“Infinity” by Raymond J. Barry

Four o’clock in the morning before the world wakes up; freshness in the air, the light beginning to peek through the darkness of night, headlights on, radio off. Mumbling my lines, I drive reasonably fast. Sixty miles per hour is reasonably fast; no tickets for me. Wind tossing my hair, gray by now, slight elevation of spirit, a sense of purpose in the air, driving to work; not any kind of work. Film work, the movie business, so different from the usual notion of work, offers a certain degree of adventure that most jobs do not. Meanwhile, plenty of time; nerves aren’t frazzled, and that’s a good thing; no worries on that front, not a chance of caving in on this one. No, sir, when it comes to the movie business, I’m good under pressure; always come through in a pinch.

The drive a bit long, all the way to San Pedro, a drive to remember at four in the morning; a certain calm with being on time, an important part of the creative team; nice to belong. Never was one to rebel, except when it came to this acting thing; insisted upon a profession that guaranteed personal freedom. That took strength; lots of part-time jobs and bouts of self-doubt along the way; oh, yes, plenty of strength. Drilling these words early this morning just to be sure. Won’t be much to this day, just look John C. Reilly smack in the eye, as the character would, say the lines and smile once in a while; shoot the scene and go home, nothing out of the ordinary. A good time will be had by all.

“All right, I’ll bite. Whatchawanna talk about?”

Mumbling words as I drive with the rural accent of the character I’ll play. I know the words, but that’s my way, the endless drilling; useful to a point; always know my words.

How did this happen? How did I, of all people, become confident in the face of movie work? Patience with the world is the answer, patience with the world and forgetting about Marlon Brando. All actors imitated Brando when they were young, myself included. Would Marlon do this? Would Marlon do that? But no more Marlon Brando for me; living in my own skin is enough.

Zipping by cars, following trucks, watching for signs — the bridge, the bridge, must turn at the bridge, still hammering away at my lines, lines I’ll never forget, and finally arrive at the Los Angeles waterfront, where we’ll shoot. People greeting me warmly, nice people, including the director, Jake Kasdan, a nice guy. I respect him — nothing I wouldn’t do for this guy. We’ll make a great film, working as a team. It was different when I shot “Born on the Fourth of July.” Worry controlled me then, of not being up to the task, of not having the goods, too much doubt about pleasing Oliver Stone and wanting so damned much to do everything right. Probably the best work I ever did in a film, when I think about it, played Tom Cruise’s father and did a good job. What a miracle, considering the struggle I went through.

Today things have changed. My own man today, stable and balanced. I actually feel good about myself. Oliver Stone was tough. But Jake Kasdan is comfortable, and by luck, this waterfront reminds me of Manhattan’s Pier twenty-eight years ago, when for a day’s pay, I unloaded boxes of fruit off barges on the Hudson River; a longshoreman then and tough to the ways of New York City survival. Made it out of that situation, too, unloading fruit from boxcars with black men built strong as hell for the work. White guys, too, guys like me, hippies trying to find their way. I found my way. Here I am, playing a great role in a John C. Reilly film, “Walk Hard,” wind blowing my gray hair — made it out of the docks, raising four kids with money in the bank, money in my pocket. Two of them graduated from college so far with two more to go. Yeah, I’m my own man today, my own man. I was my own man when I worked on the docks, too, had a dream then that actually came true.

~~~

Sitting on a pillowed couch in my Winnebago next  — about to act in a scene with John C. Reilly, just the two of us, tired but in pretty good shape, a day like any other. No, nothing different here. Simply do the work and have done with it. Yup, a working actor, well-prepared and fully balanced in a business riddled with insecurity, but nothing to fear today. I know the scene inside-out, having studied it with an acting coach. Confided everything in that kind woman, nervousness, fears and the whole nine yards; took a load off my mind. My wardrobe finally arrives, while chomping a delicious ham, cheese and egg sandwich on an English muffin, still going over lines by rote, loudly practicing the rural accent of the character with hints of emotion. Seems unnecessary to drill the lines when I know them so well, but no, drilling is my way, and my way works up to a point. I’m even skilled at times, not like the greats, of course, but fairly relaxed when I do a role, yup, absolute professionalism and always sure of my lines. The complexity of the characters I play is usually a crap shoot, but that’s all right with me. “Do the best I can” is my motto nowadays.

