Blame it on Rio

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.

Chapter 3: Day 2: Dawn

According to legend, the god Maui not only created the island paradise we call Hawaii, but he also made the days longer.

The story goes that he found his mother Hina, who was normally cheerful, sad, and upset one day. Being a dutiful son, he asked what was bothering her. She told him that she was sad because the days were too short and because of that her clothes would not dry, and the crops did not grow fast enough. Maui decides he needs to do something to make his mother happy and sets out to capture the sun. He cuts down palm trees and using their fiber creates a strong rope and then in the dark of night climbs to the top of Haleakala where the sun makes his home. When the sun rises, Maui lassos the sun’s legs. The sun fought mightily against the rope, but it held. Trapped, the sun asks Maui why he had done this. Maui explained he was there because Hina was unhappy. The days were too short. She could not dry her clothes and the crops were not growing fast enough. If the sun promised to travel more slowly, he would let him go. The sun promised and that is why Hawaii has days that are long and full of sun.

I am sitting in one of the dark green faux rattan chairs around my fire pit when I recall this legend from King David’s book. I have been here for the better part of an hour. Sleeping has never been one of my great strengths and being six hours different than my normal circadian rhythms has not helped. I guess I could have stayed in bed and read or checked my Facebook feed and hoped that I would fall back asleep again. But I am too restless for that. Besides, how often does one get to embrace the new day over the Pacific? In the last few moments, the fuchsia, ginger, and saffron fingers of dawn have appeared on the horizon. It is a sight to see and at this moment I am grateful for my restive mind.

Beyond the birth of a day, I realize why I have been reminded of Maui and Hina.  For the last hour, I have been getting the occasional waft of a rich fruity scent that has a hint of musk to it. It is oddly familiar to me and like a familiar object whose name lurks just beyond your grasp. It bothers me that I cannot identify it. With sudden clarity, I know it is jasmine. A fragrance that reminds me of my mother’s hugs as it is the dominant aroma of her favorite perfume, Coco.

I have not spoken to my mother yet. I could call her now, but I suspect she won’t answer. She is likely away from her phone. Besides dawn is a magical time. A time when the darkness of past days is cancelled, and you are embraced by the promise of the possibility of a new day. Isn’t that why birds chirp, peep and tweet the loudest then? I listen. I can hear the cooing of doves, the screaming screech of the native Alala who the Indigenous people of Hawaii consider a deity. There are other bird songs I cannot identify. They all join in an overture to the new day. I savor it as the world is flooded with light.

It is early June 2020. I am in a Bob’s Hamburgers restaurant off Brazil’s Highway 116, the road that connects Rio to Sao Paulo. For the past three hours I have been in the back seat of a cab that I have hired to drive me from our home in Barra De Tijuca to Guarulhos Airport in Sao Paulo. The drive has not been unpleasant despite the fact that I am wearing a surgical mask, suffering from the near ninety-degree weather as we are not using air conditioning. Neither Marcus, my driver, nor I totally trust the fact we are Covid free. We stopped here because the restaurant is attached to an Ipiranga service station, and we can fill the cab’s tank as both Marcus and I can empty ours.

Having taken care of the pressing business, I have paused in the waiting area of this dusty service station to consider whether or not I want to get something to eat. Bob’s Burger in Brazil are as ubiquitous as bikinis on a beach in Rio. The original fast food burger place in Brazil they are everywhere from standalone restaurants to kiosks in malls to sharing space at a service area. When I first came to Brazil, I thought it was hilarious as Fox had just launched an animated show called “Bob’s Burgers.” Nadine did not think it nearly as amusing as I did but she insisted their burgers were better than McDonalds and to prove her point took me out to lunch there. She ordered Bob’s Grand Picanha 200g as well as shakes and fries. To my surprise the burgers were good and the shakes excellent. Which is why I pause now. Who knew when I would be able to eat again?

Before I make up my mind, I notice a television is playing in the seating area of the eatery. It is tuned to Globo News. On screen is a “live” helicopter shot of a graveyard in Sao Paolo, the fourth largest city in the world and the largest city in the Americas, where a bulldozer is ripping into the earth excavating mass graves. The health care system here has fallen apart. Thousands are dying every day, and the death industry cannot keep up. It is a scene from some bad apocalyptic movie, not real life. How did our hero get here? It is a good question. One that I have pondered mightily over the last few months.

It started, at least a little, in anger. When Nadine had returned to Brazil at the end of January, she had promised to return to the US in time for us to celebrate my birthday on March 14. However, the number of issues she had to deal with in Rio De Janiero had seemed to multiply faster than rabbits when she arrived at our home there. One of the apartments she owned had lost a tenant and now needed to be repaired and updated before it could be offered to rent. Our home’s roof had developed a leak and could only be repaired under her supervision along with many other things. As a result, she pleaded I come to her, as opposed to returning to the USA as she had promised. Would I please come to Brazil for my birthday. She would take us away to Paraty, a seaside resort famous for its party lifestyle and Cachaca, for a few days of celebration and fun.

Normally, I would have been happy to go but anger born from frustration had been my initial response. While I understood that life has a way of throwing you curve balls, a lesson that would hit home with a vengeance in just a few weeks, I also lived by the axiom “Say what you do, do what you say.” You keep your promises and Nadine had promised to return to the US. Now she was asking me to drop everything and come to Brazil. That was not so easy. I had a job. While working remotely or taking PTO was not a huge issue and could be managed it was an inconvenience. Fenway, our three-year-old Australian Cobberdog, would need to be boarded, which was an expense, but it too could be managed. But the biggest issue was my mother.

