(playful jazz music)
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- Dear Xxlovemykitty69xX,
it's known as paraphilic infantilism
but I'm at least pretty sure by now
you know he prefers the term adult baby.
Oh yes, I found you out.
No, he never locks his phone.
And yes, I find your screen name
to be in extremely poor taste.
Now, you might remember me from chatting.
You sent him, me, a message saying,
"Are we meeting tonight at the houseboat?"
And he, I, said, "Yeah, what time?"
And you said, "Whenever you're ready to come by, baby man."
Baby man?
You know?
I cringe.
Someone else knows?
Then, I reread the message and cringe all over again,
because I can't help but notice your spelling.
C-U-M by.
That's fucking disgusting.
Who spells come like that?
Something else I noticed
is that your grammar is pretty bad.
I mean you didn't capitalize anything.
You spelled an entire sentence with five vowels,
and I'm pretty sure night has a G in it.
Come on now, really?
Look, Xxlovemykitty69xX,
I'm not saying you're a bad person.
Hell, I'm not even saying
I haven't done some kinky shit myself.
I spent at least one year as an internet dominatrix.
I enjoy light bondage and an occasional spanking.
(hand smacks)
(laughs)
Sometimes in my weaker moments,
I'm even willing to strap on a set of udders
and engage in cow play.
But this whole situation
begs the question, "What's wrong with you?"
Because I'm assuming you know about me.
Because he had to tell you about me, right?
There had to be one time,
one time maybe when he looked up at you,
his other surrogate mommy
suckling at a bottle of warm formula
that he mentioned my name,
the name of his girlfriend
and life partner of four years.
There had to be, had to be one time
when he whispered the name Zoe.
'Cause he loves me.
How could he not?
I'm fucking adorable.
Look,
I find all this highly disturbing,
and not
because I got a text message
from a girl named Xxlovemykitty69xX
who's apparently fucking my boyfriend.
But also, because maybe that same boyfriend
doesn't love me as much as he promised.
And also because I'm baffled
that our society allows people to be as D-U-M-B as you are.
But, I'm
disturbed,
shocked really
that there are at least two girls
in this town willing to pretend my boyfriend
is a five foot, nine inch, 178-pound baby.
Two girls are willing to go to a medical supply store
on the outskirts of town
and pick up extra large diapers.
Two girls are willing to lie to the sales clerk
and say, "Oh yeah, Grandma's not doing too well."
"Her Crohn's disease is actin' somethin' awful this week."
Two girls are willing to mix formula in a microwave,
put it in a bottle and feed it to him.
And at least one of those two girls
are willing to powder his nether regions
before doing it froggy style at a houseboat.
Oh yes, yes, Xxlovemykitty69xX,
I saw the email about froggy style.
What kinda hell of a town is this?
I mean, who's reality am I living in?
Why do you have a houseboat?
And shit, why don't I have a fucking houseboat?
Are the men in this town really that unattractive
that my adult baby boyfriend is a catch?
Christ, seriously?
How is that even possible?
How did he find someone willing to do for him what I do?
And even so, why was he looking?
Why would he keep coming to you
knowing I was willing to do anything for him?
Even if you do what I do,
even if you do it better,
how could he do this to me?
What do you have that I don't have?
Huh?
What?
(upbeat jazz music)
- Miss Kathleen Sullivan,
you may not know this,
but Passover is a very sacred time of year for the Jews.
It's a time of year
when family and friends are joined together
to celebrate when we as a people were freed
by the goodness of God.
It is a time of year
when we make and eat the spiritual and symbolic food
which sustained us in the desert
as we wandered 40 long years
desperate and yearning for our promised land,
the homeland from which we were exiled,
only to be enslaved
by the cruelest of pharaohs.
(Miriam sighs)
It is a time of year when we give thanks
that we are oppressed no longer,
that we are now a free people,
that we are a people strengthened by our diaspora.
That we are a people made to absorb
and to change the culture of the lands
all the while never losing ourselves,
our God, our culture, our traditions.
Maybe the reason you don't understand this
is because your people have never been enslaved,
have they, Kathleen?
Hmm?
Catholic people?
Have they been scattered across the globe?
Or systematically killed by the thousands?
Hmm?
Or what about the Irish people?
Have they been starved
or driven out of their beloved countryside?
Have they been forced to move to a harsher and new land,
discriminated against, called terrible things,
made to work horrible, back-breaking jobs
just in order to feed their families?
Now, I'm no history buff,
but I pretty sure the answer to that question
is a resounding no.
Everybody loves the Irish.
They always have.
I think it's their accents.
Anyway, my point is, I almost can't blame you
for ruining the Seder I took days preparing,
the one I slave over
so I can celebrate the joy of triumphant liberation
with my grandchildren.
The one where my husband reads
from the same haggadah
that my mother gave us for a wedding gift.
God rest her soul.
I almost can't blame you,
because you probably didn't know
how important it was to me.
I mean, how could you?
Looking at you,
you seem to be what 15 years old?
You probably don't even know how to spell haggadah.
I bet you don't even know what a Seder is.
You're used to Easter
with pastels and giant rabbits,
which I never understood personally.
The thing is,
how were you to know
that my husband was gonna tell everyone
about you at my Seder,
as opposed to waiting for any other time?
How could you have controlled the clinking of his fork
against the copper wine goblet
that came over with my grandfather
when he first came to America?
What could you have done
to stop him from raising a toast
to the love of his life,
whom he recently met on Staten Island
at a dental hygienist job fair?
What could you have done
to stop him from telling everyone
including my children,
my grandchildren
and even that terrible girl my grandson brought home
from college that you were his b'sheirt?
