I had stopped working when Keely was born, and Don had started his own architectural business, the demands of which I understood and supported. The fact is, I was enamored of his work and shared his excitement for each new project landed. And I knew from the start that a big part of my investment called for a sacrifice that included long hours of tending to the homefront. But as I suffered the loneliness, and gradually figured out that it wasn’t always work that kept Don away in the evenings, I took a stand.
Some moments in life are forever etched in memory. For me, this is one: I was driving Keely and a couple of her pre-kindergarten classmates to school. As we rounded the corner from Church Circle onto Duke of Gloucester Street, Keely said, “I haven’t seen my Daddy in days and days and days.” Another child in the car innocently responded, “I see him all the time. Last night he took me bike riding!” This was my first clue that Don wasn’t always honest with me, a realization that hit me hard. How I kept the car from running up on the sidewalk, I still do not know.
Even though I didn’t jump to any specific conclusions, my plight was worrisome enough that I briefly became somewhat of a sleuth. During my stint as a covert operative, I do remember steaming open the American Express bill—a skill they don’t teach in school and something that isn’t as easy as it looks.
As I struggled with the task, Paulie toddled through the kitchen to the playroom and announced to Keely: “Mommie’s cooking mail.” Startled by his having noticed, I swung into cover-up mode, speaking sternly so as to derail any further communication, “No, Mommie is paying bills—that’s all.”
During the first year of the separation, we didn’t see much of Don. At the time, I figured the children’s lives weren’t as disrupted as mine, given that our routines stayed pretty much the same. I was the primary caretaker, and we remained in the family home. One day, several months after Don had moved, he walked up to our front door.
Paul saw him first and came running into the kitchen to alert me, exclaiming, “Uncle Daddy is at the door!” I had to smile to myself as I considered his point of view—to little Paulie all men were called “uncle-something” and he knew this guy’s name was Daddy. Made sense!
As Paul tried to follow the mailman down the street or chose to hang out with the dryer repairman for the duration of his time in our basement, I realized his hungering for male attention. My sensitive and good-hearted stepfather didn’t miss a beat in taking Paul under his wing. In fact, the bond formed between Paul and his grandfather was a blessing for which I remain thankful.
*
THE GRANDPARENTS LIVED in the Wardour neighborhood, just a few blocks from my home and those of my sisters. One of the amenities of their old and quirky house was a huge screened-in porch where the entire family, and then some, could gather for a meal or just sit and talk. And talk we did. If there wasn’t a new matter at hand, we would happily rehash what we had talked about the day before. In either case, our topics ranged from local politics to world events, and from our problems and triumphs to those of our friends and neighbors.
Screened in on four sides and surrounded by massive old trees, the porch provided camaraderie, a respite from the heat, and a view of a good-sized yard with a pool where our children played for countless hours as summer days became summer nights. We gathered at “Grandmommie and Granddaddy’s” for occasions throughout the year but always looked forward to the warmer weather when life could be lived outdoors, usually kicked off by an elaborate Easter egg hunt for our children and their friends. Fortunately for all of us, we had twenty years of this sanctuary with our parents, years that ushered our children into young adulthood.
In addition to his recognition of Paul’s emotional needs, Dad—as I came to call him—often stepped in to meet the practical needs, an increasing challenge over the years due to Paul’s medical appointments and the uniqueness of his school situation, not to mention my being a single parent with a demanding job.
For Paul, spending time at his grandparents’ home was routine. If Granddaddy was cutting the grass, you can bet Paul would be out there too. I can picture Paulie now, pushing his plastic lawnmower about ten feet behind his grandfather.
The longest section of my parents’ fenced-in backyard was bordered by a deep ravine, once the right-of-way for the old Baltimore and Annapolis Railroad. To empty the lawnmower bag, my stepfather would lift it over the fence and, with arms extended, hold it open to allow the grass clippings to go down the steep vine-covered embankment.
One day, as my stepfather was performing this ritual, the weight of the grass shifted, causing him to lose his grip. The bag and its contents tumbled about halfway down the ravine before getting snagged on an old tree root. Because the bag was out of reach, the drop nearly straight down, and the stability of the terrain unpredictable at best, there was no way my stepfather could have retrieved it. Therefore, against my mother’s pleas to the contrary, he decided to tie a rope around his little buddy Paul’s waist, loop it over the fence, lower Paul down until he could reach the bag, and then hoist Paul back up and over the fence. The operation was a success. Even though I wasn’t there, I have a clear image of this event in my head thanks to my mother. After losing the debate over the safety and wisdom of this maneuver, what did she do? She ran inside and got the camera!
Absent the benefit of mainstream schools or even consistency in schools, Paul didn’t have a lot of friends, a fact that was compounded by his lack of social confidence. Because our family was close, his cousins and their friends were his primary social contacts, providing much-needed consistency as well as a safe haven.
Chapter 2
“I’m Tired of Letters”
Off in the sunset, resting on the cue of night,
There lies a horizon, sinking in neon light.
While nature below rustles in its chilling gust,
Trees dance to its music, all throughout dusk.
Then as we sleep, by enormous shaded skies,
The western world awakens with day light at its side.
AFTER PAUL HAD spent just a handful of days in pre-kindergarten, he climbed into the car one afternoon and announced, “I’m tired of letters.” Great, I thought, they’re just the foundation for literacy. But we had time—lots of it.
Even though Paul’s teacher the prior year had expressed concern about his ability to engage, or to take his turn when prompted, I was more amused and endeared by him than I was worried. I could see some of his differences. Of course I could. But he was beautiful, he was remarkably sweet-natured, and he was happy. And I am an optimist.
His biggest impediment by far was inattentiveness. Even at home, where individual attention was more the norm than in a classroom, there were many times when he didn’t realize he was being addressed, and even a gentle touch on his arm or the side of his face had no effect whatsoever. He simply went somewhere else. I used to joke that you could stick a pin in his arm and he wouldn’t know it. I never tested this theory, but I still think it’s the truth. When he came back from wherever he’d been, he would carry on age-appropriate conversations with me or Keely or other members of our family, always as if he didn’t know he’d gone away for a little while.
I recalled that I had not been the most focused child either. The fact is, I was the child whose stage debut was to have been at the Annapolis Recreation Center in a kindergarten class performance of H.M.S. Pinafore. In spite of what must have been weeks if not months of rehearsals, I missed my cue and failed to go out on the stage for my part. Backstage, sitting Indian style—as we said back then—and wearing what seemed to me to be a ball gown, I was mesmerized by a bug on the wall. The next thing I knew, it was too late. While I don’t recall being upset, I do remember fleeting thoughts of my parents out there in the audience but concluded they wouldn’t have noticed. I was wrong.
And Paul’s father didn’t hear half of what was said to him. But Don was