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Recently in Salon Mothers Who Think

Gertrude and Alice
When Alice B. Toklas met Gertrude Stein, she heard bells ring. They went on to have one of the happiest marriages of the 20th century.
By Amy Benfer
[11/18/99]

The case against matrimony
If marriage is risky, doomed and expensive, why bother?
By Larissa Phillips
[11/18/99]

No regrets
I was an unashamed mistress.
By Anna Sorelli
[11/17/99]

The other woman
She is a narcissistic sex worker with no knowledge of true love.
By Jonathon Keats
[11/17/99]

That Was Then
Keep it clean

[11/17/99]

Complete archives for Mothers Who Think

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I've been watching him now from my entry window. First while he stood, a little gawky and irresolute, on the other side of the street, then crossing the street, dawdling up the short path to my front porch. I recognize some things about him, height and body outline, tilt of the head. But not the hair; it's white now, and looks good. The way he clears the curb, in one big stride; I understand that. "Legs too long for my body," he used to say. Which wasn't true. He's always been well-proportioned. Handsome, in fact. I haven't seen him for 35 years. But I know him -- correction, I used to know him -- very well.

Whither marriage? For a week, Mothers Who Think examines the battered but unbowed institution Three strikes An exhausting round of marriage and divorce Plus: A gallery of images from "Living on a Dream: A Marriage Tale" by Patt Blue Wisdom ancient and new That was Then: Is he a good husband? This is Now: Go nuts! Get a makeover! - - - - - - - The winners of "Is this marriage doomed?" First place Second place Third place

Once I was married to him. He's on my doorstep today by invitation. The doorbell rings; I pull the door open onto a treescape of Northern California eucalyptus, the tarred smell of a residential road, my visitor. He wears a checked shirt and blue jeans. The word that presents itself, oddly appropriate, is nice.

"You look great."

We say this together, a chorus. We stare. We laugh.

I gesture him into my home in this academic town full of professors, writers, high vegetarian ideals, views of the bay. I bought my house here this year, after my divorce from my second husband.

Mel follows me into my living room, where the view is, alas, turned off; I bought this house because of its shimmering prospect of a green lagoon surrounded by cattails, but now the utility board has drained the water. "It used to be great," I announce, gesturing toward the expanse of asphalt bog, radiating heat like a Safeway parking lot.

He looks dubious. But he manages to be gallant. "You can see a bit of the bay," he suggests.

Well, yes you can, Mel, if you bend your head, crane your neck, and squint. The advantage of my disappeared view is that it gives us something to talk about. Talking is hard; of course it is, we've been apart for 35 years, half a lifetime. And for us there are also memories from before the separation, memories of silence and awkwardness. Of secrets. After all, we're ex-husband, ex-wife. We broke up, very painfully.

"The bay," he says, "that edge of blue. And that's got to be the Gate in there, right? But it's foggy," and I agree, "Sure, foggy," and he says, "I guess it's usually stacked up in that spot, huh?" and I'm all set to agree again when, thank God, he switches, turns from the window, smiling an expansive smile that I seem to remember.

"It took me two days to drive up here."

The normal driving time from Los Angeles to my house in Kensington is seven hours, maximum, unless you pull over at every McDonald's and rest stop and Road S.741 to ask yourself what on earth you're doing. We can both smile now.

"Were you scared, too?" he wants to know, and I say, "Sure. Of course." I start to add "scared spitless," but don't; that seems too revealing. I also don't tell him what a help his three letters have been.

He wrote congratulating me on my recent novel, generous words from an ex-husband. And then he wrote again. Those letters arrived during a dark time; my second marriage had finally collapsed and I had stormed out of my own house. And sometime later I sat on the floor in a urinous Oakland motel room and tried to cry. And finally told myself, "So, OK, shut up and take your Xanax."

Against that background Mel's letters seemed like lights, stars, reminders of what the real world might be like, a world beyond me and my present angers, one where an ex-husband could make a sweet letter-writing gesture and I could respond normally, decently. Like a regular human being.

So here we are, we're talking. I won't ask myself, how does it feel? I clunk a bottle of white wine out of the fridge; we settle down on the couch. And again we review his drive up here. (Did he do the pea soup restaurant? He did. Did he visit that rest stop whose name I love, Buttonwillow? Yes.) We reevaluate my novel, the decor of my house, the weather, the hike he has just taken through Tilden Park; we kill half the bottle. We start comparing notes on our son; unbelievably, he's almost 40 now.

How can we have a grown son together and not have seen each other for 35 years? Well, we did that. With shared custody, too, summer visits to daddy. Tears leaving, tears on arrival. But that's what airline stewardesses were for back in those days -- the stewardess, the caretaker that you handed your child over to. Shepherdess of the commuting kid. Jesus, I think.

Next page | It's been a long time since Mel and I laughed