Chapter 1 - A Ritual Interrupted

The door opens slowly. It is a big, old, heavy door attached to a big, old and heavy house.  The dog’s nose peaks out first. The rest of his body follows with a familiarity that could easily be confused with precision. The man comes out next tethered to the dog by a leash. They proceed down a long number of stairs toward the street. In another time the steps wouldn’t have been noticeable, but now as age has caught up to the dog his movements are deliberate. As the stairs meet the sidewalk, the dog turns right. This is not the jerky turn of a dog in his youth, but the submissive turn of a dog who has learned to embrace the comfort of routine. These walks were once an adventure to the animal, the highlight of his day. Now they are a ritual that provides his comfort. The two walk on a summer night as they have done countless times before.

Their usual path for this time of evening at this time of year starts with a trip “up” Denny.  This little stretch of the road is actually flat, not uphill. Yes, a quarter mile down the road, after it bends, it starts an uphill climb. But it’s funny how the mind’s ability to anticipate struggle can cause the mental short-cut of forcing the reality of the flat to surrender to the anticipation of the coming hill. It’s a quiet evening. A car passes occasionally, but only occasionally. The most noticeable sounds come from the dog. His nails tap on the sidewalk with each step, “click, click, click, click.” There is an even and tranquil measure to the sound. The tags on his collar collide and give off a sharper jingling sound that follows less of a steady rhythm. The two sounds have mixed to form the soundtrack of walks like this for years. 

Given that it is summer and the evening is young, the familiar faces of the neighborhood are out enjoying their own individual ritualistic tasks. Just a few paces up and on the right – the north side of the street for those focused on such particulars – the couple continues to work on their dream home. Anyone who knows the areas knows exactly the home you mean when you mention any combination of the words “modern,” “still under construction,” and/or “missing a front door.” It’s a running joke in the neighborhood about how the two architects set out to build their perfect home well over a decade ago and still find themselves short of that goal today. The joke is so open in fact that the architects themselves will be the first to laugh about it. When they began, they were young and in that phase of life where many are prone to over using the word dream as an adjective. The reality of this particular quest is that the two architects happen to each be perfectionists with materially differing views of what the word perfect actually means. In some situations, differences of opinion lead to conflict and resolution. In other situations, differences of opinion can remain just that for year after year.  For these two, the lack of resolution left them without a front door. Instead, the passage was sealed by a piece of plywood nailed in securely.  No one remembered just how long the plywood had been there, but it had been a long time. The man and the dog had noticed through their years of walking that the house would sit untouched for long stretches, then bustle with a flurry of activity for a few weeks. Then predictably the flurry would cease for another stretch measured in years. Activity had been the norm for the prior few weeks. On this particular evening, the two usually paralyzed perfectionists had apparently agreed on the design for a rock retaining wall which they work on well into the late evening. The choice to agree on a definition of perfect, at least for purpose of the wall, was forced by the sneaky approach of their eldest’s bat mitzvah. The same daughter was an infant when this happy dream house endeavor began. Thank God for the pressure of deadlines, even those with 13 years available for preparation. Of course, the plywood remains. The upcoming festivities were apparently not powerful enough to force a shared definition of a perfect door this time around. But there was a son who would turn 13 in a few years.  Maybe by then there would be agreement.

Just a bit farther up on the opposite side of the street, the woman whose name has never quite stuck in the man’s mind sits outside reading from her Kindle and smoking her cigarette. The picture is nearly identical on the morning walk. However, in that case the glass of pink wine is replaced by a mug – presumably of coffee. 

“Click, click, click, click.” “Jingle.” “Jingle.” The road bends to the south and begins its ascent to town. More houses follow. More observations of familiar routines played out by familiar people. There is the house farther up on the right with the couple and their two teenage children. The woman often watches the man and the dog walk by. She gazes too long and too intently. He always nods and says hello when she is out near the street. She rarely responds, but his acknowledgement is the only thing he’s discovered thus far that seems to break her from the uncomfortable stare. While this particular woman’s behavior is a bit off-putting, the man has noticed being noticed by women on these walks. Although both had seen their primes come and go years before, the man and the dog are a handsome pair. And the neighborhood has always been well stocked with women either officially divorced and openly available or in some cases just longing for those greener grasses of the other side. Time after time these women’s routines for such mundane tasks as taking out the garbage or watering the plants eventually evolved to align more and more with his expected passing by. The women would often stop him and begin a conversation that was ostensibly about the dog -- “What kind is he? How old?  May I pet him?” But the true intent was to probe deeper regarding the man – “Does your wife enjoy walking him too?”  Some women, like the long gazer, were too hard. Others, like the women feeling constrained by the band of metal around their finger who saw the man as an adventure, were too soft. Their marriages were parked somewhere in that deadening zone after the passion has given way to Pampers. But he had no interest in being the means by which these women punished their husbands for failing to meet their wives’ unspoken expectations. But every so often through the years he discovered the ones that were just right, at least just right enough. With these he shared his time and his stories. And for an even more select club he shared his body; for a while anyway until they too eventually became too hard or too soft.

The man and the dog arrived at the town’s center in those last moments before twilight surrenders to night. In some ways it’s odd to refer to this intersection as the center of a town. Madrona, Washington is not necessarily a town unto itself. It’s more accurately described as a neighborhood with inexact boundaries of its own, yet clearly buried within the larger domain of Seattle. The area is a bit of a paradox. It rests just 2 miles east of Seattle’s city hall so one would assume an air of cosmopolitan downtown energy. Yet, in actuality the small area is probably more accurately described as a sleepy village. The growth of busy streets, shopping centers and strip malls which had occurred throughout the broader city for more than a century had somehow missed this little hamlet. Blindfolded and dropped into this spot, one would likely peak out and have difficulty guessing their whereabouts. This could be any one of thousands of small towns or villages spread throughout America. The locality’s only truly distinguishing physical characteristics were the skylines that bordered it to its east and west; characteristics outside its own boundaries. The pace was extremely slow. 

The village had originally grown up toward the end of the 19th century. Many of the local homes had now passed the 100-year milestone. The area had experienced all of the typical cycles common in cities throughout America. Growth interrupted occasionally by depression or war was the repeated pattern through the first half of the last century. White flight and urban decay were heavy influences through the 1950s, 60s and 70s. During the 21st century the broader impact of a technology boom in the area has caused gentrification. But through these shifts the neighbor changed in ways that were subtly different from other parts of the city. Not all the whites fled. Not all the urban area decayed. And now the unique brand of gentrification this spot is experiencing has created a more diverse little community than most. It’s neither accurately described as white or black, both are well represented. Statistically speaking it has a higher LGBTQ population than average, but it is not a “gay neighborhood.” Families with small children live next door to shut ins. Politically it is firmly in the camp of being “progressive.” Priuses seem to out populate any other vehicle. Yet, pickup trucks blaring country music can still be seen. It’s a tolerant neighborhood, but in a quiet and unassuming way. In fact, if you ask 10 average Seattleites to describe Madrona, eight will have never heard of it and the remaining two won’t be able to put their finger on a concise adjective.

“Click, click, click, click.” “Jingle.” “Jingle.” The duo continued south. On summer nights like these several of the local restaurants leave their windows widely open to the street, something of a poor man’s dining al fresco. The open windows mean that diners and passersby, like the man and the dog, find themselves in close proximity. In most social situations this proximity would lead to that awkwardness that one feels when standing to close in an elevator. But in this case, there is an ease that fits with the pace of the town. To the diners the passing man and dog feel a bit like a staged prop designed by the restaurateurs to enhance the ambiance of the evening. More often than not the man knows some of the diners sitting by the window so a quick exchange of nods or brief hellos simply amplified the comfortable scene.  

It is their ritual to continue another block or so, pass by the small church and then turn back toward home. Tonight is no exception. In the past when the dog was young such a short trip would have been a form of torture as if taking a small child into a candy store and asking him which vegetables he wanted for dinner. The dog is a pointer bred for long hunting outings with his master. Constant motion lays deep within his DNA driving him to run ahead of his master and investigate the upcoming bushes and trees then abruptly turn and run back to ensure that he has not lost sight of his man and then repeating time and time again in one continual and elegant burning of energy. Back in the day every mile walked by the man translated into four or five miles covered by the dog. But not now. The dog has grayed with age and wasted energy is no longer a luxury he can afford. Instead of long walks, now on dry evenings the return leg often includes time spent sitting on one of the benches dotting the route. While the legs of the dog now moved less franticly, the nose rarely rests and sitting at the foot of the bench provides extra time for taking in the scents of the world outside their home.

For most of the years the return portion of the trip would swing east of the village’s center along one of the residential streets. But all those streets eventually fed into 37th as it was the only one that fully went through the neighborhood and led back to his house. The green house was on 37th. It had become uncomfortable to walk by the green house, so that portion of the trip had been retired some time ago. Instead they retrace their steps down 34th to Denny. “Click, click, click, click.” “Jingle.”  “Jingle.” 

On this night as the two return to their old home no signs of the sun remain. Twilight had fully surrendered to night. Nearly thirty steps separate the street from the house. The dog pausea at the bottom for a moment, gathering the strength to fight the fight, and then begin the final phase of his nightly ritual. He moves up stair after stair slowly but steadily, somewhere along the way realizing that this trip was slightly different. Something was missing. Throughout their time together the resistance at the other end of the leash had been there. In earlier years the resistance was necessary to control the powerful hunting instincts nature had planted in him. In more recent times the resistance was more of gift from the man reassuring the animal that even though he had passed his point of usefulness in the wild, the two were still friends. Still connected. 

But now there was no resistance. The dog turns to see the man kneeling awkwardly only four steps up the path. One hand holds onto the step above forming a tripod fragilely propping him up. The second hand clinched forcefully against his chest. Neither hand held the leash. This was most certainly not a part of the routine. A moment later gravity proves to be too strong an adversary for the man and he collapses fully against the concrete stairs. The man wriggles a bit for a few brief seconds. Then he is simply still. 

The dog slowly descends to the man. He sniffs, then instinctively lays down beside his master and best friend. This is how the two would be found the following dawn.

Chapter 2 – Commotion

She rose early most mornings including this one. It was a habit she got into with work, then fortified over time by the energy of small children. Her husband was not a late sleeper by any means, but given that the sun seldom spent much time in the morning without her, she was usually up well before him. This private time provided the platform to map out all of her upcoming activities. She didn’t drink coffee as the caffeine had shown her time and time again that the two were not made for each other.  He drank coffee, so as she was up first she usually started a pot for him. She drank filtered water and made lists. There were lists for the day, the week and the year. She was by no means what one would describe as anal, but she derived comfort from structure. Structure in the morning was to her what a cup of hot coffee is to many.

Now in her mid-fifties, she is an attractive woman. Many women at this time in their lives are described as attractive with the preposition “for her age” tacked awkwardly to the end of the sentence. But she doesn’t need the preposition. She is tall and thin. Her hair is blond. She wears it short. She had almost certainly settled on this cut years ago when she realized how beautifully it framed her high cheek bones and dark eyes. As she moves around the kitchen this morning from list, to coffee maker, to list there is a liveliness to her steps. They are both purposeful and perky.

It was while stirring in the kitchen by herself that she first started to notice the commotion. Originally the clues were subtle. She detected a slight difference in the early morning flow of the traffic, how it unnaturally slowed at a certain spot. The subtle gave way to the precise with the sound of the siren. As children the sound of sirens are laced with the idea of excitement and adventure. Maybe it stems from that idea that little boys want to be fireman and little girls want to be rescued by them. But there are points as we mature when the feeling shifts from excitement to caution and then on to fear. As an adult a siren passing by is something to observe. A siren stopping too close is something to dread.  Dread joined her in the kitchen early that morning. She moves to the side door to peek, but can’t see much from that angle. Curious now she moves to the front window, but again can’t see. 

The center of the mysterious activity is about a half-mile away.  The noise produced is enough to wake her husband a few minutes ahead of schedule. Walking down the stairs and still groggy, his muttered “what’s going on?” is barely loud enough to be heard. But they had been together a while now and had reached that point where they could communicate without the need for actual words, so she understands him completely. From the bottom of the stairs she responded with a simple body gesture that would have been almost imperceptible to anyone other than the couple, but that he know answered his question with “don’t know, trying to find out, you can go back to bed.” She circles to the back of the house, but still can’t see. The neighboring house blocks the view north – the direction of the sounds.  She mumbles to herself, “It couldn’t be…” The sentence dies before fully forming and leaving her mouth.

From the second floor the view north offers at least a glimpse. Before climbing back into the warm bed, he calls down, “Looks like there’s something over by the little park with the duck pond. Police and paramedics.” Her mind goes to a dark place for a moment. Then she pulls it back. She maintains the structure of her thoughts, even now. She scurries upstairs and throws on clothes. Anything will do. Again in that short-hand of couples, he asks something about the status of the coffee. But uncharacteristic of their abbreviated communications, she does not respond at all. Her mind is elsewhere. She stumbled to find a pair of shoes that matched. 

Without realizing it, her walk towards the buzz turns into a slow trot. Although the distance isn’t that great, the moment had the surreal feeling of a dream; one of those dreams where you’re trying to get to the test you just realized you’re missing even though you haven’t been a student in decades or to save your small child in distress even though he is now an adult. In those moments our bodies never seem to respond quickly enough. We slog and stumble in spite of desires to sprint. Over time those dreams become so familiar allowing us to actually catch ourselves and point out, even while still asleep, that this is just a dream. The disaster is not real. But even in that moment when conscious acknowledgement overtakes subconscious fear, we still wake up in a sweat. That was the feeling she had as she turned the corner. Unfortunately for her, those subconscious fears may not have been lying to her this time.

Two police cars and a fire truck were assembled just outside his house. An ambulance was disappearing in the distance. She could tell that the center of the chaos – whatever it had been - had taken place at the bottom of his stairs. She broke into a run. A few other neighbors and passersby had congregated a safe distance away. It was the kind of respect for space appropriate to an emergency.  He was not among them, but of course he wouldn’t be. He’d be comfortably standing with the police officers and paramedics. And oddly, though he’d be the only one among the uniformed men without an official role the others would likely be looking to him for clarity. At least that’s how she saw him. She passes the crowd of bystanders looking, longing, hoping to see him somewhere nearby. He isn’t. She sinks; her body could not disguise what it felt. 

She glances to the right and sees a young female officer holding the dog. As was the case with the short-hand between the couple, this scene tells her enough about the situation so that she grasps the full weight of it. She moves to them. The officer is astute enough to see the familiarity between the woman and the dog. The woman kneels before the dog.  She holds him close. We can’t see the woman’s face buried in the dog’s, but we hear muffled sounds of crying. She has no desire to speak, but she has even less energy available to fight back the words. “Oh, Hunter, Hunter, Hunter…” she utters softly. A hand gently touches her on the shoulder.  “Do you live here?” the male officer asked in a soft and compassionate manner.

She doesn’t respond.

“Is this your house?  Do you live here?” he repeats. He is kind looking. Young to be a police officer, but it turns out that’s something that everyone says after they reach a certain age. He wears a clip pinned to his shirt with a badge number and the name “Officer Turner.”

“No, no.” she responds.  “My friend lives here.  Is he…” an uncomfortable pause “ok?”

“So, you are not related to the resident of this home? We’d like to go inside and look around.” He responded in a work-man-like fashion. “He wasn’t carrying identification and we need to confirm that this was his address.”

The use by the officer of the past tense told her what she already knew. This moment in her life took more composure than any thus far. “No, I’m not a relative. He is my friend. I do know where the spare key is. I can let you in if that helps,” she says. Then she musters the courage to ask, “What happened to him?”

“I’m not at liberty to say ma’am, except to the family. But yes, the key would help. What’s your name ma’am” he asked.

She replied “June.” She showed them the key tucked in the fake rock sitting in the third flowerpot and pointed out that “You have to jiggle it just right. It’s an old house and the door sticks.” It was the kind of familiarity not many would have had.

An officer tries the key. It doesn’t work. A second officer tries with the same result. Finally, the kind looking officer nods to her. She walks up, turns the key and the door swings open. The police quietly entered what at that moment in time anyway feels like a tomb.

No one remained to stop her from entering. Truth be told they didn’t care too much about her. But she can’t go in. She walks back down the stairs toward the dog which by now had been tied to a street sign. As she nears the bottom of the stairs, she can now tell that this had been the epicenter of whatever had occurred. Neighboring plants had been pushed back. Strips of paper, the kind discarded by paramedics, pepper the area. She pauses and kneels.  As she does she notices a small patch of blood on the left side of the fourth step. She startles back a bit, then rises.  She then continues descending the stairs hugging the right side and avoiding step number 4. She quietly unhooks the dog, takes his leash and begins walking home to the little green house at the corner of Olive and 37th.

An hour before she was complete.  Now, there is a hole in her.

Chapter 3 – Late Nights and Early Mornings

Charlotte didn’t sleep well that night. She didn’t sleep well most nights these days. Yes, it’s true that she was preparing for a big case. But tomorrow held no specific deadline. Regardless she’d awakened, slipped out of bed and wandered into her make-shift office. It wasn’t a real home office. The house was far too small for that. No when this house was being designed the original builders would have referred to this as the other bedroom. It was noticeably small, as were most of the rooms in this house. What they called the master was barely big enough to hold their bed and a dresser. And this room, the other bedroom, might accommodate a small child’s bed, but not much more. So her desk, specially designed just for her by Ikea, combined with the piles of boxes and folders and loose papers spread out on it and pouring down onto the surrounding floor amplified the sense of small and cramped. 

The young woman is in her late twenties or early thirties. Her dark hair is pulled back and secured in a ponytail. It has that slightly unkempt look that comes from spending a few hours in bed. She wears a purple t-shirt with a large gold “W” across the front and boxers. The apparent reason for her rising is to check her email. Perhaps some new and all-important crisis had surfaced in the few brief hours between her retiring to bed after 1:00 and now. But no, the world still turns. Regardless she has no desire to return to her bed. Her husband is there waiting. But the idea of lying there with him feels like such a lie at this point. It is better to pretend that the firm urgently needs her attention right then, than to share the space with him.

As the fullness of morning arrives, she is up, dressed, and out the door before her husband fully realizes it -- successful escape that she was able to rationalize by thinking of the importance of her work. She is a fifth year at Jenkins Simpson and Thomas in their Seattle office. Fifth year is hard. The more senior members of the firm are starting to cement their thoughts about you. Are you on the track or not? By fifth year you are no longer granted the grace of a first or second year associate that makes it still somehow cute if you show up a little late with a hangover. You aren’t as seasoned as a partner, ten years your senior, yet somehow they have become your measuring stick. The messages from the firm are subtle and not always easy to misinterpret, especially for a woman even in this day and age. By fifth year you should be challenging your partners to demonstrate your drive and intelligence, but of course not in a threating way otherwise you may be judged not to possess the softer skills of respect and teamwork. By fifth year you should be able to lead a team. They should gladly want to follow you anywhere. But of course, you’ll be asked to participate in the process of culling the classes younger than you down by 30% per year. So as you lead, you are secretly prepared to decapitate one in three for the greater good. And it’s never lost on you that someone who was put on this planet a year or two year before you has received the same indirect, although never specifically articulated, message about thinning the ranks of your peer group. The pressure to succeed, in all the varied definitions of the word, is overwhelming. Yet even with all that she didn’t have to be in the office as early as she was. It was a choice, designed as much as anything to avoid the extra time with him.

The flashpoint she used to express her anger at him this time had to do with a night out for him with some of his co-workers. Maybe he’d cheated. Or maybe he hadn’t. He’d certainly had inklings and had gotten himself into a difficult spot. But deep down she knew that this wasn’t the core of her anger.  Catching him cheating with another woman might actually be an answer to prayers. No, her anger went deeper. He is, or was, an attorney too. He wasn’t at a firm as prestigious as Jenkins Simpson and Thomas, his grades weren’t that good. He was at a small firm located on the fringe of downtown. It was chic to refer to such a firm as boutique. He told people he specialized in construction. But what he really did was to represent employees injured on job sites. It was personal injury work. He haggled with insurance adjusters all day. There wasn’t anything wrong with this work per se, but it’s not the kind of work suitable for the man she fell in love with. He was a dreamer destined to leave his mark on the world. In law school where they met, they would talk for countless hours about the future. He always talked about the power of the law and how it could be used for the greater good. He had a passion for the environment. It seemed obvious to everyone who knew him that he was one of those special ones blessed to make a true difference. All he needed was the right partners, the right case, the right podium.  It was only after the vows that she began to realize that perhaps the real version of this life wasn’t the fairy tale she’d imagined. Yes, he’d talked a few times about environmental law, but she now believed it was more of an excuse for why the big, prestigious firms weren’t interested in him. She was now beginning to see through the fog of her own ambitions for him through to what he really was. He wasn’t a bad man at all.  But, perhaps his grandest ambitions had less to do with changing the world and more to do with getting stoned. And worse yet, what if he had never been the one lying to her? What if the clues had been there all the time, but she chose instead to believe in the idea of a knight in shining armor, in spite of all the evidence to suggest that he would never amount to more than a dude in flip-flops and a t-shirt? And so when he was out drinking too late with Lana, the paralegal from his office, and things entered the gray area that exists because we all like to implore different definitions of what it means to cheat on a spouse, the real question wasn’t whether or not he had cheated on her, but how had she so blindly cheated herself.

Notwithstanding the disappoints involving her husband and her bad personal choices, she loved her career. She loved everything about it. She loved driving downtown each morning to the center of activity. She loved the fact that her office sat high above the city. She loved the feeling of power and success that welcomed her every morning as she sat behind her desk. It made the long hours, the tiny house, the postponement of children all worth it. Currently she was working on Azzam v. Yahoo!.  Mohammed Azzam was a first-generation US citizen living in Baltimore who, when he came of age several years ago, happened to pick @yahoo.com, instead of @gmail.com, @outlook.com or any other host of equally viable options as his on ramp to the digital highway. His email account had been active for over a decade and chronicled all the details of his fairly ordinary life. The only thing truly not ordinary about his life is that he happens to share a surname with someone who chose to express his political views through the use of bombs – bombs that had killed many people in the Middle East over the last few years. The stakes rose when his bombs killed an America aid worker. Various government agencies then decided that the privacy of Mr. Azzam’s notes to his parents about picking up dinner were less important than our national security. What began as Azzam versus Goliath became much more interesting when the ACLU adopted the case. The group didn’t feel that they could take the NSA to court. But putting Yahoo! in the spotlight would surface all the same issues. Most in the firm expected the ultimate resolution to come from the US Supreme Court. The outcome could help define the influence of the government and corporate America on our everyday lives for decades to come. Jenkins Simpson and Thomas was the lead counsel for the defense. There were jokes about whether or not their client was located in the Silicon Valley or in DC. Charlotte was a cog, but in a very important machine. Her portion of the brief was due in less than four months. She was managing a team of 12 and responsible for gross billings in excess of $10 million annually. It was an understatement to say that this was her make or break case on the partner track.

