Chapter 15 in the R.M. Dolin novel “The Dangling Conversation“, May 15, 2023.
ISABELLE: “I can’t do it, especially on short notice and it doesn’t help that Henry’s being a real shit; first he springs this on me last minute then gets offended when I say no. Now he’s pouting like a spoiled baby. Not every idea’s a good one just because you think so, especially after factoring all the ins & outs and what-ifs. There’s implications and stipulations that can’t be ignored and because its last-minute only makes it worse.
“I’m not some fuddy-duddy, but last minute’s unfair and it’s not like he doesn’t know about this months ago, which begs the bigger question, why does he wait last minute? He says he wasn’t gonna go but got pressured and now, doesn’t want to go alone. Is that supposed to impress me, make me feel appreciated? Saying he wants me to go because he doesn’t want to go alone is like asking a shy girl to dance because its less likely she’ll say no; there’s something about his story that’s completely unimpressive.
“It’s our first fight, maybe not a fight, that’s too angry; our first conflict, one where we wind up not talking to each other pretending peace can only come when the other offers contrition. On top of that, this thing’s like nine hours away. He skips work whenever the hell he wants but I have to schedule my time; we’re not all hoity toity professionals ya know, some of us work for a living. He won’t go if I don’t and I say fine, which should end the arguing, only no, because now I have to deal with his pouting and trying to guilt me. I got nothing to be guilty about but there it is just the same, relentlessly gnawing at me like a dog on a bone, like I’m some sort of fool.”
KYLE: “I keep inviting Nadia to visit, seems the natural next step. We’ll go to my cabin, it’s an important part of my life I want to share. The cabin sits on the soft side of my mountain surrounded by magnificent Ponderosas creating a protective treetop canopy. They’re king of the pines, ya know, towering sixty, even seventy feet and only branching out at the crown leaving the forest floor spaciously open. Before people started “managing” the forest, you could run a horse through the healthy trees at a full lope. Now they’re so densely packed you barely find passage, which creates this dystopian maze of anemic toothpicks. It’s a God-damn shame the way “environmentalist” destroyed nature’s perfection to satiate their perverted plan to “protect” the planet; sorta like how Mao murdered fifty million people to institute his mentally deranged brand of utopia.
“Sorry for my rant, every time I think about those crazy-ass environmentalist whack-jobs I get worked up. My cabin’s mostly made of windows without curtains, and why not, in my secluded isolation it’s just sunshine and nature with no one to watch me prance around in my birthday suit. I invite her for July, which is hands-down the best time to be in northern New Mexico; it’s monsoon season and every afternoon, these incredible high-energy thunderstorms roll in for about an hour. They start out as virga rain, which means moisture evaporates on its way down creating dark wispy streaks in the sky. Virga is Spanish for “fall-streaks,” which is exactly how it looks, like cascading waterfalls dripping down a canvas. The evaporating rain creates a swamp-cooler effect calming the high desert heat. The air’s so damn fresh, Isabelle, like nothing you’ve ever smelled or tasted; you can actually taste mountain air after a thunderstorm; not something you’d wanna try with the crusted-up crap we breathe.
“If you and Henry need an adventure, head to the mountains; not the playdough hills around here, I’m talking the real mountains of New Mexico; I guarantee they’ll change you. They say the Jemez are mystical, can’t say how or why but it’s true. Besides Ponderosas, I have Piñon, and Juniper that collectively create a vibe freeing your head for the deep meaningful stuff you never have time or space for. On mornings after a rain, light fog hovers over the meadow below my cabin. A giant Ponderosa stands in the center like a land-locked island surrounded by a sea of lush green grass; that bad boy’s five, maybe six feet across and at least a hundred feet high; I’ll bet he’s two-hundred years old if he’s a day. Elk rally around the base; cows huddled to one side gossiping away while their calves peacefully prance about under the watchful eye of the herd bull sitting off to the side to stare down any satellites who might decide they have a chance.
“The cabin came with this dilapidated deck that reaches out over a rocky ledge. I love sitting out there at dawn with a piping hot coffee to watch the many dramas unfold below; makes getting up on cold mountain mornings a much-anticipated event. You can’t witness my world and not be changed. Nadia though, has a thousand reasons why she can’t; blames work, which is blatantly not true. Work’s weird in France, they don’t stratify positions like we do; no pitting “haves” against “have nots.” Everyone’s equal when it comes to benefits, professionals and laborers alike get an entire month off in summer; most in July or August depending on schedules. Can you imagine an entire month off, even in my forced retirement I’m too busy for something like that. I literally don’t know how to abandon obligations that long, for one thing, our park bench would get resettled by squatters.
