Faust, Revisited

Over the years I've made many friends involved in one 12-step program or another, and if there is a commonality to be found among them, it is that their lives changed drastically once they started practicing the principles involved in whichever program they undertook. These remain the same, whether the addiction is narcotics, alcohol, food, sex, gambling. An odd mixture of acceptance, spirituality and a willingness to accept assistance from others who share a common ill can have miraculous results.

Several of the friends I have who are members of Al Anon, NA and AA in the past three years have divorced their husbands/wives or abandonned their relationships with their mates. In some cases, the reasons for such drastic actions were obvious: the significant others were practicing drunks, abusers not above using physical and emotional violence. But many, a surprising number, really, left because relationships had ground to a halt and they were no longer capable of maintaining what had become a charade.

When we become members of a recovery program and truly work it, we unwittingly make a deal with the devil, though we're probably not aware of it at the time. We decide that our lives, boundaried as they are by our addictions, are no longer satisfactory. On the promise of better, more fulfilling times, we break with the past, change our habits, espouse new and better ways of dealing with issues that may have baffled us. Often, we do this with a sense of excitement, almost elation, as we realize that what seemed impossible--abandoning the very stuff of our addictions--is now within our grasp. And as we transform ourselves, as we adopt new thoughts and practice new actions, we find that often the people closest to us also change. Far from being pleased by our progress, they develop resentments; they are bewildered, stubborn, angry. They may not have liked who we were before, but at least they knew us. Now the person who shares kitchen and bed is a stranger with new friends, opinions, thoughts of his or her own. We are no longer easily bullied. We want to re-assume the responsibilities our addictions took away.

We do not, initially, want an end to the relationship--we want the other party to grow with us, join in the adventure, and we assume this will happen in time. After all, our changes have been for the better, and who wouldn't want to improve his or her lot? We suggest the other also join a program. We go to couples counseling, see shrinks together and individually, we make efforts and forget a basic fact: our SO, if he or she is not an addict of some stripe, may not in the least be eager to change.

Quandary... What to do?

When I got sober, my then-wife told me she was not interested in participating in any program that involved group discussions and explorations of ourselves and our relationship. She did not want to thrash out our problems in public; she was indifferent to the opinions or experiences of others. Our life was private and not open to the examination of others. In time, she and I parted ways. It was as friendly as such things can be, tripped up only when it came time to divide conjugal property. But we got past that too and remained, if not fast friends, at least good acquaintances.

I have known a few couples who have survived the 12-step traumas, but not many. I am not sure whether it is possible or not, but I do know it's impossible to unring a bell, and once a better way to live life has been found, most are loathe to return to the old standards of guilt, anger, fear and distrust . So what's the solution? Suggestions, anyone?

Here is installment 98 of Wasted Miracles.

The first passenger to report to the infirmary complained of acute stomach cramps and, while she was being given a tiny cup of Pepto Bismo, vomited on the attending nurse’s shoes. Two more passengers, a first-class couple, came in shortly thereafter. They were pale, their hands were clammy and they also suffered from cramps. The nurse logged these complaints, and when twelve more passengers appeared in a twenty-minute span, she called the ship’s physician, Dr. Subramanian Purushotham.

Dr. Purushotham was a regular at the Captain’s table. Tall, graying, a urologist by training who had studied in Delhi and the United States and come to despise his specialty, Dr. P., as he was known, inspired an effortless confidence. He had been serving on the Isadora seventeen months and, prior to that, had attended to passengers’ needs on two other Royal Scottish Line ships.

He had seen every conceivable manifestation of sea-sickness, agoraphobia, and motion disorders. He had set broken bones, treated fibrillating hearts, purged gastrointestinal parasites, and closed the eyes of more than a dozen cardiac arrest victims. He could and often did prescribe antidepressants, beta-blockers and, on rare occasions, opiates. He had never, in his long sea-borne career, witnessed anything like the tumult that soon took over his infirmary.