She received the call from the Seattle Police Department at 11:02 am telling her that her father was dead. She thanked them and kept working on her case until 8:47 that evening.

Chapter 4 – The Unwelcomed Guest

June returned to her home.  She put Hunter in the backyard, and then went inside. Her husband, Rodger, now dressed in dark pants and a light-blue button down, was pouring himself a cup of coffee. There are tears in her eyes as she moves toward him.  He wraps his arms around her, and she does the same to him. After a few seconds, he oddly loosens his hold on her and pulls away ever so slightly, just enough to put his coffee cup down on the counter, then he holds her tightly again.

June speaks softly and tearfully, “Something happened to Allan. I’m not sure exactly what.  I think he may be…”  Rodger continues holding her, but doesn’t respond. “They wouldn’t really tell me anything specific,” she continues.

“I’ll go over and see what I can find out,” Rodger says softly, “After I know that you’re OK.” In that moment her love for him is reaffirmed. What Rodger lacked in raw sexuality, he made up for in dependability. If he said he’ll find out, he’ll find out.  He heads off to investigate. June walks out the kitchen door to the back patio where the dog, Hunter, meets her. She sits on the concrete and he sits close to her. It must have been around 7:00 am by now. She listens to the sounds of the morning – birds, joggers, the slow build of the morning traffic. June's thoughts drifted back in time. They aren’t specific, just glimpses here and there:  a younger Allan sitting on this very patio with a younger June talking and laughing; the same younger Allan walking by the front of the house with a younger Hunter pulling him along and the exchange of sweet waves; the younger man lying naked with the younger her, gently stroking her hair. She tries to remember how he smelled, how it felt when he kissed her deeply. But the specifics are hard to pin down.

Rodger returns. He finds her outside on the patio and sits beside her. As she looks up and sees his face, their unspoken language had already told her what he was about to say. Regardless this was one of those situations where the actual words are required to ensure no doubt. “He’s gone,” was all Rodger said. He holds her while she cries quietly. The dog sits on her other side.

Rodger left work early that afternoon so that he could be home with June. He wanted to comfort her. And June suspected that if he were truly honest with himself, he needed comforting also. Rodger knew of her past with Allan, at least he knew as much as he cared to. When June and Rodger had begun their courtship she let it slip that there was someone else important to her. She had said it that way exactly, “important to me.” She thought that was a benign way to introduce the topic. Over time she had filled in a few details, including the fact that they were no longer involved romantically. Rodger initially tried to ask questions to better to understand how those phrases coexisted in June’s mind:  no longer romantic, yet important to me. Were there firm boundaries that divided them? Were there big signs along the side of the road as there are at state boarders? “You are now leaving Georgia” to be followed 100 feet down the highway by “Welcome to Florida, the Sunshine State.” Or perhaps the correlation between the feelings was less rigidly and more fluid. Perhaps their status was relative – relative to who had ended their romantic relationship and why, relative to what the two of them talked about now as people important to each other, relative to whether or not he, Rodger, had fully satisfied his wife in bed the night before. But these types of questions would be difficult for Rodger to ask and probably even more difficult for June to answer. So years ago, Rodger had learned to cope with the situation in the way that men often deal with such things. He stuffed it all tightly into a box then buried that box in a place where it would not be dealt with openly again.  

June was glad to see Rodger walk through the door around 3:30. She felt absolute gratitude that he was in her life. As is the case with many people remarried in the middle of their lives, June entered measured about her expectations of Rodger. In her first marriage when she was in her 30s, June had bought into what she now saw as the myth that a spouse should somehow be responsible for all of one’s happiness. That marriage produced her three beautiful children, but otherwise it failed miserably. Learning from that, June was now a firm believer that while a mate should occupy a central point of your life, it was unfair to ask that person to be the tent pole. The weight of another’s happiness is too heavy for such a structure. Rather than completing her, she simply wanted Rodger to enhance her. And it was exactly June’s measured expectations that allowed Rodger to frequently overachieve. He made them dinner that evening. As they sat and talked, Rodger eventually asked if the dog needed to be fed or walked. It was a simple question, yet it gave them both pause. “I didn’t actually think through any of the details when I took him,” June said, “There wasn’t anyone else there. I didn’t want them to take him to a shelter or anything. It will only be for a little while, until… until his family comes around,” she continues a little embarrassed that she didn’t have a plan worked out.

“I guess a few days will be OK, but I don’t think my allergies can handle any more than that,” Rodger replies. This was another beautiful example of their unspoken communications. Rodger was not the type of man to openly display jealously. He loved his wife and was willing to meet another man in battle to defend that love if required. Both knew this to be true. But when the other man begins as a mystery and then transforms into a ghost there is no battlefield where they can meet as equals. Without having to utter the words, he’d conveyed the paradox. He would support her by allowing this unwelcomed guest back into their lives for a brief time, but he required that it be brief.

"Anyway, you must be exhausted. Why don’t you go on up to bed?  I’ll find something for him to eat and then take him for a quick walk around the block,” he continues.

June goes upstairs and prepares for bed. It was a still night. The windows to her bedroom were open to allow the cool night air in.  She heard the sound of the front door opening as Rodger takes Hunter for his walk, then the familiar “Click, click, click, click.” “Jingle.” “Jingle.”

Chapter 5 – Hi Mom

She didn’t arrive home until around 10:00 that evening. This was not new and hardly even noticed by her husband. She secretly hoped that he would be asleep, or at least faking that he was. It’s one of the reasons she worked late. Yes, the work was demanding, but more importantly for her it provided the camouflage necessary to continue her aggressive task of passively avoiding him. She was exhausted. While she hadn’t eaten since the quick sandwich for lunch, she wasn’t hungry. Anyway, her nourishment in these situations came from a bottle, not a refrigerator. She poured herself a large glass of cab and retreated to her office.

“That you, hun?” she heard from the other bedroom.

“Damn, he heard me,” she thought but dare not utter.  “Yea hun, it’s me. Got to wrap up a couple of quick things. I’ll be in there in a few,” she replied. To him the words were a pardon granting him permission to finish the current episode of “Sports Center” without guilt. To her the words were code for “Fuck you, you failure. Stay away from me or I’ll scream until my head literally explodes,” but that translation only existed in her mind. That was best for all.

As she sat and finally started to decompress from the day, the gravity of the call finally hit her. Her father was dead. 

They hadn’t been close for some time. Her father had initiated a divorce from her mother when she was just 11. He’d been a part of her life off and on since. Initially there was more on. Over time that gave way to more off. They’d talked with a form of regularity, but it was never comfortable or consistent and certainly not intimate. There would be stretches were he would be involved. He’d show up for the games. He’d be there for the pre-dance pictures. And then there were other times when he’d miss with no explanation. He had done nothing wrong that could be pointed to or held up in court. He had never been abusive. He was not mean. But he wasn’t dependable. He couldn’t be counted upon. He’d be there for a while and just when she wanted to believe that he’d be there consistently something would happen. He’d disappoint. So, to her he was actually mean in more subtle ways. Her mom was far from perfect, but that was ok. There was an honesty to her failures. She suffered from depression and keeping the medication in its proper balance had always been a challenge. Too little, and she was depressed. Too much and she was detached. But that completeness of the story provided a level of comfort. Dad pretended to be perfect and seemed to be oblivious to what a disappointment he had been. So, a call saying that he had died was a mix of emotions. There was finality, but to her much of what it meant to have a father was already gone.

She felt an obligation to call her mother.  Her mother had moved on many, many years ago. A few years after the divorce she met another man who seemed like the actual version of who her dad pretended to be. He accepted her for what she was and brought his own honesty about his shortcomings. Her mother had missed her equal in attempt number 1. But she hit the mark in attempt number 2. 

Charlotte and her mother talked often about what had been going on in Charlotte’s life.  The mother knew all about the unfulfilled dreams at home and the hope of fulfilment in the office. “Hi mom,” she started. After a few minutes of updates on the status of her case, office politics and Todd’s latest disappoints, Charlotte finally got around to informing her mom, “I got a call today. Dad died. He had a heart attack while walking the dog.  They said he didn’t suffer.”

Silence.  Then “I always thought I’d go first. It never crossed my mind…” came the response from the mother. A pause and then, “What are you going to do?  You’re all the family he had?”

“I don’t know mom. I’ve got too much going on. Why did he do this now?” Charlotte replied.  “I can’t think. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

As the call ended, Charlotte felt as though she should cry. But the tears did not come. Why?  Half of her ancestry was now gone in the blink of an eye. Charlotte only felt empty. Maybe things would change tomorrow. She turned off the light so that she could fall asleep in her office, safe from those close to her.

Chapter 6 - Curiously Matching

June sat alone in her room in the mid-morning. It was unusual for her to spend time like this, alone, just sitting. Through most of her adult life, she had drawn comfort from a full day. She was comforted by knowing that she was utilizing the slots her calendar provided. She was comforted as the events of the actual day unfolded on schedule. And most evenings she was comforted lying in bed reflecting on the knowledge that the full day had been consumed. But today was different. Her phone with its regular alerts sat downstairs on her desk. It buzzed at predetermined increments to indicate the next upcoming activity, but to June it was a tree falling in the forest. No, this morning she just sat.  Rodger was at work. He’d left around his usual time. Nothing out of the ordinary there except for the fact that he’d had to make his own coffee. The air was full of absolute quiet, no wind outside, no rustling inside.  The warm summer sun streamed in. Nonetheless, she needed the comfort of a small blanket wrapped around her shoulders.

June was sad. She’d lost a friend. He wasn’t the kind of friend she talked to everyday. In fact, she had tried much of that morning to remember their last conversation but couldn’t quite put her finger on it. Had she been polite or rude? friendly or distant? It was the kind of pondering one does when faced with the reality of utter closure. No more words would be exchanged. There was no room for further explanation or clarification. Whatever impressions he had of her were now frozen forever. 

Earlier in the morning June had mourned the fact that he was not a member of one of her broader circles of friends or an old friend of the family. There was no one to sit and reminisce with. His name was not likely to come up ten years from now as the extended family sat around the table one night and shared stories from the past, “Do you remember that time we all spent Christmas with Aunt Vivian and Uncle Joseph and how the family next door came over because their furnace stopped working that morning and we made cider and played Monopoly?” No Allan’s name would never come up in that context. Nor would any old friend from high school or college was ever ask her “What ever happened to Allan? I heard that you two stayed friends.” There was stark finality to this loss. 

As she sat, she gazed across the room at the large bookshelf. It held many things that made June feel special and loved. There was a picture of June and Rodger snapped quickly at her friend Katy’s 50th birthday party. As it was taken she didn’t even recognize the slight flash. There were dozens of friends around that evening eating and drinking and celebrating their love for Katy, which included respectfully never mentioning the number. As between she and Rodger there had been little unique about that night. They partied well together. Each maintained a wonderful balance of love for the other combined with sufficient self-confidence to allow them to mill about as a couple or splinter off as individuals from time to time. When separated, there were glances which signaled “just checking in to see if you’re OK.”  Most of the time each was fine, but on those occasions when a spouse found the conversation too light or awkward for their liking, within minutes the other miraculously showed up with the perfect line to rescue their mate while leaving not a single toe stepped upon. This was a part of their unspoken ability to simply know the other. It was in a moment exactly like this when Rodger had heroically rescued June from a mind-numbingly boring conversation about the benefits of yoga at the WAC versus Pilates at the Rainier Club that the picture was snapped – her eyes showed the gratitude of a rescued damsel, his the pride of a conquering prince. No one had any idea of the context other than June and it was the context that made the picture so very, very special to her. There were also pictures of her three children.  Although they were all now approaching adulthood, she still couldn’t part with the more intimate photos from the times when they needed her so. After all this was her bedroom. The beautifully staged photos of the family in its traditional phases of graduations, Christmas and other commemorative events were downstairs for public viewing. But here in her sanctuary the photos were more personal.  Here it was safe to display the photo of Kelsey covered in bubbles in the bath. She must have only been six. There was the picture of Thomas holding June’s hand on the beach when he was only eight. Their backs were turned as they walked away from the camera apparently engrossed in a deep conversation about a topic like why God created starfish.  And Eric was forever memorialized in that awkward moment when he first decided that hair gel was a good idea. These pictures were all special to her as they caught the essence of each of the people important in her life. The bookshelf included candles given by friends. It had various knick-knacks that had value at the time placed there, although with some the passage of time had made it hard to pinpoint exactly what that value was. It even had a few books on it. And on the top right, slightly hidden behind a small vase was a box. The box sat coyly on the shelf. It was a simple cloth covered cardboard box -- a nesting box. It had a green hue. The pattern was faint, but paisley. The box blended into the bookcase with the same casual elegance as the pictures of her love and her children. It was hardly noticeable to the casual observer. But June was not a casual observer. She had spent the better part of the morning looking at the box.  She was unsure how to approach it. For while the box was inanimate, it had a life – at least to her.

June sat frozen in this spot for some time. It was now approaching midday and the sun no longer cast a long shadow across the room. June had shed the blanket, although nothing else had changed in her pose. Finally, she rises. She takes two steps in the direction of the bookcase. She stops. She then continues her trip. She reaches for the top shelf, for the nesting box. Her fingertips make contact, but she is unable to grasp it. She nudges it to, then fro. It moves slightly, one corner getting closer to the edge. She continues to bump the box trying to expose enough of it for her grip. “Smash,” the sound of the vase hitting the floor. June jumps back shocked, she’d forgotten the vase even existed. She pokes at the box again until she can firmly grasp a corner then gives it one last tug as it falls into her arms. The top flies off and lands atop the broken vase. Quietly June replaces the top and carries the box back to her chair in the corner leaving the mess on the floor for another time. 

June peers inside the box.  It contains a collection of small bound books -- probably eight to ten. The books don’t look as though they are a traditional “set.” Each is slightly different although all are green. And all curiously matching each other and the nesting box. Each book is sealed with a leather strap. June lifts one of the small books to her nose. She closes her eyes, smells and pauses. She loosens the strap and opens the pages, not to any specific point, but just to the place it happens to open. She smiles slightly as her eyes fall on the comforting hand-written words, “gardening,” “running,” “children.” She slowly flips through a few more pages. Her body relaxes into the experience as we tend to do after a luscious bite of chocolate or the first sip of a delectable wine. She sees other words and phrases that trigger beautiful thoughts from past times, “dahlias in bloom” and “view of the mountain.”  She closes the book, carefully reties the leather strap and places it by her side.

June picks up another of the books. She follows the same steps. She closes her eyes. She smells. She opens to the middle of the book. Her expression changes slightly, but noticeably. There is tension in her body as she reads “controlling,” “anger,” helplessness.” No more pages are explored in this book as it chronicles the time she spent with her first husband. It is closed with less care than the first. The leather strap is pulled a bit more tightly.

June reaches back into the box and pulls out a third book. The ritual – eyes, nose, fingers. Her expression changes again. The smile returns. She thumbs through pages and then pauses.  She reads, “I was digging a hole out front in the parking strip for the new pink dahlia from City People. It was hot so I was covered in sweat and dirt. I was wearing that gray t-shirt from the 5k I ran in Portland with Julie. That thing must be eight years old by now. My back was to the sidewalk and I wasn’t paying any attention to what I was doing. I think I was actually bending over with my ass sticking up in the air. God only knows how awful I must have looked in that moment. And then I heard him say ‘Hi, what are you planting?’ I turned around and it was him, Dog Guy. FUCK!! This is when he decides to stop and say hi? What did I do in a past life to deserve this?”  June chuckles, still slightly embarrassed by the incident.

She flips back a couple of pages earlier in the journal and scans. No not it. She flips back a few more. Still not it. She flips back further, then a little further. Finally, her face shows that she’s found what she was looking for, “Was sitting on the deck this morning after dropping the kids at school. I could hear someone walking by with their dog. Really hot guy. Beautiful dog. Made me think. It’s been over a year now since the divorce, plus a year of separation before that, plus six months of non-touch before that. It’s been a long time.” 

She skips ahead some, “Dog Guy came by again today. Got a much better look this time, and boy was that a treat. HOT!! Maybe I’ll say something to him next time.”  Next page, “Dog Guy sighting this afternoon. Saw him coming a block away. Looked at what I was wearing. I was in those jeans that I got at Nordstrom’s last fall and my blue, print blouse. Thought to myself blouse is good, but jeans make my butt look too big. Ran upstairs quickly to change. Then realized just how stupid I was being. I’m not ready. Watched him walk by from the window in my bedroom. Did note the time though in case I change my mind tomorrow – 10:14 am.”  She jumps ahead to the next day’s entry.  A few sentences in she reads, “Sat in my new outfit from 9:15 am to 11:15 am. No Dog Guy. But I think the FedEx driver may now have a crush on me. Ten years and 80 pounds outside my target range, but good to know in case times get really tough. J”  June again chuckles slightly. The sadness that we saw earlier is melting from the warmth of an old familiar story. She keeps reading, “Changed into some work clothes.  Had to try to dig out that big rock in the backyard. Perfect spot for the orange and black dahlia I just bought. Dug around that thing on every side. Tried to use the shovel to pry it, but it wouldn’t budge. Not going to let that thing get the best of me though. Worked on it for 2 hours and nothing. Oh well… And of course, this is when I heard the stupid sound of the dog’s tags. Nothing to do the way I looked. But did note time, 5:27 pm.” 

June skips forward a couple of days, “Woke up determined that today is the day I conquer the rock. Guy at City People recommended a pickaxe to dig out around it, so I bought one. Worked on it for most of the morning.  Pickaxe worked great. Dug out at least a foot deep trench around that thing, but damn rock is still determined not to move. Have no idea how deep this thing goes.  Got another FedEx package. Actually thought for a second of asking him to help me, but then thought better of it. Don’t want to lead this poor guy on.  In truth, I’ve already promised myself that I’m going to do this without a man. Secretly wondered if I can keep my promise. Gave up after 3 hours. Rock beat me today but got a good cry out of the whole thing.”  A little later in the entry she reads, “Just happened to be watering the flowers in the front yard from 4:46 pm to 6:05 pm. Also, just happened to be wearing a new pair of jeans purchased this afternoon that DO NOT make my butt look big. Dog Guy didn’t just happen to walk by though. Just as well. Still not sure what I’d say. Haven’t felt this way since junior high. Did put out bowl of water for dogs that might happen by later…  PS  While outside watering, FedEx truck did happen to drive by twice. Nice going jeans!!”  June was now laughing regularly at her funny writings. 

She reads from the next page, “Decided today was the day for the rock. Walked right up to it this morning and said out loud ‘One of us is moving out today and it ain’t gonna be me.’ Three hours later that damn thing had kicked my ass. Sat down on the grass in front of that big, ugly rock and just cried my eyes out. Felt so unfair that I couldn’t do this by myself and so unfair that I had to. Heard the sound of the Dog Guy coming. Great, sure can’t let him see me like this. Grabbed the water hose, turned my back to the street, acted like I was casually watering and tried my hardest not to be seen. Realized about 5 minutes later I’d been watering the rock. Realized about 2 minutes after that I’d built a moat around that damn rock. When the kids got home from school, we played castle until dinner. Thomas and Eric took turns, first one was defending the castle and the other attacking, then they’d switch. Kelsey was the damsel in distress. They asked me to be the evil witch that put a spell on her, but I wasn’t offended. I decided to let the rock stay with us for a while.  Turns out it was a great day!!!”  June held the journal against her chest.  She smelled it again.  Very small tears formed around her eyes. Then she read the final portion of that entry, “PS  Going to plant the new pink dahlia from City People tomorrow. Found the perfect spot in the parking stip.” 

When she starts reading the following day’s entry, “I was digging a hole out front in the parking strip for the new pink dahlia from City People. It was hot so I was covered in …” she remembers that she had just read this and skips ahead.  She picks up with, “FUCK!! This is when he decides to stop and say hi? What did I do in a past life to deserve this? I tried to dust myself off, but I think all that did was to smear the mud from my hands onto my face. Said some stupid hi, or hello, or my God you’re so hot. I honestly can’t remember. Did realize after a few seconds that I’d never answered his question, so cool as a cucumber I said ‘June.’ Then of course I remembered that he asked what I was planting not my name so I just kept making it worse by starting a one-sided conversation that consisted of random non-linear words and phrases like ‘dahlias,’ ‘June is not a flower, it’s a month,’ ‘no that’s me,’ ‘not dahlia, June.’  It was awful.  But I didn’t stop there, I just kept vomiting words, ‘like to garden,’ ‘big rock in backyard,’ ‘pickaxe,’ ‘moat.’ Finally, out of pity I think, he just interrupted and said, ‘Nice to meet you June, my name is Allan and this is Hunter.” After that there was some small talk about flowers, but I have to be honest it was all just fuzzy clicks and buzzes to me. I couldn’t focus on anything he was saying. I was just thinking about how stupid I’d been and how awful I looked. He on the other hand was GORGEOUS!!! Tall, dark hair with just a hint of gray thrown in. Looked like George Clooney only with piercing blue eyes. (Did I just write the phrase ‘piercing blue eyes’ in my journal?  Have I really become that girl???) After a while he left. Not sure how long we talked.  Not sure what we said. I might have offered to have his baby, I have no idea. Went inside. I was shaking. Poured myself a vodka. Thank God the kids weren’t home. Sat quietly for a minute to catch my breath. I am not ready.  NOT READY.”

June closes the journal. She re-ties the strap. This was enough for now.

June walks downstairs exhausted from her time sitting quietly by herself in her chair. She heads toward the kitchen. At the bottom of the stairs she glances into the living room to see Hunter lying on the floor. She knew he was there. She’d asked Rodger to walk him before he left for work. So it would be unfair to say that she’d forgotten about the dog completely. It was probably more accurate to say that during the morning she’d lost her connection to the now as she wandered through the past. Either way, she felt guilty about not attending to the dog. She crosses the room to him. He stirs a bit, tail instinctively wagging. “How about a walk fella?” she says; “Probably something we both need.”

Chapter 7 – Noticeably Ambiguous

We hear the familiar “clicks” and “jingles” as June and Hunter meander slowly. The dog and the woman were old friends. She’d known him most of his life. But, in those earlier days there were clear boundaries. She thinks to herself as the two turn toward the lake that this is actually the first time she’s walked him. Hunter had accompanied June and Allan numerous times before, as they strolled and talked. But Allan always held the leash, it was always a tie between the two of them. Out of politeness she’d occasionally ask if Allan wanted her to walk Hunter, but they both knew it wasn’t a serious consideration. With this realization, her emotions migrated, just a bit. Previously she had simply been sad. But the christening of her first walk alone with the dog seemed to offer some hope for the opening of a new door. Maybe this would be her final gift to him, taking care of some of his loose ends.

