary compact around the corner, and take note of the silver SUV in the
driveway. It’s difficult to stop, so close to my semi-abducted children, but
the reasoning scientist pops up once again to have his way with me. Assuming
your in-laws have assembled a ruse to shelter Laura and Marcus from the truth, he says, your sudden appearance would do nothing but harm.
I swing a yooey and
settle into a turnout a block away. My only chance is to speak to Richard
alone, so I’m betting he’ll take off on an errand. Then I’ll tail him to some
grocery store and reveal my presence. I have the Sunday Chronicle, a thermos of coffee and a sack lunch to see me through. And yes, I
realize I’m on a stakeout.
An hour goes by. I’m
down to the last letter in the crossword when a wall of silver flashes by. In
the receding squares of window I pick out Darlene’s bundled hair, plus enough
backseat limbs to indicate one Laura, one Marcus. I am considering this sudden turnabout
– dast I knock at the door? – when a loud rap defibrillates my heart. It’s
Richard, peering in at the passenger-side window. I fumble for the button and
roll it down. He looks amused, but not necessarily happy.
“I sent them off for
pizza,” he says. “One of those places with Skee Ball and Wack-A-Mole and such.
Come on up to the house.”
“How’d you know I was
here?”
“I’ve had this cabin
thirty years. I know a strange car when I see one. Besides, I was expecting
you.”
I look at him over the
car-roof. “Why?”
“Because we’re the
men,” he says. “And once the shitpile gets this high, it’s up to us to shovel
it.”
He heads up the hill.
I follow, feeling like a schoolkid headed for the principal’s office.
The Zwei cabin sits atop a ridge, affording a view that hits you like
icewater to the chest. The effect is magnified by the living room window, which
is basically a wall of glass. I sit on the monster leather couch so I can take
it in. Richard hands me a root beer – made by a microbrewery in Sacramento. He
keeps them on hand just for me, just so the alcoholic can feel more at home. He
settles into an armchair with a bottle of beer.
“You’d think I’d get
tired of this vista. I never do.” He takes a swallow, lets out a cleansing
sigh, then begins his story. This is every bit the closing argument.
“When Jessie was four,
she arranged a strip show in the tool shed. Had a curtain made out of old
sheets, a couple of flashlight spotlights, and pasties made out of Band-Aids
and pipe cleaners. I didn’t find out till years later, when a friend of hers
was telling old tales at a Christmas party. Apparently, the show was broken up
by the ice cream man - the power of the Fudgesicle, at that age, still
outranking that of the naked ta-ta.
“In junior high, when
the hormones hit, I knew we had trouble on our hands. The way the principal
told it, Jessie would chase some boy around the schoolyard, knock him down, and
demand to see his wee-wee.
“Her mother tried the
zero-tolerance game, but I could see where that was going, and I wasn’t ready
to be a grandfather. When Jessie was fourteen, I sat her down and told her
everything – and I mean to say Tab A, Slot B everything. Then I handed her a jumbo box of condoms, and told her that any boy
who refused to use one was not good enough for her. Then, I took out a Polish kielbasa and demonstrated the application of said
condoms.”
Despite the
seriousness of the situation, I find myself laughing.
“Yes. It is funny,” he
says. “But it was necessary. Jessie had boyfriend
after boyfriend, but she never got pregnant. Never kept any of those boys very
long, either. I think she scared ‘em off.
“’Course, when she got
to thirty-five and I still wasn’t a grandfather, I was
beginning to think that I had done too good of a job. But then came you, our
Prince Charming. Still, I worried about Jessie’s previous… habits, and I could
see the effects of her battling them off. The more she suppressed her
sexuality, the more she also squashed her sense of humor. She used to have one,
you know.”
I think about our
first few dates, filled with laughter. “Yeah.”
“She became a bitch,
just like her mother, with one important difference. Darlene’s a bitch to
everyone else, but not to me – and in the bedroom, she is the most generous of
women. I don’t need details, Hop, but how were things for you and Jessie, say,
a year ago?”
“Pretty dry.”
“That was my guess. It
seemed to me that Jessie was overcompensating, and I’ll tell ya, it’s like
pulling back a rock on a giant slingshot. Sooner or later, that sucker’s gonna
fly, and it’s going to do some damage. When Jessie showed up on that porn
site…”
“About that porn
site,” I say. “I need to tell you something. After the eye incident, I saw the
need to calm Jessie down, or at least distract her. So I arranged for a friend
of a friend to… have a go at her. As it turns out, he’s also the guy who runs
‘Horny Housewives.’”
“I see.” Richard rubs
his mustache. “But she did appear on the site voluntarily.”