The first patient had come in shortly after one that morning. By five a.m., more than three hundred passengers were clamoring for Dr. P’s attention. The corridors reeked of regurgitate and other effluvia he hardly dared name. Three of the ship’s four nurses were as ill as the passengers they were trying to treat.

Dr. P. knew that, 24 hours earlier, the ship’s sous saucier, Jean Marie Berger, had complained of agonizing pains in his bloated stomach. Dr. P. had diagnosed an inflamed appendicitis in need or urgent removal and remanded the man to Freeport’s community hospital. Perhaps the diagnosis had been wrong.

Captain Roderick Stuart, made aware of the pandemonium, checked in by phone every 15 minutes. As the news grew worst, he consulted his charts. By seven that morning, 417 passengers at last count were seriously ill. One elderly woman had lapsed into a coma, three tourist-class fares were vomiting blood. Few crewmembers were affected, which was a blessing. All hands not crucial to the immediate running of the ship were on clean-up detail, swinging mops and buckets throughout the four decks.

Shortly before eight, Captain Stuart, having explored all available alternatives, changed the ship’s course. They were twenty hours out of Nassau, so turning back was not an option. Even had it been possible, Freeport probably did not have enough hospital beds to treat the epidemic.

Even at maximum steam, the Isadora would not reach New York

for twenty-five hours. He consulted his charts again.

His mistress had joined him. “What does Dr. P. say?”

“Food poisoning, almost certainly. Perhaps botulism. Two more passengers are in a coma. ” He massaged his eyes. “Nothing like this has ever happened.”

She stood behind him, rubbed his back. He was standing erect at the chart table and she thought she could feel a slight tremor beneath her fingers.

“A Coast Guard helicopter is on its way to ferry the coma cases out, and the cutter Seawitch is on its way with half a dozen doctors. There aren’t enough helicopters to take everybody. “

She kneaded his shoulders, the muscles unforgiving as stones.

Captain Stuart said, “Baltimore. It has to be Baltimore.”

Living Alone, Part 2

Of course, it's not always a bowl of cherries. Rainy nights have a way of getting to me. Snowy days do as well. Maintaining a house by one's self is almost a full-time job, particularly in the summer when the yard yells, the fish holler for a clean pond, and every single bush and tree needs attention. And when bad news hits, there is no house small or large enough to offer solace.

Here's installment 97 of Wasted Miracles.

The next morning Clare Drake and Jennifer Jamieson arrived at the Holiday Inn a few minutes after ten. They were mildly worried. The message hadn’t said who they were supposed to meet. “What if it’s a bust,” Jennifer said. “What if it’s a setup and not from Herbie? What if Herbie gave us away? You know, sold us out, made a deal or something?”

There was always that possibility. It had worried Clare from the moment the deal with Herbie had been struck. She thought for a moment.

“Just in case. You never know, in case it is a set up. If things are OK, I’ll come out and get you. If I don’t come back in ten minutes, you go to the ship and get rid of the stuff. Throw it overboard or something.”

So Jennifer waited outside while Clare went in. A few seconds later, Clare returned wearing a curious expression.

“It’s not Herbie. It’s a woman.”

Jennifer made a “so?” gesture, added, “Who is she?”

“Mollie something. She says she’s a friend of Herbie’s. She says Herbie sent her, that plans have changed. She wants the package.”

Jennifer shrugged. “She’s got the money?”

“Some. She’s got $3,000 and says Herbie will pay us the difference when we get to New York.”

That didn’t make sense. Jennifer said so. “No deal. We’re supposed to get $10,000. We can call Herbie, set him straight. We–”

“I told her we’d do it. Go get the stuff.”

“But why? Herbie’ll never show up! He’ll–”

Clare took Jennifer by the shoulders. “Trust me on this, OK? I know what I’m doing and I’ll explain later. The ship’s leaving in a couple of hours and I want us free and clear of all this bullshit. It’s the best thing we can do. Just take my word for it. It’ll all work out.”

Jennifer wanted to argue but was deterred by the look in her friend’s face. “I don’t like this,” she said. “We’re getting ripped off and I don’t like this at all.” But Clare was already going back into the hotel, so she returned to the ship anyway.

