Luxos Spring 1995 Part 6
Chapter 6
Friday
Richard
We all lie. Omissions, fibs, inventions, denials, half-truths, white lies. I have always loved both the sound and the very concept of a "white lie". The purity, the innocence, the romanticism even, of its flowing phonetics, a whispering surge and a delicate fall. "White lie". A transgression with a name not unlike that of a flower. My fondness is transparently self-serving, of course. My only lies have always been white. Is there such a thing as a "black lie"? A lie told with the sole purpose of hurting someone?
The whiteness of a lie, its pallor, is hard to gauge; it's a fine line, moving and blurring and reshaping. But it is a good moral compass. A transgression with a name not unlike that of a flower can make a good moral compass, arguably. Discipline is needed, however. A white lie could stay white for as long as needed, yet ultimately, the truth has to slowly emerge, after a careful maturation. A white lie is a protective cocoon for the truth to hibernate in and from which it can slowly emerge: yawning and, sometimes, ugly.
Again, discipline helps. Raising three boys left by their mothers (brutally castoff by illness or dejection) requires structure, planning, design, adjustment. You have to map out the emotional development of three helpless beings, to sculpt their interactions with each other, to choreograph their dealings with the world, with its paradigms, abstractions, expectations and Mother's Days.
Dealing with death, in that sense and in that sense only, is surprisingly organic. The lies are not just white, they are an exquisite snow-like white. They are comforting to hear as they are cleansing to tell. I told Andrew repeatedly over the years, with a vocabulary evolving along with his own heartening emotional intelligence, that his mother had been one of the most beautiful, smart, loving, selfless woman I had ever seen, that she had cared for nothing and no one more than she did for her only child. There are some lies in there. But white, so white. I invented for Andrew some of her favorite books or music that contrasted nicely with mine, to give him a broader realm within which to fine tune his own tastes and sensitivity. I invented for Andrew some of her views on religion and fate and life that matched nicely my atheistic humanism, to give him a firmer hold on complex notions.
Then you adjust. Andrew was told evolving yet loving truths about life, love, women, and his own uniqueness in my eyes when he was eight and I met Barbara, when he was ten and she came back from the hospital with tiny Benjamin in her arms, when he was twelve and Dustin came along, when he was fifteen and Barbara was gone.
At that point came another set of lies, all white and all loving, more subtle too because you can't lie about a living mother, a mother who writes and sporadically calls, a mother who has decided to start a new life but declines to leave the old one completely behind. Desertion is harder to explain than death, harder to simplify, to shape, to give context to. One thing is obvious and paramount: never say "don't worry, she'll be back". Anything else, you improvise and hope for the best. You stick to your moral compass (white lies have to make the other person feel better, not yourself) and to one structuring narrative: I am happy, things are good, nothing else bad or hurtful will happen to you. Protection is key, and easily done because it is a purpose, it is an active approach to everything in life. Things are good if you make them good, if you rejoice and enjoy and share your elation, if you plan surprises and gifts and trips, if you smile, if you kiss, if you hug. Protection is demonstrative.
My own personal happiness usually follows. And when it doesn't, I tell lies, all white and loving. There's one lie these days, a temporary, fairly inconsequential lie (two, if you count my undisclosed health issues). I am having a relationship with Maya. Warm, exuberant, lively Maya. A "family friend" as Ben usually refers to her. She is. Ben and Dustin (and Andrew, because I can't lie to some and not to all, it's just too complicated) will know about her soon, when I in turn know that they are safe and ready to move in the world, when they will know that I can be everything to them, always and everywhere, while still having some happiness of my own. One step at a time, a yawning truth will emerge from its white lie cocoon.
You plan these steps, you never want to be caught off guard - even if that does happen, of course. This trip in Egypt is one of those steps. It's not a big secret, nor a concealed scheme. Ben knows Andrew and I shared a precious, moving, momentous week here ten years ago. I don't really care if Ben might feel pressured or boxed in filial intimacy: sometimes our steps forward need to be prodded a little forcefully.
I haven't done an excellent job so far. It might be because, whereas Andrew was an outgoing, vibrant teenager a decade ago in this very hotel, Ben acts and looks much more like a young man - confident, guarded and independent. I am not comfortable with adult men, I have always been aware of that. I like the company of women much better - or children. I like the challenging interactions with people who are blunt, sensitive, emotional, exuberant if need be. I find adult men boring, aloof, constrained, and myopically pragmatic.
I like our guide, here in Luxor. She is perky and quirky, passionate and demanding. I like Siobhan. She's like a wounded cat, all claws out, but with such a burning intensity, such overflowing emotions. I like Maya. I miss Maya. I just called her, I really needed to hear her voice, her laughter, her affectionate sighs. I talked to her about our day, about the clouds this morning, about our visit to the Ramesseum, about the statue that Shelley mentioned in this poem she likes, about the thunder and the rain which haven't stopped since we got back to the hotel, about lying in my bed in the middle of the afternoon and wanting to call her. "How are things with Ben?" she asked. "Well, I haven't done an excellent job so far", I had to answer.
