"Let me tell you, goddess, whatever goddess you may be,
these doldrums are no will of mine."

"The Odyssey," Fitzgerald Translation. Book 4, Lines 403-405.
Used without permission.
 

ALLY:

I can't believe this.

In 'Alice in Wonderland,' one of the characters says that they've believed as many as six impossible things before breakfast.

I don't do breakfast. Does lunch count?

What did I just say about happiness?

Oh yes, there was the sadness and terror part as well. Did I mention anger?

Well, we do anger, too. Right now I'm doing it up big time.

I do what I always do when stress slams into me-I reach for a cigarette. And no lectures about my habit, either. I think I'm old enough to do what I choose.

Except in this case, I'm having the choice whipped right out from under me.

It would have been one thing had I been rejected outright. I could have dealt with that. Found alternatives. Moved on to a different mind set.

But in this case, it was given to me, and now, for no reason (that I can see) it's being taken back. I check the letter again. No reason. Nothing stated.

I wonder if it's a fake. I should ask Frohike, but he's not here. Damn.

Nobody's here right now, except Patrick, Miranda and myself. And Miranda's still sleeping, as befits a teenager. I think Langly was more than a little jealous this morning of her being able to not have to face the day. Yeah, it was his own damn fault that he and Michael played pool and got shitfaced until last call. And he knew he had to get up this morning.

But I almost felt sorry for him. He looked so pathetic as he stumbled out of the house, still half asleep and completely hung over. But he did proclaim victory over Michael, which made him happy. I did hear about that part, intermingled with the moans over having to actually open his eyes and crawl out of bed.

I shouldn't have any sympathy for him in these situations, but he is rather adorable. And I'm a total sap for him. He is nothing if not manipulative. I'm aware that I'm being manipulated, and yet I allow it to happen. Repeatedly.

His fault as well. I don't suppose you can help being blessed with such total looks, charm and personality.

And Patrick has the same affliction, and I respond to it in the same way.

Let's face it. I'm a marshmallow. I swear there is a neon sign over my head, proclaiming 'sucker!'.

And there is my daughter. I allow myself willingly to be manipulated by her as well. She is nothing if not persuasive. And being in debate is only enhancing her ability to get her way, with everyone else, but especially with me. I've always been a soft touch for her. She knows it. And as Miranda is wont to say, I didn't write the rules, I just work them.

God, at her age, I didn't even know the rules. I still feel as though I spend half my life stumbling about in the dark, trying to figure out which direction I should grope.

Fortunately, if it's nighttime, I tend to grope Langly, and he doesn't seem to mind. Did I mention he's great in the sack?

I think about calling him. I don't usually call him at work. He hates the phone, and I try to avoid calls unless something of major impact is in process or about to occur.

Does this qualify?

Oh Jesus, Allison, get real. It's only your life we're talking about here.

I can't believe how dense I am sometimes.

Still, is there any reason why this can't wait until he's home? It's not as if I'm about to forget about this. I don't care how drunk I get (and today, that's a very real possibility).

I really do drink too much. I think I need to do something about that. As a child of two alcoholics, I should be more aware...and a lot more careful. Right now my nod to self-control is no liquor before 3 p.m. and noon on holidays. So far I've been able to stick with that.

It's one of the problems with being at home all day. The liquor, which we leave on the kitchen shelf, is a huge temptation. Even at 10 a.m., it beckons.

And a little bit of my friend Jose would make me feel a lot better right now.

No, Jose and I don't visit until late afternoon. And we're going to keep it that way.

I keep thinking, maybe I should just pour out all the liquor, try to go cold turkey. I try to keep the problem in check. But it's not as if no one notices how close I skate to the edge. I know Miranda worries about it, and she's very vocal in that regard. Langly has brought it up more than once.

Why am I this way? And I'm not going to blame my parents. At 46, blaming my parents is a cop-out. By now I should have assumed enough responsibility to deal with this without bringing them into the picture.

