tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-20824002905807063242024-03-17T20:41:52.639-05:00After LisaFirst chapters of a novel based on a true storySimon Sobohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02579449711047401565noreply@blogger.comBlogger15125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2082400290580706324.post-59842449918244955702023-12-18T19:27:00.001-05:002023-12-18T19:47:07.398-05:00<p> </p><h1 style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "PT Serif", TimesNewRoman, "Times New Roman", Times, Baskerville, Georgia, serif; font-size: 36px; line-height: 1.1; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Passover 1963 from “1968 Changed Everything”</h1><aside class="meta" style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #999999; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; margin: 10px 0px 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"></aside><div class="entry-box clearfix" style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 30px 0px 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><div class="html-before-content" style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"></div><div class="entry" style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 30px; vertical-align: baseline;"><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">Mark is home from college for spring break. His uncles, Ira’s brothers, Lester and Herbert Gordon, his aunts, Irene and Anne, and their five children are at the table. Everyone is dressed up for the holiday, suits and ties and special dresses bought for the occasion. The men wear yarmulkes. In contrast, Mark is wearing torn dungarees and a T-shirt, with nothing on his head. In the past, Ira and Evelyn tried and failed to get him to change into something more appropriate. They’ve given up the fight. That includes his wild uncut hair. During previous Seders, other than his clothing, he’s been tolerable. But they are not sure what to expect tonight.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">The evening starts out fine. The family performs the same rituals every Pesach. It’s a happy time. God is ordinarily not a big part of their lives, but on Passover he’s in the room with them. The women and children sit straight and formal, reverent for God’s sake. Mark slouches, which he rightly claims is a Seder commandment. With the exception of Mark, who is bored, everyone quietly listens as Ira and his brothers pray. Ordinarily, they are modern Americans, acting and looking like everyone else. Left over from their Hebrew school days, when the brothers competed for their father’s praise, which of them could daven faster has heroic implications. It is their form of showing off.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">But not all is show. When the Gordon brothers put on yarmulkes, they are not fully in a room on Long Island. Even if their mother wasn’t at the Seder, they would be showing off.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">For God!</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">As they pray, they are visiting an earlier time and place. A soft echoing melody can be discerned, chanting as their father had chanted, and as their grandfather and his great-grandfather had chanted. They daven with exactly the same voice, the same beat, with a familiar hum. In this process, the voices of their father and grandfather are returned to them. There are other ways to be connected to people who have come before. The dead visit us in recognizable physical characteristics, the same eyes, the same lips, the same smile. Jay raises his eyebrow when he is curious, exactly like his grandfather did, and Jay never knew him.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">Prayer is a sacred place to meet, for, in their imitation, the departed are reincarnated. Father and son, father and grandson together again, together in obedience, together in their sway.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">Soon enough, the rest of the family gets busy. From one to the other, the potatoes and then the parsley are passed to the person next to them and dipped in salt water. As the dish is handed to them, cousins thank cousins almost formally, like they are participating in a ritual supervised by God. They are not as absorbed by the process as Ira and Lester when they daven, but they, too, feel joined to generations beyond the room. Even the children feel uplifted, inspired by their parents’ formality. They are not simply passing potatoes and parsley. They are doing something important.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">Not Mark. He waves the potatoes and parsley off, but then he decides he wants a piece of boiled potato and throws it in his mouth, making funny faces at his aunt Irene’s three-year-old daughter. Several times during the prayers, he whispers to CC and the two of them giggle. Ira notices but says nothing. He repeatedly looks to his brothers for support, which he gets–sympathetic kind eyes. Ira breaks up the matzo and hands it to everyone to take a piece and pass it along. Mark takes a bite of his matzo as soon as it is handed to him, before everyone else at the table can say the prayer thanking God for the matzo. Soon after, Mark begins sipping and then gulping wine—again not at the prescribed moment, after <em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">boray pree,</em> when everyone sips their wine together. He pours himself some more, with a disingenuous innocent expression on his face.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">Being oblivious to the expectations that once dictated his holiday obedience puts Mark in a very good mood. During the earlier years, he was a child. Now, doing whatever he wants, when he wants, is his way of saying he is an adult. He’s so taken with the charm of his independence that in his mind he is having a great time. Everyone is conspicuously ignoring him, but that doesn’t bother him. As the Seder moves along, Ira can no longer ignore him. He glares at Mark repeatedly. Mark avoids making eye contact.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">Customarily, Ira calls on each member of the family to read a section of the Haggadah.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“Mark, you read this . . . in Hebrew,” Ira says pointedly.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">Mark reads the Haggadah out loud in Hebrew. During his Hebrew school days, he used to read Hebrew with ease, but he is struggling now.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“‘<em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Raw—shaw mah who Omer? Mah ha—avodah ha—zos law—chem? Law—chem v—low. Ul—fee sheh—ho—tzee et—atz—mo min ha—kilal ka—far bah—ee—car. V—af ah—tah ha—keh—hey et—she—nahv veh—ay—mahr—low bah—ah—voor zeh aw—saw Adonai lee bTzay—see me—mitzrayim. Lee v—low low. Ee—loo ha—yaw shahm. Low ha—yaw nee—geh—al</em>.’”</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">Ira admonishes him. “You’re a little out of practice, aren’t you?”</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">Mark doesn’t answer.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“Now the English.”</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">Mark begins, “‘The wicked son, what does he say?’</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“Wicked?” Mark asks.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“Continue.”</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">Mark obeys. “‘What is this service to you? By saying, “to you,” he implies “but not to himself.” Since he has excluded himself from us, he denies the foundation of our faith.’”</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">Preparing himself, Mark stares back at his father. Then looking at CC, he playfully rolls his eyes. She smiles sympathetically but tries to hide this from her father.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“The <em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">wicked</em> son.” His father repeats. The room is tense.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“Mom, when are we eating?” CC asks.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">Normally, at this point, awaiting the meal, everyone is starving. But it isn’t hunger alone. There is the anticipation. The Seder meal is like Thanksgiving. Nanny used to cook the whole thing, but when she no longer was able, Evelyn took over, using the old recipes. Together with Beryl, their live-in maid, they began shopping and cooking two weeks before. Yes, it’s the taste of the food. But the meal is meant to be momentous, like the Norman Rockwell painting of Thanksgiving. The gefilte fish, the matzo ball soup—Rockwell would have done a mean Pesach dinner painting. He would have been in good company. The Last Supper has been painted a thousand times. Did Jesus have matzo ball soup? Unlikely, but for thousands of years, this meal has had deep meaning for Christians as much as Jews.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">Ira loves presenting its significance to the family.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“It was the first time God showed us we were his chosen people. That is what the Seder is about. God chose us!”</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">Mark adds in a sarcastic tone, “He kicked the asses of the Egyptian’s gods.” His rhythm carries him forward. “Yes he did. The Jewish God came through.” Ira is boiling but he remains silent.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">Soon after, they begin everyone’s favorite song, “Dayenu.” As always, it is sung with gusto. A few of the cousins add weird harmonies, especially Donny, who has a great voice. That adds to the fun.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;"><em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Elu hostey, hosteyano, hosteano, me mistraiem, me mitstraiem, hosteano. </em></p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;"><em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Dayenu! </em></p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;"><em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Dai, Dayenu</em></p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;"><em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Dai, Dayenu</em></p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;"><em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Dai. Dayenu</em></p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;"><em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Dayenu Dayenu</em></p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">Mark interrupts them, speaking loudly. “You realize what we are singing? It’s a war song. A victory song.”</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">The family’s smiles evaporate.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“What?” Ira barks at him</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">Mark replies victoriously, “Read the English translation? <em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Dayenu</em> means ‘It would have been enough.’”</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">Ira takes on the challenge. He reads the translation.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“‘If He had brought us out of Egypt. <em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Dayenu.</em></p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“‘If He had executed justice upon the Egyptians. <em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Dayenu.</em></p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“‘If He had executed justice upon their gods. <em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Dayenu’</em>—right. So what’s your point? We’re appreciating the gifts God has given us. We are celebrating that <em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">our</em> God is the most powerful God, the only real God.”</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">Happily, Mark replies, “Read the next two.”</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">Ira begins “‘If He had . . .’”</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">He stops. Resentfully, he looks at Mark.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">Mark takes over, reading triumphantly:</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“‘If He had slain their firstborn.’” He raises his voice. “‘<em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Dayenu. </em>It would have been enough.’”</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">The room is silent. No one knows how to react. Mark continues loudly,</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“‘If He had given to us their health and wealth. It would have been enough. If He had drowned the Egyptian army. <em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Dai ye noo.’</em>”</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“There goes that song,” Evelyn whispers to CC and Jay.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“And that’s my favorite one,” Jay adds. Jay and his wife, Dora, look at each other, not knowing whether to strike back.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">Ira takes over. “So, not just America is an imperialist nation. The ancient Jews were.”</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">He hesitates before continuing. “They were <em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">slaves.</em> They defeated their oppressors. <em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">God</em> did it.”</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">Everyone is waiting for fireworks.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“And we go wahoo. That’s terrific.” Mark snaps at his father.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“It is,” Ira snaps back.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“So the road to Vietnam is ancient.”</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">Everyone in the room is staring at Mark angrily.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">Ira’s voice is raised. “You are full of it, Mr. Pacifist. I’ve seen you watching war movies<em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">,</em>” Ira retorts. “When the good guys wipe out the bad guys, I saw how happy that made you.”</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“That was before. I don’t watch them anymore.”</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">Ira voice is raised. “ What you told me yesterday. ‘The Star-Spangled Banner’ is a war song.”</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“It is! Why do we glorify war? There is nothing else to celebrate?”</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“Let me tell you something. During the war, the copilot on my plane was from a French family. He used to sing the ‘La Marseillaise,’ France’s national anthem, before every flight.”</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">Badly mispronouncing his French, Ira sings the refrain:</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;"> </p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;"><em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"> Aux armes, citoyens</em><br /><em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Formez vos bataillons<br />Marchons, Marchons!<br />Qu’un sang impur<br />Abreuve nos sillons!</em></p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;"> </p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“You ever watch Frenchmen singing it? They’re not like us with Hebrew. They understand every word. You know what words are making him proud?”</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;"> </p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">To arms, citizens</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">Form your battalions</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">Let us march, let us march!</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">That their impure blood</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">Should water our fields!</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;"> </p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">CC takes Mark’s hand and her father’s.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“Let’s just sing it again. The heck with the Egyptians. The heck with the French.”</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“The heck with war,” Mark says to her, demanding seriousness. She drops their hands.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">Ira shouts at him, “We were having a nice happy celebration. You’re the one who is the warrior.”</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">They all look around the room, checking one another out, anything to avoid looking at Mark. They don’t look at Ira, either. As New Yorkers with subway experience, they are well practiced at seeming oblivious. Jay starts singing “Dayenu.” The rest join him, at first tentatively, but by the end the usual gusto returns.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">They’re happy they have weathered the storm. Mark is still in the room. But soon they come to the part of the Seder where they are to dip their pinkies into their wineglasses and ceremoniously let a drop of wine land on their plates as they pronounce the 10 plagues. They usually chant this in Hebrew, but Mark repeats the ritual with a loud voice. Chanting in English, he calls out each of the ten plagues that God rained down on the Egyptians as he drops the wine from his pinkie as if it were blood.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“Blo-o-od.”</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">Mark throws his pinkie at the plate so that his drop of wine splatters. The others at the table do not continue. They stare at him.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“Froooogs.”</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">Another drop of wine.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“Lice.”</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">A drop of wine</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">Ira stops him. “We get your point.”</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">Mark continues: “Killing—of—their—firstborn,” he chants, as if it is a song.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">A drop of wine.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">There is nervous silence at the table. When the food comes, the spell continues. No one is hungry with the celebratory hunger they have known. The uncles and aunts and cousins try their best to recapture the holiday spirits, joking and talking like nothing has happen. There is the usual discussion about the matzo balls. Light or heavy? There are proponents of both. Nanny’s were always heavy, substantial—a meal in themselves. Evelyn’s are modern. Hers are light. She explains to her sister-in-laws that otherwise, starting out the meal, they are too filling.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">Until now, even with Mark’s irreverence over the last few years, the eating part of the Seder has remained a happy occasion. He could be ignored. It was possible even to laugh at his jokes. This year also, hoping to rescue the evening, there are satisfied expressions on everyone’s faces as they taste the soup, eat the brisket, finish up with honey cake, and, best of all, pass around the candy that only appears after the Seder. Barton’s and Barricini’s chocolates, chocolate-covered jelly rings and marshmallows. Ira watches the children gobble it up, taking special satisfaction that he can afford such luxuries. When he was growing up, his parents’ table lacked these goodies. Once or twice, there was a box of Barricini’s. They were each allowed one chocolate, so he had learned what the cherry-filled chocolate looked like. No such problem here. Even Mark is happy with the abundance of delicious candy.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">Seeing that he has calmed down, hoping the worst is over, Ira makes one final attempt to enlist Mark. He speaks with kindness in his voice. “Mark. If you want to be part of the family, you need to embrace us. That includes our Seder.”</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“But it’s all about war.” Mark answers, trying to be reasonable and fair.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“No, it’s about us getting freed from slavery—God coming to our rescue. Like Hanukkah. The Maccabees fought and won, and God made the oil last seven days. It was a sign from Him that He was there. He’d been with them all along. God’s being there for you means everything to a soldier. It did for me when I was flying during World War Two. The miracle of the oil lasting seven days told the celebrating army that God had guided them to victory. It’s always been a happy holiday. Can you get into the spirit of that?”</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“Yeah, Purim. Another war holiday. It wasn’t just Haman who got foiled. The Jews killed seventy-five thousand Persians. Happy? Yeah. Killing our enemies.”</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“Where did you get that?”</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“Look it up!” he shouts.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“Your grandmother is here. Can you think of her for a moment?”</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">Nanny is sitting silently. Her handkerchief dabs at her lips.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">Silently, the thought flashes through CC’s mind. Mark, don’t do it. Don’t do it.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">He does.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“Why, is she going to pinch me?”</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“That is quite enough for one evening,” Ira tells his son. “If you don’t want to celebrate Passover, stop coming to our Seder!”</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">Mark gets up from the table and heads for his room. Evelyn is not far behind.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“I won’t,” Mark shouts from the staircase.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“Good!” Ira shouts back.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">And he doesn’t for many, many years.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;"> </p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"> </p></div></div>Simon Sobohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02579449711047401565noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2082400290580706324.post-27114705497382399722023-12-07T19:13:00.003-05:002023-12-18T19:43:03.222-05:00Carol’s Funeral: Chapter 26 from 1968 Changed Everything<p> </p><h1 style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "PT Serif", TimesNewRoman, "Times New Roman", Times, Baskerville, Georgia, serif; font-size: 36px; line-height: 1.1; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Carol’s Funeral: Chapter 26 from 1968 Changed Everything</h1><aside class="meta" style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #999999; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; margin: 10px 0px 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"></aside><div class="entry-box clearfix" style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 30px 0px 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><div class="html-before-content" style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"></div><div class="entry" style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 30px; vertical-align: baseline;"><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; text-align: center; vertical-align: baseline;"><strong style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Chapter 26</strong></p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; text-align: center; vertical-align: baseline;"><strong style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Goodbye</strong></p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">Solemnly the rabbi delivers a message Jeremy has heard at every funeral he has gone to.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“From dirt we came and to dirt we return.”</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">The word dirt throws him into a rage Dirt? <em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Dirt?</em> Why didn’t he say we return to the earth. Even dust would be better. Jeremy is in a stupor at Carol’s funeral in his usual way. His mind is pinging with all kinds of thoughts.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">If only she had listened to him and been cremated. He could have spread her ashes at the top of the Ferris wheel in Coney Island. He and Carol rode to the top– the ocean on one side, miles and miles of Brooklyn on the other, apartment houses, churches, synagogues, factories, looking tiny like toys. They were both so happy. They made their vows there. Years ago when he told Carol he wanted his ashes thrown from there, she laughed, especially when he went into details about the rest of the funeral he wanted. Everyone attending would be on the Ferris wheel as it circled, offer a prayer as the ashes were swept away by the wind. He thought it through. It could really be done. The Ferris wheel could be rented. Why not? Carol laughed when he told her the details of his plan. Told him he was still a child.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">Unhappily Jeremy stares at the chassidic rabbi. He’s put Jeremy in a nasty mood. It isn’t just that he used dirt instead of the earth. He looks like he slept in his clothes. He is not a dandy like the Chassidim in Williamsburg with their sable fur hats, proudly waddling along the avenues to the synagogue. This rabbi looks like the Jews Jeremy has seen in documentaries about the holocaust. They were so ugly. He shouldn’t have had that thought. He felt enormous compassion for them but also disgust. Acceptable or not you feel what you feel. It’s not under your control. That is how he excused himself. He didn’t like that non-Jews saw them like that.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">Jeremy had half forgotten Carol’s mother came from a Chassidic family. She broke from them, tossed out all of their ways. But here she is with this rabbi.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">Last night Jeremy wrote and rewrote something about Carol. Had a thousand thoughts which he kept revising. He decided he might read it at the gravesite. He takes it out of his pocket.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">Necessities commanded her interest, not theories. She did the heavy lifting, tore through the daily details required for us to function. The bed was always made by 10 AM. The dishes washed after dinner. No exceptions. She went to the nursery to buy lawn fertilizer. She pushed the spreader. She was proud of our lawn. So was I. The house had to be beautiful as if we were having guests. I’d tell her it was unnecessary. She knew I didn’t want to help her. “Go. Work on your masterpiece,” she’d tell me. And when she read a chapter or two she sometimes told me it was a masterpiece. Or she wouldn’t but it was more important than her work.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">She was the one with great lyrics. She knew how to find the words. She couldn’t care less if it was sung on the radio. She just wrote it.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">Hey you with the broken smile</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">Come on over and stay for a while.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;"><em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"> </em>Hey you with the hunger in your eyes</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">I recognize that look on your face</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">A shattered heart still searching for grace.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">Disappointed? I know it’s not the way you planned.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">Darling, save your words</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">Because I know that’s the way it happens.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">You wouldn’t be the first</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">To be standing</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">With your heart left in your hands.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">He loves the melody. He considers singing it. Decides not to. It would be weird. Carol’s mother doesn’t need weird. Not today. He continues reading</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“She seemed not to mind putting me first. There wasn’t a choice growing up. It was ingrained in her. Not from anything taught to her. From her experience. Before he stopped, her father drank more than he should. Her mother needed her help. It wasn’t work. She enjoyed helping her. Her mother’s appreciation was abundant, her love. And her father? She understood whatever he did or did not do. Her devotion to her parents blossomed in the approval she gave to herself each time she was helpful. That was very often. It kept her on an even keel. Yes, sometimes when there was heavy lifting, rage at her misfortune blew all of that away. But that was rare. She never thought about an alternative. You do what you must do and move on to the next thing you must do. And then you do that. It wasn’t <em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">tzedakah,</em> righteousness, giving charity as you are commanded to do. It was what she had to do. Kindness overflowed to those she loved.”</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">That was Carol. Jeremy can feel it, perhaps more now, as he recalls it, than when she offered it day after day.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">Jay comes into his mind, CC’s brother. He lived his life doing what was expected. CC said he seemed content. For a brief moment Jeremy’s contempt for him disappears, but then returns as he flushes his new perspective away. He returns to what he has written.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“Day to day she was perfectly happy with her life. She told me that. It didn’t take much. The satisfaction she felt when she finished a chore. Mopping the floor, doing macramé, fertilizing the lawn, it didn’t matter. Because it was done well by the end of the day, her exhaustion made rest a luxury she had earned. Her deep, deep sleep. She hardly moved in the bed. That contentment wasn’t a trick she learned from a book, or from anyone’s suggestions. She went to sleep cherishing her rest. Her exhaustion was her sleeping pill. Now she is resting in peace.”</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">His reading stops. The usual. His thoughts bolt out.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">People say that all the time. The right words bring comfort. It sounds idiotic to Jeremy. She is dead not resting. He crumbles up the paper. No way he will say anything today. That part about her father’s drinking. Carol would have been humiliated.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">Then he decides he wants to hold on to the paper. He tries to straighten it. He folds it as neatly as he can. Puts it back in his pocket. He won’t, he can’t speak but he feels like he should be doing something. Only it is too late to do anything. There is nothing to can do.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">Again he looks at the pine box. If only he could see her smiling at him, one of her really nice smiles. Sometimes she would say in a certain way. “You’re my Jeremy.” Not often, but when she did he loved hearing it even if he seemed to be busy with other things. Later in the day it would come back to him. The way she said that. It is coming back to him now. If he could see that smile one more time. He tries to picture it in his mind. He can’t.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">He should have done more. He could have. It wasn’t fair. He’s had that thought before, many times, but this time his usual excuse isn’t working. Yes she loved him and gave and gave but that is because Carol was Carol. She couldn’t be any other way. That’s how she loved. She loved loving that way. She would have done the same for someone else. It wasn’t him. It was the way she loved.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">But right now that thought doesn’t relieve his anguish.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">Would she really? Was she doing it to get him to love her? She knew he didn’t. Not the crazy way people in love are in the beginning. Not the way he loves CC. Is that why she couldn’t do enough for him. If he loved her the way he loves CC she wouldn’t have had to try so hard. His mind races forward like a flooding stream. Remorse grabs hold of him. He can’t get enough air. He takes a deep breath. It doesn’t help. He needs more air. He can’t get it.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">Fortunately, there is a shred of relief. He grabs at it. He did love her. The amazing guttural sounds she made when she came. “I’m coming. I’m coming.” He loved those moments. Loved them. Loved them. Loved her. That was real. Enormous. He can almost feel those moments as if it were happening now. She knew how much he loved that. There was quiet between them. Contentment. They were one. That can’t be taken away from him.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">He tears up but not enough. He wants to sob, to sob like he did in the hospital. That is not there. He feels angry.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">Again the same thought. She deserves better than this Chassidic rabbi her mother brought from Brooklyn. His anger blots out his sadness. Carol didn’t like when he got angry. It happened too often. He tries not to be angry. He can’t. Again he can’t get enough air. He stares silently at the pine box holding her body as it is lowered.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">People probably think I’m a cheapskate runs through his head. He’s been to Christian funerals. All those flowers, the magnificent finished woods of the caskets. Silk lining surrounding the departed.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">He hates that there are strangers at the funeral. He’s embarrassed. They should have had a private funeral so he wouldn’t be distracted by the nonsense being public evokes. That son of a bitch, Professor Malev is at the funeral. Malev probably voted him out of the program. But maybe he wasn’t one of them. He would not have shown up today if he was. More than anyone else he is the one Jeremy worried might see him as cheap. But Malev is Jewish. He’d know that the pine box is obligatory. Remembering that, Jeremy is able to dismiss that thought.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">To dirt we return. Again, again, again that word. Dirt! He looks at the pile of dirt taken from the gravesite. Stones, sand, clay, mud– DIRT! Fucking Chassid. Low, class. An ugly guy. He’s an embarrassment to the Jews. Once again, videos he has seen, the Jews in the concentration camps come to mind. The skeletons, the mass graves as they are shot. Wasn’t their fault but people seeing Jews like that. Yes people with muscular dystrophy, spina bifida, the prisoners at Auschwitz are, totally innocent, victims, deserving our love and support. But they are grotesque. He isn’t the only one who sees them as grotesque. He read an interview with a woman who was freed from Auschwitz. She saw the look of disgust on the face of an American G.I. when he stared at the prisoners. She was embarrassed, humiliated. She had never felt that in all the time she was imprisoned. But she saw how ugly all of them were, how ugly she had become. Carol deserved better. A proper acknowledgement, some way of announcing her importance. Kirk Douglas’ Spartacus. That was a Jew to be proud of.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">He hated his mother’s funeral, hated seeing her. Before she died his mother kidded him when they talked about her funeral. He didn’t want to talk about it. She insisted that they talk about it. So he told her his ideas. She said they were funny.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“So you think there should be fireworks. Like July 4<span style="border: 0px; bottom: 1ex; font-size: 12px; height: 0px; line-height: 0; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; position: relative; vertical-align: baseline;">th</span>?</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“No nothing like that, but something.”</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“Jeremy I am going to be dirt. You are going to be dirt. Your father is going to be dirt The future of every living soul, every living thing, the grass, the birds, the buffalo, all become dirt.”</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">So that is why that word got to him! His mother’s words. She had sounded sanguine as she spoke about dying. Like she was about everything. Grounded. Plain truth. Anything else a waste of time. Death is death. Dead and gone. End of story. When she spoke about it, she sounded brave. Spitting at death. Shouting at it. Not fearing it. Quietly acknowledging it. He wishes he could have his mother’s perspective right now. Carol would have wanted that. She would have loved that. Be real. Move on. You have a life you gotta live.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“Look, her lips,</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">Look there.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">Look there.”</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">Jeremy doesn’t know where those words are coming from, but he never does when he hallucinates. Words from a person unseen. He tries to picture Carol’s lips. He can’t. He remembers his mother’s blue lips when she died.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">He was right to hate his mother’s funeral. She had it all wrong. And now he’s hating Carol’s attitude. There should be fireworks. He hated how Carol never fought back, that she wanted to die silently. She liked that line, go quietly into the night. Except she got it wrong, “Do not go gently into the night.” It doesn’t matter. The Irish whoop it up. At wakes, drink their way through death. Maybe they have the right idea. Except it isn’t only at wakes. So many Irish men have wrecked their family’s life. His own love of marijuana jumps into his mind.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">He looks over at Alyosha in Carol’s mother’s arms. Alyosha won’t look at him. He walks over to him, tries to take him in his arms. Alyosha cries, reaches for his grandmother. Jeremy makes crazy, funny sounds. It often works. Not this time. Alyosha is looking for his mother, reaching for his grandmother. Jeremy gives him back, walks away. Carol loved him so much. He’s now an orphan.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">Alone, Jeremy stands silently, making no eye contact with Carol’s cousins, no eye contact with his own cousins, with anyone. He is in his own world. After a quick glance at his father, the tears come more freely. Not enough to wash away his sadness, but he feels some relief. He knows how much his father loved his mother. As much as anyone can love another person. His father’s self-control was awful, but that didn’t lessen his love. He was an awful husband, cheated again and again but she was the love of his life. His mother knew that. She told him that. Carol didn’t tell him that. She couldn’t.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">That Carol had to put up with CC, knowing she wasn’t really loved, not like she had once dreamed of being loved. She had made peace by telling herself that Jeremy couldn’t fall in love like that with anyone, at least not anything lasting more than a week or two. It was her excuse, a gift to Jeremy. He didn’t mind having his conscience quieted by her forgiveness in those final weeks, but today it isn’t sticking.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">She knew he loved CC like that. It hurt her deeply. It took away her will to live. She had always clawed back when the lupus flared up. Kept it from turning into real illness. But not this time. She saw him with CC at the football game. He is now sure it began then. After she saw them she got sicker and sicker. The tears stream down his face. The only relief is agreeing with his mother. Carol is nothing. My mother was nothing. I am nothing. We are all nothing. We will be dirt far longer than the years we are alive. We will be dirt forever.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">He looks at the other people at the funeral. The rabbi made sure to bring a minyan. Had them shlep with him six and a half hours nonstop from Brooklyn to Buffalo. The Chassid are amazing. The importance of responsibility. Tzedakah. Righteousness. His anger at the rabbi subsides.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">Jeremy vaguely recognizes one of Carol’s cousins from Brooklyn. Jeremy and Carl have more than once schmoozed at family affairs. Carl sat at their table at a bar mitzvah. Carl approaches Jeremy.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“Seems like I just saw her. Did it happen quickly?”</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">Jeremy murmurs, “No.”</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“Was she in pain?”</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“No.”</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“Well at least we can be thankful for that.”</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">Jeremy doesn’t answer, but he is looking at Carl with hatred. <em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Thankful? Thankful?</em> He wants to shout, but doesn’t.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">Carl walks away. The hatred remains until it is replaced with Jeremy’s regret. Carl meant well. Jeremy is angry at himself for his anger. Carol woud have been angry at him.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">Jeremy becomes numb. He is standing alone. He hears the Kaddish. His mother was always there when as a little boy he stared at the children playing outside.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“Come on, Move your bupkiss. Get some fresh air.”</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">Jeremy knows the prayer by heart. After his mother’s death he and his father went to weekly services to say the mourner’s Kaddish. His father stopped after a month. He told Jeremy there was no point. “She’s gone. Gone is gone.” Jeremy continued for eleven months as prescribed by Jewish law. He was twelve and didn’t doubt God was watching him. So it wasn’t just ritual. He was praying. Talking fervently to God. It was only later, in college, that he refused saying the Kaddish at a funeral. It felt silly praying to a god that doesn’t exist.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">Jeremy begins to chant. Carol would have wanted this. She prayed to God. She was certain God was there. There is also a tid bit of a feeling which goes off and on that he is speaking to God. It’s there when he begins.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;"><strong style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">v’yitromam v’yitnasei</em></strong></p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;"><strong style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">v’yit-hadar v’yit-aleh v’yit-halal</em></strong></p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;"><strong style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">sh’mei d’kud’sha</em></strong></p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;"><strong style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">l’eila min kol birkhata v’shirata</em></strong></p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;"><strong style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">tooshb’chatah v’nechematah</em></strong></p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;"><strong style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">da’ameeran b’almah, v’eemru</em></strong></p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">He reads silently to himself.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;"><strong style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Blessed and praised and glorified</strong></p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;"><strong style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"> and exalted and extolled</strong></p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;"><strong style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">and mighty and upraised,</strong></p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;"><strong style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">and lauded be the Name of the Holy One.</strong></p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;"><strong style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Blessed is He.</strong></p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;"><strong style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Beyond any blessing and song,</strong></p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;"><strong style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">beyond any praise and consolation that are uttered in the world.</strong></p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;"><strong style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"> Now say Amen.</strong></p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">His cynicism returns. “Boy they don’t want to take any chances that God might be offended.”</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">Then he murmurs the words in English, this time out loud.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;"><strong style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">“Blessed and praised, glorified, exalted and extolled, honored, adored and lauded be the Name of the Holy One, blessed be He.”</strong></p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">He stops for a moment, then continues</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“<strong style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Beyond all the blessings, hymns, praises and consolations that are uttered in the world; and say, Amen.”</strong></p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">Somewhere in the middle of that he’s begun again to connect to God. Not completely, but there is something, something alive. He’s half way there.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">They come to the final verse. He remembers the ritual. He takes three steps back, bows his head to the right then straight ahead, then to the left, then straight ahead he bows. He speaks in Hebrew as he did as a child</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; text-align: right; vertical-align: baseline;"><strong style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">עֹשֶׂה שָׁלוֹם בִּמְרוֹמָיו</strong></p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; text-align: right; vertical-align: baseline;"><strong style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">הוּא יַעֲשֶׂה שָׁלוֹם</strong></p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; text-align: right; vertical-align: baseline;"><strong style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">עָלֵֽינוּ וְעַל כָּל יִשְׂרָאֵל וְאִמְרוּ</strong></p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;"> He prays desperately, frightened.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">As usual his thoughts intervene. They used to praise good Jews as God fearing. No way he can live peacefully with that. He knows a reborn Christian who sees God’s love. God fearing is the best we can do?</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">That thought does it. Whatever was, or could have been, he’s again not connected. He has only his thinking which he has worshipped all these years as his God. The other God is nowhere.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">Another hallucination. A mocking voice. It is CC’s.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“Wittgenstein.”</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">It gets louder. “Wittgenstein? The King of doubt?”</p><p style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; border: 0px; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"> “Fuck you CC.” he whispers to himself as he walks away from the grave site, watched by the others as the funeral has not concluded. Nothing is working. Neither his anger nor his thoughts can blot out his despair.</span></p><p style="background-attachment: initial; background-clip: initial; background-image: initial; background-origin: initial; background-position: initial; background-repeat: initial; background-size: initial; border: 0px; line-height: 24px; margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"> Carol, where are you?</span></p></div></div>Simon Sobohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02579449711047401565noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2082400290580706324.post-70087652244761261842023-12-07T19:09:00.002-05:002023-12-07T19:09:48.887-05:00A Plea for Balance: The Situation In the Ukraine is Far More Complicated Than We are Being Told<p> </p><h1 style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "PT Serif", TimesNewRoman, "Times New Roman", Times, Baskerville, Georgia, serif; font-size: 36px; line-height: 1.1; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">A Plea for Balance: The Situation In the Ukraine is Far More Complicated Than We are Being Told</h1><aside class="meta" style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #999999; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; margin: 10px 0px 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"></aside><div class="entry-box clearfix" style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 30px 0px 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><div class="html-before-content" style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"></div><div class="entry" style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 30px; vertical-align: baseline;"><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;"> </p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;"> </p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">Whatever the cause, wars’ consequences are the worst behavior human beings are capable of displaying. It’s always the same, rape, pillage, maiming and human beings killing other human beings on a massive scale. War makes clear that we are animals once the restraints of civilized expectations are removed. However noble the intentions claimed, however interesting battles can seem in history books, war’s horror is so evident that it cannot be sanctioned, explained, or justified in any way. Not now. Not ever. Putin and the Russians should be universally condemned. But we can also assume that by now some of the Ukrainian soldiers have matched the Russians in performing terrible deeds. War unleashes grotesque impulses on every side. All the more reason that we are entitled for our news to be told with more than the simplicity of a good guys vs. bad guys narrative.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;"> </p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">Putin’s contention that Ukraine is part of Russia is being treated as a reincarnation of Hitler. Not entirely ridiculous. We should see him as a potentially dangerous man, a bully preying on the weak. He rules a large country. He has attacked a small one. That hasn’t happened in Europe for a very long time. His neighbors, especially former satellites, have good reason to fear Russian aggression. They were imprisoned by Russia until the Soveit Union crumbled. Nevertheless, treating Putin as a mad man avoids this war’s particulars. Here are simple facts. Khrushchev who led Russia from 1953-1964 was, in essence, a Ukrainian. Although ethnically Russian, he was born and raised close to the border of the Ukraine. His father worked in the Ukraine, and his early career and political successes were all in the Ukraine Communist Party. He expressed his fondness for them repeatedly. Leonid Brezhnev who followed him was a Ukrainian. He led Russia from 1964-82. <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Konstantin_Chernenko" style="border: 0px; color: #222222; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"> Chernenko</a>, a Ukrainian was Brezhnev’s chief of staff. He also led the Soviet Union from 1984-85. During the Brezhnev era, the head of both the KGB and the Defense ministry were Ukrainians. In essence, for a very long time, Ukrainians ruled Russia. Gorbachev led the Soviet Union from 1985-92. His mother was Ukrainian. In the west he is thought of as our hero. He ended the Cold War. He ended Communism.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;"> </p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">Another fact: Gorbachev felt that Russia was correct to take back Crimea. Within the Soviet Union many Russian were furious, when in 1954, Ukraine aficionado, Nikita Khrushchev gave it to the Ukraine. Crimea had been a part of Russia from 1783 until Khrushchev’s gift. It wasn’t just Crimea that Gorbachev disagreed with our point of view. Gorbachev was furious with the United States for going back on many of their agreements regarding the resolution of the Cold War. Before he died he also made clear that he thought Putin is a trustworthy leader defending Russian interests. For his support of Russia’s annexation of Crimea, he was banned from the Ukraine.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;"> </p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">A simple question: <strong style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">If the Ukraine is unequivocally </em></strong><em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><strong style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">not</strong></em><strong style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"> part of Russia how did the Russians allow so many non-Russians to lead their nation?</em> </strong>Obviously for many of those years the Ukrainians were considered Russian. Not that there weren’t plenty of tensions and a history of bloodshed between them, just as there is between Mississippi and Massachusetts. But briefly, in 1991, the Ukraine was the third largest nuclear power in the world. A huge number of Russia’s nuclear weapons were in the Ukraine. Not something we would expect Russia to do if it considered the Ukraine a foreign nation. We have all heard of the Chernobyl disaster in Russia. Actually Chernobyl is in the Ukraine. Putin claims that for a very long time we have been trying to pry the Ukraine away from Russia. Of course we have. Does that mean Putin was entitled to go to war when Ukrainian leaders wanted to complete the break, become a member of NATO, part of an alliance specifically designed to oppose Russia.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;"> </p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">Putin is not a good guy. I’m inclined to believe those stories of poisonings of his political enemies, whether he personally ordered them or not. I suspect his gang of supporters has done many other terrible things. Probably the recent air plane crash killing Prigozhin, the leader of an army who, for a while, sought to overthrow Putin, was not an accident. There is nothing to like about the political process in Russia. They are not able to rise above violence as a way to settle political disagreement. This is not the United States where we tar and feather political opponents, tell an incredible number of lies, try to destroy those who are hated, but by using our mighty media, not literally by killing them. For now, and probably for the foreseeable future this means Russia is less civilized than us. We saw when the Serbs and Crimeans went to war how barbaric political battles became. Long time neighbors killed each other. We saw the same in Saudi Arabia. A journalist opponent of the rulers got killed, his body chopped up, put in suitcases. During the Viet Nam era, nations in South East Asia had numerous killing fields. Many Latin American nations solved political dispute with violence. European kings and princes once regularly beheaded opponents. Except for our Civil War we have managed to avoid that. Still, there is a lot to dislike about the way our democracy has been functioning in recent years. The first casualty of war is truth. On that basis what has been going on in America is a war. Those on the Left are demonized by those on the Right and vice-versa. Lies pile on top of lies from both the right and left. The Democrats tried to immobilize Trump’s election with the Russian collusion lies. Trump tried to throw out the election in 2020 with his lies.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;"> </p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">The Ukraine is presented similarly with propaganda that is inevitable in wars. Flag waving is the only acceptable attitude. Our side is heroic. The Ukrainians are venerated. They are noble, kind, brave, suffering human beings, not far from sainthood. Every time Zelenskyy speaks to legislators in the west he gets standing ovations. Presumably, the foul behavior of the Ukrainians in the past, has long since been forgotten. These are very fine people. Their enemies, our enemies, are crazy animals. They are rapists, murderers, and beasts. Their soldiers are stupid to agree to the suicide demanded of them. When they bring orphaned Ukrainian children for care in Russia we claim they are kidnapping them. When the Russian people show their support for Putin, our explanation is that they have been duped. We cite Putin’s critics as evidence that he is barely holding on to the leadership of Russia.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;"> </p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">The lies of our politicians and our media are intolerable. They have completely lost our trust. But Russia’s political process is worse. Far worse. It has not returned to a society where the KGB once grabbed people out of their apartments at night, never to return. And people were too frightened to object. Nor has an iron curtain been erected keeping its people imprisoned, shooting those trying to escape. Russia’s citizens can leave their country and travel freely. They have access to the West’s media. The process is very flawed by our standards, but it is not helpful to characterize their politicians as madmen, and dismiss their claims as outrageous. We are entitled to hear the whole story when we go over why the Ukraine was attacked.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;"> </p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">Half Ukrainian, half Russian, before he died, Gorbachev grieved over the war. He saw the two people as brothers with a long historical bond. Gogol was Ukrainian. So was Trotsky. Sergei Prokofiev, the great Russian composer, was born in the Ukraine. Fiddler on the Roof, which we all assume was about a Russian shtetl took place in the Ukraine. Little Odessa in Brooklyn described a neighborhood of Russian and Ukrainian people freely mingling. People moved there to be among their own. My wife’s grandfather always described himself as Russian. It now turns out he was Ukrainian. Sholoim Aleichem was Ukrainian. There are monuments to him in Lviv<em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"> and</em> Moscow. Solzhenitsyn’s mother was Ukrainian.. So were the genius Russian pianists <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sviatoslav_Richter" style="border: 0px; color: #222222; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Sviatoslav Richter</a> and Emil Gilels, violinists David Oistrach, Nathan Milstein. Soviet Cosmonauts <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Georgy_Beregovoy" style="border: 0px; color: #222222; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Georgy </a><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Georgy_Beregovoy" style="border: 0px; color: #222222; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Beregovoy, </a><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Leonid_Kizim" style="border: 0px; color: #222222; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Leonid Kizim</a>, <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Anatoly_Levchenko" style="border: 0px; color: #222222; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Anatoly Levchenko</a>, <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Anatoly_Filipchenko" style="border: 0px; color: #222222; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Anatoly Filipchenko</a>, <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Anatoly_Artsebarsky" style="border: 0px; color: #222222; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Anatoly Artsebarsky</a>, <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Igor_Volk" style="border: 0px; color: #222222; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Igor Volk</a>, <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pavel_Popovich" style="border: 0px; color: #222222; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Pavel Popovich</a>, <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Verkhovna_Rada" style="border: 0px; color: #222222; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Verkhovna Rada, </a><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Georgy_Dobrovolsky" style="border: 0px; color: #222222; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Georgy Dobrovolsky–all were Ukrainians</a>.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;"> </p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">A good many <em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Western</em> Ukrainians, apparently a large majority, have considered themselves European and hated Russia over the centuries. But what is and is not the Ukraine has been literally all over the map throughout its history. Parts of the Ukraine, Galicia and Polhynia were ruled by Poland. Like Russia today Poles didn’t think of the Ukraine as a real country. From the point of view of ordinary citizens in that part of the world, they have not been that far off. I knew this Hungarian Americans family who see themselves as totally Hungarian They spoke Hungarian. They were Hungarians. It now turns out they actually lived in what is now the Ukraine. Parts of today’s Ukraine were considered Czechoslovakian, other parts Rumanian.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;"> </p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;"> </p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">For much of their history most Ukrainians didn’t think of themselves as part of a Ukraine nation. They were Hungarians Poles, Russian, Slavs, Tartars, Cossacks. Not just in the Ukraine, the idea of what is and is not a nation hadn’t been clear in much of Europe until the 19<span style="border: 0px; bottom: 1ex; font-size: 12px; height: 0px; line-height: 0; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; position: relative; vertical-align: baseline;">th</span> century. It was then that being part of a “nation” ascended as the dominant way of viewing territories. Just as Venetians, and the Milanese started thinking of themselves as Italians, and Prussians and Junkers began to think of themselves as German, Ukrainian nationalism believed they should be part of their own nation. It was an idea, a call to action rather than something that actually existed. But clearly it was a dangerous thought if you were Polish.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;"> </p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">The Poles tried to suppress Ukrainian nationalism wherever it popped up. They closed down Ukrainian speaking schools. They tried, not always nicely, to turn the Ukrainians into Roman Catholics. Although throughout its history other peoples occupied their lands and considered the Ukraine part of their country, Ukrainian intellectuals starting thinking of themselves as Ukrainian. They were spreading an idea, a nation of Ukrainian people.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;"> </p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">Russia was equally hated They also tried to suppress Ukrainian nationalism. But that was not their worst sin. In the 1930’s Stalin viciously tried to impose collective farming, shooting any one opposed. This led to the greatest non-wartime famine in history. A million Russians starved to death and four million Ukrainians. Many Ukrainians greeted the Germans in World War II as liberators. They joined them in the slaughter of Jews at Babi Yar. Not only Jews. In 1943, Ukrainian nationalists with the Nazi’s help, also slaughtered 60,000 to 100,000 men, women and children of Polish origin who were living peacefully in villages in the Ukraine.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;"> </p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">Putin often speaks of the Ukrainians as Nazis, seemingly a ludicrous accusation considering that their leader is Jewish. Yes, a charmer from show business, a television personality is the public persona of the Ukrainians nation’s cause. He was elected by a majority of the Ukrainian people. But a minority of Ukrainians are Nazi affiliated. And they have occupied a prominent role in their society. The 1943 killing of Poles were initiated and directed by a radical Ukrainian nationalist Stephen Bandera and his Organization of Ukrainian Nationalists and its military arm, the Ukrainian Insurgent Army.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;"> </p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;"> </p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">Led by Stephen Bodera the murders were committed with incredible cruelty. Many were burnt alive or thrown into wells. Axes, pitchforks, scythes, knives and other farming tools rather than guns were used in an attempt to make the massacres look like a spontaneous peasant uprising. In the blood frenzy, the Ukrainians tortured their victims with unimaginable bestiality. Victims were scalped. They had their noses, lips and ears cut off. They had their eyes gouged out and hands cut off and they had their heads squashed in clamps. Woman had their breasts cut off and pregnant woman were stabbed in the belly. Men had their genitals sliced off with sickles. All the horrible things described about the treatment of Jews during that era were also done to the Poles</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;"> </p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">In 2016 the Polish parliament instituted the National Day of Remembrance of the Victims of Genocide committed by Ukrainian nationalists against citizens of the Second Republic of Poland, at the same time labelling the massacres an act of genocide. But there has been no public apology. Indeed, Bodera is seen as a national hero. A Ukrainian stamp commemorates his heroism. There is a 22 ft statue of him in Lviv in front of the Stele of the Ukrainian Statehood a towering monument to Ukrainian identity. Although their common fear of Russia has, for now, united them, the issues between the Poles and Ukrainians is far from over. In 2015, the Ukrainian parliament passed a <a href="https://krytyka.com/en/articles/open-letter-scholars-and-experts-ukraine-re-so-called-anti-communist-law" style="border: 0px; color: #222222; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">law</a> allowing people who denied the heroism of Ukrainian national resistance fighters to be punished. The Poles passed a bill making it a criminal offence to deny the “crimes of Ukrainian nationalists”. Zelenskyy has gone to a Polish Church, supposedly as an act of contrition for what the Nazi Ukrainians did to the Poles. But the towering statue remains. Bodera is a hero.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">It should also be noted that these wonderful people were the mainstay of the Nazi’s death camps. Ukrainians were said to outnumbered the Germans 10 to 1 at Sorbitol. It was similar in other death camps. Not every nationality would have been able to supply so many guards equal in cruelty to the Ukrainians that herded the Jews. And while Zelenskyy, during his election campaign, intended to clean up Ukrainian’s notorious corruption with his dream team of reformers, the dream team was gone after a few months in office. He made peace with a rotten bunch of people.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;"> </p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">In complete contrast Russian speaking Eastern Ukrainians were the mainstay of the Ukrainian underground fighting the Nazis. Since 2014 Eastern Ukrainians have been fighting the rest of Ukraine in a civil war seeking independence. There are reports of them committing war crimes, just as there have been reports of the Ukrainian army killing unarmed prisoners. I assume the reports are not fiction.