Or soulmate, because I'm sure you don't speak Yiddish.
And that he was divorcing me
so he could marry you.
What could you have done?
Nothing.
Not a thing, Kathleen.
I don't remember much
about that last conversation with my husband.
My daughter said I fainted after he left.
But what I do remember
is that when I came to
I was surrounded by people.
My family.
It was in that moment of utter humiliation
that I realized the only one who abandoned me
was my husband, not my children,
not my grandchildren,
not even that terrible girl.
Even though I was alone
for the first time in 30 years,
I wasn't by myself.
So I got up and we continued on with dinner
as if nothing happened, nothing had changed.
And then after dinner,
we got drunk as families sometimes do,
and we talked about what a little tramp you must be
and what an ass my husband is.
Because he is.
One giant ass. (Laughs)
But he's your ass now, Kathleen Sullivan.
Mazel tov.
(audience cheers)
(upbeat jazz music)
- Dear Trevor,
I am a good Christian girl.
I am.
I promise.
(organ music)
I read the Bible,
I pray for the sick,
I vote Republican
and I go to Church every Sunday.
Sometimes I even go on Wednesdays when I'm not at the gym.
I am so Christian, in fact, that I married a TV preacher,
a hot TV preacher
with his thick, wavy, dark hair.
Blue eyes, dashing smile.
I sometimes imagine if I could go back in time
and look in on the Garden of Eden,
I would see his likeness reflected in Adam,
the first man.
The one made in God's own image.
Now, all the women in the congregation,
they seem to agree with me.
They come up to me,
take my hands and say,
"Bethany, you are so lucky."
And I just smile, gently correcting them,
"No, dear, I'm blessed, just blessed."
Lord, he is such a handsome man
and a good one on top of that.
In fact, just last year
we went on a mission trip to Africa,
where he literally built a mud hut with his bare hands.
And bare chest.
Muscles, rippling in the sun.
Tan skin dripping
with earthy, salty sweat.
Now, I know it's not right for a woman to lust,
but I did.
I lusted mightily for my husband.
I simply couldn't help myself.
All he had to do was look at me and I was a goner.
Lately though, he seemed a little bit less interested in me.
(playful orchestral music)
He'd get home from work
and kiss me on the cheek,
whereas before he would kiss me firmly on the mouth,
letting me know that I was his woman.
I guess bedtime also became something of a chore for him,
because lace teddies and ruffled purple undies
seemed sorta, well, overdone.
And although he was always nice about it,
I just wasn't gettin' what my heart was desirin'.
Then one night,
just as I was about to demand physical satisfaction,
he turned and asked me if I wouldn't mind.
You know.
Believe me, I minded.
I looked him square in the eye and I said,
"Now Andrew, I love you."
"I would do anything for you."
"But what you are askin' is just plain sodomy,"
"and we don't sodomize in this house."
I rolled over.
I turned out the lights
as I felt my needs deflate like a birthday balloon.
It wasn't too long after that
that I first found out about you, Trevor,
and at first it was hard.
He told me that he loved you,
(organ music)
but that he wanted me to stand by his side,
to be his wife and his partner.
To love him in spite of his wretchedness,
to help him protect what he had worked so hard to build.
He begged me for my silence and my fidelity.
I told him I needed more time.
I spent all that afternoon trying desperately trying
to come to terms with my husband's sinfulness
by vomiting in the second master bathroom.
And as I lay on that cool tile floor
staring up at the fresco we had painted
as the two of us as angels in heaven,
I actually thought about leaving.
I was gonna leave him, Trevor.
Then I did what any girl in my position would do,
I drank a box of wine.
And when I finally sobered up,
I went home to my mother.
Now my mama, she doesn't mince words too much.
So she just said,
"I coulda told you that man was a homo."
"Ain't you ain't never seen"
"those ice cream colored clothes of his?"
I paused.
Well, I thought they were dapper.
"Well, you've always had bad taste in men"
"and in clothes, apparently."
So I asked her, I said, "What do I do?"
And she said, "Well, I reckon you got two options."
"You can stay, or you can go."
And I said, "Well I know that, mama",
"but what do you think I should do?"
And she said, "Honestly, you should do"
"whatever gets you the most money, sweetheart."
I decided then and there to take my mother's advice.
I was gonna do whatever got me the most money.
I had an A in accounting at junior college,
so I just knew that my math was going to be accurate.
I took into account the following factors,
the TV show, the book deal,
the public speaking engagements,
not to mention our yearly stipend from the church.
I also took into account future book deals,
television specials, and retreats
with us as special guests.
As it turns out,
my husband as a corporation was worth millions to me,
whereas leaving him and potentially destroying his fortune
was not quite so lucrative.
Besides, I also figure, if you two are eventually caught,
I'll still probably come out of it all right.
I'm the scorned wife of a closeted homosexual TV preacher.
Now, that has book deal written all over it.
Besides, Andrew already promised me a new boat
and a baby if I stay.
As it turns out staying with Andrew
and with you, Trevor,
is going to be our best option.
But if we're going to share him,
we need to work out some kinks first.
To start, I get him on all of major holidays,
especially once the new baby comes.
These include Thanksgiving,
Christmas, Easter and Independence Day.
(soft doo-wop music)
You can have him on all the ones where there's dress up,
like Halloween and Mardi Gras.
I know your people like that sorta thing.
I also concede Valentine's if you so desire.
I'm just not into it anymore.
Next, you're not to be seen in public together
at any time except for on Halloween
or at a masquerade ball, see above,
as to not arouse suspicion from the media.
You can come to church, if you'd like.
I'm not gonna keep you from the Lord,
and the way that man preaches,
well I imagine it'd be damn near impossible
to keep you from comin'.
