Blame it on Rio

Chapter 7: Day 2: 9:05 AM continued

I never take my cell phone to bed. Our electronic companions are the worst type of rabbit hole to fall into before going to sleep. A Facebook post that is so stupid, inane, or hateful you feel the need to respond. An email from a colleague that shits in your cornflakes. None of them help you fall asleep, and sleeping is not something at which I excel. I am the guy who gets up at two in the morning and instead of rolling over and falling back to sleep I try to solve the world’s and my own problems. I did not need any additional ways to keep me from getting my beauty rest. Which is why I am so annoyed on this early morning in late November of 2018. I have been awakened by a cell phone ringing incessantly in my study. When the phone switches the call to voicemail, whomever is calling hangs up and calls again. I debate whether to get out of bed to answer the phone to share with the caller profanities that would make a rapper blush or just put on my noise reduction ear buds and go back to sleep.

It could be some random person drunk dialing over and over again hoping to reach a person who is not here. It could be my mother. She has never called me this late. Even when my father had fallen in the middle of the night and rushed to the hospital she waited until morning to call. But she is alone now. Maybe she needs me. Reluctantly, I get out of bed and walk to my study where my phone is charging. I look at the screen. It is not my mother. The calls are coming from a number in the 424-area code I do not recognize. Whoever it is has left me five voice mails in the last hour. Out of curiosity and against my better judgement I listened to the first one.

It is Con. In a manic voice he said “Budrow! It is me, your buddy Con. I know I have been out of touch for a while, and I am really really sorry about that. But it was not my fault. I wanted to call you, but I could not. It is too complicated to explain. But I will tell you all about it when you call me back. It has been fucking wild. What time is it there? Shit. I do not have a watch, I don’t know. I cannot do that kind of math in my head so if it is really late, I am sorry. But call me back. We have lots to discuss. Love you bro.”

I am stunned. I have not talked to Con in over six weeks. For the last two years, since the beginning of Con’s and Del’s steel-octagon death match California style divorce I had called him every day. I had done so because that is what friends do. Besides, He had no family left except a brother who was not a big part of his life and a sister with whom he did not speak. His sons, through Con’s own willfulness, questionable decision making, and Del’s poisoning had little, if any, relationship with him any longer. His girlfriend Lilith more often than not contributed to his everyday sense of anxiety. Who else was the boy going to talk to?

Then one day I called, and he had not called me back. That was not completely abnormal. It happened from time to time, and I did not think twice about it. When I did not hear from him the next day I called again. The call went straight to voice mail. When he did not return my call the next day, I sent him an email and did not get a response to that either. I was hurt and furious. I was convinced at the time that the reason for his “radio silence” was his girlfriend Lilith.

Lil, as Con called her, and I did not get along. It was not open warfare. More like an uneasy détente. We tolerated each other’s presence in Con’s life and when during the few times we had met, we played nice with each other saying all the right things but with none of the correct feelings. Our animosity had its origins with Liam’s wedding. Con had requested he take Lil as his plus one. Liam, under Delilah’s influence, had said no as it would cause unwanted drama at the wedding. Lil took this very personally. She told Con that he should be a “man” and put his foot down. She attends or he does not.

Con and I of course discussed this at length during one of our calls. He asked what I thought and like an idiot I told him. This was his youngest’s son’s wedding to a woman Liam had been dating since they were both sixteen. He knew and loved his daughter-in-law to be as if she was his own child. He knew her parents, the Pembertons, and liked them. If he brought Lil, and Del promised drama, then drama would happen. This was a singular family moment. Missing it for any reason would be something he would regret for the rest of his life. It would create a rift not only between him, Liam and Hadley but would screw up his relationship with Duke. I said, “You know what the worst outcome of you not attending the wedding?”

“What?”

“Del would win. Every terrible thing she said about you would be confirmed. She would walk around all weekend long and say “No. Con did not make it. His new whore girlfriend is more important to him than his son.”

He nodded and said, “That sounds about right.”

I added “Besides Lil should want you to have a good relationship with your sons. She should do everything she can to make sure your relationship with them is strong. That is what love is all about. You want what is best for the other person’s well-being and happiness. And if she doesn’t…”

“What?”

“And if that is not what she wants for you, then what she feels for you is not love. Or at least it is not a healthy type of love.” 

“That is a pretty bold statement. Why do you say that? “

“Buddy, because I have lived it. Remember that woman Susan? The one my mother always refers to as the bitch?”

“Sure.”

“Yeah, her whole M.O. was trying to separate me from my family. Trying to convince me that my family was not working for my best interests, while she always was. She wanted me to focus all of my attention on her not them. She was constantly creating situations where I had to pick her or my family. Either or. No middle ground. When I finally broke free of her it took me and my therapist some serious couch time to unwind all the ropes in which Susan had bound me. One of her insights was that this woman who supposedly loved me was suffering from borderline personality disorder where a person works to make sure she is always the only object of affection in their lives.”

“You are saying Lil has borderline personality disorder?”

I replied, “No. “and then to inject a little lightness in the conversation I added “I am not a psychiatrist, and I do not play one on television. What I am saying, Lil’s pitting you against your son reminds me of Susan’s behavior. Regardless, it is not a kind, loving or nice thing to do.”

Con was convinced. Then he did something stupid. Instead of confronting Lil directly with what we had discussed, how he felt about her ultimatum and what he wanted to do, he threw me under the bus. During their conversation he couched everything in terms of “This is what Danny thinks. Danny thinks I should go to the wedding. Danny thinks you are being unkind. Danny thinks you have a mental disorder.” Lil did not respond well to the conversation. In addition to describing me in less than complimentary terms she dug in her heels regarding the wedding. Con could go to the wedding but if he did, it was the end of them. My friend was caught between a rock and a hard place. He was infatuated with Lil. She is where he saw his future. His boys would have to understand now that they were grown and now his priorities were different. He needed to build a new life and he wanted Lil to be in it. They would have to understand.  

On the day before the wedding, just before Nadine and I were scheduled to leave for Liam and Hadley’s rehearsal dinner, and after endless conversations, countless alternative plans we finally figured out a way to make everyone happy. Con would take the redeye flight from LAX to Atlanta. Once there he would shower and change in our room, and we would all go to the happy couple’s early afternoon wedding together. He would make a brief toast at the reception and then run to the airport and catch a late afternoon flight back to LAX so he could have a late evening dinner with Lil. It would be as if he had never left. No harm, no foul for Lil. He fills his obligations and desire as a father. Everyone wins.

The rehearsal dinner was at Hadley’s parent’s home in Buckhead. The Pemberton’s had transformed their home into a wonderful venue for the party. There were bars and buffets located all over the house giving each demographic the chance to find its own room. As importantly there was a celebratory atmosphere. Everyone envisioned a happy future for this couple that had been together for so long. 

We were greeted at the door by Hadley’s parents. Her mother Grace was especially nice to us. She told me that over the years she had heard so many “Uncle Danny” she was glad to finally put a face with the name. Then, begging Nadine’s forgiveness, she pulled me aside.  When we were alone, she quizzed me about Con. Grace had written him a dozen or so personal emails begging him to come and promising him that despite the bitter divorce he would be treated with love and respect. He had never responded, and she was fearful that he was angry with her and would not attend the wedding. I told her not to worry. Con and I had talked just before we had left the hotel and he was making reservations for his flight to Atlanta. The look of relief on her face was frameable.

I was getting a plate of appetizers at the seafood buffet for Nadine when my phone vibrated indicating I had received a text. I ignored it. The langoustines were calling me. It was only after Nadine, and I had managed to clean our plates that I pulled out my phone and looked at the screen. The text was from Duke. Addressed to Con, Liam, Lilith and me. It read “I cannot believe that you are not here! Your son is getting married tomorrow. You had the opportunity to make peace and you fucked that up. You have chosen to spend time with your Mexican drug dealing whore. She is Sinaloa. Google it.  And, while you are online check out her Tinder profile. She is fucking around on you. But instead of being with your son you are with her A cheap drug dealing bitch. Fuck you. Fuck you. And fuck you again.”

I went looking for Duke. I needed to know what would make him write such a purposely offensive note. How could he possibly think what he said would make the situation better?