]]> http://www.wildviolet.net/2021/02/21/the-wrong-kid-died/feed/ 0 http://www.wildviolet.net/2020/10/04/featured-week-of-oct-5/ http://www.wildviolet.net/2020/10/04/featured-week-of-oct-5/#comments Sun, 04 Oct 2020 13:20:23 +0000 http://www.wildviolet.net/?p=6031

John Hinkle Jr., the great-uncle of Alyce Wilson

Everyone has a story to tell, and through listening to them, we can learn a lot about other people’s dreams, emotions and experiences. This week’s contributors share pieces related to biography and autobiography.

First, in her essay “Biography Year,” Margaret Montet takes an innovative look at what she learned from a year of reading biographies.

William Miller’s poem, “Lowell’s Briefcase,” illuminates the last moments in the life of American poet Robert Lowell.

“Talone’s Yard” by Amy Barone provides a vivid snapshot of childhood and adolescence.

Finally, the fiction piece “The Higher Learning” by Robert Lamon creates a detailed look at friendship and class dynamics in the 1950s that feels true to life.

 Coming back from a lengthy hiatus, Wild Violet is resuming a weekly schedule, because in these days of quarantine and self-isolation, we need the arts more than ever. This week’s contributors write about quiet moments, about connections with nature and with each other.  

“Kindness” by Carole Phillips shows how a solitary moment becomes an opportunity for solace from a stranger.

“Where the Skin Breaks” by Raymond Philip Asaph ponders how the immutable beauty of a peach can become spiritual.

“Overcast evening” by Ayaz Daryl Nielsen, a haiku, captures the feel of a gray day.

“It’s early morning and nothing’s happening” by Ayaz Daryl Nielsen takes a glimpse out a window at a quiet world. 

“Lessons” by Eliza Callard takes a tender look at an aging animal friend.

Bookmark this site: Starting on April 1, in honor of Poetry Month, Wild Violet will publish daily poetry prompts for both adults and children!

As Winter gradually ekes away and spring’s renewal approaches, it’s a good time to reflect on life cycles, and in particular, aging.

“Recognized” by Michael Keshigian reflects on the nature of aging. Literally.

In “Old Clyde and Mrs. Hill,” a short prose piece, David Sapp recalls elderly neighbors from childhood.

“The Blurring of Edges” by David Sapp traces the changes in thinking from youth to maturity.

“The Garden of Ramanatom” by Thomas Dorsett is a lyrical look at how nature’s life cycles mimic our own.

One of the best ways to learn and grow as a society is by listening to those whose voices are often overlooked. This week’s contributors do just that.

“Eight Days in Prison” by Nicholas Chittick chronicles roughly a week of experiences in a medium-security Illinois prison.

“Own” by Brooks Lindberg is a poem from the point of view of a young person dealing with family strife.

“Dissolution” by Julie McNeely-Kirwan follows a man as he strives to get a lawyer to help him secure an unusual divorce.

The cold wind was unexpected. After all, it was the middle of July, and this was the Caribbean. The church of Los Corales was cemented into the side of a mango-covered mountain just west of Santiago. It was not nestled like most mountainside churches; rather, it was cemented. A new building for an old generation. White painted cement, a slate porch, and frosted white doors. Around the church, there were a few strikingly new houses owned by returning Americans, and a bodega that filled at eleven in the morning and was empty again soon after. 

On that day it was raining. A heavy downpour that tinged on the new tin roof like angles playing marbles. The rain had brought the cold wind, and it swirled through the packed church through every open window. But no one seemed the notice. The abuelas continued to fan themselves. The teenage girls adjusted their white H&M dresses bought by their American cousins, and their American cousins were counting the days before they could go home and only go to church on Christmas. But abuela was watching now. The cousins exchanged glances and continued reciting prayers they only half-remembered.

The real action was not in the church, but on the porch. A group of primos were gathered, snapchatting and teasing each other. It was too crowded inside, they reasoned, so they might as well stay outside. An old uncle stood by the door and every once and awhile would send them a disapproving look, but it was only half-meant. The whole family had not come home for a long time.

The rain picked up, but there was no attempt to close the windows. No move to close the door. The priest remained at the altar, praying, the abuelas continued fanning, the girls checked their makeup in the window reflection, and the boys were now discussing quadding on the porch. The wind whirled around Los Corales, a church cemented into the mountainside.