The word of God drips from his tongue like honey.
Next, he can't spend more money on you than he does on me.
Also, you need to satisfy him sexually
in that way that he likes to be satisfied.
I can't satisfy him that way,
and I am not even gonna try it.
I imagine in time, he'll be able
to make love to me again,
even if he thinks about you while he's doing it.
That will have to be good enough for me.
And finally, if you decide that you no longer love him
or can't live this way,
we'll pay you a lump sum for your discretion.
I hope that you appreciate that my husband is a good man
and a hero to many people.
We can't have him going and losing everything
just because of where he likes to put his.
I hope that this agreement is good enough for you.
I pray that it satisfies you as much as possible.
That it keeps you quiet and mindful
of the work that my husband has done for America.
And that on some level,
it makes you happy even.
Because I'd like to think
at least one of us is a little bit happy.
(jazz music)
- Stephanie, Stephanie, Stephanie.
Sometimes, I'll be watching the news
or reading a book and someone, usually a man,
will say something like,
"We attempted to besiege the castle, sir,"
"but their fortress was impregnable,"
or "We tried to convert the people, sir",
"but the beliefs of the natives is impregnable."
Or my favorite, "True courage is a result of reasoning",
"but a brave mind is always impregnable,"
like they know what impregnable is.
Like you know what impregnable is.
You know what's impregnable, Stephanie?
Me.
I'm fucking impregnable.
In fact, let me tell you just how fucking impregnable I am.
Three miscarriages,
two ectopic pregnancies,
followed by the cauterization of my fallopian tubes.
Yes, they had to burn my tubes shut.
That's how fucking impregnable I am.
Now I come from a huge family,
and I'm not talking about 2.5 kids,
suburban bullshit huge.
I'm talking about huge.
I'm talking about family reunions
where you didn't know everybody.
I'm talking about eight different shades
of lipstick on your cheeks
from your aunts kissing you
when you visited grandma's house for Christmas huge.
I'm talking two full roster teams
when we had our annual Thanksgiving Day flag football game.
Get it, Stephanie?
Huge.
The women in my family were built for babies,
and I didn't think I was any different.
Why would I be different?
Why would God make me different?
But after enough trial and error,
after enough loss,
I knew I was different.
I knew that it was gonna be difficult for me
to even get pregnant,
let alone carry a baby to term.
So I did what anybody in my family would do
if they found out they couldn't have a baby.
I prayed.
And I'm not talking going to church on Sundays,
nibbling on a wafer asking God
if he wouldn't mind giving me a baby praying.
I'm talking about praying.
I'm talking about having people lay hands
on my empty belly praying.
I'm talking about joining an infertility group
and prayer circle that met at Denny's
on Tuesday nights praying.
I'm talking about rededicating myself every month,
just in case God didn't think I was praying enough praying.
I prayed so much that every breath I took was a prayer.
My God was vast.
Infinite.
I saw God in a badly designed waiting room
with uncomfortable chairs,
or in an ugly exam room,
even in a pipette holding my most precious assets.
I put my all my hopes into medicine,
because I had seen real miracles there.
But my miracle didn't happen,
and now it never will.
Ever since the day I was wheeled
newly sterilized from the hospital,
I've tried to reconcile my belief in God,
and my belief in prayer,
and in the power of medicine
with this gaping hole in my existence.
My childless existence.
And let me tell you, Stephanie, it has not been easy.
Nights awake,
crying on my husband's strong shoulders.
Sitting in an empty room,
now an office,
where during my first cautionary pregnancy
I had the walls painted a sky blue,
good for a boy or a girl.
(somber music)
I became so focused on what I was missing
that I didn't see what I had done to my marriage
and what you were doing with my husband.
Did he ever tell you how he told me, Stephanie?
How he sat me down at dinner
at our restaurant and whispered,
"I have something to tell you."
And I knew he was leaving me.
He whispered, "You're gonna hate me."
"No," I said, "no."
"You won't forgive me."
"No," I said, "No."
"I have to."
"Stop, stop."
"I'm gonna be a father."
Ooh, I didn't see that one coming.
"Did you hear me?" he said.
"Sheila, I'm gonna be a father."
"I'm sorry."
But I had heard him very clearly.
And I'd already begun to pray.
I couldn't pray for you to lose the baby
or for my husband wanna come back to me.
Instead, I prayed that the baby you were to bear
would be the size of a watermelon.
And I'm not talking about a sweet, dainty, seedless
little watermelon that you buy
at the grocery store watermelon.
I'm talking about at least 10 pounds, 25 inches,
making you about as fat as Oprah in the 90s,
only to have you push it out of your exhausted body
making your lips the size of dog ears.
Making you wide enough for a mack truck through.
Then, I stopped for a moment,
and I prayed that its size would reflect its health,
that this baby would have the healthiest set of lungs
to scream for you,
oh and a healthy sense of defiance
to make its childhood and adolescence
extra hard for you both.
And I looked up at him through my tears
and the beating of my broken heart.
"Sheila," he said, "Are you all right?"
I said I was and I was praying.
He rolled his eyes.
I said, "I'm praying for your baby."
His face softened.
"Thank you," he said.
"Thank you."
And then he grasped my hands
and started softly sobbing.
"Thank you, thank you, thank you."
The next few days came and went.
And most of the time, I prayed for your baby.
And then finally I stopped praying for you
and started praying for me, for strength,
for courage, for an impregnable spirit
to support this impregnable body.
After all these years of unanswered prayers,
miraculously, amazingly,
I feel strong and brave
and completely unbreakable.
And finally, my miracle came in the form
of a phone call from our mutual mother-in-law.