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;"> </p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;"> </p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">I must admit that I am not a long time scholar of the Ukraine. I am using Google and Wikipedia, and news articles, so some of my information may be tainted by the sites. I am new to the subject and find it difficult to separate fact from fiction. And I will admit a contrary streak in me has caused me to find information tarnishing the current angelic presentation of Ukrainians. I welcome factual corrections. However, regardless of my iconoclasm, and probably some mistaken facts, my main purpose is to emphasize how complicated the situation is. Even in educated quarters there has been little attempt to move beyond official attitudes. Part of that uniformity has become part of political correctness. It’s dangerous to stand alone. So very possibly I am exaggerating Ukrainian evil to level the playing field. But I will not apologize for wanting readers to take a better look at official attitudes.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;"> </p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">Perhaps the complex issues are best illustrated by Russian Olympic champion ice skater, Victor Petrenko. Born in the Ukraine to Ukrainian engineers, only Russian was spoken at home. He was sent to a Russian speaking school in the Ukraine. Despite being born and educated in the Ukraine he never learned to speak Ukrainian fluently. After he was an Olympic champion, as an adult he organized many charitable events for Ukrainian children including a campaign to help those effected by Chernobyl (once more, in the Ukraine not Russia.)</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;"> </p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">In June 2008, he was elected to the Presidium of the Ukrainian Figure Skating Federation. In 2022, amidst Ukraine’s <a href="https://www.nytimes.com/2022/02/21/opinion/putin-ukraine-nato.html" style="border: 0px; color: #222222; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">ongoing war against Russia</a>, Petrenko was fired from his post as vice president of the Ukrainian Figure Skating Federation (UFFK) and expelled from the organization for taking part in an event in Russia that was organized by Tatiana Navka a U<a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tatyana_Navka" style="border: 0px; color: #222222; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">krainian ice dancer who won gold for Russia in 2006</a><u style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">.</u><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tatyana_Navka" style="border: 0px; color: #222222; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"> She is </a>the wife of Putin’s press secretary <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dmitry_Peskov" style="border: 0px; color: #222222; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Dmitry Peskov.</a></p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;"> </p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">One other relevant point of view. At the beginning of the war Thomas Friedman wrote an article in the New York Times, “<a href="https://www.nytimes.com/2022/02/21/opinion/putin-ukraine-nato.html" style="border: 0px; color: #222222; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">This Is Putin’s War. But America and NATO Aren’t Innocent Bystanders”</a> (Please use the link) He described the anger of George Kennan (the person often credited with our <em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">anti</em>-Soviet policies during the cold war). Kennan, like Gorbachev, felt we were extremely (and unnecessarily) aggressive surrounding the Soviet Union with armed NATO allies. Friedman quoted Kennan in the 90’s: “I think it is the beginning of a new cold war. I think the Russians will gradually react quite adversely and it will affect their policies. I think it is a tragic mistake. There was no reason for this whatsoever. No one was threatening anybody else. This expansion would make the founding fathers of this country turn over in their graves.”</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;"> </p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">Russia has repeatedly said it will end the war if its conditions are met by the Ukraine. They are: 1) Change its constitution to enshrine neutrality 2) acknowledge Crimea as Russian territory. 3) recognize the separatist republics of Donetsk and Lugansk as independent states (now part of Eastern Ukraine). Despite the clarity of their demands, The New York Times’ Steven Erlanger wrote September 2 of this year “Putin has said a lot of times he won’t negotiate except on his own terms, which are Ukraine’s obliteration.” Not exactly an accurate description. They have repeatedly had referendums in Eastern Ukraine, demonstrating that they are supported by the population. Perhaps, as we claim, their referendums are phony. Perhaps not, but I am willing to consider the possibility that a majority of eastern Ukrainians want to be Russians. Certainly, even before the Russian soldiers joined them, there were a lot of Eastern Ukrainians willing to fight and die for their cause.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;"> </p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">It should be noted that the declared boundaries of the Ukraine, which I have noted have previously gone in all kinds of directions were made official in 1991and agreed upon by Russia. But I am not sure how meaningful that was. Russia’s nationhood was far from secure. In that very year, during a coup attempt, their Parliament was surrounded by troops. Gorbachev, the ruler of Russia, was placed under house arrest. So, one may question what it meant for Russia to agree to the present boundaries. And as noted above, Gorbachev was furious with the United States for not living up to understandings we supposedly agreed to when they agreed to end the Soviet Union.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;"> </p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">The mention of Trump often goes off in wild directions. But it is not coincidence that Trump’s first National Security Adviser, Michael Flynn, was a strong advocate of better relations with Russia. So was Trump. And we know how Russia’s enemies in Washington were horrified. Indeed, with their false Russian collusion accusations they succeeded in demonizing Russia even before the Ukraine invasion.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;"> </p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">On a purely speculative level, the other current alliances should be noted. Biden has had a special relationship with the Ukraine. His son cashed in on absurd rewards while his father was Vice-president (a million dollar a year for board seat on Burisma, a Ukrainian gas company) Burisma was being investigated by Victor Shokin their top prosecutor. Shokin seized four large houses and a Rolls-Royce Phantom belonging to the company’s owner Mykola Zlochevsky. Biden insisted that this prosecutor be terminated. In a 2018 speech at the Council on Foreign Relations, VP Biden bragged that he had threatened to withhold $1 billion in US loan guarantees for Ukraine unless Shokin was sacked. It also should be noted that Trump pushed in the other direction. He intended to withhold military assistance unless the Ukrainians proceed with their Biden corruption investigation. For this Trump was rewarded with another impeachment drama.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;"> </p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">Perhaps the slimy everyday corruption of politicians shouldn’t tarnish the lofty issues often cited in the Ukrainian war. Or perhaps they should for any perspective that might clarify how much of the lofty current war is related to these shenanigans and loyalties. It is worth considering.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;"> </p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">To return to the war’s rhetoric, Putin’s demands don’t sound like the ravings of a mad man. Perhaps, if unopposed, he would try to conquer other former Soviet territories. He was very aggressive with Georgia, but here too, the situation is ambiguous. Stalin was a Georgian. Still it doesn’t matter. Reasons can always be found for any strategy. Certainly, the alarmed reaction of Russia’s former occupied nations in Eastern Europe is understandable. The Ukraine’s relationship with Russia is different than theirs, but if history is our guide they have reason for their concern. Both World War I and II were brought on by border conflicts. The borders of nations in that region still could be in flux. That issue was put to bed after World War II. Nations were redefined as the Soviet Empire collapsed in the 90’s. There have been skirmishes but there has been very little warfare involving major powers about boundaries. That relative peacefulness was put in danger with Russia’s invasion of Ukraine. But even before the invasion many nations have been rearming themselves because we may be reentering an era when not only Russia is a menace but each nation’s neighbors.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;"> </p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">If the reader is becoming confused by my support for, and alarm about Russia that their former satellites have shown, it is because I am somewhere in the middle. I am suspicious of our motives, their motives, everyone’s motives. There is reason to be suspicious, to weigh many points of view, to be especially suspicious that right and wrong isn’t the real issue as far as our foreign policy is concerned.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;"> </p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">So, let me turn to that, indeed reverse where I was heading. Many have wondered if we have to win this war to counterbalance the humiliation of our retreat from Afghanistan. The war is demonstrating the superiority of our weapons. Regardless of Putin’s character, or the lack of democracy in Russia and China, we are entering a phase in history where war with them may be inevitable. It wouldn’t matter if they were true democracies or led by a king, or whatever their government is. Our focus has shifted. We have grown tired of our war on terrorism, or perhaps the danger has faded. Our focus has shifted to Russia and China. History brings powerful nations into wars of dominance. So now we have to win this war.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;"> </p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">After our humiliating retreat from Afghanistan many leaders of other nations were weighing if we can be relied on. Not only can our influence be eradicated by our defeat, but our reliability as a friend must be questioned. Meaning we have to duke it out with Russia. We can’t lose still again. If<em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"> this is our motive for strongly supporting Zelenskyy I am totally on the side of our leaders. A world where we are seen as a paper tiger is a far more dangerous world. </em><em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Having so vociferously proclaimed the freedom of the Ukraine as a moral absolute we can’t back down. We may question whether that absolute commitment was necessary but once done, it is done. Certainly,</em> greater honesty about how complicated the war is, might have brought more flexible options. It still might not be too late to broaden the debate.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;"> </p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">But let me return to the moral dimensions of the war in the Ukraine. Leaving aside realpolitik, I believe the most important issue to note is that a lot more Ukrainians and Russians will be dying if the war goes on and on. We must quit presenting this war as a moral necessity, a fight against outrageous villains. Granted, if it isn’t presented that way no soldiers would be willing to die for their cause. And we wouldn’t be giving them billions of dollars, if the war was presented as simply a territorial dispute. But if we stopped seeing it that way maybe better solutions could be found. And frankly, the cynic in me can’t help commenting that once again we are having others fight our war.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;"> </p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">Since 2014 Eastern Ukraine has been at war with Ukraine trying to be allied with, or part of Russia. No one considered it worthy of a major effort on our part. We accused the Russians of meddling. They lodged similar complaints about us. Russia’s invasion changed the public’s perception and perhaps it is true that Putin’s invasion is analogous to Hitler’s early aggressions. But the fact is, this war would not be continuing if it were not for the principles we are holding sacred (i.e. fighting for a democratic nation’s integrity<em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">) Minimizing our own war dead</em>, <em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">getting others to do the fighting</em> has been our strategy for a long time now. It was basically true in Iraq where only 4550 American soldiers died in the 15 years we were there. 2400 Americans lost their life in Afghanistan during a 22-year war. By comparison, when we were actually doing the fighting 33,000 Americans died in Korea, 58,000 in Viet Nam and 450,000 in World War II. And now our vehemence that we are fighting a righteous war, risks no American soldiers at all. To achieve our strategic objectives, I am not against it if this must be our marketing tool. But I hope our decision makers are not deluded by their own propaganda.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;"> </p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">Moreover, I wonder how Ukrainians will view their many deaths to come, whether they would be this courageous if there weren’t American propagandists and money running the show, promising, expecting victory. Is this another example of how American wealth gives us temporary illusions of our wisdom. We rolled into Afghanistan and routed the Taliban. They fled to Pakistan, but they knew what I fear the Russians already know. Our reliability is questionable. Our persistence evaporates. We eventually forget why we have gone to war. I hope we will not have a twenty year war in the Ukraine, but unfortunately that might be ahead for us. Our hands will be dirtied by the bloodshed to come even if American soldiers are not dying. Our good guy/bad guy polarization is destructive enough in our own domestic politics but extending it to a war is a worse sin. It may entangle us in a long war, a <em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">holy</em> war that is non-negotiable, one that will bring many more deaths, rather than a truce, where concessions are made on the basis of both sides understanding the other’s grievances and legitimate desires.</p></div></div>Simon Sobohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02579449711047401565noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2082400290580706324.post-88290319792613175732023-12-07T14:04:00.000-05:002023-12-07T14:04:03.039-05:00People Are Living Like They MIght Be Dead Tomorrow<p> </p><h1 style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "PT Serif", TimesNewRoman, "Times New Roman", Times, Baskerville, Georgia, serif; font-size: 36px; line-height: 1.1; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">People Are Living Like They Might Be Dead Tomorrow</h1><aside class="meta" style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #999999; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; margin: 10px 0px 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"></aside><div class="entry-box clearfix" style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 30px 0px 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><div class="html-before-content" style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"></div><div class="entry" style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 30px; vertical-align: baseline;"><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;"> Covid did a number. I’m not talking about suicides or drug abuse or other much publicized ways the epidemic left its mark. None of that is insignificant. But, it is worth turning our attention to more widespread effects, those evident in the way a broad spectrum of people are reacting to the plague that they withstood. The most immediate effect is in attitudes. An awful lot of people are feeling they better have as many nice days now as they can. More than ever they want what used to seem like indulgences. Experiences, purchases, dreams of all types are more likely considered worth doing. Right now!</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;"> Ally Bank, whose online platform started allowing customers to create savings buckets for different goals in 2020, said users create about 50% more experience-oriented buckets such as travel and “fun funds” versus those associated with longer-term planning. Delta Air Lines reported record revenue in the second quarter and Ticketmaster sold over 295 million event tickets in the first six months of 2023, up nearly 18% year-over-year. An article on the front page of the Wall Street Journal describes Ibby Hussain’s attitude. Instead of saving for a down payment like he expected to after turning 30 and getting engaged in the past year, he splurged. First, he bought a $1,600 Taylor Swift Eras Tour ticket and then he spent $3,500 on a bachelor-party trip to Ibiza, Spain. “I might as well just enjoy what I have now,” he said.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">Josh Richner said he greatly lowered his retirement contribution to afford a trip that included a $7,000 Alaskan cruise so his family could see the ice caps, which have been melting. “I’ve never spent that much on a trip before.”</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;"> It isn’t always luxuries, pie in the sky extravagances. Widespread willingness to spend whatever it takes is one of the current causes of our inflation. Consumers are disregarding price leaps in groceries, at restaurants, vacations, hotels, air travel and anything else they might normally show caution about. Why save for the future? It’s now or never.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;"> Not just spending. That job that never matched up to what was hoped for, those countless hours given to the company in the hope of future advancement, why bother? It’s nuts. Why keep your job if it doesn’t go along with your expectations? 25 is the new 35 when it comes to work week hours. 22 million Americans now work part time. Only 4.1 million of those would prefer a full-time job. That statistic is unprecedented. It is six times the normal ratio. The reasons are not always far flung. Earlier in the pandemic, amid lockdowns and restrictions, some workers may have had their hours cut and realized they preferred a less demanding schedule.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;"> There are a variety of reasons people tell themselves about why they are working less. Family responsibilities, the realization that they don’t need all the goodies they thought they had to have, having time for things that are more important to them means more than time eaten up at work. Senator Paul Tsongas has been credited with this aphorism. “No one on their deathbed ever said, ‘I wish I’d spent more time at work. No person ever says they wish they had worked harder. I never heard a dying man say, ‘I wish I’d spent more time at the office.’” Lately, many seem to find wisdom in that. Very recently the “quit rate” has moderated after spiking in recent years but there are no statistics on how many workers are unwilling to give their boss extra hours.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;"> Companies making consumer products have been completely surprised by the lack of price resistance they now encounter. It is a dream come true for marketers, a chance to make a buck, a lot of bucks. Before they had to cautiously pursue price increases. No longer. The marketplace is undaunted. Yes, there are countervailing forces. High tech people being laid off, worrisome data of all sorts. And most recently, statistics are showing that, but nevertheless people want to spend and spend. The previous assumptions of sellers no longer apply. It defies all logic. Except the logic of a widespread fear that we might be dead tomorrow.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;"> Will it pass? Probably. It always does. Prices will get too high. So, the desire to live it up will fade into a temptation rather than a need to plunge ahead. And very possibly old motivations will return, like keeping up with the Jones, meaning working your butt off and gathering together your savings. People will have to work to stay in the game. That’s assuming marijuana use will not keep growing. The same for Adderall and Fentanyl and alcohol. When the meaning of life is having pleasure while you can, having as many nice days as possible, drugs provide relief from the bored malaise resulting from so many free hours. It is easy to blame Purdue for Oxycontin, and Mexican immigrants for bringing Fentanyl, and Big Pharma for the ADHD nonsense feeding amphetamines to millions, but none of this would be possible if the market wasn’t there, without widespread consumer desire for altered consciousness. Normally the willingness to party continuously is limited by the need to go back to work.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;"> I am assuming all of this will eventually change. More and more the focus on our mortality will fade into our unconscious and the need to pleasure ourselves will become less desperate. However, we cannot be certain that we will go back to the old ways so quickly.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;"> Following the Spanish Flu and the horror of World War I, the United States had inflation in 1918 and 1919. I am not an economist so I am certain there were other explanations, as there are for our current inflation. But I should add that this was followed by the Roaring 20’s. And we all know how that decade ended. Is history repeating itself?</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;"> I am not sure just how important what I have described, fearing our mortality, is influencing our current culture. In times past, people turned to more and more prayer when they felt anxiety. Since the 80’s fears of death have led people to jog and control their sugar and cholesterol and all kinds of exotic practices and herbs they read about. That became a substitute for religion, bringing new definitions of virtue and vice. These strategies assumed we could do something about it, prevent early disease and extend our lives by going along with the new rules. There was no certainty about exactly what needed to be done, and plenty of foolishness. However, making the effort was not doubted. Not everyone practiced this religion, but the payoff was clearly understood. Making the effort was seen as worth it.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;"> Covid was different. It demanded drastic action, closing down work places, schools, shopping, travel, restaurants, movie theatres—basically the substance of our existence, something that has never happened before in our lifetimes. Surprisingly, considering how extreme it was, many people took it in stride. Despite the nonsense pumped out by “experts”, everyone knew that no one knew what to do other than make guesses based on dubious data. People were willing to support the extreme measures that they were told were necessary either because they were convinced, or wanted to believe, or were forced by the government to follow its guidelines. It took a huge panic for us to accept the disassembling of our lives as we ordinarily lived it.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"> Many of our recent problems, such as the chaos resulting from broken supply lines and the inflationary effect of shortages, have pretty much passed. It isn’t altogether panic about tomorrow driving the live for today attitudes. Many had forgotten how sweet free time can be. They don’t want to work the long hours that defined their existence pre-Covid. They have tasted again the freedom of childhood. So what about the consequences. The hard-working Asians were eventually going to surpass us anyway.</p></div></div>Simon Sobohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02579449711047401565noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2082400290580706324.post-91975229352275390252023-12-07T13:57:00.002-05:002023-12-18T19:49:18.842-05:00Spartacus: A deleted chapter from 1968 Changed Eveerything<p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">While Dr. Weiss has been unhappy that Jeremy is cheating on Carol, she is not taken aback. Carol’s the best thing in his life, but he’s demonstrated his lousy judgment again and again. His high IQ does a very bad job of handling the equally large stupid part of him. As he describes the tension with CC, she is not surprised.</p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“You bring it on yourself,” she says.</p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“How?” he asks in a challenging way.</p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“You do. Your desire to argue. What <em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">is</em> that? Where’s that coming from?”</p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“You’re wrong. I <em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">don’t</em> want to fight with anyone. What’s going on in my head is ‘Hey, listen to this new thought I just had.’ That’s it.”</p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“But when you don’t get back what you expect, down goes your ego. And up goes your anger. ‘I’m right and you’re wrong.’ I know you believe that’s innocent. And maybe it is. But half the time you come across as ‘Stupid you.’. . . Ever watch three-year-olds putting each other down?”</p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“Maybe, but—”</p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“You’ve made a big deal about that boy in <em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">The Emperor’s New Clothes</em>.’ Like you’re that boy. Innocent. Saying the obvious, the truth, what everyone else is afraid to say. But the boy isn’t trying to make a point about the others. He simply spits it out. You’re not that boy. You’re the guy who wrote that story, accusing everyone of being chickenshit fools. You don’t just have ideas. You want to put down others. It isn’t even aimed at anyone. You just got this machine gun that has to be shot, spraying it at everyone else. You get away with it in the classroom, but with CC—how do you expect her to react? Or for that matter, anyone?”</p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">In a voice that, for Jeremy, is surprisingly modest, but well known to Dr. Weiss, he answers: “Spartacus—”</p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">Dr. Weiss cuts him off, seizes the opportunity that she has missed before. “You’ve brought up Spartacus a lot. What is that, anyway?”</p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“He didn’t grovel.”</p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“Great,” she replies in a sarcastic tone, which disarms him. “Being a rebel, making a lot of noise, doesn’t change anything. It’s just another way of hiding from your fear.”</p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“Whoa! I’m hiding? That is so far off. As long as I stand up for myself I’m in charge.”</p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“In charge—or it <em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">feels</em> like you are in charge?”</p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“I don’t come here to listen to your word games,” Jeremy counters. While he’s determined to not let her have a field day on him, his voice remains thin and defensive, which encourages Dr. Weiss to press on.</p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“Making noise doesn’t eliminate fear. Great—you can shout out to everyone that you’re not afraid, but you can shout so loud that you don’t recognize that you <em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">are</em> afraid.”</p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“So what’s wrong with that?”</p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“Nothing, but you can’t get rid of fear when there is good reason to be afraid. Spartacus was killed. He knew that would be his fate. That’s hardly victory.”</p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“But he put up a great fight. What would you like him to have done—hide in a corner, cry and beg for mercy?”</p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“How old were you when he became your hero?”</p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“Twelve, thirteen. Something like that. When I saw the movie. I don’t know. . . Why?”</p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“Because he’s a loser. Great––he didn’t grovel. He didn’t cry. He didn’t panic as death closed in on him. Those shots of him on the cross are glorious, aren’t they? And you know what that means?” The doctor stares at Jeremy. “He’s a <em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">loser</em>.”</p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“So, you saw the movie?”</p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“Yes,” Dr. Weiss replies.</p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“Spartacus’s pride kept growing the worse his situation became. I think that’s great—amazing really. I wouldn’t mind being like that.”</p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“You mean before you’re crucified. Losing is losing. Fine, he did it with style, but why would you want to be like him? Do you enjoy pain? Do you want to die?”</p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“Die? Don’t think so. And I definitely don’t enjoy pain of any type, but we all are going to die and everyone knows pain. I think Spartacus handles it well.”</p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“Maybe, but Spartacus knew his death was coming soon. Not later. That’s not everyone?”</p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“And you think there’s something wrong with thinking like that?”</p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“I’m not sure you can change it, and that worries me,” Dr. Weiss says. “Is death that close?”</p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“Not that I know of.”</p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“Then why Spartacus? You could have chosen Superman or Batman—winners. That’s what most kids want. Why Spartacus? I mean, the guy’s in trouble. Taking on the Roman Empire. Not a good strategy for survival. . . Winners. Truly winning. A happy ending. Why is your hero someone who is sure to die? And soon!”</p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“Yeah, as a gladiator he was going to die soon anyway, so why not grab a bit of glory?”</p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“Fine, but is that who you are? You love martyrs? Oh right, Che is one of your heroes. The brave dead guy. You once had a poster of him.”</p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“But I took it down when I heard how many people he had shot. I’m not interested in revenge. Wronging rights, yes, but—”</p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“Spartacus lives in the shadow of death from the very beginning. Is that you, Jeremy? Fighting everyone because you are doomed?”</p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“No.”</p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“I hope not. . . Seriously, do you think about dying a lot?”</p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“Not a lot, but yeah, sometimes. I mean, with my mother it was always there.”</p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“But why all this fighting with people? Why are you at war with what everyone else thinks? What’s the difference? What are you trying to prove?”</p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">He’s never before had a second thought about Spartacus. After a pause, he responds: “Spartacus gives me courage, courage I have to have.”</p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“Maybe to excess. Your repeated flirtation with danger—what the hell were you doing making your car skid with CC. <em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Why?</em> Why aren’t you looking out for yourself, getting your thesis done like most guys trying to move forward? It’s not heroic enough?”</p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“I want my thesis to be good.”</p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“You told me you want it to be a masterpiece.”</p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“When was that?”</p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“You did.”</p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“So. . .”</p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“It isn’t just grandiosity. It’s believing that such a state exists. Sure, everyone wants to fulfill their dreams, but dreams are about what doesn’t exist. Not for anyone. Even the king has worries, plenty of <em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">tsuris</em>. The person you want to be doesn’t exist. Getting back to the main point. Why did you pick a loser as your hero?”</p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“Superman is not a person,” Jeremy says. “Spartacus was a person like me. He was real. What’s wrong with seeing him as a great man and being inspired by him?”</p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“Inspired to <em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">be</em> him. Jeremy, defiance gussies you up. Makes noise, a lot of noise. It tricks you into believing that feeling brave is all that counts. It isn’t.”</p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">Dr. Weiss waits for Jeremy’s answer, which is not forthcoming. She continues: “It isn’t half of what it’s cracked up to be. You know that song lyric, ‘Whenever I feel afraid. . .’?” She sings, “’I whistle a happy tune.’” Then she continues, “That would have worked just as well for you. You don’t need Spartacus. In the end, Spartacus’s courage did nothing for him. Hero schmero. Dead is dead. James Dean. ‘Rebel Without a Cause’? That’s a dead-end role to play. As in dead. <em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Dead.</em>”</p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“You think so?” Jeremy asks meekly.</p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“Yes” she replies. “Which brings us to your mother. . .”</p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“I don’t want to talk about her.”</p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;"> </p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;"> </p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; text-align: center; vertical-align: baseline;"><strong style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">The rest of the chapter:</em></strong></p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;"> </p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">CC is waiting for him when he arrives home from his early-morning appointment with Dr. Weiss. Dr. Weiss had been doing her best to break Jeremy, believing it’s the only chance for him to straighten out. But breaking is breaking. She’s had the desired effect. Jeremy is feeling low. He is almost broken. Nevertheless, one look at CC and he is restored.</p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">CC’s in the kitchen, playing house. She has cleared the table, putting aside her book bag, his sweater, and both of their key rings. Until now their eating has been grabbing something & eating standing up. Their coats have been left on the kitchen chairs, unnoticed.</p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">This morning, though, CC is on a mission. She’s cleaned up the kitchen, gotten things organized. She’s set up two place settings. She’s trying a new tack. Although Jeremy’s feelings for CC have grown, the opposite is true of CC. Her interest in Jeremy has been shriveling. So perhaps a nice breakfast—she’s determined to give Jeremy and herself one last try.</p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“I’m making scrambled eggs,” she tells him. “You want?”</p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“Sounds nice.”</p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">She’s found Carol’s whisk and is working the eggs up into a foam. “I make them loose and airy, like my father taught me.”</p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">He takes two sliced bagels out of the freezer, pulls them apart, and drops them in the toaster. They are from Zabar’s in New York, reputedly the best bagels, so naturally he’s got plenty in his freezer. Carol has her own supply of frozen bagels, from a neighborhood bakery in Brooklyn a block from where she grew up. They are clearly better than Zabar’s bagels, even if Jeremy won’t admit it.</p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“Do you want sesame or poppy seed?” Jeremy asks CC. “Got them at Zabar’s,” he says proudly.</p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“Poppy.”</p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“You got it.”</p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">Soon the toaster pops. She spreads plenty of butter on his bagel and hers. She watches it melt, the cold, solid pat rapidly becoming liquid—the crusty outside, the toasted soft dough inside saturated with butter. Bagel perfection. She’s in that kind of mood. Appreciating simple things, or at least trying to. She has the same reaction as Carol. Zabar’s bagels don’t compare to those from the bakery her parents go to in Great Neck. She tries to remember the name of that bakery, but then she realizes she never noticed its name. It was just there. Cake Box? Cookie Bar? Nanny told her the bakers were Russian. Not surprising, since most of the customers were the children of Russian Jews.</p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">Despite sensing CC’s flagging enthusiasm, and his therapist unloading on him, once again Jeremy is in Wonderland. The previous night their lovemaking was fulfilling for him. A breakfast aftermath tops off his fantasy: Jeremy the king, and CC a happy geisha girl, eager to please, happily making their breakfast.</p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">When the eggs are done—loose, as she promised—she proudly carries the frying pan to the table. She puts some of the eggs on his plate, watching to see if he has noticed how fluffy and loose her eggs are. When she made eggs his way, her father savored every forkful. Not just eggs. Whenever she successfully fulfilled what he taught her, it made him happy. And that made her happy. The eggs were a special case of it.</p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">It’s no different here. CC’s enthusiasm is contagious. Jeremy feels the love. Any food would appeal to him, no matter how it was cooked, but he senses how special the eggs are to her. She gives him two-thirds of the eggs and takes the rest for herself. But then she realizes how hungry she is. After seeing how little is on her plate, she takes back some of his eggs. Jeremy watches with a smile, pleased with her boldness. She has begun to feel comfortable enough with him to be an Indian giver.</p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">It’s all new to CC. She’s never made breakfast the morning after. It’s always been a date and then back to the dorm, or sex in a guy’s room in his fraternity house. The one time she slept with someone who had an apartment, the eggs he cooked were rubbery—but to be fair, it wasn’t the eggs. Nothing he did mattered. Vaguely, she would have liked something to develop, but it didn’t. That was true from the get-go. She was vaguely attracted, but it went nowhere. Her feelings were clarified the next morning, the moment he touched her. Sex the night before was just that. Not lovemaking. She was aroused, on and off. But in the morning, when he hugged her his morning smell turned her off. For a split second she felt nauseous, but that went away as soon as he let go of her and they sat down to eat.</p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">Compared to that history of morning-afters, and despite her reservations about Jeremy, their chemistry at the breakfast table is refreshing. She is no longer drop-dead in love, but her eggs, the bagels, the table setup with cloth napkins and silverware, her happy anticipation of his surprise when he arrived, the smile when he saw her wearing an apron—it’s been very nice. His hunger and his satisfaction as he finishes his bagel please her equally. It is perfect punctuation for their lovemaking the night before.</p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">Her mother repeatedly told her: “Breakfast is the most important meal of the day. It starts the day right.” She or Beryl usually gave them cereal and milk, but sometimes her mother’s proclamation was fulfilled. Eggs rather than cereal. And a number of times Beryl was inspired. She cooked Jamaican porridge. CC watched her make it. Cornmeal, flour, milk, cinnamon, nutmeg, and vanilla, sweetened to a thick, creamy porridge. Beryl made it extra hot, which forced CC to start with nibbling the porridge from the edge of the spoon, a wonderful introduction which, eventually, as it cooled, led to huge spoonfuls of deliciousness. Her and her brothers’ delight made Beryl proud of being Jamaican. Making porridge brought Beryl home to breakfast with her mother. “More, More,” she and Mark pleaded, but Evelyn intervened. She didn’t want them to get fat.</p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">Not that obesity was Evelyn’s concern when she occasionally got inspired for their breakfast. Very cheerfully she served the French toast her mother used to make, challah soaked in egg yolk and butter with melted brown sugar, then baked and served with maple syrup.</p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">CC wavered about what kind of breakfast to serve—her father’s or her mother’s favorite. She thought maybe she could approximate the challah with the white Wonder Bread Jeremy had, but she had never made French toast for her mother. Whereas, at least for a while, making scrambled eggs for her father exactly as he liked became a ritual, a special bond between them.</p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">Jeremy doesn’t thrill her by that standard. It’s clear he isn’t thrilled with her eggs. They are just eggs, which he shovels in with gusto but without particular appreciation. No way those eggs could welcome the day to come. If he only knew that loving those eggs would have been a lot cheaper than a diamond ring. Jeremy could have made a very effective ruckus over the eggs and been spared large payments on his Visa card every month.</p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">CC’s growing misgivings about their relationship hasn’t led her to the conclusion that she and Jeremy are finished. Perhaps that’s the main reason she has fussed. Perhaps it was to fulfill a fantasy, cooking for a lover after a nighttime of lovemaking and deep, satisfied sleep. She’s never had that particular fantasy, but she has witnessed the experience in several movies, domestic contentment smoothly completing the passion of the night before. No particular movie comes to mind. Yet the fantasy is securely part of her romantic expectations. Even if there is very little romance left. So strong is her attachment to movie experiences that playing it out for the first time seems as if she is <em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">reliving</em> it.</p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">Jeremy is somewhere else. Although he quickly recovered when he saw CC playing the part of a chef, the mood he was in after leaving Dr. Weiss’s office has returned. It has left him in his head. Having Spartacus knocked off his pedestal has thrown him for a loop. Spartacus has been such a large part of Jeremy’s triumphant vision of himself.</p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“So how did the session go?” CC asks him.</p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“What my shrink doesn’t understand is that what counts is not letting your spirit be broken. Staying in charge. That’s the whole ballgame.”</p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">Jeremy has relied on that conclusion again and again, and it’s worked, providing dignity regardless of what might have been troubling him, sometimes overcoming potentially humiliating circumstances. Thinking of himself as Spartacus has worked very well.</p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">Spartacus, like the other gladiators, existed at the whim of his captors. His Roman owner had paid good money for him from General Marcus Scaurus, who would sell off the defeated warriors he captured, particularly the best warriors. Whether or not Spartacus was tortured on a given day depended on his guards’ whims. However, whatever the guards did or did not do was trivial compared to what potentially awaited him and all the other gladiators. It was only a matter of time. Certain death in the arena. It was worth the price of admission for the thousands of onlookers in the stadium to see gladiators killed. And it is not that different for modern viewers. Being able to witness killing is mesmerizing entertainment. A stadium full of people might cheer the glory of the gladiator or relish the sight of a hungry lion tearing him apart. The important thing was to watch death from the comfort of their seats. There were no movies in those days, no TV, no story of any kind. So they needed ripe flesh. Their greatest pleasure came when the gladiators put up a terrific battle before succumbing. Spartacus never batted an eye. <em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Bring it on</em>, his eyes seemed to proclaim.</p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“Do you remember my Sisyphus lecture?” Jeremy asks.</p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">CC nods.</p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“Sisyphus chooses his fate. Doing that puts him in charge. That’s the existential anthem. Authenticity. Spartacus played it out.”</p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“That’s what Camus says in his book, right?”</p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“He throws in a dozen categories of ways you can respond. He’s a bit pedantic—he has to list them all. But basically, that is it. If God is dead, if you are devastated by the realization that without God then ultimately everything is meaningless, you can kill yourself. Or, like Sisyphus, you can push the boulder up the hill. Yes, it takes every ounce of strength to keep the boulder moving up and not rolling back, crushing you if it does. But your will is a victory over despair. When you get to the top, it will roll down and you’ll have to start again. That curse, going on and on, never ending—being able to live with that could be bleak. Existential absurdity. But Camus has that ace up his sleeve. <em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Choosing</em> to do it. Choosing is what counts. It confirms your bravery. It’s his version of ‘I think, therefore I am.’ That is how Descartes proved he existed. ‘I battle, therefore I exist’ was Camus’s addition.”</p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">Jeremy forms quotation marks with his fingers held up before him. His voice raises for his crescendo: “Authenticity! You acknowledge the absurdity, the difficulty of your existence. But by <em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">choosing</em> it, you triumph over it.”</p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">Having said that, Jeremy is feeling swell, a state that enamors him. <em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Swell</em> was Hemingway’s favorite word. And that is where Jeremy has arrived. But only briefly. Dr. Weiss’s words have done a job on him. He’s feeling self-conscious, aware he has used that word <em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">authenticity </em>too many times in his lectures on existentialism. And as for <em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">swell</em>, it has gotten very old. At one time being swell was powerfully peppy. It rarely failed to puff him up, to put Flatbush Avenue far away. But this morning he is pure fluff. Easily blown away. Unfortunately, this morning, after Dr. Weiss’s hatchet job, he <em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">needs</em> to puff himself up. <em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Authenticity </em>seems pretentious, even to his ears. Usually, when he successfully visited that attitude, he could use either word—<em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">swell</em> or <em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">authenticity</em>—with aplomb. He isn’t sure why <em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">existentialism</em> has caught on. Few people know anything about it, but using that word dresses up people’s vocabulary, makes it seem like they are talking about profound things.</p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">So why shouldn’t he? He’s entitled to puffery. He’s given a lot of thought to existentialism. Saying <em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">authenticity</em> out loud to CC should be special. He needs that. It allows him to resume his grand professorial role, returning CC to her familiar and happy mindset, wowed by her teacher’s brilliance.</p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">But she’s moved on. It sounds like vapor, and she’ll have nothing of it. “And if you don’t choose it?” she asks.</p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“Well––”</p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“So Camus and my mother agree. Make the best of it? Okay, enjoy your life.”</p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">Jeremy is not at all happy with CC’s retort. Long Island practicality and phony cheerfulness don’t come close to matching the profundity of Camus’s heroics. Perhaps he wrote it in a basement somewhere, but his writing provided the transcendence he needed, providing it for many generations, many thousands of his readers. Not quite the operatic heroics that the German existentialists are fond of, but those who sampled Camus could ignore his pathetic existence, the depressing books he wrote, and see a way to rise above.</p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">Slyly CC asks: “Didn’t Camus kill himself?”</p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“No, he died in a car crash.”</p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“I heard he was speeding and crashed into a tree. Quite the drama! A deserving end to an artist’s life.”</p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“Well––”</p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“Is that what you were doing when you were driving so wildly—accentuating your existential authenticity?”</p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“You’re not hearing me. Camus wasn’t driving.”</p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“Oh.”</p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">They are both quiet for a moment.</p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“What were you saying about Spartacus?” CC asks.</p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“Spartacus stood up against his oppressors. He wasn’t merely a gladiator You could see it in his eyes. They were on fire. He could see triumphs to come.”</p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“Yeah, nailed to a cross.”</p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">Jeremy’s voice become emphatic. “Fuck you, and fuck you too, Dr. Weiss.” Despite the flak from CC, Jeremy is speaking with victory ringing in his ears—or trying to get there, which is almost the same thing. In his mind he’s Kirk Douglas, his eyes lit up by the future he’s fighting for. “Definitely Spartacus,” he repeats.</p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“You don’t have Kirk Douglas’s chin.”</p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“No one does.”</p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“I still don’t get what your thing is with Spartacus.”</p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“He didn’t grovel.”</p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“Great.”</p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“There wasn’t an ounce of fear in his eyes.”</p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“Kirk Douglas was getting paid millions,” CC observes. “What did he have to fear?”</p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">She’s scoring. The image of Kirk Douglas that he has retained isn’t doing what it usually does for him. The pride he usually feels isn’t there.</p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">CC can’t resist her desire to go in for the kill. She sings, “<em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">It’s a beautiful day in the neighborhood.</em>”</p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">He doesn’t recognize the tune. “What’s that?”</p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“You don’t know Mr. Rogers?”</p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">Jeremy shrugs. “You’ve mentioned him before.”</p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“You never watched TV with Alyosha?”</p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“You keep forgetting. We don’t have a TV.” He says this snobbishly. He doesn’t know what she is talking about, but he counters by continuing his lecture as if CC had not thrown a curve. Only half able to maintain his professorial persona, he continues, still hoping to nail it. “You lose if you submit. As long as you don’t. . .”</p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">She raises her voice. “As long as you don’t what!” She can’t help herself, Her frustration is getting the best of her. And it is not a new reaction to Jeremy. But this time her irritation explodes as it has never done before, not even with Mark. She waits for it to sink in.</p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">She continues: “The one thing I am sure of is that your end will be the same as everyone’s. Doesn’t matter how you stand up to it.”</p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“How you play the game counts,” Jeremy declares. He’s lived by that maxim. This morning, though, undergoing CC’s assault, it now sounds hollow. His thin voice emboldens her further.</p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“It’s what they taught my brothers in Little League,” she says. “Win or lose, sportsmanship is what counts. And that includes the loser sharing the winner’s joy.”</p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">He responds to his own familiar phrasing. “It’s a question of finding strength inside.”</p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">Her voice rises slightly. “You think what attracts me is Spartacus you, that I can see Kirk Douglas’s eyes blazing out of yours. Number one, I don’t see them. Number two, even if you could pull that off, even if you could have Kirk Douglas’s spirit coming out of you like fire, it would mean absolutely nothing. I saw the movie. That look in his eyes? What I saw is a handsome guy feeling cocky, probably eyeing a bunch of beautiful women who were hanging around the set. They were gaga over him. Or perhaps he pictured nine-tenths of American women falling in love with him. And all the possibilities that offers.”</p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">Jeremy remains quiet.</p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">She continues. “Or he’s picturing what he sees when he admires himself in the mirror. Kirk Douglas must have loved looking like he did, loved that mirror. Izzy Demsky, a Jewish boy looking like a warrior, transformed into Spartacus. That’s what the camera caught; that’s the moment you are holding on to. Your defiance is just that. Izzy Demsky making believe he is Kirk Douglas. Or Spartacus!”</p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">She hesitates, takes a second look at Jeremy. She can see submission in his eyes. She’s satisfied. Her voice turns kinder. “It’s okay if you’re afraid. Just do away with the bullshit.”</p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">She waits a moment before continuing.</p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“Yeah. At first, my attraction to you. . .” She pauses, again, smiles. “It was all about you being a hero. But now we are somewhere else. We’ve gone beyond that.”</p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">She gently touches his cheek, looks for his eyes. But they are fleeing.</p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“I’m not interested in the shows you put on, in any of them.”</p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">Before he can answer, she grabs his hand, squeezes it, as if to say, “Stop! Don’t speak! Listen!”</p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">He obeys.</p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“I love your mind. It’s original. It’s refreshing. It has pizzazz. You’re a great teacher. But that’s not what’s pulling me to you. Not now.”</p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">Jeremy takes her hand off of his and scowls. “This conversation has gotten out of hand. Is this what you do when you fall in love? Disassemble the other person?”</p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">She hears him. He may be right. “Mark’s accused me of that. I was getting on him for something and—”</p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“What?”</p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“Doesn’t matter. It’s true. I do that.”</p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“What’s <em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">that</em> about?”</p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">CC is undaunted. “I’m not saying it’s right, but I’m like you. I see self-deception and I just want to tear it apart. Be warned, I can be relentless.”</p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“You’ve said I don’t know you,” Jeremy says. “True enough. I’m not sure if I like everything I’m learning.”</p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“I’m not going to apologize. We’re in a new place,” CC answers.</p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">She hesitates for moment but then leaps forward. “You make such a big deal. You claim to be a warrior . . . for truth.”</p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“So?”</p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“So,” she echoes before continuing. “What’s wrong with getting at the truth about you . . . underneath your politics—all your garbage?”</p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“Garbage?”</p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">She stares him down.</p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“So what is it I’m supposed to admit?” he demands.</p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“That you’re as afraid as everyone else.”</p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“I did already. Fine. I’m afraid,” he says in a monotone voice.</p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">That doesn’t do it for her. “You can say it a dozen times, but that means nothing. If you’d admit you’re afraid, if you’d mean it, you could do something about it.”</p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“Such as?”</p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“How about something practical. . . Finish your dissertation.”</p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">He rolls his eyes, laughs. “Et tu, Brute? First Carol, then Dave. Are you going to nag me like they do? I thought you were on my side.”</p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“I am. People who care about you care about your dissertation. You’re practically suicidal––”</p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“What about the man on the flying trapeze? I could have sworn you were there with me. Your eyes lit up when I read that to you. You were dazzled.”</p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“Yeah, I was dazzled. But that was before. This is now.”</p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">She hesitates for effect . . . but that allows him to break in.</p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“All I ask is that you don’t stick your nose where it doesn’t belong.”</p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“Oh, the philosopher is drawing a line,” she says. “No looking around. Only what you deem open for examination.”</p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“No. I just think I’m entitled to my privacy about certain things.”</p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“That is so you. Rules are stupid, right. They don’t apply to you. You pick which ones you’ll obey.”</p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“So?”</p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">She shakes her head in disbelief. “Because the rule about rules is that they come from someone else. It’s part of belonging to a community.”</p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“The stupidest ideas come out when people think like a group,” he says. “That’s what you were saying about the commune.”</p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">With heavy sarcasm, she proceeds. “O-kay. So let’s look at things like you do. My parents are totally uncool. Totally. All they think about is what people will think of them at the club and how they look.”</p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“They’re scared of those stupid people.”</p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“As they should be. They’ve learned their lesson. When you break the rules that everyone else goes by, you are not going to be very popular. You’re a troublemaker.”</p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“You mean everyone is a conformist. And they should be?”</p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“You got it. My parents couldn’t care less about originality? In their way of thinking, it’s the opposite of being cool. It’s being a quack. The governing rule is simple. It’s their way or the highway. Meaning what everyone else thinks. That’s a thousand times more important than celebrating your originality. Who cares what you think? This is going to blow your mind. But the truth is simple. They <em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">want</em> to think like everyone else. It’s the only way to be comfortable. To belong.”</p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“That’s pathetic.”</p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“You think that, compared to what you believe, everyone else is stupid.”</p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">He watches her warily as she continues.</p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“You’re exactly right. They don’t care very much if what they believe is stupid or smart, true or not true. They don’t think about it. Being smart is getting along with everyone, thinking like everyone else.”</p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">She waits for that to sink in before continuing:</p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“They’d never get on a flying trapeze.” She takes a deep breath and speaks emphatically. “They’d never think of that. They balance themselves on a high wire every day. That’s not always easy, but once you get the hang of it you do what you have to do and it becomes easy. There is a lot to learn, to grow. And that’s mainly about fitting in.”</p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">She takes another deep breath, then another, trying to slow herself down.</p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">Off in his own world, Jeremy’s unaffected. His eyes are elusive. She can’t stare him down. She wants to grab him, pound sense into him. Her voice rises. He still has that snotty look.</p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“Laugh at them,” she says. “Go ahead. But my parents have it right. They know they <em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">are</em> like everyone else. They accept that. They just want to belong to this club, hang out with winners. People who have made it out of Brooklyn. They want to be part of that, to belong there. Sure, sometimes even to win among the winners, but not too much of that.”</p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“Good for them.”</p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“Okay, they’re lucky. My mother’s looks puts them up a notch. Three notches. I’m sure my mother and my father enjoy that. But bottom line, they want to belong with winners. You know, like in high school, the popular crowd.”</p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“Belong to what?” His tirade is automatic. “I thought they know they’re like everyone else. This whole money thing. Trying to show that you’ve got loads of money,” he intones. “Money, money, money. There’s gotta be a better way to define who you are.”</p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">CC senses he knows where he is, a cornered animal if she continues. “Look,” she tells him. “I’m sorry.”</p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“Sorry for what?</p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“For the hard time I’m giving you. But it’s your doing, too. You like to argue.”</p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“My therapist said that. It’s not true.”</p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“I’m sure it isn’t easy for you. Divorced parents. Losing your mother. People feeling sorry for you.”</p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">Jeremy’s not as oblivious as he would like to be.</p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">She continues. “I’ll bet that’s what your father sensed. He probably let you get away with almost anything.”</p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“You want to talk about that—fine. Maybe he felt sorry for me. That’s how Dave probably was with me when we first began hanging out. After my mother died. Maybe it gave me a lot of space to do what I wanted. Everyone looking the other way. Ah—the privileges of losing your mother. . . Regardless, my father cared. And I knew that. Maybe he tried to make up for my mother. Let me get away with a lot, but he cared. I never doubted that.”</p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">At last a bit of plain people truth. Her tolerance suddenly becomes broader.</p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">She smiles: “What you said about rich Jews isn’t crazy. Some people at the club take it to an extreme.”</p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“So you are finally admitting it.”</p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“What you have been criticizing is true. It’s not just you that feels that way. My father’s gone on about how crazy it can get.”</p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“He did?”</p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“Bar mitzvahs. People go into debt to pull it off big. To tell everyone they’re rich. His favorite is this guy at the club, Jerry Kline’s son’s bar mitzvah. That one topped them all. I was there.” She has a wide grin.</p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“Mr. Kline drove a huge Bentley into his backyard. Out came ten Broadway dancers emerging from the smoke.”</p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“Smoke?”</p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“From the clouds. They used dry ice. Then came Chinese acrobats. Then Neil Diamond.”</p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“Neil Diamond? Or someone with the same voice?”</p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“No—Neil Diamond. I think it was him. It must have cost a fortune.”</p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“Really?”</p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“I don’t know. That’s what my father said. Maybe Neil Diamond wasn’t there, but it was wild. The food. You name it. Kobe steaks, caviar, lobster, sushi, latkes with nova on top, noodle kugel, stuffed cabbage.”