Escape Points (21 page)

We had to beat the Hinsdale Central team to qualify for team state. It was set for Tuesday, February 21, at 6
PM
, barely enough time for me to drive there after my graduate editing class ended at 5
PM
. So I let my students work on their captions assignments and e-mail them to me. I was in the car by 4:40
PM
.

Once at the field house, the atmosphere was loud and anxious. Parents of wrestlers who graduated four or even five years ago showed up and took their places in the stands. Peter Lovaas, who wrestled with Weldon and graduated in 2007, climbed up to a seat next to his father. The grandfather from Wisconsin who drives to see more than half of our matches, whose own son wrestled in the 1960s, was there in the stands taking notes and wearing his H
USKIES
W
RESTLING
F
AMILY
T-shirt.

I took out my camera. The boys from the team came running down from the wrestling room, and after they were introduced by weight—along with the opposing team—the captains went to the center of the mat to shake hands. I started taking pictures. I caught Coach Powell’s eye as he looked at me in the stands.

“This is the last one,” he mouthed.

“I know,” I said and laughed.

The dual began at 182 pounds and the team won the first three matches handily—182, 195, 220. Colin would wrestle at 145 pounds; Powell had worked out the lineup to maximize effectiveness. He had talked to the boys before the match—as he always did—and they each looked pumped, charged, and electrified, ready to take on the world for six minutes. Before he went out, Coach Powell hugged Colin for what looked like a long time but was probably only a minute or so.

Colin burst onto the mat and then dominated the entire match. He won 12–3. I screamed so loud I should have been embarrassed, but I wasn’t. Colin had come back, believed in himself again, pushed himself as hard as he could.

He would prepare to wrestle at team state in Bloomington, Illinois, his last year, Powell’s last year. And though they came home from Bloomington after a hard-fought day—winning first against Harlem and later against Barrington—they lost in the final round to the Sandburg team and took the second-place trophy.

It didn’t seem like it that night to Colin or to any of the wrestlers on the team, not even the coaches, but it was good enough. For me, it was enough.

When Weldon was born, I told the nurses at Medical City in Dallas that he would be a senator or author as the owner of such a regal name. This was not the moniker of someone to be taken lightly; this was someone destined for greatness, someone I wanted the world to know. Before he spoke coherent words, I listened intently to his babbling, waiting for the first sign that he understood me and that I understood him. I couldn’t wait for him to talk. So many millions of words exchanged since then—some harsh, some tender, many only I would hear—and now that he is twenty-six, I can’t wait to hear what he has to say when he calls. When he was earning his master’s degree in Madrid and traveling on weekends, he would call from Portugal, Italy, Morocco, or wherever he was on an adventure. And it was thrilling.

I was the kind of mother who pictured my children as adults—even as infants when I was struggling to maneuver them into their down-softened, pale-blue snowsuits, their arms and legs flailing, helpless until I lifted them up like pliable gingerbread men. I was never the kind of parent who wanted them to stay small, not because it was so hard, but because I thought it would be so glorious to know them, well, as people. Full-grown adults.

Yes, I have the scary movies playing in my head when something goes wrong and I imagine the worst. But most of the time, when I saw them in the future I saw their greatness years ahead as if looking into a snow globe—a scene hazy and distorted. I saw them for who they could be—grown men with broad shoulders and wide smiles—and I saw myself in the audience at their graduations, their speeches, their award acceptances, their medal ceremonies, their grand public gestures. This is the good side of mother vision.

You teach your children to walk, knowing they will eventually walk away.

You hope that your children know you never will.

“
M
om, it’s my last day of high school,” Colin shouted, in his boxers dashing from his room into the bathroom—the one he shares with his brothers when they are at home. It’s the bathroom I dare not use, with splashed minty toothpaste all over the mirror, the towels he uses once and drops, the razor and shaving cream he can never manage to put away in the cabinet.

“I’m almost not in high school anymore.”

