FLASHBACK to 1959

THE MISTRESS

January 2001 was tough.  My failed marriage had sentenced my daughter to seven years of shuttling back and forth till college beckoned.  Sam deserved better.  She was putting up a brave front, but I knew this weird Dad's home-Mom's home set-up had to bother her.  I seriously questioned the wisdom of this plan, but for the life of me I could not think of a better solution.  Well, actually I could.  I suppose I could let Sam live with her mother and see the girl every now and then.  However I was strongly opposed to making that sacrifice.  I had a firm reason to want Sam with me as often as possible.  When I was 9, my father abandoned me.

By an odd coincidence, I was the same age as Sam when my parents split up.  My father's mistress was responsible for the divorce.  She was my father's secretary.  Big surprise, right?  Dad was obsessed with her, but my mother stubbornly refused to grant him a divorce.  There was no love lost, but my mother knew she faced serious economic risk.  Mom was the one who had dropped out of college to support my father while he got his degree.  Mom feared a lifetime of secretarial jobs for which she was temperamentally unsuited (she wanted to be the boss, not the menial).  Unfortunately, my mother's premonition was alarmingly accurate.  Due to a strong preference to do things her way, Mom rarely lasted more than a year at any of her many jobs.

Given her fear, why did Mom give in to my father's demand?  It was my fault.  After a year of listening to my parents scream at each other night after night, I fell to pieces.  I was an only child with no friends, no neighbors, no relatives to turn to.  My only refuge was my bedroom where I spent many a night crying myself to sleep.  I turned into a serious discipline problem at school and my grades were barely above failing.  Ordered by the school to do something about me, my parent sent me to their therapist.  The psychiatrist offered a surprising suggestion.  Send the boy to St. John's, an expensive private school with a reputation for academics and discipline.  His theory was that a difficult challenge would straighten me out. 

My mother faced a dilemma.  My father could pay the expensive yearly tuition at St. John's.  Or he could improve his child support and make it easier for Mom to make ends meet month to month.  Here at the start of his career as an electrical engineer, he could do one or the other.  Which would it be?  The St. John's option was a very expensive option.  The tuition was way beyond Dad's middle class income, so he strongly objected. 

"For Christ's sake, Mary, the psychiatrist is out of his mind.  Richard can't even pass Third Grade in public school.  What makes you think the boy can handle St. John's?  I say forget it.  I won't do it.  I am not going to waste my hard-earned money."

My mother put her foot down.  "I know about your mistress, Jim.  I will take you to the cleaners unless you do the right thing."  Panic-stricken, my father folded on the spot.  He agreed to pay full tuition at St. John's for three years plus child support of $100 a month in return for the much-desired divorce.  Unfortunately there would be a heavy price to pay for this Devil's Bargain.  How many ways did this decision backfire?  Everyone suffered and I mean 'Everyone', including the mistress. 

No doubt my mother gulped.  She was taking a real chance choosing what was right for me over what was best for her.  Mom had sacrificed the financial security she deserved for helping my father get his career started.  Considering she was terribly in debt during the next nine years till I left for college, Mom was a candidate for a nervous breakdown more times than I care to remember.

What about my father?  He went nuts trying to send his misfit son to a rich kid's school on a modest salary.  Nor did his new marriage get off to a rosy start.  Although the mistress got her man, she complained bitterly.  Dad had promised her the comfortable life of a stay-at-home mother.  Guess what she got instead?  The mistress got a cheap wedding ring and a short honeymoon.  There was no money for a down payment on a house and any thought of children had to be postponed.  But the worst part was being forced to keep working at her crummy job to avoid the considerable debt caused by the St. John's tuition.  The thought that every penny she made was going towards the education of some brat she could care less about infuriated her no end. 

Be careful what you ask for.  My father had exchanged one bitter woman for another.  Was it worth it?  Who do you suppose the former mistress took her anger out on?  Me.  And him.  Forced to listen to a nightly tirade of bitching over the lousy deal he had made to get his divorce, Dad was given a new choice.  He could grow a backbone or he could appease the shrew and retain his sanity.  He chose to abandon me.  Over the next nine years, I saw my father four times a year.  He was as predictable as the Four Seasons.   Once in February, once before summer, my October birthday, and Christmas.  Each visit lasted an hour over lunch.   And get this.  My father's office was less than a mile from my school, five minutes by bicycle.  I understood that my stepmother hated my guts, but my father could have seen me any time he wanted during the day.  He could have given me ten minutes, fifteen minutes and she would have never known.  No such luck.  I was told not to bother him.  What about the phone?  Don't call him at home and only in an emergency at the office.  Nor did he call me at home for fear my mother might answer.  So how did my father contact me for our seasonal lunch?  He left a message with the St. John's receptionist.