“She’s got absolutely nothing else to do but won’t come. I market her on the entire New Mexico mountain experience and the wonderfully romantic adventure that awaits; not only at the cabin but in Santa Fe and even southern Colorado. Nothing can convince her though and it isn’t the cost, I’ll cover everything; she’s just not interested. I’m ashamed to admit it but I probably pout; I’m hurt, offended, and confused. I consider breaking up and maybe would if that were even ever possible. That’s the thing about love, one minute you’re indigently angry and the next terrorized to panic realizing her not coming might mean she doesn’t love me. It’s a tailspin of anxiety that scares me in ways I never imagined.
“Men don’t pout ya know, it looks like it but really, we’re struggling to process crap we can’t understand; “quiet retreat,” is a better description. Men are logically grounded, we hatch ideas to optimize money, or time, or whatever makes sense in the moment; we build plans and, in the process, convince ourselves they’re so damn perfect how can anyone not be convinced. Henry’s not playing games; his first perfect plan was not going, then he gets pressured, causing him to re-optimize to a new perfection that includes you at his side. You should be honored if not outright flattered. Consider the alternative, and be honest, what’s your reaction if he goes without telling or inviting you? I guarantee you’re uber pissed; likely you’ll accuse his sorry ass of secretly wanting to hook up with his Ex, whether he has one or not. I feel for poor bastard, you got him in a lose-lose situation.”
ISABELLE: “Nothing new there, you always take his side, and even if what you say is true, he should’ve asked me better. I’m not complicated, just want to be respected. Interesting how you called it straight-away about the Ex, she’s gonna be there; I had to practically beat that tidbit of information from him, so, damn straight, if he goes without me, I’ll obsess on him hooking up with her. So, you see why this can’t possibly work; I forbid him to go alone and have no intention of tagging along just to watch him parade around with his Ex. How’s that for logically laying out an optimized plan?”
KYLE: “First of all, logic’s devoid of emotion so, let’s not pretend your argument’s logical. Second, you skewed the primary parameters; if the binary input is Henry either goes or doesn’t go and we eliminate not going since, as he said, he’s pressured to attend, only two outcomes exist, either you go with him or you don’t. Mitigating factors include his Ex being there, that there’ll be drinking, probably dancing, and the real potential for a moment of weakness. This leads to a parallel branch of paramount importance in your logic tree; do you trust Henry to act appropriately in his moment of weakness? If yes, send the poor bastard on his way and don’t hold it against him. If no, either dump his ass or go with him to ensure history doesn’t repeat itself. And that dear one, is how logic works.
“Nadia’s logic tree isn’t much different. Her ultimatum is I either spend the summer in France with her or spend it alone. I don’t remember the exact order of excuses and explanations, too many wrapping around themselves in a convoluted spiral. Her favorite is she’s afraid; America’s too violent according to her and New Mexico tops the list. She’s seen too many movies glorifying gang and cartel abuses, read too many stories about our corrupt government oppressing the innocent; knows firsthand about my troubles. She says she can’t be comfortable constantly worried about being killed, kidnapped, sold into slavery, or imprisoned on trumped-up charges, which is ironic given she’s Berber and Barbary Coast pirates are the leading cause of these transgressions along the Mediterranean for hundreds of years. But that was then, and I guess it’s not really the point. The point is-, well actually that’s not the point either, the point is she doesn’t want to come. We can dissect the what’s and why’s all night, but it’d be like looking at the aftermath of a house fire focused on how it started, which in the ash heap of a crisis has no meaningful value.”
ISABELLE: “Henry says there’s no legitimate barriers preventing me from going, at least none that can’t be overcome. I can’t counter but that’s not the point, not when stuck in a whirlwind of not being ready and not being respected. Relationships proceed at a certain pace, maturing through measured moments that must occur in specific order; you don’t get wet then jump in a lake. I’m not saying we can never do this, just not now; especially given how it all came about. So what if I’m irrational, it’s my prerogative. What you and your logic fail to account for is the tangential layer of complexity we’ve yet to discuss; the significance of saying yes.