I liked being with the kids this summer. And I think Patrick needed the attention. He's doing better lately; I'd like to think I've had some positive effect in that regard, although in my more cynical moments, I really think it's just natural progression as opposed to anything I could have done.

But without the structure of outside work, I've had a hard time pulling myself together. I've always relied upon external structures to keep me in order. Now I've been thrust into a situation where I am forced to call upon internal ones. And I'm having a hard time finding them.

I do try. I'm not undisciplined. I'm not disorganized. (Although looking at my house sometimes, you wouldn't necessarily think that).

I am, however, coming to the realization that I just might be a drunk. And it scares the hell out of me. However, I don't think it scares me as much as the idea that I might not ever be able to drink again.

And it's really bad when you feel like you need a drink at this hour of the morning.

I pick up the phone instead.
 

Langly answers on the third ring, which is typical; it's the last one before the voice mail flips on.

"Hey." I relax a little at the familiar nasality of the voice, although it seems a little rushed.

"Hey, it's me."

"Not now, Ally." He hangs up the phone abruptly.

I realize that it's probably something to do with work, not with me...but it pisses me off, anyway. I'm well aware that tact is not his long suit, and that there are times when he absolutely cannot talk.

Except, dammit, I needed him this morning.

Patrick shows up again. "Wanna go in the water!"

I really should do some work on my computer. I should clean the house. I should balance the checkbook.

"Sure, Patrick, get your suit on."

Once again, saved by a four-year-old.

I am truly disgusting and pathetic.
 

Playing with kids is nothing if not therapeutic. I feel better just splashing around with him. He's getting to be a good swimmer, too-Michael has worked with him a lot this summer, and his efforts have turned this kid into a little fish.

He is having fewer nightmares, and he's a little better able to control his anger now. As for his inability to keep still-well, he is a little boy. As Langly says, sitting still for little boys is not even an objective, let alone a goal.

And he is so totally adorable. He's extremely intelligent and entertaining. Not unlike Langly. And cute, cute, cute-not unlike Langly. That silky white hair, which, if he follows form, will deepen into a French vanilla shade as he gets older.

I do wish my darling husband would get rid of the damn cornrows, though. Miranda's latest hair treatment for him. I hate it. I think he likes it because he just shakes them in the morning and goes. No long siege with the blow dryer, trying to get the unruly strands to behave. It's his one vanity.

And it's on its way south. I clean a lot of long blonde hairs out of the shower. I don't think they're growing back. I don't say anything. I suspect he is acutely aware of it. I'd be hard pressed to explain why he fusses over his hair so much otherwise.

As far as gray, well, we're about neck in neck there. I've had quite a few more pop into being this summer. This does not lift my spirits. Fortunately, my daughter is talented with hair dye, and gave me a shade I like a great deal. It's nice if the mirror can lie sometimes.

What it can't lie about is the fact that, tried as we might, I was not able to give Langly any children. I really wanted to do that. And it could have happened-twice. But in both cases, it was my own biology that failed. My age and my reproductive history served to work against me. I realize that while this is something I have no control over, I curse myself for being so inept, anyway. I've been pregnant six times in my life, and out of that, I managed one child. Admittedly, one exquisite child. But once out of six times? I think you get better odds in Vegas.

It seems irrational to berate myself for my lack of prowess in this area, yet I continue to do so. To me, it seems that other women are able to have children, seemingly without any unusual efforts, and in fact women that don't really want them, and can't afford them, and can't take care of them, have them anyway!

Needless to say, I'm not coping terribly well with this little irony of life.

At least one of the better ironies was acquiring Patrick. I don't think Langly could love him more if he was our own bio-babe. I know I couldn't.

So what the hell is my problem? I've been many times more blessed than many in this world. I should be reveling in my good fortune, not going on a pity trip because I've reached the outer limits of fertility.

Because face it, Allison, you are, when it comes down to it, a spoiled little Jewish princess.

I think this is why I don't handle JAP jokes well. They hit close to home. Too close.