I found him on the patio holding court with a few friends of his from High School. They were laughing and enjoying themselves. The way people should be speaking at a rehearsal dinner. As I got closer, I noticed that in Duke’s right hand was a bottle of Corona. When my nephew saw me, he boomed “Uncle Danny!” and gave me a bear hug. Introducing me to his friends he said, “This is the Uncle Danny.” It seemed that they had heard of me and I spent a moment or two shaking hands before whispering to Duke “Hey, can we talk for a moment.”

When we were beyond earshot of the others I said, pointing to the Corona in his hand “What the fuck is this?”

“It is just a beer Uncle Danny.” And then with the arrogance of someone who knows he is doing something wrong added “I am at the point in recovery where it is all right for me to have a beer occasionally. I have it under control. “

I smiled at him and let his words hang in the air for a second or two. I wanted him to know with my silence I was not falling for it. I said, “Bullshit. And want to know why I know it’s bullshit? Because a person who is in control would not have written this” pointing to the text still visible on my phone.  

He protested “He deserved it Uncle Danny. He should be here. It’s his fucking son’s wedding.”

“You are goddamn right he should be here! And I have been working for weeks to get him here. Which you knew because I told you. Didn’t I? But you could not leave it up to me. You had to send him this disgusting and disrespectful text. You could have just sent it to him. At least then you could have discussed it even if that was at full volume. Instead, you decided to include Lilith. Why? l am serious. Why in god’s name did you do that? Did you think calling her a drug dealer and whore would endear her to you?”

“But she is all of those things Uncle Danny. I did a deep dive on Google and hacked into her on Tinder. She is definitely cartel owned. What bake shop owner makes the type of money she does? And she is seeing at least two other men from Tinder.”

I held up my hand. I didn’t need to hear anymore. Not because my anger burned less hot but because I knew that I was sparring with Duke’s demons not him.  I sighed and said “I know who she is. Maybe even better than you. I am not sure about the drug thing. Could be. But not the point. People’s sex life is their own damn business. You certainly should not be telling your father who he should have sex with. But as I have told your dad, what concerns me more, far more, is that she is trying to keep him from having a relationship with his kids and me. Whether that is something benign like insecurity or something more pathological it does not matter because whatever it is it ain’t love and it ain’t kindness. I have done what I could to open his eyes to the problem. But there is a difference between what I did and what you did.”

Duke said, “What is that?”

“I only pushed it only so far that the bridge smolders for a bit. I never burned it down. You did. It leaves him on the other side with no way home. It is a victory for Lil. She can now go to your old man and say “See, what did I tell you. Your children are disrespectful little shits. You are better off without them. And your friend Danny, he is there, and he didn’t stop it. What kind of friend is that!” Now we have a far deeper hole to dig ourselves out of and for extra bonus fun your father won’t be at Liam’s wedding. And you know who is going to enjoy that?”

Duke gave me a blank stare. “Your mother. The woman who has been doing her best to destroy your old man now wins in the eyes of all who are here. She will be able to crow “See I told you he was a shit. Would not even come to his son’s wedding.” Do you think that is going to make their divorce less acrimonious or more?”

My tall, handsome and troubled nephew stared at me. I had never spoken to him this way. It was not the fun Uncle Danny who took him out for steak dinners, bought him his first hot fudge sundae, or shared books with him. My tirade had started in anger. He had burned down a bridge that I had labored mightily to build. In that moment, I realized that in many ways talking to Duke was like talking to his father. Both shared a strong streak of self-righteousness. A firm belief they were always right even when they knew they were wrong. I also knew I was dealing with a non-recovering alcoholic and a bi-polar man whose meds, if he was taking them, were not working. The easy thing to do would have been to just walk away in disgust and anger. But this was my nephew. I had to do right by him. That is the obligation when you love someone. You had to be kind by being honest. Hopefully in a way he appreciated and understood. Even if that was not today, but at some point, in the future when the seeds of what I said today took root.

I said “Here is the point. You were an asshole. But you are also one of my favorite assholes. I love you. You fucked up but your heart was in the right place. There will be consequences. With Lilith there will always be consequences. We are just going to have to figure out a way to get your father back over the bridge you just nuked. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“Now give me a hug and let’s try to enjoy this party.”

We hugged like two bears. As we broke I realized he still had the bottle of Heineken in his hand. I had to say something. Looking him in the eyes I said, “One more parting shot from the uncle who loves you as a son.” Pointing to the beer I say “This dog don’t hunt. I know you. I know you think you can outthink this. You believe you can use your brain to solve every problem. In most cases, you are probably right. You are that smart. But I can tell you with 100% confidence you will not be able to outthink your alcoholism. It is biology not intellect. It is, I am sad to say, your fate.”

I can almost hear his eyes roll as I am saying this to him. He does not want to hear it. But it has to be said. I add, “Ever read a short story by Somerset Maugham “The Appointment in Samara?”

Duke shook his head. “Read it. You will like the writing and the story.  It is a parable about fate. You should take it to heart. Okay? Sermon over. Let’s go see if we can find your Aunt Nadine. She wants to give you a hug.”

There were consequences. Duke’s text not only convinced his father not to come to the wedding but at Lilith’s urging to cut off contact with his sons. Not that either of Con’s sons wanted anything to do with him at that point. Between Del’s narrative of an abusive, alcohol, drug addled out of control man worst husband in the western world and his not attending the wedding the destruction to his relationships with his sons was epic. Only time could repair it and even then, there was a strong possibility the wounds would never fully heal.

I was collateral damage.  Lil labeled me as a “bad influence” because when he and I spoke, I would often urge reconciliation between him and his children. Which my overly communicative friend shared with her.

Which is why when Con stopped returning my phone calls and did not respond to my emails, I thought the harridan had finally convinced him not to speak with me. It hurt like few things had in my life. I had been his friend if not brother for over forty years. We had epic adventures all over the world. When he was in trouble, or needed help I was always there.  I felt betrayed in the same way a person might when their spouse tells them they are going to the convenience store for a pack of cigarettes and never returns.  All erased due to Lilith.

The irony or the weird part of it was it was Lilith that I talked to just before things went quiet. I had been in Rio’s Admirals Club waiting for a flight home when my phone rang. It was Con. He was in his car driving to Lil’s. He was very amped up and sounded “off”. He was calling because he wanted to share with me that Eva Longoria had been filming a commercial outside his apartment in Manhattan Beach. He had stopped to watch the shoot and when Longoria came by to sign autographs one thing had led to another and they ended up having sex in her trailer. That was not the strangest thing about the phone call. While he was telling me this outlandish story, he would interrupt the tale with an “excuse me”, pull the car off to the side of the road and loudly vomit out the window. After this had happened three times I said, “What the hell is going on with you?”

He responded “I don’t know. I think I caught a bug or something. For the last few days, I have had really bad headaches, and I can’t seem to get anything down. Hold on.” As if to punctuate his point he pardoned himself and vomited again.

When he came back to the phone. I said “Buddy, instead of going to Lil’s don’t you think you should go to Emergency Care and see if they can figure out what is going on with you. At the very least they could give you something to stop you from puking. Because what is going on right now ain’t normal.”

He snapped back “I will call the Dr. when I get to Lilith’s.”

“Dude, that isn’t smart. Not only shouldn’t you be driving but if you have the flu or something contagious do you really want to share that with her and her children?” Look do what you want but you need to see the Dr. now and how you can drive when you are throwing up all the time.”

His response was gagging and vomiting again. Eventually, he said, “Let me call you back.”

He didn’t. Fifteen minutes passed. No call from Con. I texted him. No response. I called. He did not pick up. Concerned, and seeing no other option, I texted Lil. Had she heard from Con. She had not. I Facetimed her. I shared with her my conversation with Con with the exception of the Eva Longoria part. She told me that he had not been feeling well for days and “He has been so weird lately. Lots of headaches. He has a hair trigger temper. Anything could set him off. We ordered Thai food the other night and they didn’t include the Drunken Noodles we had ordered, and he was so angry he through a container of rice at the wall.”

I took a beat. I was confused by his behavior but also by her tone. It seemed to me that she was not taking my friend’s very disturbing behavior and symptoms as seriously as she should have. I said “That does not sound like our boy at all. Did you suggest he go to the Dr.” Perhaps I sounded patronizing because her response was both terse and petulant. “No. I am here. I know what is going on. If he needed to go to the Dr. we would have gone.”

“I get it. I do. But him driving along the road  being unable to stop vomiting, isn’t that a little concerning? Don’t you think?”