***

Living Alone, Part 1

I live alone--with a cat--in a small suburban house some miles from Washington, DC, where I spent many years. My home was built in the early 60s to meet the needs of returning Korean war veterans, and there are thousand such Monopoly structures dotting the Virginia landscape. Many have vanished because they were on one-third acre lots, which is precisely the size needed for the mini-mansions that were all the rage in the 90s.

I like my house and over a decade-and-a-half, I've fashioned it to meet my needs. I knocked down walls, tiled, repainted, added skylights and, in the words of a local real estate agent, pretty much made the place unsellable. There's a large bedroom upstairs converted from three smaller ones, a guest room in the basement, a study since I work from home, a room to play and record music, a yard with a small goldfish pond, a garage for the Avanti, too much lawn and just enough trees. I plant trees for people I have loved who have passed away, and my yard is now graced with an eclectic collection of corkscrew willow, bamboo, butterfly bushes and crepe myrtles. Each year I nibble away a the lawn by adding a redbud, a mimosa, a lilac.

All the treasures and trivia from a lifetime are there, including inherited furniture, a ceramic flying pig--Pigasus, of course--that hangs from the ceiling, plants, many books and the assorted scrap and debris one amasses by living more than a half-century. Kids love the place; they strum the guitars and make clapping, whirring, or whooshing sounds with the collection of strange noise-makers; in the kitchen they ooh and ah over wind-up toys that are so old they have become new. They like the radio controlled spider in the living room, the Stuart Little sedan, the antediluvian fossilized sharks' teeth.

Over the years, others have come to share my house for varying lengths of time but--and I have realized this only recently--the place has always remained my house, often despite my best efforts and intentions. Other folks' furniture supplanted mine briefly but departed when the guests did, save here and there for a surviving table and chairs, an old leather sofa, a framed print in the downstairs bathroom.

I don't know anyone else who owns and lives alone in a house except for an acquaintance in Richmond, and her place is an unbelievable sty. Mine is not. My situation means, basically, that the level of neatness or dishevelment, the number of dust bunnies, hairballs and tracked-in leaves and dirt, all are mine to control. I could (but wouldn't think of it) let the dishes accumulate in the sink, forgo laundry, leave the grass untrimmed, not collect the mail. Instead, I have discovered a strange and unsettling fastidiousness, an old-mannish need for clean floors, for things in their places. I do laundry far too often, vacuum the kitchen floor at least once a day, pay my bills early. I don't yet fold my underwear but sense this may be coming.

My house and I have been the object of both envy and pity. "You live alone? What a shame! Don't you get lonely?" Yes, I do. There are times when cooking for one is cheerless. Or, "You can do what you want, when you want! You're so fortunate!" That too. I am, as Seinfeld would say, master of my domain, fortunate beyond words to have purchased when I did. I couldn't afford my house now and, as a long-dead Roman--maybe Cicero--once said, "What is more agreeable than one's home?"

Here's installment 96 of Wasted Miracles.

Chapter 23

That same day at the evening meal the ship buzzed with rumors and allegations concerning the professor who had been forcibly removed from his cabin for allegedly dealing drugs.

Some claimed he wasn’t really a passenger. A gigolo, said more than a few who’d been on cruises before, actually hired by the line to keep older women clients happy. Some of the ladies resented this, particularly those who had spent a few entertaining hours with the fascinating man. The man’s female companion at the time of the arrest was not to be seen.

He had been dealing cocaine; no, heroine; no, surely it was a smuggling operation. At the captain’s table, one guest broached the subject but Captain Roderick Stuart politely shunted it aside, commenting instead that the salad that evening was quite tasty, which it was. The saucier’s kitchen staff had obviously outdone themselves.