“Men have it so freaking easy, they ask you away for the weekend and it means nothing more than going away for the weekend. A woman says yes to something like this, and the implications are staggering. First off, what’s it say about us; is he suggesting the next level, or does he disrespect me to the point he assumes I’ll do whatever he asks? And how am I introduced, I hope for “fiancé,” given where I think we’re heading but can accept “girlfriend”. Henry says we’re too old to be boyfriend and girlfriend but what if he introduces me as his “friend”, especially to his Ex? Inviting a woman for the weekend is not frivolous and a girl doesn’t say yes unless she’s solidly sure where she stands.
“His family’s an extra stressor, they’re the ones applying pressure; I mean it sure as hell better not be his Ex. At some point his mom or sisters, or some nosey aunt’s gonna corner me for the interrogation; what am I supposed to say? What does Henry want me to say? Everything’s cut and dry for guys, but us girls operate from a complex multi-layered playbook and frankly, Henry’s yet to convince me he’s thought this through, or that our relationship is mature enough to survive interrogation.”
KYLE: “I don’t see the difference between me being with Nadia in France or her being in here with me but apparently, it’s night and day. What I know is it has nothing to do with her “extenuating circumstances.” My cabin’s deep in the woods, so deep there’ll be times, depending on summer rain or winter snow, you can’t get in or out. Based on winds or lightning, planes sometimes divert over my place and if you know where to look and what to look for, you’ll see my cabin and how there’s nothing for miles in any direction. I love that place as much as my next breath; love the beauty, the solitude, the rugged way I integrate with nature; can’t imagine any place being better. Summer monsoons keep things cool while winter snow blankets my mountain with a pristine quiet impossible to describe; an absence of sound so surreal you dare not speak under penalty of arrogantly violating serenity.
“When my troubles started, I thought I’d have to sell so, I decided to tear down the dilapidated deck and build a covered patio using logs harvested from the property, stones quarried from a nearby stream, and surplus lumber salvaged from construction sites. I love that patio as much as it’s God-granted views; at dawn, del Sol catapults over the Sangre’s waking the valley to its newest perfect day. The setting sun softly signals encroaching night by hovering over Redondo Peak like the lingering kiss of last night’s lover; daring you to touch your most sacred dreams. Below is the open meadow walled off by a protective ring of Ponderosas, just after dawn and again before dusk the park is wild with life; I’m talking turkeys, deer, elk, bear, even the occasional cougar. Some bounce about in naive innocence as others stalk the edges with intense determination. Whatever the movement, there’s always compelling drama begging to be watched.
“The cabin’s a wreck when I first take over; nasty wall-to-wall shag carpeting is not only disgusting and way out of style, but incompatible with high mountain living. Phase one of my multi-year renovation involves laying down a solid oak floor, which lasts twenty-odd years before life extracts the torrent toll it takes on anything treasured. I was gonna refinish the surface, you know, sand down to new wood before slapping on a fresh finish; then I realize that by the time I get past the scuffs and scares there won’t be much wood left.
“Phase one renovations get underway just after Maggie and continue through the Olivia years. My patio project’s well underway when I first invite Nadia who, for reasons never adequately explained, won’t visit. The odd irony is that when we’re in her world everything’s as good as ever; she just has no interest in being a part of my world. It’s always the same bullshit crap about America not being safe; fair enough, but whatever’s really up, that isn’t it. She’ll assure me everything’s good between us and of course I allow that lie to live so I can believe we’re so in love she must obviously love me. At some point though, for reasons no one can rationalize and don’t much matter, there comes a point we must learn life’s most unfortunate truth; being in love is not enough to sustain love. Mark that down as life’s longest lingering lament.
“The thing about Henry, and most men really, is we’re creatures of action, if we’re not solving problems, we’re fixing what’s broke, and if nothing’s broke we bore down to optimizing inefficiencies. When we can’t identify a problem, find something to fix, or optimize a process, we become a bit bat-shit crazy. That’s what happens when Nadia says no, that’s the collateral consequence of love. To channel my escalating anxiety, my patio project can’t just be any old deck, no sir, somewhere between setting footings and finishing the roof, I decide it has to be beyond perfect, a private Taj Mahal; a shrine exuding my profound love. Sounds stupid now, but in the moment, it’s all-consuming and righteously justified. Securing Nadia’s love requires nothing short of something spectacular, so, that’s exactly what my picture-perfect patio has to be.