The author’s father is in the top row, to the right of the man in the hat

In late August of 1957, my father took me on a trip to visit his home town of Nanaimo in British Columbia. We stayed in the Plaza Hotel, where, almost a half century earlier, he’d been a bellhop, before going to work in the coal mines.

On our first morning, just after breakfast, my father took me on a walking tour of Nanaimo Harbor. We stopped at the Bastion, a fortress constructed in 1853 by the Hudson Bay Company to protect their coal mining interests on Vancouver Island. My father pointed out that there were no nails used, and the lumber was hand hewn with broad axes and adzes.

Too much work, I thought.

About a half block past the Bastion, an old man in a tan windbreaker, worn, black Frisco jeans, and a ball cap sat hunched on a rickety wooden bench with his back to the harbor, staring blankly at the building across the street. As we approached, he turned his face toward us, and the first thing I noticed was a broad tobacco stain on the gray stubble of his pointy chin.

Withered, age-spotted hands rested atop the brass handle of a mahogany cane planted on the sidewalk between his ratty sneakers. Large, hairy ears supported the temples of his heavy framed glasses, but behind the thick lenses were keen, pale blue eyes. My father slowed, his back stiffened, and I could tell there was an instant recognition.

The man’s eyes tapered into a squint, as he stretched his neck toward us, straining to get a closer look. His upper lip quivered, finally forming a snarl. He sat back and said, “I still remember that catch, you sonofabitch.”

My father smiled. “How’ve you been? It’s been a long time.”

The man nodded, turned toward me, and spat a long stream of brown juice onto the already heavily stained sidewalk that circled his feet.

“That your son?” he asked.

“Yes. My boy, Johnny.”

“He’s a nice-looking kid.” His snarling lip eased into a flat line. “Well, take care,” he said and dismissed us with a flick of his wrist, turning his attention back to the building across the street.

I hesitated, feeling awkward about such an abrupt dismissal by that gruff old geezer. I thought that after calling my father an S.O.B., more needed to be said, but my father gave me a wink and a quick jerk of his head, so we walked away.

After we got out of earshot, I asked, “Who was that? And why’d he call you an S.O.B.?”

Dad smiled and began telling a tale of his youth when he’d played baseball for a team with the unimaginative name of the Nanaimo Miners — young coal miners from the town of Nanaimo.

He explained how much the pride of the coal mining communities rode on the won-lost record of the previous season. If the town of Duncan had a better record than Ladysmith, it was a victory for all Duncanites, even if they didn’t win the island championship. After the season, the cry of “wait till next year” would echo up and down the island.

But even with the fierce competition, the play on the field was always fun and friendly, except when it came to the Victoria Vipers. Beating them had become an obsession, too often ending in failure.

My father said, “We hated playing them, because they’d laugh and taunt, all the while knocking the crap out of us. It happened every time we played ‘em.”

The Victoria Vipers was always the top team. Most players were barrel-chested, bearded men with arms big as tree trunks. Their roster consisted of the best players on the island laced with some players from the US. The average age of the team was 26.

Their sponsor, Timber Management of British Columbia Ltd, had plenty of money and hired the best players to work at good paying, menial jobs in their sawmill. The players had to be physically in the employment of their sponsor. This was part of the league rules.

Their manager, Adolph Bronco, was a swarthy, round, little, cigar-smoking, loudmouth prick, whose claim to fame was that he had been called up to play for the Cincinnati Red Legs. He was a third-string catcher but acted as if he were the legendary catcher Roger “The Duke of Tralee” Bresnhan.

The joke around the league was that Adolph was more of a horse’s arse than a bronco. But the underhanded tactics and style of play which he employed allowed him to keep his job year in and year out. And he did know how to win. His strong suit was intimidation. He argued, red-faced, every call that went against his team and chided other managers if they did the same.

At the end of each season, Bronco would go to the other teams and approach their star players, offering them good paying jobs with Timber Management and positions with the Vipers. On the island, playing for the Vipers was like playing for the Yankees.

But those who traded their hometown loyalty for the prestige of playing for the Vipers would be soundly booed when they returned to play against their previous team and would often be forced to leave their hometown and take up residence in Victoria, just to avoid the off-season harassing.

Attitude was a major ingredient if a player was to become a Viper. They had to be physically better and know how to psychologically get and maintain an edge on the opposing players. They employed a style of play that was beyond hardnosed, it was dirty — cheap shot dirty. Injuring a rival player brought a cheer from their bench. The opposing infielders knew if a Viper came in sliding, he’d try to rip your hand open with sharpened steel spikes.