</p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“So, were your parents impressed?”</p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">She laughs. “They were making comments all the way home. My parents aren’t big on show-offs. Not like that. Yes, once in a while—their Caddy, when it’s brand-new. For about a week my father feels on top of the world, at the club. But my father would never get a Rolls-Royce. Even if he could afford it. My father wants to be with his old friends from Brooklyn, wow them from time to time, but not completely outdo them.”</p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“I can’t tell you how happy my father was when Mr. Kline declared bankruptcy four months after that bar mitzvah. Both of my parents got a big laugh. Still, until that happened. . . I guess the Bar Mitzvah really upset my father. On the way home he couldn’t stop making fun of it. He couldn’t get over it. He made comments for months. Mark thought the bar mitzvah brought my father a lot of doubt—thinking about whether what was he doing for a living wasn’t good enough. He wasn’t able to give Mark or Jay a bar mitzvah like that. So the bankruptcy was sweet news.”</p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">Jeremy chimes in: “It’s all so pathetic—money being that important. To question your life. It is such bullshit. Your mother is the same as your father about all of this?”</p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“About showing off like that? Absolutely. She doesn’t like it. But money means a lot to her, too. In terms of where they stand. Just not being showy. There is one woman at the club who wears wonderful jewelry. Eleanor Paulson. Quiet, tasteful. And very expensive. I’ve seen it in my mother’s eyes. She wouldn’t mind having that woman’s jewelry. Having that kind of money to buy things like that. My brothers’ bar mitzvahs were nice, but my father didn’t have to refinance the house to put on a show. What was your bar mitzvah like?”</p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“A buffet in the synagogue after the service.” He blushes as he admits it to her.</p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“It bothered you?”</p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“Why should it?”</p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“C’mon. You were thirteen.”</p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“Okay,” he concedes. “I was embarrassed. Compared to my friends. . .”</p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">He blushes again. Clearly, he was a good deal more than embarrassed. Probably humiliated. It is the same in Brooklyn as it is in Great Neck.</p><p style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">She looks elsewhere, trying to help him escape. She is unsuccessful. She’s feeling his embarrassment with him. She wasn’t exactly strutting in class on the morning after her bat mitzvah.</p>Simon Sobohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02579449711047401565noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2082400290580706324.post-83141962588670278502023-12-07T13:54:00.002-05:002023-12-07T14:01:37.608-05:00After Lisa : A different beginning to the novel<p> </p><h2 style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "PT Serif", TimesNewRoman, "Times New Roman", Times, Baskerville, Georgia, serif; font-size: 30px; line-height: 1.1; margin: 0px; padding: 30px 0px 10px; text-align: center; vertical-align: baseline;"><p style="border: 0px; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 400; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;"><strong style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><br class="Apple-interchange-newline" />Based on a true story</strong></p><p style="border: 0px; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 400; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;"><strong style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Prologue</strong></p><p style="border: 0px; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 400; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;"><a href="http://www.statcounter.com/" rel="noopener" style="border: 0px; color: #222222; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;" target="_blank"><img alt="statistics" border="0" decoding="async" src="https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/blogger_img_proxy/ALY8t1sEwwfu6OUeb97gOEiaTALey12zlHRQhFIBQLA4rfji7QUTm4XE5355g7IrJA6aGwVXfz4pNNuuYNPNf-7of4oAu8bZQvfg2kHMsIG2MDDBPZCNazYl550yzw7hLLcqk69RDjXVou1vKhFiF5l_uGBXbyV7dESgTvCSEAMb7TyOCYo=s0-d" style="border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; height: auto; margin: 8px 0px 10px; max-width: 100%; padding: 0px; vertical-align: middle;" /></a></p><div align="center" style="border: 0px; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 400; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"></div><p style="border: 0px; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 400; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; text-align: left; vertical-align: baseline;">Each year with the coming of autumn, on the third Friday of October, the Journalist’s Guild announces the winner of the George W. Hitchcock Prize for Investigative Journalism at its annual ceremonial dinner. For the last 30 years it has been held in the Clarkson Ballroom of the Vanderbilt Hotel in Boston, the last place you might expect from a profession for whom rudeness often does the job of a calling card. The Clarkson was, and still is, an integral part of old Boston. Its continuing elegance serves as a reminder of the privileged people who once called this room their own. The silk curtains, now slightly thread bare in places, have grown more beautiful with age, as have the Persian rugs at the entrance. The parquet floor, polished for well over a century, has acquired a fine patina. Fierce pride created the Clarkson. Devoted care, some say, religiously inspired, has maintained it.</p><p style="border: 0px; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 400; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; text-align: left; vertical-align: baseline;">Until the 1970’s reporters were welcomed at the Clarkson with the same degree of enthusiasm as cockroaches or mice. They were interlopers, to be kept at a safe distance from the guests. That changed when Bob Woodward and Carl Bernstein publicly assassinated the President of the United States, and were hailed as heroes by a grateful public. Those were the best of times in journalism, an era when irreverence was worshipped and limits disappeared. Time Magazine took the attack to the highest level of authority with its 1966 cover. Posted in fiery red letters it asked “Is God Dead?” There was no reply but when Nixon was sent packing that seemed almost as definitive.</p><p style="border: 0px; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 400; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; text-align: left; vertical-align: baseline;">Watergate stirred the idealism of a generation of dragon slaying youths who imagined that the practice of journalism would be heroic. Only later, after Princess Diana was hounded to her death by crazed news gatherers, did the downside become clear. Too many Bambis in suburbia spread Lyme disease and left shrubbery devastated. Spawned by Watergate glory, too many brash young journalists, eventually multiplied into paparazzi.</p><p style="border: 0px; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 400; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; text-align: left; vertical-align: baseline;">Not that journalists’ influence diminished as their image became tarnished. On the contrary, the opposite– it has grown and grown. Like the nation’s daily supply of oil, milk, corn, and meat, twenty four hours a day, seven days a week, hundreds of TV channels and thousands of newspapers must be certain their output is maintained. Not just news. The market for talk is enormous. Great singers, dancers, actors possess gifts that make them celebrities. Same with those who have a gift for friendly gab. Oprah, O’Reilly, Dr. Phil, Depak Chopra, countless gurus, experts, and nuts fill a conversation void. If religion was once the opium of the masses, today’s masses prefer media massages. Newscasters, analysts, magazine articles, interviewers set the table for the marketplace of ideas. They police political correctness. They outline and debate the good, firing away at anyone and everyone. It is their job, they now say, a free press, guardians of the truth, revealers of the lie. Since Viet Nam, a parade of former presidents, every last one, Presidents Johnson, Nixon, Ford, Carter, Reagan, Clinton, and the two Bushes, have been grievously wounded by adversarial reporting. The media’s ability to choose what is shown determines the public’s consensus on most issues, which leads to charges of bias. Sometimes the charges are true, but if every one of our leaders has become a target, is it bias or has there been a more fundamental change? .</p><p style="border: 0px; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 400; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; text-align: left; vertical-align: baseline;">It no longer takes an army to usurp power. In modern democracies the index finger has replaced the sword. The ancient Chinese kept their emperors hidden in the Forbidden City. The Hebrews were not allowed to make an image of their god, the holy of the holiest. It was a sin to pronounce his name. Can leaders rule for long when they can be dismissed at will from their subjects’ bedroom televisions with a click of the remote control? Can authority be maintained when blogs can set reputations on fire? History will eventually decide if it was good for our society to have our leaders so consistently made ineffectual. For now, however, reality, not reason, is all that matters. Power is power. The ability to bring down presidents has earned journalists a place at the table, earned them better entry into the Clarkson, through the front door, instead of the back.</p><p style="border: 0px; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 400; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; text-align: left; vertical-align: baseline;">Entrance yes, but no one can completely control information. Nor passions. “Off with their heads” cried the Queen of Hearts in Wonderland. Satisfied once, Madame LaFarge’s appetite for justice could not be sated. The apotheosis of people power may be authority blowing in the wind, which is to say, once aroused the public functions like a mob. Members of the media itself, can become the target. That is why presenting the Hitchcock Prize in a stately, dignified location such as the Clarkson has become more important than ever. The hope is that it will create an atmosphere where journalists seem above the fray. The Chairman of the Awards Committee, Lester Symington made it clear in his opening remarks to the Committee. “The celebration of the Hitchcock Prize deserves an environment befitting the accomplishment.” He would have preferred the Royal Palace in Stockholm (although the Nobel Prize actually is awarded in a rented concert hall). But, be that as it may, the perfect pedigree of the Clarkson Ballroom, its opulent touches and unerring good taste evokes a suitable hallowed aura</p><p style="border: 0px; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 400; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; text-align: left; vertical-align: baseline;">Only there are wrinkles in that fabric of virtue. From the very beginning, the Clarkson aura, so beloved by traditionalists, pissed off an important contingent of journalists, those who believed the ballroom in the Vanderbilt Hotel is the last place journalists belong. According to them, being a guest at the Clarkson was the same as consorting with the enemy. Generally this group entered the profession in the 60’s and 70’s and were part of the counter culture, They claimed journalism’s enhanced status as their own. If it weren’t for them, they argued, American presidents would menace the world worse than they already do.</p><p style="border: 0px; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 400; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; text-align: left; vertical-align: baseline;">Their opponents pointed out that a stately chapel gives dignity and authority to the Hitchcock Prize. When sitting in judgment our wisest of the wise, our Supreme Court justices, do not indulge in a casual dress day. They wear black robes, not Levis, when they impart their carefully reasoned decrees. This, and the fine chamber where their decisions are rendered, help establish reverence for the law.</p><p style="border: 0px; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 400; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; text-align: left; vertical-align: baseline;">Bullshit countered the counter culture. Christ’s Sermon on the Mount was given outdoors on a hill, to unbathed fishermen and carpenters, to the tattered and the lowly. These critics accurately predicted what was to come. With or without robes, the public image of Supreme Court justices, has been trashed as much as American presidents. Senators, college presidents, clergyman, CEO’s, practically anyone once revered, fears that, in a flash, inquiring cameras could be turned in their direction.</p><p style="border: 0px; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 400; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; text-align: left; vertical-align: baseline;">Not that journalists are incapable of making peace with each other. Following the third year at the Clarkson, in 1978, the committee’s arguments about whether or not to return there reached a boiling point. Voices were raised. Some friendships were lost. But no longer; time has leaped over the battle lines, muted passions to a point where it is hard to remember what all of the excitement was about. The invitation to tonight’s dinner, for instance, prominently indicates that the evening is black tie. The existence of a dress code stimulates not protests, but pranks.</p><p style="border: 0px; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 400; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; text-align: left; vertical-align: baseline;">Some of the younger men here tonight view a tuxedo little differently than a Halloween costume. Blue, purple, even pink ties are not that unusual. One year Grace Overton of the Miami Tribune trumped Madonna’s lead and wore her bra and undies on the outside, two weeks after Madonna introduced the style. She also wore a black tie. Today her gesture is fondly recalled, not the reaction she originally received. At this point, when it comes to clothes, it is impossible to shock anyone. In keeping with Grace Overton’s tradition, tonight, Jerry Spreewell, of the Harmon On Hudson Herald, is wearing a Farmer Brown getup, complete with black bow tie. He’s told everyone that he is tired of playing Top Hat in a game of Monopoly. That got a laugh when he first arrived but the joke quickly went stale. Hee-haw doesn’t quite strike the right note of protest.</p><p style="border: 0px; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 400; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; text-align: left; vertical-align: baseline;">Despite the jokesters, maintaining an accurate yet flattering image is taken as seriously by journalists as any profession. A good guess might be that the majority of men here tonight think of themselves as regular kind of guys, salt of the earth, but with a little extra pop, hardened realists, if anything, kind of film noir-ish. John Steinbeck, <em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">The Grapes of Wrath</em>, Henry Fonda–better, Edward R. Murrow, played by Humphrey Bogart, or Edward R. Murrow playing himself, a cigarette dangling from his lips, ashes falling where they may, would easily win a contest for most beloved persona. Especially in this era of smoke free environments- some version of reckless cool floats in the back of many young reporters’ minds. How else could they keep their chin up? It helps that Bogart looked great in a tuxedo.</p><p style="border: 0px; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 400; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; text-align: left; vertical-align: baseline;">But most of the reporters bear no resemblance to Bogart, nor, for that matter, Murrow. Regardless of politics, critics of the Clarkson are not wrong about it in terms of style. A significant proportion of the people in the ballroom tonight, gussied up in their finest, do not look like they belong here. The Clarkson is everything they are not. Many reporters eat where they work and have messy desks. It’s what you might expect given the news department’s line of work. They specialize in the underside of existence. Murders, floods, volcanoes, shipwrecks, war atrocities; day in and day out the job consists of harvesting bad news, collecting and distilling awful events. It is the ocean reporters swim in. The stormiest sea makes the best story.</p><p style="border: 0px; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 400; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; text-align: left; vertical-align: baseline;">Scandal is always entertaining. Crime especially fascinates readers, from armed robbery, to sly, clever fraud. Name the vice and it will be in today’s paper. The purpose of their livelihood, their product, so to speak, is the unmasking of evil, and the presentation of horrible events proportionately distributed, and neatly arranged in columns, so that they may accompany their readers’ breakfast cereal in the morning. Or sound bites, edited with a rhythm, events reduced to palatable proportions, the terrible brought to the screen so that it may excite, but never overwhelm. Reality captured, but not too much of it, terror viewed from the outside. Going inside would be a violation of good taste. The tsunami was the story of the decade, but from a safe distance. Most people viewed it without indigestion. They ate their Wheaties ready for another day. Videos of the beheadings of unlucky visitors to Iraq was a different matter</p><p style="border: 0px; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 400; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; text-align: left; vertical-align: baseline;">Let us not underestimate the strain placed on those who do the work. They often must confront the actual. Perhaps for this reason genteel behavior seems irrelevant to many journalists. Sipping fine wine from crystal goblets in the Clarkson is just not their idea of unwinding. A shot or two of whiskey, with colleagues who have had an equally trying day, is a different story.</p><p style="border: 0px; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 400; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; text-align: left; vertical-align: baseline;">There are, of course, journalists who are fond of being in the Clarkson surrounded by the ballroom’s trappings. Larry Kingsley, for instance, far from a gentleman in any respect that can be measured, loves the Guild dinner, loves the Clarkson precisely because it is a refreshing contrast to his ketchup stained notes, and the little pieces of whatever else he had for lunch, which are stuck to the side of his desk chair. Not just Larry Kingsley, most young reporters are oblivious to the identity clashes fought by previous generations. They like the good eats at the Clarkson, like them a lot, the white asparagus, the sorbet, the sushi, duck and truffles. But it would never occur to them to take on the stuffy demeanor of bankers and publishers. Walter Cronkite is admired, but no longer imitated. Besides, his voice has grown thin. Nervous anticipation, laughter, squeaky excitement far overshadows baritone pronouncements.</p><p style="border: 0px; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 400; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; text-align: left; vertical-align: baseline;">Journalists’ styles change, but they remain constant in one regard. They often don’t react to events that disturb other people. . They’ve seen it all. It’s an occupational hazard. Like a farmer with callused hands, they even take pride in their thick skin. Yet, if we strip down the award ceremony to its bare essentials, the announcement of the winner of the Hitchcock can turn even the most devoutly cynical reporter to mush. For those completely into it, and there are many who are, the awarding of the Hitchcock returns a mind set that is precious to them precisely because it has been so thoroughly buried, the faith of a child. It is not easy for any adult, let alone a reporter, to let down their guard and revisit this state of mind. First Santa Claus is proven a fraud, then one by one, over the years, every fond illusion is decimated, as reality pounds it out of you. Among journalists, it is pounded out a thousand fold. So the sentimental feelings that accompany the award this year, and every year, might come as a surprise until you think about it. At heart, they are like everyone else. On this night, their night, they do not view the Hitchcock through the prism of a reporter. For a few hours, innocence is re-imagined, fresh beginnings made possible. Once we lived where all is fair, not in love or warfare, but in a fair and square fight, everyone playing by the rules and the best man wins.</p><p style="border: 0px; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 400; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; text-align: left; vertical-align: baseline;">For eager young hotshots the George W. Hitchcock Prize is the Big Kahuna, an announcement of their arrival at the door, possibly their busting through the door. It isn’t just hotshots. Sometimes, a diligent working stiff wins the Hitchcock, a seemingly average guy who quietly but persistently asked the right questions of the right people. If he is older, this kind of winner gives an enormous lift to everyone. For deep inside there is a part of the soul waiting to be liberated. When all is said and done, most reporters, most people working in the media, would like to be decent, like to experience the purpose that pulled them towards journalism in the first place. When the right person wins the Hitchcock it returns their faith that the world truly is part of a rational universe, that the good and fair can be victorious, and that flashy fades. It reminds them to try harder to do things the right way. Persistence, hard work, and courage are all that matters. Or, should matter. It takes a day or two before they regain their work armor, their more familiar squashed expectations, and their sometimes ferocious response.</p><p style="border: 0px; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 400; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; text-align: left; vertical-align: baseline;"><strong style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"> Chapter 1</strong></p><p style="border: 0px; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 400; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; text-align: left; vertical-align: baseline;">Michael and Deborah Russell stand near their table in the Clarkson, with Michael’s Boston Sentinel colleagues and their spouses. A huge striking oil portrait of Ariana Van Doren, manager of the Vanderbilt hotel until 1934, hangs on a wall directly above them. To the left of her portrait is what looks like a Rembrandt. People assume that Rembrandts are only to be seen in museums or private collections, not in a hotel, but there it is, or seems to be. Then again this is Cornelius Vanderbilt’s Clarkson. Its priceless tapestries alone, often featured on architectural magazine covers, are more valuable than some of the buildings in downtown Boston.</p><p style="border: 0px; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 400; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; text-align: left; vertical-align: baseline;">Michael is having particular difficulty tonight paying attention to the small talk surrounding him. He has never liked standing around during the cocktail hour preceding affairs. Chit chat does not come easily. He doesn’t enjoy gossip, and the quips aren’t funny to him. He hardly listens. He is elsewhere. He is worried about Deborah.</p><p style="border: 0px; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 400; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; text-align: left; vertical-align: baseline;">So far, she is fine. Esther Pollard, fashion editor at the Boston Sentinel, is by her side. They usually pair up at these functions, invariably enjoying each other’s escalating snipes at everyone else at the meeting. They are in good form tonight, as if the last time they were at it was a couple of weeks ago. Only it’s been years, and the truth is, neither of them is in to it completely. Not like they once were, when what they thought really mattered to them. Now they are merely going through the motions, staying amused. This suits Deborah perfectly. Routine is comforting. Routine is boring. Boring is good.</p><p style="border: 0px; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 400; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; text-align: left; vertical-align: baseline;">Michael and Deborah have not made an appearance at the annual Guild dinner for years. They have also stopped going to the Sentinel’s Christmas party. The movies, here and there a concert, eating out, and an occasional dinner with friends has been about it for their social life. They would have been a no show tonight, but rumor has it Michael has a good shot at taking the Hitchcock, so Deborah felt she had no more excuses. It has been five years since she put on a gown, had her nails manicured, and faced the night. Esther is running interference for her and Michael keeps an eye on her as well, just in case.</p><p style="border: 0px; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 400; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; text-align: left; vertical-align: baseline;">Michael had forgotten how pretty Deborah can be when the occasion calls for it. He delights in her little touches. Tonight a cluster of silk cobalt blue forget-me-nots winds through her hair, setting off her wintergreen gown. They make her blue eyes sparkle. Where does she find these things? He knows where she got her earrings; he spent long hours looking for them ten years ago. They had to be perfect for her 35th birthday. He still recalls her expression as she opened the box , and especially afterwards, sitting at her dressing table putting them on, the calm look on her face as she studied herself in the mirror. In those days they were on a roll. Everything was effortless.</p><p style="border: 0px; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 400; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; text-align: left; vertical-align: baseline;">“You look nice,” Michael tells her.</p><p style="border: 0px; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 400; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; text-align: left; vertical-align: baseline;">It’s not what he says. It’s what’s in his eyes.</p><p style="border: 0px; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 400; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; text-align: left; vertical-align: baseline;">She extends her lips forward imitating a sexy kiss, one of her never fail mannerisms. She usually follows with a raised eyebrow and a sly grin delivered in perfect rhythm. Not tonight. Her timing is off. She is edgy.</p><p style="border: 0px; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 400; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; text-align: left; vertical-align: baseline;">“Did I ever tell you that my mother’s great grandmother used to come to the Clarkson?” she asks</p><p style="border: 0px; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 400; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; text-align: left; vertical-align: baseline;">“No.”</p><p style="border: 0px; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 400; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; text-align: left; vertical-align: baseline;">“She did. She was the niece of the woman in that portrait, Ariana Van Doren.”</p><p style="border: 0px; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 400; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; text-align: left; vertical-align: baseline;">He can barely hear Deborah’s soft voice over the din. He had noticed Ariana earlier. He knew about her from his never finished book about Cornelius Vanderbilt. He gives the painting another quick glance. She looks very self contained, a quality he admires but has never possessed.</p><p style="border: 0px; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 400; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; text-align: left; vertical-align: baseline;">“Mom and her genealogy,” Deborah continues “When she heard I was coming here tonight she asked me to look for the portrait. And here it is, right over our table.”</p><p style="border: 0px; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 400; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; text-align: left; vertical-align: baseline;">Michael gives it another glance. He likes it when the past and the present come together. Years ago, in an essay, he wrote that one of the worst things that happens to people who have moved to the big city is that generations stop intersecting. Free of family entanglements people invent themselves from scratch. It is true of him and true of a lot of the people he knows, people who have spent a lifetime improving themselves.</p><p style="border: 0px; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 400; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; text-align: left; vertical-align: baseline;">Michael’s editor, Joe Dyer, returns from the bar. He hands Deborah her club soda and Michael his white wine. Deborah smiles a thank you to him and flaps a wave to Michael as she turns back to Esther. For an extra moment, out of the corner of his eye, Michael watches her for indications that she is faltering. She’s okay. He raises his drink to meet Joe’s, tapping glasses lightly, the bottom of Michael’s glass striking the top of Joe’s. Joe offers a toast.</p><div align="left" style="border: 0px; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 400; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">“Here’s to getting ‘em good.”</div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 400; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">“Not good enough.”</div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 400; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">“He’s in jail. That’s plenty good”</div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 400; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">“He’s still breathing.”</div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 400; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Joe hesitates then continues, “That’s what it will take to even things up?”</div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 400; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">“Yes.”</div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 400; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Michael is serious. Seeking justice can destroy a man, but ordinarily, not fantasies. They keep our mental equilibrium in working order. He used to joke that what he wanted most for Christmas was a hit man, but, as of late, his emotions are becoming bolder, his fantasies increasingly graphic. They may be getting out of hand. But he can’t stop himself. Nor does he want to.</div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 400; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">The master of ceremonies taps his knife against a glass. The chatter in the room has blended into an unmistakable timbre. Seven hundred guests, gathered together to pay tribute, begin their tribute. They hit a different, quieter, note. The Russells, along with everyone else at their table, take their seat. Harry Wallace, celebrity gadfly, stands at the microphone. He waves to a buddy in the audience, flashes his always ready smile, now improved by professionally bleached teeth.</div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 400; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Wallace has chosen the right time. Only a few people are still involved in private conversations. He clears his throat. The last standing groups become quieter. They too find their places at their tables. A hush travels through the room like a vapor, moving from table to table, sucking sounds into silence. Those still talking feel the pressure. Cease and desist from all further conversation.</div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 400; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">But then Ricky Meyer from The El Paso Tribune lets out a cat whistle. Laughter. Chatter returns. Wallace waits. He again clears his throat, subtly, patiently, like he has all night before he begins. He learned long ago that a too commanding gesture can backfire. The quiet looks like it will hold. He waits, watches the waiters who have started to bring the salad.</div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 400; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Deborah is completely and nervously attuned to Wallace. The big moment is approaching. The event is being broadcast on C Span. There will be close-ups. In her mind’s eye she pictures the gracious smile she will need if Michael loses. But, that is as far as she will take it. Ten years ago she would have practiced that smile, nailed it and would most likely have come across as cool and collected as anyone else in the room. No longer. Her reactions to her surroundings have been simplified. There is less choice, less resistance; she is more at the mercy of the elements. She hopes for sunshine, but rain, snow, ice, other people, can easily intrude on her plans. Michael to the rescue; he gives her a “Come play with me” look. She feels his warmth-she married him for that. He is like her father, trying, trying, trying.</div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 400; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">When the kids were young he could break into a routine, not exactly vaudevillian, but a routine nonetheless, and it made them laugh. And when they fell and were crying he’d hold them and scold the ground that scraped their knee:</div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 400; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">“Oh what did you do to my Lisa?</em><br /><em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">My Lisa did nothing to you.</em><br /><em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">The next time you hurt my Lisa</em><br /><em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">I’ll call the policeman on you.</em><br /><em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Bum-bu</em>m”</div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 400; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">He would hit the ground twice as he called out <em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">bum-bum</em>. That was the part that worked, the <em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">bum-bum</em>. Fair is fair. Getting even, hitting back soothed Lisa’s excoriated flesh, slowed her crying to a whimper. And when Ritchie was little and he got hurt, he also loved that part of the ditty. He would smile as he wiped his eyes with his mittens. Sometimes he slapped at the ground saying Bum-bum along with his daddy.</div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 400; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">So if Michael needs to play Deborah will play along, grateful to be filling in her empty spaces. He still hasn’t stopped looking at her with his bedroom eyes, kidding but not kidding.</div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 400; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">”Stop it.” she teases back</div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 400; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">He continues.</div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 400; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">She makes her “get out of here” face.</div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 400; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">“It’s the truth,” he says.</div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 400; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">He uses that word a lot. Truth. Michael is addicted to the truth. It’s his best quality and also his most obnoxious characteristic. He’s the kid likely to shout out “the emperor’s wearing no clothes” and be proud of it, not noticing and not caring that others think he is an idiot socially. It’s what makes him a good reporter and a lousy guest.</div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 400; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">He continues to look her over. Her eyes narrow. She raises her voice in a stagy emphatic manner. “Enough!”</div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 400; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">It is enough. Wallace is very close to having his silence. Everyone in the room is now waiting. The moment of truth is fast approaching.</div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 400; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Like any good performer Wallace’s read of his audience is pitch perfect. He can sway with their ever changing moods, yet when the time comes, take control. Wallace didn’t write the music. He won’t produce the sound, but like a conductor of a great orchestra, he can heighten the flavor, modulate the intensity, give it any shape that strikes his fancy. He hesitates one, two, and extending the tension, a split second beyond that. He has the goods. He owns the moment. Everyone waits for him to share his secret, the name of the winner of the Hitchcock. He loves it. Fifty-five years ago, before going into journalism, he thought about acting, but his mother wanted him to do something meaningful with his life. He listened to her because he didn’t think he was good looking enough.</div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 400; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">He will push the edge tonight. He is in that kind of mood. Wallace remains quiet for yet another moment. It rarely fails him, his patented ability to bring very serious focus to the importance of now, this very second. Slowly and clearly he speaks as if what he is about to say will be a great moment in history. He often feels like that, ever since, in a 6th grade school play, he read the Declaration of Independence to the colonists for the first time. For a moment, in his mind, they actually became the colonists. It was life shaping. He begins,</div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 400; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">“ For two years he hammered away. For two years we ignored him… Until he got our attention… Something had to be done and he did it. Our winner joins Katherine Graham…” The applause begins. “H. L. Mencken , Samuel Clemens, Walter Winchell, Ernie Pyle, Bernstein and Woodward, and yes, Anne Quindlen, in sending a clear message, cutting through the noise which forever threatens to engulf us. The pen is mightier than the sword.” Wild applause. “The George W. Hitchcock Award for investigative journalism goes to Michael Russell of The Boston Sentinel.”</div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 400; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Deborah freezes. Her heart is racing wildly. She lightly pushes the knuckles of her clenched fist into her lips. She stares in front of her, seeing only a blur. Her mother’s fierce efforts, years and years of battles with her and too many tears from her, all to teach Deborah how to put on a mask, the right hair, the right make-up, how to feel nothing, or appear to feel nothing you don’t want others to know about. Everything she thought she hated most about her mother, she now treasures Her insides are on fire, yet she looks radiant, even beautiful. The applause swells and grows and grows until it surrounds Deborah and Michael, and like a wave, lifts them from their chairs into a congratulatory embrace. Esther Pollard is delirious. She is crying. So are others. Deborah leans into him, molds into his surrounding arms, finds her spot in his neck. Victory tears run down her cheeks. Then, too soon, fear repossesses her.</div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 400; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">It is not a surprise. In recent years fear has been more of a companion than composure. Deborah has always been strong and energetic, but for a while it took everything and more for her to merely stay afloat. That was not a small accomplishment. Not everyone could have survived the misfortunes that were thrown the Russells’ way. She’s better now. Yet she still can’t be certain the spells won’t return uninvited. During the last two weeks she’s been an instant away from tears. The tears come out of the blue. Sad thought or happy thought or no thought, her eyes simply began to water. Most of the time her tears have occurred while she was alone. That wasn’t too bad. But sometimes it doesn’t matter. Last night she was crying lightly, satisfyingly. She needed a cry. Only it built into deep wrenching sobs, which took hold of her before she could stop them. She hadn’t had that happen for a very long time. She holds Michael more tightly as the applause continues.</div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 400; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Michael hit a nerve with his articles so right now he is a sentimental favorite. However, Deborah is not enjoying the attention. She is not wrong. People with the scoop have pointed the Russells out to their partners and whispered their story. Yes many clap and smile in support of the good cause, or with a warm place in their hearts for the Russells, but others watch them with morbid curiosity. She is beginning to question her decision to be here tonight.</div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 400; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Michael whispers a nothing, and pulls away. Deborah watches him as he makes his way towards the stage, relieved that he seems okay, that he seems happy with his victory. She dabs at her eyes.</div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 400; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">The clapping gains a new burst of enthusiasm when Michael stands before them on the dais. Ever so slightly he rocks, the hint of an ancient doven still in his limbs. Not knowing what to do next he imitates something he has seen on TV. He quietly studies the inscription on his statue. And still the applause continues. His eyes meet Deborah’s. Her sadness threatens to overwhelm him. He looks away, looks around the room. He didn’t know he had so many friends. Faces that have always ignored him, or scorned him, even scared him, are beaming “good job, good job.” Sally Field accepting her Oscar flashes into his mind, “They really love me. They really love me.” He tries to laugh at that. Thinking it will be funny, he parodies something else he has seen on TV. He waves the statue in the air like an athlete securing victory at the Olympics. Only it isn’t really funny. He is into it. He never became the Boston Red Sox’s shortstop. He gave up in high school. But here it is, the major leagues, a home run in the bottom of the ninth, long after he thought he learned how to stop wanting it. And he likes it. He points the statue at Deborah. He holds it tightly, savors the feeling of his hand gripping the metal. It is his. No one can take it back.</div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 400; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">She doesn’t register where he is, what he is doing. At this point she is on automatic pilot, keeping to carefully chosen, well-rehearsed behavior, doing her version of a gallant New England lady. She looks back at him with a strong resilient smile, the best she can manage. It doesn’t matter. He is in his own orbit.</div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 400; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Handshakes on his return to the table, hugs, salutes, winks, a kiss on the cheek from Esther Pollard, thumbs up from Joe Dyer, a glance Deborah’s way.</div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 400; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">She’s gone. Esther points Michael in Deborah’s direction. She’s hurrying to an exit from the ballroom leading to the outside. She turns around. They look at each other. Mascara has run down under her eyes. She mouths the words to him, “I’ll be back”. She looks as if she is angry with him. He isn’t sure why.</div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 400; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">She had to get away. She has gone outside to a veranda, and from there into the welcoming darkness, down a path through a garden at the back of the hotel and then further away, down into the night. As far as she can go, to a gazebo by a pond, Deborah sits inside the gazebo on a bench far, far away. She takes her shoes off, brings her knees close to her. She leans against the wall almost in a fetal position. Still struggling to keep in control, she wills herself to breathe very slowly. After a while a hint of calm returns and then it grows. She drifts wherever the currents of her mind take her. In the distance the ceremonies can be heard… A bullfrog croaks. She closes her eyes. Memories from 12 years earlier occupy her.<em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Deborah and Michael have pitched two tents at a clearing high in the Berkshires overlooking fields and farmland below. It is a day to worship the fall foliage-a symphony of color, bright sunshine, the air has a bite to it, crisp, clear, newly cold.</em></p></div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 400; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Michael is eight feet up in a tree. He’s taped his brand new Nikon on a limb above him from which he can look through the eyepiece while remaining seated on a lower limb. He screws a cable in to the camera, which he specially purchased for this very picture. The cable will run to the spot he has designated for himself in his soon to be family portrait so he can snap it from there. This shot has been in Michael’s plans for a year. He told Deborah about it before they arrived. It was hatched while they were making their first visit to this spot and Michael sat on this exact tree trunk, saw this great view as he looked down at Ritchie, and wished he had a camera. This time he is prepared. She watches him play with the shutter speed.</em></div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 400; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Twelve years younger Michael is a devil with light green, deep set eyes. Deborah’s striking blonde, almost hippie curls are the first thing that catch people’s attention. She is petite. She moves like a cat. The children are adorable; six-year-old Ritchie is quiet and observant, seven-year-old Lisa feisty to the full measure children are blessed. Each of the Russells have great hair, great eyes, great teeth, great skin, and a grace of movement that makes effort silent.</em><br /><em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Lisa has done enough posing,</em></div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 400; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">“Dad, how long do we have to </em>stand <em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">here?”</em></div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 400; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">In complete agreement Deborah gives Michael an “enough already” look.</em></div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 400; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">“One more second,” he shouts back.</em></div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 400; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">He looks through the lens. It is a weird shot, the family, as seen from above. The valley, thousands of feet below, acts as a backdrop.</em></div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 400; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">“I love it.” He shouts to no one in particular.</em></div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 400; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">“ Okay everyone stay where you are and look up.”</em></div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 400; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Ritchie breaks ranks.</em></div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 400; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Lisa grabs her brother, “Ritchie get back here.”</em></div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 400; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">He obeys his sister. She looks up at her father. Michael winks his appreciation. Still sitting on the limb, he positions Ritchie first to the right, then Lisa to the left. Then he moves Ritchie back left again. He reminds everyone that they have to look up.</em></div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 400; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Lisa is getting more exasperated, </em><em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">“Daddy take the picture already.”</em></div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 400; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">They are very close to perfection. Lisa’s arms are thrown around Harry, their mutt. They are just about there. Ritchie could be up a little higher. But Deborah’s look of frustration has finally registered. Michael will have to settle for the picture he has now or get nothing at all. He hurriedly fiddles with the cable one last time, then swings down and hangs by the branch.</em></div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 400; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">“Careful,” Deborah shouts.</em></div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 400; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">He drops to the ground almost bouncing up as he lands. Score one for him against the nay- sayers. Extending the cable he joins them.</em></div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 400; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">“Okay everyone, Look up… Cheese”.</em></div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 400; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">They shout, “Carrot juice.” “Carrot juice” has become a tradition since it made them laugh the first time. This time is no exception. He clicks.</em></div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 400; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">“Okay one more.”</em></div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 400; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">It is the signal the kids have been waiting for. They are outta there.</em></div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 400; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">“Wait!” he yells</em></div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 400; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Lisa yells back ,“No way.”</em></div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 400; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Ritchie imitates Lisa.</em></div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 400; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">“Yeah. No way.”</em></div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 400; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Happy noise: laughter, barking, Ritchie emits a wssssss, the airplane sound he makes when he flies his model plane. Chin level he wsssses past Lisa. She drops her coat to the ground, spreads her arms wide so that they resemble air plane wings, and takes off. She shouts to Ritchie.</em></div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 400; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">“Catch me.”</em></div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 400; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;"><em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">He reverses course and runs with his airplane after her as she circles the campfire. Then Lisa turns around and with arms still held wide, she makes Ritchie’s wsssss sound and chases Ritchie. As soon as Harry comes into the picture they join forces. Now it is two wssssers united chasing Harry. He gallops far away. Lisa shouts for him to return. He barks at her from a distance. She once again runs around the fire. Harry returns to chase her. Ritchie simply stands and watches them with a big fat grin</em>In the gazebo Deborah continues to comfort herself with privacy. The microphoned sound of the award ceremonies can be heard in the distance. She drifts with her memories…</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">The campfire is dying down, the sun is low in the sky. The children are still going, but exhaustion will follow soon … Deborah yells for them to come to her which they do without a protest. Putting a dab of toothpaste on each toothbrush, she hands the yellow tipped one to Lisa and the green tipped to Ritchie. Lisa inspects hers to be sure she’s been given the right toothbrush. She holds it up. From a canteen Deborah pours water on her brush then does the same for Ritchie. They get to work. Ritchie hums as he goes. Lisa is a more competent brusher.</em></p></div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 400; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">“Okay enough.” Deborah orders them.</em></div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 400; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"></div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 400; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">She hands Lisa the canteen for a swig of water. Lisa gargles noisily then spits it out, aiming for the longest distance. She enjoys the idea of spitting on the ground.</em></div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 400; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">It’s Ritchie’s turn. He gargles and spits not nearly as far as Lisa. As compensation Ritchie sticks his toe on Lisa’s wet spot for good measure.</em></div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 400; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Deborah’s voice breaks through their procrastination. They know perfectly well what comes after brushing their teeth. They deliver their toothbrushes to Deborah. They love the absoluteness of the rules in this routine. Like a game of Monopoly, “Go to Jail, Go directly to Jail. Do not pass Go. Do not collect two hundred dollars.” The excitement is only possible if you don’t ask why, why do I have to go to jail. Why can’t I collect $200 dollars. Why? No why’s are allowed. No why’s are needed. The fun comes from totally living within Monopoly.</em></div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 400; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">“Okay. March to the tent.”</em></div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 400; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">They march. When they get to the entrance she calls to them.</em></div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 400; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">“About face.”</em></div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 400; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">They do so with military precision.</em></div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 400; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">“Wow. Do that again. No wait. Let me call Daddy.”</em></div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 400; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">She shouts from some distance away, “Michael”</em></div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 400; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">He shouts back, “What?”</em></div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 400; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">“Watch this.”</em></div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 400; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Happy marionettes. They repeat their about-face.</em></div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 400; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">“That is cool.”</em></div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 400; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">She yells to him, “I’ll be there soon.”</em></div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 400; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">She turns to the kids, “Okay. In your tent. I’ll come in to kiss you good night in a minute.”</em><br /><em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">No protest. They like sleeping in a tent. Off they go.</em></div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 400; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Deborah washes their toothbrushes, listens to the crackling timbers in the fire.</em><br /><em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">She shouts to Michael. He waves from the distance. She inches her skirt little by little up her long legs.</em></div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 400; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">“You still got it,” he calls out.</em></div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 400; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">He loves her legs. He’s told her many times that he married her for them. She swims miles at the YMCA pool every other day to keep them exactly that way.</em></div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 400; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">She enters the children’s tent, picks their clothes up and folds them. They are excited. This is a treat. Normally they sleep alone in their rooms at home.</em></div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 400; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">They sit side by side, their legs in their sleeping bags.</em></div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 400; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Lisa is wearing a ring that Deborah had found in her mother’s attic and sized to fit Lisa. She was told that it belonged to her grandmother’s great aunt who had never married. The ring had been given to her by a young man who died before he could marry her and she remained true. Deborah repeated the story to Lisa when she gave it to her. After that she wouldn’t take it off even when she took her bath. She loved that story.</em></div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 400; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Lisa hands her ring to Ritchie, “Put it on tonight. It means we are married.”</em></div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 400; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Ritchie counters, “I can’t marry my sister. Right Mommy?”</em></div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 400; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">“Make believe,” Lisa argues.</em></div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 400; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">The boss interrupts.</em></div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 400; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">“Come on guys.”</em></div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 400; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Their arms disappear inside their bags. Deborah zips them in and gives each a kiss. As soon as she turns away they give each other a look of complicity.</em></div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 400; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">As she leaves they giggle excitedly. From outside Deborah warns them.</em></div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 400; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">“Shh…”</em></div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 400; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">They giggle again. She smiles, walks away. She listens carefully. Every once in a while she thinks she hears an animal stepping on a twig. Momentarily a bear jumps out of the darkness until she reassures herself that it is her imagination. She feels a chill. She puts on a sweatshirt and gets closer to the fire. She sits on the ground, lights a joint, unwinds, stares into space, calming herself with the quiet. After 10 minutes she reenters the children’s tent. They are asleep. Her eyes embrace them. She listens to their gentle breathing. Lisa coughs. Deborah continues to listen. Lisa’s breathing is clear. As she parts the door flap of their tent she can make out Michael in the distance.</em></div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 400; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">He is literally seated on the edge of a cliff, up thousands of feet. The ledge is tilted slightly downward. Deborah approaches carefully, gripping the rock with her strong fingernails for extra traction as she slides next to him. She almost slips a bit but recovers.</em></div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 400; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">“Wo. That was close,” he says with concern.</em></div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 400; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">“I’m all right.’ She examines her finger. “I broke a nail.”</em></div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 400; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">She settles in, looks straight out.</em></div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 400; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">“How is your book going? How’s Cornelius?”</em></div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 400; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">“Vanderbilt is amazing- as always. What a guy.”</em></div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 400; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">‘What I still don’t get is what’s so interesting about Vanderbilt?”</em></div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 400; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">“I guess because he came from nothing.”</em></div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 400; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"></div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 400; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">But two years on this guy. It’s like he’s part of our family. Truthfully I think he’s a macho schmuck.”</em><br /><em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">“ You don’t know anything about him.”</em></div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 400; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">“Is that what you want to be, a macho schmuck. Win all the time? Make everyone else lose?”</em></div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 400; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">They stop. Time out. They have learned to be quiet when tension arises. She bites her lip a bit. He looks straight ahead seeing nothing. But within a minute both of them regain their connection. Silently, they look out straight ahead at the sunset, which has just begun, to the clouds now painted with color, to the distant line where the sky touches the ground. They are soothed by the soft whistling wind, occasionally punctuated by ospreys calling out their dominance of the valley beneath them. The minutes pass intensely. They feel every moment. In their fingers, in the air going in and out of their lungs, in the sky becoming saturated with color, which fills their vision.</em></div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 400; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">”Remind me. How did you find this place?” Deborah asks him</em></div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 400; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">“Joe told me about it.”</em></div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 400; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">“It’s something.”</em></div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 400; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Again they are silent until Deborah laughs to herself.</em></div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 400; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">“What?”</em></div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 400; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">“Something Amy said.”</em></div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 400; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">“What?”</em></div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 400; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">“She said in a past life you must have been Japanese. Always trying to take perfection to the next level.”</em></div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 400; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">“Do you think so?”</em></div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 400; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">They both know it is true. Neither understands it. He forever reaches for the ultimate, the ultimate truth, the ultimate lie, the ultimate orgasm, the ultimate rose, the ultimate truffle flavored anything, the ultimate barbecued beef, cranberry soda, the ultimate view. Whatever it is that he likes, he wants to bring it to the next level. And when he gets there he wants something better.“</em></div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 400; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"></div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 400; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Why not?” he asks. “If you are alive why not want the best there is, just so that you know what that is like?” Greed she calls it. Deprivation, he explains, but understanding will not change it. It is simply a given.</em></div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 400; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">And as she could have predicted, the sunset is a perfect one, the sun huge, the sky now vividly red and yellow. Below, at the corner of one of the fields, orange pumpkins are piled high. Very, very far away workers can be discerned, tiny dots, purposefully doing the necessary. Behind them the autumn leaves catch the fading yellow light as it slowly relents to a reddish hue. A sliver of red sun shimmers at the edge of the horizon. Then it disappears. They both exhale in appreciation. He hands her a plastic cup of wine. He is excited.</em></div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 400; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">“I can see why they used to worship the sun.”</em></div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 400; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">“Who are they?” She loves to tweak him.</em></div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 400; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">“Ancient people. People who lived outside. Not knowing how things work, not knowing things through books, just the sun right in front of you, warm and there and huge. You have to admit God’s done a pretty good job here”</em></div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 400; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">She nods. He lifts his cup. “To the big guy in the sky.”</em></div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 400; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Deborah holds her cup up.</em></div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 400; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">“To the Sun God.”</em></div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 400; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">They sip. The wind howls. Leaves fly everywhere. Then stillness. She looks skyward straight above, is captured by A sliver of the moon is already visible.</em><br /><em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">She whispers to it, “To the god who owns the night with a whisper.”</em></div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 400; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">“Only one god allowed.”