SLS: My mother was from Richmond, though I think she was born in Lynchburg. Because my father was from Philly, I grew up thinking I was the product of a mixed marriage. I lived here and there (Virginia, Tennessee, Texas) until I landed in the greater New Orleans area at the age of eight. I never left, and I’m so tired of hurricanes (both the storm and the cocktail) I could spit.
Off Balance
I paused the first time he suggested we get day drunk. It was not that we hadn’t ever fused day and evening with a bottle of wine, but whenever that happened it had just, simply, happened.
But to reach for the bottle in the middle of the day and suggest getting drunk, as though proposing catching a movie or hitting an antique mall, threw me off balance.
As did his No? when I told him, without hesitation, No.
Eventually, it occurred to me that the phrase “I was drunk” was included in so many of his stories. Stories that showed me the magical young man he’d been. Brave, ready to fight, and smarter than most. Athletic, and so very full of wit and promise and charm.
“I was drunk,” was added to some crazy tale about some crazy night when he had walked around in a field clouded with fog, with a friend who also was, very likely, drunk.
“I was drunk,” was added to the sweet story about a late summer Saturday, after a game or before a date, I forget which, the night smelling of ocean and the beer cans he crumpled and tossed to the back of his car.
***
I haven’t seen him in years.
Every now and then, when an empty evening stretches before me, I suddenly recall sitting at his table, drinking a glass of something red and oaky, dinner in the oven.
Or, sometimes, when the sun has disappeared behind a neighbor’s house, I remember the breezes that swept through his patio as we sat at his wrought iron table, grilled steak on our plates and the passage of another spent day changing the sky.
I can hear myself laughing at his comments—so funny.
And I remember marveling at his observations—so smart.
But, “One day, you’ll leave,” he’d say, more than once.
“No, I won’t,” I’d counter. Again and again.
“One day,” he’d say, “you will.”
But it was he who would leave. He’d back off, disappear. Avoiding me, ignoring me, removing himself from the stream of my days and leaving me to ponder what had set him off this time.
In time, the romance would start anew. We’d toast this new magic with wine. We’d eat dinner by candlelight. We’d dance barefoot in the kitchen. We’d disappear in the cool darkness of his bedroom, streetlight seeping though the slats of the blinds, and I’d wake in the night to the purr of his breathing, and I’d peer through the darkness to the chairs and dressers that ringed the familiar space.
And for this share of happiness, I gladly looked past red flags.
I’d tell myself, He’ll change.
He’s changing. He’s changed.
I’d tell myself, Be careful. Don’t blow it.
Head on his pillow, I’d tell myself, These are the good ol’ days.
And they were. Trips here, trips there. Sometimes, a night at a quaint hotel in town, a special event made more memorable by his generosity. Concert concluded or parade gone by, we’d find ourselves at a favorite, nearby bar. Tall table, tufted stools – we’d sit by the open window. Night breezes drifted in, night people drifted by, and Elvis and Janis and Waylon crooned from the corner jukebox.
***
My favorite photos of us were taken in that bar; we were costumed for a parade we decided to skip. It was a cool, balmy night. We laughed as we meandered home.
But on another night, in that bar, I suddenly realized my glass was never empty. He always ordered doubles.
That night, I counted the trips to the bar.
That night, he struggled to balance himself as he walked home. His tall shadow bounced along the buildings.
That night, I struggled to steady him. I shushed him, his voice echoing along the walls.
I choose to forget the details of what followed when we arrived home.
He remembered nothing the next morning.
But forgotten words can leave permanent scars, and scars can shift thoughts. Thoughts can affect feelings.
And Feelings can change, he often said. I always told him mine wouldn’t. He likely looks back on that now as a lie. I don’t know.
But what I do know is that, actually, it’s not the feelings that change. It’s the people who do, and I was confident he would. But that’s not quite how it works, is it? I was the one who was changing, and the change was not a good one.