I am now in a bath and the water is getting cold. I took refuge in the bathroom because of its complete silence: no sounds from the rain outside, no sounds coming from Ben's room next door. I'm making progress. I realize my frustration at getting Ben out of his shell probably stems from my own lack of focus and purpose. Do I want us to talk about his mother, to expunge that heavy file from our quarantined records before Ben sets off for Act II of his life? Do I want him to come to peace with Dustin, to ease the brotherly rivalry that has so disrupted and clouded our familial shelter? Do I want to delve into his seemingly complicated private life, to convey some sort of message of paternal support or indifference?
I'm also aware that Ben has never, not in a long time, expressed openly nor silently any need for guidance, resolution, or emotional breakthrough. Maya said earlier "You can lead a horse to water, but you –". "I know, I know," I had gently interrupted her.
My boys are so different. Andrew appeases me. Benjamin makes me proud. Dustin worries me. I had actually told this to Maya, in that lovely café close to Penn's Landing, a month before I left for Egypt. "Mix it up", she had said simply, caringly amused. "Be proud of Andrew. Give some peace to Dustin. And worry about Benjamin. You'll have a whole week with him to do just that."
* * *
"The next time I call Dustin, you should really be with me. It's silly that you haven't talked to him all week." I know it is clumsy on my part to try and force again the subject of his brother in a dinner conversation that is nearing its yawning end. The evening had been very pleasant. We had finally found a wine that was decent enough and I am sipping slowly the second glass I have ordered just when Ben was finishing his dessert. My son had been puzzled, slightly, as our dinners here had never lasted that long. But we can sleep in the next morning, our morning excursions program having reached its conclusion today. Tomorrow is our last day, tomorrow night our last dinner. We need to talk.
"You called Dustin again?" Ben asks, looking genuinely surprised, a little annoyed too.
"Well, he was out. So I just talked to Maya."
"Okay. We're leaving on Sunday morning. There is no point making another call, we'll see him soon enough", he says conclusively.
I stay silent, stubbornly thinking about another overture. We need to talk.
I notice him gaze at Siobhan and her husband, over my shoulder. I turn slightly and see them leaving the dining room. Neither of them acknowledges us. Their departure seems to change Ben's mood slightly, however. He drops to the back of his chair and takes a deep breath before looking up at me.
"Why are you so intent on me and Dustin getting along? A lot of siblings just don't, not when they're young. That's just the way it is. Why is it so important to you?" There is no aggression in his voice, just weariness and maybe a bit of sulking.
I don't really care that they don't get along these days. That's not my point, but I don't know how to phrase what I really want to get at. Not yet. "You'll understand when you're a father" is all I can mutter, with surprising assuredness, a tone I immediately regret for all its implications and presumptions.
"Well, at least, I'll make sure none of my kids is a Republican," he says defiantly.
"What are you talking about?" I ask, a bit irritated by his swift and highhanded change of the subject.
"You do know Dustin volunteered for the Santorum campaign last November? The little idiot was stuffing envelopes and did some door-knocking. It's ridiculous, he's not even fifteen. It's that Van Prague kid and his older sister."
I thought briefly about the money I had donated to Harris Wofford, a friend of mine from his days as a fellow lawyer. The irony of my youngest kid licking stamps for his victorious opponent was actually more amusing than anything else. A bittersweet allegory of sort.
"Why do you care?" I ask.
"It's embarrassing."
"How? At school?"
"Yes. In a way. But it's embarrassing for you, Dad, how can you not see that? You're a big shot liberal civil rights lawyer and the little fool has a picture of Newt Gingrich in his wallet. Seriously, Dad, it's moronic and insulting."
His sudden agitation is painful and unnerving. We do need to talk. I take a big gulp of wine and look at him, fondly and intently.
"How much do you remember, Ben, you know, from when you were... really young?" I ask.
"What do you mean?"
"Just that. How much do you remember?" I feel compelled to add: "From when your mother left."
The fear in his eyes makes me want to retract everything, to find a joke to crack, a plan for tomorrow, another round of dessert. But I have to finish what I started.
"I don't know. Not much, I'm sure", he answers tentatively. He sees my hesitation and, gracefully and mercifully, calms down and asks softly "Why?"
"You were maybe seven years old. Dustin was still very young and he was having a tantrum for some reason. I was at my wits' end, really, and you saw it. I could tell you saw it and it scared me. I tried again to calmly quiet Dustin down, but he was screaming his lungs out. Then you looked at me and very coldly, very searchingly, and you asked me point blank: is this why mum left?"
Ben freezes. He opens his mouth to interrupt me, then looks down and starts to fidget with his napkin. I can see he is hurting and my own pain is jolting.
"The thing is, Ben, it wasn't really a question. Everything in your tone and posture and look on your face was making a statement. You had arrived at this conclusion, however young you were then. I could see it and it scared me, Ben, it really scared me. I had failed at –"
"No, Dad, please, don't say –"
"Hear me out, please, Benjamin. I had failed you, that's how I felt. Whether it was true or not is irrelevant. But yes, that day, it did become important to me that you and your little brother got along, that you accept him for what he is, that you don't resent his presence or his very existence."