</em></div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 400; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">“Not in my religion.”</em></div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 400; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">“You smoked didn’t you?”</em></div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 400; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">She opens her arms.</em></div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 400; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;"><em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">“Come here Mr. Vanderbilt.”</em></p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">Seated at the table in the ballroom Michael keeps glancing at the exit waiting for Deborah‘s return. The award ceremony continues. He fingers his napkin under the table. It is rough which he likes. He can’t get rid of that last look from Deborah. Was she angry? Like Deborah, the excitement of the award has stirred up his emotions, bombarded him with memories. He also drifts in and out of the past. His thoughts go to seven years earlier.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Two hands slap at an overturned card, a jack. Lisa and Ritchie try to out shout each other.</p></div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 400; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">“Slapjack!”</div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 400; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Ritchie, now eleven, is sitting on twelve-year-old Lisa’s hospital bed. Both want to win badly. Happy rock n’ roll plays in the background. Lisa has mastered her bubble gum, cracking it emphatically, rhythmically, repeatedly blowing small bubbles then sucking them in. With one hand behind her back, she draws the next card.</div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 400; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Ritchie fakes slapping the pack. Lisa, just in time, freezes her hand. He points at it.</div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 400; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">“You moved your hand.”</div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 400; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">She shakes her head, “No!”</div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 400; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">“You did!”</div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 400; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">They prepare for the next draw. Lisa sneaks a look at the covered card. Another jack! Keeping a poker face she uncovers it. She beats Ritchie’s slap, smiles triumphantly. Ritchie is not happy.</div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 400; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">“You cheated. You snuck a look.”</div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 400; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">“I did not.”</div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 400; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">“You did. I saw you.”</div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 400; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">She brings the back of her hand to her chest, swallows hard with a little too much theatre. Ritchie watches this and suspects she is playing it up but he isn’t sure. The discomfort, real or feigned, passes as quickly as it came. Mischievously she smiles as she prepares to turn over the next card.<br />She imitates the sound of a drum roll. Ritchie is not amused.</div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 400; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">“Stop,” he orders.</div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 400; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Deborah and Michael noisily enter the room. Lisa doesn’t look up. For a crucial moment she tries to stay with her game. Finally she gives in.</div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 400; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">As Deborah’s mother once did to her, Deborah moves the back of her hand across Lisa’s forehead checking her temperature. “How’s the patient?” she asks cheerfully.</div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 400; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">“Is the food any better in the cafeteria? What they bring me here sucks.”</div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 400; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Deborah glares at Lisa. She doesn’t like that kind of talk. Lisa’s eyes drop. Michael tosses a bag of potato chips to her. Deborah tries to intercept it.</div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 400; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">“Doctor said only hospital food.”</div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 400; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Lisa throws it back to her father, “I wasn’t hungry anyway.”</div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 400; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Ritchie moves off to the corner of the room. He pretends to be busy shuffling his deck of cards, but he is watching everything.</div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 400; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Deborah touches Lisa’s brow with her chin.</div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 400; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">“She definitely has a fever.”</div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 400; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">“Again?”</div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 400; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">“I’m pretty sure. Here, feel her brow.”</div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 400; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Michael ignores her and plops into a chair by the bedside. He takes the TV remote and puts on the New England Patriots.</div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 400; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Deborah strokes Lisa forehead.</div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 400; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">“Are you okay?”</div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 400; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">“No different.”</div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 400; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">“Does anything hurt?”</div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 400; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">“It’s the same Mom, the same. Stop asking me. That’s the hundredth time you’ve asked today.”<br />“When did they bring your medicine? Michael, check with the nurse.”</div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 400; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">He reluctantly starts to get out of his chair. Lisa intervenes.</div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 400; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">“Mom. This is a big game. Ritchie you go”</div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 400; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Ritchie goes forward with his task. He leaves the room and heads towards the nursing station. The once grand hospital is showing its age. The corridors have been scrubbed and scrubbed Harvard style, but the marble trim around passageways has passed the point of a pleasant ivory toned patina to simply looking brown and dingy. The high ceilings seem to amplify the cold creepy institutional feeling. Ritchie shuffles down the hall. He shoots a look in the first room he encounters. A doctor and two assistants are busy preparing for a procedure. He catches the eye of seven-year-old Billy sitting up on his bed.</div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 400; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">“Hey Billy.”</div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 400; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Billy, pale and clearly ill, points his index finger at him, pretending to shoot a gun. Ritchie returns the gesture. The door closes. Ritchie moves on down the hall when suddenly Billy’s scream rips through the quiet.</div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 400; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">“OWWWWW”</div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 400; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">“It won’t hurt…It won’t hurt. I promise you. Stay still.”</div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 400; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Then another scream is heard all over the ward, this one for real. In her room Lisa looks at her father. She squeezes her mother’s hand.</div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 400; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Billy screams again,. “You said it wouldn’t hurt. You said it wouldn’t hurt. You promised.”</div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 400; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">“Hold him still. I can’t do this if he keeps moving.”</div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 400; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"></div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 400; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"></div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 400; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"></div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 400; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"></div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 400; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"></div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 400; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"></div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 400; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"></div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 400; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"></div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; font-weight: 400; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;"> </p><div align="left" style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;"> </p><div align="left" style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;"> </p><div align="left" style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;"><strong style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"> Chapter 2</strong></p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">As soon as they return to their fifth floor Boston apartment, Michael turns on the Patriot game. Deborah goes to a window that looks out on a playground. It is late afternoon but the children’s energy has not let up. With distance their screams are soothing, like birds chirping in the country, each different. Laughter, anger, silliness, pleading, a little boy’s voice over and over in Spanish, “Mira! Mira!”, but then another and another, “Higher…” “Get away….” “Stop that Joey…” Then a mother, “Get Over here. Now!”</p></div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">When she was playground age Lisa used to call Deborah over to this window. Within a few minutes their coats were on and they were on the way to the park.</div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">She watches a mother pushing her daughter on a swing. The playground is not calming her today. She walks in front of the TV blocking Michael’s view.</div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">“Michael. Shut it off.”</div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">“It’s the fourth quarter.“</div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">“Shut it off. Please.”</div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">He mutes the TV sound. She waits ‘til she has his complete attention.<br />“How can you watch TV?”</div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">“ I like it.”</div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">“ So you can tune us all out?”</div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">“Have it your way.”</div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">“Not everyone has that choice.”</div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">“Debby, Just tell me what you want.”</div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">“We have to get Lisa out of that hospital.”</div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">He tightens, waits for what is coming next. She goes back to the window. She watches the same mother push her daughter on the swing.</div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">“Amy told me about this woman, her cousin. Everyone said nothing could be done… She took shark cartilage…Something about the yin and yang…”</div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Michael’s voice is cold. “Lisa’s not going to be treated with health foods.”</div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Deborah continues to look at the girl on the swing. She guesses four or five years old. She speaks softly but with determination.</div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">“I’m not going to let them torture her.”</div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">“What did you say?”</div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">“They’re not going to torture Lisa.”</div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">“No one’s torturing her.” His eyes dart over to the Patriots.</div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">“God only knows what they were doing to Billy today. I swear. They get off on it…They stick and jab and cut. They make Lisa swallow disgusting stuff. Yesterday it was a tube. How would you like to swallow a plastic tube? She has trouble with pills. Where do they come up with their procedures? Tell me. These stupid doctors. Who dreams them up?”</div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">“These stupid doctors are Harvard trained.”</div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">“Oh Harvard. Mr. Harvard. There are fewer sadists at Harvard. Right? People are really nicer there.” She takes a breath then continues. “Did it ever occur to you that maybe all that smartness makes for better ways to torture children?”</div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">“Give me a break.”</div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">She continues, “I know you think Billy’s a cry baby …”</div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">“Look I was wrong about Billy okay. I admit it. Last week I saw him. They barely touched him and he was screaming.”</div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">“You called him a wus. Do you know what he has been through?”</div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">“I was pissed, okay.? And I took it out on him. I’m not allowed to get pissed?”</div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">“You said it loud enough so that his mother heard you.”</div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">“You really think she could hear me?”</div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">“Yes”</div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">“I’m sorry. I didn’t know she was there.”</div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Deborah knows it was not intentional and that he truly is sorry, but she can’t bring herself to forgive him. He waits. Her face has not softened.</div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">“I was wrong. Okay?”</div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">It is not okay. She talks about Billy all the time. That is what they do at the hospital. The patients and their families become family to each other. They are the only ones that understand. Two weeks ago Michael just let it fly. He couldn’t stand the whimpering. He looks morosely at her.</div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">“What do you want me to say? I was wrong. I know Billy’s been through hell.”</div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">She continues to stare at him coldly.</div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">He answers weakly. “We’re talking about a lymphoma. Dr. Clark knows what he is doing.”</div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">“Lisa’s not going to end up like Billy. They’re not going to break her.”</div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">“No one is trying to break her.”</div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">“Some of those procedures are necessary. You’re not completely wrong. But some of it is total bullshit. I’m sure of that. One day they are going to do one thing that they tell me is absolutely necessary. Then they change their mind and don’t do it or do something else instead. “</div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">“To me that’s a good sign. It means they are thinking things over, not just following a cookbook. Would you like it better if a doctor decided to do something and went ahead with it even if he knew he had made a mistake?”</div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">“They do things just so they won’t lose face.“</div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">“This is not Japan.”</div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">“Bullshit. Every place is Japan. People with egos are everywhere.”</div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">“Maybe.”</div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">“I swear. Half of what they do is just to do something. Anything. I’m sure of that”</div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">“It is better than doing nothing.”</div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">“Not when the main thing you are trying to do is prove that you are a great doctor. Or maybe it’s something else. Did you see those bills? Every time they do a procedure they get paid a fortune, what you earn in a month.”</div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">“Deborah, the money goes to the school not them. They are doing their best.”</div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">He glances at the TV hoping nothing has gone wrong for New England.</div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">She shuts off the TV.</div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">He clicks it on.</div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">“I hate that TV.”</div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">“Well I don’t.”</div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">“Fine. But what about me?”</div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">“Deborah I don’t watch TV because I want to hurt you. It helps me unwind.”</div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">“Okay. But less… okay? Less.”</div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">“Okay.”</div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">She softens a bit.</div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">“It’s just that you are not there. You miss half of what is going on.”</div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">“Like what?”</div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">“Everything, I don’t know…On the way home I kept thinking about Lisa’s spinal tap Tuesday. It was a nightmare.”<br />She hesitates. He is listening. “She was a trooper… She had that little scared smile.” Deborah is half smiling, proudly.<br />“Remember…at her birthday party…She was three? The clown broke a balloon? She was scared but it was her “princess” party. That is what she called that party. She was dressed like a princess so she had to act like a princess. Princesses don’t look scared.”</div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Michael does remember. It is on video. Her hands on her hips like she is about to sing out a verse from Oklahoma. Trying not to look scared, she was very cute.</div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Deborah continues, “ She did whatever the neurologist told her to do. She was in control of herself. It was like Lisa had invented a game. She always did that. Pictured herself in a story. I don’t who she was playing, what story. Maybe it wasn’t a story, but whatever he told her to do she did it. No resistance…” Deborah smiles fondly, “She’s a trooper…” She whispers to herself, her eyes water “She’s sweet,”</div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Michael is with her. “The neurologist asked her to lie down on her stomach. She listened closely. Waited for each direction. You could see her fear but she was in control, overcoming it, winning. She knows how to win. She was trying to completely trust the doctor. Then they told her to roll on her side. But when she rolled on her side her hospital gown pulled up. She didn’t want people to see her underpants. So she tried to pull her gown down. Only suddenly they were in a hurry. Like the neurologist had had enough pussy footing around. He was on go and she was on stop. They had her pinned down and they weren’t going to let go. Her fingers kept moving, trying to catch her gown. The nurses saw that and they held her wrist tighter. I was whispering into her ear, kissing her. But I could see what was going on.”</div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Deborah hesitates. She is fighting her tears.<br />“I said nothing. Nothing…They could have waited two seconds so she could cover up her underpants…Lisa’s twelve. She’s a girl. I thought nurses are supposed to know about things like that.”</div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">“They do.”</div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">“Not any more. Half the nurses want to be doctors. They are as macho as the doctors, not tuned in. Only thing that registers is what they want to do. She is silent. She bites her lip. “I don’t understand why I said nothing.” “I wanted to scream: ”Let go of her fucking hand…”</div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">“You didn’t want to get them upset. You wanted them to have a cool head. They were going to stick something in Lisa’s spine.”</div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Deborah’s face hardens. “No. It’s not that. It’s that they’re in charge. What time we come, what time we go, what they feed her. They are just automatically in charge.”</div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">“It’s their hospital.”</div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">“It’s our daughter. Lisa’s ours. Michael she’s ours.”</div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">“Debbie, Amy’s health food stories are wacko. Remember that line? “The more you need the truth the more you must lie.””</div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">“Yeah John Lennon. So?” She is getting irritated. She doesn’t want to hear theories.</div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">“You can’t trust true believers. Their cures get more miraculous every time the story gets repeated.” “I don’t want to hear your bullshit right now. Okay?”</div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">“Deborah please. You’re not wrong but don’t fight them. Okay? Don’t. It makes it more difficult. Dr. Clark studied for years, studied hard. He’s not stupid.”</div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">“Fine. He’s not stupid. But you know what? It doesn’t matter… Sometimes the cancer calls the shots. All I ask is that Clark admit it if nothing is working… Because I have to take her home….”</div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">“You really don’t get it. They are trying to save her. She may have to put up with pain because maybe it can save her life.”</div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">“Don’t give me that “It’s for Lisa bullshit.” She’s staying there for us… For us; because we want her to be there…Shut off the football game occasionally and take a good look at her. She’s waiting for me to say it “Get dressed we’re out of here. She’s waiting for me to say it, for me to get this situation under control.”</div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">“Debby. Taking her home will make everything worse.”</div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">She stops. She knows that particular pitch and volume. Michael is about to blow. She is suddenly very quiet, like she has heard thunder in the distance. She has been here before. She listens carefully. They both calm a bit.</div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">” Remember the time I had that flat tire with them in the car? Lisa was about six.”</div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">“No.”</div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">“AAA? I had a fight with you that night?.”</div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">“Right.”</div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">“I never told you the whole story…” She has his attention. “I was screaming at Ritchie and Lisa to stop fighting, I got out. Opened the trunk. I couldn’t find the’ jack, and meanwhile the back door opens. The traffic is buzzing by. I screamed. “Close the door. Close the door.” Lisa steps out anyway. ”Get back in the car. Get back in the car” She just looked at me and understood everything. I didn’t have to fake that I knew what I was doing. I couldn’t fake it. She knew that I didn’t But she also knew it was going to all turn out ok. I wasn’t going to let anything bad happen. Lisa and Ritchie used to get that from me.”</div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">She smiles, “Lisa pushed her body against the car and slipped over near me at the back. When she was close enough she stood next to me, “Mom. Call AAA.” She knew I didn’t know what the hell to do. But that was okay because she did. She knew I was going make sure it was okay, or she was going to make sure, or someone would.”</div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">“Sorry about the AAA.”</div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">“It’s okay. We didn’t have the money.”</div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">“Yeah but you were pissed about it and you were right.”</div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">“Well you said no. I wasn’t going to let you get away with that.”</div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">She refocuses. Her voice changes. “I also knew that you were right. We didn’t have the money.”</div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">“ So okay we agree? One more time like this morning and we are out of there.”</div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">“ No we are not agreed. We are going to do whatever Dr. Clark says. We have to.”</div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">She screams at him “Clark doesn’t give a shit. It’s just a job to him.”</div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">“He takes his job seriously. That’s enough.”</div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">“Maybe.” She answers with traces of resignation in her voice. They are both tiring.</div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">“He better admit it if we’re not going anywhere.” She trails off, “Fuckin’ doctors’ egos.”</div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">She pours scotch into a large glass, straight. She sips a little, then downs it. She stares down Michael’s disapproval.</div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">“You think your praying is any different? You think you’re gonna get a miracle here?”<br />She downs another, then continues.</div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">“You think God listens to your mumbling? He’s old Michael. He needs a hearing aid. Because if he hears okay he’s definitely a sadist.”</div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">“Shut up. Debby!”</div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">In his room Ritchie is playing an intense video game which fills the room with noise, laser gun screeches, grunts from splattered monsters as they are gunned down. Every once in a while he can hear his parents He can’t make out their words, but the “shut ups” are too many for him. He turns up the volume of his game, obliterates the sound of their fighting The action gets more furious. Deborah shouts from the foyer.</div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">“Ritchie do your homework.”</div><div align="left" style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">Ritchie shoots a mutant alien. A groan.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Michael goes to his computer. He checks the football score. New England<br />lost. He gets back to work on his Vanderbilt novel.</p></div></div></div></div></h2>Simon Sobohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02579449711047401565noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2082400290580706324.post-15546848349137745962023-12-06T18:54:00.002-05:002023-12-18T19:51:29.457-05:00Ending Insurance Companies’ Control of Mental Health Care<p> </p><h1 style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "PT Serif", TimesNewRoman, "Times New Roman", Times, Baskerville, Georgia, serif; font-size: 36px; line-height: 1.1; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Ending Insurance Companies’ Control of Mental Health Care.</h1><aside class="meta" style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #999999; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; margin: 10px 0px 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"></aside><div class="entry-box clearfix" style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 30px 0px 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><div class="html-before-content" style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"></div><div class="entry" style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 30px; vertical-align: baseline;"><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">My retirement from psychiatry has allowed independence from fears that caused temperance in my opinions about issues, which all along deserved a passionate campaign for change. This is an article about the stranglehold that insurance companies have had on health care, particularly mental health care, for more than 20 years. I have been retired for ten years so some things may have changed. But probably not.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">First a description of what can only be described as atrocities that I personally witnessed.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">I got a call from a social worker at Danbury Hospital in Connecticut. The following day they were discharging a female patient, a second grade teacher from New Milford with three children. The social worker begged me to see her the day she was discharged. I agreed to do so. The patient appeared in my waiting room as scheduled. The only problem was that she was so afraid of me that she would not come into my office. To no avail I tried everything I could think of to convince her that she would be safe. Only when my next patient appeared in the waiting room did she agree to enter my office. There were only 5 minutes left before I woud have to see my next patient, but in that time she told me that she had ruined her life, and all was hopeless. As best I could, I tried to reassure her, but it was obvious that nothing I said was having an impact. We made an appointment for the next day, which she did not keep. I called. Her husband answered. She had blown her brains out the evening before.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">This was early on in the HMO era when I didn’t immediately understand the desperation in the social worker’s voice. She clearly knew that the decision to discharge this patient was completely insane.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">I was called to the New Milford Hospital ER to see a young woman, holding a baby, who was experiencing her first psychotic break. She was convinced that a spying device had been put in her baby’s vagina. She kept checking her baby’s vagina hoping to find it. Oxford (an insurance company in the Northeast) would not approve hospitalization. They said she was not a danger to herself or others. They wanted her treated at Danbury’s Day Hospital. At the time there was no public transportation between New Milford and Danbury, but even if there was, this woman was not sane enough to commute there every day. I insisted on speaking to a supervisor at Oxford, then to his supervisor. They wouldn’t budge in their decision. The next day I was summoned by administration in New Milford Hospital. Oxford had called them to complain about my rudeness. I confess that I was guilty as charged. As Chief of Psychiatry there I was expected to set an example. This incident also happened early in the HMO era, a time when hospitals were worried about remaining in the insurance company’s network. Early on doctors were also worried about being labeled as a provider who gave unnecessary care. Certain insurance companies let it be known that they were keeping tabs.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">I was seeing a woman in her 40’s for psychotherapy who had a double mastectomy for breast cancer. The gods were not favoring her. She had also had a heart attack. Her grown son was drinking too much and her daughter had had an affair, which led to the end of her daughter’s marriage. This woman’s husband was tired of listening to his wife’s troubles. After 10 sessions her insurance company, PHS, decided she had enough psychotherapy. I went through their chain of command appealing the decision. Finally I got to talk to the head of their psychiatric division, Dr. Robert Dailey from Bridgeport Hospital. He told me this woman did not need psychotherapy. She needed hospice. Astonished, I argued that she was not a terminal patient. She was still working and struggling to keep her family afloat. He would hear nothing of it. Case closed.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">The situations cited above came from my direct experience. I could describe ten others. Most psychiatrists have similar stories to tell. Indeed, this article was originally prepared for Psychiatric Times. They felt it was unsuitable because it was old news. As one reviewer put it “everyone has their own horror stories no different than these.” All across America, when it started, it was if a plague had descended on the field of psychiatry. Except this plague had been paid for by our patients, or else it was a benefit bestowed by their employers.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">Mistreatment was not confined to mental health care. Patients unfortunate enough to have M.S., or those who had had a stroke, were learning that after initial treatments, they could no longer have physical therapy, the one way they could do battle with the calamity that had befallen them.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">Dr. Linda Peeno was the medical director at three different insurance companies, including, Humana. When she came to the conclusion that the first company was unethical she moved on to the next and finally the third before concluding the problem was industry wide. Her conscience was bothering her. She felt directly responsible for the death of several people. This is not why she went into medicine. Although she liked the hours provided by a job at an insurance company, she could not continue. The opposite. She felt she had to reveal to the public what was happening. With a secure job as an professor of ethics at a local university taking on the insurance companies became her life’s work. She has written extensively and well about the problems she observed. Writing for U.S News and World Report in 2002 she described a typical scenario at her job:</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“The staff of our medical department had attached questions as the letter passed through its maze to me, the HMO doctor at the end of the decision-making line. If something has to do with medical necessity, I am the final word. Our nurses could make denials if something was a benefit decision. Cosmetic surgery, for example, would be excluded in the certificate of coverage. The number of notes on the letter signals that this request falls in the gray area between outright necessity and clear-cut exclusion–the danger zone for the patient.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">The decision is now mine, and I feel the pressure to find a way to say no. If I cannot pronounce it medically unnecessary, then I have to find a different way to interpret our medical guidelines or the contract language in order to deny the request.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">A bright-blue square catches my attention. It is from a particularly cost-conscious staffer and contains a handwritten warning to me: “Approve this, and it will be your last!” It is common practice to use removable stickies. After we have finished passing any document around, we can remove all the comments. Official records will reflect only the final decisions and not the process by which we made them.”</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">From that same article:</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“A doctor had called to tell me that his patient was almost 80, lived alone, and could not handle the preparations he would need to make for bowel surgery. Besides, we had already told the doctor that the surgery would have to be done in a hospital over 60 miles away from the man’s home. There was one in his town but they weren’t affiliated with the company. The local hospital had not yet learned to buckle under.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">Without the pre-op admission the night before surgery, this frail man would have to drive himself to the hospital almost in the middle of the night, after hours of laxatives and withholding of fluids. When I approved the request, I got a call from my physician supervisor, angrily telling me that we did not pay for creature comforts. I told him I had already done it, but in the future…”</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">Linda Peeno testified before a Congressional subcommittee on Health and the Environment on May 30, 1996. Her testimony, and many thought provoking articles by her, can be found on the internet. <em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Showtime</em> produced a film <em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Damaged Care</em> that tells her story. She had accomplished a lot. Except about what mattered. Despite her Congressional testimony, her well placed articles, and the Showtime movie, very little changed.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">In 2001 I read an article in the Wall Street Journal about a lawsuit against an insurance company written in what I thought was a disparaging tone. I understood the sentiment behind the reporter’s attitude. Lawsuits have gotten out of hand. There are far too many of them that are built on lies and exaggerations. In our litigious society, small mistakes, which we all can make, can be exaggerated into a million dollar payoff. The result? Enormous energies directed to covering your ass, which means the multiplication of professionals adept at that noble aspiration. Lawyers and their enforcing bureaucrats get to tell workers what they can and cannot do, which means programed rigidity from the top, the last thing needed in a service based economy.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">The suit that the reporter was dissing was not frivolous. I knew the person who was suing. He had lost his 16 year-old son because his insurance company determined that his son must leave Danbury Hospital. It was clear to his father and everyone that knew the boy, that he was in grave danger and could not be discharged until his condition improved. The boy’s suicide attempt was for real. It was sheer luck that the pipe he put his rope over broke. My patient knew his son still wanted to die and if let out of the hospital he would finish the job. He reasoned with the doctor, he pleaded with him. He begged.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">I called the reporter Milo Geyelin and we spoke for 3 ½ hours. I gave him the details of how what had happened in this case was happening everywhere. Necessary care was being rejected as unnecessary. Several months later he called me. He had written, the lead story in the Wall Street Journal of May 8<span style="border: 0px; bottom: 1ex; font-size: 12px; height: 0px; line-height: 0; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; position: relative; vertical-align: baseline;">th</span> 2001. a story about HMO’s control of mental health. That story was particularly focused on Magellan, the largest mental health managed care company. It was gobbling up all its competitors, particularly less profitable, but more ethical HMOs. By the journalistic standards of the day Geyelin’s duty was to be “balanced”. He allowed Magellan to respond. The gist of their defense was mistakes happen, but they were being corrected.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">I thought the article allowed Magellan to come across as sincere, as trying their best. From direct experience I knew they were not trying their best, anything but, when it came to siding with their patient’s best interests. They perceived those who had become seriously ill as a plague on the company, understandable from the insurance companies point of view. But from the patient’s point of view, insurance companies were a curse, one that had to be combatted along with the illness.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">His story didn’t stop there. Magellan sold contracts to large insurance companies (as a mental health carve out, a company that specializes in managing psychiatric care). They contracted to produce providers that would take care of any insured patient in need of care.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">They didn’t deliver what they had promised. In many parts of the country they had no providers available at all. Many on their list of psychiatrists had once been providers but they had long ago given up on Magellan after submitted insurance claim forms were repeatedly “lost.” It required a lot of energy to get paid, and it just wasn’t worth it.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">Magellan had their patients in a no lose situation for them. They allowed their patients to only see providers in their network and there were practically no providers available. That didn’t bother them at all. Moreover, if, by luck, a patient found a provider, treatment had to wait until the insurance company approved of it. This could take weeks. And too frequently there was no reply at all. They accused the provider of not sending in their form, (usually a lie) or they accused the doctor of filling the form out incorrectly. Probably true given the confusing directions and triviality of the form.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">I can attest that it was impossible to reach the insurance company to try to straighten things out. Not only did they choreograph a long musical, “your call is important to us” wait, if you did get through, the people handling the calls were minimum wagers with no authority , little intelligence, and zero energy to climb the mountain of rules, the operational chaos that awaited them should they choose to truly help the caller with his problem. They were trained to deal with forms. They knew their list of approved symptoms, as designated by DSM IV. Anything that didn’t fit on that form was like Chinese to them.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">It should be noted that, the form had very little room for the doctor to individualize his case, explain things as he saw it. It didn’t really matter. If he were to try, he would be passed right over. There wouldn’t be a call back even if he had made his case. Clerks have very little tolerance for outliers.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">Essentially the process was a scam. Totally legal but a scam nonetheless. Entirely within the law medical care was being shaped by purveyors with criminal motives and intent. Patients, who had lost it, forced to finally acknowledge that they needed help, were out of luck if they tried to get that help. They had to meet criteria that were sacrosanct, prepared by experts, hired for the purpose of making sure their patients didn’t cash in on their policies</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">The amazing part of the story is how Magellan had come out of nowhere, and overnight they were everywhere. It was formed out of the ruins of a failing company Charter Behavioral Health systems. At their height they were a Wall Street darling, a chain of 90 psychiatric hospitals from which they were making industrial profits. In the end Charter was investigated by the Justice Department for Medicare Fraud. As they closed up shop, selling off their hospitals provided the capital to allow them to quickly become a huge player in managed care.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">The irony is striking. One of the very companies that had, on a massive scale, overcharged for care, billed for care never given, with very little difficulty became in charge of what care would be allowed or disallowed. Businessmen to the core, they stuck to first principles. They followed where the money had gone. The denial of care business was now more profitable than the delivery of care. Of all people, they were now deciding what was, and what was not, “necessary” care. The fox was guarding the chicken house. Every dollar they saved by denying care was money that went into their pockets..</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">Managed care companies do not compete in the quality of work they deliver. The only thing that matters is numbers. Particularly in the 90’s CEO’s were moving from rubber companies to cupcake bakers, to oil drilling companies, with little knowledge needed about the products of the companies they were leading. As long as every quarter they could deliver the right numbers, their job security was golden. Magellan was confident that the money they made from selling off the hospital chain would be multiplied by their new business. The sale of ninety hospitals leaves you with a lot of capital, the muscle required to buy up competitors.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">Numbers can also work against managed care companies. For example, an audit of American Biodyne which contracted for 14 million dollars to provide mental health services for Ohio state employees for 2 years found that the firm had actually spent $2.1 million on treatment claims in 1991 and $2.6 million in 1992. The rest of the $14 million went to American Biodyne.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">The need to keep medical costs down was the original impetus for HMOs. This is a real issue. America’s 3 trillion dollar health care costs were, and still are, wildly out of control. We spend far more than any other country and the results are far from obvious. There is waste and unnecessary procedures anywhere you look.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">The problem I am addressing is the decision to put <em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">for profit</em> <em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">HMOs in charge of cutting costs</em>. Taking care away from ill patients and putting these savings in to the pockets of an HMO amounted to legally stealing care from those least able to defend themselves. It was breathtaking in its audacity.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">The head of Oxford, a relatively small company, was paid 28 million dollars a year, the majority of it pinched from sick patients. US Healthcare’s CEO, a former pharmacist, earned 900 million dollars when he sold his cost cutting company to Aetna. His daughter and other family members also got millions not to mention the 25 million dollar jet Aetna gave to him. Inside Edition featured him in an expose on the lifestyles of wealthy HMO executives.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">US Health Care executives were put in charge of the company. Changing their name back to Aetna was easy. It took years for Aetna to extricate themselves from the chaos US Health Care had wrought</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">The Wall Street Journal in 2006 ran an expose, “Health Care Gold Mines.” It was reported that William McGuire, CEO of one of the larger health insurance companies, United Health Care, had unrealized gains on stock options worth 1.8 billion dollars. He had been given the right to “time” his stock option grants. His timing was so extraordinary that questions have been raised that he backdated his purchases. His associates call him “brilliant.” Very brilliant. The Wall Street Journal’s analysts concluded that if the options were granted to him blindly, the chance of his guessing as well as he did, was 1 in 200 million.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">Not only have congressional committees long ago had the unscrupulous practices of insurance practices revealed to them. Newspaper and national magazines have made reports about it, again and again in exposes. Yet the issue has no legs. Nothing changes.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">Frankly, at first glance, the quiet on this issue is a mystery. Politicians, and columnists have so often carried on about abortion rights, or gay marriage, or some other higher cause that these issue have become de rigueur in the politically correct playbook. Yet neither abortion nor gay marriage materially affects a great many people’s lives. Health insurance practices do. Why is there silence from media pundits and politicians who love any exposure they can get?The strange thing is that what’s going on in the health insurance industry is no Enron. It isn’t a secret. If not personally abused, most people know people who have gotten screwed by their health insurance company. They have heard stories from colleagues or family members, anguished stories if the illness has been severe. People have come to expect that somehow they will be done in by the small print in their policies.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">The absence of a public outcry, the failure of news stories and Congressional hearings to halt the HMOs was one of the reasons I wrote a novel <em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">After Lisa</em>. I had written articles for years with suggestions about how I thought psychiatric care could be improved. This was, I felt, the most important way my writing could make a difference. If enough of the public could identify with the Russells, the protagonists in my story, there might be a possibility of change. <em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">After Lisa</em> is based on the story of the case I contacted the Wall Street Journal reporter about. I was seeing a father who had lost his 12 year-old daughter to cancer. His 16 year-old son tried to hang himself. He was hospitalized at Danbury Hospital.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">From day one they had started discharge planning. In those days insurance companies had a little trick they pulled. They pressured doctors to get their patient to “contract for safety,” have the patient put in writing a promise that they would not commit suicide. Once this was signed out the patient would go.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">AS I noted this boy’s father was convinced his son’s attempt was completely serious. He was desperate. One of his friends, a social welfare worker said to legally abandon his son. That way they couldn’t discharge him. The hospital answered that his son would be sent to a shelter. I will cut to the chase. The day he was discharged his son successfully hung himself. With two children gone my patient’s opening words to me, when I first met him, was “I am a dead man.”</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">My hope was, and still is, that my novel, or better, a movie based on the story, might translate the issues enough to arouse the public. When I started I thought discussing the book on Oprah would bring forth thousands of people with their own story to tell. But, my fear is that even if the best result occurred, with the long history of public exposure about this issue, it too will have no effect.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">December 14, 2014 60 Minutes ran a story <a href="http://www.cbsnews.com/news/mental-illness-health-care-insurance-60-minutes/#http://www.cbsnews.com/news/mental-illness-health-care-insurance-60-minutes/" style="border: 0px; color: #222222; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Denied</em></a>. It was well done, detailing what other stories like it have done, dead patients the result of insurance company indifference. Has the 60 Minute expose had an impact? It’s been three months. The usual silence on this issue continues. There is no reason to think it will be different than all of the exposes that preceded it.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">There is one angle that could have an enormous impact. What was not covered by their story, or the others documenting insurance company malfeasance, is the fact that insurance companies have no fear of making bad calls (e.g forcing a patient out of the hospital who soon after kills himself). The embarrassment is minimal (no news story) and the legal consequence nil. <em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">The <strong style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">parents and spouses of those who have lost a love one</strong></em><strong style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"> <em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">cannot sue an insurance company. Federal ERISA law forbids it.</em></strong></p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">This issue has a history. In June of 2001 (see June 21<span style="border: 0px; bottom: 1ex; font-size: 12px; height: 0px; line-height: 0; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; position: relative; vertical-align: baseline;">st</span> 2001 Congressional record) the Senate debated and passed the McCain Kennedy Bill, a health care “bill of rights,” that would have allowed lawsuits against HMOs. The vote was 59-36. Changes were made on this bill in the House and then the bill mysteriously <em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">disappeared from the political landscape!</em></p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">Subsequently, several states passed legislation allowing suits against insurance companies. But, on June 23, 2004, the <strong style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">United States Supreme Court unanimously decided that while congress could pass legislation allowing lawsuits against health insurance companies by injured family members, states could not do so. </strong> There are suggestions that the unusual 9-0 vote was an indication that this issue was too important, the pressure was too great for the justices to allow controversy.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">Nevertheless, the success of insurance company lobbying to not only defeat this bill, but successfully end all discussion of lawsuits is a mystery that I do not fully understand. After all, the media and politicians have vigorously gone after other powerful industries, Banks, Wall Street and Oil companies. Despite their power they have not been as successful at keeping a lid on their controversies.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">Because 60 Minutes has not responded to my repeated attempts to reach them about the ERISA law, I am including the phone number of the executive director, Kevin Tedesco, 212-975-2329 in the hope that one of the readers of this article will have better luck. Or perhaps call volume will have an impact. If this were to happen, if 60 Minutes were to take up the issue of the ERISA law’s prohibition of law suits, and if this led to the law being changed, so that insurance companies had to live in fear of being sued, it would change mental health care for generations to come.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">But I am not sanguine about the prospects. The issues are in fact complex. Ultimately the real issue, the debate that has to take place is how we, as a nation, are going to restrict health care to keep costs under control. Managed care companies have been hired to do the dirty work. They are not simply dirty. They are filthy. Powerful forces are lined up to keep things as they are. For instance, when the the Erisa Law was up for discussion in Congress the U.S. Chamber of Commerce lobbied along with other powerful groups to not allow the ERISA law to be changed. I assume they are still working hard to keep this issue submerged.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">When the Democrats stuck their nose into regulating health care, so health care costs could be reduced, the Republicans rightly identified the “Death Panels” they were looking to set up. The Republican solution was HSAs, high deductible medical plans. This has been partially adopted in ObamaCare. Faced with four or five thousand dollar deductibles smart middle class shoppers have delayed seeing their doctors and their expensive procedures.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">But ultimately we have to bring the issue front and center. What should and should not be covered? HMOs have been a disgusting solution. We can do better.</p></div></div>Simon Sobohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02579449711047401565noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2082400290580706324.post-27189130735069455992023-12-06T18:52:00.003-05:002023-12-07T14:06:16.519-05:00Passover 1963: Chapter 5 of “1968 Changed Everything”<p> </p><h1 style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "PT Serif", TimesNewRoman, "Times New Roman", Times, Baskerville, Georgia, serif; font-size: 36px; line-height: 1.1; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"> Chapter 5 of <i>1968 Changed Everything</i></h1><div><i><br /></i></div><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0 0 0 40px; padding: 0px;"><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0 0 0 40px; padding: 0px;"><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0 0 0 40px; padding: 0px;"><blockquote style="border: none; margin: 0 0 0 40px; padding: 0px;"><div><h1 style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "PT Serif", TimesNewRoman, "Times New Roman", Times, Baskerville, Georgia, serif; font-size: 36px; line-height: 1.1; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; text-align: left; vertical-align: baseline;">Passover 1963</h1></div></blockquote></blockquote></blockquote></blockquote><aside class="meta" style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #999999; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; margin: 10px 0px 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"></aside><div class="entry-box clearfix" style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 30px 0px 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><div class="html-before-content" style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"></div><div class="entry" style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 30px; vertical-align: baseline;"><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">Mark is home from college for spring break. His uncles, Ira’s brothers, Lester and Herbert Gordon, his aunts, Irene and Anne, and their five children are at the table. Everyone is dressed up for the holiday, suits and ties and special dresses bought for the occasion. The men wear yarmulkes. In contrast, Mark is wearing torn dungarees and a T-shirt, with nothing on his head. In the past, Ira and Evelyn tried and failed to get him to change into something more appropriate. They’ve given up the fight. That includes his wild uncut hair. During previous Seders, other than his clothing, he’s been tolerable. But they are not sure what to expect tonight.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">The evening starts out fine. The family performs the same rituals every Pesach. It’s a happy time. God is ordinarily not a big part of their lives, but on Passover he’s in the room with them. The women and children sit straight and formal, reverent for God’s sake. Mark slouches, which he rightly claims is a Seder commandment. With the exception of Mark, who is bored, everyone quietly listens as Ira and his brothers pray. Ordinarily, they are modern Americans, acting and looking like everyone else. Left over from their Hebrew school days, when the brothers competed for their father’s praise, which of them could daven faster has heroic implications. It is their form of showing off.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">But not all is show. When the Gordon brothers put on yarmulkes, they are not fully in a room on Long Island. Even if their mother wasn’t at the Seder, they would be showing off.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">For God!</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">As they pray, they are visiting an earlier time and place. A soft echoing melody can be discerned, chanting as their father had chanted, and as their grandfather and his great-grandfather had chanted. They daven with exactly the same voice, the same beat, with a familiar hum. In this process, the voices of their father and grandfather are returned to them. There are other ways to be connected to people who have come before. The dead visit us in recognizable physical characteristics, the same eyes, the same lips, the same smile. Jay raises his eyebrow when he is curious, exactly like his grandfather did, and Jay never knew him.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">Prayer is a sacred place to meet, for, in their imitation, the departed are reincarnated. Father and son, father and grandson together again, together in obedience, together in their sway.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">Soon enough, the rest of the family gets busy. From one to the other, the potatoes and then the parsley are passed to the person next to them and dipped in salt water. As the dish is handed to them, cousins thank cousins almost formally, like they are participating in a ritual supervised by God. They are not as absorbed by the process as Ira and Lester when they daven, but they, too, feel joined to generations beyond the room. Even the children feel uplifted, inspired by their parents’ formality. They are not simply passing potatoes and parsley. They are doing something important.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">Not Mark. He waves the potatoes and parsley off, but then he decides he wants a piece of boiled potato and throws it in his mouth, making funny faces at his aunt Irene’s three-year-old daughter. Several times during the prayers, he whispers to CC and the two of them giggle. Ira notices but says nothing. He repeatedly looks to his brothers for support, which he gets–sympathetic kind eyes. Ira breaks up the matzo and hands it to everyone to take a piece and pass it along. Mark takes a bite of his matzo as soon as it is handed to him, before everyone else at the table can say the prayer thanking God for the matzo. Soon after, Mark begins sipping and then gulping wine—again not at the prescribed moment, after <em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">boray pree,</em> when everyone sips their wine together. He pours himself some more, with a disingenuous innocent expression on his face.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">Being oblivious to the expectations that once dictated his holiday obedience puts Mark in a very good mood. During the earlier years, he was a child. Now, doing whatever he wants, when he wants, is his way of saying he is an adult. He’s so taken with the charm of his independence that in his mind he is having a great time. Everyone is conspicuously ignoring him, but that doesn’t bother him. As the Seder moves along, Ira can no longer ignore him. He glares at Mark repeatedly. Mark avoids making eye contact.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">Customarily, Ira calls on each member of the family to read a section of the Haggadah.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“Mark, you read this . . . in Hebrew,” Ira says pointedly.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">Mark reads the Haggadah out loud in Hebrew. During his Hebrew school days, he used to read Hebrew with ease, but he is struggling now.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“‘<em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Raw—shaw mah who Omer? Mah ha—avodah ha—zos law—chem? Law—chem v—low. Ul—fee sheh—ho—tzee et—atz—mo min ha—kilal ka—far bah—ee—car. V—af ah—tah ha—keh—hey et—she—nahv veh—ay—mahr—low bah—ah—voor zeh aw—saw Adonai lee bTzay—see me—mitzrayim. Lee v—low low. Ee—loo ha—yaw shahm. Low ha—yaw nee—geh—al</em>.’”</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">Ira admonishes him. “You’re a little out of practice, aren’t you?”</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">Mark doesn’t answer.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“Now the English.”</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">Mark begins, “‘The wicked son, what does he say?’</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“Wicked?” Mark asks.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“Continue.”</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">Mark obeys. “‘What is this service to you? By saying, “to you,” he implies “but not to himself.” Since he has excluded himself from us, he denies the foundation of our faith.’”</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">Preparing himself, Mark stares back at his father. Then looking at CC, he playfully rolls his eyes. She smiles sympathetically but tries to hide this from her father.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“The <em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">wicked</em> son.” His father repeats. The room is tense.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“Mom, when are we eating?” CC asks.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">Normally, at this point, awaiting the meal, everyone is starving. But it isn’t hunger alone. There is the anticipation. The Seder meal is like Thanksgiving. Nanny used to cook the whole thing, but when she no longer was able, Evelyn took over, using the old recipes. Together with Beryl, their live-in maid, they began shopping and cooking two weeks before. Yes, it’s the taste of the food. But the meal is meant to be momentous, like the Norman Rockwell painting of Thanksgiving. The gefilte fish, the matzo ball soup—Rockwell would have done a mean Pesach dinner painting. He would have been in good company. The Last Supper has been painted a thousand times. Did Jesus have matzo ball soup? Unlikely, but for thousands of years, this meal has had deep meaning for Christians as much as Jews.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">Ira loves presenting its significance to the family.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“It was the first time God showed us we were his chosen people. That is what the Seder is about. God chose us!”</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">Mark adds in a sarcastic tone, “He kicked the asses of the Egyptian’s gods.” His rhythm carries him forward. “Yes he did. The Jewish God came through.” Ira is boiling but he remains silent.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">Soon after, they begin everyone’s favorite song, “Dayenu.” As always, it is sung with gusto. A few of the cousins add weird harmonies, especially Donny, who has a great voice. That adds to the fun.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;"><em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Elu hostey, hosteyano, hosteano, me mistraiem, me mitstraiem, hosteano. </em></p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;"><em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Dayenu! </em></p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;"><em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Dai, Dayenu</em></p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;"><em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Dai, Dayenu</em></p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;"><em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Dai. Dayenu</em></p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;"><em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Dayenu Dayenu</em></p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">Mark interrupts them, speaking loudly. “You realize what we are singing? It’s a war song. A victory song.”