“As it turns out,
yes.”
“Okay. If it makes you
feel better, we’ll assign twenty percent of the blame to you. But blame is not
the point. This is a matter of true natures – and Jessie is still the
four-year-old in the strip show. You’re the geneticist, you know how this
works. The core self does not change all that much.”
“No. It doesn’t.”
“Jessie did such a
good job of hiding her inclinations, you couldn’t have known that you were
throwing gasoline on a fire.”
“Richard! I’m not one
of your clients, so stop building a case for me. I have contributed my fair
share of nastiness to this situation. And I have never loved your daughter –
not when I married her, not when we had Marcus, or Laura. Never. Don’t you
think there’s a special level of hell reserved for that kind of selfishness?”
Richard seems to tire
of the argument, and paces toward the window to retrack his thoughts.
“Let’s cut to the
chase, Hopkins. As you have probably figured out, I have no legal right to take
your children. Appearing on porn sites is not against the law. But I do have a
say over Jessie’s inheritance, and your children’s trust funds. And I’m also
betting on the respect that you hold for me. A respect that I like to think I have earned. So here’s the brass
tacks: I want you to divorce my daughter.”
I jump up from the
couch. “No! My children will not grow up in a broken home.”
Richard studies my
reaction. “Okay, Hop. Now I will build a case for you. This is my
courtroom, and you will answer me directly – no psychobabble, no emotional
nonsense. First: Why, precisely, do you not want your kids to grow up in a
broken home?”
“Because I did! And it sucks! It’s awful.”
“Okay,” he says. “Now.
Think like a scientist, Hopkins. What kind of evidence is your specific
childhood?”
My thoughts are firing
in all directions. But I am reined in by Richard’s instructions, and I know the
answer.
“Anecdotal.”
“And tell me, Mr.
Grinder. What is the value of anecdotal evidence, under scientific standards?”
“Worthless. Its only
value is to illustrate the results of an expansive, double-blind study.”
I sit back on the
couch, soundly defeated. Richard comes over and puts a hand on my shoulder.
“Keeping a family
together is the noblest pursuit I can think of, Hop. But your wife is screwing
strange men on a public website. The end no longer justifies the means. I won’t
sit here, as a grandfather, and allow it to continue.”
I’m feeling penned-in,
so I head for the balcony, where the fresh air resuscitates me. Richard arrives
a minute later and hands me a fresh root beer.
“I’m sorry we had to
go to such… extremes to get your attention. But I made a promise to look out
for your children. I didn’t say you’d always agree with me about it. And don’t
worry – I’m not cutting Jessie loose. I’ll do whatever I can to help her out.”
I take a long swig on
my root beer.
“You’re the closest
thing to a father I’ve ever had, Richard.”
“I’m honored.” He
leans against the railing and joins me in scanning the lake. “’Course, now I
get to explain to my wife how I just talked you into divorcing my daughter.”
“First thing,” I say.
“Remove all sharp objects from the kitchen.”
Finally, we get to
laugh.
When I arrive home, late that night, I do something very unusual: I
make love to my wife. Our sex is slow and careful – because we know it’s our
last. Afterward, Jessie sits on the edge of the bed, gazing into a mirror over
the dresser.
“So what’s the
decision?”
“He wants us to get a
divorce.”
“Nice of him to decide that.”
“I want it, too.”
She turns to look at
me.
“You… do?”
I kneel behind her and
comb my hands through her hair. I used to do this when we first met.
“We need to stop the
power games, Jessie. And we need to stop being other people.”
“But this is me!”
“I know. That’s
exactly what I mean. You’re a wild, sexual being, and you’ve been holding it in
for too long. I, meanwhile, who want nothing more than a happy, stable family
life, have been pursuing it by screwing sixteen-year-olds.”
“And doctors.”
“And doctors.” (I have
considered ‘fessing up about Kelly, as well, but it serves no purpose.) “Brass
tacks, honey? This carefully constructed façade is going to crumble, one way or
the other. Rather than letting it crush our kids underneath, why don’t you and
I take it apart, piece by piece?”
“Will I get to see
them?”
“Yes. But your father
is holding some rather important cards, so…”
“God damn him!” She
stands and slams the wall with the palm of her hand.
“Jess. Look at it from
your father’s point of view. From your father’s generation. All things considered, the man is a marvel of understanding.”
“He told you the
stories, didn’t he?”
“Yes.”
She leans her head
against the wall and starts to cry.
I stand and take my
wife in my arms. “You can’t have everything, sweet Jessie. But maybe you can
have a little of each. Okay?”
“Okay.”
Photo by MJV
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