Reality Check?
The Diary of an Outspouse
This blog and DearEasyDiaries is an ever-evolving, reflective picture of the life I’ve been blessed to live, and also struggled to survive at times. My story jumps around a bit (or a lot) and definitely doesn’t travel a straight route; there’s no direct path from Point A to Point B, but then what fun would that be? However, it’s not on purpose that I scramble the timeline, or that I can be a little repetitive about particular events; it’s simply that what I feel comfortable with, or am ready to share from day to day varies, and there are several topics which take me far longer to delve into than others and oftentimes those subjects intersect with parts of past posts. Many times, while I sit with my laptop and am challenged to “wade” through a particular subject or timeframe, another thought or instance flashes through my mind and the new subject is seemingly effortless to recall or share, so I just go with it. I suppose that kind of spontaneity doesn’t make for the most fluid of reading and with that in mind, I thank you again for sticking with me!
A FEW OF MY FAVORITE THINGS FROM THAT TIME IN MY LIFE, INCLUDING A BEAUTIFUL PAINTING OF SEA ISLAND’S (THEN, EARLY 2000’S) BEACH CLUB, A GIFT FROM A DEAR FRIEND AND AMAZING ARTIST; A WORK FROM MY COLLECTION OF JAN BARBOGLIO TREASURES, AS WELL AS THE GORGEOUS, ONE-OF-A-KIND PIECES OF ARTWORK REPRESENTED IN CRYSTAL-CROSS VINTAGE BOTTLES, AND THE SHELL ENCASED CROSS AND KEEPSAKE BOX FROM THE UBER-TALENTED ARTISTRY OF “ANNETTE FRIEDERICH ORIGINALS.” ANNETTE’S UNIQUE PIECES HAVE GRACED MANY ART COLLECTIONS FROM COAST TO COAST, WITH INDIVIDUAL WORKS AVAILABLE BY COMMISSION.
CONTACT INFO… AFRIEDERICH4031@GMAIL.COM
I’ve never considered myself a prolific or skilled writer, but I am a passionate collector, and whether its Milagros, Crosses, and other Artworks, or thoughts and memories, I have very distinct ideas about the care and keeping of each. It should probably follow that I would have a particular way to catalog all the thoughts that race through my mind, right? Not…at least not until recently. Originally, my notes were always kept on the pages of the annual calendars I kept, or on scraps of paper that filled boxes and files throughout my house. That system was forced to mature a bit, and take on a more organized approach, when during one year in Georgia, I was offered the opportunity to contribute a bi-monthly column to the lifestyle insert of the local Brunswick, St. Simon’s Island and Sea Island newspaper. I had no formal training in journalism, but was absolutely over-the-moon, and beyond honored at the prospect that had been laid before me. Even if it was only regarded as a “fluff” piece, it was concerning an issue near and dear to my heart, and I penned each feature with the same consideration and care as if writing that column was my sole profession. Animal welfare, and my great, good fortune to highlight the attention I felt the topic deserved, occupied a significant part of my life, and I was driven to share that concern and focus with the community which had so generously provided me the forum, and an equally responsive audience. My column, “Camp Canine” marked a starting point and launching pad. Who knew where or if, that first attempt and public effort to put my feelings and beliefs in writing would lead anywhere? But, I was then…and still remain very grateful.
The progress continues, now, as I sit staring down at my laptop, the amazing device in front of me and an absolute Godsend. I only wish I’d been brave enough to give it a try sooner. Just as the acceptance and understanding of my “ADD” over the past many years has been a gift, I can’t help but wonder what I might have accomplished had I bothered to, patiently (key word), learn and taken advantage of this great tool for the three years it sat gathering dust in one of the drawers of my kitchen desk? Oh well, never mind about that now, if nothing else this is another important reminder that its’s never too late to make up for lost time!