What about me?  I am sorry to say, but my mother was unfit for the role of solitary parent.  She consistently put her needs before mine.  Leaving me alone to fend for myself, my mother dedicated many a night to the pursuit of men, many men.  She had a bad habit of bringing them home with her.  Nor could she keep a job.  Every couple months I came home from school to find the electricity turned off.  Or the gas.  Or the water.  Unable to pay rent, when Mom got too far behind, we moved in the middle of the night.  11 homes in 9 years.  That wasn't the worst part.  If my mother went nuts... a real possibility... I would be forced to live with my father and youknowwho.  It was my worst nightmare.  Mom wasn't much, but she was all I had. 

And so I gained a school and lost a father.  Considering how worthless Dad turned out to be, it was probably for the best.  But how was I supposed to know that at the time?  I grew up feeling so inferior to my wealthy classmates, I cannot tell you how many times I wished I could have a father for encouragement and advice.  I missed him terribly.

Oh, one more thing.  Due to my mother's neglect and my father's disappearance, my new school began to raise me instead.  Remember that psychiatrist who recommended sending me to St. John's?  Guess what?  He was right.  Nine years after the divorce I graduated with honors in the top five of my class.  I have the mistress to thank for one of the luckiest breaks of my life.  Funny how that worked out. 

JANUARY 2001

SAMANTHA

So why have I told you the story of the Mistress?  Several reasons. 

First and foremost, St. John's taught me the value of an elite education.  For this reason, at the first opportunity Judy and I enrolled Sam at Duchesne, a private Catholic girl's school noted for strong academics and a nurturing faculty.  It was a smart move.  During the 14 years Sam attended (including Pre-K and Kindergarten), she got an elite education identical to my own. 

Second, in a manner very similar to my St. John's experience, Duchesne provided much needed stability following the divorce. 

However, the real reason to share the Mistress story was to explain why my guilt left me inconsolable.  Completely against my will, I was forced to watch my daughter follow in the same awful footsteps of my own difficult past.  Only child, broken home, dependent on a school to keep her glued together.  I had prayed to help Sam avoid a similar fate... only to fail.

Fortunately, there was one thing I had power over.  Knowing how tough it had been for me to grow up without a father, no doubt the Reader begins to understand why it was so important to share custody with Sam's mother.  I refused to make Sam go through the same thing as me.  Half a father on a consistent basis had to be better than piecemeal.  Yes, I was a far better father to Sam than my father had been to me.  However it still crushed me to know I had let her down.  Well aware of the pain caused by my own broken home, I knew full well the pain Sam was facing.  As consequence, following the separation I suffered the inevitable tidal wave of guilt over my failure.

So how did the grand two-household experiment work out?  The days following the Christmas Eve decision were sad, but not bitter.  In fact, things stayed the same for a month.  Despite our disappointment, Judy and I remained amicable.  Continuing to live under the same roof for four weeks, we put up a united front for the sake of our daughter.  When Sam was at school, we hammered out the details.  After reaching a decision on the division of property, the road was paved for an uncontested divorce to be finalized in May.  Judy agreed to continue teaching dance, so over the Holidays she rented an apartment near the studio and moved there in late January.

What about Sam?  The traditional thing to do is let the mother take over full-time.  My childhood scars said otherwise.  Half a father had to be better than two weekends a month.  I was deeply grateful to Judy for acknowledging I deserved custody as much as she did.  Judy would keep Sam on Sunday, Monday, and Tuesday night, then take her to school on Wednesday.  I would pick Sam up from school Wednesday afternoon and keep her Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday night.  We took turns keeping Sam on Saturday.  