Lill rocked her head back and forth that I took to mean “Maybe yes, maybe no.” I continued. “I know how stubborn he can be. I know he won’t want to go. But perhaps if we work together, we can convince him he needs to see someone?”

Lil shook her head, clearly fed up with my interference, and replied “Dan, don’t you think you are overreacting. It’s probably just the flu combined with the divorce that has him all out of sorts.”

Responding, perhaps with more frustration in my voice than was wise I said. “Maybe I am overreacting. But if I am no harm, no foul. But if I am not then we start the path to figuring out what is going on with the boy.”

She said “Listen I have to go. But I will see what I can do. Ciao.” She hung up before I could say goodbye.

I called Con. No response. My flight was called, and I had to let it go but I expected to hear something when I landed. But there were no voice mails, emails, or text when I finally reached Newark 16 hours later.  Calls to Con and Lil went unanswered. Texts and emails went without reply. I got frustrated. If Con was sick, why didn’t Lil call me back? If Con was okay, why wasn’t he calling me back? Days turned to weeks. Weeks turned into a month. With each passing day, my hurt and anger increased geometrically. When I shared my anger, frustration and hurt with Nadine and my mother they both had the same advice. Step back. If he is not calling you back, then there is a reason. If that reason is Lil, then he has made a choice. If he were sick and could not call you, don’t you think someone would have called you?

I had barely lifted the phone to my ear, when I hear Con’s voice manically saying “I am so sorry. I really am. I know you have called me, and I would have called you back, but they wouldn’t let me call you. They took my phone away and I just got it back. Otherwise I would have called you. You know that. But I am really really sorry.”

“Wo wo wo dude. What do you mean they would not let you call me? Who took your phone? What is going on?”

“Lil took my phone away. She said she didn’t trust me with it. So she took it. And I finally convinced her to give it back to me. But I am really sorry I didn’t call you. You know that doesn’t mean I don’t love you. You are my brother. It is just that I couldn’t call you.”

Not following the conversation at all. I say “Con! Slow down. You are confusing the fuck out of me. Why couldn’t you call?”

“Oh! I am sorry. They tell me that my brain is rewiring, and I think I say things that I haven’t. But not to worry. It’s getting better.”

Exasperated I say “Dude slowdown. Let’s do this another way. I will ask you a single question and you just answer that? Okay?”

“Okay.”

“Why is it that your brain is rewiring?”

“Oh. I didn’t say?  I am sorry. They took a part of my brain out.”

“What? Why?”

He replies just as naturally as he was giving me a weather report. “Because I had a brain tumor and they had to take it out.”

Chapter 6: Day 2: 8:15

I come to a small glade in the middle of the jungle. It is roughly circular in shape.  In the middle, a large wooden sculpture, bathed in sunlight, is surrounded by well-maintained native grass.  The figure is about eight feet tall, a fearsome Polynesian or Hawaiian god crouching with massive thighs bent, as if he is about to leap. His arms are by his sides, hands open as if spoiling for a fight. His face is dominated by an ear-to-ear toothy grimace suggesting to me that he is eagerly anticipating the battle ahead. He is crowned with a Mahiole, a feathered helmet, that I have learned is a symbol of rank among the Hawaiian aristocracy.

When I get closer, I see there is a small wooden plaque in front of the statue. It reads “This is the great god Ku. God of War and of prosperity. He is among the four primary gods of Hawaiian mythology who is responsible for the wellbeing of all believers and of the Hawaiian Islands. He is the only native god in which human sacrifices were made. The Guardian of King Kamehameha placed statues, similar to this one, around his kingdom as tribute to him. “The sign does not tell me why the statue is here in the middle of the jungle.  Nor who placed him here. I think this is odd, but I do not let that keep me from admiring this remarkable statue.

I am not naïve enough to believe that war is unnecessary. People who say that violence never settled anything have never been punched in the face. The people who go to war often have noble purposes in their heart. They are defending their freedom, religion, or country. Sometimes their reasons are less honorable such as economic or territorial gain, forcing their belief system onto others or even just revenge. Regardless of motive, most wars start without an understanding or appreciation of the consequences that wars bring. Did the countries that entered into WW1 because of the assassination of Archduke Franz Ferdinand appreciate the fact that nine million men would die including one and four Frenchmen of fighting age? That the war they started would not really end until the fall of the Berlin Wall in 1989 with over one hundred million dead? Did the planners of the attack on Pearl Harbor realize that their victory that day would ultimately unleash a power that could destroy the world and result in the death of a nearly two hundred fifty thousand of their fellow citizens when the United States dropped Little Boy and Fat Man on Hiroshima and Nagasaki?

The problem with war is not that it is unnecessary, it is that it creates unpredictable, often horrible consequences. Once the goggles of war are put on the myopia of winning negates your ability to see anything else. The sadness, the tragedy of war, is that a modicum of understanding your opponent’s point of view, a bit of creativity, or just taking a beat to fully appreciate the threshold you are standing on could prevent the destruction and carnage that will follow. 

The Portofino Hotel is located on a small spit of land inside the King Harbor Marina in Hermosa Beach. It isn’t a particularly fancy place even though it is highly rated on Hotels.com. It reminds me more of a 60’s motel, which is what it once was, than the five-star hotel it has become.  But, having stayed there in the past, I knew the rooms were clean and well equipped with nice amenities, good service, and a hidden bonus I particularly loved. The rooms on the ground floor have a small patio and at night, you can hear the sea lions who inhabited the adjacent breakwater barking at each other. Which is why I am sitting outside now, bundled in a blue commando style sweater with leather patches on the elbows and shoulders listening to their conversation. I want them to help me let go of the day. Aiding me in that quest, and another reason I am sitting outside, is the “Lemon Tree” pre roll I had picked up at MedMen dispensary near LAX when I flew in the night before. I don’t smoke pot often but its legal and the clerk at the store told me that this strain is ideal for “chilling.” I hope a few tokes can help me forget the day and relax into sleep in a way alcohol cannot. I have only had one hit, I have learned from bitter experience that more than that can send me to a place i don’t want to go, but it has already begun to help me feel as I am better able to cope with the events of the day.  

I pull out my iPhone and scroll to the email Del had sent me a few days ago when she found out, probably through Liam, that I was headed to California to spend some time with Conor.

Why did I file for divorce, why did I lock him out, why did I go to a lawyer. He needs to look at his behavior. Con can’t. Like Duke when he was sick. They have the same problem. A need to rationalize everything. It is what addicts do. Con is an alcoholic.  He knows it. He has admitted it to me in writing. And you know it too. You told me so.

You know Con. His way of remembering things is writing them down. He keeps notebooks for work. Names etc. I have them and have read them. And don’t throw a lot of crap my way for having done so. I did it to see if I was crazy or my suspicions were right. I won’t apologize for having to try and protect myself. A lot is there to prove my points but not necessary to share. I do have them though. Just so upsetting to go through. I won’t open them again. By the way the hotel he went to was in Redondo. Right near us. He freaked out when I saw it on his calendar. He by accident copied me in. Then tried to justify his behavior the rest of the day. I didn’t even make a point about it. 

Con has been on dating sites for a while. I even saw him on them. He quickly flicked the screen over. He would get two glasses of wine and go down to the fire pit and look and talk to women. 

Here are some other problems I had.

1. I caught him over Valentine’s weekend lying about what he was doing. We both knew I knew where he went. I’ll just leave it at that. It was awful. I also believe he had an unnecessary overnight but won’t go there. 

2. Going on the cruise and him lying about why we were getting all that money then telling me the day before we weren’t going snorkeling, he was going to pick up HGH in a clinic instead. The cruise wasn’t for me, it was for him, and he lied about what he was doing. 

3. Sex was different…I won’t go there. Then he was unable to make it happen and freaked out. Right when we got back, He had to go right away to his place in Torance a few towns away to get the stuff to fix it right before leaving on a trip. I WAS WITH HIM! Trust me, we didn’t have sex and he was obviously in a hurry to get his meds corrected. 

4. We swam the day before he had the second hair job. I asked if we were swimming the next day. He said no he was out. The next day he got up at 5:00am and I said that was early. He said he had an early appointment. Oh I said doctors. He said yes. Then he left. I actually called him in the car, and he wouldn’t pick up. So I texted. This is the conversation- 

Con- Got your VM I’ll be back this afternoon. Please take an Uber if you want to.