People spoke of the professor at the bar, during the floorshow, between number calls at bingo, after the feature film. Clare Drake did not mention that she had seen the entire incident, and that it had frightened her. As the man had been led away, she had seen the defeated look, the vanquished eyes, the handcuffs. The passenger seated next to her at the diner table told of an earlier cruise where a similar incident had occurred and the entire ship had been searched while at sea. “They combed through each and every cabin. I remember it well, I was terrified. It was my first cruise and naturally I’d bought more than my allotted share of liquor aboard after a stop in the Caymans. Cigarettes and Cuban cigars as well. I was certain, absolutely positive, that I would be arrested and whipped or keelhauled or somesuch.” He laughed, forked some salad into his mouth. “I wasn’t, of course. They were hardly interested in my bit of amateurish smuggling. But they did find some drugs in the cabin of some twin sisters, 70 years if they were a day, can you imagine? And both acting as innocent as newborn babes! Well, it goes to show, doesn’t it, that appearances can be deceiving.”

Clare Drake returned to her cabin knowing there would be hell to pay for what she was about to do, but determined to do it anyway. Two days earlier, she’d seen a man lose a thousand dollars on one roll of the roulette wheel and it had struck her at the time that $10,000 wasn’t really going to change her life. But getting arrested for possession would.

She found the parcel Herbie had given them and cut a corner open with a pair of cuticle scissors, then squeezed a small stream of the white powder into her palm. She scooped a small amount out with a fingernail, snorted it, sneezed, snorted again, made a face, shook her head. She pinched her nose with an index and thumb but sneezed anyway, tears coming to her eyes. It took her a moment for the full impact to hit. She threw back her head and laughed suddenly feeling good, no, great. Then she took the parcel, placed it in a beachbag, covered it with a towel and, still laughing, put it back in the closet.

She found the unsigned message taped to her door as she left the cabin.

Footnotes

Footnote: An event of lesser importance than some larger event to which it is related.

Or perhaps: An annoying detail that must be referred to for honesty's sake.

Or even: A matter of debatable interest that should not detract from the primary focus of the text.

I started thinking of footnotes a while back. I was researching the life of the French painter Maurice Utrillo, whose days seem to have been an endless series of footnotes, and shortly after that a friend asked me to read her master's thesis which was, as it should be, festooned with the things. It struck me then that the majority of our existence is spent being footnotes in other people's lives.

We are brief romances vaguely remembered--one or two pleasant rainy afternoons in a month of doldrums--, the bringer of a gift that still adorns a coffee table, a meal with a particularly good bottle of wine, a conversation that left something behind. And we expand a lot of energy being footnotes, because really, each and every footnote would like the opportunity to become be a full book, a meaningful discussion, a thing that really matters. But, by their very definition and every letter in their spelling, they are lesser creations, afterthoughts there to amplify a greater truth. And a footnote, even if it has every right to ask, "Why am I here?", will not necessarily get an answer. It simply is there.

A footnote cannot exist without a more important text, but the reverse is not true and sometimes preferable. Footnotes may be annoying ankle-biters, but were they alive and breathing, they would tell you entire texts hinge on their very existence. Footnotes, no matter how brief, are very important in their own minds, and they echo the old saw: I may not be much, but I'm all I think about. They add a hit of excitement, a tint of the forbidden, something secret with which we've have gotten away. They can be clandestine, joyfully mysterious to others, even if there's an uneasy relationship between the footnotes and the writing they complement. And of course, they can be sad: there is something tragically complete and finite about them. Footnotes do not have footnotes of their own. They stand alone, often overlooked by anyone but the most erudite readers, and, lest we forget, in much smaller print and thus much harder to see.

But here's the radiant side: while they are happening, footnotes can appear to be life-changing epiphanies. They have an intensity that dims only after the page is turned, when reality becomes, well, reality. And let's face it, life without footnotes would be salt-less and boring.

Next week I'll write about semi-colons. No. I won't.

Here's installment 95 of Wasted Miracles.

Comfort was ready. He took a last, brief look around the efficiency apartment, went into the kitchenette, removed the icetrays from the refrigerator and dumped the ice into the sink, unplugged the appliances. It seemed like the right thing to do. He had cleaned the place meticulously and doubted anyone could find a trace of his tenancy. He was going home after a long time away and did not want to leave behind so much as a speck of himself. He wasn’t quite sure why this was important to him, but it was.