</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">The family’s smiles evaporate.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“What?” Ira barks at him</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">Mark replies victoriously, “Read the English translation? <em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Dayenu</em> means ‘It would have been enough.’”</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">Ira takes on the challenge. He reads the translation.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“‘If He had brought us out of Egypt. <em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Dayenu.</em></p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“‘If He had executed justice upon the Egyptians. <em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Dayenu.</em></p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“‘If He had executed justice upon their gods. <em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Dayenu’</em>—right. So what’s your point? We’re appreciating the gifts God has given us. We are celebrating that <em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">our</em> God is the most powerful God, the only real God.”</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">Happily, Mark replies, “Read the next two.”</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">Ira begins “‘If He had . . .’”</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">He stops. Resentfully, he looks at Mark.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">Mark takes over, reading triumphantly:</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“‘If He had slain their firstborn.’” He raises his voice. “‘<em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Dayenu. </em>It would have been enough.’”</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">The room is silent. No one knows how to react. Mark continues loudly,</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“‘If He had given to us their health and wealth. It would have been enough. If He had drowned the Egyptian army. <em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Dai ye noo.’</em>”</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“There goes that song,” Evelyn whispers to CC and Jay.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“And that’s my favorite one,” Jay adds. Jay and his wife, Dora, look at each other, not knowing whether to strike back.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">Ira takes over. “So, not just America is an imperialist nation. The ancient Jews were.”</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">He hesitates before continuing. “They were <em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">slaves.</em> They defeated their oppressors. <em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">God</em> did it.”</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">Everyone is waiting for fireworks.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“And we go wahoo. That’s terrific.” Mark snaps at his father.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“It is,” Ira snaps back.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“So the road to Vietnam is ancient.”</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">Everyone in the room is staring at Mark angrily.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">Ira’s voice is raised. “You are full of it, Mr. Pacifist. I’ve seen you watching war movies<em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">,</em>” Ira retorts. “When the good guys wipe out the bad guys, I saw how happy that made you.”</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“That was before. I don’t watch them anymore.”</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">Ira voice is raised. “ What you told me yesterday. ‘The Star-Spangled Banner’ is a war song.”</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“It is! Why do we glorify war? There is nothing else to celebrate?”</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“Let me tell you something. During the war, the copilot on my plane was from a French family. He used to sing the ‘La Marseillaise,’ France’s national anthem, before every flight.”</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">Badly mispronouncing his French, Ira sings the refrain:</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;"> </p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;"><em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"> Aux armes, citoyens</em><br /><em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Formez vos bataillons<br />Marchons, Marchons!<br />Qu’un sang impur<br />Abreuve nos sillons!</em></p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;"> </p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“You ever watch Frenchmen singing it? They’re not like us with Hebrew. They understand every word. You know what words are making him proud?”</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;"> </p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">To arms, citizens</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">Form your battalions</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">Let us march, let us march!</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">That their impure blood</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">Should water our fields!</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;"> </p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">CC takes Mark’s hand and her father’s.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“Let’s just sing it again. The heck with the Egyptians. The heck with the French.”</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“The heck with war,” Mark says to her, demanding seriousness. She drops their hands.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">Ira shouts at him, “We were having a nice happy celebration. You’re the one who is the warrior.”</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">They all look around the room, checking one another out, anything to avoid looking at Mark. They don’t look at Ira, either. As New Yorkers with subway experience, they are well practiced at seeming oblivious. Jay starts singing “Dayenu.” The rest join him, at first tentatively, but by the end the usual gusto returns.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">They’re happy they have weathered the storm. Mark is still in the room. But soon they come to the part of the Seder where they are to dip their pinkies into their wineglasses and ceremoniously let a drop of wine land on their plates as they pronounce the 10 plagues. They usually chant this in Hebrew, but Mark repeats the ritual with a loud voice. Chanting in English, he calls out each of the ten plagues that God rained down on the Egyptians as he drops the wine from his pinkie as if it were blood.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“Blo-o-od.”</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">Mark throws his pinkie at the plate so that his drop of wine splatters. The others at the table do not continue. They stare at him.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“Froooogs.”</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">Another drop of wine.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“Lice.”</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">A drop of wine</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">Ira stops him. “We get your point.”</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">Mark continues: “Killing—of—their—firstborn,” he chants, as if it is a song.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">A drop of wine.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">There is nervous silence at the table. When the food comes, the spell continues. No one is hungry with the celebratory hunger they have known. The uncles and aunts and cousins try their best to recapture the holiday spirits, joking and talking like nothing has happen. There is the usual discussion about the matzo balls. Light or heavy? There are proponents of both. Nanny’s were always heavy, substantial—a meal in themselves. Evelyn’s are modern. Hers are light. She explains to her sister-in-laws that otherwise, starting out the meal, they are too filling.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">Until now, even with Mark’s irreverence over the last few years, the eating part of the Seder has remained a happy occasion. He could be ignored. It was possible even to laugh at his jokes. This year also, hoping to rescue the evening, there are satisfied expressions on everyone’s faces as they taste the soup, eat the brisket, finish up with honey cake, and, best of all, pass around the candy that only appears after the Seder. Barton’s and Barricini’s chocolates, chocolate-covered jelly rings and marshmallows. Ira watches the children gobble it up, taking special satisfaction that he can afford such luxuries. When he was growing up, his parents’ table lacked these goodies. Once or twice, there was a box of Barricini’s. They were each allowed one chocolate, so he had learned what the cherry-filled chocolate looked like. No such problem here. Even Mark is happy with the abundance of delicious candy.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">Seeing that he has calmed down, hoping the worst is over, Ira makes one final attempt to enlist Mark. He speaks with kindness in his voice. “Mark. If you want to be part of the family, you need to embrace us. That includes our Seder.”</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“But it’s all about war.” Mark answers, trying to be reasonable and fair.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“No, it’s about us getting freed from slavery—God coming to our rescue. Like Hanukkah. The Maccabees fought and won, and God made the oil last seven days. It was a sign from Him that He was there. He’d been with them all along. God’s being there for you means everything to a soldier. It did for me when I was flying during World War Two. The miracle of the oil lasting seven days told the celebrating army that God had guided them to victory. It’s always been a happy holiday. Can you get into the spirit of that?”</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“Yeah, Purim. Another war holiday. It wasn’t just Haman who got foiled. The Jews killed seventy-five thousand Persians. Happy? Yeah. Killing our enemies.”</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“Where did you get that?”</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“Look it up!” he shouts.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“Your grandmother is here. Can you think of her for a moment?”</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">Nanny is sitting silently. Her handkerchief dabs at her lips.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">Silently, the thought flashes through CC’s mind. Mark, don’t do it. Don’t do it.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">He does.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“Why, is she going to pinch me?”</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“That is quite enough for one evening,” Ira tells his son. “If you don’t want to celebrate Passover, stop coming to our Seder!”</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">Mark gets up from the table and heads for his room. Evelyn is not far behind.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“I won’t,” Mark shouts from the staircase.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“Good!” Ira shouts back.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">And he doesn’t for many, many years.</p></div></div>Simon Sobohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02579449711047401565noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2082400290580706324.post-9868676785527451222023-12-06T18:46:00.003-05:002023-12-07T19:03:33.182-05:00Boston’s 1875 Blizzard (from The Ballroom)<p> </p><h1 style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "PT Serif", TimesNewRoman, "Times New Roman", Times, Baskerville, Georgia, serif; font-size: 36px; line-height: 1.1; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Boston’s 1875 Blizzard (from The Ballroom)</h1><div class="entry-box clearfix" style="background-color: white; border: 0px; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; margin: 30px 0px 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><div class="html-before-content" style="border: 0px; color: #222222; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"></div><div class="entry" style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 30px; vertical-align: baseline;"><p style="border: 0px; color: #222222; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">Mid-May from 1866 well into the 1960s, the Debutante Cotillion Ball at the Clarkson Ballroom in the Van Doren Hotel opened the social calendar in Boston. It was eagerly awaited every year, but particularly in 1875, when the New England winter had punished Bostonians beyond even their endurance. Once again, the crocuses and daffodils had been a tease, making April fools of everyone. For on April 2, Boston was under siege, pounded by its second blizzard in thirty days, this time two and a half feet of snow, drifts of ten feet, temperatures below zero for close to a week.</p><p style="border: 0px; color: #222222; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">The blizzard arrived unannounced around midnight. By 3:00 a.m., half the people in Boston were awakened by the howling winds. In the dark, they listened and felt a chill before they tightened the blankets around themselves and drifted back to sleep. The next morning, they were greeted by the chatter of hail striking glass. This brought them to their windows, and actually their first look at the storm contained an element of fascination with the sheer power of nature. However, as the day progressed, the storm seemed to strengthen, and their fascination was replaced by concern. The winds angrily blasted away, moaning and screeching with a vocabulary undecipherable to human intelligence. Giant tree limbs came crashing down, blocking roads, breaking through the roofs of homes and businesses. The second night was worse than the first. When this was repeated still a third night, the storm began to cut away at people’s sanity, especially because a number of residents were sure they had felt the earth rumble during the night. There hadn’t been a serious earthquake in Boston since November 1755.</p><p style="border: 0px; color: #222222; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">Some paced the floor; many more twisted and turned in bed throughout the night, trying not to listen to the wind, not to think, not to do anything other than sleep, the very worst way to fall asleep. By the fourth morning, when the storm still had not let up, some Bostonians had become unnaturally quiet. No one knew what to expect next. In 1875, there was no radio, TV, telephone, or weatherman, no explanation of what, exactly, was happening and when it would end. Fear makes minds work overtime, makes the imagination run wild. Everyone had to make whatever sense they could.</p><p style="border: 0px; color: #222222; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">Perhaps the blizzard was punishment for collective sin, for something awful that they had done. The honest among them knew their personal contribution, and this wasn’t altogether comforting, but would God be this angry? At what? In a fury, He had once wiped out the world with forty days of rain when the human race had become corrupted beyond forgiveness. Was this the beginning of a forty-day blizzard? Or was it simply an anomaly of nature, an unlucky rolling of the dice, a-once-in-a-hundred-years storm? And was that an earthquake last night? If only they could hear what the priest had to say, hear if there was news. Not knowing was the worst of it.</p><p style="border: 0px; color: #222222; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">It is fair to wonder why there is so much speculation at such times. But then again, it is to be expected. People think and think when something is wrong. Good thoughts or bad thoughts, valid explanations or nonsense, they think and think until they have found something that makes sense. Whether true or false, it almost doesn’t matter. When danger is knocking on the windows, when the wind wildly mocks the ordinary silence of night, what else can people do if they don’t speculate? Pace the floor? Climb the walls? Start bickering with each other? Read the <em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Farmers’ Almanac</em> for the third and fourth time? Collapse heavily into a chair in despair, or spring up like a deer hearing a menacing sound? The people of Boston did all of these things and considered still more theories. None of it was very effective. The truly insane might have done what most would have been tempted to do—attempt to strike back, open the door and scream curses at the storm. The sensible, however, understood that they would be shouting into the void. Their sound would be completely unheard beneath the howling winds.</p><p style="border: 0px; color: #222222; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">By the fourth day, those who had earlier learned how to tune out now stared off into space, took a journey inside their minds to familiar places. The less fortunate found crevices from which it might be harder to return. Some people played the piano until they got tired of the same old tunes. Some people prayed; some laughed, or imitated laughter. And when all was said and done, regardless of how they tried to handle it, there was only one true answer to this storm and the winter of 1875: the spring.</p><p style="border: 0px; color: #222222; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">To a starving man, a scrap of bread tastes as fine as Belgian chocolate. The same principle applies to the seasons: the worse the winter, the more glorious the spring. A few snowflakes fell in early May, two weeks before the ball, but no one paid it any mind. The snow melted almost immediately. As terrible as things had been during the blizzard and the hard freeze that extended through most of April, the worst had been forgotten after they had sunshine for a week in May, then two weeks, then sixteen glorious days in a row.</p><p style="border: 0px; color: #222222; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">Given that the blizzard was still recent, no one was ready to assume they were completely out of the winter, but the evidence was mounting. Profuse dogwood blossoms were a good sign. Then something better, something that often went by unnoticed but this year lit up like fireworks ablaze in the sky. Tulips appeared, followed by azaleas and rhododendron: vibrant colors, gorgeous colors, dazzling reds, purples, crimsons, cranberry, and pinks battled the gray torpor of winter, shook the senses to awaken. From absolute stillness, from a suspended state, from nothingness, life had sprung back into motion. Plants peeked out of the ground, then got down to business. A week or two later, they bloomed. Flowers and more flowers. The brain smiles at flowers even in New England, where smiles are tentative. Especially in New England.</p><p style="border: 0px; color: #222222; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">Spring is a parade of flowers in every shape and size, one following another in assigned progression. By the time redbud arrives in the middle of the parade, people’s expectations have reached a point where they expect the marvelous. They aren’t disappointed. Cherry and crab apple blossoms, peonies, poppies, lupine, roses, a procession varying little from year to year. That year, 1875, because of the long freeze, the emergence of each flower telescoped into a shorter time frame. It had a spectacular effect. Each flower appeared, while the earlier flowers still remained. Belize’s flower arrangements were the best they had ever been. Everything appearing all at once, the entire cast together in a finale, leading to a grand crescendo, the Cotillion Ball held in the Clarkson. The ball was the high point, the culminating event. Entering the Clarkson had come to mean that spring was finally irreversible. But it was more. For those caught up in the social calendar, the ball at the Boston Van Doren seemed as if it had been the whole purpose of the parade. Each rite of spring built upon the last prelude, everything leading to this, the grand event. Nature’s most beautiful blossoms, dangerously beautiful city blossoms, debutantes, the fairest of the fair, the daughters of pretty women chosen by successful men, all gathered together in the Clarkson Ballroom, where they could be duly celebrated.</p><p style="border: 0px; color: #222222; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">They arrived in fine coaches driven by impeccably attired coachmen, with horses that seemed to prance as they appeared from behind the circle surrounding the fountains and came to the grand entryway of the Van Doren Hotel. Those who were simply witnesses to the ball, those without daughters being introduced, entered the lobby with laughter and gaiety. Those who were presenting their daughters tried to seem just as carefree, but that fooled no one. Strain edged their laughter. Each of the young ladies was ushered to a special room with their mothers and servants, where they might prepare for their moment. They were very excited.</p><p style="border: 0px; color: #222222; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">If you looked at the faces of the debutantes, you saw children, dreamy, without a clue, which was very desirable. With the young women dressed in the most beautiful gowns they had ever worn, intimations of the women they might become took hold of their audience. The seeming contradiction of their childish nature and their women’s bodies created a powerful tension. Some consider the beauty of virgins the most precious lure. The most desirable quality was not to have a trace of sophistication. Glorious innocence, but with devilish curiosity and flirtatiousness, was perfection.</p><p style="border: 0px; color: #222222; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">They were closely studied by every matron in attendance that night. They were a reminder of a place and time where each of those older women had once been. They could remember their own thrill when, at last, they had been invited to the adults’ table. As at Christmas time, those who delight in the children’s excitement do so because it arouses their own memories. It allows them to recall themselves as children, so they can have Christmas again. In the same way, the debutantes’ youth and energy enticed everyone to share it with them, to recall their own younger physical qualities. The debutantes’ bodies were still perfect, better than they would ever again be, newly formed, natural, with no thought given to repair. Their noses had not yet grown, nor their lips or ears. Their teeth were shiny white; their hair was thick and healthy where it should be, and peach fuzz everywhere else. The men, young and old, could have looked at them forever, or at least until they were aware that they were practically drooling. This happened every year. The ball in 1875 took it to the next level.</p><p style="border: 0px; color: #222222; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">The horrible winter, combined with the preceding two and a half weeks of May sunshine, created virulent spring fever, emotions heating up, expectations high, patience thin. Perhaps that explains why people became disoriented when Ariana De Vries, just turned seventeen, was introduced. She started a riot. Not on the outside, where polite society almost never shows what is going on inside. Indeed, there was no discernible reaction to Ariana as she stepped forward to do her curtsy for the Honorable William Gaston, governor of Massachusetts. If anything, she got less applause than some of the other girls, particularly from other women. But if there were an instrument that could measure seismic vibrations inside the mind, this moment was off the scale. Granted that the winter had been so awful that a frog might have looked like an angel and stoked up the hormones. But Ariana’s impact can be best understood in simple terms. Not only did she not look like a frog; she was the most beautiful debutante in this or any other year. She was the most beautiful woman anyone in the ballroom had ever seen.</p><p style="border: 0px; color: #222222; font-size: 16px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">So, it is not surprising that Eric Lowell, the youngest Lowell in his clan, nineteen, going on twenty, fell into a swoon the instant he saw her. <em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Swoon</em> used to be employed to describe a woman’s reaction to a powerful man, a hunk, as they would say today. But in truth, Ariana was having that effect on men and women alike. She shared her mother Belize’s French features, but there was also another element, more mysterious, more difficult to pinpoint. Was it Dutch? Flemish? Swiss blood that she carried in her veins alongside the French? Was it her hair? Her lips? Perhaps it was the slight flaw, which saves the truly beautiful from banality, a tiny scar above her right eyebrow, the result of a teacup used as a missile by Ariana’s older sister when she was four.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><a href="https://www.amazon.com/Ballroom-Novella-Simon-Sobo/dp/B08WZH8KMK" style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="color: #0b5394; font-size: medium;">The Ballroom</span></a></em></p></div></div>Simon Sobohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02579449711047401565noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2082400290580706324.post-67737141927611735482023-12-06T18:45:00.003-05:002023-12-18T20:16:38.477-05:00A Plea for Balance: The Situation In the Ukraine is Far More Complicated Than We are Being Told<p> </p><h1 style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "PT Serif", TimesNewRoman, "Times New Roman", Times, Baskerville, Georgia, serif; font-size: 36px; line-height: 1.1; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">A Plea for Balance: The Situation In the Ukraine is Far More Complicated Than We are Being Told</h1><aside class="meta" style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #999999; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; margin: 10px 0px 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"></aside><div class="entry-box clearfix" style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 30px 0px 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><div class="html-before-content" style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"></div><div class="entry" style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 30px; vertical-align: baseline;"><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;"> </p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;"> </p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">Whatever the cause, wars’ consequences are the worst behavior human beings are capable of displaying. It’s always the same, rape, pillage, maiming and human beings killing other human beings on a massive scale. War makes clear that we are animals once the restraints of civilized expectations are removed. However noble the intentions claimed, however interesting battles can seem in history books, war’s horror is so evident that it cannot be sanctioned, explained, or justified in any way. Not now. Not ever. Putin and the Russians should be universally condemned. But we can also assume that by now some of the Ukrainian soldiers have matched the Russians in performing terrible deeds. War unleashes grotesque impulses on every side. All the more reason that we are entitled for our news to be told with more than the simplicity of a good guys vs. bad guys narrative.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;"> </p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">Putin’s contention that Ukraine is part of Russia is being treated as a reincarnation of Hitler. Not entirely ridiculous. We should see him as a potentially dangerous man, a bully preying on the weak. He rules a large country. He has attacked a small one. That hasn’t happened in Europe for a very long time. His neighbors, especially former satellites, have good reason to fear Russian aggression. They were imprisoned by Russia until the Soveit Union crumbled. Nevertheless, treating Putin as a mad man avoids this war’s particulars. Here are simple facts. Khrushchev who led Russia from 1953-1964 was, in essence, a Ukrainian. Although ethnically Russian, he was born and raised close to the border of the Ukraine. His father worked in the Ukraine, and his early career and political successes were all in the Ukraine Communist Party. He expressed his fondness for them repeatedly. Leonid Brezhnev who followed him was a Ukrainian. He led Russia from 1964-82. <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Konstantin_Chernenko" style="border: 0px; color: #222222; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"> Chernenko</a>, a Ukrainian was Brezhnev’s chief of staff. He also led the Soviet Union from 1984-85. During the Brezhnev era, the head of both the KGB and the Defense ministry were Ukrainians. In essence, for a very long time, Ukrainians ruled Russia. Gorbachev led the Soviet Union from 1985-92. His mother was Ukrainian. In the west he is thought of as our hero. He ended the Cold War. He ended Communism.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;"> </p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">Another fact: Gorbachev felt that Russia was correct to take back Crimea. Within the Soviet Union many Russian were furious, when in 1954, Ukraine aficionado, Nikita Khrushchev gave it to the Ukraine. Crimea had been a part of Russia from 1783 until Khrushchev’s gift. It wasn’t just Crimea that Gorbachev disagreed with our point of view. Gorbachev was furious with the United States for going back on many of their agreements regarding the resolution of the Cold War. Before he died he also made clear that he thought Putin is a trustworthy leader defending Russian interests. For his support of Russia’s annexation of Crimea, he was banned from the Ukraine.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;"> </p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">A simple question: <strong style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">If the Ukraine is unequivocally </em></strong><em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><strong style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">not</strong></em><strong style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"> part of Russia how did the Russians allow so many non-Russians to lead their nation?</em> </strong>Obviously for many of those years the Ukrainians were considered Russian. Not that there weren’t plenty of tensions and a history of bloodshed between them, just as there is between Mississippi and Massachusetts. But briefly, in 1991, the Ukraine was the third largest nuclear power in the world. A huge number of Russia’s nuclear weapons were in the Ukraine. Not something we would expect Russia to do if it considered the Ukraine a foreign nation. We have all heard of the Chernobyl disaster in Russia. Actually Chernobyl is in the Ukraine. Putin claims that for a very long time we have been trying to pry the Ukraine away from Russia. Of course we have. Does that mean Putin was entitled to go to war when Ukrainian leaders wanted to complete the break, become a member of NATO, part of an alliance specifically designed to oppose Russia.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;"> </p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">Putin is not a good guy. I’m inclined to believe those stories of poisonings of his political enemies, whether he personally ordered them or not. I suspect his gang of supporters has done many other terrible things. Probably the recent air plane crash killing Prigozhin, the leader of an army who, for a while, sought to overthrow Putin, was not an accident. There is nothing to like about the political process in Russia. They are not able to rise above violence as a way to settle political disagreement. This is not the United States where we tar and feather political opponents, tell an incredible number of lies, try to destroy those who are hated, but by using our mighty media, not literally by killing them. For now, and probably for the foreseeable future this means Russia is less civilized than us. We saw when the Serbs and Crimeans went to war how barbaric political battles became. Long time neighbors killed each other. We saw the same in Saudi Arabia. A journalist opponent of the rulers got killed, his body chopped up, put in suitcases. During the Viet Nam era, nations in South East Asia had numerous killing fields. Many Latin American nations solved political dispute with violence. European kings and princes once regularly beheaded opponents. Except for our Civil War we have managed to avoid that. Still, there is a lot to dislike about the way our democracy has been functioning in recent years. The first casualty of war is truth. On that basis what has been going on in America is a war. Those on the Left are demonized by those on the Right and vice-versa. Lies pile on top of lies from both the right and left. The Democrats tried to immobilize Trump’s election with the Russian collusion lies. Trump tried to throw out the election in 2020 with his lies.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;"> </p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">The Ukraine is presented similarly with propaganda that is inevitable in wars. Flag waving is the only acceptable attitude. Our side is heroic. The Ukrainians are venerated. They are noble, kind, brave, suffering human beings, not far from sainthood. Every time Zelenskyy speaks to legislators in the west he gets standing ovations. Presumably, the foul behavior of the Ukrainians in the past, has long since been forgotten. These are very fine people. Their enemies, our enemies, are crazy animals. They are rapists, murderers, and beasts. Their soldiers are stupid to agree to the suicide demanded of them. When they bring orphaned Ukrainian children for care in Russia we claim they are kidnapping them. When the Russian people show their support for Putin, our explanation is that they have been duped. We cite Putin’s critics as evidence that he is barely holding on to the leadership of Russia.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;"> </p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">The lies of our politicians and our media are intolerable. They have completely lost our trust. But Russia’s political process is worse. Far worse. It has not returned to a society where the KGB once grabbed people out of their apartments at night, never to return. And people were too frightened to object. Nor has an iron curtain been erected keeping its people imprisoned, shooting those trying to escape. Russia’s citizens can leave their country and travel freely. They have access to the West’s media. The process is very flawed by our standards, but it is not helpful to characterize their politicians as madmen, and dismiss their claims as outrageous. We are entitled to hear the whole story when we go over why the Ukraine was attacked.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;"> </p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">Half Ukrainian, half Russian, before he died, Gorbachev grieved over the war. He saw the two people as brothers with a long historical bond. Gogol was Ukrainian. So was Trotsky. Sergei Prokofiev, the great Russian composer, was born in the Ukraine. Fiddler on the Roof, which we all assume was about a Russian shtetl took place in the Ukraine. Little Odessa in Brooklyn described a neighborhood of Russian and Ukrainian people freely mingling. People moved there to be among their own. My wife’s grandfather always described himself as Russian. It now turns out he was Ukrainian. Sholoim Aleichem was Ukrainian. There are monuments to him in Lviv<em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"> and</em> Moscow. Solzhenitsyn’s mother was Ukrainian.. So were the genius Russian pianists <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sviatoslav_Richter" style="border: 0px; color: #222222; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Sviatoslav Richter</a> and Emil Gilels, violinists David Oistrach, Nathan Milstein. Soviet Cosmonauts <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Georgy_Beregovoy" style="border: 0px; color: #222222; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Georgy </a><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Georgy_Beregovoy" style="border: 0px; color: #222222; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Beregovoy, </a><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Leonid_Kizim" style="border: 0px; color: #222222; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Leonid Kizim</a>, <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Anatoly_Levchenko" style="border: 0px; color: #222222; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Anatoly Levchenko</a>, <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Anatoly_Filipchenko" style="border: 0px; color: #222222; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Anatoly Filipchenko</a>, <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Anatoly_Artsebarsky" style="border: 0px; color: #222222; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Anatoly Artsebarsky</a>, <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Igor_Volk" style="border: 0px; color: #222222; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Igor Volk</a>, <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pavel_Popovich" style="border: 0px; color: #222222; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Pavel Popovich</a>, <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Verkhovna_Rada" style="border: 0px; color: #222222; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Verkhovna Rada, </a><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Georgy_Dobrovolsky" style="border: 0px; color: #222222; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Georgy Dobrovolsky–all were Ukrainians</a>.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;"> </p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">A good many <em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Western</em> Ukrainians, apparently a large majority, have considered themselves European and hated Russia over the centuries. But what is and is not the Ukraine has been literally all over the map throughout its history. Parts of the Ukraine, Galicia and Polhynia were ruled by Poland. Like Russia today Poles didn’t think of the Ukraine as a real country. From the point of view of ordinary citizens in that part of the world, they have not been that far off. I knew this Hungarian Americans family who see themselves as totally Hungarian They spoke Hungarian. They were Hungarians. It now turns out they actually lived in what is now the Ukraine. Parts of today’s Ukraine were considered Czechoslovakian, other parts Rumanian.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;"> </p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;"> </p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">For much of their history most Ukrainians didn’t think of themselves as part of a Ukraine nation. They were Hungarians Poles, Russian, Slavs, Tartars, Cossacks. Not just in the Ukraine, the idea of what is and is not a nation hadn’t been clear in much of Europe until the 19<span style="border: 0px; bottom: 1ex; font-size: 12px; height: 0px; line-height: 0; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; position: relative; vertical-align: baseline;">th</span> century. It was then that being part of a “nation” ascended as the dominant way of viewing territories. Just as Venetians, and the Milanese started thinking of themselves as Italians, and Prussians and Junkers began to think of themselves as German, Ukrainian nationalism believed they should be part of their own nation. It was an idea, a call to action rather than something that actually existed. But clearly it was a dangerous thought if you were Polish.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;"> </p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">The Poles tried to suppress Ukrainian nationalism wherever it popped up. They closed down Ukrainian speaking schools. They tried, not always nicely, to turn the Ukrainians into Roman Catholics. Although throughout its history other peoples occupied their lands and considered the Ukraine part of their country, Ukrainian intellectuals starting thinking of themselves as Ukrainian. They were spreading an idea, a nation of Ukrainian people.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;"> </p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">Russia was equally hated They also tried to suppress Ukrainian nationalism. But that was not their worst sin. In the 1930’s Stalin viciously tried to impose collective farming, shooting any one opposed. This led to the greatest non-wartime famine in history. A million Russians starved to death and four million Ukrainians. Many Ukrainians greeted the Germans in World War II as liberators. They joined them in the slaughter of Jews at Babi Yar. Not only Jews. In 1943, Ukrainian nationalists with the Nazi’s help, also slaughtered 60,000 to 100,000 men, women and children of Polish origin who were living peacefully in villages in the Ukraine.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;"> </p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">Putin often speaks of the Ukrainians as Nazis, seemingly a ludicrous accusation considering that their leader is Jewish. Yes, a charmer from show business, a television personality is the public persona of the Ukrainians nation’s cause. He was elected by a majority of the Ukrainian people. But a minority of Ukrainians are Nazi affiliated. And they have occupied a prominent role in their society. The 1943 killing of Poles were initiated and directed by a radical Ukrainian nationalist Stephen Bandera and his Organization of Ukrainian Nationalists and its military arm, the Ukrainian Insurgent Army.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;"> </p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;"> </p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">Led by Stephen Bodera the murders were committed with incredible cruelty. Many were burnt alive or thrown into wells. Axes, pitchforks, scythes, knives and other farming tools rather than guns were used in an attempt to make the massacres look like a spontaneous peasant uprising. In the blood frenzy, the Ukrainians tortured their victims with unimaginable bestiality. Victims were scalped. They had their noses, lips and ears cut off. They had their eyes gouged out and hands cut off and they had their heads squashed in clamps. Woman had their breasts cut off and pregnant woman were stabbed in the belly. Men had their genitals sliced off with sickles. All the horrible things described about the treatment of Jews during that era were also done to the Poles</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;"> </p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">In 2016 the Polish parliament instituted the National Day of Remembrance of the Victims of Genocide committed by Ukrainian nationalists against citizens of the Second Republic of Poland, at the same time labelling the massacres an act of genocide. But there has been no public apology. Indeed, Bodera is seen as a national hero. A Ukrainian stamp commemorates his heroism. There is a 22 ft statue of him in Lviv in front of the Stele of the Ukrainian Statehood a towering monument to Ukrainian identity. Although their common fear of Russia has, for now, united them, the issues between the Poles and Ukrainians is far from over. In 2015, the Ukrainian parliament passed a <a href="https://krytyka.com/en/articles/open-letter-scholars-and-experts-ukraine-re-so-called-anti-communist-law" style="border: 0px; color: #222222; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">law</a> allowing people who denied the heroism of Ukrainian national resistance fighters to be punished. The Poles passed a bill making it a criminal offence to deny the “crimes of Ukrainian nationalists”. Zelenskyy has gone to a Polish Church, supposedly as an act of contrition for what the Nazi Ukrainians did to the Poles. But the towering statue remains. Bodera is a hero.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">It should also be noted that these wonderful people were the mainstay of the Nazi’s death camps. Ukrainians were said to outnumbered the Germans 10 to 1 at Sorbitol. It was similar in other death camps. Not every nationality would have been able to supply so many guards equal in cruelty to the Ukrainians that herded the Jews. And while Zelenskyy, during his election campaign, intended to clean up Ukrainian’s notorious corruption with his dream team of reformers, the dream team was gone after a few months in office. He made peace with a rotten bunch of people.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;"> </p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">In complete contrast Russian speaking Eastern Ukrainians were the mainstay of the Ukrainian underground fighting the Nazis. Since 2014 Eastern Ukrainians have been fighting the rest of Ukraine in a civil war seeking independence. There are reports of them committing war crimes, just as there have been reports of the Ukrainian army killing unarmed prisoners. I assume the reports are not fiction.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;"> </p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;"> </p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">I must admit that I am not a long time scholar of the Ukraine. I am using Google and Wikipedia, and news articles, so some of my information may be tainted by the sites. I am new to the subject and find it difficult to separate fact from fiction. And I will admit a contrary streak in me has caused me to find information tarnishing the current angelic presentation of Ukrainians. I welcome factual corrections. However, regardless of my iconoclasm, and probably some mistaken facts, my main purpose is to emphasize how complicated the situation is. Even in educated quarters there has been little attempt to move beyond official attitudes. Part of that uniformity has become part of political correctness. It’s dangerous to stand alone. So very possibly I am exaggerating Ukrainian evil to level the playing field. But I will not apologize for wanting readers to take a better look at official attitudes.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;"> </p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">Perhaps the complex issues are best illustrated by Russian Olympic champion ice skater, Victor Petrenko. Born in the Ukraine to Ukrainian engineers, only Russian was spoken at home. He was sent to a Russian speaking school in the Ukraine. Despite being born and educated in the Ukraine he never learned to speak Ukrainian fluently. After he was an Olympic champion, as an adult he organized many charitable events for Ukrainian children including a campaign to help those effected by Chernobyl (once more, in the Ukraine not Russia.)</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;"> </p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">In June 2008, he was elected to the Presidium of the Ukrainian Figure Skating Federation. In 2022, amidst Ukraine’s <a href="https://www.nytimes.com/2022/02/21/opinion/putin-ukraine-nato.html" style="border: 0px; color: #222222; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">ongoing war against Russia</a>, Petrenko was fired from his post as vice president of the Ukrainian Figure Skating Federation (UFFK) and expelled from the organization for taking part in an event in Russia that was organized by Tatiana Navka a U<a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tatyana_Navka" style="border: 0px; color: #222222; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">krainian ice dancer who won gold for Russia in 2006</a><u style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">.</u><a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tatyana_Navka" style="border: 0px; color: #222222; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"> She is </a>the wife of Putin’s press secretary <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dmitry_Peskov" style="border: 0px; color: #222222; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Dmitry Peskov.</a></p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;"> </p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">One other relevant point of view. At the beginning of the war Thomas Friedman wrote an article in the New York Times, “<a href="https://www.nytimes.com/2022/02/21/opinion/putin-ukraine-nato.html" style="border: 0px; color: #222222; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">This Is Putin’s War. But America and NATO Aren’t Innocent Bystanders”</a> (Please use the link) He described the anger of George Kennan (the person often credited with our <em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">anti</em>-Soviet policies during the cold war). Kennan, like Gorbachev, felt we were extremely (and unnecessarily) aggressive surrounding the Soviet Union with armed NATO allies. Friedman quoted Kennan in the 90’s: “I think it is the beginning of a new cold war. I think the Russians will gradually react quite adversely and it will affect their policies. I think it is a tragic mistake. There was no reason for this whatsoever. No one was threatening anybody else. This expansion would make the founding fathers of this country turn over in their graves.”</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;"> </p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">Russia has repeatedly said it will end the war if its conditions are met by the Ukraine. They are: 1) Change its constitution to enshrine neutrality 2) acknowledge Crimea as Russian territory. 3) recognize the separatist republics of Donetsk and Lugansk as independent states (now part of Eastern Ukraine). Despite the clarity of their demands, The New York Times’ Steven Erlanger wrote September 2 of this year “Putin has said a lot of times he won’t negotiate except on his own terms, which are Ukraine’s obliteration.” Not exactly an accurate description. They have repeatedly had referendums in Eastern Ukraine, demonstrating that they are supported by the population. Perhaps, as we claim, their referendums are phony. Perhaps not, but I am willing to consider the possibility that a majority of eastern Ukrainians want to be Russians. Certainly, even before the Russian soldiers joined them, there were a lot of Eastern Ukrainians willing to fight and die for their cause.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;"> </p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">It should be noted that the declared boundaries of the Ukraine, which I have noted have previously gone in all kinds of directions were made official in 1991and agreed upon by Russia. But I am not sure how meaningful that was. Russia’s nationhood was far from secure. In that very year, during a coup attempt, their Parliament was surrounded by troops. Gorbachev, the ruler of Russia, was placed under house arrest. So, one may question what it meant for Russia to agree to the present boundaries. And as noted above, Gorbachev was furious with the United States for not living up to understandings we supposedly agreed to when they agreed to end the Soviet Union.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;"> </p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">The mention of Trump often goes off in wild directions. But it is not coincidence that Trump’s first National Security Adviser, Michael Flynn, was a strong advocate of better relations with Russia. So was Trump. And we know how Russia’s enemies in Washington were horrified. Indeed, with their false Russian collusion accusations they succeeded in demonizing Russia even before the Ukraine invasion.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;"> </p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">On a purely speculative level, the other current alliances should be noted. Biden has had a special relationship with the Ukraine. His son cashed in on absurd rewards while his father was Vice-president (a million dollar a year for board seat on Burisma, a Ukrainian gas company) Burisma was being investigated by Victor Shokin their top prosecutor. Shokin seized four large houses and a Rolls-Royce Phantom belonging to the company’s owner Mykola Zlochevsky. Biden insisted that this prosecutor be terminated. In a 2018 speech at the Council on Foreign Relations, VP Biden bragged that he had threatened to withhold $1 billion in US loan guarantees for Ukraine unless Shokin was sacked. It also should be noted that Trump pushed in the other direction. He intended to withhold military assistance unless the Ukrainians proceed with their Biden corruption investigation. For this Trump was rewarded with another impeachment drama.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;"> </p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">Perhaps the slimy everyday corruption of politicians shouldn’t tarnish the lofty issues often cited in the Ukrainian war. Or perhaps they should for any perspective that might clarify how much of the lofty current war is related to these shenanigans and loyalties. It is worth considering.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;"> </p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">To return to the war’s rhetoric, Putin’s demands don’t sound like the ravings of a mad man. Perhaps, if unopposed, he would try to conquer other former Soviet territories. He was very aggressive with Georgia, but here too, the situation is ambiguous. Stalin was a Georgian. Still it doesn’t matter. Reasons can always be found for any strategy. Certainly, the alarmed reaction of Russia’s former occupied nations in Eastern Europe is understandable. The Ukraine’s relationship with Russia is different than theirs, but if history is our guide they have reason for their concern. Both World War I and II were brought on by border conflicts. The borders of nations in that region still could be in flux. That issue was put to bed after World War II. Nations were redefined as the Soviet Empire collapsed in the 90’s. There have been skirmishes but there has been very little warfare involving major powers about boundaries. That relative peacefulness was put in danger with Russia’s invasion of Ukraine. But even before the invasion many nations have been rearming themselves because we may be reentering an era when not only Russia is a menace but each nation’s neighbors.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;"> </p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">If the reader is becoming confused by my support for, and alarm about Russia that their former satellites have shown, it is because I am somewhere in the middle. I am suspicious of our motives, their motives, everyone’s motives. There is reason to be suspicious, to weigh many points of view, to be especially suspicious that right and wrong isn’t the real issue as far as our foreign policy is concerned.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;"> </p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">So, let me turn to that, indeed reverse where I was heading. Many have wondered if we have to win this war to counterbalance the humiliation of our retreat from Afghanistan. The war is demonstrating the superiority of our weapons. Regardless of Putin’s character, or the lack of democracy in Russia and China, we are entering a phase in history where war with them may be inevitable. It wouldn’t matter if they were true democracies or led by a king, or whatever their government is. Our focus has shifted. We have grown tired of our war on terrorism, or perhaps the danger has faded. Our focus has shifted to Russia and China. History brings powerful nations into wars of dominance. So now we have to win this war.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;"> </p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">After our humiliating retreat from Afghanistan many leaders of other nations were weighing if we can be relied on. Not only can our influence be eradicated by our defeat, but our reliability as a friend must be questioned. Meaning we have to duke it out with Russia. We can’t lose still again. If<em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"> this is our motive for strongly supporting Zelenskyy I am totally on the side of our leaders. A world where we are seen as a paper tiger is a far more dangerous world. </em><em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Having so vociferously proclaimed the freedom of the Ukraine as a moral absolute we can’t back down. We may question whether that absolute commitment was necessary but once done, it is done. Certainly,</em> greater honesty about how complicated the war is, might have brought more flexible options. It still might not be too late to broaden the debate.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;"> </p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">But let me return to the moral dimensions of the war in the Ukraine. Leaving aside realpolitik, I believe the most important issue to note is that a lot more Ukrainians and Russians will be dying if the war goes on and on. We must quit presenting this war as a moral necessity, a fight against outrageous villains. Granted, if it isn’t presented that way no soldiers would be willing to die for their cause. And we wouldn’t be giving them billions of dollars, if the war was presented as simply a territorial dispute. But if we stopped seeing it that way maybe better solutions could be found. And frankly, the cynic in me can’t help commenting that once again we are having others fight our war.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;"> </p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">Since 2014 Eastern Ukraine has been at war with Ukraine trying to be allied with, or part of Russia. No one considered it worthy of a major effort on our part. We accused the Russians of meddling. They lodged similar complaints about us. Russia’s invasion changed the public’s perception and perhaps it is true that Putin’s invasion is analogous to Hitler’s early aggressions. But the fact is, this war would not be continuing if it were not for the principles we are holding sacred (i.e. fighting for a democratic nation’s integrity<em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">) Minimizing our own war dead</em>, <em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">getting others to do the fighting</em> has been our strategy for a long time now. It was basically true in Iraq where only 4550 American soldiers died in the 15 years we were there. 2400 Americans lost their life in Afghanistan during a 22-year war. By comparison, when we were actually doing the fighting 33,000 Americans died in Korea, 58,000 in Viet Nam and 450,000 in World War II. And now our vehemence that we are fighting a righteous war, risks no American soldiers at all. To achieve our strategic objectives, I am not against it if this must be our marketing tool. But I hope our decision makers are not deluded by their own propaganda.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;"> </p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">Moreover, I wonder how Ukrainians will view their many deaths to come, whether they would be this courageous if there weren’t American propagandists and money running the show, promising, expecting victory. Is this another example of how American wealth gives us temporary illusions of our wisdom. We rolled into Afghanistan and routed the Taliban. They fled to Pakistan, but they knew what I fear the Russians already know. Our reliability is questionable. Our persistence evaporates. We eventually forget why we have gone to war. I hope we will not have a twenty year war in the Ukraine, but unfortunately that might be ahead for us. Our hands will be dirtied by the bloodshed to come even if American soldiers are not dying. As it is many Ukrainian men are not willing to go to war. They are being <a href="https://www.wsj.com/articles/a-year-into-war-ukraine-faces-challenges-mobilizing-troops-64dcdc49" target="_blank">forced into army.</a> Our good guy/bad guy polarization is destructive enough in our own domestic politics but extending it to a war is a worse sin. It may entangle us in a long war, a <em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">holy</em> war that is non-negotiable, one that will bring many more deaths, rather than a truce, where concessions are made on the basis of both sides understanding the other’s grievances and legitimate desires.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"> </p></div></div>Simon Sobohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02579449711047401565noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2082400290580706324.post-29459645169005454172023-12-06T18:43:00.003-05:002023-12-18T20:17:35.478-05:00A Cure for our Fixation on Metrics<p> </p><h1 style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "PT Serif", TimesNewRoman, "Times New Roman", Times, Baskerville, Georgia, serif; font-size: 36px; line-height: 1.1; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">A Cure for our Fixation on Metrics</h1><aside class="meta" style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #999999; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; margin: 10px 0px 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"></aside><div class="entry-box clearfix" style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 30px 0px 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><div class="html-before-content" style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"></div><div class="entry" style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 30px; vertical-align: baseline;"><div class="clearfix byline-wrap" style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><div style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">This is an article that appeared in the WSJ on January 12, 2018. It is very relevant to the way psychiatry is being practiced (eg Evidence based medicine) Our poorly understood psyche has yielded to the temptation of numbers, the comfort of exactness, offering experts the illusion of scientific certainty about subjects they have delineated. It doesn’t address the answers that are needed, the information required to make judicial decisions about the individuals they are treating. Instead of a rich literature where clinicians could share their observations, the term “anecdotal” is often used pejoratively, making knowledge of the particular seem worthless. Only data that can create numbers is deemed worthwhile. It is a fabulous way to hide our ignorance about what we need to know. As the article puts it, “not everything that is important is measurable, and much that is measurable is unimportant.” The allure of metrics is apparently offering similar certainties in many fields.</div><div style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"></div><div class="byline" style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;"><br /> By Jerry Z. Muller</p><div class="author hasMenu" data-scrim="{"type":"author","header":"Jerry Z. Muller","subhead":"The Wall Street Journal","list":[]}" style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"></div></div><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><time class="timestamp" style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Jan. 12, 2018 10:50 a.m. ET</time></p></div><div id="share-target" style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"></div><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">In recent decades<strong style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">,</strong> what I call “metric fixation” has engulfed an ever-widening range of institutions: businesses, government, health care, K-12 education, colleges and universities, and nonprofit organizations. It comes with its own vocabulary and master terms. It affects the way that people talk and think about the world and how they act in it. And it is often profoundly wrongheaded and counterproductive.</p><div class="paywall" style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">Metric fixation consists of a set of interconnected beliefs. The first is that it is possible and desirable to replace judgment with numerical indicators of comparative performance based on standardized data. The second is that making such metrics public (transparency) assures that institutions are actually carrying out their purposes (accountability). Finally, there is the belief that people are best motivated by attaching rewards and penalties to their measured performance, rewards that are either monetary (pay for performance) or reputational (rankings).</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">But not everything that is important is measurable, and much that is measurable is unimportant. Most organizations have multiple purposes, and that which is measured and rewarded tends to become the focus of attention, at the expense of other essential goals. Similarly, many jobs have multiple facets, and measuring only a few of them creates incentives to neglect the rest. Almost inevitably, people become adept at manipulating performance indicators. They fudge the data. They deal only with cases that will improve performance indicators. In extreme cases, they fabricate the evidence.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">It’s not that measurement is useless or intrinsically pernicious. The challenge is to specify when performance metrics are genuinely useful—that is, how to have metrics without the malady of metric fixation.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">Should you find yourself in a position to set policy, here are some questions that you should ask, and the factors that you should keep in mind, in considering whether to use measured performance, and if so, how to use it.</p><div class="media-object inline scope-web|mobileapps inline" data-layout-mobile="" data-layout="inline " style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><div class="media-object-image enlarge-image renoImageFormat-P img-inline" style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><div class="image-container responsive-media loaded" data-layout-ratio="66.6222%" data-mobile-ratio="66.6222%" style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><img alt="A Cure for Our Fixation on Metrics" data-enlarge="https://si.wsj.net/public/resources/images/BN-WZ086_METRIC_M_20180112100050.jpg" data-in-at4units-src="https://i0.wp.com/si.wsj.net/public/resources/images/BN-WZ086_METRIC_P_20180112100050.jpg?ssl=1" data-in-base-src="https://i0.wp.com/si.wsj.net/public/resources/images/BN-WZ086_METRIC_P_20180112100050.jpg?ssl=1" data-intent="" data-recalc-dims="1" decoding="async" src="https://i0.wp.com/si.wsj.net/public/resources/images/BN-WZ086_METRIC_P_20180112100050.jpg?ssl=1" style="border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; height: auto; margin: 8px 0px 10px; max-width: 100%; padding: 0px; vertical-align: middle;" title="" /></div><div class="wsj-article-caption" style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><span class="wsj-article-credit" style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><span class="wsj-article-credit-tag" style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">ILLUSTRATION: </span>JAMES STEINBERG</span></div></div></div><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;"><strong style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">What kind of information do you wish to measure?</strong> The more the object to be measured resembles inanimate matter, the more likely it is to be measurable: that is why measurement is indispensable in the natural sciences and in engineering. When the objects to be measured are influenced by the process of measurement, measurement becomes less reliable. Measurement becomes much less reliable the more its object is human activity, since the objects—people—are self-conscious and are capable of reacting to the process of being measured. The more rewards and punishments are involved, the more people are likely to react in a way that skews the measurement’s validity.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;"><strong style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">How useful is the information?