Me- where are you?

Con- In Redondo

Me – Doing what?

Con – My hair

Me – Don’t come home, I am done bye I will be contacting a lawyer. You have issues and will make us broke. find a hotel. Enjoy all your hair, drugs and booze, be happy. Find a hotel for the night. Jesse and I will be on a flight tomorrow morning.

Con- I do need to come home and pack and get my work stuff and files please leave the door open so I can do this.

Me – no.

I had had all I could take of his lying and cheating and spending money. 

He was wild. He broke a door and the landlord and Mexicans workers next store saw it. They were afraid for me. I won’t go into detail, but he was nuts. Started throwing all of my clothes out of the drawers. He also continued to be nuts that week when talking to the landlord and Real estate person. They said he was scary to talk to. The landlord was scared to show the place. 

You get the drift. Our other landlord is scared of him too!

This was after I had asked him not to do it. It was a fuck you to me. He didn’t care what I wanted or was feeling. Or what it was costing. Cost only came up when I went for a lawyer. It was after sneaking the HGH and also after being caught meeting someone right before Valentines Day. Danny, anyone with a brain can see what he has been up to. It’s like how Duke was when he was sick. He will always justify his actions, but any sane person can see what is going on. 

I decided to see a lawyer shortly after Valentine’s Day. I shared much of what was going on with my friend Joanne who lives across the way. She had been divorced and told me the biggest mistake she had made was not seeing a lawyer before she left her former husband. She gave me the name of her attorney and I hired her.  Divorce papers came after reading his note to me which by the way had lies in it and then figuring out during the whole time poor Duke  was trying to mediate this he was fucking another woman. MMM did that woman just pop out of nowhere? Don’t be naive. Living in a different place and not getting a divorce were perfect for him he could keep his money and be single. 

I find it interesting that all his anger is on me and not on what brought us to that point. He’s like Duke. Great at winning arguments even if they are wrong. He is a sneak and a cheat. Also an alcoholic and liar. Duke is trying to justify his actions. He can’t come to terms with what he has been doing. He has to blame someone else. He chose not to go to marriage counseling long ago. He chooses porn, dating sites and sex with other women. He snuck around, lied and spent at least $20,000 on getting “upgraded”. He ruined our family. The facts speak for themselves as a result of his actions. 

Liam even told him he isn’t taking personal responsibility for his actions.  

So, in all his anger he needs to ask why I did those things. I doubt he can look at himself and answer. 

Thanks for listening. No need to do this again. Love always. Moving day 2 days. Will be so glad.

PS. I had to move his things into storage because he only came once and picked up a few things. The rest sat out there for weeks and were getting wet. It was too much to put in the garage. Too hard to go down another flight of stairs. I was moving on the 18th. After numerous requests through my lawyer and no response I packed up all his personal stuff got two men and a truck and put it into storage. I had to get it out of here so I could leave. The day I did it we finally got a response saying he would be here on the 20th. Obviously too late. 

The best way to describe the décor of Con’s bachelor pad was fraternity boy chic with design help from Costco. His living room furniture consisted of a brown microfiber couch that could have graced the cover of Trailer Park living with an old trunk as a coffee table. His desk and dining room table consisted of two 6-foot-long folding tables that would have been right at home at a swap meet or the American Legion Hall. His bedroom consisted of a King Size Mattress and box spring on the floor with two packing boxes as matching nightstands. He had three gigantic flat screen televisions. One in the living room, another on his desk that he used as a monitor and the last in the bedroom opposite his bed.

I was conflicted when I saw all this. The nature of our friendship compelled me to give him a huge amount of shit about living in a way that was a fantasy for the brothers of Delta House but was a million miles away from the professionally designed four-bedroom modern home in the gated community in Atlanta where he and Del had raised their family. However, I was also acutely aware that not only had my friend never lived alone, he had gone from living in his parents’ home to living with Del, but he was also going through one of life’s most stressful experiences. A time where good taste and judgement played second fiddle to expediency and need. I said “Very chic. I didn’t know that Costco had a design service. Is it free or do they charge you extra for it?”

Con replied “Oh no. Its free with their executive memberships.”

“Did you send an email to Zeta Psi magazine so they could feature it their next issue?”

“Didn’t have to. They called me. I declined. Too busy for a photo shoot for the next little while. And if you are done busting balls why don’t we go out on my mini deck, have a beer and see if we can see the green flash.”

Grabbing a couple of Stella Atois from the refrigerator and handing me one I said “I thought you didn’t believe in the Green Flash?”

“I don’t. But when in Rome…”

We settled into the blue and white aluminum and nylon collapsible chairs he had outfitted his deck with and clinked bottles. The sun was still bright yellow and about two fingers above the horizon. The wind was gentle and blowing directly off the ocean and into our faces bringing with it the smell of the sea and cawing of gulls swooping above the surf. I said, “Well this doesn’t suck.”

“Nope. Not at all. It almost makes all the bullshit worthwhile.”

“I bet. Did I tell you that I got a note from Del the other day.”

“No.” he said his voice changing from relaxed to cold anger instantly “What did the bitch have to say for herself.”

“It’s easier to show you.” And with that I handed him my iPhone with Del’s email opened. For a minute or so, I enjoyed the view of the Pacific, and the dipping sun while Con read Del’s note. Eventually, with a disgusted view on his face, he handed the phone back to me.  I asked, “What do you think?”

“I think she has painted the best possible picture for herself. She has twisted the facts just enough to seem reasonable. Like I am the bad guy, and she is the saint.” Pausing for a second and then laughing he adds “Its Trumpery.”

“I think I understand. But give me an example.”

“The whole hair plug thing is just complete bullshit. We discussed it before I decided to get it done. She thought it was too expensive. I told her that I felt it would help me with my clients and that it was something that I wanted to get done. Here in California how young you look is part of the culture. We couldn’t agree. She was dead set against it. So far, her description and mine are the same but she left out one thing. Our faith says that there can only be one decision maker in any family and if a man and a wife disagree what the husband decides is part of god’s plan and needs to be accepted. That is what happened here. I told her I had heard what she had to say. I considered it but in the end the decision was up to me, and I was going to get the transplants.”

“I don’t know Con. I can’t speak about religious things but that is not how I handle decision making with Nadine. In addition to having different fiefdoms. She rules in Rio and I in NJ we have agreed to have veto power over any major decision. If we can’t agree, then it doesn’t happen.”

“Well, there are two differences. “He said with vehemence “First, both of you contribute to the household finances. Del hasn’t worked in twenty-five years. Even after the kids went off to college. She has done nothing to contribute to the household finances. It has all been on me. Me. So if I want to spend a few bucks on myself then fuck it. I am going to do it. “

“Okay.”

“Second, she carefully leaves out that we spent the same to get her ass and tits lifted as I spent on hair plugs. Why is it okay for her to spend money to get herself tightened up and not okay for me to do it when I make the money.”

“It doesn’t make much sense to me.” Then, trying to make a joke to take down the temperature of the conversation I added “Perhaps, she is a sexist.”

Con didn’t take the bait and continued on with “Fine, she was done with me. Fine that the hair transplants were the final straw. But I ask you Danny what kind of a bitch locks a person they love out of their apartment with no clothes, no toiletries no nothing after he has just had surgery. It takes a grade A certifiable cunt to do that. Then to act surprised that I show up at our apartment angry and upset. Come on.”

On a roll he spit out“And the whole bit about me not coming for my things is almost a metaphor in  how she manipulates the truth. Yes, she sent me an email to pick up my stuff. Yes, she was kind enough to place it in the garage after it was damaged by rain. What a fucking saint! What she doesn’t tell you is that she emptied the apartment while she knew I was in London on business. Then I couldn’t pick up my stuff because I was six thousand miles away. By the time I got back, the apartment was empty, and she placed “my stuff” in storage. You know what was in the storage locker? A couple of old lamps, some clothes, and some other knickknacks. You know what was not there? All my family’s photos. She even took the picture of my dad that was hanging on the wall in the living room. She took everything that had any physical or emotional value and left me with the dregs and wants to be beatified a saint for it.”