On the other hand, if the Vipers were on defense, they would use the ball as a weapon, slamming it to your head or whacking you in the nuts. Then stand laughing at the man rolling in the dirt, while pointing to the rival dugout, trying to bait their opponents into a fight by mouthing, “You’re next.”

But generally no fight occurred. While the other team sent out a couple of players to carry their injured teammate back to the safety of the dugout, the umpires would stand clear waiting and watching for something to happen.

However, loyalty was not a trait among the Vipers management. With the Vipers, winning was everything. There was no room for batting slumps or errors. If a player had a bad season and a replacement could be pirated from another team, he would be dropped unceremoniously from the team, pulled from his cushy job and sent to the woods to be a choke setter or lumberjack.

Most ex-Vipers quit but had a hard time readjusting to life post-Vipers. They would humbly crawl back to their hometown, hoping that people would forgive, and maybe they could get their old job back.

Gray Bunny

Before Grace names it, the small stuffed bunny is pale pink with purple dots and wears a lavender bow around his neck. A cherished playmate for my littlest niece, he is clutched close at bedtime and in the car seat. Eventually she learns to introduce him, dangling him by an ear and announcing “Bunny,” giggling at her own ability to speak.  

With so much affection and milk lavished on him, the bunny makes regular trips through the washing machine. Soon the pink fur fades and the original ribbon frays and then falls off, only to be replaced with a rapid succession of other-colored ribbons, as Grace gets better and better at undoing the knots.  

Meanwhile Grace’s vocabulary grows, as does her collection of inanimate friends. She names them all, but the one she loves best is the one she calls “Gray Bunny.” For by now he truly is gray, with only the palest of dots flecking his thinning fur.    

Everyone in Grace’s world learns to take note of Gray Bunny’s whereabouts. In addition to Mommy and Daddy, her grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins and neighborhood babysitters all learn to do Gray Bunny checks on a regular basis. Gray Bunny has to be in the car, beside the pillow, close to the bathtub, or near the kitchen table.  On the day Grace meets her baby brother, Gray Bunny goes along for moral support. Once when she visits cousins in another state, Gray Bunny inadvertently stays home, making bedtime nearly unbearable for the entire household.   

Sometimes Grace goes for an hour without mentioning Gray Bunny. Then she remembers, and her need is urgent. Whenever he re-appears, Grace greets him with “Oh, there you are,” as if they’d been playing hide-and-seek. 

Life without Gray Bunny is unimaginable, or so we all think, until he goes missing for good, left behind who-knows-where on an otherwise ordinary day. Grace’s mommy phones every place they have been on that day, but Gray Bunny is nowhere to be found. Grace is heartbroken at first, although once the initial shock wears off, she handles her loss stoically. For months she speaks wistfully of Gray Bunny, sometimes consoling herself and those around her by saying, “He’ll come back later.” A doll she has named “Fairy Princess Ballerina” steps in to fill the void. A revisionist at three, Grace fondly begins to recall her old friend as “White Bunny,” a hue he never achieved.   

Pink Cleats

One hot-pink soccer cleat, its scuffed toe poking out from under the rumpled bedclothes — all that remains after three satisfying but exhausting days of having my 16-year-old niece as a house guest. I’m left wondering what inspired Erin to bring her cleats on this trip, a visit from her home in California to look at East Coast colleges. It took both of us to wrestle her overstuffed suitcase up the stairs and into my guest room. For all I know she had a soccer ball and goal in there, too. What other clues to her growing-up self were tucked into that lumpy bag?  

When Erin was little we were together often, even though we sometimes lived on opposite sides of the country; I traveled a lot for work in those days, and any time I could stretch a business trip into a visit, I did. We shared family times and invented our own adventures, too — window shopping, tea at a café, stringing beads into jewelry. But then my brother and his family moved to Japan for three years. I’d seen Erin only twice since she became a teenager. Her life was so much bigger now, on the brink of expanding yet again as she made plans for college. How would we be with each other, I wondered before her visit. What would we talk about? I felt almost shy about seeing her again, having her stay in my house.