For the past eight years, since my father’s departure, she had lived by herself in their four bedroom, 3 and ½ bath split level colonial we had considered “home” for the past fifty years. She was independent in the sense she had no physical limitation that impaired her mobility or mental impairment despite her ninety years. She spent her days doing the work she had done all her life: the writing and editing of books. However, she no longer drove. She was challenged with various maintenance issues in the house. She was lonely and needed assistance nearly every day.

Which is why, when Nadine and I married shortly after Dad’s departure, we moved from my apartment in New York City to a townhome a couple of miles away from her. Someone had to take care of Mom. My sister had the desire but not the bandwidth as she had a career, two children and a husband to manage. My brother? Well let’s just say his priorities were elsewhere.

Part of my acceptance of my new role came from a promise made to my mother years earlier. My father had been hospitalized with what was later diagnosed with kidney failure. The physician treating him was a kind man who believed that telling best way path to compassion in telling patients and their families the whole truth about their diagnosis. I agree with that philosophy. Ripping off the band aid fast is a way to get beyond the pain to a place where more reasonable decisions can be made. In this case, we had been told that Dad’s kidneys would never function properly again, dialysis was likely to be a part of his life for as long as he lived as transplants were not given to octogenarians, and this would likely be a cause of death.

The drive home from the hospital was awful. The NJ Turnpike was moving at the pace of an arthritic tortoise, and we were driving into the afternoon sun on an early August day. The air conditioning was working overtime and losing the battle. Difficult thoughts comingled with uncomfortable surroundings produced a silence as thick as London fog. Each lost in our thoughts. Each contemplating what life would be like without Pops. Suddenly, Mom began to sob. Apologizing for her tears as if they were something to be ashamed of, she told me that she was frightened. That she had never been alone. She had gone directly from her father’s house to my father’s house. Being alone terrified her. Moved by her tears, and prompted by a few of my own, I had promised that no matter what I would make sure that she was never alone. Some might consider this a foolish pledge made in despair of the moment. They are probably right. But I have a problem that arises from the fact that I have read far too many fairytales or took my childhood socialization training far too seriously. That is, once I have made a promise, made a commitment I have an extraordinarily difficult time breaking it. You say what you mean and do what you say. You show up.

There is a scene from the movie Blindside, the movie where Sandra Bullock and her white affluent family adopt a very large African American young man. Michael Oher. In it he undergoes some psychological testing, and it is determined that he has an overwhelming need to protect and defend his family and those that he loves. I had seen the movie with my girlfriend and after the movie she had told me that the Michael Ohrer character in the movie had reminded her of me. Being a wise ass, moderately sized Jewish man, I asked, “Is it because I am a large Black man?” She may have punched me in the arm and said “No, you are singularly the most loyal man I have ever met.”

It was a wonderfully nice thing for her to say to me. And no doubt there are elements of truth in what she said but If for any reason that this narrative has given you the idea that I am beatific in any way, to use a Jersey expression, forget about it. I am a very flawed human being. I have no desire to list all my faults. It would take too long, and no doubt be boring to anyone not paid to listen to my confessions. I believe life is a journey of successive approximation. You try. You do your best. If you succeed, god’s speed. If you fail, pick yourself up, learn from your mistakes, make corrections, move on.

My promise meant to me that I needed to be there for her. When minor household things such as the printer ink running low, a light bulb needed changing, or her computer became funky I was available for immediate twenty-four-hour service. I was also her companion. Most days, I would do a ten- or fifteen-minute drop in to make sure she was doing fine and remind her she was not alone. She would have preferred I ate dinner with her every day. She would have preferred I didn’t leave, and it became a major article of tension with us. “Why don’t you stay a little longer,” “Don’t you want to have dinner with me?” 

Eventually we set up a routine. When I was working from home, I would pop in every day just before lunch and have a cup of coffee with her before returning to my desk or going to the gym. Saturday morning, I would take her to King’s Supermarket and let her shop for her weekly groceries and then carry her supplies to the kitchen for her organization. Sundays we would have dinner together. Either Chinese food (1 egg roll, General Tso’s Chicken) or Smash Burgers. If she had to go the Dr. I took her. Shopping? I was here bag carrier and driver.

Getting someone to check in on Mom and take care of her immediate needs was not an issue. My sister Lotte would be happy to step in for a few days. She appreciated the burden I had taken on and was happy to give me a break. What made me hesitate is my own guilt leaving her alone. I, more than anyone else, knew how lonely she could get. How frightening it was to her. But isn’t the first rule of caregiving taking care of yourself?

I left for Brazil on March 8^th, 2020. I would spend the next week with Nadine in Brazil and return on March 17^th. Yes, the news was full of stories about the coronavirus. Trump had just declared under control and not to worry about it. Not that I believed him, but doctors were providing details about their frustration with treating the “novel Corona virus” and were sharing what they knew about how to prevent getting the disease including quarantining. The business press and who what and financial pundits discussing what an epidemic would do to the economy. It was all just background news to me. I was not particularly concerned. How bad could this be? I remember thinking how crazy the woman sitting next to me on the first leg of my trip to Miami was for wearing a surgical mask.