It had been a mistake to show Con the letter. Hearing his anger or more precisely his pain was unpleasant and horrifying. How could a couple that had been married for the better part of thirty years have so much pent-up rage and anger towards each other? How could I have been so blind? What I had seen as a stable happy relationship was really a bubbling caldron of anger, deceit, and denial.  But in that moment, I knew I needed to put my own need to reassess and reexamine how I perceived the world and let my buddy vent. Let him lance the infected wound. Get the poison out in the hopes it would allow him to heal.

“Go on.”

“Don’t even get me started about her going through my business journals. I could get fired for her seeing those!”

“Isn’t that a stretch?”

“No. You don’t understand. That is my work product. Mercers has a written policy that no one, not even your spouse, can see our work product except an employee or the client. It is in my contract. If they found out they could fire me. Game over.”

“If you say so, I have never heard of any company anywhere having that requirement, but I am not in your business. But I would have been pissed off if Nadine went through my business things. Not so much because she did, but because of the lack of trust that it demonstrated. But that is us, we figured out pretty early on that when a good part of the time you live on separate continents that if we lost trust nothing will work. In other words, we made an active decision to trust each other.”

Con said nothing. I floated “She claims that she found proof of infidelity in those journals. Something about a hotel in Redondo.”

“That was a business meeting. A conference on earthquakes and how overdue we are for the big one. I went because I am trying to put together a product that will help under insured companies survive the financial trauma that is going to happen when the big one finally happens.”

I decided to push him a little. Not that I cared who, if anybody, he was fucking. I was not an innocent. But I did want there to be truth between us. I had known him too long and at least in my opinion could be a better friend if I was working with the truth as opposed to a fiction created to spare his image. I said, “Okay but were you having an affair.”

He angrily, perhaps too angrily, retorted “What the fuck. I told you no!”

“Look, I don’t care if you were fucking everything that was damp from here to San Diego. Would not change how I think about you. Shit happens. Life happens. And it is certainly clear, even from Del’s note, that part of your marriage was not working well.”

“You are talking about her comments about our sex life and me needing pills to perform.”

“Well…yeah.”

“The pills or the lack of sex.”

“Yes”

“She is right I had a hard time getting it up on our trip. And it did freak me out. A lot. That had never happened before. Suddenly, I was the guy with a limp dick. Me? The guy with the perpetual boner could not fuck his wife. So yeah, I rushed to the Dr. I wanted to know what was wrong. Turned out it was my blood pressure meds throwing things off. And the fact the making love to Del at that point was more of a chore…”

“TMI dude. TMI. I have no desire to imagine you two schtupping. None. Zero. Zip.”

“You asked.”

“I did. My bad. What I really wanted to know was something else. I wanted to know whether or not you were fucking around. No judgement. Just want to know so we can be honest with each other and if you ever ask for advice at least I will be dealing with the facts.”

“I wasn’t. I mean I could have. There were opportunities. And in a couple of cases I walked straight up to the line but could not step over it…”

“What do you mean?”

“There was this underwriter from San Diego. Gorgeous. Former swimmer. Tall athletic…you know. My type. We were at a conference. We had a few drinks. She invited me up to her room. I went. We kissed and fooled around a little. Hand stuff. Nothing serious but I got cold feet when it came to taking the next steps. I guess my conscious was waying on me and she had a family. Just couldn’t do it.”

I didn’t say anything for a few moments. I watched a seagull gliding on the wind looking for a late afternoon snack and then diving into the sea after it. I watched a couple stroll along the Strand holding hands and decompressing together after a day apart. The ocean had taken on a navy hue and the sun, about a finger above the horizon, had taken on an orange glow. The wind had begun to blow cold.

I said “Would you mind if I gave you some free advice. Absolutely guaranteed to be worth every single penny that you paid for it.”

Smiling Con said “Shoot.”

“My normal advice, actually my original advice to you, was to figure out a way to stay together. Love is not as common as most people think. Trust me, a guy who remained single for twenty-five years trying and failing to find the right kind of love. To me that meant, if you find love, hold onto it with both hands. Don’t let it go. Work for it. Fight for it. Make it work because it is far easier to salvage a love adrift than it is to find someone new to love. You know I know what I am talking about. How many crazies, unavailable, and permanently damaged people did I have to cycle through before I found Nadine.”

I took a sip of my Stella and turned my chair so I could catch Con’s eye. When he returned the gaze, I continued. “It won’t work with you and Del. The love and respect for each other has been draining out of this marriage for a long time. You wanted a partner and got a dependent. She wanted a partnership but felt she should be the managing partner without owning up to it. You wanted someone to have a conversation with, someone who could argue with you, and she wanted to sweep all the problems under the rug. You wanted someone to play with and she didn’t want to play. You lived separate lives under the same roof and your paths diverged and now you are both miles apart. Am I wrong?”

“Go on.”

“You could spend hours, weeks, even years in counseling and get to the point where the love returns to your relationship. But frankly I don’t think either of you has the energy or the desire to do that. You are both too stubborn to change. That is not a dig. You are who you are and are comfortable with that. Cool beans. You could also continue the way you are with accommodation. That is to lead separate lives. Del goes off and does what she wants to do. And you do what you need to do. No harm. No foul. Except, that is how you have been living for years and it has not worked. Plus, I know you buddy. You don’t want to settle for the little package when the big package is on the table. You still think you can find happiness. What was that Vonnegut said, “Even though I have been chain smoking Pall Mall’s since I was twelve, I still think I have enough wind to run and catch happiness.” You still think you can find happiness. But in your heart of hearts you know that the chance of that happening with Del, is nil.”

“You think we should divorce?”

“I do. But not the way you think you should.”

“That is cryptic.”

“Didn’t mean it to be. You are super pissed off at Del right now. She did the unspeakable. Not only did she abandon you. But she set you up and is now claiming the moral high ground and crowing herself with a saint’s halo. Right.”

“No argument.”

“It means that you are hurt. And when you hurt, you lash out. Your vision tints red. Payback becomes a priority. Winning becomes a priority. You won’t let go until you have achieved victory over those who have done you harm. Do I need to site examples or have I hit the nail on the head.”

“Yeah, and?”

“You can’t treat your divorce like that. It will ensure your failure and worse. You will destroy your relationship with Liam and Duke. You will force them to choose between Del and you. It will fuck up the rest of your life in ways we can’t imagine.”

Just then the sun slipped below the western horizon, and I asked, “Did you see it?”

“See what?”

“The green flash you keep talking about. I was hoping we would see it tonight. I didn’t see it. Did you?”

“No. I was not really looking.”

“It is a good metaphor anyway.”

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t know whether the green flash is a myth or real. I have never seen it. But it seems to me that it is similar to a lot of things in life. If you see it, it is beautiful and remarkable and then it is over. If you don’t see it, you missed an opportunity you may never get again. In other words, be mindful, enjoy what you can while you can because it will all be over in flash.”

“How does that apply here.”

“You can choose to fight Del in divorce court because she has done you wrong. And there is no doubt that she has. She fucked you hard and is now gloating over it. But fighting her gives her all the power. She has trapped you and will torment you. Or you could just say screw it and walk away. I would argue you that you would get more satisfaction from denying her power over you than fighting her.”

“You are saying, just give her everything and walk away?”

“No. I am not saying that at all. What I am saying is talk to your lawyer. Tell him you want to work for a fair and equitable settlement. Remember it is not in his best interest to settle the divorce quickly. The longer these things drag on the more money he and his counterpart benefits. You remember my buddy from college Bob Preto? Just like you. Two boys and a certifiable broom owning witch of a wife who sued for divorce because he went to porn sites for satisfaction because they made love twice a year. He got angry and decided to declare war on his wife. $450,000 later he won his case and ended up with the same settlement he would have had at the beginning. I am not saying give her everything. I am saying hire a mediator or failing that an arbitrator. You may have to give Del more than you think she deserves but you will have to no matter which way you tackle this divorce. But at least with mediation or arbitration you minimize the amount of money you spend on lawyers, minimize the animosity, and limit the collateral damage your divorce will produce.”

“I don’t know.”

“What don’t you know?”

“I don’t know if going the arbitration and mediation route is best for me. My lawyer thinks that it is too early to make that call. He tells me that he has been up against Del’s attorney and has always kicked her ass in court. He thinks we have a clear case of abandonment and that will help us in court.”

“Look I am not a lawyer, and I don’t play one on TV, but don’t you think advice like that is self-serving.  I am sure that there are good divorce attorneys but most of them feed on the pain and suffering of their clients because that is what feeds their children and mistresses.” Then I laughed and added “Do you know what the call a boat full of lawyers sinking?”

