Lindsey's mother, driven to drink by her children.
It was during this first month of our new residence and life together, alone and without Dave, that we were paid a brief visit by Lindsey’s parents, taking a flight from New Jersey. I was at work, doing a side-job with Bones the day of their arrival. But I’ll never forget the moment we met.
The front door of our second story apartment entered into the kitchen. It was evening and I’d just come up the stairs, sweaty, tired from work, tool belt in hand as I entered the room. There they were, the three of them, standing and ranged along the kitchen counter, each with a beer in hand. As I set down my tools, about to greet them I was slammed against the wall by Lindsey’s mother, a full body slam.
She had me pinned against the wall, her arm across my chest, her face a few inches from mine with the strong smell of alcohol on her breath. She began: “You leave my daughter alone. She’s bad news for you. She’s bad news for anybody. You’re making a big mistake”. While she was spitting this in my face, I could hear Lindsey in the background, plaintively: “Mom, you’re embarrassing me”. She released her hold. I was offered a beer. We exchanged introductions and from then on the conversation was quite civil. We had another round of beers.
Her mother had dark, curly hair and was about my size and weight, in her mid-fifties. She was loud, dominant and drank two beers to our one. The father was short, thin, and frail. He was soft-spoken, polite, and timid. After this first outburst, they seemed to want to get to know me, asking many questions. Lindsey cooked us a dinner and drove them to their motel later. Her mother reminded me of the character ‘Gervaise’ from ‘Zola’s’ novel ‘L’assommoir’, that is, in her decline and middle age, a sad woman and a little mad from her trials and losses in life, but someone you could feel sympathy for, knowing her children.
With Lindsey’s help they spent time with their two sons for a few days, then we took them to S.F. for a long day to Fisherman’s Wharf and Alcatraz island (everybody’s favorite). Then they flew home. We visited them at their home in N.J. the next July, not telling them we were pretty much history as a couple by then. We still took trips together but lived apart. Best not to tell old folks of young people’s problems so they can live out their retirement in peace. So this is what we did. I’m sure they had enough sad news with their son’s death the next year. And Ali, I have no idea what happened to him, or Lindsey.
Most final partings are sad affairs. But some are meant to be, even in the Spring of youth, when one party realizes the poisonous nature of the partnership and the inevitable danger and destruction it poses. If you feel a great rush of relief as you walk away, you can be well assured that you did the right thing and not the slightest hint of remorse (as in my case) ever follows.
One of the last times I saw her was on a rainy day in March of 86. It was a pathetic sight for me. She was sitting on a step in front ‘K’s cabin in the hills of Northern California, the middle of nowhere, (twenty miles to the next cabin) and looked like she was crying, with one arm covering her face because she knew I was there in Louie’s truck. We parked at the end of the driveway, and ‘K’ walked over to settle a few matters with me. We had a little business to finish up and took the long ride there to talk and trade.
Lindsey wouldn’t come over to say ‘hello’. She was living and working with ‘K’, hours from anywhere. I saw here briefly in the next few months in company with ‘K’, when she’d drop by for five minutes on business, but we didn’t exchange words. I heard they got busted next summer for a pot crop. But it wasn’t serious. Whatever happened to her or her brother after that was impossible to guess. I’m sure the Calculus I studied in my first year at Berkeley was a thousand times simpler. I didn’t try. I put them both totally out mind, and dropped any guess as to their future paths, just as you would the course of a butterfly.