On late summer days like this, the walk to the lake along this old, wide street was often spectacular and this day was no exception. Seattle’s boom through the 1880s combined with its “great fire” at the close of that decade left it bursting at the seams for expansion. Fortunately, at exactly the same time new technologies to run electric trolleys were spreading from the established eastern cities to the west. This allowed the powers of the day to open the wooded space to the east of town all the way to the lake for recreation and suburbanization. Three electric trolleys were built – one to the north connecting the city of Seattle to emerging borough of Madison Park and its old ferry dock, one to the south transporting people to Leschi and its now long-gone amusement park, and the third along this exact path. What distinguished this line from the other two were the picturesque views. It was remarkable in fact that these views were highlighted given that the building of the trolley lines happened to coincide with the great era of straight lines. Seattle, like many cities in the western United States that came of age during this period, was laid out on a grid system. With the exception of some random pockets of confusion, such as downtown Seattle where disputes between people with names like Denny, Boren, Yesler and Maynard created feuding mini-grids that still confuse tourists to this day, the city follows a strict north-south, east-west pattern. One can imagine much congratulations being bestowed on the team of young city planners responsible for this great accomplishment over a hundred years ago. Even today you can almost hear the accolades flowing from the then mayor peppered with words like “modern” and “progress.” But somehow this little stretch of trolley line, which evolved over the years into the street June and Hunter now walked, was allowed the freedom to breathe. Perhaps one of those young city planners was secretly laughing a bit at the mayor as he thought back on that afternoon when he realized that all good decisions aren’t made from the safety of an anonymous office, and instead visited the undeveloped hillside only to realized that with just a couple of leisurely bends here and there on clear days the trolley would provide passengers with a postcard view of Mount Rainier rising above lake Washington. Today was one of those clear days.

The two walked the paths along the west side of the lake.  In the northwest, summer is such a precious commodity that it causes certain definitions to become stretched just a bit. Hot can be used to describe any day this time of year when the afternoon temperature exceeds 75 degrees. Beach can be used to describe any union between a body of water and land where a human can stand on a surface other than mud.  And beachwear is often defined to include socks and sandals. On this hot summer day, the beach was full of people in their beachwear. The sunshine and fresh air allowed June to escape her own head. The pair made their way down to the small shops in Leschi. By this time, Hunter needed to take a break so a stop at the local Starbucks seemed appropriate. June sat sipping her decaf under an umbrella, the dog resting at her side. The sun felt warm on her face.

“Oh, Hunter how are you doing?” a voice chimed; “Haven’t seen you in a while.”

June turns to see a woman moving with comfortable familiarity to the dog. He seems to recognize her too, as he rises to receive her attention. The woman kneels to pet the dog, his tail now wagging. After a moment, the new woman recognized that the dog was not with Allan, but with June. An awkward look is exchanged as each quickly tries to process the other. 

The woman looks as though she’d been on a run, a glisten to her skin.  She wears black Lululemon run crops with matching striped racer tank, both now slightly marked with dog hair. She has dark hair, mid-length and in a ponytail, and dark eyes. Her ethnicity was noticeably ambiguous. She could have easily been assumed to be Asian or maybe Hispanic. Perhaps she was Persian or even African all with some Caucasian mixed in. She was clearly much younger than June, probably in her mid to late thirties. And this age gap was extenuated by the woman’s youthful bounciness.

“Ah, hi…” the woman says to June after a pause just uncomfortably too long. “Hunter is so sweet. Is Allan around, are you…?” she continued although not exactly sure how to end the sentence. June took a second to absorb the moment.  “No,” she said, “Allan isn’t here. How do you? I mean, are you a friend of his?” She then pauses and regroups herself, “I’m sorry, my name is June.”

The woman rises from the dog. “Hi June. I’m Rachel,” she responded. “Yes, Allan’s a friend. And this guy is just awesome,” she says motioning toward Hunter. “I’m overdue for a nice long walk with you my friend,” Rachel continues. “We’ll tell Allan I said hi,” she says. She gives Hunter a pat, tosses a casual goodbye wave at June and heads off.

June is a bit frozen. She thinks to herself, “Should I go after her and tell her?” But by the time the thought had fully formed in her head and then worked its way through some processing, the woman was now far enough away that it would require active chasing, so June opted to leave things as they were.

On the walk back up the hill, June couldn’t get over her pause. Why hadn’t she simply and kindly told the woman that Allan was gone? June felt oddly protective of Allan, she had since early on in their relationship. Maybe this woman was simply a causal acquaintance whose life would be essentially unaffected by the news anyway she rationalized. The woman might give a sincere “Oh, I’m so sorry,” but go on with her day much in the way that we do when we hear of the passing of a distant cousin or of some television personality vaguely remembered from childhood. That thought hurt June. She’d always wanted others to know Allan as she had. If they had they would have surely been grieving his loss.

Or perhaps she paused because she thought the woman was more. Were they lovers? Through the years June had watched women as they watched him, even ones much his junior like this woman. She had always imagined that he had a bevy of special female friends through the years. He was kind enough not to talk such matters. But gracefully not talking about it would have been his modus operandi regardless of the underlying facts.

Or maybe she was worried that the woman would reverse the question and ask June who she was to Allan. “Are you his wife, his friend, what?” she might inquire. And then how would June respond? 

When she returned home, Hunter slowly walks back to the spot in the living room where he’d been sitting before. He curls into a ball and lays down, exhausted from the outing.  June goes upstairs to her chair and does the same.

Chapter 8 - The Professional Mourners

Charlotte had no idea how to plan a funeral. She was 31 and up to this point no one in her life had died. Yes, her grandparents were all gone, but they all had established lives in the Midwest. They had children, friends, churches to take care of such matters. For those events Charlotte had flown in, graciously shaken hands, caught up with distant relatives and then flown home. But in this case Charlotte did not have such a solid infrastructure to rely upon. Her mother would attend the funeral, of course. She had not been married to Charlotte’s father for nearly 20 years. And while she had found a more appropriate pairing the second time around, he remained the first love of her life and the father of her only child.  Not attending would be inappropriate. But these circumstances would leave her even more susceptible to a high or low with their associated consequences that could last for weeks. Her father had a brother who lived in Florida somewhere. Charlotte had met him a few times and he was always nice, but she hardly knew him. While the obituary would list him as surviving family, Charlotte did not share that bond with him. All this made the unexpected call that much more welcoming. 

The day after the death the pastor of the small church that her father had attended called. She introduced herself as Pastor Jo. Her voice was calming as she conveyed not only her personal sympathies, but the sympathies of the broader congregation as well. Charlotte had visited the church a handful of times over the years. It allowed her to spend some time with her father in an shielded environment as his constant introduction and reintroduction of her to his fellow parishioners allowed him to talk about her rather than to her. She thought about how he would beam with pride talking about her accomplishments. Of course, he seemed to always be a chapter behind in describing her life. He would mention the college courses or sorority activities from the prior years as if they had occurred just the week before. It was the kind of oblivion often experienced when a co-worker starts to describe the amazing new show they just discovered on Netflix not realizing that everyone else in the break room had watched the show a few years ago when it was actually popular. From an office etiquette standpoint, there are several acceptable ways to slip back to your cube to avoid the tedium of listening to someone describe the series you know better than they do. But as your father retells the story of your 10th grade science project there is no cube to run to. 

Regardless, the call from Pastor Jo was thoroughly comforting to Charlotte. It was clear that the pastor was experienced in such matters. She talked about how the church’s Bereavement Team had already been notified. Facilities were being vacuumed. Finger foods were being prepared. All the scurrying that is required under the circumstance was underway. We all have certain “go to” phrases. Sometimes they are conscious. Sometimes they are not. Charlotte quickly picked up Pastor Jo’s repeated use of the phrase “we’re here for you.” It was a vague yet comforting concept to Charlotte, a confederation of people who shared few obvious traditional characteristics – many white, many black; some young, some old; varied political views; varied economic status – yet a unit. The deeper comfort came in knowing that this experienced field general was already rallying her group of professional mourners. Charlotte did not feel that she had the time to follow through on the detailed questions that the calming minister still needed answered. She assigned her husband, Todd, the task of being the family’s coordinator. There were many aspects of life where he was incompetent. Maybe this would be another, maybe it wouldn’t. Oddly in this case that would be more of Pastor Jo’s problem that hers. She handed the phone to him feeling comforted. If nothing else she knew there would now be a funeral. 

The official time for assembly was 11:00 am on a Tuesday. She was greeted by a Bereavement Team member who walked her through what to expect that morning; how the body would be displayed, where the family should sit, what Bible passages would be read and by whom. The full team could be seen in the background doing what they do. A few faces were slightly familiar, all were kind.

Her mom arrived just a touch too early as she was prone to do. However, Charlotte needed a shoulder to lean on and her mother had become the best substitute in Charlotte’s life, so she was a welcomed sight. Charlotte would be forced to fake a tremendous lack of emotion this day. She and her father were not close, but that did not mean that there was not pain associated with his passing. So, so many unresolved issued. Yet this was not the place to break down. These were not the people to share her pain with. The brother from Florida also arrived slightly earlier than was appropriate and stood by Charlotte as if he were constantly waiting to be told where to sit or stand. The uncle was an excellent task for Todd. She reintroduced the two and then politely excused herself. 

Charlotte had never met Pastor Jo in person and was thus quite surprised to realize just how young this shepherd was, probably a couple of years Charlotte’s junior. Charlotte had assumed given Jo’s calm demeanor on the phone and her very official title of pastor, that the woman must have been well seasoned in matters of the soul. But this was a small inner-city church with a limited budget that often ended up taking in the greenest of the green as its clergy.  Pastor Jo had just begun her employment with God, joining the church just the winter before. She was Asian American and slightly over-weight yet wearing it comfortably.  For a brief moment Charlotte felt duped by the entire process.  But all that went away as Pastor Jo introduced herself. The young woman took Charlotte’s hand and held it extraordinarily close to her body.  In few other social setting would it be appropriate for a near stranger to take one’s hand and press it against the midsection of their own body.  Yet, here it was genuine and heartfelt, even comforting. For the first time since the death of her father, Charlotte’s emotions began to assume their primal power in this time of loss. She recovered and stuffed them down, but the tone had been set. Today would be hard.

Funerals are an odd, but necessary event in life. We need to mourn. Sometimes we need to mourn the loss. Sometimes we need to mourn the loss of what should have been. But in either case funerals provide a wonderful platform. Eulogies and testimonials talk exclusively about the good of a person. There is no social pressure to balance the scales so that the person’s true life experiences are presented. For every person who stands up to talk about the special moment when the deceased provided that inspirational push that helped them conquer their mountain of the moment, karma does not require that another stand and talk about how the special insult from the deceased – the pushing of the button that only they knew existed – sucked the very life out of them. No, on this day it was the proper protocol to only praise. And so it was for Allan. On this day designated to honor him a group of people worked their way down to the front of the church to take turns speaking.

First, a man in his seventies from the church, whose name had been lost on Charlotte, talked about the hours her father put into making sure that the church grounds were ship shape. Apparently Allan weeded and tilled and planted tirelessly on behalf of God. This was followed by another church member who talked longer than she should have about how Allan had fixed a leak in the roof. It was one of those stories that might have been significant at a vague moment some time back to a small group of people, but as the story was told today it was hard to understand why this person had chosen to share it. A couple of other slightly disjointed stories from the church members followed. In isolation the stories were slightly boring.  However, in total the group of stories from the congregation said so much more. Sadly, they relayed how little these people truly knew of Allan. Yes, he chipped in here and helped out there. But this church family, wasn’t actually that. If asked to describe Allan anytime outside of 11:00 to 12:30 on a Sunday morning, this group would likely be a collection of blank stares.

Allan’s brother spoke for few minutes and did provide some interesting historical context. The boys had grown up in the Midwest. After receiving a journalism degree Allan had wound his way to Los Angeles and begun a career as a writer in Hollywood. He’s occupied staff roles on a handful of mediocre television shows. He was probably something of a journeyman in the industry, but his resume included numerous notable titles. To those with discerning taste the majority of the shows would be considered pedestrian, although there was the occasional critical success. His unique personal contribution to any of these shows was a bit of a mystery given the team writing concept. But regardless, his name appeared in the end-title crawls of several shows a week broadcast across America for more than a decade. In Hollywood this type of recognition was barely worth noting, but in the small Midwestern towns the family had called home through the years these accomplishments were enough to make him a favorite son. The brother shared clippings from local newspapers in Missouri and Arkansas praising his younger brother as the local hero who had made it big out there in Hollywood. 

Neither Charlotte nor her mother chose to speak directly at the service. Instead they cast Todd in the role of family spokesperson, although he may have known Allan less than anyone present that day. Todd connected a few more dots with a few stories he’d heard through the years. Todd described how Allan had indeed succeeded as a writer in the entertainment industry.  Apparently in addition to being able to ensure that American’s could laugh along with 22 minutes of family struggles every Tuesday at 8:30 during the 1980s and 90s, Allan also produced other works that for brief moments were the toast of the town.  Although Todd’s recitation of the story was full of holes since he had no first-hand knowledge, he was eventually able to convey that Allan had written two full-length feature film screen plays. The first was a cutting-edge suspense thriller that was purchased by Fox for $1.3 million in a heated bidding war. The film was to be directed by the next hot up-and-coming sensation. However, the “sensation” flamed out on a drug induced weekend and the studio parked the project to assess the situation. After that, life never provided the necessary alignment of dynamic filmmaker and hot leading man to breathe the required creative momentum back into the project, so it languished and then died within the walls of the studio. Todd them talked about a second screenplay sold to Universal, but he had no real details. He did eventually pull out of his pocket what he said was a clipping from “Daily Variety” describing one of the projects, but no one beyond the first row could see what was in his hand so the significance diminished with every subsequent aisle. Todd did personalize the story a bit toward the end as he talked about Allan’s desire to leave Los Angeles and move his wife and daughter to Seattle for a better quality of life which eventually and serendipitously lead to his meeting of and marriage to Charlotte. There was a slight “ahh…” from those gathered. 

Charlotte had not known what to expect. The event was sad to her. In some ways that is an obvious observation. But it was also sad on another level. While she would have claimed that she had no expectations leading into the service, they did exist. She had accepted years ago that her father was not going to be a significant part of her own life. But as she matured into womanhood she had just assumed that he was significance somewhere else, to someone else. The thought of anything less had just been too sad to seriously contemplate. So, it was more in hindsight after the service that she began to realize what had been missing. Yes, stories of fixing a roof or pulling weeds did sound like her father. But where were the deeper stories?  She felt somehow emptied by the fact that no mysterious person had found their way to the microphone to describe how her father had sponsored them while orphaned in Cambodia and who’s letters and checks had kept them on the path to medical school and then on to the threshold of discovering a cure for cancer. No mystery speakers. No great revelations that would make his life seem more significant. This saddened her more than anything else about the day.

During the service, June sat to the left three rows from the back. Like Charlotte she had visited the church a handful of times. A few of the faces were more familiar than others. Rodger sat with her and held her hand. June had expected this to be a tearful occasion, but she, like Charlotte, found it to be more hollow than she would have anticipated. June was watery to be sure. But she had cried much over the last few days, by herself or walking the dog. It could have been that she was now cried out, but more likely this format simply didn’t provide the personal triggers to cause another cascade of tears. And that was probably best.

After the service these groups of strangers under any other circumstance -- the members of the church who had nothing more pressing on their schedules on a Tuesday morning, the family of Charlotte, her mom, the brother and a few scattered friends like June -- gathered in the small fellowship hall for a collection of church provided foods and awkward conversation. 

Although June had never met Charlotte, she knew a comfortable amount about her from Allan.  June initiates the conversation, “I’m sorry for your loss. Your father was a friend of mine.” 

“Oh, thank you,” Charlotte responds with polite acknowledgement while in truth she couldn’t distinguish June from any of the other attendees. 

“I’ve been… I mean my husband and I have been keeping Hunter for you,” June said.  “This is my husband Rodger,” she continues motioning to the man next to her.

Charlotte pauses in a brief moment of shock. How could she have so completely forgotten about the dog? She was embarrassed, as if arriving at a party only to realize that she had forgotten the hostess gift. “Oh my God,” she blurts out. “I’m so sorry… I mean I didn’t think about…”

June conveys a reassuring look. “It’s ok. I’m happy to keep him as long as you need. I just didn’t want you to worry,” she says. There is a pause. Rodger drifts toward the food, not trying to avoid the topic, but also not trying to acknowledge it. “I’ll miss those two,” June continues.

Charlotte hadn’t thought through what to do with the dog. Her first reaction was to blame Todd, how could he have let this slip through the cracks? She looked at her mom, thinking that maybe she could help, but the idea fell flat before it fully formed in her head. Buying time Charlotte continued to speak in broken sentences, “Um… I can’t really today… Maybe I could… On Friday… Can I have your number?.. Figure it out in a day or two…”

June touches Charlotte’s arm ever so slightly.  “It’s ok,” she says. She pauses until Charlotte actually looks at her, “It’s ok, I’ll keep him until you’re ready.” 

Ever-so-briefly and ever-so-slightly Charlotte felt her first connection of the day and shed her first tear.

Chapter 9 – Below the Surface

Again, morning found June withdrawn to the comfort of the chair in the corner of her bedroom her nesting box open at her feet. She sits with an open journal in her lap. We can assume that she has already performed the rituals of smelling and touching that seemed necessary to prepare her for the consumption of the words.  “Still can’t believe I wrote ‘piercing blue eyes.’ I was an investment banker on Wall Street. I made millions. I chewed up blue eyed little boys and spit them out. I’m stronger than that.”  She sits up more straightly in the chair aligning her posture with her feelings.  She reads on, “Who the fuck does this Dog Guy think he is anyway? The next time I see him I’m going to start the conversation. In fact, I’m gonna own it. Time to treat this like a deal. Spent the afternoon researching. Knowledge is power after all. Wasn’t exactly sure what breed he had, then found it. German Shorthaired Pointer, ‘GSPs’ for those in the know. ‘Developed in the 19th century in Germany for hunting, streamlined, powerful with strong legs that make it able to move rapidly and turn quickly.’ Are they describing the dog or the Dog Guy? Wow, getting a little turned on just reading this. Thanks Wikipedia. Bring it Dog Guy. But first, should probably get a new outfit.”  She laughs out loud at this point as she turns to the next day.  “Sat on deck with full view of sidewalks in all directions. Clear view, he’s not going to sneak up on me this time. Good working knowledge of dog. Even practiced a few questions. Should be able to start conversation. Book at my side, says I’m casually reading not waiting on him. Outfit looks awesome.”  She takes a drink of filtered water from the water bottle that rarely leaves her side.  She reads on, “Sat for an hour. Nothing – was he trying to hide from me. Was he trying to catch me off guard again? Needed to pee, but could hold it. Not going to ruin this perfect setting. More time. Really need to pee, OK, just hurry. Got up to go inside and wouldn’t you know there he comes. Sat back down, picked up book and assumed pose. Timed it just right, casually looked up from book when he was in perfect ear shot. ‘Is that a GSP?’ He looked at me curiously, God I hoped I hadn’t slipped and said GPS. ‘Is that a GSP, German Shorthaired Pointer’ I said proudly. ‘Yes it is’ he said.  We talked for about 10 minutes. Dog came from shelter. Man came from divorce. Lives just around the corner it turns out. Name is Allan. Success!!! And most importantly I didn’t pee myself. PS Eyes are actually piercing, but I’ll try to find another word.”  June closes the book, smells, holds it to her chest, reties the strap and returns it to the box.  She picks up what seems to be the next in the series.  She performs her ritual.  She reads from the next volume, “Allan and I spent an hour today just sitting on the deck and talking. Still don’t have a complete read. He’s really guarded. There’s definitely no wife and probably no girlfriend. Doubt he’s gay. There is hurt. Whatever happened with divorce closed him. But even with that he wants to talk. I think he has stories he wants to tell me but can’t. Talked to Katy about it. What a great friend! ♥ She suggested writing. Interesting idea… PS Still don’t have good synonym for ‘piercing’ but saw that one of the definitions is ‘to create a path into. Maybe that’s why I’m here.’” June begins her closing ritual. She smells holds tightly and ties the strap. But before returning the book to box she uncharacteristically reversers her course. The journal is untied and reopened several pages deeper in. She continues reading “Allan came over today. This wasn’t stopping by while walking the dog. This was scheduled. I had a new outfit. We’d planned to sit on the deck and talk. He came over around 2:00. We each had beer. I’d floated the idea of writing last week. I said since we’re both divorced we should write a book together.  Some ‘he said, she said’ on the whole thing, both male and female perspectives. He didn’t really react then, so I thought the idea was dead.  But he said he’d be open to a slightly different approach. He suggested we just pick topics and then each write a few pages and share our work. Topics could be divorce, hurt, etc. but could also be happy like children, joy, hope, dreams. By now he’d been teasing me a bit, saying that I’d been using the book as a way to flirt with him. So totally surprised that he was willing to do it (maybe I’m beginning to pierce that hard exterior?). Even felt like his topics approach was a way of flirting back. Also surprised at how I felt – combination of thrilled and scared. Topic # 1 would be ‘writing’ itself. It was kind of way to kick things off, maybe talk about what we each wanted to get out of this new shared experience. It was intentionally picked as an easy topic to start with.  We’d meet in one week to share. No other rules.” 

Now June lay the book on the ground beside the nesting box. No ritual. No sealing it. She reaches inside the box, moving the other journals aside. Reaching below the surface she pulls out a different book this time. It is quite different, larger and more accurately described as a binder than a journal. She opens it and turns the pages. It is crisp, organized. If the journals capture June’s free-flowing self, the binder shows her structured side. The first page simply says “June.” Behind it, clear plastic dividers hold neat type-written text, all stapled in the top left, and with headings across the middle of the first page in a font slightly larger than the text itself with words like those she had described in her journal. The words are alphabetized. She slowly leafs through the dozens of entries. Then approximately halfway through the binder she comes to a page simply labeled “Allan.” More plastic dividers followed, but their contents are ever so different. Pages are crinkled and worn. Words scratched out with new ones added in a nearly illegible handwriting. Creases from folds and the occasional coffee stain further separate this grouping from the first. There are no headings on these, but that problem has been remedied through the use of a label maker. 

She finds his first writing. The years had washed away her ability to remember many of the details from that day. She can’t recall what she’d had for breakfast that morning, whether she’d gone for a run earlier that day or what she wore that evening. She did remember that they sat on her deck. It was a warm evening. Each sipped a glass of wine. She remembers being nervous.  She’d often written for herself, but the nakedness of writing for him was something completely new and exhilarating.  What she remembered the most from that evening just before sunset was his voice as he read his private words aloud to her.

My daughter is an artist.  I’ve seen works by van Gogh, Picasso and Matisse.  I’ve stood in the halls of the Met and the Louvre.  I’ve gazed deeply into the eyes of the Mona Lisa.  Yet no other artist has ever blended color and texture and light in a way that hypnotized my heart like my daughter.  I remember when she first told me that she wanted to be an artist.  I imagine that I reacted in the way that many parents do.  I recall feelings of parental pride.  I thought about how wonderful it was that she was starting to plot her course in life.  She was making choices about who she would be, not based on the instructions of society, but based on what she knew deep down inside would fulfill her.  I recall feelings of parental concern. I wondered about the viability of the idea, could she really make a living and survive with this career choice.  I recall feelings of protection.  What if she bears her soul through her art only to be subjected to the judgment of someone who was anointed critic as a consolation prize for their own failure to create?  I thought, is it actually considered murder to kill a critic of my child’s work?  But the feeling I recall most was that of being treasured.  You see my daughter made this proclamation when she was in the first grade.  She had painted a picture of the two of us.  We were playing on the swings.  Although not exactly in the frame she explained how her mother sat just off to the right on our picnic blanket watching us and laughing.  A big yellow sun shined brightly.  A tree with pink and purple leaves rounded out the scene.  She gave me the picture for Father’s Day.  I treasured that painting.  I treasured the freedom and innocence of a small mind to dream.  I treasured the opportunities that lay ahead.