She told me that you had twins.
(Sheila laughs) (playful music)
And that they were very big
and very healthy,
and you were very, very tired.
But not as tired as you're going to be.
Maybe God was listening after all. (Laughs)
Ah, yes!
(jazz music)
- Looking back, Patricia,
I think my first clue
that our marriage wasn't going to work
probably should have been his rampant cocaine habit.
It might have been that, I don't know.
I guess it coulda been the DUls too
or maybe the lack of a driver's license,
or decent credit,
or a job.
Mighta been the felony charges.
It's hard to say.
All I know is
these are easy things to overlook.
I mean, what did I know about cocaine?
I always thought this town was too small for street drugs.
And as for the DUls,
well those were a mistake.
"Youthful Indiscretion," he said.
Besides, he was already in AA when I met him.
So I thought that was a good sign.
Showed real promise.
The lack of a driver's license had to do with the DUls.
So I couldn't really hold that against him twice.
Bad credit was a result of no credit.
I mean, who was gonna give this guy a credit card, right?
Especially with no job?
And as for the felony charges, well,
those were a surprise up until after the wedding.
Yep.
Pete was just one a those guys trouble followed.
And I'm one a those girls who follows trouble.
So I spent long days and nights
trying to get him to come around
to being the marrying kind,
to be the man who spends his days looking for a job
instead of drinking away his unemployment check.
(soft jazz music)
To be the man who helps with the dishes
instead of passing out on the toilet.
The man who shows up when his daughter is born
instead of skipping town with his junkie girlfriend.
I don't think it's that hard.
Not in the grand scheme of things,
Not after all he's put us through.
It's funny but,
before I knew for sure that Caroline was conceived,
I thought about leaving him, Patricia.
I imagined throwing him to the wolves,
or in his case, the county cops,
just to see if he could make it without me.
But before he even knew I'd considered evicting him,
I took that pregnancy test,
which came up positive, obviously.
So when he got home,
I told him what was what.
I told him things just had to get better.
It wasn't just about me and him anymore.
We were a family.
And then, amazingly,
things got better.
They really did.
For about 16 hours.
Then came the infamous Conception Reception
the guys threw for him downtown
after they heard the news.
I heard it was quite a rager.
I probably would've gone if I'd known there was a party
to celebrate my pregnancy,
or if I'd known he'd meet you there.
Leave it to Pete
to pick up a girl at his own baby shower.
Now Patricia,
you might be wondering why I'm writing you.
And what I'm writing to ask you is pretty reasonable.
So before you get all huffy and up in arms,
I want you to know
that I am not trying to win him back.
Hell, I'm not even trying to get him to pay child support
because I think collecting it'd be more trouble
than it's actually worth.
What I really want from you,
and I guess from Pete,
is my ring back.
It's kind of important that I get it,
and I know he took it when he left,
because he threatened to stab me if I didn't hand it over.
I'm pretty sure he probably gave it to you
as a promise of his love and fidelity,
or he sold it for crack,
whatever one seemed like a better idea at the time.
I don't know what happened to it,
but I think I'd like to have it back.
It isn't so much that it's worth anything.
I mean, it's a little scrap of a diamond
in a yellow gold setting,
but I bought it for myself
with the money I made working at the grocery store,
because I wanted people to stop asking me
if I knew where Caroline's dad was.
See, he never actually got me a wedding band,
even when we got married, which was fine.
I don't feel the need
to justify my relationships in jewelry,
but eventually walking around in my fat stomach
felt a little embarrassing without the ring.
It's not so much that I was ashamed of myself
or of my daughter,
but of Pete
for not loving us enough to get sober,
get a job, get a house in a good part of town.
I bought the ring,
because I was tired of making excuses
for a man that wasn't worth making excuses for.
Someday I want to give that ring to my daughter,
so I can lie to her.
So I can tell her that her father was a good man
who made a mistake,
that he loved her enough,
loved us enough to promise us forever.
And even if he was too sick to keep it,
he gave us this ring to remember a promise by.
I think she deserves at least that
considering she'll probably never know the man.
If you don't send the ring back,
I'll assume you sold it for blow
which would be pretty standard for Pete.
But I want you to know
that it'd be too bad really if you'd done that.
Some guys around town
have been asking lots of questions about you two,
and if you're gettin' this letter,
I know where you are.
I know because the last time Pete and I took a vacation,
we were secretly laying low where you folks are now.
So far, you've been lucky.
My delicate condition has made me a bit forgetful
when say approached by a scary guy
in a hoodie who hangs out by the 7-Eleven.
But my guess is if that ring doesn't show up
in about a week,
my memory's gonna start getting real clear,
if you know what I mean.
Hopefully you know what I mean, Patricia.
(upbeat jazz music)
- Oh Pilar,
(soft music)
I know your English leaves something to be desired,
so just try to stay with me, okay?
Wonderful.
Now, I've given this a lot of thought,
and I have decided that I don't care
if she calls you momma every once in a while.
In fact, the women from my mother's group
say that it's normal for children
to attach to people like you,
the people who provide for their most basic needs,
the feeding, the diapering, the comforting.
But as children get older
and their need for physical comfort
gives way to the need for emotional
and financial support,
the one they cling to,
the one they rely on,
is their real mother,
as nannies fade into their memories
like wallpaper on childhood bedrooms.
When Rebecca's old enough,
she will see that you are not a mother to her.
You are a servant to her family.
One unwashed window,
one missed soccer practice,
one missing piece of silverware away from deportation.
So you see,
it's totally fine with me if she calls you that.
Totalmente bien even,
because you are not her mother.
You are her nanny.
You work for momma.