Within minutes of her arrival, I discover that soccer offers a window into her world. Erin’s sentences are peppered with references to camps, coaches, yellow cards and teammates. In my upstairs hallway, she dangles the bright pink cleats by their gray laces so I can admire them. “These are my favorites,” she announces. Are they talismans for her journey, I wonder, or the opening line to a story she wants to tell? Did she pick them up on her travels to Singapore, or perhaps Hong Kong? She doesn’t explain, she just goes back to the guest room and adds the cleats to the impressive assortment of belongings that has exploded out of her suitcase onto the bed and floor. I’m left to decipher the meaning behind the cleats, while Erin deftly swaps text messages with friends in other time zones.

At the end of our first full day together, Erin sprawls across my sofa, twisting and twirling her long, auburn hair as she describes school projects she’s led. Confidently, she tells me she’s the one her classmates rely on to write, re-write or otherwise polish team presentations. “Good for you,” I say.  (“Be careful,”  I want to say, “there’s a price to pay for being that girl.”) I tell her about my recent decision to leave the company where I’ve worked since before she was born. We talk about finding meaning in work, and in school.  She’s eager for us to watch her favorite movie, Newsies; she just happens to have the DVD in her suitcase. We compare our different ways of being in the world: Erin feels lucky to have lived in many places, but doesn’t really belong to any of them; I have always lived in the same place, give or take a few miles, but relish the opportunities I’ve had to travel for work and for pleasure. We talk until we’re both half-asleep.   

For three days, we look at college campuses, explore Philadelphia, window shop, share meals and visit with the nearby members of our clan. And then she’s gone, as suddenly as she appeared. I call California to let her know she left one of her favorite cleats behind, and to assure her that it’s already on its way to her in the mail. She hasn’t even missed it.   

Today I had a Kafkan experience. It is no longer the Count in the Castle who surrounds himself with so many maddening layers of bureaucracy. Now our “service providers” have done it. Or, to put it another way: corporations.

Consider this: I call the cable company.

Me: Yes, I couldn’t help noticing that my cable bill went up by twenty dollars in the last two months.

Functionary: Yes, your two-year plan expired.

Me: What can we do about this?

Functionary: You could certainly take on an even higher bill, by adding services.

Me: I don’t want those services.

Functionary: Why not? You already have these services? Who gave them to you? Give me their names. I can assure you that our services are far superior to theirs.

Me: That may well be, but I don’t want them. I don’t use these additional services and, if I do, I’m content with the corporation that’s already providing them.

Functionary: If you will cancel the other services and adopt ours I feel confident that the corporation will look kindly upon it, and offer you certain compensations.

Me: Such as?

Functionary: Well, for instance, we will charge you only an additional five dollars to add one of these services.

Me: This seems very strange. You’ll charge me an additional five dollars for a service that is currently costing me over $30, but you can’t find a way to give me back the rate I had two months ago?

Functionary: There is nothing strange about it.

Me: You don’t think so? I mean, imagine that I offer to sell you a gallon of gas for $3, or you can have a gallon of gas and a 15-pound bag of potatoes for $3.15. Doesn’t that seem strange to you?

Functionary (bemused): You understand that I am only a low-ranking official in this corporation; and as for yourself … Suffice it to say that changing the situation is far above, frankly, both of us.

Me (chastened): I do understand that. I don’t mean to be rude.

Functionary: I can tell you, though, that the rate has just changed today, and we are prepared to offer you a ten-dollar discount on your bill.

Me: That’s still too high. I have a colleague who has this service from you, the same company, and he pays only half of what I’ve been charged for it.

Functionary: It must be an introductory rate.

Me: No, the introductory rate was one third of what I’m paying. Then it went up to half of what I’m paying.

Functionary: Well, that person must have a trimmed-down version of the services that we’re offering you.

Me: I think he does. I’d like the trimmed-down version, too.

Functionary: The trimmed-down version is no longer being offered to customers.

Me: My colleague is getting the trimmed-down version. I just spoke with him about it.

Functionary: He must have been grandfathered in. But customers who add our services now can no longer get the trimmed-down version. All new customers now are given only the full service package that you now get.

Me: The full service package is more than I need. Is there any way that I can get a lower rate?

Functionary: If we cut the full service in half, you can save five dollars.

Me: Really. Five dollars, to cut the service in half? You’re sure this is the best rate I can get?

Functionary: Yes. These are the only rates I can offer you.

Me: I can tell you what’s going to happen. I’m going to cancel your services and find another provider. Then, after I’ve signed with them, I will receive a flyer in the mail offering me the introductory rate that my colleague is getting right now. I’d rather save all the trouble and just get that rate now. Can’t we just do that?