Our arrangement was admittedly awkward, so I was very glad to see Duchesne act as Sam's home away from home.  Duchesne had come highly recommended for its strong academics and strong nurturing side.  The reputation was deserved.  Seeing Sam in pain, several concerned teachers were kind enough to take her under their wing.  As I watched Duchesne become my daughter's sanctuary, I recognized the considerable irony.  After my parents' divorce, St. John's had been the only thing to keep me going.  It drove me crazy to see her suffer a similar Fate.

Ah, Fate, there's that word.  Readers of my previous novels know that I am a big believer in Fate.  So far I have spared my Readers any serious discussion of Fate, but rest assured it's coming.  Oh boy, it is definitely coming. 

So, parent to parent, was this split-home scenario really the best arrangement?   Hard to say.  Sam will be the first to tell you there were some tough times.  On the bright side, Sam had two parents who loved her very much.  I suppose my daughter serves as evidence to prove the resilience of children forced to cope with broken homes.  Sam turned out to be special.  As I write, Sam is well on her way to a PhD in Anthropology at the University of Connecticut.  Judy and I could not be more proud of her. 

One more thing.  When I finished this chapter, I called Sam to wish her a happy 33rd birthday.  Feeling a twinge of guilt, I asked Sam what she thought about her two-home custody arrangement of yesteryear. 

"Dad, I wouldn't have had it any other way.  You both did the best you could under the circumstances.  I love you both."

FLASHBACK

TWO-TIME LOSER

I was a failure in oh so many ways.  Following the Christmas Eve separation, here I was, 50 years old, and I had yet to sustain a successful long-lasting relationship with a woman despite doing the best I could.  Take me my word for it, I tried hard.  But apparently my best was not good enough.  There were many times when I thought I was cursed in regards to love.  Which brings me to another painful confession.  Judy was not my first wife. 

My first marriage was short-lived.  It lasted a year and a cup of coffee.  Pat was an interesting woman.  I could write a book or I could write a paragraph.  Let's settle for the paragraph.  On paper, our marriage was perfect.  Pat had a lot going for her.  Very attractive, very talented.  However, Pat liked to argue.  What was there to argue about?  We had money, we had health, we had jobs, we had security.  We didn't drink, smoke, gamble or cheat.  So what did we argue about?  Jealousy.  Which to me was unnecessary because I only had eyes for my lovely wife.  However Pat didn't trust me.  Thanks to the countless women at the dance studio who, in her opinion, flirted with me, she figured it was only a matter of time till I strayed.  Did I cheat?  No.  Did I give her a legitimate reason to distrust me?  No.  Did Pat learn to trust me?  No. 

It was a shame this marriage failed.  Why was Pat so sensitive?  She was scarred by a cheating man in her previous relationship.  Heartbroken, Pat was determined to never experience that kind of pain again.  I tried to reassure her.  I explained how my childhood had been ruined by my father's mistress.  Still bitter over what my father did to me, I promised Pat I would never repeat his mistake.  But Pat wouldn't listen.  She chose instead to nag me incessantly about the dumbest things.  I appeased her at first, but then, unlike my father, I grew a backbone.  It is one thing to make a mistake and be punished for it.  However, I refused to tolerate ceaseless tongue-lashings over something I didn't do and had no intentions of doing. 

"Pat, do you understand the concept of compromise?  Can you please meet me halfway?" 

Apparently not.  It was Pat's way or hell to pay.  Due to our constant bickering, the tension became insurmountable.  Since neither of us was willing to bend, the only solution was to give up and move on.  One night I came home and Pat was gone.  It was either that or murder me.  You think I'm kidding, don't you?  I am sure the thought crossed her mind.

MARCH 2001

THE SEESAW EFFECT

Back to our story.  It is March 2001 and I am depressed out of my mind.   I have doomed my poor daughter to an extremely difficult living arrangement.  I have failed twice as a husband.  Painfully aware of my shortcomings, I faced the disheartening possibility my emotional problems from childhood would sabotage any chance of finding lasting love in the future.  But why stop there?  Surely I can think of something else I failed at.  As it turns, yes, there was!  In addition to my wife and my daughter, I failed my students as well. 

