Chapter Five: Day 2: 7:25AM

According to King David Kalakaua’s book on Hawaiian mythology there was an ancient race of small people called the Menehune who inhabited the Hawaiian Islands long before the Polynesians arrived. According to the book these two-foot-tall creatures roamed the forest at night and enjoyed dancing, singing, and archery and their favorite foods were bananas and fish. They were smart, extremely strong, and excellent craftsmen building roads, temples, fishponds, canoes and houses. A native born massage therapist on my last trip to the islands told me that many believe the Menehune built Kikialoa , an irrigation that funnels water from the Waimea River on Kauai and the Alekoko Fishpond and as both of those huge predate the Polynesians they wonder what happened to this race and some, believe they still dwell in the forest and are the source of much mischief.

I am thinking about these little people as the path I am on turns to dirt from paved and I enter a forest that reminds me of the “jungle” that surrounds our home in Brazil. It is dense, untamed, full of vines that drape from trees like curtains on a rod, with impenetrable undergrowth and permanent shade.  If the Menehune are still around there are plenty of places for them to hide here. Not that I fully believe in them but as the myths of little people abound in almost every culture I am open to their existence.  And my  belief in what lies beyond our own personal experience has grown more acute in the eighteen months I have spent in isolation. When you have less to distract you, less interaction with people, and the more holes in your heart for those who have left ,you compensate by having a fuller, a more vivid imagination. It allows you to see the possibility of things that are not firmly rooted in reality. See the things you wish were there as opposed to those you wish were.

As I move further into the depth of the jungle I remember one of the myths about the Menehune is they possess a magic arrow which will pierce the heart of angry people and ignite feelings of love and understanding. When I read this I remember thinking how  much more useful this was than Cupid’s brand of archery. In my experience helping people find forgiveness in their heart is far more difficult than getting them to fall in love. In fact, considering all that I have been through I would welcome one of the Menehune’s arrow. It would certainly make the next couple of days easier. 

When I arrive home from my mother’s house, walked Mac and settled in with a couple of pudgy fingers of Makers Mark I call Conor.  Before I can get a sentence issue a greeting he says “Were done!“

I am stunned. Despite the real problems Del and Con are facing I thought that it was just one of those periods of adjustments that relationships go through. Where each party finds a work around, accommodation, or a better understanding of the other so they can carry on. Sometimes they can do this on their own. Sometimes they seek therapy to help them. But blowing up a marriage after nearly thirty years makes no sense to me at all.  For Christ’s sake they were about to start a new, wonderful phase of their lives and it was a time to grow closer not blow apart what they had created.

“What happened Con?”

“I was in the recovery room after my procedure…”

“The hair plug thing.”

“Yeah. And she calls me on the phone demanding to know where I am.  And when I tell her where I am, and she gets all upset and says “I am done. Don’t come home tonight. Find yourself a hotel room.  I am going to my mother’s tomorrow, and you can come back after I leave. I don’t want to see your face.”

“Didn’t she know you were getting the procedure?”

“Yeah, we had discussed it. “

I knew Con. He was being purposely evasive. I leaned into his response and said, “You had made her comfortable with you getting the procedure and she had said it was okay by her?”

“We had discussed it. I told her my reasons for wanting hair plugs. How appearance was important for my job. Especially in California and since the funds were coming out of our HSA it really didn’t effect our finances.”

“And you both agreed it was okay to move forward with the plugs?”

“Maybe not agree. But we had settled it. Honestly, I thought she had accepted it. I even told her last night that I would be out of pocket all morning because I would be having the procedure.”

“And she didn’t say anything?”

“Nothing”

“Go on.”

“I am laying in the recovery room, head wrapped up like I have just had brain surgery and my phone rings. It’s Del. I pick up and she says, “Where are you?” and I tell her I am where I told her I would be getting my hair plugs put in. And she starts screaming at me. I told you not to get that done. I told you it was a waste of money. You lied to me. Shit like that. “

“And then.”

“Then she said, she has had enough. I have been lying to her. Cheating on her. And she wants out. That she was going to fly to NJ tomorrow to stay with her mother, but she wanted me to stay at a hotel tonight. “ The anger rising in his voice he added. “She wanted me to go to a hotel. After I had surgery. She wanted me to go to a hotel…who the fuck does she think pays the rent. If she wants to leave. Leave. She can go to a god damn hotel.”