Pilar, I'd like to think that we've welcomed you in,
accepted you into our home,
allowed you to stay with us.
We've given you a room,
Sundays off, Christmas bonuses, sick days.
We've even let you relax poolside when we're not home.
Now, we don't let the gardener do that.
All we ask is that you do as you're told.
Is that too much?
Because apparently,
it has become something of a hassle for you.
When you came to me the other night in tears
covered in those bruises
telling me that my husband had been touching you,
what was I supposed to say?
My husband touches you.
What am I supposed to do about it?
I can't control my husband.
I can't quell his desire for the tenderness of a woman.
I don't get to determine
as the years go by,
who he loves or for whom he lusts.
I merely accept the fact that sometimes the woman
that fills that void is someone like you,
a sad, doe-eyed thing
with a convenient proximity to his penis.
Perhaps you should feel flattered.
The way he looks at you,
I practically feel him harden
in the dead air between us.
And while he admires your distant,
unattainable sexualidad,
I am left completely and utterly alone.
So there, he's touching you.
He's touching you.
Of course he's touching you.
He's touched everyone except for me
since Rebecca was born.
Now, I'll admit I haven't been the same since,
not in body anyway,
and parts of me that were once beautiful to the eye,
to the fingers, to the mouth,
are now only vaguely recognizable to myself.
It's natural that over time,
he had to find other bodies
to seek those softest of womanly places.
So you see,
it's not his fault.
It's mine.
I haven't looked right in my own body in years.
This is something you wouldn't understand,
even if I said it in Spanish.
Right now you are young and you are beautiful,
not like I was not 10 years ago
when my husband left his first wife to make me his bride.
Now, I can imagine that you're still quite uncomfortable
and that this place does not feel like home to you.
Perhaps it never did.
Now you're telling me that you're leaving.
What could I possibly do to make things better?
Should I say that I sympathize with you?
That I should leave too?
That my husband's a dog?
How about this,
it might make you feel better to know
that he does not love you.
He does not want to make you his new wife.
He does not wanna make you a real part of this family.
And though things are hard right now,
I promise, it won't last beyond his next romantic conquest.
Someday and probably very soon,
you'll be just like me,
completely ignored.
So maybe you can consider staying for Rebecca.
I think, and I could be very, very wrong
that she might love you,
the way that children love their mothers.
You know, that unconditional,
heartsick way that children love their mothers.
And because of that, I have to ask you to consider this.
I know dignity has no price,
but maybe the happiness of my daughter does.
And hopefully this is it.
(upbeat jazz music)
- Maureen Pender,
what the fuck are you doing in my house?
I leave town for one week, one week,
and I come home to find your underwear in my hamper,
your soap in my shower,
your boots in my closet,
and your crappy country music on my coffee table.
You creepily cleaned the fridge.
You did my laundry.
It looks like you may have vacuumed the rugs
and dusted the mantle.
If I didn't find this so fucking weird,
I would say you were Martha Stewart,
a picture of domestic goddess-ness.
But it is fucking weird,
because you are 18 years old.
Shouldn't you be out seeing a movie with your friends?
Or planning what you're going to take in college?
Or I don't know, doing your goddamn homework
for once in your life?
Because that's what I would be doing,
if I were, I don't know, say a high school senior.
Look.
I let you walk our dog, because as your teacher,
I wanted to help you out.
Let you earn a little extra cash
before you went off to college.
I mean, God knows no one else would hire you.
You're a sweet girl
but not motivated.
Pretty, not popular.
And from what I can tell,
your parents are assholes.
So I thought, I could provide a positive influence
in what I am sure was a formative
and probably tumultuous time for you.
And you know what?
Maybe I did.
Of course this was all before,
before you came to know Malcolm
in all the ways you came to know him both behind my back
and in front of my nose,
which shouldn't have shocked me, really.
I mean, what could be more attractive to a selfish man
than a beautiful girl
with everything to lose
and no self-esteem whatsoever?
No big surprises there.
What is surprising, even to me,
is that now you're telling me you love each other?
Really?
Fine, you know what?
You want him, you can have him.
I do have one last lesson to teach you though
before I am out of your life forever.
Before my name is just a faraway murmur on your lips
before the time before you, plural.
I want to teach you one last lesson,
and given the circumstances,
it may be the only thing I ever taught you worth a damn.
So I should tell you before you get too involved
in this affair of yours,
that no matter how much you clean the house
or make yourself a soft pillow for his body
or handkerchief for his tears,
soon you will only be good for one thing.
And that one thing
is pork chops.
Now, my pork chops are something I kinda pride myself on,
and I wouldn't give this recipe to just about anyone,
but he is sort of fond of them, so to speak.
Or shall I say, he requires them, often.
So I am going to do you a massive favor,
and I'm gonna tell you how to make them,
so that when you have nothing left to talk about
and no physical chemistry left whatsoever,
and you're sitting on the couch looking into his eyes
and you can feel him slipping
from your tenuous grasp,
you can make these and he'll smile.
And he'll remember why he fell in love with me
and translate that to you.
So here's how you do it.
You take pork chops, raw ones,
and you put them on a plate.
You add salt and pepper,
and then you fry them in butter.
Three minutes on each side,
maybe four, depending on the thickness.
That's it.
Nothing to it.
But if you're feeling really ambitious,
and you feel like making a meal
that might warrant a marriage proposal,
I wouldn't recommend it.
He's not good at them.
You might try making fettuccine Alfredo as a side dish.
Now fettuccine is a bit harder as it involves boiling water.
So what you do is you take some water,
and you put it on a stove top in a pot
until it boils.
Then you add in the noodles.
