| Marnie sat in her upholstered chair sipping cheap sherry and chain-smoking her ridiculous Carltons. The only way to get a bite out of them was to rip off the filter before lighting up. At least then you could feel some harshness in your throat. But beggars can’t be choosers, and I was out of Marlboros. As for Marnie? She held her Carlton regally, wrist bent, fingers just so as if the cigarette was the finishing touch of a master painting. Looking around the living room, at all the expensive furniture, you couldn’t help but notice how cramped it felt. It was as if everything there awaited a return to the much larger house from which it came, before a fire took my grandparents’ livelihood. I sat in the larger upholstered chair facing the console TV and felt an unearned privilege occupying it. This was the chair once commanded by my grandfather, Marnie’s deceased husband. He had been a powerful man, quiet in his anger, who had died several years before, just months after his forced retirement. But Marnie insisted I sit there. We didn’t talk much, but we liked each other’s company. We liked watching the nightly news with Walter Cronkite together. I had hitchhiked across the country from New York and was now back in Lake Oswego. Having completed my sophomore year at Columbia University in June, and with nothing lined up for the summer, thumbing across the country seemed like it would make for a great adventure. Like many twenty-year-olds, yearning to discover meaning in their lives, a solo leap into the unknown across three thousand miles promised at least some illumination in that regard. A friend drove me across the Hudson river and dropped me off on interstate 80 heading west. With a backpack, no plan, and a little over a hundred dollars in my pocket, I began walking toward the sunset. Two and a half months later, having a handful of interesting if not bizarre experiences along the way, I finally made it to Oregon and to Marnie. I hadn’t gained that much in the way of clarity from this journey. But I can say I was happy to be with Marnie, in her humble home. That much was clear. After dinner one night, having put away the TV trays, the subject of Mom came up. It had been five years since her death. We had been informed she died from the lethal combination of a sleeping pill and a cocktail. According to Mom’s second husband, Bob, she had come home from work tired and wanting to take a nap. This conflicted with a co-worker saying that Mom had left the office exuberant, having closed one of the largest real estate deals in her short-lived career. But, in any case, it was such a beautiful day, Bob said, he talked her into taking a country drive with him and another man. A man Mom had already described to Marnie as being so loathsome she couldn’t stand to be in the same room with him. Upon their return, cocktails ensued, and then she went to the bedroom to nap. The story goes that Bob checked on Mom an hour later and found her lifeless in their bed. A friend of Bob’s, Dr. Cutter, declared her death accidental. That was it, end of story. Marnie never bought any of it. Marnie got up from her chair and said, “There’s something you should know. You’re old enough now to hear it.” With that, she headed into her bedroom and returned carrying a metal strongbox. She sat down with the strongbox and said, “Your mother’s death wasn’t accidental. She was murdered. And it was Bob who did it.” I stared at Marnie, with a look of shock and disbelief. “Murdered?” Marnie closed her eyes and whispered, “Yes.” I sat still for a moment, unable to move. It was as if a knife slowly gutted my insides. I looked at Marnie, unable to find words, and she looked fiercely back at me, pausing to let this horror sink in. Mom could have been alive. All this time. She could have been alive, now, today. But she wasn’t, and not because of an accident, but because her life was stolen, by Bob. I listened as Marnie recounted the real story, the one that had never even been hinted at. It was a wretched string of details outlining Bob’s physical and emotional abuse of my mother. She spoke of Mom having driven the four hours from Bend to Lake Oswego to spend her last weekend with Marnie. Mom had told her of her fears and had given her the strongbox she’d brought along that contained various documents, including proof of Bob’s infidelity. But most significantly, the box contained Mom’s diary. Opening this little black book, I felt like an intruder. Yes, I was her son, but I’d always been her son at a distance. Since leaving us when I was seven, I didn’t know her much beyond the occasional long weekend. And now, here she was, revealing herself to me in these diary pages, a woman in trouble, and in pain. She wrote about Bob slapping her around at home and in public. She wrote about his drunken belligerence, his insults, his embarrassing behavior. She wrote about Bob trying to run her car off the road, coming home from the country club. I read how she was increasingly in fear for her life, that Bob would try to kill her someday. And yet, she told Marnie she was going back to Bend first thing Monday morning. There were two things she had to do. One was to close on a big real estate deal. More importantly, she had to confront Bob about his infidelity, and demand a divorce. “I begged her not to go back, pleaded with her to stay,” Marnie said looking at the diary in my hands. “We both knew Bob wasn’t to be trusted and was dangerous.” But Mom was stubborn and angry and she left for Bend that morning as planned. She didn’t live beyond that afternoon. It felt as if I lost my mother all over again, as if she had died a second time. There was silence for a moment, then I crossed over to Marnie, and kneeled down beside her. I laid my head on her lap. I wondered if Mom thought of me before she died and I wondered if it was terrible to hope that she did. Marnie softly stroked my hair and quietly wiped away her tears. A few short years after my mother’s death, Bob was convicted of murdering someone else. He died in prison within a year of his incarceration. The murder of my mother was never investigated. |
stories of mine
This is truly cathartic as a read, but more so as a life lived. This is well built, but my primary hope is that it gives you relief and release as if you’re telling the best story you’ve ever told.