Patrick wants to play tag, and I oblige him. He definitely has the advantage, because without my glasses or contacts, I'm blind as a bat. I have some disposable lenses, but I didn't put them in this morning. Laziness squared.

He makes me laugh. He also aggravates me half to death. Does this sound familiar?

After about an hour of vigorous play in the water with Patrick, I'm tired. I tell him I'm going to sit up on deck and work. He protests, but I grit my teeth and tell him he can either play in the water by himself or get out.

I hear footsteps as I open my laptop. It's Michael. This thrills Patrick; Michael is really good with children, and Patrick adores him. Michael bends down into the water to pick him up, getting himself soaked in the process, but I don't think that bothers him. Michael is a water baby. He's over here early most mornings doing laps. And he definitely got buff this summer. No question about it, the guy is cut.

He still looks like Frohike, though. No matter how you slice him, he's Frohike's son.

When I met him, nearly two years back, I thought he was a pathetically terrible-looking boy. Bad hair, bad skin, you name it.

Two years later, he's got a better haircut, he wears contact lenses sometimes, and a course of Accutane corrected the acne to a large extent. All these helped, but not as much as the experiences he's had since being here. His surly expression has softened into the sweet look that his father (normally) has. He's still snappish and vulnerable, but he's also not afraid to show great tenderness to people these days.

I wish I could be like him that way. In expressing myself, that is. Michael is just so open with his affections (and disaffections). He is a person whose heart is on his sleeve. You never have to wonder what's on Michael's mind. He will not only tell you what he had for breakfast, but how it tasted and what color it was and how it smelled.

Right now, his expression suggests that something is terribly wrong. I ask him what's up.

He gives Patrick a toss back in the water (Patrick begs for it), and sits down on the recliner next to me, on the edge, his chin pressed against his fists.

"Went to drop something off at Jo's," he says, almost mumbling it.

"Any word from her pathologist?"

"Yeah. But not a good one."

Oh shit.

"Didn't get it all."

Suddenly, I feel acutely ashamed. Moaning over my own ridiculous problems when Jo is faced with an enemy that is real and relentless.

"How's she taking it?"

"Hey, she's Jo. Pretty well." This doesn't surprise me. Jo is, for the most part, unrileable.

"They say how bad it is? Or where else she might have it?"

"Doesn't know yet. She has to have more tests." He looks like he's going to cry.

"That sucks, big time." I feel cold in the hot Virginia sun.

"Yeah. Tell me about it." Jo is very important to Michael. Apparently when Frohike took Michael, Kelly and Jo to the Carolina shore, they discovered a degree of closeness they didn't know they had.

"Michael, play with me!" Patrick chimes out.

Michael turns to him. "Not now, dude. I got an article to write, and if I don't get some work done, my dad's gonna kill me."

"He's on the warpath these days, isn't he?" I've noticed that Frohike has been in a somewhat less than agreeable mood in recent history.

"Oh, pul-leez!" Michael rolls his eyes. "You should've seen him when I came in last night. I got the riot act and the third degree all rolled into one. I shoulda never told him me and Kelly are gonna get married when we finish school. He only heard the first part."

"Hmm. I take it this news did not go over well."

"You could say that." He smiles, a little rueful smile that looks so like his father's.

"He'll get used to it." And he will. Frohike took a while to come around when Langly and I got together. But he did. He'll do the same for his son.

I hope.

"Say, Ally...what do you know about a woman my dad's after?"

Say what?

"First I've heard of this, Michael." And it is. If Langly is willfully withholding good gossip from me, I will have to kill him...

"Well...I heard it from Jo. I think she's the only one he's told. I think. Anyway, she says he's got it bad for a lady."

I have to smile. "Is he doing anything about it? Or is this unrequited love?"

"The lady's married."

"Oh Jesus Christ." Poor Frohike. Leave it to him to fall for someone he can't have.

No wonder he's been such a bastard. Plus, from what Langly has told me, all his favorite cybersites have been shut down. We live in an age of purity control. Apparently we the people are not sufficiently intelligent to determine what passes for entertainment in our lives.