While their doing their noodle thing,
it's about nine to 10 noodle minutes,
you saute, fry, some garlic and shallots in a pan.
When that's about done,
the noodles should be ready,
and you take them out, strain them,
and put 'em to the side.
Now, in the pot where you originally cooked the noodles,
you are going to add two parts cream
to one part Parmesan cheese
and some more butter,
and then you mix it all up
until it's a nice sauce.
Then, you add in the shallots and the garlic.
Some salt, some pepper, little bit of nutmeg.
Come to think of it,
I don't know if he likes nutmeg or not.
But if you do, and you might,
go ahead and add some for yourself.
You are after all the one cooking dinner.
Now, when that's a nice cheesy blend,
go ahead and add back in the noodles.
Mix it all up,
and then put it on a plate
next to a pork chops.
And I promise you, he will promise to love you
until the world runs out of pigs.
(upbeat percussion music)
- Tiffanie Renee Hoyt,
if I ever see you,
I'm gonna put a meat cleaver
right between your eyes.
Not really. (Laughs)
Because I'm actually gonna rip
into your stomach with my bare hands,
twisting my fingers around your intestines
and pulling them out
and wrapping them around your throat.
Maybe then if you're still gasping for air,
I'll put what's left of your insides in your mouth.
So you can taste your own shit.
I don't reckon you've ever eaten shit.
Have you, Tiffanie Renee?
You see, there was this one time,
just this one time,
the dog had an accident in the house
on the carpet, beige carpet,
new beige carpet,
after I begged Chris for hardwood.
"Hardwood's too expensive" is what Chris told me.
The dog got in the garbage,
ate half a dozen raw eggs post-dated,
some coffee grounds,
maybe some paper, and he shit
all over that new beige carpet
before I even remembered that I'd left the garbage pail
on the kitchen floor.
So I get home from work.
I park the car.
I put my key in the door, open it,
pushin' it open with my knee,
holding a small bag of groceries,
new eggs, a purse.
And then the smell hit me.
Like a ton of bricks it hit me.
I looked down,
and there was shit everywhere.
I found the dog under the dining room table,
and I wail on him for awhile,
mostly out of fear.
He knows what I'm in for, so he forgives me,
for leavin' the garbage pail on the floor,
for makin' him so sick
that he couldn't wait for me to let him out,
for beatin' him so bad that he couldn't stand.
But I had to stop,
because I gotta think.
So before I get real scared,
I go under the kitchen sink.
I get a bucket, I get some water,
and I start scrubbin'.
I scrub until my hands are raw with blood
and lye soap that I made myself.
And hardly any time has passed before I hear a click
and the door open
and a creak.
And the creak sounds like a gunshot.
I freeze.
I stop
breathin'.
I stop hearing the footsteps on the new beige carpet.
You see, Tiffanie Renee, there wasn't enough time to clean.
There wasn't enough time to get the mess up off the floor,
and that was the first time,
the only time that I ever tasted shit.
And that shit was mixed with blood
in my mouth from coughing.
And salt from the tears and sweat falling down my face,
the kind of sweat you only sweat
when you know the last taste you'll have
in your mouth is waste.
And the tears you only cry when you are begging Jesus
to forgive you for beating the dog so bad.
It was only other time it was ever worse for me.
And that was the time that he got home from being with you.
He never did hide you like a decent man might.
He would wave you around in front of me
like an American flag on Independence Day.
There was pictures of you in his desk drawer,
notes from you in his wallet,
and after a night of being with you,
he'd come in the front door smelling like you
with the mark of your kiss on his neck
and your name on his lips.
And he'd look at me disappointed.
(soft music)
I'd have dinner waiting for him in the oven,
and the house would be mostly spotless.
And sometimes, I'd do my hair and put on lip gloss.
And he'd still look at me disappointed.
I felt like dying, Tiffanie Renee.
I really did.
I think I died once every minute
on every day I was with him,
and probably twice a minute on the days he was with you.
And after all I've been through
and after all he's done,
for him to look at me disgusted after being with you
is more than any woman can bear.
So I don't suppose
I can be any clearer
or any more up front
when I tell you that if I see you,
the things I'm gonna do to you ain't gonna be pleasant.
They're gonna hurt you.
They're gonna make you wish you were dead.
And then I'm gonna do you the biggest favor of all.
I'm gonna kill you.
I'm gonna kill you, Tiffanie Renee,
in the most painful way I can think of.
But I want you to remember
through your pained and bloody screams
and your tearful pleas
and your broken sobs
that what I'm doing for you is a favor.
Because if you stay with him,
if you replace me,
you'll die a lot more often than that.
(upbeat jazz music)
- I was going to go more traditional,
but I decided as usual
to follow my heart.
So I picked this one.
It's not quite white,
but I always thought white made me look
sick or pale
or just generally yucky.
(soft doo-wop music)
He liked it, Lila, he did.
He liked the way it hugged the curves of my figure,
the way the sparkly things, the beading,
the way it sparkled in the light at the reception hall.
And I'm pretty sure he liked it best,
at least I think he liked it best,
when he unbuttoned it
button by button
down the back of my trembling body
in the honeymoon suite,
while our guests downstairs danced the night away.
I think he liked this dress best
as a billowing pile of lace
and light and beauty
just gently lain on a hardwood floor.
We heard the music playing softly downstairs
as we climbed into bed.
And he held my cold hands
and pressing his lips to my neck.
"It's okay," he said.
"I love you."
He tried to comfort his nervous bride
as I lie beneath him for the very first time.
Looking back on it,
nervous isn't the word I would use for someone
who waited until their wedding night.
Stupid might be the word.
Naive is another good choice.
Bleeding maybe.
I wasn't nervous, I was in awe.
