{"id":207,"date":"2021-08-25T14:45:12","date_gmt":"2021-08-25T14:45:12","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/contactprod.com\/larrylau\/?p=207"},"modified":"2021-08-25T19:17:24","modified_gmt":"2021-08-25T19:17:24","slug":"marnie","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/contactprod.com\/larrylau\/marnie\/","title":{"rendered":"MARNIE"},"content":{"rendered":"\n
\u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 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\u2019t 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.
\u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 Looking around the living room, at all the expensive furniture, you couldn\u2019t 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\u2019s 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\u2019t talk much, but we liked each other\u2019s company. We liked watching the nightly news with Walter Cronkite together.
\u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 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\u2019t 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.
\u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 After dinner one night, having put away the TV trays, the subject of Mom came up. It had been five years since her death.\u00a0\u00a0We had been informed she died from the lethal combination of a sleeping pill and a cocktail. According to Mom\u2019s 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.\u00a0\u00a0A man Mom had already described to Marnie as being so loathsome she couldn\u2019t 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\u2019s, Dr. Cutter, declared her death accidental. That was it, end of story. Marnie never bought any of it.

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0Marnie got up from her chair and said, \u201cThere\u2019s something you should know. You\u2019re old enough now to hear it.\u201d With that, she headed into her bedroom and returned carrying\u00a0a metal strongbox. She sat down with the strongbox and said, \u201cYour mother\u2019s death wasn\u2019t accidental. She was murdered. And it was Bob who did it.\u201d
\u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0I stared at Marnie, with a look of shock and disbelief.

\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0\u201cMurdered?\u201d
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 Marnie closed her eyes and whispered, \u201cYes.\u201d

\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0\u00a0 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\u2019s 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\u2019d brought along that contained various documents, including proof of Bob\u2019s infidelity. But most significantly, the box contained Mom\u2019s diary.
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0Opening this little black book, I felt like an intruder. Yes, I was her son, but I\u2019d always been her son at a distance. Since leaving us when I was seven, I didn\u2019t 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.\u00a0\u00a0She 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.
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u201cI begged her not to go back, pleaded with her to stay,\u201d Marnie said looking at the diary in my hands. \u201cWe both knew Bob wasn\u2019t to be trusted and was dangerous.\u201d
\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0But Mom was stubborn and angry and she left for Bend that morning as planned. She didn\u2019t live beyond that afternoon.\u00a0It felt as if I lost my mother all over again, as if she had died a second time.
\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0There 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.

\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 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.<\/td><\/tr><\/tbody><\/table><\/figure>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

\u00a0\u00a0 \u00a0 \u00a0 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\u2019t be choosers, and I was … <\/p>\n

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