March 10^th found us in Paraty, a small coastal city one hundred and twenty-five miles south of Rio. It is also 175 miles from Sao Paulo. Given the relatively short distance from both cities, the beautiful coastal location, and archipelagos, and its famous for Cachaca, (Brazilian moonshine made at nearby sugar plantations), and an old city that retains the look of the colonial period, it is a place people go to forget the outside world. A place to party and relax and to enjoy your life. Nadine had chosen a wonderful place to celebrate my birthday. I can’t really say the same about the hotel she chose. It was two stars at best and at best resembled a no-tell motel done in Brazilian colonial style. Our room lay on the second floor facing a courtyard and while it had adequate air conditioning, emphasis on adequate, it did not have a television and their Wi-Fi had the speed of a dial up connection during a thunderstorm. Under normal circumstances, this would have been ideal. What could be better than to be in a beautiful vacation hideaway with little or no access to the outside world allowing you to fully enjoy your holiday bubble.

On March 11, when the WHO declared Covid a global pandemic we were on a chartered boat exploring the coast, drinking cachaca and feeding hungry monkeys outside the café where we ate dinner. It was not until we got back to our room and managed to attach ourselves to the cup and string internet that we got word of the declaration. I was not overwhelmingly alarmed. I assumed life would go on as before albeit with more intense screening for the disease and people would be more cautious. What concerned me more was Mom would not be so nonchalant. She spent a good deal of her day in her kitchen watching MSNBC and indulging in her favorite passions: hating Donald Trump. I had no doubt they were spinning the story as anti-Trump for no other reason than his response to the looming threat had the competence of a second grader working on quantum mechanics equation. As a rule, I called Mom everyday while I was traveling using Skype as the overseas charges for cell phone usage would plunge small nations into a debt crisis. As we had such spotty internet, I had not called her in the last couple of days but knowing she would be in full panic mode I called use cell service.

She picked up on the second ring. “Daniel?”

“Hi Mom. Greetings from Paraty!”

Normally my mother is an exceptionally gracious lady. She would have asked how my trip was going, whether the weather was good, how was the food and other questions that demonstrated her interest in my trip. This time she did not. She demanded, “When are you coming home?”

“You know this mom. My flight is scheduled to leave on the 16^th. I will be home the morning of the 17^th.”

 “Can you come home now?”

“What is up Mom? I will be home in a couple of days.”

“Have you been keeping up with the news? Do you know what is going on?” she asked in an accusatorial tone.

“Somewhat. The internet here is lousy and we don’t have a television. But I have caught snippets. It seems your beloved President is starting to take this thing seriously.”

“Daniel, MSNBC is saying that the President is considering shutting down travel from overseas and locking down the country. You need to come home.”

I didn’t say anything for a second. It was all too easy for me to imagine Mom’s panic. I was her primary care giver. She could not get food or anything else without me. If I were caught overseas who would help her? She would be on her own. Something I had promised her I would never let happen. I replied “Mom, let me see what I can do, and I will get back to you in a little while.”

When I hung up the phone, I told Nadine what was going on at home and how my mother was in full blown panic. To my beloved wife’s credit, she said with no prompting “Then my darling you must go home.” I called American Airline. I was not the only anxious American who wanted to go home. All the flights from Rio before my travel dates were completely booked. We tried flying out of Sao Paulo. They too were fully booked. Connecting flights, the same. When I asked the agent about what she had heard about flights being cancelled she said as far as they knew flights would be operating normally. She said not to worry. Easy for her to say. She didn’t have a nearly ninety-year-old mother who was getting worked up by cable news.

Frustrated in my efforts to rebook my flights but knowing that I had done all I could do I called Mom back and shared the news with her. She was not happy. I knew this was not directed at me. It was directed at the situation. She was scared. But it was hard not to take this personally. A son’s guilt. I told her that I would continue to try to get an earlier flight but not to worry I would see her on the 16^th. I promised.

How could I know what was coming? No one knew. But late at night I am still plagued by that promise. I should have called other airlines. I could have tried begging the airlines and explained my situation. Could have. Should have. Would have. The most worthless expressions in the English language.

From then on, I left my cell data on. I did not care what it cost. Things were getting serious, and I needed to get home. It is hard to enjoy yourself on holiday when your phone is constantly beeping with updates and the world as you know it is ending. It affected our behavior. We started avoiding crowds of any sort. We began to choose restaurants not only by cuisine but by whether they were crowded or better yet had an outdoor seating option.

On March 13^th, our last night in Paraty, after weeks of downplaying the pandemic Donald Trump declared Covid 19 a national emergency. The fact that the man who had downplayed Covid as no worse than the flu virus was now taking it seriously was alarming. When I called, Mom would barely say hello to me before asking “Have you had any luck getting on an earlier flight” and when I would respond in the negative, she inquired “And your flight on the 15^th is still leaving on time.” And when I reassured her that it was, she would tell me “Good. Make sure you are on that flight.”  It made me desperate to leave. The only way I could sleep at night was knowing on the fifteenth I would be headed home and a liberal dose of Cachaca.

On March 14, my birthday, we headed home to Rio. We were happy to leave. The last few days of the trip had not been the relaxing time we had hoped for. We were wrapped up in the terror of catching Covid and my desperate attempt to leave the country. Not that leaving the country was a completely comfortable feeling. I would be leaving my wife behind amid a pandemic. What kind of a husband does that? When I brought up these feelings with Nadine, she was both honest and gentle with me. She told me that she was frightened. Frightened she would catch the disease. Frightened that she would have to face it alone. Fearful she would never see me again. But she knew I must go. That my mother could not take care of herself and that her needs and fears were small compared to hers. She said “My love, you do not have a choice. You must go. I understand.”

Her understanding made me feel horrible.