I had waited my whole life for that moment,
a moment that intensified our relationship
solidifying our commitment to one another
in an indelicate exchange of bodily fluids.
It was supposed to be magic.
I personally envisioned rose petals and fireworks,
but instead as everyone said it might be,
it wound up being sort of awkward,
which was fine.
In the months that followed
that silly awkwardness was replaced
with tender affections.
Evenings spent trying to figure out the other's body
turned into mornings relaxing comfortably
with entwined fingers and legs.
Wasteful, dewy kisses matured
into the deep, passionate embrace
of tongue and breath and lips
that led once more to un-awkward, tender affecting.
Our bed was our own private fort
that became a sanctuary of body and mind.
I told him my secrets
and my fears,
and he named our first three unborn children.
I spent many lazy hours
with my head on his chest listening contentedly
to the sound of his softly beating heart.
I was never happier in my whole life
than I was in the moments that we wasted there
in the feminine bed that I adorned
with soft, pink sheets,
for it was between them that we forged a bond
wrought of iron.
You might ask then
why I'm writing you this letter.
Why I'm not ensconced in the arms of my beloved
courting his fantasies of wife and lover.
Why the bond of iron has become
like the soft gold of our wedding bands
worn away by brutal time.
Lila, at this reunion of yours,
he saw you dance
as though time had stopped,
crystallizing you at 16 and himself barely 17.
And in a moment of nostalgic bliss,
he took your cool, dry hands
and remembered how good it felt
to twirl you in his arms.
And though he's only admitted to one shameful kiss,
one moment of lapsed character or judgment,
(somber music)
I know that it gave way to painful fantasies
of alternate lives,
alternate realities in which you were his loving spouse,
and I was merely
a pretty girl he saw in a grocery store that one time.
The tears stung
like shards of glass cutting through my watery eyes
as I asked him what he'd done.
And wickedly he said,
he thought maybe and only for a moment
that he'd made a mistake,
that he'd chosen the wrong woman for his bride.
But he regretted it.
"Can't you see?" he said.
"You're all I only ever wanted."
"It's natural to doubt and to question."
"I love you," he said.
"You're all I've ever wanted."
But by then it was too late.
The damage had been done.
As I crawled into bed that night,
lost in a sea of blankets,
I waited for him.
I waited for him to join me in our safest place.
I waited for him to fill the space between my body
and the emptiness that surrounded it.
But he slept on the couch that night,
and in the morning, he was gone.
He left a note.
Call me when you're ready.
I never did.
Living with knowing
that after all we'd been through together,
after the time spent lying helplessly in his loving arms
planning a life and a future
that did not involve him ever questioning the choice he made
when he chose me for his mate.
Knowing that he ever thought of leaving me
or that he'd made some terrible mistake
makes me unable to continue.
Tuesday, Lila,
is mine and Charlie's fifth wedding anniversary.
I will not be there to celebrate it.
- My dearest June,
(soft rockabilly music)
I met Harold for the first time on a Friday evening
in 1951 at a USO dance
organized by my big sister, Clara.
Her husband Edward was a career Naval Airman,
and she'd roped me in to a hostessing a canteen dance
for a group of boys going to Korea.
I was only 16 at the time,
much more interested in baseball
than a bunch of rowdy, desperate teenagers in uniform,
but my mother figured it might be a good chance
for her peculiar daughter to get out of the house.
Usually on Fridays, I'd listen to baseball on the radio
with my dad. (Laughs)
We were lifelong Brooklyn Dodgers fans,
which wound up breaking our hearts
a few short years later.
So when we couldn't be at the park,
we were at the kitchen table listening intently
to every broadcast.
I knew all the stats and I oughta.
After all, my dad had been quizzing me since I was six,
and by the time I was 12,
I knew everything there was to know about the Dodgers.
We'd be at a game, or a party,
or even at the coffee reception after Mass,
and he'd say something like, "Hey Peaches",
"what was the batting average of Pee Wee Reese in 1947?"
And I'd think for a minute.
"284." (laughs)
The crowd of guys he called over would hoot and cheer,
and my dad would laugh.
After six girls, my dad finally had a buddy.
Lost in a sea of ribbons and curls,
high heels and lipstick, he had someone to relate to.
Though he loved us all, he spent lots of time with me.
One summer, he taught me to throw and to catch.
And he even taught me how to hit
my cousin Mikey's tough curve ball.
The dance was nothing special to say the least.
With the schmaltzy music,
stars and stripes crepe paper decorations
and crumbly cookies,
it was certainly not something
I would have missed my weekly date
with my dad and the Dodgers for.
Content to ladle punch into cups and stare at the clock,
I passed the time wondering
if Newcombe was gonna pitch a no-hitter that night.
He'd had a good year so far,
one that wound up being his best ever
with 164 strikeouts.
I didn't even notice Harold looking at me
until he came up to the table.
"You wanna dance, Harriet?" he asked, reading my name tag.
"No," I told him.
"Come on, sweetheart, I'm goin' to war."
"I might die."
I stared him down.
"Fine," I said.
"But that excuse only works once."
He laughed.
"I'm not kidding you," I said.
"All right, all right.
"I'm not a bad guy, you'll see," he promised.
That's what they all say.
But the two of us danced under the dim lights
of the Knights of Columbus Hall,
my hands on his shoulders and his on my hips.
He told me all about his family in Brooklyn,
his dog Rex, and his big brothers
who fought in World War II.
I probably couldn't have been less interested
in anything he had to say until suddenly he goosed me,
just to make sure I was paying attention.
I squealed, and he grinned at me
with his Cheshire Cat teeth.
"You awake there, sweetheart?"