Functionary: I’m sorry, but these are the only rates that I can offer you.

Me: Then good-bye.

Language aside — I made some adjustments — these were the actual arguments made by me and the person I spoke to today. Actual sentiments expressed. Actual guilt and paranoia placed upon me. Actual failure to negotiate rationally.

In addition to the surreal quality of the arguments themselves, part of what is “Kafkan” about this exchange is the overarching perplexity about who (if anyone) should be blamed for what is obviously, on the consumer’s end, an unfair, even unjust practice. The corporation in question has a monopoly on cable service in my area. They can offer me whatever they want to, and I have to accept it or do without. They compete for customers only on their “additional services,” which they are willing to offer at something closer to a competitive rate, for the sake of luring new customers away from their rivals. But once you are in the system, they do nothing to make your experience pleasant or to maintain your loyalty.

I can almost guarantee that all of this was dreamed up in an accountant’s office. But I will never get access to that accountant; and my complaints, while “duly noted” by the underlings, will never rise to that accountant’s attention. Meanwhile, on some level, I can’t help feeling guilty about tearing the functionary to shreds with my unassailable logic (logic of which Kafka would be proud). But I also have very little pity for this functionary. Because, like a cog in a machine, he was so focused on his minor bit part in the corporation’s bureaucratic script, that he made the absurd, Kafkan machine run exactly to spec. It’s hard to have much pity for him, and I refuse to have any for the corporation. So it seems obvious that I should blame the corporation and not any individual employee for this (in my view) dehumanizing, numerical treatment of me and my “business.”

The perplexity deepens, however, because (though I disagree with its philosophy) I can on another level understand the corporation’s desire to earn profits. And it is also obvious that without a lot of cogs, the machine won’t run. People who are cogs are not exactly paragons of humanity, at least in the moment of their cogdom. Should I expect them to be? Are they capable of transcending their cogdom? Can corporations transcend their evolutionary adaptation —namely, their almost biological need to maximize profits?

Even so, in my poor human condition, I must resist absolving corporations for needing, and making use of, cogs. To maintain my dignity, I must repudiate their Kafkan reflex of placing guilt on puny citizens (customers) who are bold enough to protest the coggishness of the system. This, after all, is not the kind of world I would like to live in. It is not much of a legacy from the ’60s, for instance. It is not the America I hear extolled in Presidential orations, or that I find in the small-town shop where once upon a time I could buy a few nuts and bolts, just enough for my current needs, thank you, and none more.

So I am left with this Kafkan situation. Somewhere, someone dashed off a memo, and someone else passed it on, down a chain of command, until there is this functionary, who is (I admit, unfairly) put in the place of representing the absurd logic of the corporation’s number-crunchers to the real flesh-and-blood customer that is affected by it. All humanity has, by now, been lost, and I might as well have been speaking to a machine. In a sense, I was.

And how long can you stay angry at a machine? I’m sure, somewhere, an accountant knows the answer to that question.

“I think you need to do something about the boat,” said Manny on the phone. “I was down at the marina, and the canvas cover is torn and shredded. The boat’s being exposed to the elements.”

I felt a pit in my stomach. I didn’t want to hear this. Six years earlier, at the age of forty-seven, my husband Perry had suffered a heart attack, which deprived his brain of oxygen. After a two-week coma, he gradually awakened, slowly regaining part of his cognition and former self. Many parts didn’t come back: He couldn’t practice law anymore; he couldn’t cook or drive. My once lively and loquacious companion of twenty-nine years now had trouble initiating speech or carrying on a conversation. His short-term memory was gone. A full-time caregiver tended to his daily needs, from bathing to toileting. 

Over the past six years, in nearly every other aspect of our lives, I had moved on, carved new pathways, made accommodations for Perry’s disability. Our life before his brain injury had been wonderful, but I felt reconciled with our new life. We still traveled, ate out at restaurants, and our circle of friends and family kept us socially active. I could sit in my office in downtown Los Angeles and gaze at the Gas Company tower where Perry’s law firm was housed and not feel pangs of sorrow. I could finger Perry’s gray and navy business suits and feel okay about storing them in the back of the closet, knowing they represented another life. 

For the last six years, Perry’s fishing boat was the one thing that I had been avoiding because it was still too painful to deal with. It was dry docked in Marina del Rey. The boat was too close to Perry’s heart, my heart. It was the last vestige of our old life. I knew how much he had loved that boat.