He sucked his stomach in, patted his shirtfront. The wads of bills taped to his stomach and back didn’t show and he would quickly get used to the minor discomfort. He removed his watch, satisfied that this was the last item he wore that might set off a metal detector. The zipper of his pants was plastic–he’d bought the slacks with that specifically in mind-and even the eyelets of his shoes were non-metallic. Change still jingled in his pocket, but he’d get rid of that in the Friends of The National Zoo box at the airport.

He drove to Dulles airport in a 1991 Dodge Colt bought for the occasion from a Nigerian acquaintance who never signed the title over and would declare the car stolen in a week.

Everything was wonderfully, magnificently in place and he could forgive himself a small smile that grew and turned into a grin, into a quiet, delighted laugh.

***

The one thing Mollie Catfish had gotten from trying to work the steps of AA was an unshakable belief that if one tried to make luck happen, it would.

She never gave a second thought on how she’d contact the two women whose names she’d written on the piece of paper she was now cupping in one sweaty palm. During the cab ride to the dock, she’d gazed at the passing scenery with feigned interest but was actually concentrating hard on making her luck work, and it did. When she got to the pier, the covered passageway from ship to shore was guarded by a Royal Scottish Line sailor who told her that, no, she could under no circumstance go aboard. She looked at the man, he looked at her and grinned, his right hand went out. He rubbed his thumb against his index and forefinger in the age-old sign. She understood immediately, did not bother to act aggrieved, dug in her bag and brought out a twenty dollar bill.

She found a pen in her purse, asked him for a piece of paper, wrote, “For Passengers Clare Drake and Jennifer Jamieson. I’m a friend of Herbie’s. I’ll wait for you tomorrow morning at 10 in the lobby of the Holiday Inn. It’s very important.” She’d seen the hotel on her way from the airport to the ship.

The sailor nodded, put the piece of paper in his pocket. She shook her head, found another twenty. “Now.”

[[[

Loss

Three years ago, a mourning dove couple took up residence in the blue spruce that dominates my front yard. The two built a nest, raised youngs whose chirps I could hear in the small hours of the mornings, and when it was time for rest and relaxation, they perched side by side on a power line near the tree and conversed about whatever subjects are of interest to mourning doves.

I didn't pay much attention. I'm not a birdwatcher. I am more concerned with the damage of deer chewing on my azaleas than by a duo of avian partners.

Mourning doves are interesting, though: they're monogamous, generally have a couple of nestlings each years. They range throughout North America, can fly at speeds up to 50 miles per hour, and, unfortunately, are one of the most widely hunted species for sport and for food.

The following year, only one dove showed up. It spent almost the entire season on the telephone wire, occasionally flying off but soon returning. I had the impression that he/she was waiting for its mate with infinite patience. I took to putting barley seeds on the front lawn and the dove alit there and fed itself. Come fall, the bird vanished.

It was back, alone again, earlier this spring. It didn't build a nest, ignored the proffered seeds, balanced for hours on end on the power line.

I started to wonder what sort of feelings mourning doves have. Their name comes from the doleful cooing sounds they make

(http://encarta.msn.com/media_461543135_761569160-11/Mourning_Dove.html)and it would be easy to assume sound and mood are linked, but I'm pretty sure they're not.

Still, when anything--bird, human, rhinoceros--loses its mate, there's a period of deep sadness, and some species never quite recuperate. They keep hanging around waiting for a change, a restoration of the status quo. Did my bird's companion get hit by a car? Fall prey to a cat or a kid with a BB gun? Will the survivor find another? Do birds have affairs of the heart? Walking through the neighborhood recently, I saw there were several dove twosomes and thought perhaps my bird might try to horn in on another couple's bliss. Could he/she be successful? Do doves separate? Divorce? Have long discussions on the merits of staying together for the kids? Are there arguments on who gets to keep the nest?

More than likely, my bird will succumb to the vagaries of nature---the life span of an unmolested dove is fairly brief--and another couple will establish residency in the blue spruce. The cycle will begin again, as it must and should because that is the way things are. All relationships, we know, end in tragedy.