Con gave me a look that suggested that he had far too many of my “jokes” over time, raised eyebrows and a preemptive eye roll for the groaner to come. He replied “No, what?”

“A start.”

He chuckled, the deep resonant belly, laugh he had inherited from his father and said, “Not bad.”

I added “Here is my point. And you know this. Your attorney income depends on billable hours not on good outcomes, which is where your interest lies. Which means you need to manage the process to get what you want. And you need to manage yourself. You are angry and hurt. You have every reason to be, but you and Del were partners for over 30 years. Treat this like a business you are dissolving so you both can move forward with as little bruising and scaring as possible.”

I paused for a second and in the voice of Vito Corleone “It’s not personal. Its business.”

 “Thanks Godfather.”

The western horizon was now a deep scarlet with only a few battleship grey clouds marring the day’s last gaudy show. The lack of sun, and a slight uptick in ocean breeze was beginning to make it too cool to sit outside without a jacket and I was about to suggest we go inside or to dinner when Con asked “What does your mom thinks?”

I chuckled “Mom thinks, and these are her words not mine “You are well rid of the bitch.” She never really took a liking to Del and what sealed the deal for her is when she started giving helpful advice on how to run Nadine’s and my wedding. She didn’t appreciate being treated like a doddering octogenarian in her own home. Mom thinks she set you up and that were she in your shoes she would be looking for blood. But…”

“But what?”

“She also told me to tell you to be smart. Don’t get caught up in the hate and the bullshit. Settle this shit and move on. “

“Okay. Anything else.”

“Yeah. She said it gets fucking cold in California when the sun goes down and you should take her son out for sushi and sake.”

Chapter 3: Day 2: Dawn (Continued)

Zita was great at taking care of Mom. Most of her work had dried up due to the pandemic so she put her heart and soul into taking care of our mother. A strong affection had developed between the two. Not that there had not been a little friction. Due to school closures, spotty day care and her husband’s work schedule there had been a number of occasions where she was forced to bring her four-year-old daughter, Maria, with her. This had not pleased Mom. It was not that she was anti children but with all that was going on in the world she saw kids as walking Petry dishes full of disease and pestilence. Long-distance negotiations were conducted amongst sturm and drang on both sides, and a compromise reached. Marie could come but would be restricted to the finished basement Mom never entered.

Then Zita caught Covid.

It was late May, and I was sitting at my desk in the small office Nadine, and I shared on the first floor of our home. It had old school dark wood and glass paneled bookcases on one wall, two large windows opposite them and desks for each of us on the remaining walls so we sat back-to-back albeit six feet apart. I was deep into writing. Or better said, deep into the idea of writing. There was a Toucan visiting a mango tree just outside the wall to our home. The difference between wildlife in New Jersey and here never ceased to amaze me and make me grateful for where I was. However, I was not thinking about that. I was wondering whether they sold Fruit Loops in Brazil. And if they did, was Sam the Toucan still their mascot? Deep thoughts for the writer.

My phone chirped and I saw it was Mom, I didn’t think much of it. She called me when she could not figure out how to change the font on her computer or to walk her through resetting the Wi-Fi router. Over the last few months, I fielded a number of these calls. It was all part of what the media was calling the new normal. I clicked the answer symbol on my phone and before I could even say hello I heard through my phone’s speaker Mom shouting, panic in her voice “You need to come home right now. I don’t care what it costs. I will pay for it. But you must come to my home. Now!”

Stunned by her tone, her demand and lack of introduction I replied “Hold on. Hold on. What is going on? Why are you so upset?”

“Zita has Covid. She just called. She won’t be coming in and she exposed me. You need to come home. I can’t be here by myself. What if I get sick? What will I do.” she said in a fearful voice. .

“Okay. Okay. I get it. And I will see what I can do about getting a flight, but I don’t think they have resumed flights from Rio to the US yet. Let me call Zita and find out what is going on, but you always wore a mask when she was there, right?”

“Yes.”

“And you maintained a safe distance when you could.”

“Yes. But that little girl of hers was always taking off her mask.”

“Okay. But Mom, I don’t think you would have caught Covid from her. I know her, she was very careful around you. Let me call her. Find out what is going on. Then I will call the airlines and call you back. We will figure this out. You are not going to get sick. I promise. Okay?”

“Okay. But enough of this nonsense of you staying in Brazil. Book a flight home today.” And she hung up.

My mother’s panicked tone was completely out of character. She had not loved that my trip back to the United States kept getting postponed. But she understood. You couldn’t watch MSNBC all day long and not understand. Besides, between my sister and I we had arranged a very comfortable, if lonely, life for her in the time of Covid. I knew from talking to her she was grateful for that especially considering that old age homes had seen horrific death tolls. But I also knew what was scaring her. Mom was among the most vulnerable for Covid. A decade ago, she had undergone treatment for lung cancer. They had caught it early and between chemo and radiation therapy she had been cancer free ever since. But they had warned her that her lungs were irrevocably altered and were now especially vulnerable to disease.

I called Zita. She was sick. Very sick. She could barely speak to me as she had difficulty breathing.. She told me that the only reason she was not in the hospital is there were no beds available. She had caught the disease in a side job she had picked up at a grocery store packing groceries for delivery. One of her coworkers had contracted the disease and generously shared it with her and a dozen others. She was now sleeping in the basement of their home while her husband and daughter lived upstairs and left meals for her at the top of the basement stairs. I felt so bad for her I didn’t have the heart to tell her how angry I was at her. I knew she had taken on the side job to help feed her family, but she didn’t give me heads up about it which would have allowed me to decide about Mom’s care. Now my mother was in danger of catching the disease because of it and I couldn’t forgive her for that. I did not trust myself to say anything. I just hung up the phone.

I called American Airlines. All flights to Brazil were suspended. They suggested that I call United Airlines. They thought they were still operating out Sao Paulo but were not sure. United did have two flights a week from Sao Paulo to Houston. Their next flight left tomorrow. Was I interested in reserving a seat?” I told them I would call them back.

I found Nadine sitting on the couch in our living room. It is the most stunning room of our house with floor to ceiling glass doors it allowed the outside in. It had a granite floor with oriental rugs, a bar and even a sunken section for listening to music. It is where my wife loved to read the ink off “O Globo” Rio’s largest newspaper Today she in a half lotus position, Alice, our Siamese cat, in her lap, reading glasses halfway down her nose, with the front section held in front of her like a shield. I sat on the love seat opposite her without saying anything. She looked up and I must have looked very troubled because when she looked up, she immediately said “What’s wrong?” I told her.

“What do you want to do, my darling.”

“I don’t know. It is a Siberian dilemma. Do you know what that is?”

She shook her head. “It is when the only choices you have are bad and worse.” I paused hoping she would volunteer the solution I had already settled on. She didn’t. I continued   If I go, I leave you by yourself. If I don’t go and my mother gets sick, I will never forgive myself. She can’t be alone.” Nadine got up, much to the dismay of the  cat, who meowed in displeasure at being displaced. She sat next to me and held my hand. “Do not worry about me my darling. I am fine here. You must go.”

I looked at my feet. They were tan and clad in a pair of yellow and green Havianna’s. I had rarely worn anything else on my feet in months. In the moment, I wondered what it would be like to wear shoes again. Funny, the things you think about when you are in crisis mode. I looked up and asked, knowing the answer before the words left my mouth “Come with me?”

“You must go my darling, but I cannot leave. I have too much to do here. Who would take care of our home? Who would take care of Romeow? I promise I will come when there are direct flights to the US from Rio.”

I looked at her with distressed eyes. She grabbed both of my hands and holding my gaze said. “Va com Deus, meu amor. Trust me I will be fine.” 

Twenty-six hours later I found myself in the nearly empty international terminal of São Paulo/Guarulhos International Airport. A year earlier this hall would have transited a hundred thousand people in a single day. Today it was so empty you could hear a mouse fart.