About halfway through our journey, close to Angara del Reis, the home of one of Brazil’s nuclear power stations, we stopped at a roadside cantina for a bio break. The place had an open-air architecture that might have been popular in the fifties with a hint of decrepitude covered in faded blue paint. It was not a pleasant experience. The place was crowded, and we were unprotected. The men’s room was dark and dingy and when I went to wash my hands there was no soap or paper towels to dry my hands. For some reason, the whole thing reminded me of a scene from a Hunter Thompson tome. I was living in a Ralph Steadman drawing. Things were getting very weird and scary. I had just shaken my hands dry when my phone buzzed. It was a text from American Airlines. My flight had been cancelled. I showed Nadine. She hugged me and said “Oh Daniel. Do you want to call them now.”

I didn’t. I knew the call would be difficult and have long holds. I replied, “Let’s wait until we get home.”

We made one more stop before arriving home. The Guanabara Super Mercado, a huge supermarket off Avenue of the Americas in Barra de Tijuca, the section of Rio where I home is located.  We had decided on the latter part of our journey that we needed to provision up. Who knew how long this pandemic would last and neither of us had much appetite, excuse the pun, for going out, so we might as well stop now. It was a madhouse from a parking lot where drivers cut people off for parking spaces to tug of wars over rolls of toilet tissue and fist fights, not hyperbole, over a case of Itaipava beer. But that is not what bothered us the most. It was being amongst a crowd of people, maskless, in a place where there was no separation and where you could almost see the Covid virus doing pirouettes in the air above us. We left there with a profound desire not to do that again. Little did I realize that it would be a year in a half before I stepped foot in a grocery store again.

When I finally called American Airlines late that afternoon, I was placed on hold for nearly an hour. As someone who has flown over three million miles with them and had access to a special phone line for their customers, this was quite a change, albeit understandable. The agent I eventually spoke to have the tone of someone who had been run through a ringer. I had no doubt that she had dealt with dozens of customers who were now stranded and desperate to go home whom she had no ability to accommodate. I had no doubt she had suffered abuse by many of them. Therefore, I tried to treat her with as much kindness as I could. Even when she told me that American Airlines had cancelled all flights to and from  Rio until March 25 and that I was now booked on that flight. She also warned me that flight was provisional. She could not guarantee there would be no further delays.

When I hung up the phone with her, I called United and Delta, the two other US carriers who service Rio. The story there was the same. No flights for at least two weeks and even then, no guarantee. I was frustrated, angry with myself for putting myself in this mess. I should have seen it coming. But mostly I was feeling guilty. What about Mom?

I called my sister. I started off by telling her I knew that it was impossible for her to give Mom the daily care she needed. Which led to a dialogue about how could I say that? She was fully capable of handling it. I told her that she already had too much on her plate with a couple of teenagers, two cats, a dog, and a husband to be responsible for and that as magnificent as she was it would burn her out. Moreover, who knew how long this craziness would last? It would be better to get ahead of the curve than to be behind it. A nursing home was discussed and rejected not only because they were already breeding grounds for the disease and were causing a large number of deaths, but Mom hated them. Even when she was weak and recovering from surgery, she would ask every day to be set free. I could not blame her. To me they were dormitories of death.

We eventually hit upon a couple of ideas. The first was to ask Mom’s cleaning woman, Zita, a recent immigrant from Portugal, who was also cleaned my apartment, if she could stop in three times a week and bring whatever necessities Mom might need. She was capable and, in the past, she had provided when Mom needed it.

I called Zita. She, like so many immigrants, was willing to take on the extra duties for the additional cash it would bring in to help finance her American dream. Especially considering that most of her clientele had abandoned her during the pandemic, preferring to do their household chores now they were home full time.

I rang Mom. She was not happy that my flight was now delayed for ten days. “Why didn’t you get an earlier flight. I told you to get an earlier flight.” I could not convince her that I tried and there were no flights to be found. But I also understood. She was vulnerable, and the whole world was burning down around her. It was scary. Me being nearby would lessen that fear. And I wanted to be there for her, but I couldn’t. Her anger, my guilt. Neither of those emotions did either one of us any good but in these circumstances, they were immutable laws of the universe.

I did not leave the country on March 25^th. Nor on April 4^th. Or May 1, the world had shut down. Like a global game of musical chairs, you were stuck wherever you were when the music stopped. Nadine and I had it better than 99% of people who were living in the Covid world. Our home in Barra was in a gated community with a twelve-foot wall around it. We had help coming in three days a week. Now this may seem like we were putting people at unnecessary risk and to be fair we were. But Nadine’s housekeeper, Fatima, and her groundskeeper, Antionio, depended on the money we paid them to survive. And we paid them extra so they would not have to take public transportation. I am not saying we were saints for this. Sainthood would paying them and not asking them to come to work. They shopped, cleaned, cooked, and maintained for us and for that we felt truly fortunate to be in the situation we were in.

Things were going as well as could be expected in New Jersey. In addition to Zita coming three times a week to clean and check in on Mom we had established an Instacart “reservation” for her. Once a week she would get a delivery of her normal order of prepared meals and anything else she needed and could be found at Kings Market. If there were a special need, Milano cookies, a pint of Ben and Jerry’s or household items like paper towels or Listerine wipes either Julia or I would add them to the order. Every night at 5pm her time I would call her on Facebook Messenger and have a video chat with her. It was not as good as me being there for her or for me, but it did give us the opportunity to see each other face to face and have a conversation about what was going on in her life. For her, it was mostly Donald Trump focused. She had a passionate dislike for the man, who could blame her, but his handling of Covid and his refusal to accept basic medical thinking sent her over the edge.  Her end of the phone calls were often long rants on Trumps failings, missteps, and incompetence. I did not mind. It meant she was engaged and well. For my part, I would often read her, she an editor of great note, paragraphs from a novel I was writing about my father’s war experiences.

