I had come home from a hard day of golf to find a man at the side
of my house. I recognized the PG&E uniform and inquired what he was
doing. “I’m turning off your power; you haven’t paid your bill.” I had up until
then been deft at defying circumstance and certain realities. I took a step
closer and insisted he stop. I told him I had two small daughters who would be
coming home from school soon. He paused, clearly considering my dilemma, and then
looked at the golf bag still slung over my shoulder, my golf shoes connected
with laces over the irons. He examined my face and the cigarette dangling from
the side of my mouth and shook his head. “Maybe it’s time you change your
priorities.”
Change. No greater resistance could have had residence in this
man’s body than the resistance to “change” or even to alter. I checked the
lights for some miracle, still in disbelief—no miracle. No cooking— electric
stove. I recall making up a story about the electricity and how I would
fix the problem, that homework and dinner would be by candle light. I didn’t
have to make it exciting—children, I would discover, find such challenges fun,
new, exciting. I announced that we would be picnicking on the dining room
floor, on a blanket with candles, the fare to be peanut butter and jelly
sandwiches. Two small smiles grew into large ones and my oldest fell right into
step, setting the blanket with paper plates, napkins, cups for juice. I
lit candles in the bathroom, the hall, my room, and four more, carefully placed
on the dark brown shag rug surrounding the blanket. Looking back, I
realize, among too many other recognitions, how children automatically make the
best of awkward or fresh circumstances; later, as adults, we preface our
responses with complaint, blame, and a measure of self-pity, before acting on
the inevitable child in us.
Watching those two bright and crumbed faces, smiles flickering in
the candle light, my shame was so complete I couldn’t talk, lest I fall into
tears of apologies that would need an explanation I knew I would be instantly
forgiven for—forgiveness being another quality children are specially known
for. “Dinner” done, “dishes” thrown away, two small nightgowns made their way
down to their bedroom, giggling, hands attached. Kisses delivered and
“Goodnight, sweet dreams, I love you’s” said, I was left on the blanket, but it
might as well have been another planet, certainly another world. Somewhere
inside, rarely visited, began an emotion that brought a racking and sobbing in
my body, attached to a pall of shame and guilt I had never known I owned the
deed to. It went on for what seemed like hours, and when I thought I was done,
it insisted, apparently knowing how resistant I was to reality and
discomfort. When finally I could walk, hours later, I made it to my bed
where two small bodies inevitably made their way during the night, not always
together, but somehow by morning attached to Dad. Sweaty heads and soapy smells
launched every morning. This morning I would hold them like never before,
appreciating cotton flannel-covered arms and bodies, tiny hoarse voices in
protest over waking.
That next morning I sold my golf clubs, my stereo, my coin
collection, and anything else of value, and I got in line, a line where I was
no longer first—proud and happy to be third, and only just threatening to be a
real parent.
