Authors: Katherine Stone
“Cheryl,” James mused. “Cheryl was the wife of my older brother’s best friend. They were both in Vietnam and Cheryl was lonely. It wasn’t a meaningful relationship.”
“But a lively one?”
“It kept me busy that summer. Her husband and my brother returned in September. Physically whole but emotionally scathed,” James said bitterly. “Anyway, Cheryl went back to her husband. Which is what we had planned.”
“It looked like you liked her,” Leslie said, remembering that balmy August night.
“Of course I liked her, but it didn’t mean anything to either of us. It was just a hedge against loneliness.”
Leslie shook her head.
“What I had with Cheryl was no different than what you had with Alan. You knew it wasn’t true love, but it felt good.”
“But neither of us was married,” Leslie said. “And we never slept together.”
“I didn’t know that. I just assumed,” James said, frowning, remembering. He had wanted to make love to Leslie that night at the lake. And a hundred other times. He had no idea it would have been her first time. No wonder she left. What other assumptions he had made that were wrong?
“I was very naive in high school, James. You knew that. I grew up at Radcliffe. But, of course, that was
after
I wrote you that silly letter.”
“Not silly. A letter that saved my life.”
“What?”
“It must have arrived at the logging camp with some letters from Cheryl. We only got mail twice a week, and Cheryl wrote every day. So it must have arrived with the other letters, and I didn’t notice it. I usually only glanced at Cheryl’s letters; they were all pretty similar. But I kept them all, including the unopened one from you.
“That fall I started school at the University of Washington as planned. The draft issue was still unresolved, and I had decided to give college a shot anyway. My enthusiasm for college lasted about two weeks,” James said. He sighed and added heavily, “It was replaced by enthusiasm for drugs.”
“Drugs?”
“Anything. Any form of escape,” James said harshly, the memories bitter. “I’d been drinking alcohol for years of course. And a little dope . . . marijuana. But suddenly I had access to acid and amphetamines and mescaline. You name it.”
“Why?” Leslie asked.
“Curiosity at first. Drugs were so available. They must have been available in Boston. You must have at least tried marijuana?”
“No,” Leslie said remembering her own scorn for the students who used drugs, who needed to use drugs. Leslie’s curiosity was satisfied by other things: the interesting people she met, her premed classes, campus activities, lectures. Her only experimentation had been sexual, and that hadn’t come until her junior year and then only with someone she thought she loved.
“No? Well, I found they provided a perfect escape; I could make it through the day with pills. I saw lights and colors that weren’t there, and I didn’t see the things that were there, the real things, the things I would rather forget. I felt good about myself for once.”
“Escape? Forget? Feel good about yourself? I don’t understand.”
“In high school,” James explained slowly, “you always thought I was in control, knew what I wanted, was able to make choices. Right?”
“Right. You seemed so calm. Yes, controlled. And you were the only person in history who could choose to be with our group one day and your own gang the next. You bridged the gap effortlessly. Nothing seemed to bother you,” Leslie said.
“It was all an illusion. I was a frightened little boy struggling to find a place where I could fit. I had no confidence that I could ever find such a place. Or that I would be accepted.”
“But you were so talented, so capable!”
“I had no self-esteem. I didn’t believe in myself. I only believed that ultimately I would fail.”
“Why would you believe that?” Leslie asked, amazed.
“Because that was what I had been told,” James said somberly. “Over and over by my alcoholic father.”
“Oh!” Leslie gasped. Then she said softly, “The child of an alcoholic parent.”
“Parents,” James interjected. “Did they teach you about them,
us,
in medical school?”
Leslie nodded slowly, remembering.
“The alcoholic parent has no self-esteem and transfers his own self-hate to his children. The children are often over-achievers because they try to get parental love and approval; but the parent isn’t capable of giving them that reassurance, so the child, externally successful, always feels like a failure. Doomed to fail no matter what,” Leslie said, summarizing what she had learned about the recently recognized syndrome.