In an odd way, these daily sessions made us closer than ever before despite the fact I was six thousand miles, not two, away from her. I am not saying it relieved the guilt or the pressure to get home. It did not. Every call would end with “have you heard any more about getting a flight home” or “I wish you were here” but our situation forced us to talk in way that we didn’t when we were in closer proximity.

Things were going great. Until they were not.

Chapter Two: Day 1 5pm (cont.)

I was on US 78 W on my way to my the Sloan Kettering oncology facility in Basking Ridge N.J. Sitting in the passenger seat was my mother who had been diagnosed with lung cancer several months earlier. We were on our way to the third out of twelve radiation treatments. Her prognosis was good. They had caught it early, but the diagnosis was sobering and, as you can imagine, the mood in my car was tight lipped and somber. Going to a place where they promise that they are going to hurt you, make no promises of future well being and where you are among the sick and dying is sobering.

Some people put on a false front when facing treatment for a disease that has a huge chance of causing your demise. Mom was not one of them. She was not overly morose or weepy. Just tense and as brittle as a decades old pressed flower. I had tried my jolly elf routine and it had been as successful as telling an Italian joke at a Knights of Columbus meeting. A very loud silence permeated the car which kept us imprisoned in our fears and thoughts. We were both startled into the present when my phone blared through the car speakers. It was Del. A welcome distraction from the somber mood in the car. I answered the phone on speaker. I had barely gotten out “Hi D “ let alone warned her we were on speaker and Mom was sitting next me when she began cursing me out. Apparently, she had just gotten off the phone with Duke, then a sophomore at MIT,  with whom she had just had a knock down drag out fight and for a reason I could not fathom at the time, blamed me for the argument.  He had told her in a way sophomore in college often lecture their parents that listening to Fox News was rotting her brain.  Her political opinion was racist and woefully ignorant. That her view of Christianity, steeped in the megachurch evangelical community in which she had immersed herself were both heretical to the true precepts of Jesus and hypocritical. That she preached love and understanding but practiced hate and intolerance. She screamed into the phone “You did this to him. You and your New York liberal elitist point of view. You have stolen his values from him.”

It stung like a slap to the face on a cold day. A smack that came with no warning. A blow that produced instant anger that would never be regretted. How else should I have felt? New York Liberal elite was transparent code. She might as well call me a dirty Jew.  it would have meant the same thing. Back on heals from a verbal assault I didn’t see coming I parried with a brilliant retort. I said  “What the fuck do you mean by that.”

“You and your liberal ideas that you put into his head. All those Jewish ideas he gets from the New York Times and other anti-Christian media. It has turned my son against me. I never should have let you into our house.”

I guess I could have followed Jesus’s advice and turned the other cheek. But as she pointed out I am Jewish, a son of a holocaust survivor and someone who has a well-tuned knee jerk reaction to antisemitism.  I reacted. Not in a patient understanding manner but as man who has just been told that a twenty plus year relationship has been nothing more than a charade.

“Who the fuck do you think you are calling me on the phone and accusing me of corrupting your son. What kind of antisemitic racist bullshit is it blaming Jews for corrupting his values. Your fucking savior was a Jew. Have you your fucking god damn mind? Perhaps one of the reasons your son has turned against you is you spouting this kind ugliness to him. You spent every day with him for twenty years and suddenly I am the problem and Jews are to blame. Clearly, it’s us because of course it can’t be you. You talk to him every day and I maybe speak with him once a month and his opinions and thoughts are my fault. Perhaps it would be more useful for you to take a look in the mirror than call and yelling at me while I am taking my mother to radiation therapy.”

“I don’t need to look in a mirror. I know where he got these anti-Christian ideas from. Whenever you came to visit, I would spend weeks trying to deprogram him and Liam from your ideas. I told Conor I never liked having you in our home.”

I had always done my best to be the best uncle, the best guest, the best friend I could be. Never once in the twenty-five years I had known Del, not once during a single visit had she raised a red flag about my behavior. I always thought I was the welcome addition to their house. Uncle Danny. The guy who took care of Delilah when she couldn’t get out of bed for fear of losing her baby. The Uncle who bought the kids their first hot fudge sundae. The man who got took them to Yankee Stadium with tickets behind home plate and on the rail. The guy who whenever he came to visit would take the family to Morton’s or Chops or some other fancy restaurant for an opulent meal not just for fun but to teach them what to do when they went to fine restaurants. The link to their roots who reveled in telling the boys stories about their grandfather because they needed to know about their legacy. Now this woman, whom I had introduced to her husband is telling me that I was never welcome in her home.?

The slap had turned to a kick to the balls. Every circuit was blown. The years of happy memories had been irretrievably altered. Oddly, instead of intensifying my emotions,  her comments turned them cold. “You know what Delilah. You don’t have to worry about it anymore. I will never set foot in your home again. “ and pushed the end button on my phone.  There was silence in the car for a few miles and then my sweet, Ferragamo loafer wearing, never leave the house without putting on lipstick mother said, “What a cunt.”

Late that afternoon, after I dropped Mom at home, and was stuck in traffic on the Lincoln Tunnel helix I  called Conor. I started with “Louise called your wife a cunt today.” It got his attention. I told him what happened and said “I love you man, but I will never stay in your house again. Never. Not because of animosity or anger. But because if she has been harboring all this hate for me for years, and saying nothing, how can I feel welcome when I know somewhere lurking beneath the surface is this hostility, this antisemitism bullshit. Can’t do it.”