I was aware of the milestone, the way you are aware of a due date when you are pregnant or an anniversary date that ends in 0, a court date on the books for months, or a keynote speech on the calendar months away. I designed an invitation for his graduation party with a photo of Colin and his brothers taken more than ten years ago. In the photo Colin is sandwiched by Brendan and Weldon, who are squeezing him playfully. He looks exasperated, pleading.

The invite went to family members, coaches, wrestling families, and everyone else I knew who adored Colin, a total of more than one hundred people. The moms who knew him since his blond hair stood
straight up—earning him the nickname Woodstock, as in Snoopy’s bird friend—the teachers who told him they would like a son just like him, the other dads who loved him as if he was their own. The party would be the week after his graduation, and I had already ordered the tent. I love the crisp white tent with the metal frame and the teapot dome—it costs more than it should, but I only have these parties every four years or so. I would make pork tenderloin sandwiches and fresh mozzarella pizzas on naan bread, order the chicken. Colin wanted mashed potatoes, though I steered him to potato salad. Coleslaw doesn’t ever move as fast as you would hope; I would make a tossed salad with cherry tomatoes, sliced cucumbers, maybe croutons.

“Let me take a picture before you go.”

I had already been up for an hour, made coffee, oatmeal for me, peanut butter on toast with fresh blackberries for Colin, and lunch for both of us. I put the lunches in separate plastic bags with an apple and orange in each, plus a granola bar for him. I had made my bed, thrown in a load of laundry—we can’t expect to have enough hot water to take hot showers and do laundry at night—and read the front section of the paper, plus the horoscopes in the back. Bad habit, I admit. Mine read: “concern about finances, social gatherings with friends, stay calm when considering the future.” Anybody could write those. Anything could happen.

I was dressed for work, just putting my contacts in and watching a few minutes of
Good Morning America
before deciding whether I wanted to wear the great-looking shoes that hurt or the ones I could walk and stand in all day.

I’ll be standing up teaching most of the day. Not-so-cute shoes.

Colin wore his orange polo shirt, dress pants, and shoes. He stood about six feet, posing in the kitchen by the microwave as I snapped his picture; I took photos of the boys on first and last days of school from kindergarten through high school, a practice they mostly did not appreciate. Sometimes they stood by the front door with fresh backpacks, for years and years all of them inches to a foot shorter than me, pushing each other, wrangling for the front
row. New shoes, new shirts, new haircuts. Now, all of them over six feet tall.

He kissed me good-bye, “Love you, Mom,” and forgot to take out the garbage bag or the recycling.

I didn’t tell him. I didn’t tell Brendan or Weldon either. I didn’t say that the previous day I had been in court and had seen their father—for the first time in years, the first time since his own father’s funeral. There was no point in telling the boys; it only made them furious. Weldon would only say that I should move to put him in jail for delinquency on child support. Seven years of delinquency, going on eight. No, I said nothing, it could only be hurtful. Who needs to know his father is still fighting to erase his obligations to him? It had been many years since their father saw the boys or communicated to them. Silence. He had missed so much. He had denied them so long.

Fifth grade—Colin was in fifth grade the last time their father had paid any support. There had been a lot of turkey sandwiches since then, a lot of wrestling matches, a bin of wrestling medals.

I once again donned a medal of my own the previous day when I prepared to see my former husband. My father’s gold medal hangs on a heavy gold chain that falls to the middle of my chest. On one side of the cracker-sized disc is an image of Mary holding Jesus as an infant. She has a halo, a crown really, and the medal is framed in elaborate filigree. On the flipside of the medal in capital letters is engraved: WM G WELDON, and underneath his name is his social security number. It is the medal he wore every day as a solider in World War II. He told me once it is what kept him alive; he believed the talisman saved him. When he died my sisters gave it to me.

When my father died in January 1988, none of my boys were born; Weldon arrived in October of that year. None of the boys knew their grandfather, Papa Bill, though many remark that Brendan resembles him—his oval, handsome face and dimpled chin. Each one of the boys has his kindness.

