RULES OF ENGAGEMENT

by Marianne Carlson

Our marriage counselor told us that it was important to set rules for a fair fight. Rule #1 was "avoid accusatory, all encompassing statements. "You always, you never" were no nos. I can close my eyes and picture the small, wise, sweet man who wanted so much to help. A Paulist priest, his office was warm, uncluttered. Books of a religious nature lined his shelves and a picture of a very gentle Jesus hung on one wall. Even I, an agnostic, could learn to love that Jesus. There was no crucifix. I think he knew he would be pushing his luck with a crucifix; send me right out the door.

When I found the letter, tucked in among a pile of old bank statements in the attic, memories came flooding back, memories from 15 maybe 20 years ago. The letter wasn't dated but in my mind's eye I saw our son, Jason, now a freshman at Harvard, as a toddler with his blonde hair, big blue eyes, snot running out of his nose, I saw our three bedroom, two bathroom house painted brown, lots of toys and tricycles on the front porch, I saw myself, pregnant with Jenny, now a high school senior, an honor role student with her father’s gray, troubled eyes  who never saw a dog, cat, horse or squirrel she didn’t want to take under her wing,  I saw Jerry coming home late, trouble in the dining room, (the waitresses hated their new uniforms) trouble in the kitchen, (the chef was drunk again) trouble with the bar tender. Always something. Jerry was in the hotel business, a demanding occupation, and I was an unreasonable and demanding wife. It was typed, the letter. As I read, a sense of disquiet enveloped me.

Dear Jerry:

I am uncertain whether Father Paul can help us. It is unclear to me why priests would ever make good marriage counselors anyway. What do they know about the difficulties of hanging on to something  that was once precious, but is now slipping away like sand through our fingers?  Expecting a priest to understand a marriage is like expecting an elephant to understand a ballet. 

(I would think I could have come up with a more appropriate simile. Our marriage was many things, but a ballet it was not.) 

Because the "Rules of Engagement" set forth by Father Paul prohibit any blanket statements, I will refrain from calling you an asshole. 

(That was harsh. Do you think I might have found a slightly more eloquent pronoun? How about jerk? Or maybe fool? But asshole?  Did I write this before or after my "three week vacation"  in rehab? I suspect it was definitely written before the meds began to kick in, before I turned into a  zombie.)

I feel nothing for you any more, but don’t feel badly because you are not alone.  I feel nothing for anyone except Jason, and my love for him is so strong it frightens me.  Perhaps the child I carry will help me to learn how to be human once again. I don’t know. 

(Jenny’s arrival did enable me to pull myself together long enough to worship every hair on her head. I still do, which is probably why our mother/daughter conflict has been worse than anything I could have ever imagined. We were best friends until she reached puberty  when she turned on me. Jerry became her everything, I became the monster. When I look back at pictures from this era, I am very surprised I didn’t have horns. Was it at that time that I lost my mind?) 

I owe you an apology. I am very sorry I nearly set the house on fire. I threw all that trash into the fireplace out of spite, because you told me not to. It was childish, I could have killed us all. I don't think you can blame me for acting out, though. My entire world is unravelling, and the only ones around to help me pick up the pieces are a diminutive priest with eyes like a golden retriever and a little blonde boy who loves me unconditionally for the time being. It won’t last, though, because I’m not lovable.

(I had forgotten about that, about the fire.  I was a mean, vindictive woman. I still am. No wonder Jenny hates me. It's a miracle Jason even tolerates me.)

That fire emboldened me.  I started seeing Father Paul on the sly, two, three, sometimes four times a week, and believe it or not, it was meek little  Paul who initiated the change in me, he helped me  morph from a shy kitten into a tiger with claws.  Who would have guessed it? In retrospect that gentle Jesus must have more going for him than I ever gave him credit. Paul likes you, he likes you a lot more than I do, which is a fine kettle of fish we are in: you, me and Paul. I shall remain in the kettle, I'm not going anywhere, and we will continue to follow the same rules of engagement. We shall see. Love, Janice

What a ninny I was! I wouldn't have gone anywhere if my life depended on it. And poor Jerry! He didn't deserve this. He may have been more in love with the hotel than with me, but after reading this letter, I don't blame him. And what's with all the "J's"? Paul would have said maybe I wanted to throw Jesus in the mix,  we both would have gotten a good laugh out of that. I miss him. I even miss Jerry and hope he is happy with Jane (yet another J!)

It's All Temporary