Conor had a tone of voice when he was super angry. It was a low registered growl where he enunciated every consonant and diphthong.  He used it now and replied, “I will take care of it.”

“Nothing to take care of. It is what it is. Del just told me today who I am to her and revealed who she is and I heard her.”

“I will take care of it.”

“Whatever. Do you want you want to do but I said what I meant and will do as I say” echoing one of Conor’s father’s favorite axioms.

Later that day, I got a call from Delilah. I didn’t answer it. I had no desire to talk with her and let it go to voicemail. The message, when I finally listened to it a couple of days  later when curiosity had gotten the best of me, was a non-apology,  apology.  She was sorry for the tenor of the conversation but that she meant what she had said. As she didn’t ask for forgiveness, I saw no reason to give it, let alone speak with her. But to be honest, even if she had asked, I am not sure at that time I could have given it.  My relationship with Conor remained the same, except our friendship would be conducted over the phone or on his occasional trips to the city. True to my word, I never set foot in their home again and probably never would have seen her again if I had not fallen in love and married. 

In 2012, I was in desperate need of a break. I had spent most of my free time over the previous two years being a caregiver for my father. In 2010, he fell and injured himself so badly that he could no longer walk. A pattern of hospital, rehab center, home developed where I became the child that helped both parents cope. I drove them to Dr’s appointments or drove Mom to the hospitals and rehabilitation centers when Dad was sent there. Or, just sitting with my father in his hospital rooms and bedroom and talking. It was traumatic. It was debilitating. The daily contemplation of the inevitability of your parent’s mortality, dealing with the indignities of old age such as wiping your old man’s ass or changing his catheter took a physical and psychic toll.  And even though Dad’s constant refrain was “Don’t break your ass over me” and my always reply “Don’t worry it is already cracked” I found it impossible to take time for myself. They called. I came. Not trying to being a hero, just a son who was trying to do his best to repay the debt they never asked me to pay. Sons, like friends, show up.  It was always on duty and the caregiving for my father had ground me down like a knife that had been sharpened too many times.

Then the Costa Concordia hit a rock and sank off the cost of Italy killing 34 passengers. While for many the sinking of the ship reinforced the idea that cruises were not an ideal vacation, for me, who had never been on a cruise, sparked a different thought. Don’t judge me.  I thought that due to the tragedy that their cruises might be bargained price and afford me a champagne vacation for beer prices. I was right. An eighteen-day cruise from Santos, Brazil to Savona Italy, all-inclusive with a balcony stateroom was less than $1,500. I booked it on the spot. I hoped it would re-expand my world beyond my work, my apartment and my parents’ home. I hoped being on a cruise, without good internet and expensive phone service would allow me to recharge and get strong for the imminent and inevitable conclusion of Pop’s story. And perhaps, if I was lucky, I might find a little joy.

I did not expect to find a wife. But I did. On the third night of the cruise, I was seated next to a stunning Brazilian lawyer named Nadine Silva-Campos and by the time we said our farewells at the end of our cruise I knew that I had found my great love. An intercontinental romance commenced. Nine months later, punctuated by the deaths of both of our fathers and long flights between Rio and New York City, we were engaged. 

We decided to get married that summer, in my parents’ backyard, among a small group of family and friends. I asked Conor to be my best man and for the boys to be there for their “Uncle’s” big day. I knew, of course, that this meant that Delilah would have to attend.  At that point it had been almost five years since we had talked. I figured the wound had scarred over at that point those whatever uncomfortable feelings we had for each other had faded to skin tone. By and large I was correct. She was helpful and thoughtful. Mostly. Nadine told me later that she found her a little bossy. This was echoed by Mom who told me that Del had told her that she had arranged the buffet incorrectly and had set out to do it her way. If you are trying to make a good impression on someone in their own home, it is probably bad form to tell them they are too feeble to lay out a table properly. It is especially bad form if that person, like Mom, has a touch of obsessive-compulsive disorder and knows exactly how she likes things arranged.  Or if that person already thinks you a cunt.

I am not saying that the animosity had subsided, but it was enough to broker peace. I would not and could not forget what lay beneath Del’s church lady facade. A bell once rung cannot be un-rung. But it was enough to allow me to step back into their new home in California with only slightly uncomfortable feelings.

“Nothing Del” I said “Your husband and I were just discussing whether the green flash exists or whether or not it is myth invented by hippies and drug dealers to get us to stare at the setting sun. What do you think?”

She made no move to embrace me. Perhaps it was the oversized glass of red wine in her hand. Or perhaps like me our truce would only go so far. It didn’t really matter but it made for an awkward moment that was only relieved when she took a seat on the deck chairs on the far side of Conor farthest from me. Her welcome, or lack thereof, made me realize that Conor’s insistence that I stay with them was his idea and not embraced by Delilah. I was thinking how awkward this was going to be over the next few days when she said “People around here talk about the Green Flash all the time. You always see people walking out to the pier at sunset to watch it. Our neighbor Phyllis, she and her husband have cocktails every night on their deck and watch for it. “

“But have you ever seen it?”

“Well, no but….”

“That is what I was telling Conor. It is hooh-hah designed by some chamber of commerce to get people to come to the beach and spend money at their stores and restaurant” I said with what I hoped was more than a touch of snark to my voice.

I could tell from the nearly invisible smile on my buddy’s face that he had heard my comments the way they were intended. I was throwing a verbal hand grenade into the room and seeing what would happen. Or said another way, just adding a little spice to the conversation to make it livelier and fun. It is an element of my sense of humor. An element, I might add, that was shared by Conor and had been honed by Conor’s Dad who loved to inject a bit of contrarianism or fit of fantasy in a conversation for fun. All good, except I had forgotten Delilah lacked a sense of humor.