“That’s right. Of course, as a child I didn’t understand that it was his problem, not mine. I only knew that I kept letting him down. So, then, it became my problem. I kept letting myself down. People with self-esteem don’t have affairs with the wife of their brother’s best friend, and they don’t take drugs all day every day. People with self-esteem don’t try to destroy themselves.”
“Children of alcoholic parents become alcoholics,” Leslie said. She saw the pain in James’s eyes. She knew that, somehow, he had survived, but she wondered about the torment he had endured and the damage that might have been done.
“I was well on the way. I drank to escape. Then I turned to drugs. I was, literally, continually stoned for the first three quarters of college. For a solid nine months I had some drug, often more than one, in my system at all times.”
“How did you afford them?”
James smiled weakly.
“Leslie, even though you were there on a college campus in the early seventies, you seem to have missed the flavor. It was the era of free love, free drugs, brotherhood, escape. Turn on. Tune in. Drop out. Remember?”
“Vaguely,” Leslie said, a little embarrassed.
“Anyway, the expensive drugs, like cocaine, weren’t popular then. Most of the acid—LSD—was made after hours in the organic chemistry labs on campus. I got drugs from my friends. I had a series of girlfriends. I slept in fifty different beds, living a day or a week in one place, then moving on. For nine months my life was a hazy dream, a fog that never cleared. It wasn’t all that unpleasant.”
“It wasn’t?”
“No, Leslie. In many ways it was very pleasant. I couldn’t fail because I wasn’t trying to succeed. I forgot about the ugly fights with my father. I was protected by a warm mist of drugs and sex and music. A lot of the time I felt good.”
Leslie knew it was the alcoholic—the potential alcoholic—in him that was talking. A part of him environmentally, or genetically, yearned for escape from the painful reality of life. James had been badly bruised as a child. Sometimes the pain was still too great.
“Did you go to class?” Leslie asked. She did not want to hear more about the decadent drug life James had lived. And enjoyed.
“No.” He smiled. “But I took the exams. I studied just enough to pass the courses. Just enough to stay in college and out of the draft.”
“You could study while taking the drugs?”
“Sure,” he said.
Just like the successful alcoholics, Leslie thought. The doctors and lawyers and other professionals who were alcoholic but still performed. Excelled.
“What happened?” Leslie whispered. She knew something had happened. She knew from the iced tea that James ordered without hesitation that he didn’t drink. She knew from looking at the clear green eyes that smiled at her that somehow he had escaped the lifelong ravages. Somehow James had found a place where he fit.
“One night toward the end of the first year of college, I went to my parents’ home. I still had a room in the house. I even stayed there sometimes during the year. That night my father threw one of his rages, berating me, calling me a worthless drug addict.” James paused then smiled wryly. “It was true. For once my father was right. I had taken the second hit of LSD an hour before going home. I needed the extra fortification.”
Leslie cringed at his words.
Oh, James, how difficult this must have been
. It was difficult to even hear about, to watch him as he told her. I was so sheltered, Leslie thought. Maybe I still am.
“Anyway, he told me to clear out of his house for good. He gave me until morning to take my belongings or he would throw them away. He was drunk and I was stoned. It was very ugly. I locked myself in my room and began going through my worldly possessions such as they were. I found the shoebox with the letters from Cheryl and tossed it angrily across the room.”
James stopped. His eyes softened and he smiled affectionately at her. He was remembering naive, innocent eighteen year old Leslie.
“You don’t know this, but when you’re stoned colors can appear more vivid. Cheryl’s stationery was cream colored. Your letter was written on pale yellow paper. When the envelopes scattered, yours caught my eye. It didn’t look pale yellow. It looked bright yellow, and it glowed.”
“James,” Leslie said.
“Drugs and mysticism, Leslie, go hand in hand. The experience was mystical.
Something
caused me to notice that letter.”
Leslie shook her head.