The particular entry which I’m about to share, was the start of what would eventually evolve into my blog, but was originally “born” years ago in a different form. I hope you’ll bear with me as I try to explain the way it unfolded. Initially, while navigating my way through the complicated and treacherous world of divorce (at least MY divorce) my intent was to write a book, and I’ve even gone so far as to pursue intellectual property rights to the title and the proposed “treatment” that goes along with it. With that as my premise, over the decade spanning 2008 thru 2018, I worked through the process of completing that project. What I discovered while going through the steps, is that my title, which I went to such lengths to protect, “The Diary Of An Outspouse” and the tedious yet thorough page upon page of outline that went along with it, didn’t come close to scratching the surface of the history leading up to the time I became an “outspouse.” Nor did that first product contemplate all the years spent, and experiences encountered, after the label “outspouse,” had been assigned me, and then overtime, seeing and hearing the word so repeatedly became much more than a little tiresome. Now, I confess to just kind of hating the term, and while I rarely, if ever, say the word hate…that’s what the word “outspouse” and the emotion it evokes has come to represent! Also, because the description does effectively conjure up the unfortunate nature of the status it implies, I doubt any of us would care to wear that label for very long, if at all? There’s much, much more to life without being tethered by any one title or identity. Several sources have even suggested that my story and experiences would make for a great series or show? While that sounds intriguing and who knows what the future holds, I can’t help but wonder and think about what more I can do now…sooner. I have to find some way to give back to all the other “outspouses,” that are out there right now, negotiating their way through divorce, it’s aftermath, and most with the added burden of attempting to co-parent with a narcissistic, vengeful ex. NO easy task, to say the least! As I continue to chronicle my own journey, which includes so much more than simply being an “outspouse,” I’ll keep looking for, and pursuing, other ways in which I can contribute, give back, and help to make a difference in this world. Working towards achieving that goal has been hugely inspiring, and as such, this blog was born. You’ll soon learn if you’re new to DearEasyDiaries, and/or if I’ve not mentioned it enough already (ad nauseum), that I went through a hellish, “soup sandwich,” hot-mess divorce process that began in 2007, wasn’t actually completed until 2016, and which continues to leave a wake of destructive events that are still unfolding today!
First things first…at the time my Ex served me with divorce papers, we lived bi-coastally. Much about that has been mentioned in past posts and there’s more to recount in future entries, but for now, it’s worth noting that when I WAS served, it was without the presence of a much-needed support system, because the official process started in Glynn County, Georgia, a beautiful part of the Southeast, but very much a “good ol’ boy” environment, and not where I was from. When Al had my so-called “burn notice” delivered, I learned that it meant my children and I could NOT leave Glynn County without Al’s permission. To say he’s a control freak, doesn’t begin to cover the machinations and obstacles that that man, and his “team” were capable of exacting. I’d even go so far as to call the specific circumstances and players involved in my particular situation… fraudulent and corrupt. Truth be told, from what I’ve learned just over the past year or so, my ex, Al, was as deeply embedded in that mire of deceit as was humanly possible! That said, one of the things that kept me “relatively sane” through the first appallingly horrid and complex year, was a weekly phone call to my “shrink” back home in California. Granted, it sounds a bit “tacky” but, it’s both an appropriate and accurate way to identify James. Not only did he help to “shrink” (or at least hold at bay) the demons that the process created in my mind, but also during those many months, I actually did physically shrink from a size 8 (ok, maybe a 10) to a size 2. The size 2 was pretty short-lived, but you get the idea? Thus, I think the term “shrink” is/was as fitting an adjective as any other to describe the “therapy” I was receiving. Anyways, James suggested that I put my love for writing to use in a therapeutic kind of way. He proposed that I start an ACTUAL diary, rather than just writing entries in my calendars or on loose sheets of any tablet that proved handy, as I was in the habit of doing. James urged me to write as though I was really talking to someone. Ok…I could do that. Next, and very importantly, he asked me who THAT someone might be; who could I entrust with all those thoughts…the good, the bad, the sad and the scary, and without the fear of being judged? Ironically, the answer was….easy! “Easy” was an actual human from my childhood; an amazingly kind, gentle, supportive and genuinely loving being, who had always held a special place in my heart, and now too would hold a place in my healing. With that decision made, all that was left to do was to choose the first vessel; an item which would hold and someday recount and reveal the intimate, real, often volatile, sometimes sweet, and also painful events that would continue to happen in my mind, my days and my life for years and years to follow. So with the first “book” of many to be chosen, that task was completed and checked off too… and, here we go!