I had taken a cab from our home in Rio De Janiero because flights were crowded, difficult to book and considering the state of pandemic precautions put in place by the Bolosonaro (Trump of the tropics) government not safe. . Marcus, a driver that Nadine frequently used, had agreed to drive me the two hundred and seventy miles for twenty-five-hundred Reals, or five hundred dollars. Getting into that cab, saying goodbye to Nadine is among the most difficult things I have ever done. I was leaving the person I cherished and loved above all others with no expectation of when or even if I would see her again. That type of goodbye belonged in movies. Not in my life. I managed to put on a brave face through our final embrace. I told her all the lies that one tells someone you love when the future is uncertain. It won’t be long. I will see you before you know it. You are tired of me anyway. We have Zoom. We were both remarkably stoic. Until we were out of sight of each other and then I let the tears flow.

The ride from to Sao Paulo took just under six hours and took place mostly in silence. Both Marcus and I were double masked to protect each other but kept the windows open despite the heat. . Three months into the pandemic wearing a mask is a part of daily life but it makes conversation difficult. Besides my Portuguese is limited as was his English. The view out the window helped make up for the silence. The countryside, once you leave the factories and favellas of Rio behind, is remarkable. First through the mountains of the Serra Do Mar, the tallest along the entire Atlantic seaboard, then the lush Paraiba Valley home to Brazil’s original coffee industry.

At one point, we pass a desiccated field that is studded with two-meter-tall termite mounds. I have read that before there were people in Brazil there were termites. So many in fact scientists have recently discovered an ancient Termite city in the northeast of the country that is as large as Great Britain. It is so large to see it all they had to use satellite imaging. It is hard to imagine a world run by terminates, unless you are science fiction author, but they did here. And then they didn’t. Evolution is relentless. Nothing is permanent. Everything has its time.

When we get to the city of Sao Jose dos Campos, Marcus pulls off the highway to refuel the car and give both of us the opportunity for a bio break. We pass a hospital. I don’t catch its name. But I can see they have sent up tents in the parking lot and there is a long line of masked people waiting to be seen by a physician. It terrifies me. It reminds me of the sleepless hours I had early in the pandemic. I was marooned in a country where I did not speak the language and. It seemed that all Globo and CNN broadcast were scenes from hospitals where people were dying, separated from the comfort family provides. What if I got sick and had to go to the hospital? Nadine would not be there to translate what the Dr’s and nurses were saying to me. I would be in a permanent state of fear and confusion. I would not know if I was getting better or worse. There would be no encouraging words to hear. It would be just the hot winds of my imagination blowing on the embers of fear. Flames of panic would no doubt erupt. And what if I got worse? What if they could not stop the spread of the disease? What if I became terminal? Who would be there to comfort me? Who would let me know that I was loved. The idea of facing eternity alone terrified me.

I must have whimpered audibly at this point as Marcus said “Senhor Paul, tudo bem?” I reply
Tudo bom, I am fine. “

As we get back on the highway It is easy to imagine the terror my mother is feeling right now. With her addiction to MSNBC, she has seen the same news reports I have. She is also doubly vunerable as an octogenarian and lung cancer survivor. If she catches the disease, it would be a miracle for her to survive. And now she is alone. Which is my fault. This is not gratuitous self-pity. Or a messiah conflict. I had freely taken on the responsibility of her care. I had promised her she would never be alone. Yet even though it was beyond my control, I had abrogated that responsibility. I know in my heart of hearts that I could have made it home sooner. It would have required a long circuitous route and exposed me to the disease at every turn. But it could have been done.

I have broken a promise to her. I told her she would not be alone. And I left her alone. And because I left it to others to care for her, she has been exposed to an illness that could kill her. Her fear, her panic is on me.

We reach Guarulhos at around three pm. I have eight hours to kill before I can board my flight. I had purposely chosen to get to the airport early as I did not know what trouble we might find on the road, and I could not miss this flight. I had hoped to spend time in the Admiral’s Club lounge at the airport. But it is closed. I find refuge in American Express Centurion Lounge. Other than me there are only four other travelers. The emptiness has an end of the word feel to it. As if we are the only ones left after a great disaster has struck. And so, it has. None of us want any contact with each other so we arrange ourselves at opposite ends of the club and keep to ourselves.

I settled into a banquette near the bar. It is isolated and separated from other areas by plexiglass partitions.  I call Mom. She answers on the second ring. Not with hello but with “Where are you?” I tell her I have made it to Sao Paulo and that the flight is leaving on time. That with any luck at all I should be back in New Jersey by 1pm tomorrow and she should not worry. I consider telling her how odd it is at the airport when it is devoid of people, but I decide that will only invoke fear. instead, I share how pretty a drive it was to get here. She is not listening and seems distracted. This is unlike her. She is usually very present and engaged. I assume that it is her mom’s nerves working overtime. Worried about me and the journey I have undertaken. I assure her all is well and tell her I will call her when I reach Houston.

Just as I am about to board the flight my phone rings. I answer without looking at the screen assuming it is Nadine, Lotte or my mother. It isn’t. It is Marcus. He asks me in English “You leave now?” I reply “Sim. Yes. The plane is leaving.” He has been waiting in the parking lot of the airport not wanting to leave me stranded should be flight be cancelled. It is an act of kindness I will never forget.

As the flight is boarding that due to Covid protocols they will strictly enforce boarding by row number. That we must maintain our distance and masks must be always worn except when eating or drinking. That violations of these rules can result in a fine and or being put on the FAA no fly list. I look around. I can see that most of the people are taking the pandemic very seriously. There is even one woman who, in addition to wearing a mask and a shield is wearing a white disposable hazmat suit. I think that this is a little over the top, but I understand. What I find harder to understand is the few who insist on wearing their masks without them covering their noses or worse around their chin. They piss me off. I know they know how to wear a mask. Their disregard for other people’s safety is a political statement. A symbolic middle figure to those wearing their masks correctly. That they are a supporter of Brazilian President Jair Bolsonaro who has famously said Brazilians don’t need to worry about the virus because they are tough…. They can even swim through sewage and not get sick. Or, they believe in Bolsonaro’s mentor, Donald Trump who not only refuses to wear a mask but suggests that drinking bleach, taking an animal anti-fungal drug, or exposing yourself to massive doses of ultra-violet light will rid of you of the disease. These men disgust me and are for all intent and purposes mass murderers.

I settled into my seat in first class. Nadine and I decided that it was worth a couple of hundred extra dollars for the additional separation from other passengers. I do this despite knowing that airplanes in flights are safer than anywhere else from disease transmission as they cycle the entire air supply every three minutes through HEPA filters. I rationalize that eliminating as much risk as I can from this trip is important as arriving home ill would defeat the purpose of coming home to take care of my mother. I also don’t hate the extra comfort. It is not a normal first-class service. Instead of cocktails, followed by progressive courses and concluding with ice cream sundaes and after dinner drinks, we are presented with a single tray crowded with each element individually wrapped. I am glad that United is taking hygiene so seriously even though the crowded tray makes maneuvering a bit of a challenge. The food is as delicious as airplane food can be from the bits of peach in the salad to the mushroom sauce on the Filet Mignon. I miss my sundae, but the chocolate truffles are more than an adequate sweet note to end the meal.

I recline my seat to almost horizontal. I am very tired from the long drive and the sleepless night leading up to it. I am hoping that sleep will overcome me quickly. But of course, it does not. My thoughts turn to Nadine. I cannot justify leaving her behind. She has her reasons for staying. Both said and unsaid. She has told me that she feels safe in our home. I know that this goes well beyond the isolation of our house and our neighborhood. Beyond the fact we have developed a system to get food and supplies with minimal chance of exposure to the disease. Since long before I met her eight years ago, this home has been her castle, her protection from an often-hostile world, a lifeboat on an unfriendly sea. Leaving it now, when Brazil is on fire from disease, political corruption, and travel with me through the belly of the beast is an act of faith she cannot muster. I understand this. My guilt remains. Will she be, okay? What kind of a person leaves his wife to face the pandemic alone.

When eventually I do fall asleep it only to be awakened a few hours later by the flight attendant yelling at the man seating behind me. She is telling him to put on his mask. That he can do whatever he wants when he leaves the airplane but for now if he doesn’t put on the mask, he will be arrested upon arrival for disrupting a flight. My fellow passenger puts on his mask as the steward departs shortly thereafter. I expend some mental energy trying to figure out why the inoffensive act of putting on a mask to protect yourself and others is such trouble for some. Why does kindness seem to be in such short supply these days when it should be just the opposite. Why is it that the Trumps and Bolsonaro’s of the world seem more plentiful than the Marcu’s. It is a quandary that has no answer but acts as a soporific. I fall back to sleep.

