All the Wrong Men and One Perfect Boy

Chapter Fifteen: Austin

Elaine and I embraced in the Austin airport, September 1991, then stood back and took inventory of each other. I was forty pounds heavier than the last time we'd met. And slung on my hip was Henry, now nine months old. Elaine, impossibly, was thinner and paler and more drawn than I had ever seen her in our near-decade of friendship.

In the two years since our wild-ass jaunt across the country, much had happened. For starters, Chris, that crazy boyfriend of hers, had killed himself. She'd called me on New Year's Day, 1990, to tell me she'd found him hanging in his studio. I had been more fortunate, suffering only through Henry's near-death crisis. It had passed, and we'd gotten away with no further medical complications.

Sometimes our letters were sporadic, but Elaine and I always stayed in touch. She'd moved to Austin, choosing the city on a whim -- we'd only visited it once together, for three days -- to try to escape the ghosts of Chris and her life on the edge with him in Florida. Time and again, she'd urged me to join her. Finally, sick of St. Louis and funded by the check for an extremely lucrative writing assignment that had fallen, accidentally, into my lap, I agreed.

I gave James little say in the matter, telling him, more than asking him, about relocating. He did not argue. He'd never had much interest in control. And what minimal grasp he did have on the reins of our family, I'd wrested from him months before, when I left him for three days because his drinking had become a serious problem for both of us.

Though he clearly adored Henry, James was, at best, more like a fun uncle than a responsible father. And though he was Headquarters O'Reilley that first week after the hospital nightmare. She and Neil gave us money for food, and then a large check -- a graduation gift when James finished college that winter -- to help us out until I could resume working. They doted on the baby. But our relationship, which started out decidedly civil and went downhill from there, was never really close.

Also, the splinter of Cleveland never stopped festering in my heart. Distrustful of more than one member of James's family, I was less than motivated to try to bridge the distance that had opened so wide between us during my gloomily received pregnancy.

Finally, nothing of significance was happening for me in St. Louis. Yes, there was an occasional writing assignment, but most of these were for magazines or papers far away. It felt good that I had finally found the discipline to fashion acceptable pieces. But, realistically, I could continue to write such pieces anywhere. Ditto my day job. It wasn't like St. Louis had cornered the market on restaurants.

So, I opted for the old history-repeats routine: When in need of a change, I always had to make it a big one, preferably moving a thousand miles or further. I knew better than to think I could run away from problems and unhappiness, but I'd also learned that starting over offers certain clean-slate benefits.

I'd spent a total of forty-eight hours in the capital city of Texas and had almost no memory of the place, but fueled by conversations with Elaine and a desire to go somewhere, anywhere new, I created a fantasy. No job, no apartment, no plan: no problem. Austin would be my Promised Land.

I would find a stunning place to live, and learn to miraculously budget myself. The t wo thousand I had left after moving expenses would last indefinitely. James would spend the month finishing out our lease in St. Louis, tidying up the place, getting a grip on his drinking, and realizing how much he missed Henry and me, how much he wanted to be a dedicated partner and father. Thus inspired, he would drive our latest ancient car to Austin, where we would all embrace happily, and forge ahead successfully, soberly, and without any further obstacles in our lives.

Okay, so what if Elaine insisted we pick up a twelve-pack on the way back to her place that first afternoon in my new town? No big deal, just a little celebration. Henry crawled around her very non-baby-proofed apartment, reaching for electrical outlets, terrified cats, and fragile knickknacks, while my friend and I put on a good midday buzz and eagerly discussed how different things were going to be from now on.

Within the week, noting rental prices (which I had failed to research), I gave up the first dream of a wonderful, sunny little cottage. Instead, I took the two-window cave of an apartment next door to Elaine, in a hellish, motel-style complex. Never mind the darkness and the shit-brown carpeting. We would be outside most of the time anyway, I rationalized.

Within a month, panic and disappointment set in. James arrived, but was far from the newly enthusiastic man I hoped for. He was having a hard time finding work, and I recoiled at the thought of taking on yet another restaurant gig to support us. I wanted to stay home with Henry, to work on my writing, which I had finally proved was worth something. Depressed to the point that I actually started to miss St. Louis, I drank more and more, James and Elaine eager to join me or, more likely, to initiate happy hour in the late afternoon.

Eventually, I hit upon a plan. To augment the pittance James began to bring in when he picked up a part-time graveyard shift at a newspaper plant, I would tap into a guaranteed source of income. Austin is home to numerous colleges, and more than a hundred thousand students. I would tutor.

The ad I placed in the University of Texas student newspaper did, in fact, net me a few calls. But I quickly learned that most students who contacted me had no interest in tutoring. Once they scrutinized me and determined I wasn't a narc, they laid it flat out: Here is some cash; write me a paper.

I was so good, so fast, and so stupid -- having no idea how much to charge, I charged far too little -- that word spread quickly. Soon, I was buried under a heap of assignments. The ethics may have stunk, but the results were undeniable.

Not only did I bring in enough to support us, as I toiled through the nights writing freshman-level theses on John Locke, William Shakespeare, and Dante, I was drinking less. I had no choice. I bought fewer six-packs of beer and more six-packs of Diet Coke to provide caffeine-induced semialertness (all that was really necessary for my trade).