“Well, I read it, and I spent all night thinking about you and about the faith you had in me. You were the only one. You did, didn’t you?” James asked gently. The painful memories were replaced by happy ones. By memories of Leslie.
“I thought you were wonderful,” she said quietly. “I didn’t know anything about you. I didn’t need to. It wouldn’t have mattered anyway. I knew how you made me feel.”
“The only time I felt peaceful was with you.”
“So why,” Leslie began.
“Weren’t we together? I told you that once. That I had to find out about myself first. About who and what I could be. My father really had a stranglehold on my sanity. I was pretty convinced that I could never do or be anything. Except when I was with you.”
“You were restless then. I sensed it but I didn’t know why. Now you don’t seem restless.”
“I was lucky. My luck changed with your letter. That night, as stoned as I was, I made a resolve to become the James that you believed in. To stop the self-destruction. At least to try. The next morning I took all my clothes and your letter and left my parents’ home, my home, for good. I spent the summer at the logging camp, detoxifying myself, strengthening my resolve and planning to see you. Those were the hardest three months of my life. The drugs didn’t want to let go. Most of me didn’t want to face the harsh realities of life.”
“But you made it.”
“I did. I returned to Seattle one day after you had flown back to Boston for your sophomore year. I telephoned your house. I don’t think your father recognized my voice. I didn’t leave a message.”
“Why didn’t you write?”
“It was still too soon. I had just made it through the summer. The real test was about to begin: returning to college, making choices and decisions. By Christmas break, I was ready to see you, but I heard from Robin that you were bringing a boyfriend from Harvard home for the holidays.”
Leslie shook her head and grimaced. “It would take me a few minutes even to remember his name.”
Oh, James, how different it could have been for us!
“Anyway, I decided that you had your life. And thanks to you, I was beginning to have mine. I wanted to let you know. I always hoped that someday I would have the chance.”
This is the someday. On my twenty-seventh birthday, Leslie thought. Happy Birthday, Leslie.
“You became an architect.”
“I got my degree in Seattle. Then I worked in New York City for a while. I joined the firm here eighteen months ago.”
“And already have your name on the letterhead.”
“I’ve done well. The luck has continued.”
It’s not luck, James. It’s
you
, Leslie thought. Talent and hard work and the decision to make it. Not luck. Leslie realized that he still had doubts about his own worth. There were still vestiges, deep scars, of the damage done by his father.
“And you like it?”
“I love it,” James said enthusiastically.
“Do you do houses?”
“For the past six months I’ve been working with an international land development company. The company has both residential and commercial holdings so, yes, I do houses. And buildings. And shopping malls. And resorts. You name it.”
“Sounds exciting and creative.”
“It’s both. I couldn’t ask for a better job.”
Leslie looked at her plate of barely touched spinach lasagna. As they talked, the waiters had—at carefully spaced leisurely intervals—served and cleared antipasto and bread, then salad, then the entree. Leslie paid little attention to the food. She nibbled idly and focused on James. Leslie looked at James’s plate of barely touched food and smiled.
“This is supposed to be one of San Francisco’s best restaurants. We’re not really giving it our undivided attention,” she said.
“Do you want to?”
“No,” she said. Then, pushing her food around her plate, she forced herself to say what she had been dreading. “Tell me about your wife.”
“Lynne,” James said quickly. “We met two years ago. I was flying from New York to San Francisco to interview for the job with O’Keefe and Tucker. She was—is—a flight attendant. She noticed that I was drawing a picture and came over to look at it. It was like the picture I drew for you of the meadow. Drawing is relaxing for me. Anyway, Lynne asked me if I would draw her a picture of a calico cat named Monica. I thought she was kidding; but she carefully described Monica’s personality to me, and I spent the rest of the flight drawing the picture. I handed it to her as I was leaving the plane. She ran after me and asked if I would consider doing the illustrations for her book.” James paused as he remembered how excited Lynne had been about the drawing.