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Strings Attached
Things on strings can get away from you—a kite that takes a nosedive into a tree for no apparent reason; a yo-yo that inexplicably snags, goes crooked, and screws up your best trick; a world that spins out of control. In 1991 I had the world on a string. At the age of 35 I had the bright idea of going to college. In 1991 I was finally about to graduate. College is not easy under the best of conditions. I was a single parent, working full-time at a job where the paychecks bounced as often as not, and trying to maintain my summa cum laude status. All of that was about to pay off. I was accepted into the Clinical Psychology Ph.D. program at Memphis State University (now the University of Memphis). The people who owned the apartments we were living in also owned a complex in Memphis and they’d let me have the next vacancy. I could see the light of a gravy train at the end of a long ramen noodle tunnel. My academic advisor and favorite professor called me into his office, late into what I thought was my last semester, and said, “You and I both failed to notice that you still need 10 more hours of electives before you can graduate.” There goes the summer. So much for starting at Memphis State in the fall. Not knowing what else to do and not wanting to say anything until I’d gathered my wits, untangled my string, I glanced around the office. My eyes landed on a picture of the professor’s new granddaughter. I thought I recognized her; I was grinning back at this little girl. Probably temporary insanity brought on by bitter disappointment. I picked four classes to take that summer. One of them, German Folklore, turned out to be the most interesting class I have ever taken. For several months, there had been a construction project going on right next to the apartments where my son, Hannibal, and I lived. I figured it was more apartments. I checked the mail, without fail, every afternoon. For some reason I’d forgotten that part of my routine, so right after Hannibal’s school bus left at 7:30 the next morning I stopped by the island of mailboxes. That’s where I ran into Tracy. She was a psychology major, too, but I didn’t know her well, just to say hi. “Hi Tracy.” She’d recently gotten married to a guy named Bob, and now Tracy and I had the same initials: T.H. Kind of interesting. She asked me if I wanted a job. We were down to our last box of macaroni and orange powder, and I had no idea what I was going to do with myself. “Hell, yes!” What they were building next door was not more apartments but a halfway house for the chronically mentally ill, a place for folks who were not sick enough to be in a hospital but not well enough to go home. Tracy had hired on; she told me they really needed people and right away. No experience necessary, but applicants were required to have a bachelor’s degree in psychology. I had one of those, and I’d paid a high price to get it; may as well put it to work. It was as simple as filling out the application and showing a copy of my transcript. I could start in October. Our supervisor was still finishing her obligations at another job in another town. She could only come down once a week. I kept missing her. Tracy said, “You’re gonna love Bobbie. She’s so cute!” Bobbie was married and had a new baby. She was a wonderful person and we became fast friends. I bored her with all my opinions, especially those about romance. I was an expert. I had decided that the woman I wanted did not exist, so I’d given up even looking. My sole focus was on raising my son. Among other things, I informed Bobbie that mammals are not monogamous by nature. Bobbie was a superior boss and a super person. She looked out for us. She looked out for everyone. She was a selfless giver. As good as she was to other people, she wasn’t good to herself. She didn’t seem to have much self-confidence. She was always putting herself down, putting herself second. I wished she could see herself through my eyes for just ten seconds; she would never have another doubt. By the time the next October rolled around I could not stand it anymore. I wrote Bobbie a letter telling her how wonderful I knew her to be. I carried the letter around with me for days. I was afraid to give it to her, but afraid not to. If there was any chance at all that I could help her see herself for what she really is, I had to take it. She was my friend, after all, and that’s what friends do for each other. Just as I was leaving to take one of our residents to an appointment, I screwed my courage to the sticking place (which was somewhere between my heart and the roof of my mouth) and shoved the letter at Bobbie. I said, “You got some fan mail.” I got back almost an hour later. The receptionist said, “Bobbie wants to see you. Now!” Uh-oh. I could either go to Bobbie’s office or I could walk home and start checking the want-ads. I went to her office, determined to see this