Better, because I worked mostly at night, I could spend my days strolling with Henry over to the little park nearby, situated in the heart of yuppieville. Compared to the vast majority of the other mothers -- with their snappy diaper bags, clean clothes, and healthy snacks -- I felt like an alien. I was disheveled at all times, hungover often enough, my son rarely clad in more than a drooping diaper.

I didn't necessarily dislike these other women I encountered. I just had so little to say to them. I simply did not find discussions on parenting techniques and sundry baby products engaging. I needed more. I needed Grace.

The first day we met, Grace was pushing her baby in a swing. I placed Henry in the next swing over. We got to talking and I was delighted to learn we had more to discuss than functioning reproductive systems, seemingly my only common denominator with the other mothers. The conversation revealed a number of similarities between us. She was unmarried, politically liberal, a home-birther, and my age. Unbelievably, her son's name was JohnHenry. Further beyond belief was this: The babies shared a birthday, her son just hours older than mine.

Finally, a new friend in my new city. She came at the most perfect time. Elaine and James were pairing off more and more as drinking partners, and I had been feeling left out. Even if I'd wanted to stay up all night and get drunk and watch TV with them, I had far less opportunity to do so. I had papers to write and a child to deal with.

Slowly, I began to confide in Grace. Scared of being judged for my filthy apartment, my alcoholic partner, and my own still-too-frequent excessive-drinking episodes, I preferred to paint a prettier picture for her, opted to meet her at the park or a restaurant rather than invite her over to the reality of my life.

But as things deteriorated between James and me, as Elaine grew moodier, I revealed more and more to Grace. Trained extensively in social work -- in fact, just mere credits shy of a Ph.D. -- she offered support and insights. I appreciated the advice, but within my own limits. Sometimes, what felt like psychobabble annoyed me. If I allowed myself to listen too inten tly to her, then I would be forced to admit my life was more than just a little fucked up. And I was not yet ready -- not even close -- to face the steady deterioration of my relationship with James, not ready to acknowledge the injustices I knew, in my heart, I was doing my son.

Even when I did begin to flirt with the idea that I needed to make some serious changes, I ignored obvious signs of the true problem (a trash can ever overflowing with beer cans), deciding something else was at the root of our unhappiness. First, I blamed James, almost exclusively, for all that was wrong. I chastised him for sleeping all day and neglecting Henry and me. But he was so passive, his lack of response was maddening. He could look at me, agree things were his fault, then walk over to the fridge and extract another tallboy.

Needing another, more responsive culprit -- one I could change on my own -- I next decided my business was the real source of aggravation. Writing all those term papers, staying up late so many nights -- that must be what was getting to me.

Ditching all but the smallest handful of steady clients, I leaped back into the world of waitressing. I got a job at the Old Oak Cafe, where I moved quickly up the ranks from hostess to waitress to assistant manager. James and Elaine, on my recommendation, soon came on board. And when a house opened for rent around the block, despite the fact it was a bona fide piece of shit, a hazard to human occupants, and run by landlords Hitler would have loved, I convinced them that we should all move in together.

Forgetting my months-before vow to never work in restaurants again, I was ecstatic to be back to slinging hash and all that food service entailed. No longer isolated for days alone with a one-year-old and nights alone with either a stack of papers to write or a quiet, drunk man, I thrived on the camaraderie of my new cohorts. They were smart, funny, irreverent, and eager to befriend.

Given our close proximity to the Old Oak, and the fact that the place was open twenty-four hours a day, our house became party central. Someone was always just getting off a shift, always popping by with a six-pack or a twelve-pack, to add to whatever was already in the fridge. Convincing myself I was disciplined and responsible, I usually waited until after Henry was sound asleep before indulging in the final fifth or sixth beer, the one that sent me from buzzed to drunk.

I thrived on the chaos at first, glad for the distraction of so many people to block out the ongoing deterioration of James and me. But a summer trip with Henry and sans James back to Jersey was a catalyst. A week of sobriety, of being able to actually focus 100 percent on this funny little child was like getting poked with a cattle prod. Henry, so even-keeled and good-natured, adored me. He had no idea how confused I was; he just loved me.

I took him to the beach, the boardwalk, wore him out with my enthusiasm. Then, I would lie beside this boy, all pink from the sun, and watch him sleep hard and peaceful. Wildwood was far, far away from the turmoil back in Texas and Henry made it further still.

I returned to Austin and resumed my crazy, booze-filled life, but I could not shake the thing I had felt that summer. I was evidently a good mother -- my child was thriving and people stopped me all the time to compliment both of us. But I was not the best mother I could be. Not even close.

By No vember, I could no longer bear the sight of James. He would return home from work and retreat to a corner of the living room with a book and a beer, and then another beer, and then another. We no longer argued much anymore. In fact, we barely spoke at all.

One night, my stomach twisted, I sat down across from him as he prepared, once again, to undertake his evening ritual. "James," I said, "I think you need to move out."

He didn't protest, as part of me hoped he would. He never exploded with fury or refused to leave his son or even insisted that he would make everything all better. That was not who James was. He was nonconfrontational. And he was vanishing, a sweet, loving man lost in alcoholism. A week later, one month shy of Henry's second birthday, he moved into a place up the street, and continued drinking quietly, usually alone.

Copyright © 1999 by Spike Gillespie