#17 The Air Vent Conversation Part IV

There was this thing I did when my life was struck by a medium to large sized emotional earthquake. #11The Air Vent Conversation Part III.

When a couple lives together, with no agreements about expectations, anything goes. There is no right or wrong, no fair or unfair, no mediation factor. You put your name in your books. After that, there is only the hopeful possibility that two people will care enough about one another to be decent and end things with civility.

That was not our case.

Though in my heart I knew ours was not a great love match, I was committed to us, loyal as a bird dog. I did resolve to leave once, but he convinced me to stay, throwing himself in front of the car. Looking back, he may have just wanted the car.

Here’s the thing. I wrote a letter to his parents.

I wish I could block it from my memory. I’d like to stop writing this now. But it’s on the “stupid” list. I got out my pen and I wrote to those nice people in Oregon about how terrible their son was to leave me in the lurch. I know I didn’t use harsh language or a word like lurch. I was too shy, sweet or stupid to be rude. As if writing the letter wasn’t rude. I started out only to tell them that the end of the relationship was sad and I would miss them. But I didn’t stop there and went on to couch words saying vaguely that it was terrible that their son had spent three years of my life moving me about and then pulled the floor from under me. Or something like that.

In later years if I had a serious complaint to air to a friend, I typed it. Once anyone got one of those letters, I NEVER heard from them again. There’s a line in the 1939 movie The Women. Paulette Goddard’s character says, “You’re passing up a swell chance, honey. Where I spit no grass grows ever.”

Brutal enough that I turned to his parents for some indefinable justice. Worse, I don’t think I was done. I know I considered this but do not remember if I kept writing, by letting them know that there were rumors about their son being “less than heterosexual.” Yes, that’s how wimpy and couchy the language was. His own brother had said the same to them, probably just as spitefully. But why oh why would I? Because I was pissed. Because for once in my life, I wanted someone to do something about my pain.

Did I really think that they could make this right? Maybe. Did I consult anyone about this? Of course not. Did I put the letter in a drawer for 24 hours? No. Did I hear from them? NEVER.

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