Being a Buddhist by choice and philosophy, I also wonder if the single dove perhaps committed some great sin in an earlier reincarnation and was paying for it now. After all, Buddha left some 84,000 teachings. Maybe a few of them were for the birds.

Here's installment 94 of Wasted Miracles.

He wrote the options down on paper, feeling foolish, finding no other way to focus his thoughts.

He could just let everything go; Orin would suggest that. Whatever drugs were involved were an infinitesimal amount compared to the tons smuggled in daily, broken into kilos, ounces, grams, stepped on, stepped on again. Another two, three, ten pounds... meaningless.

He could call the police, tell them everything. “And be a martyr,” he said out loud.

He could go to New York and find the two women.

And then what? And then somehow destroy the drugs. That would end it, that would make Josie’s ordeal at least serve a purpose. It might even make Joe’s ghost go away.

***

There was a subtle satisfaction to knowing that the late Herbie had somehow managed to swindle the Zulu. Mamadou, who did not particularly believe in an afterlife, nevertheless hoped that somewhere the Zulu’s soul was raging at the theft. Not that it really mattered. They were all dead now, Amelie’s assassins. The Zulu had been the last of them. There only remained one final act to put the universe back into a semblance of order, and that was to wrest the drugs back. By doing that, the shame and horror surrounding Amelie’s last days might at last be put to rest.

***

Things Not Understood

I believe it is important to acknowledge one's lacunae.  I do not, for example, understand string theory, or the real differences between the Japanese shakuhachi and taiko musical notation systems. I don't know who first came up with Brussels sprouts or why they still exist. I admit to a total lack of knowledge and interest in most individuals or couples written about in Us magazine.

But these are of little importance in the great scheme of things. Sprouts, taiko, Us, none of these will have any bearing on my future. Other things that I don't understand, however, will.  Here are a few of them.

Cheney.  I don't understand why he is still around spreading his bile. I feel as if perhaps, were he waterboarded, he might (i) give up some of the state secrets he is still be holding on to, and (ii) shut up. Nor can I come up with a possible justification as to why anyone pays any attention to him. 

Closer to home, there's Newt Gingrich.  I mean that literally. Gingrich lives in northern Virginia a few blocks from my house and I've run into him at the McLean Family Restaurant a bunch of times. The former Republican House speaker, you might remember, ran for Congress in 1978 on the slogan, "Let Our Family Represent Your Family." (He was reportedly cheating on his first wife at the time). In 1995, an alleged mistress from that period, Anne Manning, told Vanity Fair's Gail Sheehy: "We had oral sex. He prefers that modus operandi because then he can say, 'I never slept with her.'" Gingrich obtained his first divorce in 1981, after forcing his wife, who had helped put him through graduate school, to haggle over the terms while she was in the hospital recovering from uterine cancer surgery. In 1999, he was disgraced again, having been caught in an affair with a 33-year-old congressional aide while spearheading the impeachment proceedings against President Clinton. More recently, he called Supreme Court nominee Sonia Sotomayor a racist, then took it back.  Why is he even still around?

Guns and the NRA's stance against gun registration still manage to astound me after all these years. Assassinations, murder, mayhem. Four American presidents have been gunned down; we now routinely accept such events as the Colombine and Virginia Tech massacres; the US has more gun-related deaths per 100,000 people than any other country in the world. The House of Representatives recently approved a measure allowing people to bring concealed and loaded guns into the country's national parks. Meanwhile, American children are more at risk from firearms than the children of any other industrialized nation. In one year, firearms killed no children in Japan, 19 in Great Britain, 57 in Germany, 109 in France, 153 in Canada, and 5,285 in the United States, according to the Centers for Disease Control. How can anyone in their right mind not accept the fact that guns, indeed, do kill people.