through. My intentions were honorable; I’d at least make her see that. Bobbie invited me to go for a walk. We went to a nearby building where some construction was going on. We sat on the concrete floor of a room covered with insulation and sheetrock scraps. I nearly fainted when Bobbie told me that she was crazy about me, too. But she was married and wanted to try to make it work. Her little girl was almost two. Okay. This is as far as it will go. Just call it a bonus romance. I’ll never mention it again. Bobbie promised to try to see herself through my eyes. That’s all I’d been after in the first place, wasn’t it? I knew that this was one woman I could spend the rest of this life and twenty more with. I tried real hard not to think about it, but I knew it. She hugged me and I damn near died. That was October 30, 1992. That night I was planning to take Hannibal, then nine years old, to K-Mart to get a Halloween costume. I was watching him choke down yet another bowl of ramen-roni—hot water and hen flavor—when the phone rang. It must be my mother. No one else ever called us. I picked up the receiver while organizing my excuses for why we couldn’t talk too long. It was Bobbie. That night, that very night, her husband came home from work and told her he wanted a divorce. Bobbie was cooking spaghetti (It was noodle night for all concerned; perhaps a memory from a pasta lifetime). She tried not to look too happy when she turned to face him. I was leaning against a wall; I slid down and sat on the floor. At K-Mart I walked smack into a glass door. I hadn’t had a drink of alcohol since I started raising Hannibal by myself, but I was blind drunk on Love and Wahoo. It just so happened—just so happened? Nah, I’ve given up believing in coincidence—that I had the next week off. Bobbie took those days off, too. The longest day I live I will never forget the night Bobbie brought Natalie over to meet me. Nat was a month shy of her second birthday. Today she and I are as close as pages 23 and 24 of the best book you ever read. On November 11, 1992, Bobbie asked, “Where do you see this relationship going?” I said, “I see it going the distance!” She tried to keep from smiling, but didn’t quite make it. “What about that crap where mammals are not monogamous?” “Well, Hell, I didn’t know what I was talking about. I was an expert on love until I fell in Love. Now I know nothing, not one damn thing. New territory. New rules. We’ll have to make ‘em up as we go along.” Like the song says, “Love bursts in and suddenly all our wisdom disappears.” * A few nights ago, Bobbie said, “Do you realize that this October we’ll have been together for fifteen years?” Fifteen? Seems like yesterday. And I’m good for another fifteen thousand. So help me, it just keeps getting better. Just when I think I cannot stand anymore, my capacity for Joy expands to accommodate it. Miracle? Magic? Yes indeed. Can I explain it? No way. I don’t care to explain it; I’m too busy enjoying it. Hannibal has a son of his own, now. Natalie is driving. She will be starting college next fall (she’s only sixteen, but she’s also a genius who could not follow the timetable of the public schools). Josie is nine—yeah, she snuck up on us in 1997. Josie is a fearless reader and a most creative writer. Never did make it to Memphis State. Never got that Ph.D. Got a master’s degree in adult education instead. That has led to some unimagined rewards, too. Chance encounter? I can’t believe that. It’s too perfect. I do not know how it happened. I cannot point to anything I have ever done and say, “This is why I deserve it.” I only know that when I thought my world was disintegrating, when all my plans were being chopped up like so many onions in a Vegomatic commercial, I was, at the same time, being born again. I was being prepared for a life beyond my wildest imaginings (and I’ve got a damn good imagination). The picture of that baby girl in my professor’s office, his new granddaughter? The one that made me smile even as I was falling through a hole in my dreams? That was Natalie. At least once everyday I feel sorry for anyone who isn’t me. I never would have guessed that life could be so much fun. Bobbie, Nat, and Josie take first-class care of me. My Girls are my world, and they have me on a string, wrapped around their little fingers. No place I’d rather be. * “Love Changes Everything” Music:
Andrew Lloyd Webber
The next time I saw Memphis, all four of us went. This picture of Bobbie and me was taken (by either Nat or Josie) aboard the Memphis Queen III.
Natalie standing on the wall at Mud Island
Josie on the "Whiff of Memphis" tour
Tom Hale is a free-range writer and a close pal of The Lonesome Wizard Boys. “Merlin Bob and Hotrod are fictitious characters, but that’s never gotten in the way of our friendship. I don’t hold anyone’s place or origin against them.” He lives with his Girls in San Michez.
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