I asked, “Where are you now?”

“I am in  the back of an Uber heading to the apartment.”

“Not a clever idea bud. You are way too angry. Too hurt. Nothing good will come from going home. Go to a hotel…no…go to a dispensary, buy some good weed…then go to a hotel. Bong yourself into tomorrow and deal with the situation then when things are not so fresh, and you have had time to think.”

“But I need shit. I don’t have any clothes. I don’t even have a fucking toothbrush.”

Trying to infuse a little reason I said, “You don’t need clothes for one night and you can buy a toothbrush.”

If only the Uber ride had lasted a little longer. I may have been able to persuade him not to go back to the apartment he shared with Del. Unfortunately, it was at that moment he arrived home, and he said “I am here. I will call you later.”

When Con called me back the next morning, he was far more subdued. That usually happens when you spend the night in jail. Con explains that story when he arrived at the apartment, the night before he couldn’t get in. It was deadbolted from the inside. He banged on the door demanding Del let him in that he needed to get some things. When she didn’t answer, even though he could see that she was home, he banged even harder on the door, and he began screaming “Let me in. This is my home. I pay the rent.” When those pleas went unanswered, he decided that he was going to get through the door one way or another and began excavating a paving stone from the patio to use to smash the window on the door. He says, “I guess the neighbors got a little excited when saw this guy with bandages wrapped around his skull screaming obscenities and trying to dig up paving stones because the police showed up.”

Later we found out that Del had called her friend across the street and asked her what to do. Her friend, who we would later learn was a thrice divorced woman who had provided Del with a bottomless trove of divorce counseling, had called the police. The upshot of their arrival was a brokered peace. Conor would be allowed in the home to collect a few belongings and he would then depart for a hotel and could only return when Del had departed the next day.

After gathering his things, he had left with the full intention of not returning but when he had arrived at the hotel and presented his credit card it had been declined. Del had cancelled all of Conor’s credit cards with the exception of his company’s Amex which he was forbidden to use for personal purchases. As Con put, it, “The smart move would have been used the Amex. I should have used it, but I didn’t really want them to know what was going on and besides I was pissed she had cancelled the cards. Honest Danny, I just wanted her to authorize one of the cards so I could stay at the hotel, but she didn’t answer so I decided to go back to the house.”

“Probably not the smartest move.”

“As it turns out, you’re right. I show up and start banging on the door again. Cops show up a few minutes later. When I tried to explain why I had returned they told me they didn’t care and took me off to jail where they were kind enough to offer me the opportunity to spend the night.”

“Sweet!’

“Exactly, here is the fun part. When they released me this morning, my keys didn’t work. The bitch had the locks changed. I had to call a locksmith and have him come out to let me in and change the locks for the second time in two days. “

“That seems extraordinarily bitchy of Del.”

“You think? Hey, listen, I got to run. The locksmith is here. Smell you later.”

Late that afternoon, Mac and I found myself in Mom’s kitchen. It was not Sunday, but she had a printer crisis. The black ink cartridge in her printer had alerted her computer that it was running low. Of course, this is not a crisis for you or me. We know that printer cartridges when they alert low are akin to the red light in your car saying your fuel level is low. It is simply saying in the near future you should pay attention to this. However, that is not what it meant to Mom. For her, it was full-fledged emergency. The cartridge needed to be changed right now. This is beyond eccentricities brought on by being an octogenarian. This was a manageable case of obsessive-compulsive disorder. One, I might add, that had served her well throughout her life. Being a full-blown fifties housewife who had a home and husband to manage, along with a career woman who had professional obligations required a high level of organization that OCD provided her. And, while it had served her well, it could be a gigantic pain in the ass for those of us who had to live with it. Whether it was keeping our rooms neat as kids or now when I had to drop everything, I was doing to replace her printer cartridge. 

Over time, I developed a coping mechanism to deal with OCD. Well maybe coping mechanism is not the right phrase. Revenge would be a better term. Occasionally, when I felt particularly aggrieved for having to cope with her OCD or I was just feeling playful I would move a couple of objects that she had placed with care to some other nearby spot as I knew she would sense something amiss, and she would search for the out of place object until she found it and put it back in the exactly right position.