“Around then I decide my old oak floor can’t be refurbished because spectacular isn’t built on freshly varnished weathered wood. I feel guilty about ripping out a floor that can technically still be refinished but optimize a work-around; rather than toss the old planks like discarded memories, something no self-respecting engineer can accept, I re-purpose them as the patio’s perfect ceiling. To anyone who visits, it looks sorta silly because who the hell takes a scuffed-up scared-over floor and puts it on the ceiling of their private Taj Mahal; someone bat-shit crazy, that’s who. The thing is, Isabelle, a man’s not obligated to justify the crap he does when he’s bat-shit crazy.
“Friends who come over; maybe for dinner, maybe for poker, maybe just to drink beer after a dirt bike ride, all pretty much come to the same conclusion; first they’re impressed about a solid oak ceiling, even a little amazed to look up at a floor, but on closer examination they start nitpicking over each scuff, every scar, and wonder why the hell I’d make a ceiling so damn flawed in a patio so damn perfect. But that’s the deal with life, it gets encapsulated in a dichotomy of beauty’s ugly truths.
“Good, bad, or indifferent, we all have history; scuffs and scares we embrace while running toward utopia. Unlike most, I can simultaneously be here while also being there; can embrace my past while living in the present, I see beauty in things others find ugly. Like a hungry man, I never question the quality of my next meal any more than I rationalize the righteousness of love. Ask me about tomorrow and I’ll paint you pictures of my past. Ask me about forever and I’ll fill you with the gallows humor of a dreamer who never fully expects his dreams to come true. Look at the dichotomy of me and Nadia, we’re drifting apart at the very same time I’m building a shrine to affirm my undying admiration; it’s all sort of peacefully painful. I’m not saying pain’s peaceful, but as shit piles up, you reach a point of quiet acquiescence where all that’s left is surrendering to an outcome you can’t control; once that happens, you’re able to make peace with the very thing you desperately try to avoid.
“While others focus on flaws my old floor masquerading as a ceiling can’t cover, I only see is the ugly beauty of each and every well-worn plank. I can stare for hours reliving my mosaic life; the deep scratches from all the times Max and I played fetch in the house or tug-a-war with his toys. There’s one set that’s particularly precious from the night he freaks out during his first mountain storm; he desperately tries hiding under the couch like he’d do as a pup; only problem is he’s gotten so damn big he doesn’t fit. In his panic he frantically scratches and claws at the floor and only after accepting that he just doesn’t fit does he jump up on my lap for safety’s precious comfort. Nothing sillier than a seventy-pound pup curled up in your lap shaking in terror as lightening dances about like static on a well-worn rug. He feels safe there, sort how I feel in Nadia’s arms whenever some shitstorm rains down on me.
“Look closely and you’ll discover different colored flecks of paint from a wine & art party I had with my grad students; what a night that was, after definitely drinking too much we collectively vote that whatever we call the crap we painted, it not only has to be burned, but can never be spoken of again. There’s water-stains on a couple planks from when the ice machine in the refrigerator I bought at a garage sale from a woman getting divorced starts leaking after an early winter storm knocks out power; it isn’t until mold starts forming on top of the wood that’s under the frig I figure it out. Three planks are all scratched up from the time my kids get the brilliant idea to carve their names on the floor, the irony is only my oldest even knows how to write his name. Then there’s the dent from that time my daughter drops Olivia’s jar of pennies on the floor and when the light’s just right, there’s a mosaic of sun faded boards mixed in a random collage with pristine planks preserved under throw-rugs creating a map only I can decipher. There’s left over stains from the Christmas party the year Olivia has the brilliant idea to sing carols on the deck cause it’s snowing, that cascades into a whole series of questionable decisions each leaving indelible marks on my floor, the most magical ones occurring long after the kids finally get to bed. You’re free to look at my ceiling focusing on flaws, because you could never interpret the highlight reel of my life.
“I hang hummingbird feeders along the portale; they’re basically inverted bottles filled with sugar-water that have tiny nozzles at the base only the hummingbird’s long needle beaks can penetrate. Hummingbirds are intense little shits, hovering like drones and squabbling nonstop like gossiping old hens. They fly up from Mexico each spring just to summer with me in the mountains, and man are they ever badass cholos. No sooner do I put fresh food out than they mark turf; staking claims and fending off usurpers with intense determination, you can’t help but respect that.