September 18, 2007
The steam that enveloped me within those four, white, subway-tiled walls felt as dense and stifling as the heavy, coastal Georgia, salty sea air had felt on my usual, morning beach walk. Somehow, though, the steamy hot shower, with its multiple founts of water pouring down around me, was comforting and helped calm the crazy mix of jumbled thoughts and demons dancing around the inner recesses of my mind. This odd new combination of terror mixed with a sensation of partial paralysis which had taken over my body for the past five days felt like a vice, tightening its grip with each passing day. I could actually feel my physical frame shrinking; it made turning off the stream of hot water, and ending my one complete escape for the day, all the more unpleasant. This one corner of our rather large, but unusually warm, historic and inviting home, which I completely adored, had taken on an entirely new identity; it was no mere master suite any longer…it had become my safe space. Stepping out of the hot, relaxing, albeit far too brief shower, I wrapped myself in one of the many, oversized, thick, white bath sheets neatly folded and stacked beneath the sink, and turned to face the fog, and steam-filled mirror, that consumed the stark wall of more white tile behind the lengthy counter of marbled vanity, with its one enormously deep sink, and single shelf of stainless bars below. I dreaded seeing the state that my four-day old, tear stained face with its puffy and blood shot eyes might have taken on…and with good reason! The face staring back at me was a sobering vision, but interestingly enough, seemed the perfect complement to the empty hole I felt inside. It was almost as though my internal emotions and outward appearance were working in sync to ensure that I was afforded ZERO wiggle room; no chance at all for me to deny, escape or talk myself out of accepting the dismal reality that the past week had brought. What this day, and only God knew how many more such days, held in store was a mystery. Nonetheless, I dried myself off and pulled on a pair of warm, black leggings, fresh from the dryer, and then slipped over, my still damp hair, a softly-worn, lightweight, cashmere pullover. No sooner had I put the clothes on my body, tossed the towel in the laundry basket, when I jumped slightly hearing the shrill ring of our, rarely used, front doorbell. Even though our ivy-clad, white-washed brick, and walled, 1928 Francis Abreu masterpiece with its sunken, landscaped courtyard, and formal entrance was amongst a backdrop of lushly planted garden beds, replete with well-established, profusely blooming Camellias, Star Jasmine, Sega Palms, and thick, dense groupings of Ferns set against the intricately designed, ivy-covered, iron-barred windows with humidity visibly dripping from each, was to me…essentially a work of art, its formal entrance was rarely seen, much less used. The informal pathway leading directly from the enormous Oak draped, gravel parking area in front of Cottage 64 to the side entrance of our oceanfront home, with the whisper of white sand in the very short distance ahead, matched by the comforting vision of our children’s wooden playground, lovingly separated by a relatively short and see-thru iron fence from the pool and jacuzzi set in the immediate foreground, with a bit of lawn and wall of sea grass providing the only barrier to the always-changing Atlantic Ocean just beyond, had become the predominately used entrance to the treasured structure and home we had added to our life for the past three and a half years.
My adored Cottage 64
I was followed to the huge, wood framed, thick-glass paned, formal front door by my devoted trio of four-legged “best friends.” Grace, Charlotte and Jerrico, with the tickling of their varying sizes and gaits of canine toenails on the hardwood floors covering all 7000 square feet of that home, were a constant comfort. The sweet sound and oddly reassuring cadence of that “pitter-patter” had become a symbol of strength and something I could count on, as my three sentries were never further than a foot or two away. The doorbell screeched again, and seeing who was at the door, I instinctly grabbed Jerrico’s collar with one hand, as I reached to unlock and open the door with my other. Standing there before me was the enormous presence of Parfait, Sea Island flower shop’s delivery man, whose sheer size was matched only by the biggest smile I’d ever seen a person wear. He entered the house, with his customary, booming voice and cheerful greeting, carrying a large crystal vase, dripping with condensation. The vase was holding an enormous bunch of long-stemmed, red roses, and a large envelope sticking out from the center of the bouquet. Feeling thoroughly confused and surprised by the delivery, I asked Parfait who the flowers were for, and from whom? My facial expression, as well as the unusually sharp tone in my voice must have been uncomfortably terse, as Parfait looked shaken and the smile vanished from his face. He replied, tentatively, “they’re for you Miss Capone, from himself, your husband.” I could feel the blood draining from my face and tears welling in my eyes, as I haltingly, but stridently responded, “you mean the husband who served me with divorce papers last Friday?”
To this very day, I still feel saddened and ashamed of the way I behaved at that moment, and by the way that I could tell I made that sweet, and gentle, giant of a man feel. His voice was trembling and his eyes anxiously searched the entry foyer as he, shakily, asked me where to set the, now wretched expression of floral hypocrisy? I couldn’t speak, but pointed to the carved, antique Pine, console table about five steps away, and Parfait moved faster than I ever imagined to rid himself of that painful symbol, the one which caused me to speak so harshly to him. I’ll never know which one of us, Parfait or myself, felt more embarrassed or more uneasy at that moment? Once I saw the front door close, knew that the courtyard gate was also shut, and watched the white delivery van back out and drive away from our gravel driveway on Tabby Lane, I could do nothing more than sink to the floor, propped against the back of one of the large, linen couches in the living room, immediately adjacent to the entry foyer and also the closest place for me to land. I was overcome by yet another uncontrollable wave of emotion and, again, found myself sobbing. There I sat huddled on floor wondering about who, or perhaps more appropriately, WHAT, I had fallen in love with, and married all those years ago?
