Ever since Mike and I married in 1967, we’d hosted the family Christmases. Mike loved Christmas. The music. Decorating. Buying and wrapping presents. Making our traditional Christmas lasagna. Dale’s birthday is on Christmas day, and Mike always took great pleasure in coming up with some over-the-top fancy dessert for that part of the celebration. The most memorable outrageous dessert he accomplished was the Baked Alaska of 1985. With such fancy recipes, Mike put everything together, carefully following each detailed step, and I walked around behind him, cleaning up and putting away. On that occasion, everything went as outlined in the Gourmet magazine recipe until he poured the ¼ cup of rum over the top and it didn’t light. The next pour was more generous, and flambé it did. Mike carried the inferno to the table singing happy birthday to the ooohs and ahhhs of the gathered celebrants. I stayed in the kitchen dousing the flaming dish towel.
It was the tradition to gather at our house for Christmas Eve. Some years we did a big dinner both on Christmas Eve and on Christmas Day, but this year, 2007, we decided to make it easy on ourselves and have an early Christmas Eve dinner at a nearby restaurant before exchanging gifts back at our place.
Things took a turn at dinner when Mike asked Ashley, our 15-year-old granddaughter, how she was liking Rio Americano High School. She said she didn’t like high school and she’d shifted to independent studies through a local charter school. When Mike referred to her as a dropout, it was clear she was hurt by his remark. Mike had been totally enamored of her, and she of him in her younger days. Her teenage years were a challenge for them both, but I was surprised and saddened by the hurtfulness of Mike’s accusation.
Later in the evening, presents opened, dessert served, Mike started on a rant about how any parent who would let their kid go to independent studies should have the kid removed from the home.
“Traditional high schools don’t work for everyone, Mike,” Jeannie said.
“Well, they should!”
He went on to say that kids shouldn’t be allowed to attend alternative high schools. It was a waste of time. They didn’t learn anything. And on and on. When he finished his rant, he went upstairs to bed. The rest of us sat stunned. Three of us—Dale, Jeannie and I—had taught for decades at alternative high schools. We had seen kids who had been on the verge of dropping out do some spectacular turnarounds. Small classes, more choices for study, a sense of community, close and caring guidance, worked quite well for many who had not been able to fit into the large school machine. No, they couldn’t do high school sports there, or be in a chorus, or on debate team. But they got a program more in keeping with their own needs.
“How could he say that?” Jeannie asked. “How could he say that to us?”
I just shook my head. I didn’t get it.
That night I did something I had only done four or five times in our whole lives together. I slept on the couch. Well, I didn’t exactly sleep, but I stayed on the couch during sleep time. The few other times I had gone elsewhere to sleep, Mike had appeared after a few hours, saying something like, “Let’s talk. I miss you.” This was the first time he didn’t come to get me, the first time I’d stayed away all night long.
Early the next morning, Mike was downstairs finishing the cleanup. I showered, then joined him. Sharon, Doug, Subei, and Lena were still sleeping. The others wouldn’t arrive until early afternoon.
“Come for a walk with me,” I said.
We walked in silence, a short way down the nature path that winds through Gold River and ends up at the edge of the American River. It was a beautiful, clear, sunny day.
I took Mike’s hand and led him off the path. We stood under one of the many giant oak trees and I began telling him how unhappy I’d been with his behavior. I mentioned his hurtful remark to Ashley.
“Did you see the look on her face when you said that?” I asked.
I said he was positively rude to our guests, and to me, when he was so aggressively demeaning of alternative education. “It was as if you were saying our work counted for nothing.”
He started in on other things, as if he’d not heard me. He was angry at the possibility that someone might bring a Coke can to the table and mar the beautiful setting he’d laid out.
“We can pour the Coke into a glass, put the can in the kitchen,” I suggested.
He was angry that Cindi wouldn’t help with cleanup.
“All we have to do is ask.”
The more I offered solutions, the angrier Mike became. There we were, on that beautiful Christmas morning, in that beautiful setting, Mike yelling, me crying.
“Whatever happened to the kind, gentle husband I married?” I choked out.
“I’m not kind! I’m not gentle!”
“I can see that.”
Eventually I said to him, “Let’s just get through the day without ruining everyone else’s Christmas. It’s always been a fun gathering. Something we’ve offered to family and friends for decades. Let’s not ruin it. Just for today,” I asked.
A young family, boy on a tricycle, girl in a stroller, came walking by.
“Merry Christmas,” the dad called out.
“Merry Christmas,” the mother joined in.