My brother Paul lent Colin Papa Bill’s cufflinks to wear to his graduation later in June.

“This is the first thing I ever had of his,” Colin said and gave Paul a bear hug.

I don’t wear my father’s medal often; I only wear it when I need his strength—important speeches, meetings, and a court date like today. I hadn’t gone to the half dozen other appearances in the past six months, of him presenting motions and interrogatories about my finances, claiming that although he owes hundreds of thousands of dollars in unpaid child support and college expenses, I do not need financial help. I imagine he expected child support to be dismissed as quickly as his law loans were after he filed bankruptcy.

“He can’t do that,” friends would say to me.

Yes, he can.

It was time to go to court and at least be the face of the respondent. I dreaded the idea of reliving it all again, of having to face the person who hurt my sons. I did not have a class on Thursday morning at Northwestern; I could go to court. I needed to go, in spite of the stress-induced nausea, in spite of the trembling I could not control in my hands. Benign familial tremor: a doctor diagnosed it years ago when I was married to him. Your body remembers.

A plain black skirt, plain black jacket, simple white blouse. Pumps with low heels, we would walk to the courthouse from my sister Madeleine’s new law office near the federal building. Drew, an attorney in her firm, was now handling the case since I couldn’t afford an attorney. Madeleine was allowing Drew to do this for free. It cost my former husband nothing to keep filing motions because he is an attorney. So he kept filing.

I wanted my mother with me. She would know what to say. She would hold her head high—even from a wheelchair. But she has been gone a decade; I wore her gold bracelet, the one that has three rows of beads and clasps with a click. There. I am safe now. My father’s medal, my mother’s bracelet, both my parents are with me.

I talk to my late parents often; I am not sure it is praying really, although sometimes I cry at night, “Please, Mom, help me,” and I pause and wait for some kind of response, relief, respite. And I search my heart and memory for what she would do. I squint my lids shut
tighter and try to see if I can see her in my mind’s eye, but I can’t. I try to channel her bravado and her wit, think of how she would respond, think of how she would end a conversation with a remark so insightful it was stunning. Think of how she would soothe me when bullies chased me home in fourth grade. “It’s just a dog barking, Mich. Makes no more sense than a dog barking, and no need to cry over a barking dog.” If she knew that my former husband had nothing to do with her grandsons, she would be furious. She would call up his mother and she would give her a piece of her mind. Oh yes, she would.

“Behave with the good sense your parents gave you,” she said to my former husband once after our divorce when he came to pick up the boys for a visitation. He looked at the floor. But it never changed.

My sisters and I have this thing; I don’t know if it really is anthropomorphism, but I’ll just say it: My mother is a butterfly, and lately my father is a cardinal. Every spring and summer butterflies flock to my back porch; one usually lands on the glass table when the boys and I eat dinner outside. One will land on a book I am reading in the sun. They will flit in stops and starts on the lilac bushes, the verbena, the hibiscus, the scented geraniums my friend Katherine told me to buy. Many spring and summer mornings a bright red cardinal sits alone on the telephone wire stretched across my backyard or on the basketball rim, of all places. Just sits. For several minutes. Most every day.

“Hi, Dad,” I say. And I don’t care who hears me.

The benches in Judge Naomi Schuster’s courtroom are filling up; we are there only a few minutes before 10
AM
. I glance around the room; he is not here. A thirty-ish woman in a red sweater has a lip ring, nose ring, and a diamond piercing in the area between her mouth and nose. I think that would hurt. A woman to my right is chewing gum loudly and holding a stack of papers. Drew motions me to sit down in the front row and she sits to my right. Six rows are filling with men and women—all with blank faces, staring ahead.

A woman is standing before the judge with an attorney to her left. She is dressed in a postal uniform.

“All I know is he lives in Cleveland,” she tells the judge.

“How long has he lived in Cleveland?”

“A couple of years,” she said.

She tells the judge she has not received support for her three children. I cross my legs and shift in my seat. Another couple approaches the judge’s bench when their names are called.