</strong> The fact that some activity is measurable does not make it worth measuring. Indeed, the ease of measuring may be inversely proportionate to the significance of what is measured. To put it another way, ask yourself, is what you are measuring a proxy for what you really want to know? If the information is not very useful or not a good proxy for what you’re really aiming at, you’re probably better off not measuring it.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;"><strong style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Are alternative measurements available?</strong> Are there other sources of information about performance, based on the judgment and experience of clients, patients or parents of students? In a school setting, for example, the degree to which parents request a particular teacher for their children is probably a useful indicator that the teacher is doing something right, whether or not the results show up on standardized tests. In the case of charities, it may be most useful to allow the beneficiaries to judge the results.</p><div class="wsj-body-ad-placement" id="realtor" style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><div class="unruly_in_article_placement" data-unruly-ad-type="horizontal" style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><div class="unruly_ia_bottombar" style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><div class="unruly_ia_progressbar" style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"></div><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><strong style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">What is the metric for?</strong> It’s crucial to distinguish between data used for purposes of internal monitoring of performance by the practitioners themselves—say, teachers who want to know how much their students seem to absorbing—versus data to be used by external parties for reward and punishment, such as government agencies. It’s the difference between crime data used to discover where the police ought to deploy more squad cars versus data used to decide whether the precinct commander will get a promotion.</p></div></div></div><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">Tools of measurement are most useful for internal analysis by practitioners rather than for external evaluation by the public, which may fail to understand their limits. Such measurement can be used to inform practitioners of their performance relative to their peers, offering recognition to those who have excelled and offering assistance to those who have fallen behind. To the extent that they are used to determine continuing employment and pay, they will be subject to gaming the statistics or outright fraud.</p><div class="media-object wrap scope-web|mobileapps wrap" data-layout-mobile="" data-layout="wrap " style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><div class="media-object-rich-text" style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><h4 style="border: 0px; font-family: "PT Serif", TimesNewRoman, "Times New Roman", Times, Baskerville, Georgia, serif; font-size: 20px; line-height: 1.1; margin: 0px; padding: 30px 0px 10px; vertical-align: baseline;">MORE FROM REVIEW</h4></div></div><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;"><strong style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">What are the costs of getting the data?</strong>Information is never free, and often it is expensive in ways that rarely occur to those who demand more of it. Collecting, processing and analyzing data take time, and a large part of their expense lies in the opportunity costs of the time put into them. Every moment that you or your colleagues or employees devote to producing metrics is time not devoted to the activities being measured. If you’re a data analyst, of course, producing metrics is your primary activity. For everyone else, it’s a distraction. Even if the performance measurements are worth having, their worth may be less than the costs of obtaining them.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;"><strong style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Who develops the measurement</strong>? Accountability metrics are less likely to be effective when they are imposed from above, using standardized formulas developed by those far from active engagement with the activity being measured. Measurements are more likely to be meaningful when they are developed from the bottom up, with input from teachers, nurses and the cop on the beat.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">This means asking those with the tacit knowledge that comes from direct experience to provide suggestions about how to develop appropriate performance standards. Try to involve a representative group of those who will have a stake in the outcomes. In the best case, they should continue to be part of the process of evaluating the measured data. A system of measured performance will work to the extent that the people being measured believe in its worth.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;"><strong style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Does the measurement create perverse incentives?</strong> Insofar as individuals are agents out to maximize their own interests, there are inevitable drawbacks to all schemes of measured reward. If doctors are remunerated based on the procedures they perform, it creates an incentive for them to perform too many procedures that have high costs but may produce low benefits. If doctors are paid based on the number of patients they see, they have an incentive to see as many patients as possible and to skimp on procedures that are time-consuming but potentially useful. If they are compensated based on successful patient outcomes, they are more likely to take the easiest cases, avoiding problematic patients.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">Just because performance measures often have some negative outcomes doesn’t mean that they should be abandoned. They may still be worth using, despite their anticipatable problems. It’s a matter of trade-offs, and that too is a matter of judgment.</p><div class="wsj-body-ad-placement" id="unruly" style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><div class="wsj-body-ad " style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"></div></div><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">With measurement as with everything else, recognizing limits is often the beginning of wisdom. Not all problems are soluble, and even fewer are soluble by metrics. It’s not true, as too many people now believe, that everything can be improved by measurement, or that everything that can be measured can be improved.</p><p class="articleTagLine" style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">—Dr. Muller is a professor of history at the Catholic University of America in Washington, D.C. This essay is adapted from his new book, “The Tyranny of Metrics,” published by Princeton University Press.</p></div></div></div>Simon Sobohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02579449711047401565noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2082400290580706324.post-49892452683954732082023-12-06T18:42:00.003-05:002023-12-18T19:26:48.484-05:00The Myth of Scientific Psychiatry<p> </p><h1 style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "PT Serif", TimesNewRoman, "Times New Roman", Times, Baskerville, Georgia, serif; font-size: 36px; line-height: 1.1; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">The Myth of Scientific Psychiatry</h1><aside class="meta" style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #999999; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; margin: 10px 0px 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"></aside><div class="entry-box clearfix" style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 30px 0px 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><div class="html-before-content" style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"></div><div class="entry" style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 30px; vertical-align: baseline;"><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">It is not surprising that American psychiatry embraced science during the last half century. Before that Freud’s ideas and those of his critics dominated the field. While some of their ideas had the ring of truth, and many fine observations were made, the one thing they were not was scientific. Their methodology was not the way to scientifically advance the frontiers of our knowledge.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;"> </p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">It eventually didn’t matter. Claims to scientific validity were abandoned. Rejecting much of Freud’s theories, mental health entered an era where the wisdom of Buddha, of Hindu philosophies and practices, spiritual knowledge of all sorts was validation enough. Psychiatrists still retained their position in medical schools, but in the general public, psychobabble held sway. A salad of wishful thinking, where practically any belief was acceptable as long as the rhetoric was inspirational enough, was the measure of truth.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">Even before mental health writing deteriorated into a hodgepodge of dramatic solutions for how to live, psychiatry was considered the step child of medicine. There was very little reason to disabuse the other medical specialties of that opinion. Other specialties placed their primary focus on the biological processes that led to disease. It was in biology and chemistry that progress was being made. That was the direction psychiatry had to go if it had any hope of legitimacy. In medical schools throughout the country psychoanalysts were replaced by biological psychiatrists. The remedies in psychiatry soon became the same as in other fields of medicine, pharmaceuticals. There were other treatments, electric shock therapy, and lately, placing the brain in magnetic fields, all kinds of techniques, analogous to surgery. But most psychiatric practice consisted of prescribing drugs. Or cognitive behavioral therapy became acceptable, a variation of behaviorism (which among psychologists had solid scientific credentials). Both strategies aimed for scientific rigor, claiming the prestige that goes with scientific accomplishment. As we will see, both failed miserably to accomplish that goal.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;"> </p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">In the mind of the public, the enormous popularity of Prozac and sometimes, it’s almost magical effectiveness, gave the impression that great strides were being made in neurobiology. That wasn’t the case. Swinging blindly, Eli Lilly hit a home run, more than that, a grand slammer with Prozac. And at first, even they didn’t realize what they had discovered. In their labs they first tried Prozac as a blood pressure medicine, then as a weight loss agent. No luck. It also wasn’t impressive treating severe depression. But using it for patients with milder depression gave good results. Serotonin, which is increased by Prozac, was not, at the time, even speculated to be of importance in mental states. When Prozac was marketed, expectations were that it would be a modest success.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;"> </p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">Not Eli Lilly, but Pfizer, which developed Zoloft, their own SSRI, claimed those suffering from depression had a chemical imbalance of serotonin in the brain. SSRIs were alleged to fix it. That is not the case. No imbalance was demonstrated at the time and since then all attempts to do so have been fruitless. But it was a great way to explain to patients what the drug was doing. In a study of SSRIs, they were shown to decrease stress induced vocalizations in guinea pig pups<u style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">.</u> They squeal in a panic when they are separated from their mothers. Prozac lessens these. Regardless of how it works in the brain, if a chemical reduces these vocalizations it may have promise as a psychotherapeutic agent (These are normal guinea pigs not those with a chemical imbalance). A drug successfully screened in this manner will certainly not be presented to patients as a drug so good at shutting off distress that it even works to subdue what might be considered the prototypical model of terror, a helpless infant separated from its mother. A patient told he is being given a drug to kill his reaction to what has been upsetting him will approach that treatment very differently than a patient given a different spin, one told that his medication is treating a chemical imbalance that is causing his ailment. Similarly, primary care physicians will be far more enamored with the thought that an agent has been tested (and even better, FDA approved) for a specific DSM disorder if their mindset is that its effectiveness is due to fixing faulty synapses rather than the patient is being drugged out of his suffering.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;"> </p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">When they were given The Discoverers Award for their work, the discoverers of Prozac, Drs. Fuller, Molloy and Wong strongly emphasized how little we understand about the brain and Prozac. That aside, the sales of Prozac skyrocketed. It wasn’t only the simplicity and beauty of the chemical imbalance model that enabled all kinds of doctors to prescribe SSRIs and the widespread belief that amazing progress was being made in neurobiology. Nor was it, as is often charged, the evil marketing of Big Pharma. There was perhaps another factor.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;"> </p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">Peter Kramer raised the possibility that Prozac was a “personality enhancer.” In addition to lifting depression, Prozac could also brighten a dull personality, assist an ambitious employee in climbing the corporate ladder, and make a shy person lively and outgoing. Kramer termed the use of drugs in this fashion “cosmetic psychopharmacology”. They were said to make a patient ‘better than well”. There was enormous excitement in the public as patients were noticeably transformed. Many of their colleagues and friends wanted to try the same thing.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;"> </p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">Prozac is not the first drug to cause this kind of intoxication. <em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">In the 19th century cocaine was the most popular miracle drug in the world, regularly used and extolled by the likes of President McKinley, Queen Victoria, Pope Leo Xlll, Thomas Edison, Robert Lewis Stevenson, Ibsen, Anatole France and a host of other renowned members of society. Sigmund Freud wrote the following about it, “You perceive an increase of self-control and possess more vitality and capacity for work.” According to the Sears, Roebuck and Co. Consumers’ Guide (1900), their extraordinary Peruvian Wine of Coca “…sustains and refreshes both the body and brain…. It may be taken at any time with perfect safety…it has been effectually proven that in the same space of time more than double the amount of work could be undergone when Peruvian Wine of Coca was used, and positively no fatigue experienced.” </em></p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;"> </p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;"><em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">The medical cure for ADHD patients’ inability to confront drudgery is stimulants, which are much like cocaine. They have a long history of working pretty well for this purpose. Prescribing them requires a narcotic license but they are widely prescribed for ADHD, and like cocaine, have found widespread uses beyond those diagnosed with an illness.</em> <em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">After he read an article I wrote about ADHD, my son, told me about his friend at Yale. One afternoon he was complaining about the work he had before him, two finals and three papers that were due. His roommate piped in, “I got some Ritalin, want it?” The daughter of a friend said the same thing was going on at McGill. They are not alone.</em><em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"> </em>Here is a headline from the NY Times:</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;"> </p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; text-align: center; vertical-align: baseline;"><strong style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">“Latest Campus High: Illicit use of Prescription Medication, Experts and Students Say”</strong></p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“Ritalin makes repetitive, boring tasks like cleaning your room seem fun” said Josh Koenig a 20-year-old drama major from NYU.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">“Katherine Plyshevsky, 21, a junior from New Milford NJ majoring in marketing at NYU said she used Ritalin obtained from a friend with ADD to get through her midterms “It was actually fun to do the work,” she said.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;"> </p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;"><em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Freud realized he had made a big mistake advocating the use of cocaine when he witnessed the horrible effects it was having on some of his friends. The downside of this miracle drug was also well described by Robert Lewis Stevenson who wrote Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde during seven days and nights while he was high on cocaine. For many years, Stephen King wrote all of his novels while high on stimulants. He has said that the Kathy Bates character in his “Misery” (a nurse who has literally imprisoned him) represented that habit. It should be noted that after he stopped drugs he described himself as a “TV slut,” I take that to mean that he was no longer willing to buy into the Faustian bargain.</em></p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;"> </p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;"><em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Besides ADHD diagnosed adolescents, and their friends, who sometimes borrow their meds when they have to do chores that they dread, stimulants (“greenies”), according to David Wells, and later Mike Schmidt</em>,<em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"> long were a part of the professional athletes’ equipment, helping them to step up to the plate with confidence. It changes their state of mind from a passive, reactive, perhaps half defeated position, to a take charge proactive stance. Or as one basketball player put it, “Give me the ball. I can make the shot.” This taking charge, “I can do it” feeling, when approaching tasks, is a key element in most people’s perception of whether they are up to a challenge, and whether it is “work” or pleasurable. This is why it is effective in ADHD, an ailment characterized by an inability to concentrate when work is involved, but no problem in concentrating when an activity is fun.</em></p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;"><em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"> </em></p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;"><em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">I had a patient who told me that he could not read more than a paragraph or two of assigned reading from school without his Adderall. “Really?” I commented. “Well,” he answered. “I am really into mountain biking and once a month I get this mountain biking magazine. I tear through that.” He was also not lacking in his ability to pay attention when it came to video games. He was very skillful, quick and focused on them. Over and over I found a similar story in other patients. They contrasted markedly with my mother, who found great joy in sacrificing. The harder the task the greater her pride. Her generation understood the postman’s motto.</em> “Neither snow nor rain nor heat nor gloom of night stays these couriers from the swift completion of their appointed rounds.” Pleasure comes from meeting the challenge that work presents.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">This is foreign to someone with ADHD. Stimulants are the only way they get done what needs to be done.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">I do not mean to imply disapproval. Yes, there are a whole lot of children with the diagnosis that can best be described as lazy and n’er do wells, and as adults, ADHD children disproportionately land up in jail. But many other people once diagnosed with ADHD change. As children they may have been nay sayers and rebellious and unable to be interested in the tasks being thrown at them, but later they become famously impassioned by their work and very far from lazy. Pete Rose was a rambunctious youngster who couldn’t sit still in class. Most people wrote him off as a troublemaker. Teachers made an example out of him. Predictably he lost interest in school. Perhaps most or all rebellious children are labelled ADHD because they are so uninterested in doing what they should be doing. But the fact is that no one tried harder, played baseball with as much passion as Pete Rose. He continued to not go along with what he was supposed to do. He gambled, and as a result was banned from baseball, but being able to throw himself into work was not a problem.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">It isn’t necessarily rebelliousness. Brazilian American Mormon David Neeleman, the son of grocers had little interest in schoolwork or work in general and today believes he had ADHD. It is true he couldn’t concentrate on school work. He wasn’t able to get up the needed diligence, which concerned him because he was not happy that he was a disappointment to his parents.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">He lived in Brazil until he was five, spoke Portuguese with his parents and returned to work in Brazil as a nineteen-year-old, as part of the Mormon tradition. Before that he had worked in his family’s grocery business as a cashier. In Brazil, he spent time with the downtrodden and people who had nothing. The experience inspired him, made him decide to return to Brazil one day and do something to help the people there. He credits his moral zeal with putting an end to his ADHD. Diving into work, doing his studies at school became automatic.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">He set up an air service arrangement that accomplished his ideals, working with great passion and dedication. Eventually, he founded Jet Blue with a very unconventional booking system that soon became standard in the industry. Something similar to what happened to Stephen Jobs, when he was forced out of being CEO by Apple’s board, also happened to Neeleman as CEO of Jet Blue. Founder or not, he was shown the door. In addition to making mistakes similar to what others might make, he had too many unconventional ideas, threw caution to the winds too often and repeatedly disagreed with the beliefs of board members.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">ADHD? Who knows? Perhaps. But I hope the reader has learned enough about Rose and Neeleman so that we can drop the idea that they were plagued by biology. They weren’t diligent children and, perhaps even, were genetically different than most other people, which has lasted into adulthood. Neither Rose nor Neeleman were treated with medications as a child, but while they may have had the cluster of symptoms describing ADHD, reducing them to a diagnosis with a medication cure would have been a crude response to their troubles. I very much doubt it would have changed their lives for the better.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;"> </p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">ADHD is prime example of a disease with an enormous amount of false, often ridiculous scientific articles trying to convince the public and doctors that the problem these patients have paying attention, is biological. Dr. William Pelham, a leading ADHD researcher for 30 years, came forward with this charge. “I have come to believe that the individuals who advocate most strongly in favor of medication – both those from the professional community, including the National Institutes of Mental Health, and those from advocacy groups, including CHADD – have major and undisclosed conflicts of interest with the pharmaceutical companies that deal with ADHD products.”</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">Dr. Pelham brought forth clear cut evidence of the collusion in his own work. Dr. Pelham was paid by McNeil to conduct one of three studies used to get FDA approval for Concerta, a stimulant prescribed for ADHD. But when the evidence was not favorable, he recounted in an interview with AlterNet, McNeil-Alza engaged in dubious methods to ensure that the published reports would be favorable for Concerta. He said “The company currently uses the three studies to claim that 96 percent of children taking Concerta experience no problems in appetite, growth, or sleep. But Pelham says the studies were flawed… two of the three studies, including Pelham’s, required that the subjects had to already be taking a stimulant and responding well to it in order to enter the study. In other words, by stacking the studies with patients already successfully taking stimulants, McNeil ensured the subjects would be unlikely to register side effects.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">Pressure was also brought to bear to shape Dr. Pelham’s written report: When his paper was in the galley proof stage at the medical journal <em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Pediatrics,</em> Pelham says he joined a conference call with a number of senior people from the corporation who lobbied him to change what he had written in the paper. “The people at Alza clearly pushed me to delete a paragraph in the article where I was saying it was important to do combined treatments (medication and behavioral).” That was a no-no because they wanted pediatricians to feel comfortable prescribing the drug without psychotherapy. They also pushed him to water down or eliminate other sentences and words that did not dovetail into their interests. “It was intimidating to be one researcher and have all these people pushing me to change the text.” In the end, Dr. Pelham says, they published a report with his name penned to it without his authorization.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;"> </p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">The most prominent and outspoken advocate for the biological origin of ADHD is Dr. Joseph Biederman MD, (Professor of Psychiatry at Harvard Medical School. Chief, Clinical and Research in Pediatric Psychopharmacology Massachusetts General Hospital and McLean Hospital).” He is the author and co-author over 800 “scientific” articles, 650 scientific abstracts, and 70 book chapters.” In October 2007, Dr. Biederman was ranked as the second highest producer of high-impact papers in psychiatry overall throughout the world by the Institute for Scientific Information (ISI). The same organization ranked Dr. Biederman at #1 in terms of total citations to his papers published about ADD/ADHD in the past decade. In 2014, Thompson Reuters named Dr. Biederman on their list of The World’s Most Influential Scientific Minds, as ranking in the top 1% by citations for the field of psychiatry. He has been inducted into the Children and Adults with Attention-Deficit/Hyperactivity Disorder (CHADD) hall of fame. Dr. Biederman is a grant reviewer in the Child Psychopathology and Treatment Review Committee of the NIMH. So, of all people Dr. Biederman presumably knows a lot about ADHD despite, I assume, given his academic churning, he had very little time to see actual patients. My only awareness of Dr. Biederman came from almost monthly mailings sent to me, and most likely, every physician who was on the mailing list of medical journals. The message was hammered home: ‘Are you missing your patients with <em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Adult</em> ADHD. It was a new market with vast potential to be won over.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;"> </p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">Many children move beyond their illness when they find a career that turns them on. Predictably, biological psychiatrists claimed the change occurs because the brain physically matures. Whatever the explanation, some patients don’t grow out it and continue their meds so adult ADHD was often diagnosed. Beyond that numerous celebrities announced to the world that they had the illness, Michael Phelps, Simone Biles, Paris Hilton, Justin Timberlake and many others told the public that they have ADHD. Simone Biles, said by some to be the greatest gymnast of all times, presented an interesting case. She was taking Ritalin while she competed in her historic 2016 Olympic performance. It was found on drug screening and as a performance enhancer it would ordinarily strip her of her gold medals. Apparently, she was allowed to keep them because it was a medical treatment.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;"> </p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">In addition, a new form of Adult ADHD emerged, those who had not been thought to have had ADHD as children. Patients like Terry Bradshaw, former quarterback of the Pittsburgh Steelers and TV personality, as well as Liv Tyler and other celebrities found stimulants to be enormously, almost miraculously helpful. Not unlike Freud, Robert Lewis Stevenson, Ibsen and Thomas Edison, I don’t doubt the result of using the drugs must have seemed amazing. But whether that was proof that they have a disease is a whole different story.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;"> </p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">Like the pied piper, where celebrities go, others are sure to follow, numerous upstanding and not so upstanding citizens found the cure. Exactly like cocaine a century ago, the numbers have multiplied, all perfectly legal and above board. Nevertheless, sensitive to the horrors created by doctors prescribing far too much Oxycontin, and the lawsuit pinning the whole disaster on Purdue Pharmaceutical, CVS recently disallowed prescriptions being written for a vast number of people who had had a phone session with companies with a wide reach Cerebral and Done Health practitioners.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;"> </p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">It is easy to see now where Adult ADHD might lead, but at the time, Dr. Biederman’s pitch was powerful. Coming from royalty, Harvard and Mass General, those who presumably have the most and best knowledge available, who were we, busy practitioners, to question the certainty of their knowledge about ADHD? I, of course, habitual skeptic that I am, didn’t buy it.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;"> </p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">As it turned out there was good reason for my skepticism. Biederman’s income from drug companies wasn’t small. He had received research support from Shire, Lilly, Wyeth, Pfizer, Cephlon, Janssen, and Noven. He is on the speaker’s bureau for GlaxoSmithKline, Lilly, Pfizer, Wyeth, Shire, Alza, and Cephalon. He is also on the advisory board for Lilly, Celltech and Shire, Noven and Alza/McNeil. The key fact against him? Dr. Biederman failed to report to Harvard that he had received 1.6 million dollars from drug company work. (It is reasonable to assume the amount of money he has received is far higher.) But an investigating congressional committee focused on the unreported 1.6 million.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;"> </p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">Dr. Biederman is by no means alone. The former editor of the New England Journal of Medicine (NEJM), Marcia Angell, wrote an editorial entitled. “Is Academic Medicine for Sale?” (Angell, 2000). She followed this with an impassioned book, “<em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">The Truth About the Drug Companies: How They Deceive Us and What to Do About It </em>(Angell, 2004). The editor of the British equivalent of the New England Journal, the Lancet, wrote in the New York Review of Books, “Journals have devolved into information laundering operations for the pharmaceutical industry” (Horton, 2004). It isn’t just drug companies that are problematic In the Congressional investigation of the ethical issues involved with experts like Biederman it was revealed that the federal grants received in 2005 by Drs. Biederman and his colleagues, administered by Massachusetts General Hospital, was $287 million.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;"> </p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">I will not claim that Dr. Biederman and these noteworthy institutions in the ADHD business are part of a conspiracy. But certainly, their common interests highlight how hard it is to walk away from a gravy train. As good businessmen I’m sure they have learned to not look a gift horse in the mouth, something scientists habitually do.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;"> </p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; text-align: center; vertical-align: baseline;"><strong style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">The Basic Nature of Psychiatry’s Failure as a Scientific Pursuit</strong></p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">While this article has so far focused on historical parallels and the sleazy practices of certain individuals and institutions, there are fundamental flaws in the current paradigms that are open to questions of simple logic. They have not been addressed. Let us start with the diagnostic system. The committees that defined individual diagnoses were determined to be scrupulously honest. They wanted the clusters of symptoms that they used to define an illness to be easily observable to everyone and anyone. No controversial ideas about an illness, no contrasting theories about what an illness is and isn’t. Just what could be directly observed. They stated that their conclusions could only be tentative. In line with that they decided they would only use the term disorder instead of diagnosis. The reason for this was that a true scientific understanding of the disorders they were agreeing on was lacking. No one knew at the time (and still don’t know) what the cause was of a single one of the disorders they were classifying. Nor was there a clue about the pathogenesis. They would have to agree on what to call the cluster of symptoms that they determined were relevant to each disorder.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;"> </p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">I have no problem with that. Their spirit was the right one, acknowledging that this was the best they could do with the limited knowledge we have. Based on agreed upon observations, it had what seemed to be an objective, a “scientific” skeleton that they believed would loan scientific legitimacy to the uses they had in mind for it.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;"> </p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">That was a wrong assumption.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;"> </p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">Consider the very different clusters of symptoms that characterize strep throat, meningococcal meningitis, syphilis, gonorrhea, pneumococcal pneumonia. They don’t resemble each other in any way. All can be treated with the same thing, penicillin. How is that possible? Simple. In this case we understand the etiology of these illnesses. They are all caused by bacteria so penicillin is the cure. That is what good science facilitates. Logical thinking based on real knowledge. Would our understanding be furthered if we focused on the enormous variety of symptom clusters and tried to do something based on that. Obviously, the study would go nowhere. It would make no sense at all to treat this assortment of clustered symptoms with the same agent. Or to think there was a fundamental relationship between them. But lacking the needed knowledge focusing on clusters is done all the time in psychiatry.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;"> </p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">The madness we see in tertiary syphilis is almost identical to the symptoms we see in schizophrenia. The diseases are not related. Moreover, for all we know, what we are now calling schizophrenia could be many different illnesses caused by many different factors but with the same cluster of symptoms as the final common pathway. And so it goes with autism, and a host of other disorders, including perhaps ADHD. Although I categorically reject that it is biologically based for the huge number of patients diagnosed with it, I don’t doubt a small number might have what used to be called, minimal brain dysfunction, undetectable neurological defects that also effects concentration.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;"> </p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">It’s no one’s fault that we don’t have better answers to this and the many other illnesses that we remain in the dark about. But fact is fact. We don’t have the information we need. Nor are there many discoveries that might lead us to new and important ideas. Again, it’s no one’s fault. We are where we are.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;"> </p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">Actual scientists in neuropsychiatry live in a different world. They are biochemists, and biologists, physiologists and neuroanatomists, a whole assortment of specialists who work in labs. They understand how little we know, which if anything motivates them to keep doing what they do, scratching at the work still to be done. They have little interest in psychiatric diagnoses or other issues that clinicians think are important. The attempt to be objective, that part of the spirit of the DSM writers is familiar to them. It is the rest of what goes on in psychiatry that is foreign.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;"> </p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">That doesn’t mean there aren’t many “clinical” neurobiologists similarly hyping the cutting edge of discoveries being made in their field. There have been some neat discoveries. In lab animals they have been able to study and create conditions where neurons regenerate and rewire. And everyone’s favorite, our ability to get pictures of the brain revealed that the hippocampus, the center of memory storage, is much larger in London taxi drivers than it is in the rest of us. But the practical applications of current knowledge is far off in the future and provides no justification for best selling books claiming that because of modern technology the authors can rewire their readers’ brains.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">But back to the task on hand, psychiatry, the claim of psychiatrists that what they do is scientific and the widespread belief among the public that this is the case. That is the reason for this article. My problem is in the use being made of DSM descriptions, the false claim that evidence-based medicine is scientifically sound, and the implication that non-evidence based approaches are ruled by wild conjecture. That makes my work illegitimate instead of sensible.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;"> </p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">How does evidence-based medicine present itself as scientifically valid? They compare the results of a medicine (or cognitive behavioral therapy) with placebo on a given diagnosis and if the treatment does better than placebo it is said to be evidence-based. What is impressive is that they use real numbers, exact numbers, statistics to reach their conclusions. In the vast unknowable universe, the unsettling cavern of our ignorance, nothing is as reassuring as the certainty of numbers. It is not opinion being weighed. It is numbers. The judgement of practitioners isn’t needed. Treatment protocols are explicit. The numbers make clear what should be done. Psychiatrists are told exactly what the evidence indicates.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;"> </p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">The first thing to be challenged is the trust placed in statistics. It is not just psychiatry. Jeremy Z. Miller’s book <em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">The Tyranny of Metrics</em> addresses this issue: “In recent decades<strong style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">,</strong> what I call “metric fixation” has engulfed an ever-widening range of institutions: businesses, government, health care, K-12 education, colleges and universities, and nonprofit organizations. It comes with its own vocabulary and master terms. It affects the way that people talk and think about the world and how they act in it. And it is often profoundly wrongheaded and counterproductive. Metric fixation consists of a set of interconnected beliefs. The first is that it is possible and desirable to replace judgment with numerical indicators of comparative performance based on standardized data. The second is that making such metrics public (transparency) assures that institutions are actually carrying out their purposes(accountability)…But <em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">not everything that is important is measurable, and much that is measurable is unimportant</em>. Most organizations have multiple purposes, and that which is measured and rewarded tends to become the focus of attention, at the expense of other essential goals.” Albert Einstein also warned against the same trap “<em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Not everything we count, counts; not everything that counts can be counted.”</em></p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;"> </p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;"><em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"> </em>Evidence-based medicine is particularly guilty of this overvaluation of numbers. When we consider the fundamental assumptions, with a little bit of thought the reasoning borders on absurdity. One can do precise measurement of results but as we have seen, the original diagnosis used in that calculation is, at best, an approximation of an illness. So the numbers, even though carefully tabulated, while not being worthless, the most they can provide is an approximate strategy. Yet it is slavishly obeyed as an absolute, a scientific approach and answer.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;"> </p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">There are better reasons for questioning blind usage of it. Let us use an example from medicine where, unlike psychiatry, we have a clear understanding of what is happening. Suppose a patient had congestive heart failure (CHF) due to hypothyroidism. Supplying thyroid hormone would cure his CHF. Despite this fantastic outcome, in a larger group of those with CHF the treatment would fail miserably as an evidence-based treatment for CHF. Yet it is exactly the right treatment for this particular patient’s CHF. Our knowledge about what is going on makes that very clear.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;"> </p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">Suppose we didn’t have that knowledge. No one knew about the thyroid’s effect on the heart. That is our situation in psychiatry. If there was a report that a miracle had occurred using thyroid hormone it would be ignored, if the issue was in psychiatry because statistics involving the larger group would show it was unsuccessful as an evidence based treatment for CHF, there would be little curiosity about it. Psychiatry faces that kind of inadequate knowledge all the time. But is content to stick with their paradigm.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;"> </p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">In the name of science, there are very few if any presentations of individual case histories in the psychiatric literature. Evidence based cures are all that matter, statistics involving groups of patients with the defined cluster. In psychiatry, successful treatment of an individual as opposed to a group would be dismissed as anecdotal, a pejorative term in the literature which prides itself on being scientific. The interest is on effects on a population of patients with a given diagnosis. Not on individual cases. Later, I will describe some of my patients that were treated with what I believe was a sensible strategy, but which would be dismissed as unacceptable because what was done was not based on scientific psychiatry. But first let us address a different strategy practiced in psychiatry, one that was used before we had evidence-based medicine, <em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">expert consensus protocols.</em></p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;"> </p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">As we saw during the Covid 19 crises, when we knew practically nothing about the epidemic, the term “expert” was used over and over until it became laughable. “Expert” opinion is somewhat like the Wizard of Oz. Lost in a world that she couldn’t comprehend, Dorothy had to turn to the wizard, first in her imagination and then as a realistic strategy. She followed the yellow brick road. When something is known and understood there is no need of experts. The information is simply there. When we don’t have the knowledge to answer our questions, but when it is crucial to have those answers, we turn to “experts”. It should be noted that academicians like Dr. Biederman invariably were presented as experts. The long list of qualifications presented by him is the kind of overkill in marketing that we expect from wizards.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;"> </p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">In psychiatry, worse than evidence based medicine, the creation of “expert consensus protocols” was and is a stain on the profession. Yes, I want to hear smart people take their best shot at a guess. However, for many practitioners the protocols, like evidence-based medicine, turns the clinician’s decision making away from his best judgment into being compliant with authority. In our crazy world of lawsuits, those not following expert opinion are on thin ice. So, clinicians may feel they have no choice. Besides that, given the unpleasantness of cognitive dissonance they may even believe they share the authority of the experts, feel sure that what they are doing is absolutely the best treatment that can be offered, one recommended by experts. It doesn’t matter if they understand the patient in any depth. Few psychiatrist attempt to understand their patient’s problems that way. How could they do otherwise, seeing the patient once a month for 15 minutes? They needn’t be bothered by the complexity of the person appearing in their office. They have the patient’s disease neatly spelled out by the agreed upon diagnosis cluster. All they have to do during a visit is find out if each of the cluster of symptoms characterizing the diagnosis are worse or better, and also ask about side effects. The rest of what is going on with the patient is irrelevant, just as it matters little for an orthopedist treating a sprained ankle to ask about patients’ relationship with their spouse or children or how they are doing at work. How they are spending their time is off the point of the visit. They have the patient’s disease neatly spelled out by the agreed upon diagnostic criteria of experts, the agreed upon expert treatment protocol and they just have to reach for their prescription pad to be glatt kosher. The key point is clinicians have been blinded to all kinds of interesting information. Productive thoughts and observations have been narrowed to a single perspective.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;"> </p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">In the world of experts, non-believers are treated as deniers of science, as heretics. Ironically, like the wizard, science is often waved as a banner. Its virtues can act as a smokescreen. The language, the prestige, the trappings of science can be so distracting that science’s core value is overshadowed, absolute clarity about what is known and not known<em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">. </em>The vast extent of what we don’t understand is rarely acknowledged to the public. It isn’t intentional lying. Most psychiatrists believe we know more than we do. One of the reasons clinicians turn to authority rather than try to think out the complicated issues of each patient is that psychiatrists are like most people. Authority is comforting, a lot more satisfying than the uncertainties we often have when we must think for ourselves. Having the right treatment course clearly defined helps a lot. I am not unsympathetic to the current practitioner’s motivation. Particularly, as I noted, in today’s atmosphere of malpractice lawsuits. Imagine being accused of not following the science or the experts when something has gone wrong. There really is little choice. But whether that often enough leads to the right treatment outcome or new treatment strategies is a wholly different question.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;"> </p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">Not uncommonly a validated treatment doesn’t work. Okay, the treatment is not expected to work 100% of the time so a different approved treatment is tried also using the evidence-based protocol. And if that doesn’t work with several tries, an entirely new strategy is available. Some clinicians, when they have exhausted the various protocols dictated by the patient’s symptoms decide their patient has a different diagnosis. The medicines aren’t working because he or she has an atypical case of what is now the new diagnosis. With this in mind they then follow a different protocol for that diagnosis that is evidence based. Over years of treatment this can happen several times so that treatment begins to resemble throwing darts at a board. This is not rare. Articles are now being written in the popular press about patients who have been assigned with five or six different diagnosis and with different, new treatments tried again and again. It is egg on the face of psychiatry. And not surprising at all. What is interesting is that instead of owning up to our insufficient knowledge, most clinicians retain their confidence in the omniscience of our scientific authorities and believe we have the knowledge that is needed. What matters is that the practitioner may take pride that he is keeping up with the latest and greatest recommendation of the experts, which reaffirms he is a board certified professional. If he isn’t dedicated to the “science” he becomes uncomfortable charging huge doctor fees. Using words like “maybe” or “we don’t know” is not the best marketing tool for the public and is unlikely to add to the clinicians confidence that he is serving up the very best</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;"> </p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">Allow me to present a few of my former cases with treatment strategies that are totally unacceptable to those demanding evidence-based treatment. But first I need to present a different way of looking at drugs. I explained the effectiveness of stimulants for ADHD by describing how it effects the psychology of individuals, makes drudgery no longer be drudgery, even fun. The same can be done for other drugs. Although I came to this conclusion independently, Herman Van Pragg advanced it ten years before I saw things his way. Van Praag argued that pharmacological agents can be viewed as inducing particular psychological states which, though not specifically related to diagnosis, are nonetheless the basis for the usefulness of the medication.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;"> </p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">SSRIs, and bupropion are believed to be roughly equal in their antidepressant efficacy. But while each stimulates neurotransmitters to give a positive ring to the day, they do not induce the same psychological profile, since rather than effecting serotonin, bupropion acts primarily by enhancing dopamine, and to some extent, norepinephrine. I call it a “kick ass drug”. It tends to be activating rather than calming. Most clinicians use bupropion in depression when anergia (low energy) or anhedonia (an inability to experience pleasure) is prominent. They tend to avoid it if anxiety or agitation characterize a depression. Not surprisingly, it is one of the few antidepressants that hasn’t proven effective with panic disorder. It can give an edgy feeling, which, in an already nervous person, can set off new panic attacks. But here is the important point. There are no hard and fast rules. There are as many exceptions as rules. Guidelines based on the general can serve as starting points but eventually the particulars are more important, especially when all is not going as planned. Here is an example.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;"> </p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">When Mr. K., a 50-year-old salesman transferred to my care, he was already on Wellbutrin (bupropion) for panic disorder. Since this didn’t make sense for that diagnosis I took him off it. After about a month his condition worsened so he was put back on it and he did well. It took several months in weekly psychotherapy sessions before I came up with a plausible explanation. It wasn’t that his brain chemistry was different than others so that bupropion effected his brain chemicals differently (a speculation that a chemotherapy-oriented psychiatrist might assume). I thought it more likely, after I got to know him better, that bupropion helped his panic attacks<em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"> for reasons particular to his story.</em></p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;"> </p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">As noted Wellbutrin seems to bring energy, initiative, clear mindedness, and increased ability to experience pleasure, even when working at a job. It has qualities that are associated with stimulants and cocaine. Like them it primarily effects dopamine, but unlike abusable meds, its effect is seen over the course of several weeks, not immediately after taking a pill. In this patient’s case, I eventually learned that his panic attacks were related to his tendency to procrastinate. He was a salesman who made too many promises and failed to deliver in good part because he hadn’t done necessary paperwork. The work that needed to be done hung over him constantly making him nervous. Each day the possibility that the “s-t” was about to hit the fan jolted his consciousness. Judgment day was near. Interestingly, Mr. K had read about anxiety and panic attacks being biological, as having no meaning, fear and panic without a cause. He had never connected his symptoms to anything he was doing, or thinking, never connected it to his psychology at all.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;"> </p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">Fortunately, he and I got along well. He trusted me like a good friend, which in this case I was (breaking another taboo). Together we learned that bupropion seemed to put him in a mode where work that he customarily slacked off on, became easy, half challenging, sometimes stimulating and interesting. This is not surprising since, as we saw with cocaine and amphetamines this seems to be a general characteristic of dopaminergic medicines. In any case, as a salesman he was forever making promises for delivery that he didn’t keep because of his failure to do the paperwork. He kept up with his work far better when he was on Wellbutrin than when he was off of it. Hence there were fewer feelings of impending doom on the meds, less anxiety and no panic attacks.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;"> </p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">In terms of statistics, Wellbutrin was not an evidence-based medicine for panic attacks. Beyond that it didn’t really make sense to me either since it could make some patients jittery and hyped up. I would have never chosen it, but the fact is that for this patient it was exactly the right medicine. I would not have had a clue about what was going on if I only saw him once a month for 15 minutes. In therapy he was acknowledging a behavioral pattern that was certain to bring him trouble. While he was in treatment with me he overcame this pattern, but I don’t know whether this change would be lasting. (It is hard to make lasting changes at the age of 50.) I was later to learn that although he wasn’t a full blown ADHD person, he had very real and deep reasons to not do what is expected. He had a very mean moralistic stepfather. They often hated each other.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;"> </p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">It would take us far afield to describe this aspect of his case further. More to the point the uniqueness of his treatment was of no interest to the journals. The opposite. Anything reported about this patient’s conflicts would be dismissed as anecdotal, the story of one person, not worthy of attention because it could not be part of the statistics that define the truth.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;"> </p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">The second case is similar. A patient with post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD) for over ten years presented on high doses of Adderall that had been given to him for what his family physician diagnosed as adult ADHD. (He had reported difficulty concentrating.) His physician then became uncomfortable administering stimulants and sent him to me. It was soon apparent that he did not have ADHD. But he reported that on the Adderall his post-traumatic stress disorder was the best it had been in over a decade. It took a while to make sense of this but once again the explanation appeared to be found in his experience. He and his fiancé had been trainees at a state police academy. His fiancé took her gun and blew her brains out. My patient found her body. He couldn’t clear his mind of the scene. During the day, during his dreams, her brain and skull fragments on the wall remained vivid images grabbing his attention. It could happen anytime. To make matters worse, he became a paramedic working on an ambulance which brought him to car crash scenes where horribly damaged bodies were not infrequent. Eventually in therapy 5 years before, he realized this kind of work was not good for him, and in more recent years he had worked on a hospital ward. Even with SSRIs and benzodiazepines, his PTSD not infrequently took control of his mind. This no longer happened with the addition of Adderall given by his family doctor.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;"> </p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">As I got to know him my guess was the Adderall brought back his pre-morbid, state trooper defensive structure. Instead of experiencing his trauma again and again as a helpless passive victim, the essence of the psychological position occupied by those suffering from PTSD, on the Adderall he had returned to being a take charge kind of guy. Coincidentally I was also seeing another patient with PTSD. She was a drug saleswoman who had been a work out fanatic. She spoke in short staccato sentences. boom boom, bam bam, not a trace of sentimentality in her, not a soft syllable in her repertoire. She had been in a car accident and broken her collarbone, right arm and one of her legs. She couldn’t work out. She kept re-experiencing her helplessness in the accident. She was on SSRIs which were helpful but not curative. The addition of Adderall worked like a charm.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;"> </p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">Like the other example, this is not an endorsement of Adderall for PTSD generally. It would probably fail in a population of patients with that diagnosis. It is an endorsement for this kind of thinking in formulating cases where this might be helpful. We are not talking about psychoanalytic understanding being necessary, but it does require training to think psychologically in a productive way.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;"> </p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">Finally, a case where the medication selected is within evidence medicine’s parameters, but the reasoning I used for numerous medication decisions was totally unlike the kind of care administered by 15 minute once a month psychopharmacology. First, a conjecture about how SSRIs affect individuals and why they are so clinically useful for so many psychiatric conditions.<strong style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"> </strong>A case can be made that SSRIs are efficacious in conditions as disparate as borderline character, depression, obsessive compulsive disorder, anorexia nervosa, panic disorder, social phobias, and so forth because increasing serotonin has a <em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">psychological</em> impact that is nonspecific to the disorders in question. Alcohol will produce inebriation in a person with schizophrenia, obsessive compulsive disorder, depression, or someone with no psychiatric diagnosis. Analogously, SSRIs typically impact individuals in ways that are not specific to diagnosis. What is that effect?</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;"> </p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">The most frequent description of the effects of SSRIs that I have heard from my patients was <em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">“It doesn’t matter.”</em> or <em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">“Don’t sweat the small stuff.”</em> or <em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">“What’s the big deal?”</em> This quality is irrelevant to a clinician focused on whether the patient’s symptoms are better or worse. Emotional indifference has even been described as a side effect. But for the most part while it is hardly noticeable to the clinicians and hasn’t struck anyone as worth mentioning the public has noticed. Here is a T shirt that soon hit the street .</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;"> </p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;"><img alt="" class="alignnone size-medium wp-image-1621" data-recalc-dims="1" decoding="async" fetchpriority="high" height="300" sizes="(max-width: 212px) 100vw, 212px" src="https://i0.wp.com/commodorenovel.com/wp-content/uploads/2022/10/many-moods-of-prozac.jpg?resize=212%2C300&ssl=1" srcset="https://i0.wp.com/commodorenovel.com/wp-content/uploads/2022/10/many-moods-of-prozac.jpg?resize=212%2C300&ssl=1 212w, https://i0.wp.com/commodorenovel.com/wp-content/uploads/2022/10/many-moods-of-prozac.jpg?w=256&ssl=1 256w" style="border: 0px; box-sizing: border-box; height: auto; margin: 8px 0px 10px; max-width: 100%; padding: 0px; vertical-align: middle;" width="212" /></p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;"> </p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">I am arguing that it is this <em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">“Don’t sweat the small stuff”</em> perspective that is SSRIs powerful blessing, and hopefully, not too often, its curse. It means relief from worry, relief from the feeling that something is missing, something needs to be done, something needs to be fixed, “my makeup isn’t right, the sky is falling, I won’t be able to pay my bills, I’m not smart enough, I won’t be able to tolerate the loneliness if I leave my lover” (even if he/she is abusive).</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;"> </p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">Regardless of the particular worry, SSRIs supply, if not always happiness, a nice contented feeling that all is well and will be well. That can allow parents to be able to play with their children more, fret less over the details, appreciate what <em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">is</em>, actually want to do the proverbial modern mantra, stop and smell the roses. They are the answer to existential angst. Perhaps Sisyphus, if he had only been born in the 90’s, could have left that rock alone and had a nice snooze.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;"> </p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">On the other side of the equation, I had a psychiatrist colleague who took Prozac to relax and enjoy his vacation. It worked very well. He told me that he tried it at home when he returned. He quickly stopped it when he found himself thinking, “Who cares?” when his patients described their problems. According to explanations given to me, SSRIs are not popular in Japan or in the United States among engineers who are precisely designing a bridge.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;"> </p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">According to this theory it is the “well whatever” feeling, emotional blunting, that has made it so useful in a great variety of different syndromes<strong style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">.</strong> It was originally FDA approved for depression But I found it useful in a variety of DSM syndromes. Thus, for a person with anorexia nervosa to react with “well whatever” after they have gained a pound or two is to get at the heart of the problem. The same can be said for body dysmorphic disorder, a condition in which a person’s life is completely distorted by imagined or slight body defects (such as thinning hair, a big nose, and the like). In obsessive-compulsive disorder the ability to treat compulsions and obsessional thoughts in this manner is a godsend. Similarly, a depressed person’s preoccupation with the hopelessness of their situation, the gravity of their errors and defects, the inadequacy of their decisions, and so forth will be enormously relieved to regain a less “negative” perspective. In panic disorder, a condition often characterized by exquisite sensitivity to body sensations, and a catastrophizing of consequences, (I once had a patient who described a horrible attack of panic because she feared something was going wrong with her vision. Only later, when she removed her glasses did she realize that her dirty eyeglasses had set her off) SSRIs have been found to be effective because the sense of catastrophe leaves. For similar reasons social phobias and bridge phobias and flying phobias often become manageable on SSRIs, as does intermittent explosive disorder which may improve because it is harder to press the patient’s button. Alcoholism, pathological gambling, overeating and the like may respond if a sense of frustration has significantly contributed to the pathological behavior. (They may worsen these conditions if a heroic disciplined battle is being waged against temptation, which is then weakened by a “well whatever” letting down of the guard.) SSRIs can help perfectionists (“obsessive compulsive personalities”) give themselves a little (or a lot of) slack. They can allow borderline personality disorder patients to cool their heels, to not be tortured, like a wounded lover, when the person, upon whom they have passionately centered their survival, is not reciprocally involved with them. And so, we can apply this perspective about SSRIs down a long list of DSM defined disorders that have been empirically found to be treatable by a change in brain chemistry.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;"> </p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">This perspective also suggests itself as useful in psychological circumstances where a specific diagnosis is not at issue. Thus, for instance, a not uncommon treatment scenario is teenagers who are having a very rough go of it with their classmates, kids who are picked on precisely because of their vulnerability. The popular students are the ones who are cool; that is, they don’t blush easily, are bold with the opposite sex, and so forth. Adolescents often turn to illicit drugs (analogous to adults at cocktail parties), to get rid of their social anxiety. But teenagers are often more savage than adults, meaning they out and out torture the nerds. It is not unusual for adolescents to come to therapy because they feel like misfits and to put it bluntly, the use of SSRIs may be very helpful here to magically assist them in having a thicker skin, which is exactly the quality they needed all along to not get picked on and possibly even have the “cool” to be “popular.” It should be noted that using a medication to help them does not require conjuring up a phony “diagnosis.”