My daughter eventually decided to earn her living in a field other than painting.  This year she began law school at Penn.  She has always been a bright girl, focused, dedicated.  She was always at or near the top of her class no matter the endeavor.  She had to study; she wasn’t a savant by any means.  And often this study required memorization or some other rote tool to lock facts and figures into her head.  But what distinguished her was her ability to see the patterns behind the learning; to get the why as quickly as the what. 

She will almost certainly be a successful attorney.  And so not surprisingly as she headed off to the opposite side of the country to attend one of its best schools, I am once again proud and concerned and protective.  But there is also a new feeling – loss.  Not loss for me, but a worry that the young artist in my girl may be lost for a long, long time.

Success can be its own god.  It was for me.  I fought for it.  I worshipped it.  And with every blessing that this god rained down upon me, the more and more I became convinced that this god would fulfil me.  But like all gods, success requires sacrifice.  My god ultimately required me to sacrifice everything I held dear including my wife and child.  Even with that, success ultimately decided that my offerings were insufficient and stopped the rain.  My crops died.  I sat alone.

Looking back, it’s easy to see the deception of my idols.  But in the moment, lies can be nearly impossible to spot.  And this brings me back to my worry.  Charlotte is indeed an artist far beyond the painting of the park.  As a young girl she would write.  Her works were vulnerable and insightful.  She could articulate the what and the why.  When she was about 12 she stopped sharing her writings with me, the way young girls often stop sharing much of their lives with their fathers.  Over the years I would occasionally come across something she had written.  It would fall out of her bag on a visit, or her mother would find it at her home and share it with me.  I would read it and cry.  But over the last few years she has stopped writing.  I doubt she made an affirmative decision to quit.  I doubt she ran out of insights.  I doubt she lost her gift. I suspect that the demands of life simply overtook her.  To me this is loss.

No matter how hard she works.  No matter how driven she is, there will almost certainly come a time when success will turn its back on her.  Given how exceptional she is I fear that this time will come late in life after her sacrifices have been offered to her god.  I pray that success shows her its darker side much sooner in her life than it did to me.  I pray that when it happens the things she holds dear will still be within grasp.  And I pray that when it happens, she’ll return to the artists that she is.  I pray that she will write.

The binder is gently laid in June’s lap.  She picks the journal back up and flips ahead.  “We shared our first stories today.  Mine was about writing as a tool, a discipline to allow us to organize and structure our thoughts.  It was from the mind.  Allan’s was from the heart.  It pierced me.”

Chapter 10 – Coffee with a Friend

Charlotte was familiar with her father’s house. She’d been there often. But it had never been home to her. He’d moved here a few years following his divorce from her mother. It was a small craftsman, very old, and charming. There were a few big trees spread around the adequately kept exterior. She wasn’t looking for anything in particular. There was no antique set of silver handed down from generation-to-generation that had been promised to her by a dying grandmother from her death bed. There was little chance of finding a hidden chest full of treasure, her father was not a wealthy man.

She could have sent Todd, but instead she thought it best to do this step on her own. She wandered around the lower floor. It was clean, but dusty. The entire home had an adequate, but dated feel to it. The furniture and the art had likely all been purchased as units upon his arrival. Perhaps he picked it all out himself one afternoon. Perhaps he had a girlfriend at the time who pushed him into these decisions. Those types of details where now no longer knowable. Upstairs there were two bedrooms. She remembered how he referred to the smaller one as hers for years before getting the hint that she would not be occupying it. His room was neat and a bit more personal. There were pictures of Charlotte and her father on his desk and on the nightstand by the bed.  There had been a handful of sweet times between them and this room was the museum housing those treasures. 

Charlotte checks the time on her phone, 10:09 am. It was Saturday, so she felt at ease to take a little personal time, but even on a Saturday only a little was allowed. Azzam v. Yahoo! required constant feeding. In fact, she would be meeting her mentor that afternoon at 3:00 for a quick check in. But she was able to carve out forty minutes this morning. She’d walk through the house to reacquaint herself so that she could start to decide how to approach it. What would she want to keep? Was there anything for her mother? What could Todd sell on Craigslist? How much would end up at Goodwill? And then at 10:30 she’d arranged to meet that nice lady and take the dog off her hands. Charlotte had called the first time; that was a couple of days after the funeral. Beyond the first call she had asked her office admin to handle the logistics. The assistant knew how precisely Charlotte managed her time. 10:00 to 10:40, an ideal window to inventory the house, take the dog, hear about his feeding schedule, and then exchange a few other niceties with someone she’d like never see again in her life. Perfect. Charlotte began using the 21 minutes of time before her rendezvous with June to inventory the house via the camera on her phone. A few pictures prompted memories, but most didn’t. Just before their scheduled meeting Charlotte’s phone rings. She looks at the screen. It reads “Woman with Dog.” “I hope she’s not running late,” she thought to herself.

“Hi, um Charlotte, this is June your dad’s friend. I’m here with the dog,” June says.

“Great I’m upstairs.  I’ll meet you at the front door,” Charlotte responds.

“Actually, could you meet me outside… at the bottom of the stairs?” June asks sheepishly.

Slightly perplexed by the request, but confident that this detour wouldn’t cause her to stretch this out any longer than originally scheduled, Charlotte replies, “Sure, be right down.”

The two reintroduce themselves on the sidewalk. Charlotte bends down and gives Hunter a hug. She always suspected that her father got the dog in an attempt to pull her more deeply into his life. Secretly she thought that was a sweet gesture. And regardless of his original intent, she loved the fact that the companionship of the dog gave her just a degree of relief that the man who helped create her wasn’t completely alone. June stands tensely. She keeps glancing over toward the stairs, toward the nearly imperceptible spot of blood, in the manner one might keep watch over a patch of grass where a snake had been spotted earlier worried that it might somehow reappear and strike.

“Thank you so, so much for taking care of him this week. Things have just been crazy at the office,” Charlotte says. She wasn’t dismissive of June’s assistance, but it was clear in her words and her demeanor that Charlotte felt that her time was slightly more valuable than this woman’s. So, an inconvenience as slight as this should just be understood to be appropriate under the circumstances.

“I assume you’ll be selling the house,” June says to Charlotte with that cadence that could be interpreted as either a statement or a question.

“Yes, we’ll take a little time and clean it. Should be able to have it on the market by next month,” June responds interpreting June’s words as a question. “My husband should be able to handle that,” she concludes.

“Oh yes, Todd,” June declares in a cadence this time that left no doubt that June is making a statement. 

Charlotte pauses with the realization that this kind woman may know more than she had assumed. She glances at her phone, 10:34; six minutes left enough time to at least ask a few questions.  “So, you and my father were friends?” she asks.

June pauses as she sees Charlotte begin to engage with her more as a human than as a service provider. “Yes, we’d known each other for the last few years.” Then gambling that she could up the stakes ever so slightly she adds, “He was extremely proud of you.”

“Huh?” Charlotte responds. Then shifting gears and shutting down she continues, “I’ve got to take off in a second.  Are there any special instructions for him?” now gesturing toward Hunter.

“Not that I can think of,” June responds. Hoping to leave the door open, she continues “But you can always call me if you have questions.” And in what Charlotte interpreted as this woman’s recognition of more than the obvious, June throws in “Your office should have my number.”

There’s a pause and then the leash passes from June to Charlotte. Charlotte takes the dog to her car. She opens the door. Hunter looks back at June as if he understands the significance of the moment, then hops into the car. Charlotte climbs into the driver’s seat. She turns the key with her right hand while checking the time with her left. 10:39, right on schedule. She reaches to put the car into gear, but is startled slightly by a tap on her window. It’s June. Charlotte rolls the window down just over halfway.

“Walk him,” June says.

“Excuse me?” Charlotte replies.

“Special instructions…  You asked if there were any special instructions. He needs to walk. He always has. Walk him, please,” June concludes. She then turns and leaves. 

Charlotte peers into the rearview mirror and watches the woman walk away. Then she turns to look at the dog. She pats him on his head. “It’ll be OK old guy,” she says. She then looks again at the time.  10:41. “Damn,” she mutters to herself as she drives away.

By the time her meeting with her mentor rolls around Charlotte has been able to smoothly handle all the logistical necessities. She has dropped Hunter off at her home with appropriate instructions given to Todd that should keep him from screwing things up. She’d spent some time putting the finishing touches on documenting her goals for the meeting. Of course, no actual piece of paper would be handed to her mentor with phrases on it like “obtain advice on how to address Tim’s substandard performance,” “check in on research Chicago office was doing re Azzam v. Yahoo!” or “save 15 minutes for any topics Helen may have.” But Charlotte would never enter a meeting, even one at a coffee shop on a Saturday afternoon like this one, without a clear set of objectives and a plan for obtaining them. 

They met at Café Ladro in lower Queen Anne, their usual spot. Charlotte arrived five minutes before 3:00, comfortably early as she liked to do. She was surprised to see Helen already sitting at a table in the back. Helen Baxter wore an Armani pants suit. She always wore an Armani pants suit when she went out, even on Saturdays. It was the unofficial wardrobe of her generation. She had been a partner at Jenkins Simpson and Thomas for over a decade. She hadn’t been the first female partner by any means, but she had continued to push the glass ceiling higher and higher. She was highly respected both within the firm and throughout the broader community. While she wasn’t Charlotte’s supervising partner on Azzam v. Yahoo!, the two had worked together on over a dozen projects through the years.  Helen was Charlotte’s assigned mentor, something that was probably done a few years ago based on gender alignment as the broader partners began to realize that Charlotte was one to keep an eye on. But stepping beyond the formal designation, Charlotte considered Helen a friend, one of the few true friends she had at the firm.

Charlotte stops at the counter and quickly puts in her coffee order before heading to the table. The two women share a quick, light hug and the initial pleasantries that would be common for any two friends meeting to catch up on a warm summer afternoon. The exchange allows just enough time for the barista to finish Charlotte’s coffee, shout out her name, and place the hot cup on the counter.  Charlotte grabs the cup then returns to the table with Helen. 

“Charlotte, you know I think very highly of you,” Helen starts. “All the partners do.”

“Thank you so much for saying that Helen. You know your opinion means the world to me,” Charlotte responds.

“Charlotte, we can get to your list in a minute. But first I want to talk to you about something different,” Helen says. 

Charlotte notes a seriousness she hadn’t expected on a Saturday afternoon. Sure work was serious, but this was signaling something on a different level. Thoughts flashed through her mind, too quickly to actually be perceptible. There are exciting thoughts, “Am I being recognized somehow at work?” There are scary thoughts, “What if it’s somehow the opposite?” There are less self-centered thoughts “Is Helen ok… cancer?” She finally speaks, “Sure Helen. Is everything OK?”

“The firm has been approached about an acquisition,” she starts. “The offer is lucrative. This isn’t the first time we’ve been approached, but this one is different. An acquisition would normally be a good thing, but these guys are English, very old school.” Helen pauses. She is a strong woman and rarely let’s herself show the types of emotions normally too closely associated with women. But a tear was forming in her left eye. It was barely perceptible, but Charlotte noticed. “They’re going to want people to prove themselves,” she continued. “I’ve done that too many times in my career – as a woman… well you know. I just can’t do it again, especially not the way they’ll be doing things.  If it happens, I’ll probably go ahead and step down, retire.”

“Well, we’d certainly all miss you; I’d miss you. You’ve been more than mentor,” Charlotte says in a tone that’s an obvious attempt to encourage and reassure. “Retirement sounds great. Getting out of the grind. You must have hobbies, things that you can do… you know with your husband.”

The tear grows just a bit. “Randall and I have been separated for over a year now. Not many people know that,” Helen says softly. “And it’s OK, we haven’t been close in a long time.” Helen now openly wipes her eyes. She continues, “I married my work long ago. And that’s the hard part. This isn’t a retirement. This… this is more like death. I feel like a widow.”

Charlotte sits quietly stunned at the honesty of the woman across from her slowly realizing that she likely has no one else to be this honest with. Throughout her life she’s been forced to portray. She had to portray confidence to her clients, strength to her partners, courage to those women, like Charlotte, who wanted so badly to emulate her. “So, why…?” Charlotte finally utters.

“There’s more than all this. That’s all I wanted to say,” Helen states. “Just be careful not to let it suck you in all the way.” Helen gathers herself. She sits up straight. She’s regained the strength to portray again. “You’ll be great. Sorry for that. So, should we talk about Azzam v. Yahoo!?”

The soft world of feelings and dreams and hope and loss gives way back to the more defined world of facts and goals and strategies. The two women discuss the case for more than an hour. Helen’s advice is wise and well thought out as always. They’ve put the earlier episode far behind them. It somehow both happened and didn’t. Never to be spoken of again and never to be forgotten.

The two begin to wrap up their session together. Charlotte packs away her legal pads now full of instructive notes. Coffee cups are gathered. “You know of course that we’re on the wrong side of this thing,” Helen says rather nonchalantly for such a direct statement. “I’m not sure when that became an observation I’d actively avoid making. But now…” The words just hang there. Nothing else was said about the topic.

The two stand. There is another hug, a little firmer and a little longer this time. Charlotte walks back to her car. She turns the key with her right hand and checks the time with her left. 4:27, way behind schedule. But this time it’s a good thing.

Chapter 11 - What’s the best word?

The idea was not originally well received. The Seattle Times came out with a critical editorial piece opposing the idea. Picking up on the skepticism among the populace, local politicians climbed over each other to jump onto the ridiculing bandwagon. The business community, whose endorsement would be required if any financing were to materialize, expressed their opinion in two simple words: “Hadley’s Folly.”

Curiously while it became highly fashionable in Seattle’s better circles circa 1920 to laugh at the idea, the problem still existed. Growth had pushed the city up against several of its natural boundaries.  To the west there was the Puget Sound. While the topography to the north and south twisted and turned at times making some spots challenging, those directions were available for growth. But through the past few decades those challenges had been conquered and faced the reality of saturated development. The quandary lay to the east. Small farming towns like Bellevue, Kirkland and Medina lay less than five miles to the east of the city’s thriving center. But these towns and the entire east was protected from the approaching progress by the realities of Lake Washington. As with many of the ribbon lakes created by glacial retreats, it runs primarily north-south.  Its 22-mile length made circumnavigation impractical. In theory, the technology of the day should have provided a solution based on the lake’s much shorter width. But the issue lay beneath the water, where disproportionate depth and a soft silt bottom made the more traditional truss and suspension approach impractical. 

Homer Hadley’s idea was radically different. He had spent time during World War I in shipyards in the east and had discovered that the malleability of concrete combined with the appropriate amount of displacement could work miracles. In 1921, the young engineer first unveiled his idea of a floating bridge across Lake Washington through the use of a series of concrete barges. As noted above, the idea was not well received. 

But time, persistence and logic have a way of wearing down opposition.  After nearly two decades of debate the bridge connecting Seattle to Mercer Island and then on to the full east side opened in 1940 to rave reviews changing the composition of the metropolis forever. In 1993, the replacement for the replacement for Hadley’s original bridge was named in his honor. His concept of floating concrete as the foundation for construction was the key engineering principle behind this newer bridge as well as being the key principle behind its brother to the north, commonly known as the 520 Bridge and less commonly known to be the longest suspension bridge in the world. As people sat on the grassy lawn of Madrona Park, the way that June sat that day, their view of the lake and the now expansive Bellevue skyline was framed by these two bridges.

She had carved out the entire afternoon to sit in the sun and read, a very deliberate allocation of her time. For this outing she invited a special guest, the nesting box and its contents. This was time to honor the passing of her friend by remembering how he gave her life. She opens her journal and reads, “Ouch!!! Haven’t been in this much pain in a long time. Oops, getting ahead of myself. It’s been two days since we shared our first topic. Haven’t seen him walk by. Is he avoiding me? Was my writing that bad? Thought I’d be bold and send him a text. Wrote it, stared at it, erased it, re-wrote it, changed it, stared again. Finally hit send, very proud of myself.

[Text] Stuck on new topic.  Got a few minutes to brainstorm?

Stared at phone waiting for answer. Wasted most of morning. Then hours later

[Text] Sure. Walking Hunter now. Stop by around 3:00?

Perfect, enough time to get new outfit.

[Text] Great!

He showed up at 3:00, right on time. Sat on couch and drank glass of wine.  Talked about the new topic – “perspective.” Am a bit stumped by this one (good choice on his part), but obviously not why I asked him over. Talk for a while, going well. Go to kitchen for more wine. Come back and he simply asks if he can kiss me? So sweet. Gentle. Genuine. I freeze. Definitely what I was working on, but wow it was scary. Haven’t kissed anyone since T and that was two years ago. Not sure if I actually answered, probably better that I didn’t. Knees weak. Stomach fluttery. South of there, feelings I’d forgotten. We made out on the couch. Not sure if it was five minutes or fifty. Looked up and realized I’d taken his shirt almost completely off. He signaled something about moving toward the bedroom, maybe I sprinted, maybe just walked, but definitely said yes. Desire was stronger than fear. 

Finished taking off his shirt. Kissed his chest. His nipples. His stomach. 

He took control. Laid me on bed. Climbed on top. Kissed me deep. Kissed my neck. He stood and undressed himself in front of me. Oh, the beauty of the naked male body. He undressed me. Mounted me again. More kissing, my mouth, my neck, breasts, lower. 

Those experiences that you forget that you’d forgotten. The muscles in his ass tightening as he thrust. Pulling his hair as his tongue penetrates. Arching uncontrollably. His hands gripping my hips and pulling me back against him again and again and again.

We made love did it had sex? (not sure what to say here. What’s the best word? Only like to say “make love” when love actually exists. Not there, at least not yet.  Probably fucked then. Ok I’ll use that for now.) fucked for at least two hours.  Hadn’t fucked that long and that intensely since the first few months with T.

Had also forgotten how sex connects all the senses. The sight of his glistening chest. The sound of our pants. The touch of his lips on my breasts. The smell of his hair. The taste of his cum.

So back to the pain thing and the real world. Like I said, haven’t fucked like this in a long, long time. My hoo-ha is aching. It’s the next morning and I’m lying in my bed, legs propped on pillows, fan blowing on all the vital parts. Ouch, but wouldn’t trade it for anything.

Phone buzzes.  From him.

[Text: Yesterday was fun.  Hope we can do it again soon.] 

Fun!! Who the fuck does he think he is? What does he mean by fun? Does he think I’m one of those fun girls? Does he think he can just fuck me whenever he chooses? Start typing text. Angry, but why? Need to be in control, but why? Delete text. Talk myself off ledge. Would normally go for run, but hoo-ha not willing to let that happen. Had to just be here for the afternoon. Guess this is gaining perspective. Sucks.

That evening:  Intense pain of girlie parts starting to give way to merely aching. That’s improvement. Had time to pause. To reflect.

Feel more alive than I’ve felt in a long time.  Sex was certainly part of it, but not all.  Lots of sex with T (whether I wanted to or not).  Lots of masturbation but that is alone. This was different. Free. Simply in the pleasure. Yeah, maybe he’s somebody for the long-term. But freed my mind enough to think maybe he’s not. Maybe he’s just someone put into my life to remind me to live.

Can respond to text now:

[Text: That was (very) fun indeed.  As I saw you walk by last night (looking so handsome) I couldn’t help but wonder when we might do it again…]

Feeling vey smug.  Then, less than 3 minutes later:

[Text: Perfect timing, I was planning on asking you the same question. When are the kids with dad?  Maybe we could have a sleep over sometime this week.]

Oh shit… Deflect. Buy time.

 [Text: Have you confirmed that Hunter is ok with a sleepover?  Kids are away Wednesday & Thursday.]

Witty and confident if I do say so myself…

[Text: Hunter doesn’t get a vote. Thursday works for me.  Your place or mine?]

Well played on his part.  Oh my God…  what am I getting myself into? Can’t back down now.

[Text: I’d be happy either place.  Shall we do dinner and call it a proper 1st date?]

Nicely done…

[Text: I’ll make you dinner.  Why don’t you come over around 8? Sound like a plan?]

Oh shit…  I can’t do this.  Time to eject. 

How to craft the right response. “I was only kidding…” No. “Actually, I’m involved with someone. He drives a brown truck.” No.

Try honest. “Too scared…” No. “Sorry, can’t.  Hoo-ha broken…” No way.

Be strong.  Breath.  Live…

[Text: A perfect plan.  I’ll bring my favorite cabernet.]

Chapter 12 – Extra Hot

There was no alarm set on her phone the next morning. It was Sunday after all. This was the one morning she was willing to let herself just be. But Charlotte woke early anyway, the coffee meeting was still on her mind. There was some time spent reflecting on Helen’s unexpected vulnerability. But most of her energy went toward processing the new information. What would a potential acquisition mean to her, to her career progress? And Helen’s reservations. Could there really be firms still out there in the 21st century that treated women that differently.

The information had been conveyed in the strictest of confidence. Helen had not even had to utter the words; it was just understood to be so. That meant she couldn’t talk with anyone in the office about it. Not that there was anyone she was that close with. The environment was competitive. Sharing such information, even if she could, would only empower those with whom she constantly competed. She could talk to her mother. That was safe. Her mother did not know the specifics of what an acquisition might mean. She knew that her mother would be supportive, at least mostly supportive. Her mother had dropped subtle hints through the years about how working so hard, sacrificing so much, would one day come back to haunt her. There had even been suggestions that her work was the reason for her marital challenges. Or perhaps they weren’t suggestions after all, just passing words here or there that Charlotte interpreted as her mother’s judgment of her lifestyle choice. Charlotte clearly remembered her mother saying “drive for success.” But was it accompanied by “at all cost?” of that she was less certain. There was “importance of money,” that always implied to her that her mother felt she put too much importance on the topic. But even with those quips she knew that her mother would rally around her. The woman’s mother bear instincts had always been there, and the divorce sharpened them to near lethal levels. 