Kinda means. Sorta  funny. Do not judge. It was a game we played and while er never discussed it I do not think she minded. I was thinking about what object I could move in the kitchen…should I move the coffee maker six inches to the left or put the TV remote on the other side of the television in when she walked into the kitchen. After giving me one of those looks Moms occasionally give their children that wordlessly says “I know what you were contemplating and don’t even think about doing it” she suggested that I make us both an espresso from her Nespresso machine. By the time I got the coffee to the table she had laid out Walker’s Shortbread perfectly arranged on a plate. While we noshed and sipped, I told her what we came to think of the Del and Conor soap opera.

She said “Del had his credit cards cancelled?

“Yeah.”

“What a bitch! How did she expect him to get a hotel room without a way of paying for it.”

“I don’t know.”

“Then when he came back, she had him arrested?”

“I don’t know if she had him arrested or detained or whatever. It could have been the police just doing what they saw fit.”

“Did he hit her?”

“No!”

“Then she had him arrested.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because he didn’t do anything to get arrested for. He was on his property exercising his right to gain entry to his home. That is not illegal. The only way it could be perceived that way is if Del felt threatened. “

“Okay…”

“It was only she who could ask the cops to take him to jail.”

“Oh. that never even occurred to me. It just seems so unnecessary to do. Especially to someone you have said “I love you” to for three decades. 

Mom nods and then asks. “What about the hair plugs. You said that Con had told Del about it.”

“He says he did. She didn’t like the idea, but you know Con. He did what he wanted to do anyway. Something she should have been used to after all this time. Yet that was her reason for throwing him out of the house.”

“Uh-huh” Mom paused for a second, as if she had something she wanted to say but was considering whether or not it was a wise and then said, “She set him up.”

Surprised I said, “ How do you figure?”

“She knew about the hair surgery and then seemed surprised by it. She knew Con well enough to know that if she told him to get to a hotel without any of his things that he would have to come home. Then she cancelled his credit cards so he couldn’t go to a hotel further provoking him. She knew he would come back. And when he came back, she could have just had him escorted off the property again, but she had him arrested. Then to add insult to injury she totally superfluously had the locks changed. No reason to do that except to stick your fingers in his eyes. “

“Okay. But do really think it was that well thought out. Does not sound like Del at all.”

“Maybe not. Actually probably not. It sounds like a lawyer is giving her advice on how to exit the marriage.”

I was stunned. I had not even thought about Del wanting to end the marriage.  After all it had only been a few days since she had asked me to help her save the marriage. Had she been setting me up too? “Yes, your honor I did my best to save the marriage. I even enlisted his best friends help but even that did not help change my husband’s way?” My guts turned fluid. I had been set up.

Mom, seeing her argument had not really landed then threw me closer. “Think about it Daniel. If it was spontaneous and she was really that angry and her trip to visit her mother was only coincidentally scheduled for the very next day, why didn’t she go to a hotel instead forcing her post-surgical husband to go to a hotel?”

Everything clicked into place. It left no doubt in my mind that Conor had been set up and before and I utter “What a fucking…” and self-edit before I use the word that immediately came to mind.

Much to my surprise Mom, a grandmother of four and the quintessential little old lady, known to wear blue Keds and Ferragamos, and  not for a potty mouth,  responded “Total cunt.”

I am stunned into silence. Not by the swearing but by the revelation that Del had set Conor up. I grab another Walker’s short bread. More to fill my mouth with something other than words.  I don’t have anything clever to say because the clever has been surprised out of me.

Mom continues “I am sure she did not come up with this strategy on her own.”

I ask “How do you figure.”

“Do you really think Del is smart enough, slick enough to set up Conor so thoroughly?”

“I guess not. It doesn’t sound like the Del I know.”

“It is a certitude that she has a lawyer. And together they came up from this plan.”

Sadly, my mother’s theory of the crime fits the facts. But I am still confused “Then why did she come to me weeks ago and ask me to help her with Del” Even as I ask my question, I realize the answer “All part of setting up her reason for leaving. Even our best friend couldn’t get him to stop being abusive and drinking too much.”

Mom nodded.

“But I still don’t understand something. Why didn’t she just leave? Why go through this elaborate set up?”