</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;"> </p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">Here are two cases illustrating the use of SSRIs:</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;"><strong style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Mrs. D a very attractive computer consultant</strong> at IBM with a terrible foster home past was successfully treated for depression with Prozac. She had never felt she was as good as a techie as her 5 male partners. She had a never-ending need for reassurance, which was embarrassing to her. Every night on her drive home she tortured herself with the things she felt she had mishandled. Her beauty made it easy for her to turn to a series of lovers unsuccessfully hoping to find confirmation. On Prozac all of this changed. She acknowledged that she wasn’t as good a techie as her partners, but <em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">she wasn’t bad</em>. More importantly, she realized she was indispensable to her team. She was the only one with sufficient social skills to handle their clients. For the first time in her life she was able to ask questions at conferences without feeling like an idiot. No longer hungry for confirmation she was also able to stop her cycle of love affairs which had led nowhere. On the other hand, her comments coming off meds was noteworthy. “I feel like I’ve been drugged for two years. Now I want to take a look at my checkbook.” She also reported behavior that now, off the meds, seemed bizarre. She had bought a puppy that she kept in an unfinished basement. While medicated she had not cleaned up the poop, reacting with “well whatever”.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;"> </p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;"><strong style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Mrs. L. had originally required</strong> 40 mg of Paxil (an SSRI) to recover from a postpartum depression. After 12 months on the meds, an incident happened which disturbed her. She was visiting her one year old at his daycare center during her lunchtime when one of the workers began screaming at another infant without picking her up. The next day Mrs. L went shopping during her lunch break. Later that week a coworker became tearful during the course of a conversation with Mrs. L. regarding her own child’s daycare center. Only then did Mrs. L. wonder about her decision to go shopping the day after she had witnessed the daycare worker’s inappropriate reaction. She wondered if her Paxil had made her indifferent when ordinarily she would have reacted and worried about such a thing.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;"> </p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">We decided to taper the dose of medicine to 20 mg. Sure enough on less medicine there was a dramatic change in her perspective about many things. For the first time I learned about the pressures she had been under at the time of her original hospitalization. Mrs. L. had tried to find time to be the powerhouse worker at her job that had brought her so many promotions in the past, an ideal mother for her newborn infant and responsive to her husband’s very exacting standards about her housekeeping. Suddenly, without the higher doses of Paxil her fury poured out. She described, in detail, episode after episode in which her husband stood to the side and supplied her with a never-ending critique of her adequacy as a mother. The higher doses of medication had muted her responsiveness, allowed his criticism to go in one ear and out the other, but now there would have to be change “or else”. Mrs. L. also acknowledged that she had not been doing her job as carefully as in the past and eventually the company would discover her drug induced “what the hell” attitude. At home, she had bounced several checks, something that had never happened before she was on medication.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;"> </p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">Therapy now turned to how her life would have to change. She seriously considered stopping her job. She loved being a mother and didn’t want to miss out on her son’s crucial early years. She demanded changes in her husband (with the threat of divorce). Her new assertiveness had rapidly put him on good behavior even before marriage counseling started. A few times during her sessions she became tearful about her dilemmas. Although we discussed the possibility of returning to higher doses of medication should the need arise, she was not eager to do this. She felt her tears were about real things and did not consider herself depressed. She did not feel hopeless nor helpless. Her sleep was not as restful. She sometimes tossed and turned. But she was okay. We joked that we might go up on the Paxil temporarily if and when she needed a vacation from her stresses. In fact, throughout I was concerned that her greater emotionality might be a prelude to the return of her original symptoms. But our perspective was quite different than an automatic increase of medicine at the first sign of tears. As it happens she did not need to return to higher doses. She did quite well, eventually deciding to work part time.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">Three months after making that decision she was the happiest she had been in years.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">It is noteworthy that when she was reduced to 10mg (at her urging) there was another improvement (depending on perspective). She again noticed dust on her furniture. She noticed that the pictures on her table had been placed haphazardly. She arranged them more aesthetically. She did not feel driven to take better care by the internalized monster described in obsessives by Shapiro in <em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Neurotic Styles</em>, by an unending “I should, I should I should.” She took pride in her newly regained “attention to detail.” She also regained a degree of empathy for her husband. There certainly was the danger that she was returning to a dynamic of taking care of everyone and everything, of offending no one, a role that she had assigned herself from early on in childhood. This pattern may have played a part in her original postpartum depression as she tried to juggle her responsibilities and became overwhelmed, consequently generating forbidden anger at her newborn. Certainly, her regained empathy for her husband might be the beginning of permission for him to begin carping again but she thought she “would be able to handle that.”</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">What are the lessons to learn from these case histories? At the very least, psychiatrists should know their patients reasonably well if they are to prescribe medications wisely. This is true whether or not it will eventually be determined that the odds of a patient developing a disorder has been increased by biological factors. Prozac and the other SSRIs are too powerful, too far reaching in their effects, their influence too subtle in too many areas of a patient’s life, to be given by gynecologists, family practitioners, physicians assistants, and others who have brief contact with their patients. They are too powerful to be given by psychiatrists who see their patient for 15-minute med checks once a month and know close to nothing about their patient’s lives.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">The treatments I have described will not prove efficacy to a scientist’s satisfaction. Moreover, some, or all of my formulations may turn out to have been wrong. But it throws down a challenge. These ideas are only a fraction of what might be possible if others were thinking this way. That should be encouraged. Psychiatric journals should be publishing ideas on subjects like these, case histories so that we can discuss and brainstorm, and end the monopoly that “scientific” psychiatry has imposed on legitimate practice and discussion. Our “experts” should weigh in on these issues. Hopefully, one day our patients will be effectively treated by a psychiatry entirely based on science. However, we are decades, perhaps centuries away from being there. Until we have the knowledge to practice using scientific discoveries, we are doing a disservice by making believe we scientifically know what we do not, and ignore faculties we possess, or that lively discussion and training can improve. It might be helpful to our patients.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">Fine, the profession wants to call what they do scientific. But when our scientific knowledge is as thin as it is, rigidly adhering to that model is interfering with thinking more flexibly and effectively. It isn’t possible with training programs not training future psychiatrists to think about their patients in a psychological context and it is not possible to do this with once a month short med visits. This is not a call for a return to Freud but it is a rejection of the myth that everything reduces to science and biology. Yes, what I am advocating is not scientifically verifiable but it is realizing that the scientific understanding, particularly what is being claimed to be scientific knowledge is completely inadequate. I would call it phony, particularly when it <em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">interferes</em> with sensible judgements and speculations that psychiatrists can and should share trying to make sense of their cases. We desperately need the kind of journal I am describing, one that contains an abundance of anecdotal thinking, case histories describing individuals and ideas, even speculations, about treatment decisions. It is the only way to return to the discussion needed by psychiatry to lift itself out of its untruthful public and private posture, to hopefully avoid the moribund state it is moving towards. Business may be booming but more and more, the public is awakening to how sterile the field is. There have been recent articles exposing the myth of chemical imbalances. I wrote about that twenty years ago. It took no brilliance for me to come to that conclusion. Few people who addressed that issue back then agreed with the myth of chemical imbalances. But there was a strange silence about it. The need of the profession to appear on the cutting edge of neurobiology outweighed scientific modesty. While many of today’s critics want to blame Big Pharma for the scandal, we are far from innocent. Psychiatry is not emerging in public awareness with a flattering image. Deserved or not, perhaps it explains why so many people avoid psychiatrists, and discover herbs and Yoga to comfort their troubled souls.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">Once again, I might be wrong in the specifics of how I formulated the cases I used for illustration, but meaningful discussion about that can only take place if there is agreement that psychiatric science is not there yet, not even close to being there. We need debate, a lot of it, more questions, less answers. In psychiatry, considering how much we still don’t understand, our steps forward should be exploratory, investigative, not closed off by the chilling effects of authority<em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">. </em>Meaning “science” should not become an authority. It is the very essence of what science is not. Real scientists operate in an environment of doubt. They continually challenge the given and try to prove their version of the truth will prevail. Only by tearing down and reconstructing knowledge with adequate proof do we move forward.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">The temptation to come up with fake conclusions is always strong. There is no shame in saying “I don’t know” especially when no one knows. Perhaps that is not the way to hold on to patients willing to pay high fees for “experts” in psychopharmacology and it is understandable that many would rather deliver to their patients the certainties authorities have given them. It is corrupt but hey, all those years in medical school and residency training deserve a rich reward. We are all waiting for the day when we have scientifically answered the important mysteries confounding our field today, but until then it is dishonest to act as if that day has arrived.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;"><u style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"> </u></p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;"><strong style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Science, Pharmaceuticals, The Quest for Profits, and My Gratitude to Drug Companies</strong></p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">Lastly, I am not happy pointing out the sleazy aspects of drug companies. I owe my life to them. I am 79. My mother lived to 99. Lipitor ended a consistent streak in our family. Beloved Nature has blessed my whole family with very high cholesterol. My mother’s father was dead at 59, a heart attack on the subway. There were others before him. How many millions of people are alive like us, rescued by statins? Not just statins. There should be a ticker tape parade on Broadway for the scientists at Pfizer and Moderna who developed the Covid vaccines. Millions are alive because of their work in the labs.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">I discovered something strange about this topic. I thought the polarization in our society was mostly about political subjects, that there was far less black and white thinking in other areas. I sent a similar article to this one to a group of people who had written recent articles about the myth of chemical imbalances. Their criticism was blistering but fair enough. However, they went wild when they read I credited drug companies with saving my life. As with other hot topics, the polarizations that characterize our era are too explosive to be handled by exploring the grey. That didn’t capture what they feel is true. They apparently believe societies consist of villains and angels, like the old cowboy movies, the good guys dressed in white the bad guys in black. Nothing good can be said about the guys in black. Their vehemence surprised me.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">I agree that in search of profits drug companies’ marketing department told a lot of fibs, accentuated the positive, downplayed the negative but I don’t know any industry where that isn’t done. Okay it is more serious when health is involved. More than that, the corrupt people in various drug companies were able to corrupt far too many corrupt academicians. It is a multibillion industry. They are willing to pay a lot of money to get willing professors to think the way they want them to think. But frankly, I rarely paid attention to promotional material and lectures coming from drug companies. I was more than willing to eat their donuts at work, receive their free pens, and go to expensive restaurants, and even to a free afternoon ski trip on a bus with all the other psychiatrists in my area in exchange for us listening to their sales promotions from professors they had hired. But I always saw it for what it was. I didn’t understand why so many of my colleagues were taken in by those talks but that is another topic. Nevertheless, in the strange ways of the real world, the focus on profits by businessmen running pharmaceutical companies, yielded results. It paid for the researchers in their labs, the true scientists that have brought us so many life saving meds to fight the horrors, the sicknesses that nature throws at us. So yes, give them hell for their evil doings, but kiss their feet for all the lives they have saved, lives that would have been doomed if the drug companies hadn’t made the money to do their scientific research. They may not be Gods. They aren’t able to walk on water, or part the Red Sea but true science has given us miracles.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><br /></p></div></div>Simon Sobohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02579449711047401565noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2082400290580706324.post-84909946189025811562023-12-06T18:41:00.001-05:002023-12-18T20:20:13.693-05:00<p> </p><h1 style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "PT Serif", TimesNewRoman, "Times New Roman", Times, Baskerville, Georgia, serif; font-size: 36px; line-height: 1.1; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Science Requires Skepticism, Not Consensus</h1><div class="entry-box clearfix" style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 30px 0px 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><div class="html-before-content" style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"></div><div class="entry" style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 30px; vertical-align: baseline;"><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;"> </p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;"><strong style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">This letter to the editor of WSJ appeared March 13th, 2023. It is obviously relevant to our current global warming hysteria, but also to what I have been writing about psychiatry</em></strong></p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;"><strong style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Science Requires Skepticism, Not Consensus</strong></p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;"><em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><strong style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">It is a methodology for attaining the best truth about nature that we can muster at any point in time.</strong></em></p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">The term “science” has been misappropriated, misunderstood and misused often in our discourse, across many issues. It has been misused not only by ideologues, politicians, journalists and interested parties, but also by scientists themselves. Tim Trevan points out the latter admirably in his op-ed “<a href="https://www.wsj.com/articles/how-scientists-got-the-covid-lab-leak-wrong-wuhan-institute-of-virology-wet-market-theory-virus-china-hubei-psychology-hypothesis-99a9481b?mod=article_inline" style="border: 0px; color: #222222; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Why Scientists Got the Covid Lab Leak Wrong</a>” (March 7).</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">Science isn’t a monolith of truth about nature. It is a methodology for attaining the best truth about nature that we can muster at any point in time with facts, observations and experimentation. The prevailing theory on any scientific subject is only as good as all the tests and observations it can withstand. One strong observation or one well-designed experiment with results antithetical to a theory will cast doubt on its universal application, requiring retesting and maybe the theory’s revision or rejection.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">Skepticism, both of one’s own work and that of others, is the fundament of scientific methodology. Remember Galen’s humors, geocentricism and even Einstein’s correction to Newton’s laws of motion? Over many centuries, scientists developed a consensus that each of these theories were the final word—settled science—only to see that consensus dashed by the skeptical methodology of scientific pursuit.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">Consensus plays no part in the logic of scientific discovery. It isn’t part of the methodology. There is no such thing as settled science.</p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><strong style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">James Gottschalk</strong></p></div></div>Simon Sobohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02579449711047401565noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2082400290580706324.post-92100426461291179762023-12-06T18:40:00.001-05:002023-12-18T20:18:47.188-05:00<p> </p><h1 style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "PT Serif", TimesNewRoman, "Times New Roman", Times, Baskerville, Georgia, serif; font-size: 36px; line-height: 1.1; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Mark Twain takes on Cornelius Vanderbilt</h1><aside class="meta" style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #999999; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 12px; margin: 10px 0px 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"></aside><div class="entry-box clearfix" style="background-color: white; border: 0px; color: #222222; font-family: "Open Sans", Tahoma, Verdana, Segoe, sans-serif; font-size: 16px; margin: 30px 0px 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><div class="html-before-content" style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"></div><div class="entry" style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 30px; vertical-align: baseline;"><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;"><em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">“You seem to be the idol of only a crawling swarm of small souls, who love to glorify your most flagrant unworthiness in print or praise your vast possessions worshippingly; or sing of your unimportant private habits and sayings and doings, as if your millions gave them dignity.”</em></p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;"><em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Mark Twain 1869</em></p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;"><strong style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Wait there’s more:</strong></p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">”<i style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Poor Vanderbilt! How I pity you: and this is honest. You are an old man, and ought to have some rest, and yet you have to struggle, and deny yourself, and rob yourself of restful sleep and peace of mind, because you need money so badly. I always feel for a man who is so poverty ridden as you… It isn’t what a man has that constitutes wealth. No–it is to be satisfied with what one has; that is wealth. As long as one sorely needs a certain additional amount, that man isn’t rich. Seventy times seventy millions can’t make him rich, as long as his poor heart is breaking for more. I am just about rich enough to buy the least valuable horse in your stable, perhaps,</i> <i style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">but I cannot sincerely and honestly take an oath that I need any more now. And so I</i><i style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"> am</i><b style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><i style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"> </i></b><i style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">rich. But you, you have got seventy millions and you need five hundred millions, and are really suffering for it. Your poverty is something appalling. I tell you truly that I do not believe I could live twenty-four hours with the awful weight of four hundred and thirty millions of abject </i><i style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">want crushing down upon me. I should die under it. My soul is so wrought upon by your helpless pauperism that if you came to me now, I would freely put ten cents in your tin cup, if you carry one, and say, “God pity you, poor unfortunate.”</i></p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;"><strong style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">A little background. Some historians consider the 3 most famous people of the 19th century to be Twain, Vanderbilt, and Edison. In any case Vanderbilt was constantly in the news. First because he loved to be in the paper, but more importantly, as a poor boy who made good he was the people’s choice. He was one of them. Here is what Vanderbilt says in the novel:</strong></p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;">‘<em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">What a crock of shit. What’s with this guy? He is more involved with me than I am. What else has he written about me?”</em></p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;"><em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"> “I think that’s it.”</em></p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;"><em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"> “Mark my words. He cares about money a lot. I mean a lot. Or, he wouldn’t care so much about me.”</em></p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;"><em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"> “Well you are in the paper all the time. It’s hard not to react.”</em></p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;"><em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">“Yeah but he’s not calling me a show off.”</em></p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;"><em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Vanderbilt sends a wad of phlegm and spit accurately into the spittoon.</em></p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;"><em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"> “One day, this Mark Twain guy is going to go broke. People who love money, but won’t admit it, that’s what happens. They don’t think clearly about what they’re doing. There are more people not worrying who make fucked up money decisions just because they make believe they don’t care. </em></p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;"><em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">I said I am crazy when it comes to money. But, I’m not the only one. I see people all the time like Twain, acting better than other people and all that. Snobs about it. You just know it’s a big lie. Sonia has a cousin like that. He made the craziest decisions. You couldn’t get him to talk about it, like it is not dinnertime talk. But some of the things he did. He’s a lot </em><em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">crazier than me. He couldn’t be sensible making decisions because it drove him too nuts. Tellin’ yah. Twain is going to make crazy money decisions.”</em></p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;"><em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"> “You can’t know that.”</em></p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;"><em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"> “Mark my words.”</em></p><p style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 1em; vertical-align: baseline;"><span style="border: 0px; color: black; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"><strong style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">Clearly Twain was protesting too much. Fact is, our Huck Finn, man of the people, lived a genteel, dandified existence in Hartford, with many servants. He made all kinds of desperate financial decisions which brought about his ruin. So if Vanderbilt had still been around he would have had the last laugh.</strong></span></p></div></div>Simon Sobohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02579449711047401565noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2082400290580706324.post-27582758148832540312007-02-25T13:29:00.035-05:002013-11-02T22:44:17.654-05:00After Lisa<div align="center" class="MsoBodyText2" style="line-height: 200%; margin-left: 4.5pt; text-align: center; text-indent: 31.5pt;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 200%;">Chapter 1<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoBodyText2" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 200%;">Based on a true story<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 13.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 150%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>A sniper, hidden
by a glittering chandelier hanging above the vast towering ceiling of New
York’s Plaza Grand Ballroom, sifts through the opulence with his rifle
sight. He is positioned so high that his rifle looks like a speck
in the filigreed facade.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 150%; margin-bottom: 13.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; line-height: 150%;">His sight goes in and out of focus as, one table at
a time, he moves through the enormous room. Forty-five years old,
tall and fit, dressed in a tuxedo, the rifleman could easily mix with those
below.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText2" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-style: normal; mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">Arriving
at the head table he slowly moves his sight from one person to the
next. The women have spent weeks preparing for tonight. The perfect
shoes, hair, make-up, the right dress- our assassin settles on a stunning
blonde in her thirties wearing serious jewelry. By her side is
Martin MacDonald, a silver-haired man with a jutting chin, and a physique
chiseled at his club.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText2" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-style: normal; mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">MacDonald
has told a joke which the men at the table are finding very funny, the women
less so. He stands up, winks at his wife, and goes to the podium.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText2" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-style: normal; mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">Buoyed
by opportunities that have been opening up for him at an accelerating rate, he
inspires confidence in the audience.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
right man at the right time-they want in on it too.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He was asked to speak tonight because of a
May article in Business Week telling his story. It was the usual, but it never
gets old.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Beginning with an office in
his garage, MacDonald is now unfazed by billion dollar figures. The
audience is there to soak up the details.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Can they replicate the outsized profits he is earning at Liberty Health?<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText2" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-style: normal; mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"> MacDonald’s
boy wonder quality has remained despite it being 25 years since his graduation
from Macalester College, in St Paul, Minnesota. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His second team All American quarterback days
created an enduring aura, as he knew it would.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>But more importantly, running a company with multiplying profits has
kept him young and vigorous.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Despite
being raised by his mother and her scrappy Sicilian brothers, MacDonald
inherited his father’s clan’s Scottish way with money and just as importantly,
his father’s good looks and persona.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Scottish and Sicilian.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Not a
common blend, but it has served him well in the insurance industry.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span> He adjusts the mike, taps it with his
finger a few times.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then he
begins. His voice is strong.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText2" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-style: normal; mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">“My
thanks to the American Insurance Association. I am honored that you are
having me tell you what you already know. We need to stick
together. Stand as one. We share the same mission, to find a way to
deliver health care at a reasonable cost.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>The audience applauds enthusiastically.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText2" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-style: normal; mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">The
rifleman, ever so slowly, ever so softly, scopes MacDonald between his eyes. “Now!”
a voice inside urges. His other side takes charge.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText2" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-style: normal; mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"> He
pulls his rifle back into the utility room above the ceiling. The sight
is fogging up. He wipes off the condensed vapor with his thumb. He
double-checks that everything else is in order. His tightly gloved index
finger rubs over the filed off serial number. He pulls at the ends of his thin
leather gloves to tighten them still further. He cocks the trigger
mechanism: the sound of precision steel snapping into place with a bit of an
echo. He repeats this a second time with military efficiency. He takes a
cartridge case from his pocket and loads.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText2" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-style: normal; mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">Soon
enough he again has MacDonald’s forehead perfectly centered. Carefully,
calmly–he can almost feel the bullet drilling in to the spot, into MacDonald’s
skull.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText2" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-style: normal; mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">There
is a noise somewhere down the hall. The sniper freezes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He listens carefully for another sound.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He soon recognizes the scratching of a busy
mouse. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText2" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-style: normal; mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"> “Stay
with this,” he commands himself.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span>He must follow a series of steps, practiced
so often, that when his eyes and trigger-finger have the target in sight, what
follows is automatic. His finger tightens slowly.
Slowly. He is almost there. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText2" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 200%;"> </span>Macdonald’s wit is knocking the audience
out.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The applause keeps<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>growing, mingled with congenial laughter
from<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>MacDonald’s admirers. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText2" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
laughter agitates the rifleman, stirs up his anger.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText2" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">That puts a halt to everything. During
training they drilled it in.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Don’t act
unless you’re emotionless.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Focus
requires brain silence.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The mind must
disappear as the momentum of the plan closes in on the target.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Anger is the natural emotion before a kill.
It undoes your skill.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He learned the hard
way.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He got excited, furious at an
enemy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He shot wildly, like he had never
learned a thing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Fortunately his
adversaries were even more under the influence of their passions. He got it
done but he could have easily gotten killed, be rotting flesh six feet
under.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Killing is a serious
business.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>There is no room for emotion.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText2" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">Twenty-six years ago, at army sharpshooter
school, the idea was simple.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Repeat
every step again and again, until nothing else is possible other than the next
step. The final decision to kill is not in your control.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is muscle memory.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText2" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">That’s not happening now. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The opposite.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>When things are right, obstacles that may arise are quickly absorbed as
interesting new wrinkles to be<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>patiently
overcome.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Instead, they are rattling
him.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText2" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">His chin tightens, “Focus,” he repeats.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText2" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">He began so determined. Righteous
anger can move mountains. Or drive you crazy until you act.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For months, endless unanswerable questions
had wormed their way through his mind and exhausted him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>First heartbreak, then an endless assignment
of blame.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then insight and clarity.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>All of it completely disappeared once the
specifics of his plan to kill MacDonald<span style="font-style: normal; mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"> took hold of him. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText2" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">The army had taught him how to get it
done.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The plan’s <span style="line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.0pt;">priorities must be clarified, then
every detail exactly executed</span><span style="line-height: 200%;">. </span>He had to find a well camouflaged spot with
perfect vision of the target.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That was
easy. Locate a high range rifle which breaks into 3 parts easily dropped into a
violin case.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>From his former contacts as
a crime reporter years ago, it took only an hour and a half to find someone
selling one.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Everything just fell into
place.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText2" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">He expected that to continue, his way led by
his vision of a successfully carried out mission .<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Finally he was going to get the guy. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText2" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">It isn’t happening.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText2" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">In truth, even in the army it wasn’t simple.
During his sniper training he had no difficulty pulling the trigger. When
he graduated he carried out three missions successfully.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Didn’t have a second thought. Killed who he
was assigned to kill and was pleased with himself.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText2" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">His fourth assignment messed everything
up.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He noticed that his target had red
hair. That did it. His precision, which had been so easily
summoned a moment before, deserted him. His trigger-finger and
eye were no longer one. There was no flow.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText2" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"> It wasn’t a morality thing-no specific
thoughts about right and wrong.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No
thoughts at all.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>But the red hair kept
coming into his mind. After that, he’d miss his target again and again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It ended his short career as a sharpshooter.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When the time came he didn’t reenlist. His
sergeant more or less made certain that was his plan. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText2" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"> Once again our gunman pulls the rifle
back into the utility room. We get a better look at him. He is
sweating. His face is alive with emotion. As opposed to our
initial impression, he is<span style="font-style: normal; mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"> anything but a
professional. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText2" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;">“Take your time,” he commands himself.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Useless. His mind remains scattered .<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="font-style: normal; mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">Drifting thoughts grab his
attention, one after another without rhyme or reason. </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 13.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">He
had imagined the exact instant in detail. Macdonald, bathed in
adulation, just after he’s made a clever observation, the audience smiling,
congratulating itself for being there.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 13.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A split second before the applause
erupts.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></i><span style="line-height: 200%;">Bang!<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 13.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Blood is the perfect punctuation.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 13.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">A single shot.<o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 13.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">Sweet! <o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText2" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="line-height: 200%;"><i>Bang.</i></span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 13.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">It will put them on notice.
Someone’s watching. Someone who <o:p></o:p></span></i></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 13.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">clearly sees what you’re doing. </i> <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText2" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><span style="font-style: normal; mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span><span style="font-style: normal; mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">Like a politician at a
convention, </span><span style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">MacDonald</span><span style="font-style: normal; mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">
ends his talk.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He waves to the audience
.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They shower him with love as he
returns to his table. <o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText2" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-style: normal; mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">Now
will be perfect.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText2" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-style: normal; mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">Now!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText2" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-style: normal; mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">He
doesn’t pull the trigger.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText2" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-style: normal; mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">The
rifleman-we’ll give his name, Michael, quickly adjusts to the new facts.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He’s okay with it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His fantasy about the moment of MacDonald’s
death was self indulgent. The booby prize will be more than
enough. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The joy of catching him at
exactly the right moment isn’t all that important.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>MacDonald, with or without a proud smile, doing
anything, reaching for a French fry, wiping off the ketchup from his lips,
blowing his nose-any of it will be okay.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText2" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-style: normal; mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">Shot
and killed is the main point!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If the
deed gets done, the meaning will get across. Dead is dead.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText2" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-style: normal; mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">This
last thought enables Michael to cool off a bit.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>MacDonald will remain in target range for at least an hour. Later will
be fine.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText2" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-style: normal; mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"> Michael
wipes the sweat off his forehead. He’s hot and clammy all over. He takes
off his tuxedo jacket, sits down on the floor, using a huge cable roll to lean
against. Trying to regain his composure, he closes his eyes and takes
several deep breaths. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText2" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-style: normal; mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">No
luck. He can’t seem to catch his breath. His mind is still all over the
place. Doubts. Memories. More doubts.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Until it settles…<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText2" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText2" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>Twelve years
ago.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Two tents have been pitched at a
clearing high in the mountains.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is a
day to worship the fall foliage, sunny, the air with a bite to it, crisp,
clear, newly cold. </b><span style="mso-bidi-font-weight: bold;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText2" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit;">Far below,
the farm fields form squares of contrasting green color, fall crops of lettuce
and broccoli, waiting to be harvested.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Orange pumpkins are piled high near the corner of one of the squares.
That square is half brown and half orange, half picked and half unpicked. <o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><i><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Twelve years younger Michael Russell is a
devil with light green, deep set eyes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Calm and carefree, he hardly resembles the gunman.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>At 30 Deborah Russell’s striking blonde,
still thick, almost hippie curls are the first thing that catch people’s
attention.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She is petite. She moves like
a cat. The children are adorable. Six-year-old Ritchie is quiet and observant,
seven-year-old Lisa feisty.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They are
lucky. Both have Deborah’s thick, fantastic hair, and Michael’s luminescent
green eyes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Both have their parents’
grace of movement which makes effort silent.<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText2" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit;">Michael is
eight feet up in a tree. He’s taped his brand new Nikon on a limb above
him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Seated on a lower limb, he looks
through the eyepiece at the family portrait he is constructing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He’s in heaven.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He screws a cable in to the camera that he
purchased for this very picture.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The
cable will invisibly run to the spot he has designated for himself.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>With the cable, his thumb will remotely
control the shutter.<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></b><b><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">This shot has been in Michael’s plans for a year. He
told Deborah about it before they arrived.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>It was hatched while they were making their first visit here and Michael
sat on this exact tree trunk, saw this great view as he looked down at Ritchie,
and wished he had his camera.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>This time
he is prepared</i>.</b><b><span style="mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-style: italic;"> <o:p></o:p></span></b></span></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText2" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He moves them to their places, plays with the
shutter speed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Deborah is beginning to
lose her patience. </b><b><span style="font-style: normal;">Lisa, in less than 5
seconds,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>has done enough posing.</span><o:p></o:p></b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b><i>“Dad, how long do we have
to </i></b><b>stand<i>
here?”<o:p></o:p></i></b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><i><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">Happy to have an ally,
Deborah gives Michael an “enough already” look.<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><i><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">“Good things come to those
who wait.”<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><i><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">“Daaad!” <o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><i><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">His fortune cookie wisdom
has never amused her, or for that matter, any of them, especially the second
time around.<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><i><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">“One more second,” he
shouts excitedly.<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><i><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">He will not be
rushed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He studies the shot.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It will be an unusual family portrait. The
Russells look like they are suspended in air, two thousand feet above the
farmland in the valley.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><i><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Quite a picture.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Behind they are regaled by the final glory of
maple trees and oaks preparing for their winter slumber, infinite hues of
orange and red, intersected by brown tree trunks.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Ahead, the vast empty space of<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>the mountaintop, the reason they are
here.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><i><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">“ Okay, everyone stay
where you are.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“ Look up.”<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><i><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">Ritchie breaks ranks.<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><i><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">A little too emphatically
Lisa grabs Ritchie and returns him to his<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>place.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><i><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">“Ouch” he cries out
angrily. <o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><i><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">To deaf ears.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Lisa looks up at her father.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He smiles, his ‘we are partners on a mission’
smile.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She loves that.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><i><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">Still sitting on the limb,
he positions Ritchie first to the right, then Lisa to the left.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then he moves Ritchie left again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Lisa pulls on her brother. “Ritchie! Over
here,”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>she commands.<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><i><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Michael again reminds everyone that they have
to look into the camera.<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><i><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">Lisa is getting more
exasperated.<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><i><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">“Daddy take the picture
already.”<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><i><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They are very close to perfection. He likes
the way Lisa’s arms are thrown around Harry, their mutt.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He likes the way Harry is smiling, half
giddy, panting away, ready for the next bit of action.<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><i><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">“Just one more
minute.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Ritchie could be up a little
higher.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A look from Deborah warns
him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She has a temper.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She has complained to Michael many times
about this kind of thing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Why does she
have to get angry for it to register? <o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><i><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Michael will have to settle for the picture he
has now or get nothing at all.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He
hurriedly fiddles with the cable one last time, then swings down and hangs by
the branch, imitating King Kong.<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><i><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">“Careful,” Deborah shouts.<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><i><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">He drops to the ground
almost bouncing up as he lands. Score one for him against the nay- sayers.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Extending the cable he joins them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><i><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">“Okay everyone, Look up…
Cheese”.”<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><i><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">They shout, “Carrot
juice.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“Carrot juice” has become a
tradition since it made them laugh the first time. This time is no exception.
He clicks.<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-outline-level: 1; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><i><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">“Okay, one
more”<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><i><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">It is the signal the kids
have been waiting for.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They are outta
there.<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><i><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">“Wait!” he yells<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><i><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">Lisa yells back ,“No way.”<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><i><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">Ritchie imitates Lisa.<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><i><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">“Yeah. No way.” <o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><i><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">Happy noise: laughter,
barking, Ritchie emits a wssssss, the airplane sound he makes when he flies his
model plane. Chin level he wsssses past Lisa.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>She drops her coat to the ground, spreads her arms wide so that they
resemble airplane wings, and takes off.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>She shouts to Ritchie.<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><i><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">“Catch me.”<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><i><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He reverses course and runs with his airplane
after her as she circles the campfire. Then Lisa turns around and with arms
still held wide, she makes Ritchie’s wsssss sound and chases Ritchie.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Harry comes into the picture.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They join forces, two wssssers united,
chasing Harry.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He gallops far away. Lisa
shouts for him to return. He barks at her from a distance.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><i><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">She once again runs around
the fire.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Harry watches, continuing to
bark.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Lisa calls to him.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He returns to chase her, finally catching
her,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>jumping on her back, a perfect
tackle.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She screams happily as he
brings her down.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Ritchie simply stands
and watches them with a big fat grin.<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><i><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">The campfire is dying
down, the sun is low in the sky. The children are still going, but it won’t be
long until exhaustion takes over.<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><i><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Deborah yells for them to come to her, which
they do without a protest.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It has become
routine.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Putting a dab of toothpaste on
each toothbrush, she hands the yellow tipped one to Lisa and the green tipped
to Ritchie. Lisa inspects hers to be sure she’s been given the right
toothbrush.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She holds it up.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>From a canteen Deborah pours water on her
brush, then does the same for Ritchie.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>They get to work. Ritchie hums as he goes.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Lisa is a more competent brusher.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Soon however, they are making more noise than
actually brushing.<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><i><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">“Okay enough.” Deborah
orders them.<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<b><i><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>She hands Lisa the canteen for a swig
of water.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Lisa gargles noisily then
spits it out, aiming for the longest distance.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>She enjoys the idea of spitting on the ground.<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><i><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">It’s Ritchie’s turn.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He gargles and spits not nearly as far as
Lisa.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As compensation Ritchie sticks his
toe on Lisa’s wet spot for good measure.<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><i><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">Deborah’s voice breaks
through their procrastination. They know perfectly well what comes after
brushing their teeth.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They deliver their
toothbrushes to Deborah.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They love the
absoluteness of the rules in this routine.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Like a game of Monopoly, “Go to Jail, Go directly to Jail. Do not pass
Go.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Do not collect two hundred dollars.”
<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><i><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">The excitement is only
possible if you don’t ask why, why do I have to go to jail.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Why can’t I collect $200 dollars.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Why?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>No why’s are allowed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No why’s
are needed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>The fun comes from totally
living within Monopoly.<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><i><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">“Okay.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>March to the tent.”<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><i><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">They march.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>When they get to the entrance she calls to
them.<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><i><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">“About face.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><i><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">They do so with military
precision.<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><i><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">“Wow. Do that again.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>No wait.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Let me call Daddy.”<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><i><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">She shouts from some
distance away, “Michael”<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><i><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">He shouts back, “What?”<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><i><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">“Watch this.”<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><i><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">Happy marionettes. They
repeat their about-face.<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><i><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">“That’s cool.”<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><i><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">She yells to him,<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“I’ll be there soon.”<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><i><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">She turns to the kids,
“Okay.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>In your tent.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’ll come in to kiss you good night in a
minute.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><i><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">No protest.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Sleeping in the tent is a treat.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Off they go.<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><i><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">Deborah washes their
toothbrushes while listening to the crackling timbers in the fire.<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><i><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">She shouts to
Michael.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He waves from the distance.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She inches her skirt little by little up her
long legs.<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><i><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">She definitely has his
attention.<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><i><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He loves her legs. He’s told her many times
that he married her for her legs.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She
swims miles at the YMCA pool every other day to keep them<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>that way.<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><i><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">She enters the children’s
tent, picks their clothes up and folds them. They are excited. This is a
treat.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Normally they sleep alone in
their rooms at home. They are sitting side by side with their legs in their
sleeping bags.<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><i><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Lisa is wearing a ring that Deborah had found
in her mother’s attic and sized to fit Lisa.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>She was told that it belonged to her grandmother’s great aunt, a beauty
who had never married. The ring had been given to her by a young man who was
killed in a duel for her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She remained
true, wore the ring for the rest of her life, never marrying.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Deborah told the story to Lisa when she gave
it to her.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Lisa wouldn’t take it off
even when she took her bath.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She loved
that story. <o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><i><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">Lisa hands her ring to
Ritchie, “Put it on tonight. It means we are married.”<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><i><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">Ritchie counters, “I can’t
marry my sister.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Right Mommy?”<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><i><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">“Make believe,” Lisa
argues.<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><i><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">The boss interrupts.<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><i><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">“Come on guys.”<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><i><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">Lisa ceremoniously puts
the ring on his finger.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Ritchie lies
back, enchanted with the thought of being Lisa’s husband.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><i><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">Deborah snaps him out of
it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She has him slide further into the
bag and zips him up.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Next Lisa.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Deborah looks into her eyes. Her lips are
parted.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As Lisa brings her arms inside
her bag and Deborah zippers her up they smile at each other.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Deborah gives each a kiss.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As soon as Deborah leaves the tent, giggling
excitedly, Ritchie and Lisa give each other a look of complicity.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Lisa unzips and flashes her hidden Hershey
Bar. <o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><i><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She puts her finger in front of her lips.
