Never Leave

Well that was dumb: I knew I’d made a mistake when I found out two of my dearest friends were practically drawing straws to see which one would call to find out if David really left me. Then I got a note from a guy I haven’t seen in 15 years who said he was sorry to read that my husband and I were having problems.That’s what you get for making jokes about marriage!David and I have been together since he was the only guy in a crewcut and every other young male in the western hemisphere had hair like Jesus of Nazareth. He was purposely out of it fashion-wise and I think that’s why I fell for him.Today I can’t TELL you all the ways he helps me, picks up after me, holds his tongue when I spill things, lose things, break things but instead let me copy here what I said about him in one of my books. I'll just say for background that he had no money at all in college, not a nickel. I didn't either. He was fatherless. So was I. He came from a houseful of many brothers and I came from a houseful of old folks and this meant that both of us were used to having lots of people around. When, at age 29, I was whining about whether or not I could manage to have any MORE babies after that first baby with all the WORK babies entailed and on and on he quietly said he had just kind of hoped to fill up all those spaces around the Christmas tree.We filled 'em all right.There are eight young people out there whom we have loved, fed, taught to drive, helped with the security deposit for that first apartment and lain awake nights worrying over.Now on to what I said in that second book of mine, back when David and I were just 'kids' in our 40s and our sweet youngest boy Michael was a 12-year-old away at summer camp. This chapter has another name in the book but in my mind it's always been "Hop on Pop" And it goes like this:+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++I don’t write much about the father of my children.I used to - jokey pieces, mostly - in which I revealed my own petty nature, enviously describing the way he was permitted to sleep late Saturdays by the same small children who wouldn’t leave me alone for three minutes together. Him they treated like a combination lounge chair and entertainment center, watching cartoons in our bed while balancing bits of toast on the shelf of his sleeping flank, leaning against his broad and gently-breathing back.It was after describing such a scene that a man came up to my husband. “You’re David Marotta!” he said with mystified look. “I don’t know how you stand it!” He meant being the subject of intimate revelation. He meant being described in the paper.Well, I had no wish to embarrass my husband, so after that I pretty much stopped writing about him. But he has always been there in the background.He was there the time a strange woman approached and began attacking me for a light piece I once wrote about Christmas cards filled with endless bragging. That lady went after me like a pit-bull. I tried everything I could think of to win back her good opinion.David saw how rattled I was. “You should just say, ‘Look, it’s my job. It’s what I write; it’s not who I am.’” Ah, but what I write IS who I am, which is why it means so much to me that the papers I write for print my address. I have learned so much over the years from my readers’ reactions.One thing I have learned is how much folks prize certain qualities in their fellow citizens.This husband of mine owned one suit when we got married, bought for his Middle School graduation. He was a scholarship kid, and has always identified with those who by virtue of birth or circumstance found themselves excluded from the great American bazaar of getting and spending.He never boasts. You can hardly get him to tell where he went to school or what his work is. Before his last college reunion, I had a terrible time getting him to fill out the class questionnaire. I finally said “I’ll read the questions and write down your responses.”It asked for your special achievements.“Leave it blank,” he said. “Or else put ‘My family’”It asked if you’d served on the Board of Directors of any companies.He does. “You do!” I said.“Leave it blank.”He doesn’t care if the world thinks him successful. It just doesn’t matter to him.What does matter to him, what he has saved the best of himself for, are those same untidy children who lean on him still. He plays golf, but mostly with clients. He never plays on the weekend. I asked him yesterday how many suits he has now. “One,” he said. “One that I can wear.” I like that. I can’t say how much I like that.This year, for the first time, one of our kids is spending all eight weeks at a summer camp. On Visiting Day, we noticed that most of the other campers are New Yorkers, with parents in fancy cars. At one point, we found ourselves at the basketball court where a lone father in Louis Vuitton loafers and a Versace shirt was shooting baskets.David had on shorts and his Dr. Seuss T-shirt with “Hop on Pop” stenciled on the front. I knew he wanted to shoot with our son, but was holding back, not wishing to interrupt this well-dressed dad.“Go on out there!” I whispered. “He’s just some cardiologist!”He laughed. He knew what I meant.I meant. Some rich guy in fancy clothes? Some rich guy is no match at all for a man with just one suit.Now these little stories will embarrass him, I know. But he said it himself: It’s my job.