"Did Jo tell you anything else about her?"

"That she's a nurse."

"Well, he seems to have a thing for nurses." I giggle a little bit, but Michael's expression cuts me off at the quick.

"Jo says she was one of Byers's nurses when he was quarantined."

"Gizzie?"

"Is that the loud, bossy one?"

"That would be Gizzie."

"No, it's the other one."

"The quiet one...the one that alternated shifts with her...what was her name?" I grab into the recesses of my puny brain. "Mary...no, Martha. It was Martha." I'm sure of it.

"Martha."

"From the Aramaic, for lady." I love ancient languages. They're fun. And there's no one around to correct your pronunciation if you screw up.

"Yeah. From what Jo says, Martha's husband's dying."

"I see." Maybe he won't be unrequited for very long...but then again...

"You remember anything about her?"

"She was very quiet...some type of southern accent...short, but taller than me...and if I recall, she did have big knockers."

That makes Michael laugh. "Yeah, my dad would notice that!"

"Who gots big knockers?" Big ears in the pool never misses a thing.

"Patrick, mind your own," I tell him.

"Don't wanna!"

"Tough. I'm talking to Michael."

"Michael, I wanna play!" Patrick starts up his familiar refrain.

"Later, dude. Go do some laps for me. I wanna see."

Patrick will do anything for Michael, usually with less argument than he gives to Langly or me. He starts demonstrating.

"He's good," I tell Michael, who beams with pride.

"Yeah, he's doing okay. Kick Langly's ass pretty soon." That makes him grin.

"He'll have to get in line. I'm first."

"What'd that bastard do now?"

"Nothing, really. I just...I got a strange letter from CU this morning. Regarding my admission to grad school."

"What's up?"

"My admission...was rescinded."

"You're kidding."

"Wish I was. Do you want to see the letter?"

"Yeah, sure." He looks after Patrick while I get the letter from my desk.

He looks it over. "So what's this got to do with your loser husband?"

"Well, nothing, really. I tried to call him, but he blew me off."

"Probably something going down at work."

"I'm sure there is, but I really...it unnerved me." Just a little. "I was going to show this to your dad, see if he felt it was a fake."

He shakes his head. "Won't see Dad here today. He's working for Ms. Russell, and then he's going over to Jo's for pizza, and she can give him the bad news in person."

Wonderful. We can continue to look forward to a cheerful-not!-Frohike.

"He's been doing a lot for Luanne lately." He's been working hard, and I think all that's happening is taking a toll on him.

"Well, as he says, he's got to educate me, and that costs bucks. Of course, I don't pick out a major pretty soon, he's never gonna get off my case."

"Michael, he'll never get off your case anyway. He's your dad. And he's Frohike."

"Don't I know it." He sighs and bites his lower lip. "Anyway...so tonight, I can look forward to getting home and finding him drunk and having him scream at me, again." He stands up. "In the meantime, I've gotta get some work done, then I think I better head out to Anniston and pick out my classes before all that's left is underwater basket weaving." He then looks at me, that sweet expression covering his face. "I'm real sorry, Ally. This bites. You could ask the prof to look at it. He's not as good as Dad on docs, but he ain't shabby, either."

"I'll do that."

"Maybe somebody just jerking your chain."

"I hope so. I was really looking forward to going."

"Yeah, I know. And you know what you're doing, which is more than I can say." He turns and begins to unlock the office doors and turns off the alarm system.

Do I know what I'm doing?

Miranda comes out, still looking a bit tired but clad in her bikini. "Thought I'd take a dive before I have to work." Miranda has a regular afternoon babysitting job right now, the proceeds of which are all disappearing into her fall wardrobe.

"Sounds good."

"You okay, Mom?" She looks at me with her eyes squinted.

"I'm all right. Just having a third-rate morning. I'll be fine."

She jumps in the water and she and Patrick chase each other around for a while.

I'll be fine. I always say it.

I'm such a liar.

END OF PART 3