Todd was another matter altogether. For someone who tried so hard to portray a nonchalant image, it seemed to Charlotte that no one in her life worried more about the mundane than Todd. At least that’s how she saw it. Todd worried that the milk was spoiled. He worried that the tires hadn’t been properly rotated. He worried that they may not have enough life insurance. And he worried that they may have too much. Todd rarely did anything about these worries mind you. He was quite capable of buying milk, taking the car in for service, calling their insurance carrier or performing any other number of simple tasks. Yet years ago, Todd had picked up the annoying habit of deflecting all these modest issues back to her. “Do you think the milk is still good?” “Do you know when the tires on your Audi were last rotated?” “It’s benefits time at work again and I was wondering if you thought I needed to up my life insurance?” She had become so irritated by his constant passive-aggressive behavior. But as is common with cohabitating humans her version of history tended to leave out a few details which others might find interesting like the time just a few months into their marriage when he brought them both cereal in bed on a lazy Sunday morning. She felt there was something off about the taste of the milk, he replied that he’d checked the date and it was OK, to which she responded, “You can’t simply trust the date on the carton.” She also seemed to forget the time that he’d taken her car in for an oil change just to pleasantly surprise her. She graciously thanked him, but then added “I wish you’d told me you were doing that. I’d have asked you to get the wipers changed too.” And then there was the time when she said she was worried about how she’d pay for the house alone if anything happened to him. So, Charlotte knew that raising any concerns about how unknown circumstances might affect her career path would send him into a tailspin. At least that’s how she saw it.

This Sunday morning her stirring mind contemplates what might happen. She rises and starts to make a piece of toast. A little later as she hears Todd slowly waking in the next room which quickly translates into a need to get out for a while. Fresh air, stretching her legs, enjoying the sunshine provide the surface rationale. More truthfully she has no energy for hiding this new variable from her husband.  She’ll talk to him when she has processed things and when the conversation can end with a declaration of next steps rather than a question. The dog’s stirring provides the perfect solution. The note she left on the kitchen table said, “T - Taking the dog out for a while. Might stop by my dad’s house and check on things, too. Not sure when I’ll be back. – C.”

Charlotte parks in front of her father’s house. She instinctively checks her watch, 9:37 am. She knows of course that there isn’t an actual reason for her to be there. Nothing has changed since her visit yesterday. But the house provides a wonderful place to escape, to think. As Charlotte starts up the stairs, she notices that the dog is not moving along with her. He stands at the bottom looking at the sidewalk that lay ahead, tail wagging. June’s charge to “walk him” echoes through Charlotte’s mind. “OK boy,” she says. “Seems like a good idea to me too.”

The two travel up Denny. They pass a modern house free of any activity. A little farther up there is a woman sitting smoking, reading from her Kindle and drinking her coffee. Farther up a woman peers from behind a window. The pair work their way up past the familiar intersection at the center of town and eventually stop at the coffee shop on 34th and Spring.  Ah, a latte; the idea feels delicious to Charlotte. She ties Hunter to the street sign and enters the busy shop. As the line works its way down and she eventually reaches the counter she places her order, “Tall latte, extra hot, to go.” The young man behind the counter takes her order, places her cup in the cue and processes the financial side of the arrangement. This coffee shop is not strictly out of the Starbuck’s clone model. The music is a bit edgier. The young man who’d taken her order was probably in his mid-twenties. He had long hair and his t-shirt, the redness of his eyes, and the pace at which he operated all suggested that he’d likely begun the morning with a bong. The gal preparing Charlotte’s morning pick-me-up is a little older, probably about Charlotte’s age. But age is likely all they had in common. The barista is heavily tattooed; arms, hands, the portions of her chest and neck that can be seen above the neckline of her blouse. Her cheeks are pierced. When Charlotte had placed her order, she thought she had noticed a deliberate glance from the barista. “Perhaps she was interested,” Charlotte thought. “No biggie but not my choice.” 

As she waits on her coffee the barista speaks, “I love your blue eyes.”

“Yep, OK simply politely deflect,” thinks Charlotte. “Thanks, my husband says they’re ‘piercing,’” she mutters as she turns her gaze away from the espresso machine and the barista having declared her stance and not wanting to send any accidental signals.

“You must be Allan’s daughter. Same ‘piercing’ eyes as you said,” the barista responds.

Charlotte is stunned. The comment didn’t make her feel happy or sad, mournful or resentful.  It simply stunned her. It was somehow the lack of anonymity. The idea that these people knew her father. Perhaps they knew about her. She could now put her finger on it. It was the vulnerability that stunned her.  “Uh, uh, yes..,” she finally responds.

“He was a nice guy. Also, ordered his lattes extra hot,” was all the barista responded with. No other words were exchanged. No more glances. 

The tattooed barista kept making espressos. Charlotte took her coffee and sat outside. Charlotte had not spent much time thinking about her father’s day-to-day life. She hadn’t contemplated the idea that he had a familiar coffee shop, a place where he would go at a regular time to order his regular drink. The notion was humanizing. As she sat, she observed. She noticed how as the people came and went from the busy shop that some, not all, would glance at the dog and then her. Did they recognize Hunter? Had they known her father? 

The two walked back to her father’s house following the same path they had used to make their way to town.  “Click, click, click, click.”  “Jingle.”  “Jingle.” 

Chapter 13 – Let’s Do It Again Soon

Most people familiar with the history of modern music are familiar with Motown Records. Berry Gordy, Jr. was a marketing genius and was able to figure out how to wrap a broad ill-defined label for a city precisely around an emerging music sound in the late 1950s and early 1960s. In the late 1980s and early 1990s Bruce Pavitt and Jonathan Poneman replicated the move. The two founded Sub Pop as a record label in 1986. There is history to the name. Pavitt had previously started a fanzine called Subterranean Pop that focused exclusively on American independent record labels. Business prospered, Pavitt and Poneman eventually sold their company to a conglomerate, had fallings out and differences of opinion. Such are the issues of having too much money. And as is almost always the case, there is debate as to who exactly did what at exactly what time and where the associated credit should fall. But what is agreed is that the label signed Nirvana, Soundgarden, Mudhoney and many more of the bands that would go on to define what we now call “grunge” music; forever linked to Seattle. These bands and the grunge scene generated billions of dollars in record sales worldwide. Pavitt and Poneman benefited economically. The multibillion-dollar conglomerates that acquired them benefitted economically. And the bands and their members benefitted economically as well. Kurt Cobain, front man for Nirvana, used a portion of his economic benefit to purchase a home for himself and his family at 171 Lake Washington Blvd E. 

In hindsight Cobain’s personal problems were evident by March of 1994, but hindsight is just that. At the time, the signs were less clear. There was an incident on tour in Munich that lead to a trip to Rome for diagnosis. In Rome there was an overdose incident. Later that same month there was a call to the police with the allegation of a suicide attempt. An intervention occurred on the 25th that resulted in Cobain’s admittance to a program in California on the 30th. He didn’t stay long though. On April 2nd and 3rd Cobain was seen at several locations around Seattle.  On April 8, 1994, Cobain’s body was discovered at his Lake Washington residence by an electrician installing a security system. A note was discovered addressed to Cobain’s imaginary friend, Boddah. Heroin and diazepam were also discovered. It is believed that Cobain died on April 5, 1994.

Viretta Park is a small park in the Denny-Blaine neighborhood of Seattle. It was named by Charles Denny, part of Seattle’s early founding family, for his wife Viretta Jackson Denny. The park has two tiers, a small upper and relatively unimportant section that begins at the intersection of John Street and 39th Avenue, and a lower section that works its way down to Lake Washington Boulevard. The park would likely go unnoticed by most except for the fact that it borders the former Cobain residence. It is now a showcase stop for most Seattle tours. Nirvana fans gather at the park on both the anniversaries of Cobain’s birth and death. The park’s wooden benches are the memorials, decorated with graffiti tribute and bouquets of flowers. Numerous movements had been started to rename the park Cobain Park in honor of the dead musician.

Allan often walked Hunter in this park. On this morning June finds herself there with her nesting box. A gentle touch, a smell, an untying of the strap. “More excited than I’ve been in a long time. Bought new outfit for tomorrow. This time the definition of outfit included new bra and panties. Been writing about “perspective” today. Remains challenging word, but I’m getting there. Maybe I should have written about what I’m feeling right now – the optimism, the anticipation, the desire to be in his arms. That’s certainly a change in perspective.  But that’s a bit too open for this stage. Can’t show him too much too soon. Last night he sent me a text.

[Text: Walked by your house a few times over last few days.  Each time Hunter turned to go right in your front door. Too funny how comfortable he was at your place. Looking forward to Thursday.]

Paused to think about my response.  Sent it this morning.”

[Text: Hopefully his owner feels the same. I can’t remember the last time tomorrow seemed so far away.]

She flips ahead a few pages in her journal and began reading again.  “I arrived at exactly 8:00. Debated whether I should arrive a few minutes late, maybe a few early, but what messages would those send? Too anxious, not anxious enough? His house is old and stately. Sits up on a slight hill. Felt a little like being in a castle, but maybe that’s because of some prince charming thing. He made us dinner. He served me wine. He showed me his house. Pictures of his daughter. We had planned to share topics after dinner. We sat on his deck in the early evening. Felt really confident about my writing this time. About kids and how seeing the world through their eyes can change our perspective. I’d tried it out on Katy. She thought it was cute and engaging. I shared it with him and we both smiled. Thought maybe I’d won this time. He shared his writing with me. Once again he won.”

The journal drops to her lap as she lifts the binder from the nesting box.  She reads and again hears his voice.

My daughter was married a few months ago. I haven’t opened up too much to you about the history between us and it will probably take me quite I while to do that. Or perhaps I never will… But regardless being at the wedding taught me a valuable lesson about perspective.

The ceremony was always planned to be a small affair. There were to be less than a hundred people in attendance. I spent the months leading up to the wedding offering to help, to do anything from odd tasks to grand feats. My offers were accepted graciously, but never addressed directly. I know that a wedding is a deeply personal matter and that brides often rely most heavily on their friends, siblings and perhaps their mother. So, my expectations were measured. But offering to complete an odd task here or there, seemed like the way to at least convey that I’m here just behind your inner circle, ready to help. I was told to stay tuned and that for the most part the event would be played-by-it-ear.

I was able to have dinner with my daughter a couple of months before the wedding. We caught up. We talked a bit about logistics. It was pleasant. It was not deep. I did not ask what emotions the approaching date unleashed in her. I did not ask how her parent’s divorce affected her feelings about marriage. I did not ask her if this man made her happy. Or why. Perhaps I should have tried to go deeper, to connect on a different level. But I did not ask any of those questions for fear of causing her to shrink and retreat as she had done so many times before. I sat and enjoyed the evening with my daughter for with all its shallowness, shallow engagement was still better than no engagement at all. At the dinner there was an assignment of one odd task, picking up 12 flower vases from a shop not far from where I lived and delivering them to the wedding planner just prior to the ceremony.

On the day of the wedding I arrived for the pre-wedding photographs and other activities at the designated time. The vases were conveyed to the planner without incident. As is usually the case with these types of events there was more time spent waiting than time spent being active. But it was a joy to be there.

But as the activities did eventually unfold, I began to see clues that more thought had gone into the event than I had been led to believe. This was not so much play-it-by-ear as it was choregraphed symphony. The smallest details had been thought through. For example, there had been a rehearsal the night before that all in attendance had been careful not to mention to me. Had I been invited I would have been able to see that my daughter would be escorted down the aisle by her stepfather instead of me. It was crushing and I think the 24 hours of advance notice would have helped me breath better that day. Likewise, there had probably been much focus on the seating chart than I had previously appreciated. As I sat near the back at table nine, with a few acquaintances and a few strangers I had a good view of exactly who was designated for the important family spots up front. I felt embarrassed. And as the toasts began and I reached into my pocket for one last refresher, I was able to see how the event had been orchestrated to allow four carefully pre-planned toasts – two for each side, one from family and one from a friend – and how the microphone was then quickly whisked away by the planner’s assistant before I could speak. I felt cheated.

As I sat there with my anger building, I glanced at the centerpiece. It was a collection of white neutrals. The soft colors of buttery yellow, pale peach, rosy blush and soft ivory. These were accented by the rugged branches of the thorny rose stems contributing a hint of rust and the occasional strategically positioned dark green leaf. The contrast caused the otherwise potentially bland arrangement to elegantly glow without overpowering the table. It was warm, inviting, safe and beautiful. It calmed me. The arrangement sat inside a classic antiqued white vase which blended into the background of the white linens so seamlessly as to make it nearly unseeable. This was the same vase that had been in my car a few hours before.

I spent the next few minutes contemplating the cards the universe had dealt me. Why were they so unfair? But then I thought further. My daughter could have chosen to have me walk her down the aisle. But that would have forced her to tell her mother that her lover would not be participating in the ceremony. My daughter could have sat me at the head table with her mother and had me be the family spokesperson on this special day rather than her mother’s brother. But that would have undermined her mother’s version of the world, a version in which she was the long-suffering victim. My daughter knew that this version was not necessarily true, but to challenge it on this day would have created unnecessary drama and distraction. My daughter wanted a day that was warm, inviting, safe and beautiful and none of these options would have aligned with that goal.

I finally reached the conclusion that the universe had dealt me a more nuanced hand than I had first realized. It was telling me to be the vase and to let my daughter be the bouquet of flowers.

I cried on the drive home that night. No, I had not been mistreated by my daughter. I had been given the chance to pull off a grand feat after all by being nearly unseeable.

Thank you God for being so generous.

The binder moves to her lap.  The journal is lifted again.  “I’d assumed I was so open; he was so closed. We made love (that’s the better word now) late into the night. We made love again the next morning. I left sore again, but thoroughly satisfied physically and emotionally. Am I falling in love?

Sent text.

[Text: Thank you for a lovely & memorable night (& morning) at your enchanted castle.]

No response.  Sad.”

June flips ahead to the next entry.  “He responded.

[Text: Yes, it was a delightful evening.  Let’s do it again soon. Enjoy your weekend.]

Distant.  Guarded. 

I’m more sad than before. Did I read too much into everything?  ‘Let’s do it again soon,’ sounds like he’s talking about going antiquing together. Not sure, maybe ‘made love’ wasn’t the right way to describe it after all. Maybe we just fucked again.

June returned the journal and the binder to their home in the nesting box. She too returned to her home. Rodger would be there soon.

Chapter 15 – Soup of Sounds

She wasn’t sure how Todd would react to the idea. In truth she wasn’t sure if she’d really thought through it herself. But the opportunity seemed too obvious to pass up. Her father’s house was sitting there completely empty. Her tiny home office barely gave her enough room to turn around. His house was just 10 minutes away from her office downtown. Their house was 40 minutes in good traffic. His house was quiet and offered space. Their house was crowded. She wasn’t suggesting moving out or anything quite so dramatic. She’d presented it solely based on the wisdom of the logistics. Azzam v. Yahoo! would be taking up so much of her time. There would be nights when she’d be working so late.  It would simply be smarter to begin keeping most of her files there. And of course, to spend some nights there too. And the dog, that could work better. Todd teared as she told him of her plan. Perhaps he was more in tune with the message than the sender.

Now some days had passed. Todd had either bought into the idea or was good enough at pretending that he had so that they could each move forward. She’d moved her files. She’d taken a few personal items, but not a lot. She’d spent some time there but hadn’t spent an actual night there yet and wasn’t sure when she would exactly. Somehow that seemed like a big enough step that she wanted to be extremely deliberate about it. She had come to realize that the dog added new challenges. Todd had found a place to board him while they were both at work, but that seemed a bit cruel to her. A potential solution had been developing in her mind.  She picked up her phone, thumbed through the contacts until she found “Woman with Dog.”

The conversation had gone well. Her greatest concern going into it was that she couldn’t remember the woman’s name. But she thought through how to cleverly dodge that obstacle for this initial phone call. After that she’d listen carefully and pick it up and act as if she’d known it all along. The woman had agreed to come by twice a day and walk Hunter for her. While it was the kind of request that would put most people out, Charlotte was able to rationalize it in her mind.  The woman probably didn’t have too much going on and people like that enjoy helping out. And of course, it was another wonderful plank in the platform of why staying there was better than staying in her own home. 

By this time the acquisition conversations were becoming a public secret in the halls of Jenkins Simpson and Thomas. There had been no official communications from the partners. But unofficial conversations were happening. They included the classic clichés about not letting these rumors distract us from serving our clients and remaining focused on the work. Charlotte had noted how the partner who called her in for a private meeting used the word “merger” instead of acquisition and tried, a bit too hard she thought, to suggest a pairing of equals. But two minutes on Google showed that the other firm was over 100 years older and at least twice the size of Jenkins Simpson and Thomas. But she did do her best to follow the advice and keep her focus on Azzam v. Yahoo! If there were to be a merger or acquisition this would be the logical catalyst for a discussion about her future. Days were consumed with the creation of her team’s brief.

While Charlotte toiled, June faced her own challenges. That morning she stood at the base of the steps. It was certainly odd that Charlotte had called and asked for her help with Hunter. It was equally odd that Charlotte had said that she would be living at her father’s house for a while. But Charlotte had chosen not to share any of the why behind that choice and it wasn’t polite for June to ask. Charlotte had suggested that this arrangement would only be needed for a few more weeks while she got through a tough patch at work, so how could June refuse? But when she said yes she’d not thought through all of the implications. So, she stood there that morning staring at the stairs where Allan had died. The tiny spot of blood was no longer visible, but that didn’t mean that it didn’t still exist. She’d tried to ascend the stairs for about ten minutes, but she was frozen. Finally, she takes a step up one, then two, and three hugging the far left of each step. She closes her eyes and takes a long stride passing the fourth step and landing on the fifth. A deep breath, then she’s able to ascend the rest more naturally. She’d told Charlotte about the key in the planter, something the daughter had forgotten about, so June was free to come and go as she pleased. She opened the door and was greeted by Hunter. His leash was on the floor beside the door, so there was no need to literally enter the house.  This was better, more reverential. Descending the stairs, she again hugged the edge and skipped the fourth.

June and Hunter followed the familiar path up Denny to 34th to the center of town. She went into the coffee shop at 34th and Spring. A tattooed barista, different from the one who had spoken to Charlotte earlier, prepared her decaf. She hadn’t brought the complete nesting box with its various volumes, but she did bring one journal. She sat in the neighboring park, drank her brew and read with Hunter sitting at her side.  “Ok, had a couple of days to relax and maybe not overthink this thing. He’s single. I’m single. We’d never talked about anything more. Maybe I was being presumptuous. Plan has always been that whenever I meet someone to take it slow anyway. Can’t introduce kids to a man for at least six months. Oh, maybe there would be the occasional encounter, especially if he’s the one. He’d walk his dog by. The kids would see them and rush out to pet him. They’d fall in love with the dog, then at the right time I’d say something about the man… the man and me.  Not sure what that would be, but it would need to reassure them about their dad, about me, mostly about them. But if they’d fallen in love with the dog ahead of time, that would be perfect. Anyway, five and a half more months to figure out those details. Topic is patience. Wow! He’s got my number. Not one of my top-ten virtues.  Topic stumped me all week, but not backing down. Word is more of a hot button than I wanted to admit. T would always tease me about no patience. Always said it was weird how I needed to be up and out early. How I needed to make sure the kids were up and on schedule. How I could never simply agree to regular shipping from Amazon. Why I couldn’t be more patient with him, let the program work its magic, forgive his relapses.” June pauses. She closes the book tightly with no ritual and takes a deep breath. She reopens the journal and moves forward to the next day. “Dinner at my place this time.  Checklist complete:  fish, appetizers, wine, outfit (external and otherwise).  It seems like it’s been forever since we were together between kids’ schedule and his availability.  Finished writing my topic yesterday.

Phone buzzes. 

[Text: Running a few minutes late.  Be there in about 15.  Sorry]

[Text: I think you enjoy making me wait …]

Probably shouldn’t have sent that one.”

June gathers the journal and the dog. She walks back to his house. There is less of a pause at the base of the steps, but still a broad stride over the fourth. She returns Hunter and goes home to the comfort of her chair in her bedroom. There she begins reading again. “We made love again. A hot summer night. Still. Sweat everywhere. T was a fine lover, but this is so different. The orgasms are deeper, longer, nearly constant. I’ve never had a man be so comfortable with his own body and thus make me so comfortable with mine. Earlier we had shared our topics.  He went first.   

She transfers her attention to the binder. He had sat on the bed in this room when he read these words to her originally.

They (whoever the they are that have somehow been elected to define such things for us) say that God answers all prayers with either yes, no or wait. Of these, wait is the worst.

I pray every day. Sometimes I start a prayer with “Dear God,” “Holy Father” or some other formal declaration and end it with “Amen.” In those times I deliberately cross a threshold to enter my time with the creator and just as deliberately exit at the conclusion.

At other times I wander in and out of prayer – the sight of a bird or a beautiful sunset while on a walk with Hunter. There is a “thank you” or a simple “please” whether uttered audibly or merely a flashing thought. To me this is a prayer. I think God enjoys talking to us so much that he is open to a broad definition of what prayer might mean. 

In my talks with God I constantly tell him what’s wrong in my life and how sorry I am that I messed things up. Then comes the part that really makes me angry. I give God an easy to follow set of instructions on how to fix everything. “God, please ensure that the meeting on Tuesday goes well and that they like my concept for the book.” “God, please, please keep your hand on my mother as she receives her diagnosis.” Followed a few days later by “God, please, please, please remove the cancer.” Or “God, please help heal my relationship with my child. She’s a wonderful human being. And I’m still not exactly sure how things wandered so far off course. Please help.” 

In the following weeks the meetings come and go. Some go well; others don’t. Chemo starts. My mother loses her hair. And my daughter and I have a few benign communications. There is no obvious yes, no obvious no. So, we wait.

But when wait is a possible answer, what does one do with that? There are no boundaries. When is a career ever at a point when another good meeting is not desired? Or even if there is a yes and surgery plus chemo are deemed successful and move my mom to the cancer free category for the purpose of statistical compilation, when is someone you love ever safe from death? And even if the clouds parted and a thunderous voice commanded “no” would I stop hoping for, believing in, and praying for, a better relationship with my daughter?

But what if quietly waiting is a part of the prayer?

I’ve noticed lately that the city produces an enormous array of sounds. There are so many in fact that as they mingle, bounce off each other, combine with new sounds, then bounce again, in such a random pattern that it becomes incredibly difficult to distinguish the specific originators. It’s much like a soup, say a tomato bisque, where it’s impossible to determine with any precision exactly where the tomato ends and the onion or the garlic or the basil begins. In fact, in a soup it’s the blending of these flavors that makes the meal. And sometimes what truly distinguishes an outstanding bowl of tomato bisque from an average one is the addition of an ingredient so subtle that we know its existence should be honored even if we can’t for the life of us put our finger on exactly what it is. Is it rosemary? Oregano? Thyme? Something else? The mystery engages us and invites us to come back for another bowl.

The noise that sits on our little neighborhood throughout the day is neither loud nor overbearing by any means. But it is constant. Vibrant noises are birthed in Seattle’s downtown. From the east there is a hum generated by the traffic crossing Lake Washington on its two floating bridges. From above, the noises of the planes entering and exiting SeaTac float down on us. More locally, the electric buses create their own high-pitched purr as they pass by, a unique percussion instrument in our little sound symphony. Other sounds of local construction projects, delivery trucks, children playing, and church bells add their individual spices to the sound soup.