Shortly before 7am, thirty minutes behind schedule, my flight lands in Houston. There is no playing of the Star-Spangled Banner. They didn’t put Bruce Springsteen’s “Born In The USA” on the PA system. There are no fire trucks creating an arc of water to taxi under. There is not even the cheering you occasionally hear when a plane lands after a particularly difficult flight. However, for me it is a deeply emotional moment. One of the few moments in my life that despite the erosion of time on memory, I will never forget. After three months of being marooned I am home.

For 91 days I have wondered whether I would ever make it back. I have been a castaway on a desert island wondering whether I would ever escape. The island I escaped from could not have been more welcoming. It was beautiful if not spectacular. I was as safe as any place can be in a pandemic. I have been with Nadine, the one person required for me to be whole. But I was stranded. As well fed as I had been, it did not have the flavors of home that comfort and cajole. Worse, I knew that my mother had been by herself, I had failed in my obligation to her and promises I had made to myself.

An announcement is made about deboarding the aircraft. We are told that Custom’s and Border Patrol have instituted measures to help ensure social distancing. Only six rows will be allowed off the airplane at a time and only those rows who are called may claim their luggage and other belongings from overhead bins. Deplaning will start with the business class section and work its way from front to back. We are reminded that masks are required on board the aircraft and while in the terminals of George Bush International Airport.

My section is the first to be called on to deplane. This is good news for me as our late arrival is making me doubt my ability to catch my connecting flight to Newark which departs in just over one hour. I collect my bag from the overhead bin and follow the passenger who had been chastised by the flight attendant off the plane. Normally, when an international flight arrives there is a mad dash of passengers to immigration. Nobody, even those, like me, who use Global Entry Kiosks to enter, wants to be caught in the long lines that are the hallmark of entering the country. There is no need to rush today with only 20 of us exiting at the same time. But I do. I am late. I cannot miss this connection as the next flight does not leave for six hours.

When I reach the kiosks, I begin the familiar process. First, I slip my passport into the reader and remember just in time to lower my mask so the device can take my picture. I place my fingers on a touch plate so it can read my fingerprints. When they are accepted, I prepare to go through the standard series of questions such as purchases made abroad, have you visited a farm, what flight you were on, etc. But the machine asks me none of those questions, just printing out the standard form to hand to the CBP officer. I am not sure why things have changed but I am grateful as it speeds my journey.

I leave immigration and follow the signs to security. During normal times, even with TSA Pre, this is a choke point due to long lines and the extra scrutiny given to international travelers. Today, it is empty. The maze leading up to the identification check point has been reconfigured into a single line and it has no one in it. This fills me with hope as a quick glance at my watch tells me I have only forty-five minutes before they shut the doors to my flight. I place my bags, computer, iPad, jacket, shoes, and belt on the conveyor belt. I am scanned without a beep, but my bags need to be run through twice to ensure my CPAP machine is not an instrument of mass destruction. Normally, I would not be annoyed at this inconvenience, it just the TSA doing their job, but today I am impatient. I need to make that flight.

As I leave security and begin the journey to my gate at a jog, I see my mask averse seat mate once more. He is having a booming argument with some of the security people. Apparently, he did not hear the announcement or get the email which had been sent to all passengers on our flight ordinance that all people at George Bush International Airport are required to wear masks at all times. Nor did he listen to the post landing announcement on the plane. He is arguing loudly that he does not need to wear a mask. I shake my head. I will never understand why people cannot do the simplest least intrusive thing to protect themselves and others. Whether they remembered the golden rule. An axiom that connects virtually every faith practiced by man. It is a concept taught in Sunday schools, public schools and by teachers and parents alike. I have no doubt, that if I asked “Tex” what the Golden Rule was he would have no problem reciting its words. Why then does he have such trouble living it? Doesn’t he understand that he has been in Brazil a country that has the second largest infection rate in the world without doing any significant testing and he could be infected or a carrier and not know it? Unmasked carriers had spread the infection and brought our country and the world to its knees.? Wearing a mask is an act of kindness to your neighbor and your community and would help prevent needless disease and death. His not wearing a mask would encourage others not to wear a mask and that could result in him or someone he cares for getting the disease.

My mother could be a victim of someone like him. Someone who chose not to wear a mask because it offended them in some unknown way and now my mother may be sick. It enrages me. It is more than just people not wearing masks. They are just a symbol of a different type of virus that is running rampant through the cultures of both Brazil and the United States, if not the world. The mental defect that allows science and facts to be discounted by unproven theories and conjectures. The social disease where memes are given equal weight to historical fact. The infection that allows people to express vileness and hatred with a sense of impunity. My anger doubles my pace.

My father used to love the quote by Dorothy Parker who when asked to use the word horticulture in sentence quipped “You can lead a whore to culture, but you cannot make her think.”

It is not easy to run with a backpack, roll-a-board, and mask but I make it to the gate, sweaty and out of breath with about five minutes to spare. I take my seat, a single in business class, and it hits me. I am on the final leg of my journey. Home, and all it represents, is just a few hours away. It is only after they close the door that I realize in all my rush and rage against ignorance I have forgotten to call my mother. Idiot.

Frequent flyers are familiar with a phenomenon. When a plane’s doors are sealed a large percentage of passengers either doze off or feel very sleepy. It is a biological response to a sudden drop in oxygen levels. I have never needed an excuse to nap. It is one of my favorite activities and no more so than on airplanes where snoozing cuts perceived travel time. Combine this phenomenon with additional factors such as length of travel, lack of sleep and stress and is a near certainty that my chin will assume a resting position against my chest. I am asleep before the plane leaves the gate and do not wake up until the flight is on final approach to Newark.

When the cabin door is opened, and we are given permission to deplane, it is as if I am shot from a rifle. I move at speed walker pace down the concourse C at Newark. I pay no notice to the closed shops, restaurants nor even to the very few people have made a choice not to wear a mask. I am focused only on getting to baggage claim where my brother has arranged for a well-regarded car service to pick me up and take me home in as safe and as Covid free environment as possible. I scramble past security and negotiate my bags down two sets of escalators to baggage claim. It is empty. None of the carousels turn. No patient passengers waiting for bags. Most importantly no car service person holding a sign with my name on it.

I surveyed the whole area. I walk down to the carousel where the bags from my flight will be deposited. Still no one. I am annoyed and angry. I almost never ask my brother for favors and the one time I do he drops the ball like a little league outfielder. As I survey baggage claim for my driver, I consider calling my brother Levi and asking him what is up with his car service or digging through my phone to find the number of the service and finding out about my ride. I reject both ideas. Home is only 15 miles away by the time I resolve the issue I can be at Moms front door. I dash to the taxi rank.

The hack at the head of the cue reluctantly ends his phone conversation when I approach the taxicab. I see that his mask is dangling off one ear. I ask him, probably too firmly, to please put on his mask. He shoots me the stink eye. I feel bad for my tone but not my message. As we pull away from the curve, I apologize to him, telling him that I have been traveling for the past twenty-four hours and am tired. It is not an excuse, but an explanation and I hope he understands. He tells me he understands. I let him know that we will be making two stops. That we are going to make a brief stop at my mothers’ home as she is elderly and has not seen me in four months. I explain that I want to wave at her before I go into the fourteen-day isolation the CDC is recommending for international travelers. That it will only last a minute or two and I hope that he understands. Then we will proceed to our destination which is only a few minutes from there.

Route 78 between Newark and the Short Hills Mall is not scenic. Mostly shopping malls, light industry, and sound barriers. But with every mile passed, my anticipation grows. When I was I kid growing up and I did something that my mother thought was special she would proclaim me “Hero of the western World” as if I were a hero returning from battle. I feel that way now. I had, against all odds, by plane and taxi, through pandemic and ignorance, at great risk to myself, managed to travel 6,000 miles from Rio De Janiero to Summit, New Jersey in less than forty-eight hours from when Mom called and told me she needed me. I was unduly proud of myself and thought of the videos I had seen on Facebook, Twitter and YouTube and families who had been reunited after being separated by Covid. The bear hugs. The joyous tears mixed with laughter born of relief. I knew I would not get a hug as Covid protocols were to self-isolate for fourteen days, after travel but I knew Mom would be happy to see me through closed glass doors. A tear would be shed. I would be her “hero of the western world” yet again. I can’t wait to knock at her door.