She replied with earnestness “Well, it just has to be true. Phyllis would not make it up. She has lived here all her life and she claims to have seen it. So I believe her.”

Conor chuckled. I may have too. Which I could see instantly was a very bad idea as Delilah’s face turned stormy. Pro tip: “never tease your hostess.” Especially if she doesn’t particularly like you, has little or no sense of humor, and you get her husband to join in. Her voice tinged with ice said “Well, why don’t we just sit and watch and perhaps then you will see that you have been wrong.”

Properly chastised, I turned my attention to the red orange globe that radiated a finger above the Pacific. It was splendiferous. Marmalade skies meeting a blue green ocean. In our silence you could hear waves breaking on the beach 200 yards away along with the occasional screech of a gull and the rustle of a flag on the neighbor’s flagpole. Watching the sunset, when I have had the opportunity, has always been one of those timeless moments reminding me not only of the inevitability that everyday must end, that we must suffer the darkness before we greet a new day. Watching the end of the day has been a ritual of man since we achieved sentience. And the green flash. How long had we been looking for that?  It is not that I did not believe in the flash. It was more that I didn’t need to see it to appreciate the moment. The green flash was, if it existed, was gilt on the already gilded.

There was no green flash that evening. That is, neither Delilah, Conor nor I saw it.  The sun slipped beneath the waves with no expressions of its departure at all. I couldn’t resist. I said, “Anyone see the flash?”

Conor said with a smile “I must have blinked.” Delilah, did not think I was funny and said with little enthusiasm “Lets go to dinner.”

We ate that night at The Strand House restaurant. It may not be my favorite restaurant in Manhattan Beach, but with its location at the end of Manhattan Beach Blvd. on the last hill before you reach the Pacific and with its large plate glass windows overlooking the world’s largest Ocean its view cannot be denied. They also made an excellent Manhattan which, due to my ironic sense of humor, I always drank when I am there.

When the waiter brought us our refreshments, I say “Dude, can you imagine what you father would be saying to us right now.” Conor’s father, Big Con to his closest friends, had been an oversized presence in both our lives. He was suave, always dressed elegantly even on weekend and wickedly funny in the way you didn’t always know he was joking. My mother once described him as “one of the handsomest men” she had ever seen. The president of an Investment company he had mentored me in the finer things in life extolling such things as how to make the perfect Martini ( over vodka so cold you could chip a tooth you whisper the words Noily Pratt) or at one legendary meal at the Brompton Grill in London introducing me to vintage Port.  Despite the fact we would argue about politics all the time (He thought Nixon a great President, I thought he was a crook.) he embraced me if not as a member of the family as a member of his clan. 

He was also a man of quiet faith and inner certitude they don’t mint any longer. On his way to work he would stop for a few moments of prayer and reflection at Trinity Church in lower Manhattan. He remained faithful, as far as I know, to his wife until the day he died even though she was a hopeless, degenerate alcoholic. Elizabeth O’Neil Kennedy had been a beautiful debutante, charming and witty when Big Con had met her. Somewhere along line she had fallen in love with the bottle (yes, I understand that the alcoholism is a disease, but I didn’t know that at the time) It meant that for most of their lives Big Con, despite being a legendary tippler (code for functioning alcoholic) he had both mother and father to Con and his two siblings Leonard and Kathryn. It was he who did his best to set his children on the right path in life let alone make it to school.

It was Big Con who had made sure that Con had put his nose to the grindstone in our senior year in High School so his grades would be sufficient to get him into his alma mater, Union College in upstate New York.  He was also responsible for convincing Conor to embark on a career in insurance. It was, after all, the de facto  family business. Big Con’s father had been a successful broker so it stood to reason that Con, despite his aspirations of being a psychologist, would undertake a career in the same industry as father and grandfather.

Big Con had been diagnosed with terminal lung cancer just two years after we had graduated from college. A disease that we all felt was brought on by having the company he had built over the last quarter of a century stolen from him. It was an awful time. How could it not be? A vibrant larger than life young man, he was barely in his fifties, being eaten away disease that was slowly eroding his life force. He had refused all pain medication and had managed his pain with vodka and gritted teeth. My most vivid memories of those times were seeing this man I admired laying on a couch in his kitchen racked by pain and soothed by alcohol with his wife in her normal alcohol induced dementia screaming down from the stairs at him. ”You bastard. How could you do this to me. Leave me alone like this” as if she was the aggrieved party in his demise. 

Big Con had become mythical in Conor’s family from the tales we would tell Duke and Liam. Some apocryphal, some unvarnished truth. But what really stuck was an exchange my friend would have with his boys. They would tell him that he was “the best dad” and he would always respond “No, I had the best dad.” Thoughts of him when we were together were never distant. Waiting for our drinks I say to Con.   “He would have loved this place. Not just the beach. But the attitude. It is so different than most California beach communities. It is like the difference between Belmar and Spring Lake in New Jersey. People come here to live. There is a community and some age to the place. It is shut off from  the rest of the area. Self-contained. I can see him walking down the street. Dressed in blazer and grey slacks and tassled loafters window shopping and just enjoying the scene.”

Conor smiled and said “Here is to Big Con.” We clinked glasses.

I added “He would have been proud of you too. Running the west coast of the United States for Mercer’s. He would have gotten a kick out of that. What was that joke he used to tell about Mercer’s. The one with the guy trying to pick up a girl at a bar.”