Larry, I reread this story just now, having left too much time pass between chapters.
Again I find myself startled at the tender reaction of the young man, who, since he was seven, he’d “always been her son
at a distance”.
And yet, he wondered if it was terrible to hope that Mom thought of him before she died.
Tender mercies…
Wow! Wow, doesn’t begin to start what is going through my mind. Your words are as passionate as they are courageous. I can’t begin to comprehend the strength and emotional heartache and stamina it took to put this horrible experience into clear thought, then to words and finally, onto paper.
You are compassionately brave.
Oh, Larry…I’m at a loss for words…
One thing I do know is that your mother would be so very, very proud of the man you are today. You wrote this so perfectly. I can’t imagine how hard it must have been to write this very emotional story. Wow.
Larry.. I am so sorry for the pain the truth caused. I am also sorry for the motherless childhood you had. I can relate to much of it but no one else feels or knows our pain like we do…
I’m so sorry, Larry, that you lost your mother this way. It’s so sad and horrifying at the same time. You suffered so much loss in your young years, and I’m so glad you had people like Marnie in your life to help comfort you. That you’re able to process these experiences into such incredible writing is such a gift for the rest of us.
Literary value is strong. Nice voicing of plot development and dialog. Knowing you as I do adds a kind of scary twist to the whole business. All in all Larry, very interesting work and compelling imagery.
Riveting….. This one and the last as well. Your resilience is amazing. Trusting that you are kind to yourself….. Be well my friend.
like the other readers, i’m shocked and stopped in my steps.
what a story you have.
sending so much love xoxo
Dear Larry,
I’m blown away and speechless right now.
Sending you big love & big hugs
Holy shit Larry! I had no idea. I’m so sorry! And your writing is so fucking good!
Dear Larry– this is agonizing. I hope that your (exquisite) telling of your life story is a mental cleansing that will give you more peace. Thank you for allowing us into your life in this very personal way. Love, Susie
Oh My God…..
Good God, that just wiped me out… wow
Speechless, Larry, at all you’ve endured! What a tragic story poignantly told. Your life has been riveting, and your courage is truly inspiring.
Wow! This is definitely a sad story. Especially, when you consider the young boys she left behind. Definitely a tear jerker.
Absolutely horrifying. I’m trying to process this and it’s very, very hard. I’m so utterly sorry for you and your family-that this happened to your dear Mom. I’m sorry for Marnie and what she had to live with, and for you and this heavy knowledge of such a wrong, disgusting act! And, of course for your Mom and what she lived with.
This story breaks me in a way, because it confirms what I already knew, but the way you write is so powerful and true that it lays it out there in a way I can take in. I don’t know how else to describe it.
I knew or suspected from your previous stories, (reading in between the lines) that Bob was a murderer, but there’s always a shred of doubt. However your writing is so good, I can ascertain what people are really, truly like in only one story. And you gave me Bob’s number from the get go.
You know my mind goes to things it possibly shouldn’t-like; if the Police had investigated Bob then someone else wouldn’t have died, but what’s the point of that??? Bob got what he deserved. I’m just saddened and sorry for you and your family and for your Mom.
Thank you for writing this. I cannot have been easy for you. It never goes away does it? Made me cry. Alot.
Larry, this is so beautifully given to us. Thank you for sharing all of it. The last moments, when Marnie is stroking your head and you are having those heartbreaking thoughts — just laid me out. Sending love and more love.
SPEECHLESS except to say I’m so sorry.
Larry your stories have made me shed tears but this….made me lose it…I remember when your Mom died and how hard it was on Bill and you…I’m so very sorry old friend…Again your writing takes us all right there. All my love….
Although I already knew this story, or it’s outline, reading your younger self crossing over from ignorance to grief is truly heart rending.
This one tears my heart out. I’m so sorry for you and everyone in your family. So hard to hear this story. So much love in your words and beautifully written.
Heartbreaking. This one made me cry.
This story breaks my heart every time I read or hear it.
Oh my God Larry,
My heart is breaking for you. I am sending you so many hugs. What an amazing story. You are such an amazing writer. Every word leaves me wanting more. Every sentence takes the story forward.
I love you dearly and I am feeling for you and your dear mother.
Love,
Lee
Larry, Your stories are heart wrenching…and this one…wow! I can feel so much pain in your words.