“Two of the children are emancipated,” an attorney says.

“I agree to support my youngest child,” the man says sheepishly.

The judge assigns terms to the payment.

My former husband rushes in. I see him out of the corner of my eye and do not move to face him; I sense him. He sees Drew and does a double take when he sees me. I do not look up, I do not make eye contact. But I can see him. His hair is long, well below his collar, and he is wearing a trench coat, a black suit, a white shirt, nice shoes, a tie. He sits next to Drew. My chest starts to tighten.

He sits on the end of the row; Drew is between us. I try not to move, to act flustered, but my body is tightening. I am aware of him in my skin the way an animal is aware of a possible predator. He does not sit still. I see him bend down, his upper body flush to his legs, a sort of yoga pose, as if he is stretching, gathering himself. It is so odd I nudge Drew with my elbow. Drew looks ahead. He sits up straight and does it again suddenly; a bending bow, his chest touching his legs as he sits, his hands touching the floor.

At least ten more names are called. It is nearly 11
AM
. His name is called—he is bringing forth the motions and I am the respondent—and I approach the bench and stand near my former husband for the first time in many years. I say nothing. Drew advised me to say nothing.

Spots start swirling in front of me, as if I am going to faint; an expanding wallpaper of stars unfolds in front of my eyes. I cannot possibly fall down. Not now. Not here. My chest and head are so hot I feel incinerated.
Breathe through your mouth. Calm down. Don’t speak.
Drew told me not to speak.

Drew answers the judge’s questions. The judge never looks at me.

“Your honor, I was assured when the boys were born, that college would be paid for,” my former husband says.

“By whom?” my attorney asks.

“By her family,” he responds.

My father died before my sons were born. My mother died in 2002.

Back and forth, back and forth, the pulse in my ears is nearly deafening and my breath is heaving and loud. I try to relax. I can’t. Drew requests he supply the last two years of income tax statements. Even though he has claimed on the statements that he still lives in the Netherlands, he has filed US tax returns with an income claim of zero. $0. The law review editor at a top private university. Former litigating attorney at a top firm. $0.

In my head I am screaming.
How do you live on zero income? How do you eat? How are you wearing a new suit?

And then it’s over. I have to come back in twenty-one days. More answers to his questions. And then a hearing. And then a trial. I cannot have a trial. I do not want to spend any more time responding to him. I only want him to do what is right. For his sons. I go back to the bench and pick up my briefcase and raincoat and leave the courtroom, but not before I see my former husband mouth the words, “I would like to speak to Michele.”

Drew asks me in the hallway and I say yes.

“Michele, I want to be clear there are two separate issues: My insolvency is one issue. My gratitude for you paying for the boys’ college is another. I am grateful for all you have done.” He looks at me. I draw in a deep breath.

I have practiced this, rehearsed this soliloquy in my head ten thousand times. In the car, in the shower. When he misses another Christmas. When I see Colin cry when he says that his own father does not love him. When Brendan is enraged. When Weldon chides me for not putting his father in jail. I rear up and look him in the eye.

Compliment, acknowledge him.
I learned this from writing opinion pieces for newspapers, magazines, CNN, from my training I do for The OpEd Project.
Validate the other side.
It keeps the crazy com
menters at bay on blog posts, sometimes. At least it does not immediately alienate them.
He loves a compliment. I am ready.

“You are an intelligent, resourceful, innovative, talented man.” And now I come in closer. “And you chose this. Shame on you. You chose to abandon your sons. You choose to have nothing to do with them, not for years.”

His face is blank; he does not look surprised, he does not react. He looks at me with all the emotion and involvement of someone staring at a train schedule posted on the wall of Union Station. I search his face for any reaction, I search his face to elicit any recollection in me of a man who is a father, of the man I married twenty-six years earlier. Of the man I divorced sixteen years earlier. Of the man who hurt my sons. I feel this trembling rage simmering inside me. Here is the man whom I believe chose to hurt my boys.