There is also a pattern to the day. As the sun rises so do the sounds of transportation. Commuters begin to commute. Buses begin to bus. These sounds ebb and flow throughout the day. As evening settles in, the buzz from automobiles, buses and planes begin to dissipate just a bit. Then evening gives way to the fullness of night and the heaviness of the sound lightens. In this transition the soup making process seems to reverse. Now the unique sounds become distinguishable. No longer hidden behind the noise of cars and planes a jogger who was unable to find the time to service her hobby until a late hour can be heard approaching from a block away.

But it’s in the wee hours between 3:00 and 4:00 when Seattle’s downtown is now asleep, when the bridges across the lake carry very few to and from the suburbs, when the buses and planes get their brief rests for the day and when even joggers are nowhere to be heard, when the few remaining sounds can be found in their most basic form. This is the time, in this dark hour, that residents of Madrona who happen to be awake can hear the unquestionable sound of train whistles. These whistles are undoubtedly there throughout the day, after all Seattle is a logistics hub with trains moving massive quantities of coal and oil from the Dakotas in route to their eventual destinations in Asia. But it takes the removal of the other primary sounds – the tomato, the onion, the garlic, the basil – of this noise bisque to allow us to identify that mysterious subtle and often beautiful ingredient.

This morning I laid awake in my bed in that magical hour between 3:00 and 4:00 am. My mind was both too tired to sleep and too tired to think. I laid there still and numb. I heard a train whistle. Life felt simpler, less distracted. I tried to form a thought, a brief thank you, but I was too tired for even that. I was only left with the strength to listen. Maybe for a brief moment I was forced to be patient. I felt peace.

I don’t pretend to be a part of the anointed they, but what if they are wrong? What if God is less interested in a transaction and more interested in a relationship? What if God’s answer to all prayer, is actually “I really enjoyed talking with you today. Thanks for listening. I hope we can do it again tomorrow.”

I still hate waiting. I hate waiting on God. And I plan to tell him all about it tomorrow. Maybe he’ll be kind enough to remove the noise again so that I can be patient and listen.

Back to the journal.  “Mine was about learning to be more patient with the kids, let go a little more, accepting less control. Showed both the writings to Katy. This time she was honest, I didn’t win.

We made love again the next morning, then he left.”

Chapter 15 – Path to Perfection

On Tuesday, May 12, 1970 a subcommittee of the Committee on Internal Security met at 10:00 am, in Room 311, Cannon House Office Building, Washington, D.C. The subcommittee was headed by representative Richardson Preyor of North Carolina. Richard H. Ichord of Missouri and John M. Ashbrook of Ohio were the subcommittee’s other members. Mr. Preyor began the meeting as follows:

“The committee will come to order.

The hearing today is a continuation of the series of hearings concerning the Black Panther Party.  The subjects of inquiry are the origin, history, organization, character, objectives, and activities of the Black Panther Party in Seattle, Washington.

I might add that this is a part of a series of hearings that have been long scheduled, and no special significance in Seattle should be read into the fact that hearings are being held at this time.

The initial hearing was concerning the Black Panther Party activities in Kansas City, Missouri. Today we are directing our attention to Seattle, Washington. The witnesses who have been subpoenaed from Seattle and committee investigators who were assigned to the Seattle area will testify pertaining to the development of the Black Panther Party in Seattle, its membership strength, its leadership, certain of its demands and activities in the Seattle area, its objectives, and the general reaction of the Seattle community to the Black Panther Party.

An individual who may feel aggrieved by the nature of the testimony or its personal effect on him may request that he be heard. Every consideration will be given by the committee to afford him an opportunity to testify if he so desires. However, it will be on condition that he will be sworn, that he will conduct himself with propriety and decorum, and that he will be available for cross-examination.

Mr. Counsel, you may call your first witness.”

Through the course of the subcommittee’s hearing on the Seattle Chapter of the Black Panther Party, a total of six witnesses were called. Two, Sargent Archie J. Porter and Detective Stanley K. Fridell, were members of the Seattle Police Department. Two, Investigator Richard A. Shaw and Investigator Thomas W. Simmonds, worked for the House Committee on Internal Security. One witness who claimed to have been a member of the Seattle Black Panther Party testified in a private executive session of the subcommittee. His identity was never revealed for fear of possible physical retaliation by the local Black Panther group. One member of the Seattle Black Panther Party was called, but co-founder Elmer Dixon III asserted his 5th amendment rights and refused to testify.

Reading them today the testimonies reflect the fear and turbulence of the times. White congressmen from the south and Midwest ask white officers their opinions about the motives of an organization they do not understand. Prepared statements are read and the logistical details for dissemination to the press are discussed. There is much opinion and conjecture. However, one of the facts that is established and supported by photographic evidence is that the headquarters for the Seattle Black Panther Party was located at 1127 ½ 34th Ave in Madrona, Washington.

That evening Charlotte stood in the same building at 1127 ½ 34th Ave, now an eclectic little shop called Madrona Wine Merchants that maintains a five-star rating on Yelp. She had decided to spend the full night at her father’s home. Dinner was to be Italian, which meant the true main course that evening would be Chianti.

Back at his house, she sits at the simple desk in the second bedroom. Files are accumulating, but there was not yet the avalanche we had seen earlier at her home. A pizza box sits on the top of the dresser. The nearly empty bottle of Chianti sits closer to her. The glow of her computer screen lights up the room.

This new arrangement is working out well. She’s already calculated that the savings in commute time alone will make the decision worthwhile. As a 5th year she’s now expected to generate billings; a lot of billings. Table stakes are somewhere around 2,000 hours per year, more is required if one sees partner in their future. And of course, those are billable hours. The other time she needed to dedicate to her career for training, administration and the like, which usually exceeded a 1,000 hours per year in itself, was on top of that. 3,000 plus hours a year, 60 a week give or take, very doable. She’d done the math once. Her billing rate was now $375 per hour. Times 2,000 that’s $750,000 of annual revenue for the firm – three quarters of a million dollars. Of course, her salary was much smaller, only around a third of that amount. But that’s the beauty of the business model for those who ascend. Leverage the associates, work them hard, let attrition work its magic and invite the occasional winner into the club. Eleven hundred professionals in the firm, one hundred and sixty or so of them partners. Many, many hundreds of millions of dollars distributed throughout this legal pyramid scheme.

The brief was coming together nicely. She didn’t feel it was as perfect as it would eventually become, but the path to that perfection was now becoming very clear. She would submit the initial draft to her supervising partner mid-next week. He’d ask for it by no later than Friday, so Wednesday would be ideal. He’d undoubtedly have comments. Some would be very good, those that flowed out of his superior years of experience. That she couldn’t deny him, experience does have its value. He had likely encountered opposing counsel or the presiding judge and in those experiences had picked up some subtle clues about how to best attack them both. But many of his comments wouldn’t actually improve anything. They would just transition the document ever so slightly from her voice towards his. Some of his comments she would incorporate, some she would not. He was not a detail-oriented person so he wouldn’t attempt to tick and tie all of them. That would allow her definition of perfect to ultimately prevail over his and they were both comfortable with that. There would be another similar process about three weeks later:  her submission of a new draft, his commenting, her acceptance of those comments she agreed with. After that his name would dislodge hers on the communications up the food chain. Perhaps more comments would come, although not likely. By then, the office would be feeling good about the thorough assembly and recitation of the facts, the applicable law and the logical outcome. By then, comments would be replaced by congratulations.

Charlotte pauses. Seeing her road to another success coupled with the freedom of her new, temporary living conditions made her feel more relaxed than she had in quite some time. She moves to the bed. She allows herself a rare treat.  She opens her browser and types in n-e-t-f-l-i-x. She opts for frivolity and clicks the first choice the provider offers. Somewhere during the second episode of “Gilmore Girls” she drifts off to sleep, in the bed that her father had bought and placed in her room many years before. She sleeps soundly.

Chapter 16 – Preserving Boundaries

It was a bit vague what their arrangement was for a Saturday. That could have been because neither of them expected it to last that long. Or maybe the answer was simpler, that when this started neither of them knew what would happen. Wanting to be diligent above all else, June decided that she’d simply call and ask so she dialed Charlotte’s number around 9:15 that morning. The younger woman heard the phone ring, saw the familiar “Woman with Dog” pop up and answered. 

“Hi Charlotte, this is June,” she starts. “It’s Saturday and I wasn’t exactly sure if you still needed me to walk Hunter. I wasn’t sure if you were over here, or if you’d taken him to your house, or what.”

“I’m here, I mean in Madrona,” Charlotte answers. “Um, thanks so much for calling and offering, but I can handle it. Unless of course… it’s something that you really want to do.” It was not lost on Charlotte that this woman was extremely fond of her father. Maybe she was getting more out of this arrangement than most would think.

June pauses then answers, stumbling as she speaks, “Well, um… either is OK with me… you know I’m happy to… but if you…” Then an idea forms and she becomes more deliberate. “Let’s go together.” June is careful not to phrase her statement as a question.

Whether it was a feeling of guilt for having taken some advantage of the woman, a bit of residual grogginess from the bottle of Chianti she had dusted off single handedly the night before, or a curiosity about this woman and the specifics of her relationship to her father, didn’t matter as she was game. The brief was well in hand and the morning was an empty canvass. “Sounds great,” she replied.

June knocks on the door at exactly 10:00 am, their arranged time. Charlotte grabs the leash, the dog and a mug of coffee. They descend the stairs. June intentionally lets the younger woman and the dog take the lead. She didn’t necessarily want Charlotte to see her as she purposefully hugged the left and took a large stride over the notorious fourth step.

They walk up the flat stretch of Denny. Modern house without door. Smoking reader. They follow the bend in the road. Woman behind window watching the two pass with the dog. “Click, click, click, click.” “Jingle.” “Jingle.” The women exchange words occasionally, but only occasionally. Neither seems to know what to say to the other. The center of town, then the coffee shop.

“I’m empty, want something?” Charlotte asks.

They lash the dog and enter as an unlikely couple. Charlotte notices the stoned barista again working the cash register; the familiar tattooed barista behind the espresso machine. “Can this get anymore surreal?” she thinks but dare not say aloud. “Grande latte, extra hot, to go,” Charlotte says.  “What would you like?” she asks turning toward June.

“Uh, herbal tea,” she replies, as a question or statement no one is quite sure.  “Caffeine. Can’t do it,” she continues to clarify her position.

“Not sure how you and my dad could have been friends then,” Charlotte tosses in with just a hint of venom. “Coffee was his nectar,” she continues. The barista glances up with a look that conveys amen sister.

“Yep,” June responds, not backing down from the challenge. “There were a few things we didn’t see eye-to-eye on.” Touché.  Each brought a willingness to spar that’s not lost on the other.

The two decide to follow the same path back towards his house. But just past the center of town sits Alvin Larkins Park. June gestures. The two veer to the right and find a bench. Hunter sniffs.

Like most things government, the city of Seattle maintains a thorough website which details all sorts of information including the history of Alvin Larkins Park.  And also like most things government the text is both factually accurate and woefully incomplete. The website mentions how property was purchased in 1973, but omits any reference to the abandoned house that occupied the land and the rumors of drugs emitting from it.  The site talks about how Alvin, “Al” to those who knew him, taught social studies and band at Wilson Jr. High and then at Franklin High School. But it makes no mention of the fact that Al only agreed to take the role at Franklin after he won a negotiation with the principal that allowed him to serve as the liaison and guidance counselor for the black students being bused for the first time to this previously predominantly white school.  And while the website points out that Al directed the choir at Madrona Presbyterian Church for many years, it makes no reference to the fact that this is where he met and fell in love with his true love, Ginny. It doesn’t talk about how Al persistently asked Ginny out for more than a year before receiving the first yes, or how they were engaged just three short weeks later. And while the website accurately lists his death as occurring in 1977, it makes no mention of the fact that he died on their front lawn of a massive heart attack or just how deeply she still feels the loss today. And of course, the website makes no mention of the scores of young African American men and women who attended the dedication in 1979 to pay a final small tribute to the man who had helped them maintain the courage to get on those buses day after day.

As they sat on the bench in the park Charlotte started, “So what was the deal between you and my dad? Might as well put the cards on the table.”

“What a fantastic question,” June responds.  “You’ve mastered the art of controlled blurting just like your father. He’d wait for that moment when he knew he could knock me off my feet with a direct question, then he’d toss it out there as if it just popped into his head that very second. Well done.”

Charlotte is taken aback.  She’s been caught in the trap she wasn’t even aware she’d been setting. A breath. “Sorry.  I’m embarrassed to say it, but I think you’re right. Always thought it was law school, but maybe it was genetic,” she says earnestly. “Can we try again?  Can you tell me something about my father that I didn’t know?”

June reaches out and takes Charlotte by the hand.  It is exactly the same gesture, the same sign of connection, the same sign of strength that she displayed at Allan’s funeral.  And again, she waits for Charlotte to make eye contact.  “I’ll try,” she responds.

The two sit in the kitchen of his house. There is now an open bottle of wine on the island beside two glasses. There is a bit of cheese, some bread, some olives. Hunter lays curled in a ball in the corner close by.  “So, let’s start with the obvious,” says June. “Your father loved you very much.” 

Charlotte reaches for her glass and takes a gulp.  

“We talked a lot,” June continues. “We talked about all kinds of things. We shared stories. But he was different when he told stories about you.”

“What stories?” Charlotte pounces. 

“Oh, all types,” June replies. “He was open about so many things. Shockingly open.  But about others he was guarded. He was guarded about you.”

Charlotte smiles a bit. It is almost imperceptible, but not to June.

“He was extremely protective of you,” she continues. 

It’s often said that trials are won or lost in the opening statements. We humans love to form opinions, to make judgments based on the initial facts and even more importantly a connection with the initial presenter. If true, June was off to a good start.

“Small things mostly. Things that I pieced together; maybe correctly, maybe not,” June goes on.  “A high school dance. A boy he never felt comfortable about. Worry about you moving across the country. Bigger worry about whether or not you still wrote.” 

Oh, the thought of writing simply for the joy of it. June lands a blow with an almost forgotten dagger. Time to protect wounds. Defensiveness. “I’m not sure a parent is ever objective about the accomplishments of their child,” says Charlotte.

“Nor should they be,” replies June. “Do you write, now?”

“All day. And at $375 an hour it’s actually quite lucrative,” Charlotte responds. She continues the deflection with “So back to the original question, what was the deal between you and my dad?” she asks. 

Not to be out maneuvered, “We wrote together,” June replies. “We shared.”

“I’m glad he shared with someone,” Charlotte says not truly realizing that the words had escaped her mouth.

“I’m glad too,” June responded. Another moment of awkward silence. 

“What did you write about?” Charlotte asked intent on gathering more information than the older woman wanted to divulge.

“That’s a little harder to explain than you might think. Let’s simply say we wrote about life,” June said coyly. 

“Can’t let you off that easily,” Charlotte responds.

June smiles. She could certainly cut the conversation off if she chooses, but she’s enjoying the joust with the younger woman. And she’s enjoying the fact that Charlotte is inquisitive about her friend. “We simply wrote about words. We called them topics,” she began to explain. “One of us would suggest a word. We’d each write. Could be a few paragraphs, could be a few pages. We wrote whatever we felt.  Then we’d meet and share them.”

“Seems a bit strange, but also sweet,” Charlotte thought to herself.  “Words like..?” she eventually asks.

“Joy, loss, dreams, friendship, love, sex…” June stops regretting slightly that she’d added the last one.

“You two were lovers?” Charlotte asks.

“I’ll take the fifth on that one counselor. Some boundaries between parents and children should be preserved, even posthumously,” June replies.

“Well played,” Charlotte thinks to herself.

“I should be going.  Thank you for the glass of wine and the conversation,” June says.  “I hope we can continue this sometime soon.”

“As do I,” Charlotte replies.

Ah, women. Neither backs down. Neither hints that there was ever tension. On the walk back to the green house June smiles as she thinks of the opportunities ahead. 

Chapter 17 – Holiday Pictures

June sits in the sun by the lake and reads.  “Sent him text.

[Text: Are you free Tuesday or Wednesday?  I’m kid free.]

Got back.

[Text: Dinner next week sounds good.  Not sure of my schedule yet, so I’ll have to get back to you re specifics. Enjoy your weekend.]

“He’s made it clear over and over again that he’s only willing to go so far – at least right now.  Not exactly sure how I feel about it.  He said his perfect scenario is once a week.  (Can’t remember if ‘perfect scenario’ were his literal words or not but could have been.) Dinner, topics, best sex of my life once a week. In between a handful of waves and chats as he walks Hunter. Part of me says ‘Perfect!!!’ Feels very honest. Independent woman of the times. After all, I’m strong. Don’t need want a man full-time. Love having time with girlfriends. Love being able to explore hobbies. Love being able to control the remote. 

But also confusing… He’s been clear and not clear. But he’s mentioned that he ‘dates.’ Talks about how much he’s enjoying his time with me. Says the writing is our unique bond. But does that mean that the other things we share aren’t unique? He must be fucking someone else. Ouch, hard to think about. But, how could I expect him not to be. We’re not there… exclusive… yet.

New word is ‘divorce.’ Some of these words aren’t easy at all. Spent the last few days with thoughts bouncing in and out of my head. Decide to try a different approach. Been too reserved up to now. Packaging things. This time I’ll just write, honest, free, open. An independent woman, not needing his approval.  At once a week, he doesn’t get that right.”

June flips the page of her journal.  “His place this time. We made love before dinner. Couldn’t wait that long. Moved dinner to the deck off his bedroom. Wore his t-shirt. Smelled like him. Sat, nibbled some food, drank wine. I read my version first.

The topic was “Divorce.” It made sense as this was the original premise. But we’d put it off for a while. I think that was more me than him. This was the test. Could I let my guard down? Could I open up. I didn’t know even as I knocked on his door. I’d written two versions. The safer version was in a manila folder tucked inside my bag. To ensure that I did not confuse them, the more vulnerable version was inside a red folder – subconsciously one last chance to ‘stop” I suppose.

June lifts the familiar binder.  She flips to her section of the book and reads.

Divorce

I chose this topic for the wrong reasons. One is that I was desperately curious what Allan would write. I know divorce is not an easy topic for him, and that there is a limit to how much he is willing and/or able to share. But I get a new lens on him with every topic. Even his lack of disclosure is revealing. The second driver is worse than curiosity because it is laced with hubris. I pride myself in pushing him to look below the surface – but confuse his willingness to share with his capacity for self-awareness. I have this therapy-oriented perspective that unless you say it out loud, it doesn’t count – but it’s insulting to him to presume he processes as I do. I don’t think I’ve ever offered him a meaningful insight he hadn’t come to on his own a long time ago. But in a world where what comes around goes around, my curiosity and pride have brought me face to face with a topic I thought I had resolved after years of therapy only to discover that most everything I thought I had sorted out has to be reconsidered in the context of my new life as a single mom. And I’ve got no one but myself to blame for the sleepless nights I am now having struggling with this topic. 

When I first envisioned writing on divorce I immediately thought of all the positive outcomes. Many of these have been about reclaiming parts of myself that have been suppressed, rebuilding friendship that have been lost and simply being able to be myself again without criticism and judgment. This can be as simple as being able to listen to music of my own choosing in my own home. That did not happen for many years. But it’s also been about embracing new opportunities, making new friends and acting like I’m 17 again. But I’ve iterated between these feelings of joy and freedom and the much darker feelings of failure, hopelessness and guilt. And much of the fluctuation comes with the seasons. Just one 57 degree morning earlier this week brought a wave of dread that maybe I’m about to iterate back to the other side. And a bad night’s sleep reminded me of the ways the divorces of my childhood still haunt me and awake in me the fear that my children will be haunted as well.

June pauses.  It’s surreal to be able to look back, to see past versions of ourselves with a distance and objectivity usually reserved for others.  She continues to read,

When I close my eyes and think about divorce, I see three images. One is of me crying as I run down the street in flip-flops chasing my dad’s car on the day he moved out, summer 1973. The next is a holiday picture taken later that year. There are only three: my brother, my mom and me. We look stunned and lost, like the picture was taken before we were ready. There is a tiny Christmas tree sitting on a table behind us, a sign of the scarcity to come. The final image is of an electrical outlet, eight years later, the last night I spent in my childhood home before my mother moved away to follow a man. As my brother and I slept in sleeping bags on the floor of our empty home, I wanted to make myself cry and my mantra was, “We will never plug anything into this outlet again.”  I think I made him cry too, but I don’t really remember. It is not logical but in the mind of my 14-year-old self, my mother moving away, or as I said at that time, “leaving me,” was a direct result of the divorce. After all, while the actual divorce occurs at a moment in time, the consequences play out indefinitely.

I intended to write about my divorce and here I am lost in the 70s and 80s. But of course, this is where I would have to start because my lifelong belief has been that my parents’ divorce ruined my life and that by definition if I were to get divorced it would ruin my children’s life. But when I break it down, I see that the ways in which my parents’ divorce was hard on me have little bearing on how my divorce will impact my children.  It wasn’t the divorce itself, it was how they handled it that led to the unfortunate consequences.

They did a bad job protecting us from their financial battles, so I learned early that money was scarce and powerful. I also learned too early the unnerving truth that parents are fallible and human. I remember seeing my mom cry over a breakup with a boyfriend, and my dad being lonely and sad and wishing he could find someone. Kids want superhuman parents, and it’s our job to give them the comfort of that illusion as long as possible. I also missed out on having a model for how to resolve conflict and make a marriage work, but as the years have worn on its unclear whether most children in intact families are necessarily learning great lessons or whether I would have learned good lessons had my parents stayed married. Maybe no blueprint is better than a bad one. And of course as a selfish kid, little things like missing friends’ birthday parties because I was with my dad made me mad, but this was just stupid logistics with no real impact. I don’t even have any recollection of minding the back and forth, other than the fact that my dad was always (and probably intentionally) late and that my mom was irritated by this. I was also overexposed to my mother’s conditional love without the balance of my father’s acceptance, which supercharged the pleaser in me. I am now forever hardwired to try too hard to earn love, keep the peace and make everyone happy.

The worst part was being poor. But even this didn’t have to be so.  Supporting two homes clearly stretched my dad’s income but it was my mother’s unwillingness to make a contribution that doomed us to life at the bottom of the socioeconomic ladder.  And even together, we would never have been anything beyond middle class, and I still would have felt poor relative to my wealthy friends. More than anything what I hated then was being different, but only a small part of that was related to not having a dad in my home. Even before the divorce, we were different because my mom is who she is, a hippie, a narcissist, a non-conformist, an outsider. But in an odd way, while I desperately wanted to be like everyone else and spent a lot of energy trying to be, I was secretly proud of being different.  I liked the attention…

“Hi again!” June is shocked back from the world of her journal to the reality of the park, the bench, and the existence of others.  She looks up to see the racially ambiguous Rachael removing her earbuds. “Hi,” the young woman says. A pause, “Rachel,” she continues pointing to herself. “Remember, we met the other day?” she goes on, “Seen Allan lately?”

June answers “No,” without truly thinking, her mind still partially inhabiting the world of her childhood.

“OK, well if you do tell him I said hi. See ya,” the woman says returning her earbuds and recommencing her run.