“Merry Christmas!” Mike said, all light and warmth. “Beautiful day, isn’t it?”
“Beautiful,” the adults responded.
I was beginning to think that Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde had nothing on Mike.
Dinner went smoothly, though I was constantly aware that Mike’s anger was just under the surface. That became obvious as we heard news of a tragic event that had taken place at the San Francisco Zoo late Christmas afternoon. A 243-pound Siberian tiger, Tatiana, had escaped from the tiger grotto, killed one 17-year-old young man and injured two brothers, one 19 years old and the other 23. When police arrived, the 17-year-old was already dead, and the older brother was lying on the ground with cuts on his face, cornered by the tiger. The four police officers, who were yelling, caught the tiger’s attention and she advanced toward them. All four fired their handguns, killing the tiger. Two witnesses said the three young men had been taunting the tiger. Not smart, or kind, but hardly worthy of a death sentence.
Dale, Mike, and I were in the kitchen, talking about what a sad event that was. The loss of the young man’s life, the death of that beautiful tiger, the likely complications, legal and otherwise, it meant for the zoo.
“They shouldn’t have killed that animal,” Mike said.
“What could they do?” I asked. “It was coming after the officers. It was near the cafe where a few people were still at tables.”
“I don’t care. They shouldn’t have killed her!”
“But Mike,” Dale said, “what if you had been at the zoo with your grandkids and an angry tiger was on the loose?”
“They shouldn’t have killed that tiger!” Mike shouted and left the room.
Later Dale asked if I thought Mike believed the tiger should not have been killed, or if he was just taking an opposite stance. I couldn’t say. I no longer had any idea of what Mike really believed as he tossed extreme, dogmatic statements into a conversation.
Late Christmas night, with everyone gone and Mike in bed, I sat at the dining room table, thinking about the many people who had gathered around it for holiday meals and so many other less crowded dinners. Had the years of laughter and serious conversation somehow seeped into the grain of the wood? How would it be not to gather around this table at Christmastime?
The past two years of growing distance, dissatisfaction, and anger were wearing on me. I began thinking about the details of divorce or of a legal separation. Although Mike seemed to love me less, it was also apparent that he needed me more. I wondered how he would do without me. Well … he wasn’t doing very well with me either. As for me, I was convinced I’d be better off without Mike’s constant emotional turmoil, without the oppression of his black cloud of depression. I was banging my head against a wall, trying to make things better for Mike, and failing. Maybe it was time for me to jump out of the increasingly hot soup pot.
I looked around at our accumulation of china and crystal. Mike could have it all. He cared more about it than I ever did. I’d take the pottery set we’d chosen ages ago as we’d prepared for a life together. He could have the silver. I’d take the stainless steel.
I wandered into the living room and curled up in front of the fire on what we referred to as our “martini” couch. Newly ensconced in Gold River, back around ’98 or ’99, while we wandered through a furniture store in search of a small, occasional table, a big, bright, overstuffed couch caught our attention. I don’t remember who moved toward it first, but we both ended up sitting on it, leaning into the supportive back, leaning into the heavily padded arms. It was unusual for us to gravitate toward the same piece of furniture. Mike usually wanted a more formal style, while I was drawn to things more casual and practical. We bought it right then. No second thoughts. No pros and cons. Who would take the couch?
The couch question moved me onto thoughts of where we each might live. Mike had come to glorify Los Angeles and to resent living in Sacramento. Perhaps he would move back to LA. I would find a much smaller place in Sacramento. But we were already living close to the financial edge. How could we afford two separate places? And how would that be for our kids and grandkids if we split up?
We were generally compatible roommates, easily sharing household chores. Maybe that should be my relationship goal. Forget love, support, deep communication. Settle for a decent roommate. My 2008 New Year’s resolution was to maintain low expectations.
The day after Christmas I told Mike we wouldn’t be having it at our house the next year.
“We’ve always had Christmas!”
“Did you enjoy this Christmas?”
“Yes. I always enjoy Christmas!”
“It didn’t seem like it. You were either angry or on the verge of anger the whole time. You were rude and inconsiderate of others. I’m not doing it with you, here, next year.”
After telling the rest of the family of my decision, I called the Aliso Creek Inn in Laguna Beach and reserved three separate condominiums for December 23 through 26, 2008. Aliso Creek had long been a family favorite of ours, and it would certainly be a change of Christmas scenery. When I showed Mike the reservation, he said he wasn’t going to Laguna for Christmas. He was going to have Christmas at home, just like always. I said fine, I’d miss him. But I would be in Laguna Beach.