"I don't."
"You have. You might still. And I can't have that. I can't have your anger toward your mother redirected at Dustin. It's just not fair."
"I am not angry at my mother, Dad. Honestly. You did a good job with all that. I'm serious. If I don't remember much, it's precisely because it never really was a big deal. I mean, it was, obviously, but you dealt with it the best way you could. None of us are freaks. Well, Dustin is a Republican, so we might have to -"
"Stop, Ben." The exhaustion and sadness in my voice startle him. I take another deep breath and catch the attention of the waiter to order another glass of wine. I turn back to Ben, who still seems confounded by my resolve to dig deeper in the matter. I notice I'm looking away as I resume talking, slowly and softly.
"I think you were eleven or twelve, I'm not sure. You weren't a little kid any longer, that's my point. Andrew was back during a break, I think it was spring break. He and Ethan were mugged one evening. Do you remember?"
"Vaguely."
"Well, they were. Nothing serious, but Andrew had his wallet and his keys stolen. So we had to change the lock of our front door. When the locksmith was gone, I could tell you were really upset, but you weren't saying anything. When I pressed you, you looked confused and worried. You finally told me. You were wondering how your mother was going to get in if she decided to come back."
I finally manage to turn toward Ben. He is looking down at his empty plate, still fiddling with his napkin, twisting it with increased vehemence. As I think I detect the faint start of tears in his eyes, I have to look away again. The waiter brings me my glass of wine. Ben barely registers his short presence.
"You were eleven, Benjamin, maybe twelve, not five or six. Barbara had never given any signs that she might come back and we had never discussed that possibility together either. The way you talked about your mother to anyone, friends or strangers, was lucid and rational, detached almost. And yet."
Ben briskly wipes away a tear from his cheek. My stomach hurts, I feel dizzy. He breaks my heart. But I have to march on.
"I promised you I'd send her a copy of the new key by mail. We never mentioned it again."
"Did you?" he asks, more curious than accusing.
"What?"
"Did you send her a key?"
"No. No, I didn't," I respond meekly, looking away. "How would she have interpreted that?"
"You just could have told her that her son wanted her to have it."
I don't answer and drink some wine. He is right, I suppose. I wanted to spare her guilt, I wanted to spare myself awkwardness. And I broke a promise to my son. "The point is," I resume, "you can't walk around and pretend that none of this has affected you, that none of this is still affecting you. I don't."
"You do. You never show any signs that this has messed you up."
"But I'd never claim it hasn't if someone actually asks me. I'd never say `it never really was a big deal'. I'm happy and I love you, I love you all, and I love our life together, but this was a big deal, Benjamin."
"Fine," he says then looks around him. We both notice the dining room is now empty; the tables are being cleaned up by the waiters, most of them with celerity and efficient briskness, the ones closer to us with tactful discretion. Ben seems to think for a while and I let the silence sort his thoughts out.
"How do you do it?" he asks, earnestly and expectantly.
"How do I do what?"
"Well, deal with it all. Accept it. Move on. Forgive."
Is this a crossroad? Is this when parental protection gives way to fatherly guidance and steering? Is this my final, crucial, contribution to my son's coming-of-age, the last parting gift of wisdom to arm him for the coming years of thinking and doubting in college rooms, yearning and hoping on beaches and mountains, holding hands and breaking hearts, packing and unpacking an increasingly large amount of very personal belongings?
And why hadn't I seen coming this very question? For all my discipline, structure, planning, design, and adjustment, this was the one query, legitimate and plain, for which I didn't have a ready answer. Not an answer that would round up and cap off years of shaping my son's future, not with the appropriate strength, grace, consistency and finality. Denial? Yes, there has been some of that, albeit in a reasonable amount. Still, not something you want to have emulated. There has also been, I confess, a sense of smug vindication: my three sons are terrific, my career is thriving, and what a beautiful house I have. Whereas Barbara, poor soul, well, she herself admits that her "journey" isn't over – a journey that is, apparently, "worth more than the destination". I think I have arrived – given a couple more years to pull Dustin up. I have almost arrived and the destination will be wonderful. I will arrive if I can give a proper answer to Benjamin. I know my hesitation, even if concealed, is damning, as my long silence is self-defeatingly giving weight to a forthcoming answer I clearly haven't thought through.
"Empathy," I finally utter, letting the word flow out as if it was elbowing itself out of a cluttered mass of superfluous considerations. The word hangs between us, I feel like I'm watching it rise and flutter. As Benjamin fails to catch it, I repeat it softly, blowing more life into it: "Empathy".
* * *
As we walk silently through the dimmed lobby, I see Ben instinctively darting a look towards the stairs leading to the opposite wing. I realize we haven't talked about Siobhan's husband. "I was at the market with Siobhan, the British woman, yesterday afternoon, did I tell you that? We had a lovely time." A white lie.
Ben nods, checks his watch discreetly, gives me a polite smile and veers towards our stairs. "That's nice," he then says, without turning, his long-legged paces decisively leading him to his bedroom. A white lie. One step at a time, a yawning truth will emerge from its white lie cocoon.