And last but not least, physicians, psychotherapists and psychopharmacologists who, at a time when the nation is trying to curb spiraling health costs, charge patients for five-minute office visits to renew prescriptions.  This is a scam, pure and simple. At $100 a pop, these medical miscreants cost insurance companies and insurees hundred of millions of dollars annually to provide a completely non-essential service. Off with their heads.

In the immortal words of Monsieur Malapropos, these are my opinions, and I share them.

Here's installment 93 of Wasted Miracles.

“How are you, sweety?”

     They hugged and Catherine could feel her daughter shaking, then begin to sob. She stroked Josie’s hair, touched her forehead, leaned back to look into her eyes.

     “It’s nothing, Mom, just a slight fever. The doctor said it’s normal, part of the detoxing.” She laughed, a dry sound. “My body’s telling me it’s unhappy, as if I didn’t know.”

     “It’ll get better, darling. I promise.”

     Josie nodded, pulled back. “I know. Everybody tells me that. I’ll get through it. It’s not like it’s the first time. And I’m pretty tough, you know?”

     Catherine smiled. “Yes, I expect you are.”

     They were in the hospital cafeteria where the ARC patients took their meals. Josie’s plate, pushed to the side, held scattered remnants of salad and chopped meat. She toyed with a melting scoop of ice cream, her spoon turning small circles in the bowl.

     “He’s nice, your friend Colin. We had a talk. Did he tell you?”

     Catherine shook her head, no. “Whatever the two of you had to say to each other is private. I promised him I wouldn’t ask.”

     Josie shrugged. “Nothing very special; he asked me what I remembered, I told him. He wanted to know about Comfort, the thin one who brought me food. What he said tome. At first I couldn’t remember, then it started coming back...” She let the sentence trail.

     “That’s all?”

     “It’s not like we had a long relationship, Mom. I don’t remember Colin getting me out. What else were we supposed to talk about?”

     Catherine didn’t answer for a moment, then said, “I thought maybe you knew him, maybe you’d seen him at a meeting or something.”

     Josie nibbled at the ice cream, pushed it away, took another bite. “He’s your lover, isn’t he?”

     Catherine stared at her daughter, closed her eyes, opened them again. Josie put the spoon down. “Don’t look like that. I’ve known about it for a long time.”

     “About Colin?”

     Josie picked up the bowl, deposited it carefully in the center of her dinner plate. “No, I mean, not specifically. I’ve just known that there had to be somebody. And it wasn’t Dad.”

     Catherine looked down at the table, gathered her thoughts, blurted, “We’re getting divorced.”

     Josie smiled. “Yeah? Cool.”

***

 

Rejection

For the past several months, my highly esteemed agent, Philip Spitzer, has been sending my recently finished novel, Montparnasse, to publishers. So far, unfortunately, not luck. He forwards me the rejection emails, and while some are encouraging, and others are shallow and mean-spirited, none have matched the standards of that wonderful urban legend, the Chinese Rejection Letter. It reads: “Dear Writer: We have read your manuscript with boundless delight. If we were to publish your paper, it would be impossible for us to publish any work of lower standard. And as it is unthinkable that in the next thousand years we shall see its equal, we are, to our regret, compelled to return your divine composition, and to beg you a thousand times to overlook our short sight and timidity.”

This is timeless, dates from the 1950s or perhaps even earlier, and is known to every writer who has received an unsigned, pre-printed note from an editor who has not read past page five of the author's work. 

I get stuff like this: "I’ve read MONTPARNASSE and was very impressed with all the historical detail. It’s hard to imagine a more colorful setting than Paris just after World War I. Thierry Sagnier’s characters and interweaving plot lines were also very intriguing. Even the horrible serial killer Landru was not without his charms. Despite that, I think making this stand out on our list would be quite a challenge, and I would hate to see your talented author’s work overlooked."  I have no idea what this means other than thanks, but no thanks.

But that's OK. Rejection slips are a part of any writer's life, or, for that fact, anyone who chooses to work in what is laughingly called the creative fields. I have rejection slips dating back 30 years from Playboy, Penthouse, Stars and Stripes, Good Housekeeping, Iron Horse, Smithsonian and a few dozen other magazines. These are my stripes, my medals, my scars. They show that I've tried, failed very often and succeeded just enough times to keep it interesting. And, after all, I only need one acceptance letter.