* * *

We had bought it fifteen years ago, when our sons Zack and Paul were eleven and nine. The boys had gone to sleep-away camp together that summer and for the first time since having children, Perry and I had five whole days alone together. I envisioned romantic evenings at intimate restaurants or going to plays or movies. 

Perry had other plans. “After we drop the boys off in Long Beach, let’s go to San Diego,” he said. 

“San Diego?” I asked. “Maybe we could stay in a luxury hotel in La Jolla, do some shopping or visit a museum. Do you want to spend the night?”

“No, I want to look for a fishing boat. I saw an ad, and the guy lives in San Diego. Wouldn’t it be great to have our own fishing boat? We could go out anytime we want.” 

Perry had gone out with fishing guides several times out of Redondo Beach and always came back exhilarated. It would be nice for him to have his own boat, I thought. It wasn’t exactly what I had in mind for a romantic weekend, but I went with him to San Diego. 

We inspected a 19′ Boston Whaler, but Perry was concerned about the rust spots on the engine. The next day we drove to Perris, south and east of Los Angeles, to see another boat. This time, the prospective seller took us on a test run on Lake Perris. We bounced up and down on the choppy lake, the boat slamming down on each wave. The roar of the engine and the hot wind whipping through my hair drowned out any talk. When we finally docked, I was jolted and nauseous.

Near the end of the summer, Perry settled on a beige, 19′ Key West fishing boat with a Johnson outboard motor. Waist-high chrome railings circled the bow so he could fly-fish in the ocean. There was a tank for bait and a GPS device to detect fish. He kept the name “Flytime,” because he read that you needed to properly christen a boat if you wanted to change its name. His eyes danced and his face radiated delight when he talked about Flytime. Slips were hard to rent in Marina del Rey, so he found a dry dock that would hoist the boat into the water whenever he wanted. 

“Come out on the boat with me,” he pleaded. The first time I went, I got seasick. The next time I took Dramamine and spent the entire time in a groggy haze, dozing on the cushions in the bow. I hated the bumping on the waves and the loud drone of the engine. Paul loved being on Flytime. He would plant himself at the bow, taking on the wind and waves by hanging on to the railing. Zack joined them on occasion but decided he wasn’t much of a fisherman. 

We fell into a pattern after buying Flytime. At least once a month, Perry and Paul would wake at 6 a.m. and go north to Paradise Cove near Malibu or south near Palos Verdes. Most times, Manny accompanied them. Soon the tool chest in the garage filled up with fishing line, lures, and hooks. The UPS man delivered special fly reels at regular intervals. 

* * *

The first two years after we bought the boat, it didn’t bother me that Perry and Paul went out once a month on weekend mornings, then napped the rest of the afternoon. I was in graduate school working on my dissertation so I was home during the week, using the hours that the boys were at school for my writing. I had the luxury of grocery shopping during the week or running errands after I dropped the boys off at school so that my weekends were free. 

Before I finished my dissertation, I received a job offer from a school reform organization. I debated whether I should accept a position with the dissertation unfinished, but Perry was supportive. “It’s a great opportunity to ease back into work,” he said. “Take it.” My employer was willing to let me work three-quarter time so I could attend Zack’s and Paul’s Little League games. 

My return to work changed our comfortable home routine. I was working during the week and writing my dissertation in the evenings so the weekend hours became more precious. I resented the hours Perry spent on the boat and his long Saturday afternoons napping while I grocery shopped and ran errands.   

During the week Perry always wanted to have lunch together since we were both working downtown. But I was conscious of my shortened work hours, devoting an hour to lunch meant I had to work longer to finish my tasks, which was another hour taken away from the boys. 

“Why won’t you have lunch with me?” Perry asked. “You are always so busy, you don’t have time for me.” 

“I do want to spend time with you,” I said. “But you are always fishing on the weekends.” 

I was juggling work, home chores, and chauffeuring the boys. I needed more help at home, but I knew his days were full and overflowing. He worked ten-hour days at a frenetic pace at his law firm. Fishing on his boat was a balm for him, away from the creditors and debtors in his bankruptcy practice, away from e-mails, phones, and faxes. But still, with my return to work, nothing in his life changed whereas everything in my life had been upended. I was carrying the burden for the household. Each moment he spent on the boat was a moment away from me, from our family life and the never-ending household chores.