“Sometimes the fighting gets so intense a dive-bombing bird bumps a branch, or pile drives into a post getting knocked out. I gently scoop em up and massage them back to health. The pulsating rhythm of their heart is so fast and full of determination, so eager to rejoin a battle that seems trivially amusing to me but of paramount consequence to them is really something. It’s amazing how small they are when cupped in your hand, a tablespoon of raw energy mixed with bravado and a dash of tenacious passion. Can’t say why God makes them possessive to the point of obsession cause if they’d just stand back and see themselves with a modicum of perspective, they’d realize the futility of owning a feeder, and how the food it provides creates an unnatural dependency that seems life-sustaining only because of my generosity. No different than us I suppose, you and I can’t own this bench any more than we can own the moon and yet it’s our nature to try. We can’t control how we feel about those we love any more than we can control how they feel about us, and yet we’re compelled to try. In my private Taj Mahal, I allow myself to own each sunrise over the Sangre’s and every sunset kiss atop Redondo Peak even as Nadia’s not coming forces fantasy shattering prospective. I am at best a wisp of wind, a molecule of substance passing through her world at the same random rate hummingbirds migrate though mine.”
ISABELLE: “It’s sad you’re stuck here with your troubles when you could be at your cabin, at least there you can pretend you’ve escaped. It’d be cool to go someday; I’ve never seen an elk, or even a hummingbird, never witnessed a thunderstorm roll over a mountain or felt the quiet solitude of a snow-covered meadow in moonlight. You paint a poetic portrait of things I’ve never known with the same clarity you express the complicated facets of love.
“My Ex and I start out like most couples, talking here and there when we see each other around the office, nothing substantive really, but after a stress-filled day of dealing with managers who can’t manage money, his soft smile and just right words linger like a gentle caress. He’s kind at first, guess that’s his salesman’s charm, calm and self-assured with a gentleness that closes a deal as easily as it melts a heart. He makes a huge fleet sale one afternoon and to celebrate, takes the entire office out for drinks, that’s where he closes the deal with me. It’s only later I realize how riddled with insecurities he really is; no different than the rest of us I suppose he just hides it better. What he can’t control, is the random ways those insecurities manifest. The warning signs are there, as clear now as anything obvious in a rear-view mirror. For example, a few rounds into our evening, Mike, from the parts department, accidentally splashes his orange cocktail on my Ex’s white shirt, this results in drama that’s way over the top. I’m taken aback at first, as is everyone, but my Ex quickly recovers from his outburst and by the time the evening’s over his charms have me forgetting the multiple ways I excel at the rare art of rationalization.
“From there it’s all happiness and Hollywood; magical moments. Can’t explain what goes wrong when it eventually all goes wrong any better than you explain Nadia not visiting. We want answers, ways to pinpoint the what’s and why’s but in the end we can’t, even though there’s always something to land on. By the time our marriage enters its death spiral, I got a briefcase full of reasons handcuffed to my heart. Henry’s gift is finding ways to loosen their clasp; that is until this whole business with going away flares up.
“I want so much to blame my Ex, to avoid being a fool, for in that vanity I deflect my pain. I’m doing a pretty good job until Henry gives me glimpses of the shiny side of love. It’s not that I don’t want to go to his damn event, it’s not that I can’t work through the barriers, I’m just not sure I’m ready for the consequences of what it means. So, here I sit, the greater fool, afraid to fall forward because I haven’t learned the lessons of my past; destined to fail because of fear, it’s a recursive loop that takes no prisoners.”
KYLE: “I can’t say go or don’t but understand your trepidation. The most important thing you can do is be honest with Henry; show him your fears, if you can’t be open, your relationship’s doomed. Not knowing leads to not understanding, which will eat at him worse than any truth you might unload. Not knowing the real reason Nadia won’t visit gnaws at my soul with the unrelenting vigor of an insatiable sewer rat. It’s got nothing to do with her stated reasons, that much I know; beyond that it’s all wild-ass speculation. I’m good with being the greater fool; that’s a well-worn costume that fits me fine. It’s not the falling in love or building a Taj Mahal she won’t visit or being a lampooned hummingbird trying to protect what can never be owned, it’s because she doesn’t love me enough to truthfully tell me the what’s really going on, and that dear one, is worse than prison.”