Con smiled “A famous actor walks into a bar. He is a handsome brute with muscle bulging through his shirt and with a glow of confidence from knowing he will be recognized walks up to the prettiest woman in the place and says “You know the studio thinks that I am a perfect physical specimen even my dick is insured by Mercer’s for one million dollars. The woman snaps back “Really, how did you spend the money.”

Conor and I howled with laughter. Probably more than the joke was worth but more from the moment of celebration and remembrance of all the jokes that his father had told us. He was a prodigious storyteller. But I notice that Delilah is not laughing at all and is eyeing me with a glint of disapproval. The joke does not align with her fundamental Christian values, and it is yet another example of why she mostly disapproves of me. I don’t care. I have not cared since she shared her true feelings about me in that fateful phone call. But I am a guest in her home, and I try to be respectful of people even when they don’t reciprocate them.

I change the subject and ask “Delilah, new coast, new home. How are you going to be spending your days with Conor out making the world safe for insurance?” The appetizers arrive and we are all temporarily quiet as our starters are placed in front of us. I exchanged a quick glance with Conor. His look tells me that the question I ask is a good one. He wants to hear the answer as well. Her not working or contributing to the finances of the household has been a major bone of contention since little Con’s birth. It had become a sniping point and fodder for passive aggressive behavior between them ever since.

Del picked at her Caesar Salad, never raising her eyes from her plate and said “I have not figured that out yet. We have not even unpacked yet. And Duke is moving out here next month to start his doctorate at Cal Tech so I am going to have him get set up. So right now I have my hands full. I’ll figure out the rest when the time comes.” When Con saw that she would not meet his look, he said with more than a touch of irony “Don’t forget Del that idle hands are the devils workshop.”

It was an asshole thing to say. Couples should not argue in front of other people. It is unseemly, impolite, and make those who experience it want to either crawl underneath the table or referee neither of which is a good option. But that was Conor’s way. He was not easy on Delilah. He would often confront her about things that bothered him in front of other people and even his children. To my shame, I never confronted him about this. Partly because I had learned over time that couples had their own ways of navigating their relationship. My parents had loved arguing with each other, something that I despised seeing, but when as an adult I had confronted them on it my father had looked me in the eye and said “We have been married for forty-three years. How long have you been married?” I had met couples who never had sex with each other but had beaucoup sex outside the relationship but stayed together not because of inertia but because they loved each other enough that they found ways to make the marriage work for them. Those things did not fit my idea of what I wanted from a marriage but who the only opinions that matter in a relationship are those in it.  If it worked for them who I am to judge.

Later, I would wonder whether I should have said something to Con about his behavior. Perhaps things would have been different. Perhaps not.

I also knew what was going to happen next. I had seen it enough in their relationship. Delilah would adopt a saccharine sweet persona where she would coo and fawn over Con. He would respond with kindness and solicitude. And they would become a Facebook ready image of the happy couple.

That is exactly what happened. The boil of resentment lanced they proceeded to coo at each other for the rest of our meal. They talked about the life they were going to build for themselves in California. Their need for a second car and how Conor wanted a Lexus and the ever-thrifty Delilah thought it would be best if they bought a Honda. There was an apartment to decorate and golf clubs to investigate. Honestly, it was boring and a little unsettling to me. Dull because how others set up their domestic arrangements doesn’t interest me very much. Have at it. Call me when you are done. Unsettling because the ease they had moved from eye daggers to puppy dog love was so fast it left me dizzy.

Dinner concluded with a shared dessert of all thing’s donuts: Tahitian vanilla bean, apple crumble, chocolate crunch, spiced blackberry, caramel with fleur de sel. Very California to have a beginning of day sweet at the end of the day. To accompany our dessert, I ordered a bottle of Dolce by Far Niente and while not Chateau Y’Quem one of my favorite after dinner wines. I toasted them by saying “Dolce means sweet in an Italian and Far Niente meeting means without a care. May your new life in California be sweet and without a care.”

Little did I realize then how those words would boomerang on me.

We didn’t quite stumble back to their apartment. But we weren’t walking a straight line either. We were in that marshmallow state where you have had just the right amount of liquor, your belly is full of good food and you are in the presence of people that you care about. Conor was all for continuing our imbibing when we got home but I was still on east coast time and had reached my personal limit on alcohol, so I begged off and went to bed.

Robin Williams famously said, “I love Jack Daniels, but Jack Daniels does not love me.” I remember that every time I wake in the middle night after an evening of imbibement. Inevitably, I wake up. Inevitably, I cannot fall back to sleep.  That night, when I woke, it was even more difficult than usual falling back to sleep. Part of it was how uncomfortable I felt being in Delilah’s home. While there was a truce between us, there was also an underlying tension. It went beyond her barely disguised animosity for me. There was something else gnawing at the edge of my awareness but for the life of me I could not figure out what that was. In my eyes, Conor and Del had reached a pinnacle point in their lives. A beautiful new home on the beach in one of the nicest communities in California. A great job that not only provided a significant income but prestige as well. A marriage that produced two fine young men and while not perfect seemed, at least from the outside, to work.

I awake to the sound of distant drums and muffled cheering. I suspect that somewhere on the Ritz’s property a group of native Hawaiians are giving some mainlanders a highly sanitized introduction to their culture. Perhaps a hula demonstration or Luau. I have no desire to get up and join them. It is too corny and I am too tired for any socializing tonight. But I am still wrestling with what brought us here in the first place. Not only the death of Conor but the circumstances that led up to it, how I had missed so much and the role I had played when everything went tits up.