Mom replies “I don’t know California divorce laws at all but some states like NJ have rules about abandonment.”

“I don’t understand.”

“The law tends to favor those who are abandoned. In other words, if she just left the law would have considered her leaving the marriage and Con the victim. This way, she is the victim. She had to flee. Go to her mother’s because she has an abusive husband.”

“And it is all on record.”

“Right.”

We sit in silence for a few moments. The ancient oaks in our backyard flecked with the deep orange glow of the afternoon sun. Mac, who has been patiently lying next to my chair, suddenly alerts when a squirrel hops onto the deck and begins to bark at his mortal enemies. Mom, who shares Mac’s aversion to these nut collectors, calling them tree rats, no doubt a hold over from her NYC childhood says, “That’s my good boy.”

And then adds “And Daniel you be a good boy too.”

Being a certified smart ass, I reply, “Aren’t I always?”

She raises a single eyebrow that communicates “Who are you fooling” and says “Stay out of this. If you think this is ugly now. You have not seen anything yet. This was just the opening salvo of a long, take no prisoners, scorched earth war. You don’t want to end up being collateral damage.”

I didn’t answer her. It wasn’t that I didn’t hear what she had said and understood the wisdom of what she had said but I didn’t see a way out of getting involved. Con was my best friend. Friends show up. They offer help without need for explanation or request. 

That being said, my mother’s advice to stay clear of the war zone made perfect sense. The same advice had been given by mothers to son since man had invented conflict. No mother wants their child hurt. It is an immutable law of nature. But so is defending those things you care about it. Whatever the cost or better said without imagining the cost of that devotion.

The fact that I would help Con navigate these waters was without question. The real quandary was how?   What was the kind thing to do as opposed to the nice thing to do? be

A while back I had come across a story about a single working mom struggling to get her two sons s ready for school and out the door so she could get to work on time.  She had managed against the odds to get them through their morning ablutions, dressed, fed and out the door on time when the younger of the two sons tripped and fell on the way to their car. The older brother, snickering at his younger sibling’  predicament yells back “Are you okay?” and continued on his way to the car. The Mom who was running late and knowing that any slow down on the parade would cause her to be late chose to stop. She yelled at her older son to come back to where her youngest was still on the ground. When he arrived, she said to them both “Do you know what the difference is between being nice and being kind?” When both of them shook their heads, she said pointing to her older son “What you did when you asked your brother was okay was nice. You wanted to, I think, honestly know whether he was okay. It is the easy thing to do. The least thing you can do. But it really doesn’t mean much because you could have done more. You could have been kind. You could have gone back and not only seen whether your brother was okay but offered him a hand up. In our family, and what I expect of you, is not only to be nice but whenever you can to be kind. Do you understand?” When both boys nodded, she said “Okay, help your brother up and let’s go.”

The story resonated with me. When I read the story Dad had been sick for a couple of years and I had, along with my sister, had been doing most of the heavy lifting in helping Mom take care of Dad. It had taken a toll on both of us, and we had decided to ask Levi for help. Our conversation with him had not gone well. He had told us that he was doing everything that he could. Didn’t he call them every day? When I suggested we need more than moral support but to actually take over some of the tasks we were handling such as visiting and keeping them company, he told us that his schedule did not permit it. And, as a bonus, suggested maybe we were doing too much.

His gaslighting and shirking of what I considered a shared responsibility had infuriated me. Reading that story had oddly placated me. It made me understand that Levi was being nice but not kind. That was the difference between us. He was perfectly comfortable in being nice. For me, throughout my life, it was never enough to be nice. I had always needed to take that next step of actually doing something. While it did not completely resolve the anger and resentment I held towards my elder brother, it did allow me to put it into context.

I am not always the man I want to be. While I can occasionally reach conclusions faster than other or from time to time see a pattern forming quicker than many, I have huge blind spots and built-in prejudices that despite hours of therapy and an active decision to move beyond them I cannot shake. One of them is the antipathy I hold for my brother. Don’t get me wrong there. I love my brother and if he asked anything of me, I would be inclined to say yes. But I don’t like him very much.

My mother says, “Are you listening to me Daniel?”

I smile back at her. I know she has given me great advice. I also know I cannot tell her the truth. I say “I hear you, Mom. I will do my best to stay out of it.”