June simply watches her leave. This time she does not feel the need to chase her, to share her knowledge. June looks back to the binder.

I liked the attention I got from friends’ and their parents’ acknowledging my competence and intelligence. Somewhere along the line different became special. There is also no doubt that being poor motivated me toward my career path, to working hard and making money. I knew the only way to get rid of the chip on my shoulder was to move far away from poverty. 

Not only did divorce not ruin my life, it made me who I am.  The promises…

She stops.  “Can’t concentrate anymore,” she thinks to herself. She repacks her box. She follows the ritual of smelling, touching, and tying. But the steps are noticeably more hurried this time. She picks up the box and begins to walk. “Bitch!” she mutters under her voice.

Back in the sanctuary of her bedroom chair June reopens her nesting box. She sits and reads from the binder once again. 

Not only did divorce not ruin my life, it made me who I am. The promises I made to myself during those years served me well – generally to not be like my mother and specifically to never be financially dependent upon a man. Today all the divorce books talk about resiliency, how children may actually do better in life if they learn early to deal with misfortune. We didn’t know about it then, but it worked itself into me. But I don’t want to be too Pollyanna-ish about this. The breakdown of my nuclear family created an unstable environment, which ultimately led my mother to break away completely when I was 14. Maybe we all have an untrue “truth” that defines us, formed when we were too young to be rational and thus impervious to logic. And my untrue truth is, “If your mother doesn’t love you enough to stick around, how can you ever expect anyone else to?” In the end, that’s the worst legacy of my parents’ divorce, the lurking fear that I am inherently unlovable. The runner up is that I don’t really know how to relax and let another person take care of me. My parents were some combination of distracted, geographically challenged, self-involved and/or borderline incompetent. When I was a teenager, I used to refer to myself as an orphan with two living parents. Obnoxious, disrespectful, yes, but also emotionally true from where I sat. But the point was I never felt safe or confident someone would be there for me.  

When Ted and I were in couples therapy he would become incensed by my complete lack of emotion. I never cried or even teared up. I appeared to be in total control. But I was actually frozen, my feelings locked inside to allow me to function. Repression and denial got me through most of my marriage and certainly though my divorce. There are untold lost memories that will probably never resurface. Here is what I couldn’t stand to feel and face. There was sadness and loss. I once loved him, or at least the image of him I held in my mind. He no longer loved me and probably never had. I was no longer someone’s special person, and really never had been. I was on my own again. There was self-hatred and disgust mixed with a loss of confidence that I could ever trust my judgment again. How could I have been lovingly intimate with that man? Why didn’t I see the signs? What broken part of me facilitated such blindness? To own the “I did once love him” throws into question every future emotion I will have. It creates the fear that nothing is as it seems, but only as I want it to be. And of course there was guilt. I had broken my lifelong promise to never do what my mother did and break up the family. My kids would never have one home and while I didn’t really have a choice to leave, I was the one who made the decision.   

In the last couple of months I have cried a lot. I’ve cried over Allan, and me, and now finally and appropriately, I’m crying over Ted. A true acknowledgement of all I lost, even if it never really existed, is allowing me to mourn. I can finally start to search through all the pent-up sadness and loss and regret that started building up more than a decade ago. Right now, I’m raw and vulnerable and full of long contained emotion without a clear object. I think this is the source of me continually referring to myself as crazy this summer. I can’t figure out what emotions inside me belong to what external reality and my reactions can at times be disproportionate to the actual event.  

I now know unequivocally that my children are better off as a result of the divorce. And I know how to avoid imparting on them the bad effects of my childhood experience. They will never be poor, their college education will be paid for. I would never leave them and I will always have a home for them to return to. They know they are unconditionally loved, even when I’m being a less than perfect parent. I know it is my job to protect them from the disappointments I will experience in my dating life, I won’t confuse them with my friends. And despite the endless differences and unpleasantness between their father and me, I have to acknowledge he has exceeded my expectations in his ability to parent.

This year I will send out a Christmas card with a picture of my kids and me.  I couldn’t do it last year, I was still haunted by the image of the 1973 holiday photo when I was Kelsey’s age and pained by all the lovely intact families featured on Shutterfly. But I resolved then it would be different this year. The four of us are complete just the way we are, even if we aren’t the American dream. And most importantly I am finally clear that the legacy I hand down to my children from my divorce does not have to be anything like what I inherited.

She lays the binder down, exhausted from the experience of consuming her words again. After a pause, a return to her journal.

“I had chosen openness. It was exhilarating. As he read his version, a tiny corner of the curtain protecting him from unwanted peeking pulled back. I tried to show support. To let him know that it was safe. That vulnerability did not necessarily lead to pain. I had led the way with my version; a metaphoric helping hand to help pull him along this journey. He talked about young love. A young boy marries a young girl. They begin a family. But then he turned to the woman’s deeply instilled sadness. His desire to make her happy and his frustration that her definition of that word meant constantly moved and live just beyond his grasp. He opened up about her depression, not diagnosed for most of their years together, and the toll it took on him. His hand trembled as he held his paper. His voice cracked. He said the years had cut ruts into both of them to allow each to cope. As she tried to pull him more deeply in to fill the hole she lived with, he pushed away. Her pulling, his pushing, each slightly deepening their divide. Toward the end there was counseling, diagnosis, treatment, but by then the pain had scabbed over and calloused. He did not blame her. If anyone, he blamed himself for not being able to provide the precious presence that she so deeply longed for. Insomnia was a blessing that night. I simply watched him sleep and thought of the man he was becoming.

Chapter 18 – ru free?

In 1910 the great political split in Seattle was over “open town” versus “closed town.” The city had built its strength by mining the miners of the 1897 Klondike Gold Rush. Add to that an emerging presence in the shipping trade with the Pacific and brothels, bars and gambling couldn’t be far behind. Open town advocates proposed that these vices were best dealt with through containment to red-light districts versus a more thorough house cleaning. They were battled by closed town advocates who consisted of church groups, progressives, prohibitionists and women’s suffragists groups who felt that the work of the Devil could not be allowed to proceed unchecked.

During the 1910 Seattle mayoral race Hiram C. Gill stood squarely on the side of the idea of an open town. He was highly supported by Seattle Times publisher Alden J. Blethen who argued that these vices could be contained to an area known today as Pioneer Square and that attempts to suppress would simply cause the unredeemable souls to spread out to practice their evil in the more reputable parts of town.

Gill, a republican, won the Seattle mayor election in 1910. There were significant questions however about the remarkably high turnout. Allegations were made that the Republicans had imported unemployed men, housing them in vacant dwellings throughout the city in order to buy their votes. Gill’s administration was marked by controversy from the outset.  He reinstalled as chief of police Charles “Wappy” Wappenstein, whom the previous administration at city hall had chosen to dismiss as corrupt. Wappenstein loosely enforced prostitution, drinking and gambling restrictions in the purported “closed” areas of the city. There was much debate over whether Gill or Wappenstein was in control of the city and its underground flow of money. Gill eventually fired Wappenstein, then rehired him. By now all the details of the backroom negotiations between the two have been lost to the annuls of time.

Eventually the backlash against Gill was so strong that he was the first mayor in the country to face a recall election in February 1911.  As fate would have it, women’s suffrage had been granted between the time of the original election and the recall and Gill was defeated by a comfortable margin. Wappenstein was eventually convicted of corruption and imprisoned. Seattle Times publisher Blethen and his son Clarence were also tried, but were acquitted. The family still owns and operates the paper to this day.

Gill perhaps had the most interesting outcome of them all. He ran for reelection in 1912 and lost. However, with ongoing support from Blethen and the Times he ran in 1916 on a “closed town” platform and was reelected. During his second tenure Gill publicly worked hard on his image as vice enforcer authorizing raids of notable establishments such as the prestigious Rainier Club after Washington “went dry” in 1916. However, it was a known secret that Gill was profiting handsomely from protection money and other corrupt schemes. In 1918 he was disbarred from the state’s legal community. He lost his reelection campaign that same year and died the following.

During his rise to power, then his fall, followed by another peak and then the ultimate valley, Gill had decided to reside in the emerging eastside suburbs overlooking the lake at 626 35th Ave. Charlotte and Hunter walked by his former house that evening unaware of its history.

The meeting with the partner had gone exactly as she anticipated. Her initial draft was well received, very well received. His comments were even lighter than she had anticipated, both in quantity and quality. She assigned some follow-up research to a couple of the more junior associates working for her on the project. They would supply more details over the course of the next few days. But as for the writing itself, she handled that exclusively. The lack of much substantive feedback meant that the demands on her, for her time, would be lighter than she had estimated previously. This freed her for the walk with Hunter through the Madrona neighborhoods that she was currently enjoying. She reflected on her last conversation with June. How curious that they wrote together. Her father had been a professional writer first in Hollywood, a time she barely remembered, then doing freelance work here in Seattle. He wrote as work. He wrote for money.  But June’s description was different.  Again, it personalized the man.  He was writing for pleasure, for exploration, for growth. Charlotte circled back to the center of town. Again, she found herself at the tiny wine shop at 1127 ½ 34th. Again, she selected a pairing for dinner.  Something domestic this time to accompany beef.

Later that evening she sits at the desk in the bedroom. A bag from Dick’s Drive-In sits on the dresser this time. A wrapper from a Deluxe Burger, a greasy now empty French fry sleeve and a cup which formerly held a vanilla shake are spread around the desk along with a half empty bottle of a northwest cab-merlot blend. Hunter sleeps in the chair in the corner.

She edits the brief, although by this point the word edit might be a slight overstatement. She was now to the point of merely needing to tweak. For the first time in a long time she is able to enjoy the dual pleasures of quiet and time. A strange thought pops into her mind. She closes the brief, then clicks “File” followed by “New.” There she sees it. She clicks “Blank Document.”

A completely blank screen, frightening and freeing at the same time. She types a simple word across the top, “Questions.” She then goes on to write. Initially the words come slowly. Her fingers move with caution. Then after a few minutes, more fluid, more constant. She continues writing for nearly an hour, almost in a trance. She’s eventually interrupted by the sound of a train whistle. She checks the time, 3:22 am. She pauses and reads:

Questions

There is never a specific lecture in law school that teaches it to you. There’s no training session three weeks into your new job at the big, shiny law firm. Yet, somehow as litigators we all learn the first axiom, “Never ask a question if you don’t already know the answer.”

Litigation is a brutal process. It would be too simplistic to say it’s about winning and losing.  More often than not it’s about losing just a little less than the other guys. It’s an all-out attack. Some points of attack are genuine. They highlight the actual missteps made by the other side. They are strategic, precise, absolutely necessary. But others have different motives. They are to confuse, to distract, to introduce concepts of character into a forum where they should not be relevant. The chaff. Sun Tzu was indeed ahead of his time. There’s a dance, an artistry to the entire process. Attack, when they move to defend attack somewhere else. Then it’s their turn. They attack, you defend while trying not to lose sight of the fact that this may be distraction all designed to set up a more direct and deadly attack somewhere else. It’s beautiful and I love it. And throughout the process, never lose sight of axiom number 1. Never ask a question if you don’t already know the answer. Never give up control.

But now I’ve never felt like I know so few answers. And I dare not ask the questions, at least in public. Paralyzing. But here in the privacy of this house we’re I’m hiding is it safe to at least ask…

·        Do I love Todd? Did I ever love the true him? Did I ever even see the true him?

·        Will the merger derail things or accelerate them?

·        And Helen’s comment about being on the wrong side. Does that matter? How could it not?

·        This woman who knew my father in ways I didn’t. So much of what I know about him came from my mother. Was it chaff?

·        Am I brave enough to ask questions when the answers may shock me?

·        Am I happy?  Will I ever be?

She reaches over and grabs her phone.  She sorts through her contacts list until she reaches “Woman with Dog.”  She types

[Text: Ru free for another walk soon?  I have a few questions for u.]

She presses send then feels a bit embarrassed at having sent a message at such a ridiculous hour.  She goes back to her contacts and again retrieves “Woman with Dog.”  This time she clicks “Edit,” erases the name and replaces it with June.

Minutes later her phone buzzes with a simpe reply.

[Text: Sure, it will be my pleasure.]

Chapter 19 – Guess I Wasn’t Present

June couldn’t sleep that night.  She had quietly slipped out of bed, not wanting to disturb Rodger. She sat on the couch downstairs sipping a cup of tea. The binder was open. She reread the words that she had shared with him that summer night several years ago.

Presence

It’s 4am. I’m awake. After trying to trick myself back to sleep, counting, typing the alphabet in my head, I give up and start thinking about “presence.” Somehow this word constrains me, too static, too tangible. Maybe it is easier for me to think of the topic as being in the moment. Yes, that seems better, my mind relaxes. I breathe out. Then I know what I have to do. I break my rule about staying in bed in the middle of the night, the need to accomplish something drags me out. No kids in the house, no one to wake up, no hostile morning alarm clock. Hang a big piece of paper on the wall, no, put it on the floor, normal people are resting, I should at least stay prone to whatever degree possible. It’s the paper from a roll I use to trace the kids’ bodies. Where is that green marker that’s always on my desk when I don’t need it? 

Write PRESENCE, under it write “in the moment.” Put a box around the words. What the hell is it doing over there?  Shouldn’t it be in the middle of the paper? But no, it found its way to the far right hand side of the page. I read this to mean I implicitly see being present as a goal. Somehow I’m thinking that’s not exactly what the Buddhists had in mind, too striving, but keep moving, it is what it is and I am who I am. Close my eyes. To the right of presence I see a widening, like the rays from a flashlight. Ok, draw the lines, the top one heading NE, the bottom SE. What goes in them? Quickly the words pop. Illumination. Reflection. In the body. Peace. Awareness. Power. Energy. Self containment. Calm. Creative. All positive connotations. A worthy goal (sorry Buddhists, I’m doing my best). Ok, now to the left. Blank. How do I get to this glorious place of light and happiness, this place of presence? I ask myself, “When am I most in the moment?” while simultaneously wondering, “Does making a list of how to be more present seem a little ironic? Would that be the correct use of the word?

June smiles slightly remembering the debate she and her friends had had one Happy Hour in New York after work about whether or not Alanis Morissette had scarred a generation’s understanding of the actual meaning of the word.  June’s eyes fall back to the journal as she reads on.

Brr, the floor is cold, over to the desk. Thank goodness I moved it. By the window was no good, never quite the right amount of light, too much or too little, and too much distraction, who’s out there, do I hear the jingle of a dog collar, might it be Allan and Hunter? Certainly not at 4:30am but on other days and at other times, yes, this used to come to mind often. And facing the wall, that was the worst, the death of any hope of creativity but now, yes, facing out into the room, enough of a view to create a feeling of space but not so much to divert me. Of course now the shades are all down. A month ago the sun would already have been making its presence felt, creeping around the blinds, but now it’s headed south and our days begin to shift into a new gear. But where was I? Yes, moving my desk has made a huge difference. But what’s that feeling? A little sadness, where is that from? Letting go of summer, this has some loss associated with it. But there is something else too, a memory from when I moved the desk, and the sadness is accompanied by a tiny bit of anger (sidebar: look at that, I can’t just say anger, have to say “a tiny bit of” because anger is NOT ok). It’s the memory of moving my desk and thinking, “I am moving furniture by myself again. I once thought I would never have to do this again. Fuck.”  Please focus. Acknowledge the feeling and move on.

Back to the question. When am I most present? I’m still thinking of this as defined as “not distracted” and I know there is more to it but let’s just see what comes to mind. Number one: sex. Being physical, naked. Getting lost in pure sensation. Yes, the mind wanders sometimes, infrequently, and comes back quickly, that basically counts as being in the moment, right? And I love the moment, I’m not worrying about what’s for dinner or whether I remembered to lock the basement door. But here I think I’m confusing relaxing – something I don’t exactly excel at – with being present. Being lost in the moment is perhaps a subset of being in the moment insofar as relaxation helps the mind focus, but I’m pretty darn sure it’s not the core driver. There is a missing component. When the mindfulness experts envision a moment of presence, it’s not about endless sex. Time to pull up definitions, get some clarity. Do Buddhists have websites? Good news, yes.  Ooh, I like the sound of this, Wildmind.org. Nice to string those words together. Where are my glasses? Ah clarity, there it is, the word that makes it all come together: awareness. Now I’m back on solid ground. I’ve read that building a capacity for awareness is what therapy, at least good therapy, is all about. Perhaps I’m closer to the goal than I thought. Awareness allows us to recognize our thoughts and feelings before we react so we can be in control of our choices and avoid repeating patterns and scripts from our past that no longer serve us. Wow, that’s a mouthful. Interesting, awareness is the opposite of being “lost in thought” or in my sex example, lost in sensation, perhaps even devoid of thought. But for someone who has a hard time turning her brain off, the appeal of sex, whether it counts as a mindfulness activity or not, remains endlessly alluring. But more importantly, if presence and mindfulness and being in the moment are all in the same family of synonyms, if not perfect replacements, I’m feeling hopeful. There’s the bus on Madrona Drive. The day is starting for some but it’s time for me to go back to sleep before the sun really wakes my mind up.

Unfinished business. Now I’m in bed watching the early signs of twilight.  Where has the day gone? The sky is a virtual rainbow, the day has been perfect and the sunset is unnaturally consistent, exactly identical from left to right as far as I can see. It’s as if a rainbow has been straightened out and stretched from north to south. This is not a diversion by the way, this is me being aware of the moment, it is me being present and grateful. At least that’s the way I’m choosing to see it for now. 

More good news from my friends at Wildmind. Thinking of the past and the future does not by definition negate mindfulness. If we are able to think about what came before and what may still come in a constructive manner, with an awareness that leads to change, clarity or a rethinking of how we are in the world, we may still check the “present” box. I don’t have to be thinking of this moment to be in the moment. Ok, sounds contradictory but I’m going with it. This is heartening news for someone who spends a lot of time contemplating both ends of the time continuum. It’s not about what we do, it’s about how we do it. I have trained myself for years to be curious about my reactions and thoughts and feelings and unless I feel I’m being completely misunderstood, I can generally embrace curiosity and not defensiveness. I like to think this means I have the ability to change or at least engage in a dialog about change, but of course I’m just as capable of self-deception and denial as the next person, maybe even better because I’ve studied the lingo.  

But did you catch the word that just doesn’t seem like it belongs in the discussion of in-the-moment-ness? Control. Yes, it snuck into the discussion. This doesn’t seem to be the Dalai Lama’s mindfulness, yet there doesn’t seem to be anything wrong with having control of our own mind. And I think power was also in the original list of my associations with present. I mentally cross out power and replace it with potency. I consider power as a force we use to bend others to our will and potency as our ability to affect change. Subtle and possibly not even Merriam Webster consistent but it’s my distinction. Now I’m starting to wonder about cause and effect. An external event occurs, I have an internal reaction, I pause to identify my thoughts and feelings, I assess their validity and rationality, I make an intentional choice about how to react. I am in control of my response. I also know I can control how I feel by where I choose to focus my mind and by making a decision to be true to some best me that lives within. Ok, well I can’t always immediately modify my feelings, and sometimes I just want to linger with the sadness or hurt or confusion, but I know from experience the sun will come up tomorrow. I can’t tell if I’m making progress or just drifting horribly off course. It’s my attempt to outline how I see being present working in a sort of best-case scenario. But perhaps the real question is, what makes one person able to be mindful and another purely reactionary? But it’s time for bed. We’ll see what tomorrow reveals. As I fall asleep, I find myself thinking about mediation and prayer and God and my Aunt Margaret.

5:26am. The same bus that reminded me to go to sleep yesterday wakes me today. This amuses me, it feels like a sort of closure, a happily dichotomous way to start the day. Where was I? Meditation, yes, the holy grail of mindfulness, or so I seem to believe. To be still, silent and clear your mind completely for an extended period requires serious practice. It is a form of mental exercise that strengthens your brain. Who doesn’t want a stronger brain? The word control comes to me again, clearing the mind is a form of controlling your mind. So meditation is a tool to calm and strengthen the mind to facilitate the possibility of being in the moment. This is why I so respect people who actually do it versus, um, well, just talking about it like some of us. Because yes, I’ve felt the draw to meditate for decades, ever since my Creativity Professor in business school told me that every minute of mediation provides the equivalent rest of two minutes of sleep. That always struck me as a deal not to be missed. 

My Aunt Margaret meditated, waking up every morning at 5am to give herself an extra hour before the day began in earnest to settle her mind and get connected. I always found it curious that my father’s most religious sibling whose life revolved around the Catholic Church was into meditation, but as I reflect on it now there is no inherent contradiction, only a pulling of the best from different faiths. I always suspected for her it was about connecting with God, finding her way to be the best person she could be, and what more worthy goal is there than that? Maybe it is time to reconsider where and how God fit into my life. The question of spirituality is a recurring theme on my New Year’s Resolutions lists that never quite makes its way to the top. But this topic has been increasingly on my mind in the last couple of months inspired by Allan’s commitment to faith and church.

2pm Sunday afternoon. I’m lying in bed staring at the ceiling, feeling awful yet emotionally frozen after a nasty interaction with my ex-husband. Before bed last night, I read the first half of Ann Lamott’s newest book. For the first time in twenty years I find myself contemplating God and prayer in a serious way. I stare at the ceiling some more. I say very slowly and out loud, “Say You are there…” This is as far as I get. Just the idea, stated as a simple hypothesis, causes my chest to feel like it has busted open and released all the pent-up confused messy emotions the day has triggered. I start to cry, not with sadness but with relief. I start to breathe.

After a couple minutes, my body settles, the tears are gone and I’m feeling astonished by the intensity of my reaction. I feel drained but not ready to abandon this exploration. And I think of the wishes I’ve made that haven’t been answered.  A picture pops into my mind. I’m on the beach. A bottle washes up. It’s one I launched many moons ago. It’s come back, unanswered, yet all for the best. It seems some inner part of me has had this vision it’s finally sharing. I didn’t even know it was there. Maybe it wasn’t until now. Prayer is my message in a bottle tossed into the ocean. I guess that makes God the ocean, the force that determines what becomes of my wish, my prayer, a powerful life force, undeniable, predictable tides yet erratic outcomes, beautiful, terrifying, awesome, connected to all but not of it. I wonder, “Where did this come from?”

2:13pm.  My phone vibrates, a text.  It’s only been 13 minutes.  Seriously?  I feel I’ve covered a lot of emotional ground in 13 minutes. The text is from Caroline, my ex-husband’s ex-girlfriend, who had the misfortune to be present for some of the afternoon’s unpleasantness. She’s writing to say, in summary, “I too know this man, let’s help each other find our peace with him, it doesn’t have to be like this.” It seems undeniable that a force in the universe is sending me the people I need just when I need them most. This is not the first time. (Allan’s name of course springs to mind.) Does this mean my prayer was answered? Am I in fact never alone? A moment of gratitude washes over me. I smile.