“Shhh.”<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;"><!--[if gte vml 1]><v:shapetype
id="_x0000_t75" coordsize="21600,21600" o:spt="75" o:preferrelative="t"
path="m@4@5l@4@11@9@11@9@5xe" filled="f" stroked="f">
<v:stroke joinstyle="miter"/>
<v:formulas>
<v:f eqn="if lineDrawn pixelLineWidth 0"/>
<v:f eqn="sum @0 1 0"/>
<v:f eqn="sum 0 0 @1"/>
<v:f eqn="prod @2 1 2"/>
<v:f eqn="prod @3 21600 pixelWidth"/>
<v:f eqn="prod @3 21600 pixelHeight"/>
<v:f eqn="sum @0 0 1"/>
<v:f eqn="prod @6 1 2"/>
<v:f eqn="prod @7 21600 pixelWidth"/>
<v:f eqn="sum @8 21600 0"/>
<v:f eqn="prod @7 21600 pixelHeight"/>
<v:f eqn="sum @10 21600 0"/>
</v:formulas>
<v:path o:extrusionok="f" gradientshapeok="t" o:connecttype="rect"/>
<o:lock v:ext="edit" aspectratio="t"/>
</v:shapetype><v:shape id="Picture_x0020_1" o:spid="_x0000_i1025" type="#_x0000_t75"
style='width:247pt;height:202pt;visibility:visible;mso-wrap-style:square'>
<v:imagedata src="file://localhost/Users/simonsobo/Library/Caches/TemporaryItems/msoclip/0clip_image001.png"
o:title=""/>
</v:shape><![endif]--><!--[if !vml]--><img height="204" src="file://localhost/Users/simonsobo/Library/Caches/TemporaryItems/msoclip/0clip_image002.gif" v:shapes="Picture_x0020_1" width="249" /><!--[endif]--></i></b><b><i><o:p></o:p></i></b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><i><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Their arms disappear inside their bags. <o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><i><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>From outside the tent Deborah warns them.<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-outline-level: 1; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><i><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">“Shh…”<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><i><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">They giggle again. Deborah
sticks her head back in the tent.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They
let out a startled scream.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then more
giggles.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Deborah sees the chocolate bar
but pretends she hasn’t.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After it
disappears under the cover she points her finger at them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Gives them a "that's enough"
face.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They settle down quickly.<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><i><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">Smiling, Deborah walks
away and settles by the fire.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She
listens carefully.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Every once in a while
she thinks she hears an animal stepping on a twig.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A cougar jumps out of the darkness!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She reassures herself that it is her
imagination. She feels a chill. She puts on a sweatshirt and gets closer to the
fire.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She sits on a boulder, lights a
joint, unwinds, stares into space, calming herself with the quiet. <o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><i><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>After 10 minutes she reenters the children’s
tent. They are asleep. Her eyes embrace them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>She listens to their gentle breathing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Lisa coughs. Deborah continues to listen. Lisa’s breathing is clear.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>As she parts the door flap of the tent she
can make out Michael 100 yards away`.<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><i><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">He is literally seated on
the edge of the cliff, where they took the picture thousands of feet above the
valley. The ledge is tilted slightly downward. Deborah appears.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She is feeling the marijuana, grinning like a
happy child, stoned happy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><i><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">She approaches carefully,
gripping the rock with her strong fingernails for extra traction as she slides
next to him. <o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><i><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She almost slips, but quickly recovers. <o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><i><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">“Wo.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>That was close,” he says with concern.<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><i><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">“I’m all right.’<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She examines her finger.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“I broke a nail.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><i><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">She sits close to him,
looks straight out. <o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><i><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">“How is your book going?
How’s Cornelius?”<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><i><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">“Amazing- as always.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What a guy.”<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><i><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">‘I still don’t get what’s
so interesting about Vandebilt?”<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><i><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">“I guess because he came
from nothing.”<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><i><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">“But two years on this
guy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s like he’s part of our family.
Truthfully I think he’s a macho schmuck.”<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><i><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">“ You don’t know anything
about him.” <o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><i><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">“Is that what you really
wanted to be, a macho guy who wins all the time?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>You know that means everyone else loses?” <o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><i><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">“Yeah, but it must be nice
to win all the time.”<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><i><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">“Don’t know how I landed
up with someone like you.”<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><i><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">You don’t want to win? <o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><i><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">“ I don’t get it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Yeah I hate to lose, but win.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I don’t think about it much.<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><i><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Truthfully you got a bad case of it.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She tells him that with a superior tone which
he hates every time he hears it.<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><i><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">“Debby” he utters in a
warning tone.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><i><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">They both stop.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Time out.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>They have learned to be quiet when the tension starts to build. She
bites her lip a bit.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He looks straight
ahead. <o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><i><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Far away the sunset has begun.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They stare at it dreamily, embracing the
clouds now painted with color.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Beyond is
the distant line where the sky touches the ground. A soft whistling wind is
occasionally punctuated by ospreys calling out their dominance over the valley
below. <o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><i><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">The minutes pass
intensely, felt in their fingers, in the air going in and out of their lungs,
but mainly in their vision which grips them- the sky saturated with the
deepening colors. <o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><i><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>” This is our fourth year.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>How did we find this place? Remind me.”
Deborah asks.<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><i><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">“Joe told me about it.” <o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><i><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">“Well he’s good for
something. Is Joe still giving you a hard time about your Exxon story?”<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><i><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">“Not as much.”<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><i><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">“Doesn’t surprise me.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s a good story.”<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><i><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">Again they are silent
until Deborah laughs to herself.<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><i><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">“What?”<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><i><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">“Something Amy said.”<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><i><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">“What?”<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><i><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">“She said in a past life
you must have been Japanese. Your perfectionism. Always trying to take it to
the next level.”<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><i><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">“Do you think so?”<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><i><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">They both know it is true.
Neither understands it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He is forever
reaching for the ultimate.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He can’t help
himself- the ultimate truth, the ultimate lie, the ultimate orgasm, the
ultimate rose, the ultimate truffle flavored anything, the ultimate barbecued
beef, cranberry soda, the ultimate view. <o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><i><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">Whatever he likes, he
wants to bring to the next level.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>And when
he gets there he wants something better. “ Why not?” he asks.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>“If you are alive why not want the best there
is, just so that you know what that is like?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>Greed she calls it. Deprivation, he explains, but understanding will not
change it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It is simply a given.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">What they are seeing</i></b><b><i><span style="line-height: 200%;"> isn’t just the pot. The sun is, in fact, <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>huge, the sky orange with hints of red.
Beyond the farms, high sea grasses define a creek which leads to an
inlet. From there the ocean. </span></i></b><b><span style="line-height: 200%;"> </span></b><b><i><o:p></o:p></i></b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><i><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Off to the right, leaves dance in the fading
orange light, which ever so slowly is changing to a reddish hue.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Very, very far away a tractor, looking like
a toy, moves slowly along, leaving mounds of dirt looking like anthills, its
driver a tiny dot. <o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><i><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Her body feels buoyant.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>For a moment she almost feels like she is
floating. Is it the pot or the thin air?<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><i><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A cool crisp breeze blows across their
foreheads, as a sliver of red sun shimmers at the very edge of the
horizon.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Then it disappears. They exhale
in appreciation.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He hands her a plastic
cup of wine.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He is excited by a new
thought.<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><i><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">“I can see why they used
to worship the sun.”<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><i><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">“Who are they?” She loves
to tweak him when he becomes child like.<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><i><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">“Ancient people. People
who lived outside. Not knowing how things work, not knowing things through
books, just what’s in front of them, the sun, huge, hot.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Or cold on a winter day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Completely gone on a cloudy day.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Can you imagine that?”<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><i><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">She is elsewhere.<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><i><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">“Sorry.”<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><i><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He doesn’t pause for a breath. <o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><i><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">“For someone in that state
of mind the sun is in charge. Happy moods on bright sunny days .<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Dark moods on grey winter mornings.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If you’re trying to make sense of things, worshipping
it makes perfect sense.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>What else is a
god if not something powerful that control things.”<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><i><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">She stays silent.<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><i><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">“ Except you can see the
sun!<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>It’s actually there.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>I’d be a worshipper<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>if I lived back then.<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><i><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">She says nothing. He is
stirred up.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His voice has become
louder.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Michael and God, not the makings
of a peaceful evening,<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><i><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He’s close to blasphemy.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A Jew is not allowed to flirt with ancient
gods.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Michael hasn’t been righteous
since his teen years.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He’s long since
blasted away at God in his mind and in conversations.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His heart is unmoved by the rituals his
parents practiced.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Still, blasphemy is blasphemy.
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He knows he is close. That has been part
of his giddiness.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>His voice becomes
quiet and respectful, almost humble.<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><i><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">“God’s done a pretty good
job here,” he tells Deborah.<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><i><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">She smiles, acknowledging
the thought.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Saying that calms him a
bit.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He feels better when he is on<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>better terms with Yahweh, the God he’s
certain doesn’t exist.<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><i><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He holds up his cup. It is the weekend of Rosh
Hashanah.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><i><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">“To the big guy in the
sky.”<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b><i><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He points his wine glass at<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Deborah” </i></b><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i><span style="line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.0pt;">Shana Tova</span></i></b><i><span style="line-height: 200%;">” </span></i><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i><span style="line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.0pt;">( a good year)</span></i></b><b><i><o:p></o:p></i></b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><i><span style="line-height: 200%;">“</span></i><b style="mso-bidi-font-weight: normal;"><i><span style="line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.0pt;">Shana Tova</span></i></b><b><i>” she repeats.<o:p></o:p></i></b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-left: .5in; text-indent: 3.0pt;">
<b><i><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">Deborah holds her cup up,
points to where the sun has descended.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>“To the Sun God.”<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><i><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">He gulps the wine.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>She sips it. A gust of howling wind can be
heard in the distance.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>Leaves fly in the
air in front of them. A moment later stillness returns.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>They smile at each other, lucky to be a
witness to “His” magic.<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><i><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">She points skyward
straight above his head.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>A sliver of the
moon is already visible.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>He turns
around.<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><i><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">She whispers, “To the god
who owns the night with a whisper.”<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><i><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">“Only one god allowed.”<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><i><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">“Come on.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>If there is a sun go there is a moon god”<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><i><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">He smiles<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><i><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">She opens her arms.<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><i><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">“Come here Mr.
Vanderbilt.”<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
<!--[if !mso]>
<style>
v\:* {behavior:url(#default#VML);}
o\:* {behavior:url(#default#VML);}
w\:* {behavior:url(#default#VML);}
.shape {behavior:url(#default#VML);}
</style>
<![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
<o:DocumentProperties>
<o:Revision>0</o:Revision>
<o:TotalTime>0</o:TotalTime>
<o:Pages>1</o:Pages>
<o:Words>7797</o:Words>
<o:Characters>44449</o:Characters>
<o:Company>Simon Sobo, M.D.</o:Company>
<o:Lines>370</o:Lines>
<o:Paragraphs>104</o:Paragraphs>
<o:CharactersWithSpaces>52142</o:CharactersWithSpaces>
<o:Version>14.0</o:Version>
</o:DocumentProperties>
<o:OfficeDocumentSettings>
<o:PixelsPerInch>96</o:PixelsPerInch>
</o:OfficeDocumentSettings>
</xml><![endif]-->
<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
<w:WordDocument>
<w:View>Normal</w:View>
<w:Zoom>0</w:Zoom>
<w:TrackMoves>false</w:TrackMoves>
<w:TrackFormatting/>
<w:PunctuationKerning/>
<w:ValidateAgainstSchemas/>
<w:SaveIfXMLInvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid>
<w:IgnoreMixedContent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent>
<w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText>
<w:DoNotPromoteQF/>
<w:LidThemeOther>EN-US</w:LidThemeOther>
<w:LidThemeAsian>JA</w:LidThemeAsian>
<w:LidThemeComplexScript>X-NONE</w:LidThemeComplexScript>
<w:Compatibility>
<w:BreakWrappedTables/>
<w:SnapToGridInCell/>
<w:WrapTextWithPunct/>
<w:UseAsianBreakRules/>
<w:DontGrowAutofit/>
<w:SplitPgBreakAndParaMark/>
<w:EnableOpenTypeKerning/>
<w:DontFlipMirrorIndents/>
<w:OverrideTableStyleHps/>
</w:Compatibility>
<m:mathPr>
<m:mathFont m:val="Cambria Math"/>
<m:brkBin m:val="before"/>
<m:brkBinSub m:val="--"/>
<m:smallFrac m:val="off"/>
<m:dispDef/>
<m:lMargin m:val="0"/>
<m:rMargin m:val="0"/>
<m:defJc m:val="centerGroup"/>
<m:wrapIndent m:val="1440"/>
<m:intLim m:val="subSup"/>
<m:naryLim m:val="undOvr"/>
</m:mathPr></w:WordDocument>
</xml><![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
<w:LatentStyles DefLockedState="false" DefUnhideWhenUsed="true"
DefSemiHidden="true" DefQFormat="false" DefPriority="99"
LatentStyleCount="276">
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="0" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" QFormat="true" Name="Normal"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="9" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" QFormat="true" Name="heading 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="9" QFormat="true" Name="heading 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="9" QFormat="true" Name="heading 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="9" QFormat="true" Name="heading 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="9" QFormat="true" Name="heading 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="9" QFormat="true" Name="heading 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="9" QFormat="true" Name="heading 7"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="9" QFormat="true" Name="heading 8"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="9" QFormat="true" Name="heading 9"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" Name="toc 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" Name="toc 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" Name="toc 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" Name="toc 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" Name="toc 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" Name="toc 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" Name="toc 7"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" Name="toc 8"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" Name="toc 9"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="0" Name="footer"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="35" QFormat="true" Name="caption"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="10" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" QFormat="true" Name="Title"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="1" Name="Default Paragraph Font"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="0" Name="Body Text"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="0" Name="Body Text Indent"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="11" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" QFormat="true" Name="Subtitle"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="0" Name="Body Text 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="22" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" QFormat="true" Name="Strong"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="20" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" QFormat="true" Name="Emphasis"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="0" Name="Plain Text"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="59" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Table Grid"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Placeholder Text"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="1" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" QFormat="true" Name="No Spacing"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Light Shading"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Light List"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Light Grid"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Shading 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Shading 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium List 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium List 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Grid 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Grid 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Grid 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Dark List"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Colorful Shading"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Colorful List"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Colorful Grid"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Light Shading Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Light List Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Light Grid Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Shading 1 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Shading 2 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium List 1 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Revision"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="34" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" QFormat="true" Name="List Paragraph"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="29" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" QFormat="true" Name="Quote"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="30" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" QFormat="true" Name="Intense Quote"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium List 2 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Grid 1 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Grid 2 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Grid 3 Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Dark List Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Colorful Shading Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Colorful List Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Colorful Grid Accent 1"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Light Shading Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Light List Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Light Grid Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Shading 1 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Shading 2 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium List 1 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium List 2 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Grid 1 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Grid 2 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Grid 3 Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Dark List Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Colorful Shading Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Colorful List Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Colorful Grid Accent 2"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Light Shading Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Light List Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Light Grid Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Shading 1 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Shading 2 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium List 1 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium List 2 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Grid 1 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Grid 2 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Grid 3 Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Dark List Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Colorful Shading Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Colorful List Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Colorful Grid Accent 3"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Light Shading Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Light List Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Light Grid Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Shading 1 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Shading 2 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium List 1 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium List 2 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Grid 1 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Grid 2 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Grid 3 Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Dark List Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Colorful Shading Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Colorful List Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Colorful Grid Accent 4"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Light Shading Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Light List Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Light Grid Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Shading 1 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Shading 2 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium List 1 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium List 2 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Grid 1 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Grid 2 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Grid 3 Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Dark List Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Colorful Shading Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Colorful List Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Colorful Grid Accent 5"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="60" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Light Shading Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="61" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Light List Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="62" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Light Grid Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="63" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Shading 1 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="64" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Shading 2 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="65" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium List 1 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="66" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium List 2 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="67" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Grid 1 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="68" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Grid 2 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="69" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Medium Grid 3 Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="70" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Dark List Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="71" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Colorful Shading Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="72" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Colorful List Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="73" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" Name="Colorful Grid Accent 6"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="19" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" QFormat="true" Name="Subtle Emphasis"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="21" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" QFormat="true" Name="Intense Emphasis"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="31" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" QFormat="true" Name="Subtle Reference"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="32" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" QFormat="true" Name="Intense Reference"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="33" SemiHidden="false"
UnhideWhenUsed="false" QFormat="true" Name="Book Title"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="37" Name="Bibliography"/>
<w:LsdException Locked="false" Priority="39" QFormat="true" Name="TOC Heading"/>
</w:LatentStyles>
</xml><![endif]-->
<!--[if gte mso 10]>
<style>
/* Style Definitions */
table.MsoNormalTable
{mso-style-name:"Table Normal";
mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0;
mso-tstyle-colband-size:0;
mso-style-noshow:yes;
mso-style-priority:99;
mso-style-parent:"";
mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt;
mso-para-margin:0in;
mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt;
mso-pagination:widow-orphan;
font-size:10.0pt;
font-family:Cambria;}
</style>
<![endif]-->
<!--StartFragment-->
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b><i><span style="line-height: 200%;"><br clear="all" style="page-break-before: always;" />
</span></i></b>
</span><br />
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-align: center; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><i><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">Chapter 2<o:p></o:p></span></i></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"> Two hands
slap at an overturned card, a jack. Lisa and Ritchie try to out shout each
other. Michael watches quietly.<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">“Slapjack!”<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">Ritchie, now eleven, is
sitting on twelve-year-old Lisa’s hospital bed. Both want to win badly. Happy rock n’ roll
plays in the background. Lisa has
mastered her bubble gum, cracking it emphatically, rhythmically, repeatedly
blowing small bubbles then sucking them in. With one hand behind her back, she
draws the next card.<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">Ritchie fakes slapping the
pack. Lisa, just in time, freezes her
hand. He points at it.<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">“You moved your hand.”<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">She shakes her head, “No!”<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">“You did!”<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">They prepare for the next
draw. Lisa sneaks a look at the covered card. Another jack! Keeping a poker
face she uncovers it. She beats Ritchie’s slap, smiles triumphantly.<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">Ritchie is not happy.<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">“You cheated. You snuck a look.”<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">“I did not.”<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">“You did. I saw you.”<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">“Daddy!<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">“Leave me out of it.”<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">She brings the back of her
hand to her chest, swallows hard with a little too much theatre. Ritchie
suspects this might be a ploy, but by the second swallow it looks like she is
fighting nausea. Concerned, he looks at his father for reassurance.
Another tentative swallow. She gags.
This is clearly not under her control. Michael, who has been reading, comes to
life.<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">“You okay?”<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">She smiles at him a bit
tearfully but then her discomfort passes as quickly as it came. In very short
time, her mischievous grin takes over as she imitates the sound of a drum roll
as she prepares to turn over the next card.
Ritchie protests the drum roll. He is not amused.<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">“Stop,” he orders.<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">Deborah noisily enters the
room. Lisa doesn’t look up. For a
crucial moment she tries to stay with her game.
Finally she gives in.<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">As Deborah’s mother once
did to her, Deborah moves the back of her hand across Lisa’s forehead, then
puts her cheek against it, checking her
temperature. “How’s the patient?” she asks cheerfully, as she deposits some
bags of snacks on a chair.<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"> “Is the food any better in the cafeteria? What they bring me here sucks.”<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">Deborah glares at Lisa.
She doesn’t like that kind of talk.
Lisa’s eyes drop. Michael tosses a bag of potato chips to her. Deborah tries to intercept it.<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"> “Doctor said only hospital food.”<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">Lisa throws it back to her
father, “I wasn’t hungry anyway.”<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">Ritchie moves off to the
corner of the room. He pretends to be busy shuffling his deck of cards, but he
is watching everything.<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">Deborah again touches
Lisa’s brow with the back of her hand.<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"> “She definitely has a fever.”<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">“Again?”<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">“I’m pretty sure. Here, feel her brow.”<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">Michael ignores her and
plops into a chair by the bedside. He
takes the TV remote and puts on the New York Jets. <o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">Deborah strokes Lisa
forehead.<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">“Are you okay?”<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">“No different.”<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">“Does anything hurt?”<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">“It’s the same Mom, the
same. Stop asking me. That’s the hundredth
time you’ve asked today.”<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">“When did they bring your
medicine? Michael, check with the
nurse.”<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">He reluctantly starts to
get out of his chair. Lisa intervenes.<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-outline-level: 1; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">“Mom. This is a big game. Ritchie you go.”<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">Ritchie goes forward with
his task. He leaves the room and heads
towards the nursing station. The once
grand hospital is showing its age. The corridors have been scrubbed and
scrubbed, but the marble trim around passageways has passed the point of a pleasant
ivory toned patina to simply looking brown and dingy. The high ceilings seem to amplify the cold
creepy institutional feeling. Ritchie
shuffles down the hall. He shoots a look in the first room he encounters. A doctor and two assistants are busy
preparing for a procedure. He catches
the eye of seven-year-old Billy sitting up on his bed.<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">“Hey Billy.”<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="line-height: 200%;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"> Billy,
pale and clearly ill, points his index finger at him, pretending to shoot a
gun. Ritchie returns the gesture. The
door closes. Ritchie moves on down the
hall when suddenly Billy’s scream rips through the quiet. <o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-outline-level: 1; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">“OWWWWW”<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoFooter" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b> “</b><b>It won’t hurt…It won’t hurt. I promise you. Stay
still.” <o:p></o:p></b></span></div>
<div class="MsoFooter" style="line-height: 200%;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"> Then another scream is heard all over the
ward, this one from a scalpel, slicing through Billy’s flesh. In her room, Lisa looks at her father. She squeezes her mother’s hand. <o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoFooter" style="line-height: 200%;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">
Again Billy screams ,. “You said it wouldn’t hurt. You said it wouldn’t
hurt. You promised.”<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-outline-level: 1; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"> “Hold him still. I can’t do this if he keeps
moving.”<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b><span style="line-height: 200%;"><br clear="all" style="mso-special-character: line-break; page-break-before: always;" />
</span></b>
</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-outline-level: 1; text-align: center;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">CHAPTER 3<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div align="center" class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-outline-level: 1; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">As soon as they return
from the hospital to their fifth floor West 70<sup>th</sup> Street apartment,
Ritchie goes to his room. Michael turns
on the Jets game in the living room. Deborah settles by the window that looks
out at the asphalt playground five stories below. It is late afternoon but the
children’s energy has not let up. From up high their screams are soothing, like
birds chirping in the countryside, each with a different call, talking back and
forth to each other through the airwaves.
Laughter, anger, silliness, pleading, a little boy’s voice over and over
in Spanish, “Mira! Mira,” then another and another, “Higher…” “Get away….” “Stop that Joey...” Then a mother, “Get over
here… Now!”<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"> When she was playground age Lisa used to call
Deborah over to this window. Within
seconds their coats were on and they were on their way out. They both loved that about the apartment- the
nicest view in town, the playground right below them.<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-bottom: 13.0pt; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b> Leaning against the windowsill, Deborah looks
for little Maria and her mother. She’s been drawn to Maria ever since she heard
her screams, punctuated with laughter.
Frightened squeals as her mother pushed her to the highest point,
laughter as she came swooping down. That soon changed. “Higher, higher” she shouted, as she glided
back to earth for her mother to send her flying again. Then quiet determination as, by herself, she
kicked harder and harder, pumping to swing to the highest point possible. Like Lisa, when she tries it is with total
abandonment as she reaches for her goal. </b><b><span style="line-height: 200%; mso-bidi-font-family: Georgia; mso-bidi-font-size: 13.0pt;">A week after that came stunts, standing on the swing, first on
two legs then one, anything to revive her apprehension and conquest of her
fear. </span></b><b><o:p></o:p></b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">Tonight Maria is not
there. Deborah settles on a different child who is swinging calmly,
ritualistically performing exactly the same kick every time. It’s not enough distraction. Billy’s cries from the hospital sneak back
into her mind. She stands in front of
Michael blocking his view of the Jets game.
<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">He tries to see around
her. When that doesn’t work he looks up.
<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">“It’s the fourth quarter.“<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">That doesn’t go over too
well with Deborah. She glares at him just
short of fury. He mutes the TV sound
with his remote. She waits for his full attention. She still doesn’t have it. It’s her or the Jets. Not much competition when the score is 7-7 in
the fourth quarter.<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"> “Enjoying the game?” she asks, heavy with
sarcasm.<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"> No sooner is that out of her mouth than she
regrets coming across so strongly. <o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">“Debby, just tell me what
you want.”<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">She’s been doing that a
lot, starting badly. Already he’s pissed
off. But nothing compared to her. She can’t stand the way Michael leaves her
during Jet games. Her father did the same thing with the Giants. He tuned
everyone out except her sister Doreen, always her father’s favorite. Her mother couldn’t stand football Sundays either. <o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"> In the earliest years when the current of
Deborah and Michael’s love was powerful, there was no wrong moment, no good
time or bad time to talk to him. There
was no right way or wrong way to say what she had to say. She commanded Michael’s attention effortlessly and he got it on the first try. That is long gone.<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .25in;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">“I want to take Lisa out
of the hospital.”<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .25in;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"> She sees Michael’s eyes move closer together,
fire coming out of them. That silences
her. She returns to the window. She breathes a sigh of relief. Maria’s there. <o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .25in;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"> Lately, Maria’s one of the few people
Deborah can connect to. Anne has grown
impatient with her. “You gotta get
yourself together. Get out more. You
can’t let this get the best of you.”
Laura’s the opposite, over solicitous, talking in a droopy “poor
Deborah” voice, which depresses Deborah even more each time she sees her. <o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .25in;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">Cheap encouragement from
anyone has started to make her angry.
She gets a lot of that. It’s no
ones fault. What else can people do? They mean well. Practically anything they
might try would not work. Still it’s a
disappointment. She always knew her
friendships were wanting, but not to this extent. She thought there was more there, that if
they really tried they could get through to her. That’s what Michael believes. But then he hasn’t been close to anyone since
college.<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .25in;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">Most of the time she finds
it easier to be alone. At least then she
can feel what she feels without the added concern of whether or not she is
being creepy by being so morbid about Lisa.
When people ask about Lisa, her
answers must stay short. They have
politely registered concern. She has her
part to play. “Fine. Thank you for asking.” That’s it.
Anything more and, invariably, she is
upset by the interchange.<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .25in;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">Too often she crosses the
line. It makes others fidgety. The more
desperate Deborah feels the shorter the time to that line becomes. It can upset her for hours as she goes over the conversation again and again. Has
she been a creep? Michael says that’s
how you find out who is your real friend, how much leeway they allow you. When she goes too far with Michael they may
quarrel, but she doesn’t have to worry that he’ll stop calling. He’s a given.<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .25in;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">Maria has bumped it up to
still another level. Standing on the
swing, holding on to the ropes, she lifts her body into the air. Deborah erupted when Lisa tried that. Grabbed her.
Lectured her. It didn’t stop her.
Michael liked that wildness in Lisa.
He took credit for it.<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .25in;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">Deborah’s voice is
calm. She speaks from the window. Anticipating Michael’s reaction she doesn’t
look at him.<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .25in;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">“Amy told me about her
cousin who also had a lymphoma. Everyone
said nothing could be done… She took shark cartilage. They’ve used it in China for thousands of
years.” <o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .25in;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">He does his eye rolling thing. “Yin and yang is just not going to cut
it. Lisa’s not going to be treated with
health foods.”<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .25in;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">“It’s natural.”<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"> “Oh
Jesus. I hate buzzwords?” <o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"> “Oh!
Daddy has spoken.” <o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"> “Here
we go. Not tonight Debby. You want to fight, fine, but no
politics. We are talking about Lisa…” <o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">
“Lisa!” he repeats.<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"> Her
eyes move to the park. To Maria. She was a pip squeak when she was 3. How she’s grown! Giving her mother a run for her money. Deborah regroups, looks him straight in the
eye.<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">“I’m not going to let them
torture her.”<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"> “<i>Torture?</i> Debby. <i>Torture?</i>” He fumbles with the remote
control. He hates the drama queen in
her.<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">She repeats. “They’re not going to torture Lisa.”<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">“Come on,” He answers
emphatically. As usual that
doesn’t work.<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"> “God only knows what they were doing to Billy
today. I swear. They get off on it.”<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">He says nothing.<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">“The needles they stick
into Lisa are nothing. It’s when they
can’t find a vein, when they cut into her arm.”
She continues. “They make her
swallow disgusting stuff. Foul tasting
syrups. Yesterday it was a plastic tube.
She has trouble with pills. A tube?
Where do they come up with this stuff? Tell me. What stupid person dreams these procedures
up?”<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">“These stupid people are
mostly Harvard trained.”<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">“Oh Harvard. Mr. Harvard.
There are fewer sadists at Harvard.
Right? People are really nice
there, soft spoken, nice.” <o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">She takes a breath then
continues. “Did it ever occur to you
that maybe all that bookishness makes for better ways to torture children? They finally get to do something besides read.”<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">He says nothing. He knows what’s coming.<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .25in;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"> “Leopold and Loeb. Turned on by Dostoyevsky. Brilliant.
The two of them bored out of their minds. Bored silly. Willing to try anything. That
brings out the animal. Attacking their
prey, anyone weak enough to put up with their shit. Meaning killing a baby.”<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .25in;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">“Jesus! Come on!”<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .25in;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">“It’s true.”<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"> “Dr.
Clark doesn’t have time to get bored.”<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"> She
won’t let it go. “You think being smart
makes people nicer.” She looks him
straight in the eye. “It just makes for better bullshit.”<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-style: italic;">She’s
said all of this before. Many times. Her
ferocity evens the fight against
Michael’s education. At first, it got to
him. Not any longer. He waits for what is coming next.<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">The phone rings. It is Michael’s mother. They both get on.<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">“How are the two of you
holding up?”<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">“We’re okay.”<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">“Anything new?”<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">“Not really.”<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">She can hear from their
voices that she is interrupting.<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">“Is this a bad time?”<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">“Well…”<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">“Okay, fine, put Ritchie
on. His birthday is coming up isn’t
it? Any ideas?”<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">“Not really… a video
game?”<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">“Which one?”<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">“I don’t know?”<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">“Okay, just put him on.”<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">Michael screams down the
hall to Ritchie. <o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"> “Pick up…It’s Grandma.”<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">“Hi Grandma.”<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">“Some one told me you have
a birthday coming. Are you going to have
a party?”<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">“No.”<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">Your Mom didn’t say
anything?<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">“No.”<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">“What video games are you
playing now?”<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">“ Duke Nukem.”<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">“That’s your favorite?”<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">“I’m at level 3.”<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">“So you’re good at it?”<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">“Well…”<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">“Is there a new one coming
out?”<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">“I’m not sure.”<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">“Find out. It’s getting
harder to find presents for you. Duke
and Nukem?.”<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">“Okay.”<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">“How’s school?”<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">“Okay.”<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">“Are you doing your
homework?”<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">“Yes.”<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">“You and Lisa getting
along?”<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">“She’s still in the
hospital? Well…”<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">“I know honey. Will you give her a kiss for me?”<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">“Yes…”<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">They get off. The phone call has done nothing to end the
tension between Deborah and Michael. The
moment they hang up they’re at it.<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-outline-level: 1; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">“I know you
think Billy’s a cry baby.”<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">“I was wrong about Billy
okay. I admit it. Last week I saw
him. They barely touched him and he was
screaming.”<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">“You called him a
wus. Do you know what he has been
through?” <o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">“I was pissed, okay? I
took it out on him. I’m not allowed to get pissed?” <o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">“You said it loud enough
so that his mother heard you.”<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">“You really think she
could hear me?”<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="line-height: 200%;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">
“Are you kidding?”<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"> His face drops. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know she was there.” <o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">Deborah knows it was not
intentional. She believes Michael’s
sorry, but she can’t bring herself to forgive him. <o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"> “I was wrong,” he repeats. “Okay?” <o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">It is not okay and won’t
be. She talks about Billy all the time.
The other patients on the ward and their families have become
family. They are the only ones that
understand. <o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"> He knows that.
It’s nice for Deborah, but he has never felt part of it. At that moment he couldn’t stand the
whimpering. No it wasn’t the
whimpering. It was when Billy began to
scream.<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">She stares at him
waiting. <o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">“What do you want me to
say? I was wrong. I know Billy’s been
through hell.” <o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">She continues to stare at
him coldly. He counters.<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">“We’re talking about a
lymphoma. Dr. Clark knows what he is doing.”<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">“Lisa’s not going to end
up like Billy. They’re not going to
break her.”<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">“No one is trying to break
her.”<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">“Oh no!”<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">“Do you really believe
that?” He stops, studies her as she prepares to answer. It tones her down.<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">She begins in a measured
tone. “Most of what they do they
probably have to do. But some of
it…. I swear! One day they are going to do one thing,
which they tell me is critical. Then
they change their mind and don’t do it.
Or they do something else instead.”<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">“There’s nothing wrong
with that. It means they are thinking
things over, not just following a cookbook.”
Michael continues. “When they were
following protocols, that I hated. Everything preordained. The doctor’s instincts totally shut
down.” <o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">“But they knew what they
were doing.“<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">“They didn’t know
anything. They were just following a
protocol.”<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">“Michael, the protocols
meant they knew what they were doing.”<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">
“They knew all right.” <o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"> They
are both quiet for a moment. <o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"> “The
good old days,” he says to no one in particular..<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">She speaks slowly. “The last month or two, it scares me. They
really <i>don’t</i> know what they are
doing. Half of it is just to do
something. Anything. I’m sure of that.” <o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; margin-left: .5in;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">“They’re trying. It is better than nothing.” <o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">“Not when what you are
trying is to prove that you are a great doctor.”<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">“Deborah. Come on… Maybe Dr. Fabian is like that. But not Clark. He usually talks to me about what he wants to
do. He reads somewhere about a
procedure. He goes over it with
me. We both agree. If it will help, why not?<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">“Why doesn’t he talk to
me? Is this a <i>man </i>thing?“<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">There is no way you can
listen to him when he’s talking about the pluses and minuses of a procedure. You go bonkers.”<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">“Maybe it’s something
else. Do you look at those bills? Every time they do a procedure they get paid
a fortune, what you earn in a month.”<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">“Deborah, the money goes
to the school not them.” <o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">She is only half
listening. <o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"> He raises his voice.<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">“They’re doing their
best.”<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">She won’t look at him.<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"> He glances at the TV hoping nothing
has gone wrong for the Jets.<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">She shuts off the TV
manually. <o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">He clicks it on with his
remote.<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">“I hate that TV.”<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">“Deborah!”<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">“Fine. You want to watch it. But what about me?”<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">“Deborah it’s not about
you. I need to unwind.”<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">“Okay. But less… okay? Less.”
Her anger softens. Her eyes water
“I can’t do this alone.”<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"> She sits down on the arm of his chair. The
tears seem to help. Soon his fingers begin kneading a knot at the back of her
neck.<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">“Over here?”<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">“A little higher. More to the left. That’s it.
You got it.”<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">The tension seems to be
diminishing.<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">“You are not at the
hospital during the week.” <o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">His fingers stop. He thought they were done.<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">“I have to work. We got bills to pay.”<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">“Still.”<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">
“I’m not going to apologize. I have a job. We need money.”<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">“ Fine, but understand,
you miss half of what is going on.”<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">“Like what?”<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"> “Everything. Okay, not everything. But a lot.”<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">“Like what?” <o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">She doesn’t answer.<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">“Like what”<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">“Like Lisa’s spinal tap
Tuesday.” Deborah smiles proudly … “Your daughter was a trooper… .”<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"> “She had that little scared smile. Remember…at her birthday party…She was
three? The clown broke a balloon? She
was startled but it was her “princess” party.
That’s what you called it. Those crinolines. She looked like a princess. And she knew she was one. A princess doesn’t get scared. So she didn’t. She smiled, a scared smile.”<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">Michael does
remember. It is on video. Her hands on her hips like she is about to
sing out a verse from Oklahoma. Scared but not scared. Hamming it up.<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">Deborah continues. “It was
like she had invented one of her stories.
She always did that. Pictured herself in a story. I don’t know who she was playing, what
story.” <o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">She continues.<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">“Maybe it wasn’t a
story. I don’t know what she was
imagining, but during the spinal tap she did whatever the neurologist told her
to do. No resistance…” <o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">Deborah smiles again,
“She’s a trooper…” Her eyes water. She whispers
with a tightly controlled lips,
“Lisa.” <o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"> “The neurologist asked her to lie down on her
stomach. . Not even a flinch. She did everything he
asked. Waited for the next
direction. She had it under
control. She was determined to trust the
doctor. <o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"> They told her to roll on her side. She
did. The nurses rubbed Betadyne on her
back. They moved her higher up on the examining table. That’s when the trouble
started.”<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">“What do you mean?”<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"> “Her hospital gown got pulled up, showing her
underpants. She tried to pull it
down. <o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"> But, suddenly they were in a hurry. The
neurologist had had enough pussy footing around. He was on go.<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">They had her pinned down
and they weren’t going to let go. Her
fingers kept moving, trying to catch her gown.
A nurse saw that. She held her
wrist even tighter.”<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">“So what did you do?”<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b> “I was whispering into her ear, kissing
her. I could see what was going
on.” Her voice raises. “</b><b>I
thought nurses are supposed to know about twelve year olds. About her underwear showing…I swear. They
aren’t really nurses. They’re doctor
wannabes.”<o:p></o:p></b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>“Some of the
nurses are good. Lisa loves Barbara.”<o:p></o:p></b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>“Barbara wasn't there. It was that tall one with the braids, and
that <o:p></o:p></b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>other short
one. I wanted to shout “Let go of her hand. Let go of her <o:p></o:p></b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>hand.” </b> <b>Deborah hesitates.
She is fighting her tears. </b><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">“I said nothing. Nothing”<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"> Deborah’s rubbing her wrist. <o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">“They could have waited
two seconds so she could cover up her underpants…She’s a twelve year old girl.”<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">She rubs her wrist some
more.<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">“I don’t understand why I
said nothing.” <o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">“You didn’t want to get
them upset. You wanted them to have a
cool head. They were going to stick something in Lisa’s spine.”<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">Deborah’s face
hardens. “It’s not that. It’s that they’re in charge. What time we come, what time we go, what they
feed her. They are just automatically in
charge.” <o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">“It’s their hospital.”<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">“It’s our daughter. Lisa’s ours. Michael she’s ours.”<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">“Debbie, Amy’s health food
stories are wacko. Remember that line?
“The more you need the truth the more you must lie.””<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">“Yeah John Lennon.
So?” She is getting irritated. She doesn’t want to hear theories.<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">“True believers. You can’t
trust them. Their cures get more miraculous every time the story gets
repeated.”<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit;"> “Doctors are no better.”<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>“Dr. Clark studied for years, studied hard. He's not stupid.”<o:p></o:p></b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>“Were back to that.
Good. He's not stupid. But you
know what? It doesn't matter… Sometimes the cancer calls the shots. I just want
Clark to admit it if nothing is working.” <o:p></o:p></b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>“He’s trying.
Deborah. He’s trying”<o:p></o:p></b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>She looks out the window<o:p></o:p></b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>“If he’d slow down. Not just Clark. All of them, ... In and out of the room. Dr. Clark should stop staring at Lisa’s chart
and look into her eyes.” Deborah's eyes
water again. “Just once.” She wipes her
eyes. <o:p></o:p></b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>She pushes Michael’s hand
away as he tries to stroke her.<o:p></o:p></b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>She shouts angrily “He's gotta tell me if he can't do anything.”<o:p></o:p></b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>She looks imploringly at Michael.<o:p></o:p></b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>“Am I asking too much?” <o:p></o:p></b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>He doesn’t answer<o:p></o:p></b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>“Am I?”<o:p></o:p></b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>“No.”<o:p></o:p></b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>“I’ve gone along with you all along, but now we’re done. Lisa’s
there for us. She puts up with them for us.
For us! “ <o:p></o:p></b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>“Deborah, No more. I can't
do this.” <o:p></o:p></b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>Deborah ignores him. She
continues. “She's waiting for me to say it. "Come on. We're out of here. She's waiting.”<o:p></o:p></b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>“Deborah…”<o:p></o:p></b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>“I'm going to take her home.” <o:p></o:p></b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>“Deborah. Please. We’ve <i>been</i>
here. Again and again”<o:p></o:p></b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>“What do you expect? I
should have come home today and done my nails?” <o:p></o:p></b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b> “ No, but-“<o:p></o:p></b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>“One more incident like this morning and we're out of there.”<o:p></o:p></b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; mso-layout-grid-align: none; mso-pagination: none; text-autospace: none; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>“Taking her home will make everything worse!”<o:p></o:p></b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>She stops.
She knows that particular pitch and volume. Michael is about to
blow. She is suddenly very quiet, like
she has heard thunder in the distance.
They've been here too many times. The argument has gone on way too long She goes to the window. One person is still in the park, a fourteen
year- old girl on a bench, fixing her hair, waiting for her boyfriend.<o:p></o:p></b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b> He
arrives. They talk earnestly. Biting her lip, Deborah watches them, gets
lost in them. Finally some calm.</b> <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">“Remember the time I had
that flat tire with them in the car?
Lisa was about six.”<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">“No.”<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">“AAA? I had a fight with
you that night?.”<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">“Right.”<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">“I never told you the
whole story...” She has his attention. <o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">“I was screaming at
Ritchie and Lisa to stop fighting, I got out.
Opened the trunk. I couldn’t find
the jack. Meanwhile the back door opens.
The traffic is buzzing by. I screamed. “Close the door. Close the door.” Lisa steps out anyway. ”Get back in the car. Get back in the car” She just looked at me and understood
everything. I didn’t have to fake that I knew what I was doing. I couldn’t fake it. She knew that I didn’t. But she also knew it was going to all turn
out ok. I wasn’t going to let anything
bad happen. Lisa and Ritchie used to get
that from me.”<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>She smiles, “</b><b>Lisa pushed her body against the car and
slipped over near me at the back. When
she was close enough she stood next to me,
"Mom. Call AAA." She ignored that I didn't know what to do because <i>she did</i>. Or
thought she did. Either way it didn’t matter. She knew I wasn't going to let
anything bad happen. Lisa and Ritchie
knew that. That was my job. I was <i>good</i> at it.” More tears She smiles</b><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"> “Sorry about
AAA.” <o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">“It’s okay, Michael. We
didn’t have much money back then.”<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">“Yeah but you were pissed
about it and you were right.”<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">“Well you said no. I wasn’t going to let you get away with
that.”<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">She refocuses. Her voice changes. “I understood. We had to economize.” <o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">“ So okay we agree?” <o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">“Yes.”<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">“One more time like this
morning and we are out of there.”<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">Her relentlessness! “ No we are not agreed. We’re going to do whatever Dr. Clark
says. We have to.”<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">She screams at him “Clark doesn’t give a shit. It’s just a job to him.”<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"> He’s also now shouting. “You said that already. Clark tries
to do his job right. That’s <i>enough</i>. That’s plenty.”<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">There is a trace of
resignation in her voice. They are both exhausted, saddened by their inability
to get to the same page, but lately that’s how it’s been. <o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">She trails off “If we’re
not going anywhere, he better admit it.”
Practically mumbling, “Fuckin’
Clark’s’ ego.”<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"> She pours scotch into a large glass,
fills it half way up. She sips a little,
then downs it. She stares down Michael’s
disapproval. <o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">“You think your praying is
any different? You think you’re gonna
get a miracle here?”<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">She downs another, then
continues.<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"> “You think God listens to your
mumbling? He’s old Michael. He needs a hearing aid and better glasses. Because if he hears okay and sees okay he’s
definitely a sadist.”<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">“Shut up. Debby”<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .25in;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;"> In his room Ritchie is
playing his video game. It fills the
entire apartment with a pounding noise:
laser gun screeches, grunts from splattered monsters as they are gunned down<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoBodyTextIndent" style="line-height: 200%;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">
Despite his game’s screeching and
moaning he can still hear parts of his
parent’s fight, especially the “shut
ups”. He turns up the volume of his game
still more, to the point where it is now banging on eardrums. It pisses Michael off. He says nothing. The action gets more furious. Deborah shouts from the foyer.<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%; text-indent: .5in;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">“Ritchie do your
homework.” <o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoFooter" style="line-height: 200%;">
<b><span style="font-family: inherit; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial;">
Ritchie shoots a mutant alien. A loud groan. Deborah listens more carefully. There is no letup in the action.<o:p></o:p></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoFooter" style="line-height: 200%;">
<span style="font-family: inherit;"><b>
“Ritchie. I mean it,” she shouts
to him at the top of her lungs. </b><b>Michael goes to his
computer. He checks the football
score. The Jets lost. He gets back to work on his novel about
Cornelius Vandebilt. This man always
won. Always! Michael is blessedly
absorbed within minutes.<o:p></o:p></b></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText" style="line-height: 200%;">
<br /></div>
<b><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12.0pt; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: Arial; mso-bidi-font-size: 10.0pt; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"><br clear="all" style="mso-special-character: line-break; page-break-before: always;" />
</span></b><!--EndFragment--><br />
<script type="text/javascript">
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />_uacct = "UA-1249667-2";
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />urchinTracker();
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br /></script>
Simon Sobohttp://www.blogger.com/profile/02579449711047401565noreply@blogger.com