That was when I slapped him across the mouth
and walked out.
I was a lady after all.
As it turned out, his father worked with mine,
much to my embarrassment,
and the next time I laid eyes on Harold was two years later
on Long Island, where my father's company
was hosting a Labor Day picnic for employees
and their families.
Harold was home from Korea and tagged along with his folks.
He didn't recognize me,
but that big mouth father of his caught me
out of the corner of his eye at the goddamn punch bowl
and he said, "Hey, isn't that Give 'em Hell Harriet?"
(playful music)
Give 'em Hell Harriet was my nickname after the dance.
It was the height of the Truman administration,
and everyone thought that it was very clever.
"Yeah, that's her," he said.
He was dressed in his uniform.
"With an arm like yours," he said,
"You should play in the softball game this afternoon."
"As a matter of fact smart ass, I'm pitching."
And I did.
I knocked his smart ass to the ground with the ball,
but immediately after I whacked him,
I was so overcome with guilt I rushed to his side,
and yelled at him, "Goddamn it Harold",
"you had to crowd the plate?"
He fell in love with me right then, June.
And although I'm sure it was because of my nerve
or my temper or maybe my sense of humor,
I bet it didn't hurt
that my measurements were 37, 23 and 36,
just like Marilyn Monroe.
We saw each other every day after that,
and eventually he asked Give 'em Hell Harriet
to be his girl.
He had to ask four times
before I finally accepted.
And when I did, I realized I loved him.
I loved him with everything I had.
Naturally, this isn't easy for me
to leave him here alone.
I just didn't have much choice in the matter.
When it all started a few years ago,
I thought I could take care of him.
It was only occasional issues,
nothing that couldn't be fixed with gentle reminders.
I would leave sticky notes on the stove.
Don't forget to turn off stove.
And on the door, please shut door.
In the bathroom, please turn off faucet.
But soon the words stopped making sense to him,
and then eventually the world stopped making sense to him.
He began to lose the world,
and when he lost his world, I lost him.
(somber music)
That was when I found this place.
It's clean, it's quiet,
the visiting hours are unlimited for immediate family.
So I've been able to join him every day
for as long as we wanted to.
We would sit, hold hands in the sun room,
and talk about our day.
His eyes would light up when I would visit,
and I'd kiss him, like I still do,
I kiss him on the forehead.
Harold Angel, that's what I call him.
It's corny, I know.
So shoot me. (Laughs)
But lately he's been forgetting me.
My kisses, though welcomed, have become foreign.
My visits, though frequent are now punctuated
with the pain of loss and confusion.
And I admit, it's harder now
that I've been noticing that he's become rather
fond of you.
I'll come in sometimes,
when you don't know I'm there,
and I'll watch you from another room.
I notice that occasionally you'll fondly hold his hand
or exchange fond and loving glances.
The orderlies say that that's normal.
That he doesn't remember that he has a wife
and that he's seeking the companionship.
The last time I was there, I couldn't help myself.
I had to talk to you.
I had to tell you that this was my husband,
and that you can't have him, June, you can't.
I've loved this man for 57 years,
58 in August.
And I've cared for this man every day of life,
and I don't know how not to care for him.
I went over to you both.
Harold smiled his same familiar smile and said, "Oh June",
"this is, this is."
And he looked up at me and he said,
"This is my friend."
Reluctantly I extended my hand to you.
You shook it demurely
as I told you my name was Harriet.
And in a moment of recognition that was all too brief,
Harold looked at me and said, "Give 'em Hell Harriet."
Harold beamed with pride at the distant memory of my name,
and you nodded politely.
I'll admit, you are very polite.
The two of you went right back to talking,
as I sat in the recliner adjacent to your love seat.
You told him about your children,
and he told you about how his big brother
who got the Purple Heart at Normandy,
about how brave he was.
Your eyes glistened.
He was so pleased at how interested you were.
And through the fog of his disease,
I saw a flicker of light that was the man I married.
The young man,
handsome in his uniform,
so proud, so damn cheeky,
and so eager to impress a pretty girl.
That was when I realized he loved you,
oh, and not the same way he loved me
and not better than he loved me,
but he did love you.
He loved you, and he wanted you to be his companion.
I resigned myself to this that day,
and in my resignation, I went home
and wrote a brief, but comprehensive list
that I have included for you here.
It has a few things on it
that you should know about Harold,
my husband of 57 years,
58 in August.
One,
(somber music)
Harold never liked to talk about his war.
He lost friends and unit members,
and I think he always secretly felt
like no matter what he did there,
it never would have been as good
or as brave or as heroic
as what his brothers did in World War II.
So do him a favor, June.
Listen to the war stories about his brothers
but never make him tell you his.
Two, Harold, lately,
seems to like his meals in the afternoon.
Waffles are a new favorite.
He likes them with syrup and whipped cream
if you can manage it.
Three, Harold wakes up at night.
He feels lost most of the time,
and wants to walk until he finds where he's supposed to go.
The doctors call it sun-downing.
I call it itchy foot.
The nurses will probably have to handle this,
but if you do stay in the same room,
and one night you wake up alone,
I don't want you to be afraid like I was.
And I'm sure he's safe here
with you.
Four, he's terribly afraid of bugs,
palmettos especially, but he'll never tell you.
He's too proud.
Everything else, June,
you'll just find out on your own.
You'll find out in the times you spend talking,
whispering love through hearing aids,
gazing at each other through thick prescription lenses.
All while I look on, like I do every day
in another room,
occasionally interrupting to kiss my Harold on the forehead
just to let him know I was there.
Because I was there.
Sincerely, Give 'em Hell Harriet.
(seductive jazz music)