I think about what brought me to this moment and I picture sitting next to Allan on a bench by the water in Leschi a couple of days ago. My eyes are closed and my face is turned toward the sun. He charmingly asks, “Are you present?” referring to this, our assignment for the week. I smile and say, “Yes.” But what I don’t say is that he is like the sun for me.  Something that warms me, calms me, draws me, creates light and heat. I’ve thought of him this way since the beginning. It’s hard to not be present and grateful as I bask in the glow of these two illuminating forces. After all, it was his recommendation that led to me to Ms. Lamont. Does this make Allan some form of conduit to God? Is the whole God thing part of what makes him so compelling? As always, more questions than answers.

Once again, the process of writing has provided focus and clarity but also brought about its own cause and effect. I’m not just reporting, the writing is an agent of change in and of itself. Writing was one other item on that big piece of paper, something that made me feel present, that is only now, at the conclusion, sneaking into the story. When I look back at what I’ve written I see lots of judgments, which wasn’t what I expected to see as I sat down to recap the topic of presence. I should be less goal oriented, less worried and less focused on being in control (unless it’s the right kind of control) and also more calm and relaxed and reflective and spiritual. Oh right, and more in the moment, present, mindful.  That’s just the short list. And I think, “Maybe it’s time to either make some changes or just accept that some things simply are as they are, at least for now. Grant myself some peace of my imperfections.” Maybe that’s part of my process to being more present, maybe that’s something God can help with, he’s rumored to be extremely forgiving of our faults. So for now, here is the action I commit to going forward: to start each day with a moment of gratitude and quiet reflection of how I want to be in the world. Tangibility and specificity are powerful for me so I will write down at least three words or phrases or questions each day to carry me through. Maybe there will be endless repetition, maybe endless surprises but one way or another, there will be change.

She read from her journal.  “After I read my version of “Presence” he simply held me. Once again I had chosen the risk of reading from the red folder. The words may or may not have been profound, but he sensed how difficult it had been for me to write so freely. To give up control. 

His turn to read.  He dodged a bit (uncharacteristic for him). Went for more wine. Then left again to get a blanket for me. Had my writing rattled him? He eventually got around to reading his version.”

From her binder she reads.

I love walking my dog. I love so many things about it. I love watching the raw excitement play out. It begins when I merely say the word “walk.” He franticly jumps up and down with that exuberance that only a dog can exhibit; that excitement which says “I can’t believe we get to do this again. I thought I would never get another walk in my life.” You, as the human, know that he gets at least three walks every day, each at basically the same time day after day. But none of that logic matters to the dog. Each walk, no matter how often repeated, is his version of Christmas morning. 

When we start on our walk, he pulls me. Different breed, but the same instinct as a husky on the frozen tundra. He hunches and digs his feet into the pavement. He grips and tugs. He stretches his body forward, forward. My leash arm stretches to its limit. He is constant motion. Energy. He pulls me straight ahead. Then a scent, a sound or a faint movement in the grass causes him to turn abruptly with no warning. The change in direction seems random to me, yet to him the decision was instinctive and obvious. Then in another movement that seems as random to me he turns back ahead, instantly regaining his full forward power. We usually walk for an hour or more and then return home with him looking thoroughly exhausted.

The question of why my dog acts the way he does isn’t a question one would ponder long. The simple answer is that’s just who he is. The longer answer would involve a discussion of the domestication of a wild species over tens of thousands of years further enhanced by the selective breeding processes that isolated and amplified his dominant hunting drive. But regardless of the how, the reality of the moment is that he possesses a yearning deep within him that he can’t control. When something is that deeply embedded into an animal, we tend to put aside any notion of judgment. The animal is neither good nor bad as a function of the exaggerated characteristics nature has heaped on him. That’s just who he is.

There is an honesty that I note as I walk my dog. Everything about the experience is raw and primal, nothing is staged. My dog does not choose his next steps carefully, measuring my reaction, then throttling his enthusiasm up or down to appease the need he thinks he’s discerned from a subtle word I said, or failed to say, or based on his interpretation of a smile of mine, a squint, or any other nearly uncontrollable body reaction. In these times I can shout out a few commands that he’ll recognize and obey (at least some of the time). But that is the extent of my influence on his basic desires. In these moments my dog is totally wrapped up in his compulsion to move forward. 

Of course there are other times, when he is not moving, that he does hang on my every gesture. In those instances I am his focus. He sits as close as he possibly can to me. He feels safe when he touches me. If I get up from my chair and walk to a different room, he gets up and matches me stride for stride. If I eat, he eats. If I utter a word that has even the faintest hint of meaning to him, he responds in the way that he thinks most pleases me. I am the center of his world. His instincts for this type of relationship may be equally as strong as his instincts for the walk. This side of him too is just who he is.

Today’s word is “presence,” as in the state of being present. So, as I ponder my observations about my dog, in which of the two situations is he more present?

June goes back to her journal.  “He read a few pages. My anticipation was building for the journey he would take me on. Then he stopped. He wouldn’t read anymore. He ended with the question. He wanted to debate which it was.  When was the dog more present? OK, I jumped in assuming we’d talk for a minute or two then he’d read again. I said I could see both sides. In the first, he’s free, he’s natural. But, the second is sweet. There’s sharing, there’s connection, he’s truly with you. There is love. He thanked me for my thoughts said something about life being gray, many ways to interpret things, then folded the paper and put it in his pocket. That’s weird! I know there were more pages. He didn’t read them. That’s FUCKING weird.  Made love again later that night, but I was distracted. Guess I wasn’t present.  Couldn’t get it out of my mind. What had the rest said?  Was he testing me?

She is startled by the buzz of her phone.  A text at this late hour.  “Who?” she thought.  “Is everything OK?”  She reads the message and smiles.  She replies.

[Text: Sure, it will be my pleasure.]

Chapter 20 – The Supply-Demand Pendulum

Back in the office, the acquisition talk had moved from rumor to realization. There had been an article in the New York Post that wasn’t too difficult to refute. But when the Wall Street Journal began to explore the possibility the parties were required to show their hands just a little sooner than they’d planned. And this new information provided some vital puzzle pieces which proved very helpful in understanding the “why” as Charlotte was so fond of doing. It seemed that behind the curtains of Jenkins Simpson and Thomas the partners may not have been the wizards they portrayed. The articles alluded to investments in building branches in Shanghai, Bangalore and Stockholm. A consultant had apparently suggested these with phrases like “emerging technology hubs,” “ground floor” and “law firm 2.0.” And while one can imagine that the consultant’s presentation likely included a comprehensive list of challenges associated with international expansion, past success breeds a form of hubris that can allow successful partners to turn that page rather quickly. In the WSJ article there was a reference to a power struggle back in the east coast headquarters that led to the exit of some influential rainmakers and a few of their critical clients. And in the same article she noted the phrase “that far exceeded industry standards” bolted onto a description of the partners’ annual bonus structure. She subconsciously kicked herself a bit for not having seen some of the warning signs earlier, but then even she was willing to acknowledge that a self-criticism like that was unfair. No, the past was informative, but only to a point. The more relevant questions involved what to do next.

The norms of office culture had shifted slightly. Doors previously open found their way closed more often. Cell phone calls that would normally be disregarded were answered with a request for the caller to hold temporarily as the recipient scurried off to find privacy. The headhunters, smelling blood in the water, had moved in. It was a known secret that if an acquisition were consummated, the underlying economics would require a significant reduction in costs. It all made sense and much of it was actually inconsequential to the line attorneys like Charlotte. Offices would be consolidated to reduce rent. Redundancies in support personnel would be eliminated. Systems would be optimized. All logical. But the deeper truth is that a new pyramid would be built. The conquering partners would sit on top. Many of the acquired partners would be able to weave their way into the level just below, but many would also be deemed redundant. The layer cake exercise would continue down the totem pole until it hit Charlotte. Her name would likely come up briefly in a room controlled by the acquirers who would know next to nothing about her. There would be some attempt to standardize the flock with a list of categories – prior year billings, prior year rating, potential to make partner. Beside each category there would be a space to score with either powerful labels such as high, low, medium or more clinical tools such as 1, 2, 3 or 4. There would likely be an accountant in the room reminding the group periodically how many were allowed in the retain bucket and how many were not. And finally, there would be someone who likely resided in the Human Resources section of the org chart who was charged with the task of keeping track of those categories which aren’t supposed to be important when making such decisions; but are necessarily monitored none-the-less – gender, ethnicity, and so on. The meeting would produce two lists. The headhunters jockeyed for position for the opportunity to monetize this inevitable transfer of human capital.

Charlotte had been called by several headhunters. She’d returned some calls with a quick “thanks, but no thanks.” Others from the more fringe firms she’d simply ignored. But one caught her attention when the short voice mail included “Helen suggested that I give you a call.” 

They’d discussed meeting in a discreet location.  The little coffee shop on the corner of 34th and Spring would be perfect. Charlotte sat with her extra hot latte when the woman entered. Her name was Audrey. Charlotte guessed that the woman was in her mid-forties, sandwiched conveniently between Helen and herself. She wore an Armani pants suit which suggested a closer association with Helen’s generation nonetheless. There were pleasantries exchanged. Context was set. Then the meat of the conversation. 

“The looming merger has to have you at least contemplating alternatives,” Audrey says. “The market is strong. It would be a smart move to look around. And the one thing Helen kept telling me time and time again is that you’re smart.”

“Well thank you,” Charlotte responds. “Helen did always seem to see me in my best light. Are the other firms in town actually hiring?”

“Some are,” Audrey quickly says. “But frankly the supply-demand pendulum is about to swing in the wrong direction. The rumor is that the Seattle office will be one of the hardest hit by this thing. Most of the work that your office has done will be shipped to the consolidated Silicon Valley office. That could put a lot of lawyers on the street. The best option for you might be relocating to the Valley or maybe New York. Or maybe there’s something in industry that you might like. You know, go in-house with one of the tech companies.”

“Not a big fan of that path,” Charlotte responds. “Too many stories from past co-workers who went to places like that and regretted it.”

“Well, it wouldn’t have to be big company,” Audrey quickly responds not wanting to let doors close. “You have the freedom to choose your own path; let yourself dream.” 

The two continue talking for a while longer. Next steps are discussed. A follow-up meeting is arranged. It will occur at a different discreet location. But none of the balance of the conversation has the same impact. Those words still hung in the air “you have the freedom to choose your own path; let yourself dream.”

That night back at her father’s house there is a familiarity to the scene. The second bedroom emits the glow of a computer screen. A young woman sits at the desk. A near empty bottle of wine. This time it is a Pinot Noir from the Willamette Valley, a light red. That gives us a clue that the entree was likely chicken or fish.  A glance to the top of the dresser reveals a KFC box; yes, chicken it is.

Charlotte types into her phone.

[Text: Would u b open to the idea of writing “topics” with me?]

Unlike previously, this was a reasonable hour so a reply didn’t take long.

[Text: Sure, have one in mind?]

[Text: Dreams, as in hopes and]

[Text: Bold first step… ]

[Text: Go big or go home]

[Text: Next Wednesday give you enough time?]

[Text: Love deadlines]

[Text: We’ll take Hunter for a walk by the lake after work]

Chapter 21 – The Debate

June sat at the table sipping her decaf. As it was mid-morning, the hurried crowds grabbing coffee and pastries on their way to work had given way to the slower pace of the locals enjoying their mornings at the Hi Spot Café. It’s an odd place in and odd building of an odd neighborhood. The building dates to 1901 and actually preceded the streetcars. By the 1920s the intersection of Union and 34th had prospered sufficiently to incent the owners to extend their garage and convert a portion of the building to a small general store while still calling the balance of the structure home. A few decades ago, the residential portion of the building was fully transformed into a commercial enterprise. But perhaps “fully” is too strong a term. Today guests dine in the former living room. And when first timers inquire about the facilities, the regulars have learned to provide the directions -- up the stairs and down the hall – without providing any previews. Then inevitably the newbies return with odd grins on their faces and the same comment, “Did you know there’s a bathtub in there?” as if the restaurant’s regular would somehow be surprised.

Beside June sits one of her nesting boxes. She is reading.

“Normal insomnia is in overdrive these days. Every time I close my eyes I flash back to that moment. I thought we were connecting. Then he shuts down. The whole thing has triggered something I don’t fully understand. Every night that damn question climbs into bed with me and won’t leave until the sun peaks through – What did I do wrong? (I hate that I’m being so girly.) This sets off my logical, strong, woman side. She stands behind her podium ready to debate any comers. “I didn’t do anything wrong I tell myself. Maybe he was preoccupied with work, his daughter… Maybe he simply wasn’t feeling well.” But the question keeps comes back -- What did I do wrong? I quickly race to the vulnerable, emotional, little girl podium. Maybe he wasn’t preoccupied with work. “Maybe he was thinking of someone else.” The logical side interrupts, “Don’t go there.” The emotional side hits again and reminds me that I did talk over him once. Damn! Why can’t I keep my mouth shut??? Men hate that. I can be so stupid. “But wait,” says my logical voice. “Why do I need to keep quiet? Aren’t my thoughts and feelings as important as his? Of course they are! I am woman hear me roar and all that shit!” But the roar can’t drown out the little girl standing and shaking and now starting to hide behind the other podium.

“More coffee?” says the millennial waiter.

June looks up dazed having momentarily forgotten where she was. She pauses, then gracefully gestures a no thank you. Not knowing how much of her internal battle had been bleeding through into the real world, she glances around the sparsely populated café hoping not to find anyone staring. Luckily for her the other patrons are absorbed in their own worlds.

June returns to the journal.

“… the roar can’t drown out the little girl standing and shaking and now starting to hide behind the other podium. “But when you roar bad things happen.” she says. This sets off a montage of memories of coming up short. The smartest girl in 4th grade – and the least popular. The mother who gave “advice” to all of the other new moms – and found herself invited along for coffee less and less frequently. Those memories are countered by the logical side reminding me of my strength at work. Of that quarterly meeting when that asshole Steve Jameson missed his quota. After all those times he’d tried to make my life hell while gunning for my job. He was finally going to get his. And I served him up. You better believe I spoke up. The senior team was looking to make an example out of someone, and they ate him alive. But then the girl reminds me that after the bravado I slipped off to the bathroom two floors down to hide and cried uncontrollably for 20 minutes. “But you pulled yourself back together,” the woman reminds me. “No one ever knew.” The debate continues to escalate. In midst of the back-and-forth that scared little girl suddenly yells “Stop! When you roar, I get hit!” A father who felt that emotional conversations conveyed weakness and only knew one way to get his point across when a “smartass” little girl talked back to him. And of course, T’s drinking had always been a problem. I could usually stay quiet and avoid the fight. But this time I chose not to. Kelsey was a baby. My mom kept her while I was recovering. My arm never quite healed correctly. I was once a 4.5 tennis player. Now I can’t play without pain.

The debating stops. The little girl in my mind is now fully hidden behind the podium. I long to hold her to cry together. She whimpers and tries to say something, but I can’t make it out. I look invitingly. She wipes her tears. She asks the question simply and directly “What if you’re just not good enough? What if you’re not lovable?” The logical me is stopped in her tracks. I sat frozen as the sun began to make its daily entrance over the lake.”

“May I have my check please?” June says as she shoves the journal and nesting box quickly into her bag.

After picking up Hunter for one of his daily walks, June found herself in the familiar surroundings of the bench in Leschi looking out over the boats in the marina at the lake. Hunter sits at her side. The sun beams on her face as she reads. The walk and the sun have calmed her and allowed her to move to a new section of her past. She holds the journal and reads.

“Lunch with Katy today was so sweet. Although we were supposed to be meeting so that I could hear about her trip with Bob to Italy for their 25th, the conversation seemed to be all about my love life. She kept going on and on about how she can see the change in me. I know it’s true that getting laid regularly does wonders. She’s too kind to say it so bluntly, but I was a mess before. Quiet. Hidden. Matronly. I guess it’s only looking back that you can see how lonely you’ve been. We humans learn to cope. But now I’m ALIVE! The whole lunch we giggled and talked about Allan. I felt like I was 16 again. I told her how he made me dinner just the other night, how he poured me wine, how we talked for what seemed like hours. (She asked to see pics. Silly me, I don’t have any of him. Already on the to-do list for next week’s festivities.) I told her more than I ever thought I would about the sex, about how firmly he takes me and about how I lose any inhibitions, about how I want it again and again. I’ve tried things I was too afraid to try even in college. I told her about how we lie naked together afterwards and talk about the future while he gently strokes my hair. I tried not to make her too jealous. She and Bob are doing great. They love each other and all, but nothing compares to those early days. OK, maybe I did want to make her just a little jealous. Hoping to see him again this week if our schedules align. Kids are with me tonight, so I’ll have to settle for Netflix and text flirting this evening.”

She flips to the next entry.

Last night after getting the kids to bed I poured myself a glass of wine and slipped into a skimpy nighty. It was a little weird to dress for someone else being Allanless. But I feel so sexy these days. Why fight it? Bought a vibrator for nights like these. I haven’t used one in years. Had one pre-T. It glowed in the dark so I called it my “Light Saber.” But T felt uncomfortable with the idea. Some notion of if you’ve got a man why do you need that. Made me feel a little ashamed so when he moved in it went out. But things are more open and free now. No shame. Found one that was his size and shape. It’s green. Decided to call it “Love and Happiness” after some weird melding of Allan’s cock and the color green led me to Al Green, which led me to “Let’s Stay Together” which was too serious, which led me to “Love and Happiness” which seemed to work. Gotta remember to take my meds first thing.  

Googled sexy texts today. Thought about taking some “special” selfies to send him. That seems to be all the rage these days. But decided to start with this.

[Text: What emoji makes you think of me?]

 Kept checking phone for reply. Anxious to try more. Waited what felt like an hour but checked and it was only 7 minutes. Fuck it, decided to send anyway!

[Text: Been thinking of your (eggplant emoji) all day!]

That should get his attention.

[Text: Got just the place for you to put it (peach emoji) Dinner again soon?

Waited. Waited. Waited… a full 13 minutes this time.

Turned on Netflix to pass the time until his reply. Ah “Melrose Place,” my guilty pleasure in an earlier phase of my life. All my friends were into Jake. I was more of a Kyle girl myself, those eyes. (Maybe that’s my thing!) Gosh that was a long time ago. Was dating a lot back in those early years after college. What a dynamic! The men boys seemed to have only one thing on their minds. We called them the ‘Lay Em’ and Leave Em’ Gang.’ They were the unstoppable force. On the other side, we girls were the immovable objects. Always focused on what they could be with just a little change. But Ethan was one of the rare good ones. Kind. Considerate. (Maybe that’s my thing! J) Ethan and I were just too young. That’s the difficulty. Not only do you have to meet the right person, but at the right time. That’s one of the reasons Allan feels so right. We’ve both been through the bullshit. No games. Just two adults. Comfortable with themselves; more comfortable in each other’s arms. Speaking of Allan, where the fuck is my text. Was hoping for a little help enjoying Love and Happiness. Oops… 11:42 and he’s definitely not the insomniac in this relationship. He must have dozed off. Sweet dreams my love sweet. Oh well, time to take matters into my own hands…

Ethan Richardson. I hadn’t thought of him in years. He popped into my mind as I was unwinding the other night. (Then he popped back in for a cameo as I was fantasizing with the Lilac. Sorry Allan.) Those early days at Merrill. We were so young and naïve. But of course that didn’t stop us. We were going to conquer the world. Make lots of money, then hang it up and do some good. Always in that order. Ethan was different. He really wasn’t fit for those shark infested waters. There had always been an energy between us, but never the right moment to get things going. He seemed to always be on again, off again with that girl that made him so miserable. During one of their off again staged I remember a party, although most of it is a bit foggy. There was some making out. Then we drifted off to private spot somewhere. I remember starting to blow him but looking up to see him asleep. He must have been more drunk than I realized. The next day I made some joke about offering to finish. He either didn’t remember the night before or wanted me to believe he didn’t. I never quite knew which. We muddled through a friendship until he left Merrill a couple of months later. Last I heard he was teaching at a liberal arts college back east. I hadn’t thought of him until the other day. Meeting Allan has awakened a lot of feelings.

Decided I’m a new woman who’s not afraid to face her future or her past. Decided to do a little harmless cyber-stalking. Took me about half an hour. Dr. Ethan Richardson, Senior Lecturer in English at Williams College. An impressive list of awards, fellowships and grants. And an email address, but better not until I know more. Less information on social media. LinkedIn is a mirror image of the school’s bio page. There’s an infrequently used Facebook page. However, it did disclose that the girl that made him so miserable ended up with the ring. Wonder how that’s working out for them. Nothing very current, that may say more than anything else. Can’t find him on Instragram. Nothing on Twitter. Mysterious…

I wonder what his life is like. I wonder what would have happened if he hadn’t fallen asleep. What if I’d simply grabbed him the next day at the office and dragged into a broom closet and dropped to my knees. What would my life have been like? Would I have liked being a professor’s wife?

Whoa! Come back to earth girl. Whatever world might have been, that sliding door closed a long time ago. Anyway, I have Allan.”

The Starbucks on the corner of Madison and McGilvra is a flagship location. Large and prominently located in the tony Madison Park neighborhood of Seattle, it is a favorite meeting spot for a who’s who of the city. Executives from Amazon, Microsoft and other tech giants rub elbows with the city’s leading political voices.

June sat by the Starbucks window. Hunter sat in the sun just outside tied to a small tree. She’d been here many times before. In fact, she’d sat in this exact spot more times than she could remember. But as she sat there today she recalled a time several years ago when she sat here with Katy. She was sipping her decaf. Katy sipped her caramel macchiato. Outside a slight rain fell.

June remembered the chat the friends had. “I can’t wait to meet him,” Katy said. “He’s in NY? When will he be back?”

“He’ll be gone for a week or so. He has some important meeting or something like that. And he’s planning to spend some time with his daughter who lives there” she recalls replying.

Her body tenses as she relives the encounter. She reaches into her ba

g and removes a journal with the characteristic green hue, but with a more modern concentric chevron pattern. She reads “I remember judging my mother so harshly for defining her life based on a man. And when the gulf between the life she imagined when she followed one and the reality that she eventually found grew too large, she made excuses for them – for the missed work, the repossessed cars, the shouting. I rationalized it as symptom of her generation. I vowed not to become her. Then I married T and become a cliché. I learned to lie for a man as well. I did it for years. It became an unconscious habit, easier than the truth. But eventually I was strong and left. no longer cover my arm. The scar is a reminder of what can happen if I’m not strong.

But today? Who was that person? Why did I lie to my best friend? Allan wasn’t in NY. His daughter doesn’t even live there. Hell, I have no idea where he is. I’ll be “off the grid” for a few days he said. What the fuck does that mean? Why was I afraid to ask him? And then why did I make things worse? Why did I choose to drive by his place? I should have known better. The same lights on each night, all night. His car with days of dust on it. And the unfamiliar white BMW convertible with a similar accumulation. And then I just kept doubling down with Katy. What was that bullshit about making plans to go to Chicago to visit my mom for her 75th… the best way to introduce him to the kids… uncertainty about how long to wait until we could move in together… All of it only true in my head. I went home and took a shower. I felt so dirty.