Beyond a reasonable doubt
By Atención staff, May 18, 2007

Two weeks ago the Author’s Sala presented “Works in Progress,” an event showcasing some of San Miguel’s new and up-and-coming writers. It was a smashing success.

One of the participants in this event was Joanne Howard. Howard started out as a nurse, exercise instructor, radio and TV host and newspaper columnist. Her goal has always been to improve the quality of life of women through her teachings and writings. How the mind works and how it affects the body and vice versa has always been of great interest and she has done much research in the field of body/mind health.

Her reading is from a memoir about marrying the same man twice and the unbelievable trauma and recovery involved.

An excerpt from Good Times Don’t Last Forever by Joanne Howard:

The scene is emblazoned upon my mind. It never goes away for long. It pops up with the least encouragement. A song on the radio, a darkly furnished room, or the smell of Chinese food.

He is standing stiffly in the center of the large, high-ceilinged living room, one arm resting, elbow bent, on the mantel. He is just to the right of the fireplace, framed by the red velvet drapes. It’s his room, the black leather couch, the gold-flecked wall paper and the Italian marble tables with crystal lamps. Perched above his head was a huge gold crown encrusted with precious stones of brilliant red, blue and gold, the king. He was often tagged as one in the local newspapers and newsreels. “King of torts overturns another supreme court case” or “rapist released after his attorney destroys the victim on the stand.” The crown is hanging above the long Tudor table in the dining room, and appears to be sitting atop his head. His stance is tall and sturdy, anchored by strong broad shoulders. This is one of the things that impresses the juries and sways them to his side. His gaze is now directed at me. Those large brown liquid eyes, eyes that once looked upon me with love. I always loved those eyes, but now I 
am frightened by them. 

Where was the boy I married, just ten short years ago? Where was the young man I held in my arms while he sobbed, “what am I going to do?” “Please tell me what can I do?”He always depended on me, to get through college, to get through law school, to run everything so that he could focus on one thing at a time. That’s all he was capable of, we both knew that. We had an unspoken agreement, I would do everything, and he would take care of himself. We’d do just fine.

Now I could feel the air thicken around us, a heavy fog moving in. The sun seemed to go down, even though it was only noon. My heart was beating fast, but I told it to slow down, everything is OK, don’t we have everything? We were the parents of three lovely kids, owners of a grand house on a tree-lined street just behind the college. What about your very own law office, just opened down the street?

He said “I have something to tell you.” I could not breathe. Could you just stop a minute? Slow down, take a break, I can’t catch up. I have to go upstairs and check on the baby; surely she needs to be nursed by now. My eyes are darting about now and I feel a strong urge to run. But I also want to gain some control. I cannot move, I cannot speak.

I knew something was wrong when he didn’t eat his lunch. He loves to eat and rarely came home for lunch. However, sometimes he would call and ask me to join him and some colleagues for lunch. I knew he liked to show me off, so I would always take great care in dressing. I wanted him to be as proud of me as I was of him.

“Joanne, please listen, you’re not listening. This is important.” He’s absolutely right, I am not listening. If I listen I might die. How can this be? A minute ago we were a couple, sitting in the kitchen, the new Swedish kitchen, with the red plaid indoor/outdoor carpeting and the delightful built-ins that slide and turn with a touch of the finger. How did we get into the living room? Why did he not eat the Chinese food I spent the whole morning preparing? Forget the morning, how about a month of cooking lessons with a little Chinaman who tried to convince me that a chicken should last a whole week for a family of four. Something went wrong with the scene. The projector broke, the couple were ripped down the middle. He put down his fork and looked at me. “I can’t eat right now, I need to talk to you”.

He doesn’t move from the fireplace. He is having trouble saying the piece he has rehearsed. The golden tongue is heavy, but he is determined. He adjusts his head just a bit higher, chin at a slightly stronger angle, always the thespian. I want to stop him as his lips begin to part…those full red lips that I loved to kiss, those Elvis lips. I want to talk about how perfect our life is, how much we love each other. I even help him into the shower every morning, (he hates to get up,) run the hot water and then run down to the kitchen to cook his breakfast. I put his briefcase by the door so he won’t forget it. I serve his breakfast in the kitchen alcove dressed in a perfectly matched penoir set in his favorite white or pale blue. I walk him to the door, wish him luck on his case, and kiss him goodbye. Sometimes, if it is very cold, I even run out while he is in the shower and start up the car so he won’t be cold.

Words escape from his lips before I am ready…“you’ve known for a long time something is wrong between us” very lawyerly and matter of fact, no reasonable doubt. No, no, I think, I don’t know that, no one knows that, not the children, not our friends and certainly not me. We never fight, we have great sex, we look great together, we’re the perfect couple, everyone says so. Wait.

“So this will come as no surprise to you,” he continues smoothly. You’re wrong, I am surprised, I am way past surprised. I’m in shock. I am running a flat line, my respirations are nil, my fingernails are turning blue…I…

“I’m leaving you.” Sudden, stone-like calm, like never before, takes over. I can tell he is pleased, no scene, quiet, submissive, reasonable. “Is there someone else?” I am whispering now. I need to know this, I just need to. Perhaps if I stay calm, I’ll get more information. “Yes,” he smiles “there is.” Now I know there is not only someone else, there is not me. 

I become an instant detective, slow and smooth. “Who is she?” I ask. ”You don’t know her, I just got a divorce for her, she’s just a poor little ragamuffin. She needs me. I promised…..” “You promised, you promised what?” “I promised to marry her.” The adrenaline is pumping, the detective is losing her cool. She is shaking, he is not. “Don’t worry, I’ll take care of you,” he says. I start to laugh, I have to laugh, it strikes me so funny. “You’ll take care of me,” I repeat. He is uncomfortable now, chances are he will run. But I want to run, I want to hide. No, my little girl and my little boy will be home from school soon. My baby is upstairs sleeping in the crib. I get to stay and he gets to go.

He feels better now. He’s relieved. He has done what he has promised to do. He is liberated, free to fly.

Cleansed, conscience clear, he slowly removes his arm from the mantel and smoothes out the front of his three piece suit .He checks his gold cuff links stamped with the scales of justice and glides towards the front door. He glides past his piano, past all the hard, dark furniture he loves, and past the perfect wife he no longer loves. I follow him, as usual, to say goodbye .There is no kiss with this last goodbye. He is a bird ready to fly. As he walks down the front path under the trees, towards his red sports car and away from us, he doesn’t turn to look back. I yell to his disappearing figure, “you’ll be back…don’t worry you’ll be back.”