But here's the rub: most publishing houses no longer have real editors; they have disinterested readers who often seem to think a submitted manuscript is a finished product. It rarely is.

When Philip sold my first novel, the editor assigned to it sent me a 19-page single-space letter asking for clarifications and additional details. She had ideas to make the book more interesting and readable, and I followed almost all of them. She was the pro, I wasn't. I spent the better part of a month rewriting the thing according to her suggestions, and in the end I had a much better piece of work.

I don't think people like that exist anymore. Maybe it's simply that the folks sending the rejection slips today don't have the skills and training the old-time editors had. Or maybe the late, great Adlai Stevenson was right. Editors are men who separate the wheat from the chaff, and then print the chaff.

Here's installment 92 of Wasted Miracles.

Chapter 22

They were taking a nap when the commotion broke out. It was a somewhat cloudy day and the winds were gusting. Though the ship was berthed, it’s roll had become more pronounced. The sea was frothed with white. Outside their cabin a man’s outraged voice said, “This is intolerable! I’ll not permit it! This is a gross  infringement of my rights!”

            A calmer voice answered, “Captain’s orders, sir. If you’ll stand aside, this will only take minutes. We’d appreciate your cooperation.”

            Jennifer rose, opened the door, peeked outside, turned to whisper to Clare. “It’s whatsisname, our neighbor, the professor. And there’s a bunch of the crew there, too.”

            More voices, this time more restrained. “But I don’t understand this. Perhaps if I could speak with the captain, I’m sure we could straighten this out. There’s no reason for this intrusion. I’m a passenger--”

            “You’re an employee of the line. Consider this a direct order issued by Roderick Stuart, captain of this ship. Stand aside.”

            Clare rolled off her bed,. “Let’s see what’s going on.”

            In the corridor, the man who’d introduced himself on the first day of the cruise as Earl Thorogood Robinson, formerly Professor of Renaissance Literature at Georgia Southwestern College, was standing in the doorway of his cabin, arms outstretched, looking slightly ridiculous is a pair of jockey shorts and a Rock Til You Puke tee-shirt. Four crewmembers in dress whites faced him. A shapely woman in her 50s was being escorted from the cabin by a fifth crewmember. Her hair was disheveled and the back of her unbuttoned sun dress revealed a tanned spine and two inches of white skin below the waist. She tried unsuccessfully to keep the dress in place as she was hurried away.

            “This is intolerable!” said the professor.

            The crewman in charge of the detail shrugged. “Captain’s orders, Mr. Robinson.”

            “Professor Robinson!”

            “Fine. Professor Robinson. Now stand aside, Professor, so we can do our jobs  and then we’ll be on our way, Professor.”

            The professor stood aside, turned to the two women. “Outrageous behavior! Why, in all my years spent traveling, I’ve never--” Something happening in the cabin caught his eye. “You sonofabitch! Get your hands out of that!” The crew had turned over the mattress,  were rummaging through a worn plaid suitcase. “I said leave that alone!” The professor rushed the crewmen. There was a brief flurry of arms and legs, a chorus of yells. One of the crew kicked the cabin door shut. Down the corridor, more heads appeared. A short, heavy woman shot a furious glance at the retreating female passenger. “What in the world? Ethel? Ethel Rosenberg, is that you? You said you didn’t like him, that he wasn’t good enough for me! Ethel, you bitch!” And burst into tears.

            The professor’s door opened. He stood framed in it, face as pale as the corridor walls, his hands held behind him by two crewmen. He was led out without a word. The last man out carefully closed the cabin door and made a show of locking it. Then he turned, winked at Jennifer and Clare, held a finger against one nostril and snorted loudly.

            The heavy woman gasped. “Drugs! I saw them do that in Pulp Fiction. It means he was doing drugs.” Then, at the top of her voice,  “God damn you, Ethel Rosenberg! I hope you get what you deserve! I hope you get the clap!”