Throughout my dance career, I faced a dilemma called the 'Seesaw Effect'.  Whenever I was miserable, the studio thrived.  Whenever I was happy, the studio suffered.  This is an over-simplification, but it also contains a kernel of truth.  The Seesaw Effect was directly related to the ups and downs of my love life.  Whenever I was alone, I used my free time to hang with the group and enjoy their company.  My presence served to energize every social event and business was good.  However, when I was in a committed relationship, I preferred to dedicate my free time to the girl I loved while the studio paid the price for my neglect. 

The Seesaw Effect had often haunted me during the Eighties.  Those were the days when girlfriends came and left.  It became more serious in the Nineties.  Once Sam came along in 1991, it was difficult to tear myself away from my family on weekends to serve the social needs of my demanding business.  I suppose this phenomenon is not that rare.  Many people agree it is difficult to balance the demands of a career versus the demands of a family. 

Following my separation, I felt dead inside.  What could I do to break free of this awful guilt and my studio-related apathy?  In the past, whenever I was miserable, I poured more energy into the studio.  Would that work again?  Maybe, but it wouldn't be easy.  I had a lot of scar tissue to deal with.

DEATH BY A THOUSAND PAPER CUTS

Everyone wants to run a successful business.  But let me tell you a secret.  Success brings its own problems. 

The problem for SSQQ is that we sold a service that no one needed. 

People enjoy dancing.  They liked our teachers, they liked our classes.  Hey, great entertainment!  Good exercise, good challenge, perfect way to make friends.  But let's face it, Dancing is expendable.  The moment something more important or interesting came along, they were outta here!

The major reason for the failure of my marriage was studio-related Burn-out.  Judy was not the only person traumatized by Carnell's dirty trick.  Thanks to him, running my studio had ceased to be fun for the past two years.  I had served my studio to the best of my ability for the past 20 years, but now my bitterness knew no limits.  My burn-out was sort of like climate change, things got worse one small step at a time.  My current attitude was leave me the (...) alone.  Like Judy, it drove me crazy to see people I once thought were my friends take Carnell's side.  Although I still enjoyed teaching, I was no longer willing to befriend students or teachers at the studio.  Why let someone else stab me in the back?  And so I retreated into a shell.  

By day, I buried myself in my office writing Newsletter stories because they were good for business.  By night, I left immediately if it was Judy's night to stay for Practice Night.  If it was my turn to stay, I hid in the DJ booth to avoid interacting with students.  Do you want to know the weird thing?  Despite my apathy and lousy attitude, the studio was more successful than ever before thanks to overlapping Swing and Salsa Eras.  Since we were making money hand over fist, I saw no reason to change my ways.

I referred to my gradual descent as "Death by One Thousand Paper Cuts".  Or in my case, EMAILS.  There was one of me and 1,000 students.  One email at a time acted like a miniscule grain of sand carving out the Grand Canyon.  Any time something came along to interfere with a student's dance class, they wanted me to do something about it.  Every request ate up my time.  I was getting 100 emails a day, 98% of which required a response.  Every time I answered in a way someone did not like, they emailed again. 

What did they want?  They wanted their money back.  Or they wanted credit so they could take the class again for free at a more convenient time.  Or they wanted me to make some sort of exception to our rules.  Can I bring my boyfriend along for free?  Can I start in the third week instead of the first week?  Can I take the class first, then pay afterwards if I like it?  Can I bring my grandchildren with me and save paying a babysitter?  Why do I have to switch partners; I just want to dance with my husband.  I don't like group classes, can I switch my tuition to private lessons?  My class is too crowded.  My class is too small.  The studio is too hot.  The studio is too cold.  There aren't enough girls in my class to dance with.  The men don't know what they're doing; I want to switch to another class.  Or better yet, just give me my money back. 

By itself, each request was no big deal.  However, when multiplied by one thousand students, I was losing my mind.  The daily ordeal of answering 100 emails had a maddening effect on me.  I became very cynical.  Due to marital problems and the daily avalanche of complaints, I lost my sense of humor and became short with people.  The day came when my beleaguered wife couldn't take my ever-present hostility anymore.  Judy headed for the exit door.  Nor did I blame her.  I was not an easy person to like.  I should know.  I didn't like myself either.

Let's face it, I was a basket case.  And that's putting it mildly.  What was I going to do about it?  I found my answer in a very surprising way.  In February, I went on a ski trip.  During that trip I had a revelation which would help me pave my way back.