This latest breakdown was just one of many that had occurred over the past several days, and each time I was transported back to the prior Friday to relive the horrible few moments and the one sentence that had undermined and shattered my family’s future, as well as dredging up the mixed, but irreplaceable, experiences and memories of the past 17-18 years. All that seemed to remain were fearful thoughts, and questions of what would become of my marriage, as well as my children’s and my lives?
PROLOGUE…
September 2, 2007
It was the Sunday evening of what had become a stifling hot Labor Day weekend, and I couldn’t help but wish, more than a little wistfully, that is was a month or so earlier. We had been back in Georgia for exactly a week, but just ten days prior were still delighting in our hometown and California’s enviable perfect weather. I missed the frequent gathering of family and friends and the weekly Sunday suppers spent poolside at Freehaven. We spent the last afternoon of our summer break, waiting for the final “Best In Show” performance of the Santa Barbara Kennel Club’s annual show weekend. Al had spent the entire summer going back and forth between Roblar and Freehaven, and while the summer had definitely held more than its fair share of tense and troubling times, including the “blow-up” with K. Ass and “MP,” (check my blog entry, “I Know What He Did Last Summer”) I was pleasantly surprised when Al showed up at the dog show earlier than expected on Sunday. He arrived in a good mood, was genial to everyone gathered ringside to watch the group competition, before the Best In Show finale, and even posed for several pictures with club members and the few judges who were finished with their assignments for the weekend, including Chuck Winslew who had awarded our current show dog, Carly, her Best In Show award on Friday. Carly won the Herding Group all three days of the weekend, but had not been Sunday’s BIS victor, and as soon as the show was over, we all drove from Santa Barbara’s Earl Warren Showgrounds to Mercury Air Center in Goleta, the small, private airfield, where our pilot, Greg, was waiting to help load the Jet for our family’s return to Georgia now that summer was officially over for our “little” Capone crew.
Anyways, here we were, back on Sea Island with already a week of school under our belts, in the midst of a very long weekend, and all I wished was for it to be over. Like most people I usually loved the weekends, and while our traditional Friday Beach Club evening was enjoyable, as had been our regular Sunday Mass and brunch at The Lodge afterwards, I now found myself feeling a bit blue. Normally, on a holiday weekend we would have hosted a Sunday supper for assorted friends, and I would have whipped up a fryer full of chicken, huge bowls of pasta and Caesar salad, together with an assortment of appetizers and beverages, but I was definitely a little more homesick than customary for our usual school-year return and wasn’t feeling inspired to be a very gracious hostess that particular evening. I was sitting in my favorite spot in the house, swaying, gently, back and forth on the extra-deep, dark green cushion covering the wooden swing suspended from the ceiling with heavy iron links, surrounded by my usual stack of magazines and with Jerrico laying off to the side, in what had quickly become “his” spot on the brick floor of our enclosed, oceanfront porch, when Emily walked quietly from the house to the porch, wearing a facial expression that looked like a perfect storm (if there truly is such a thing?) of fury and fear. She started speaking, and I could sense that the fear was about to outweigh the fury; her voice was low and trembling as she said she needed to talk to me. PJ was in his room already asleep, and I responded to her with a hasty, and worried, “yes, of course.” She motioned for me to get up from the swing and follow her, which I did, passing through the living room and down the hallway leading to the bedroom wing, still not having any clue what might be wrong. We walked into the master bedroom, and she closed the door behind us, turning the aged iron knob to the locked position. By then I was really rattled, wondering what it was that held the power to “unravel” my usually composed and confidant 16 year-old daughter? She extended her arm and offered me a couple pieces of paper which filled her hand. There were two large sheets of paper from a tablet I recognized, which had notations, numbers and a few quoted sentences in red Sharpie, but none of which made much sense at first glance? Emily proceeded to speak quickly, answering questions before I could even ask them or utter a word.
“Dad’s having an affair, and these are the texts, phone numbers and notes I’ve gotten off his cell; I know who she is and have been waiting for the right time to tell you…but there is NO right time, I guess. This past week and weekend has been awful, just like so much of our entire summer. He’s been behaving so weird and mean, I couldn’t keep it to myself any longer.” The words were flying from her mouth, and I made my way across the room to lower myself down on the edge of the bed. I wasn’t certain if I was going to throw up…but I knew I had to sit down. She explained the way she had found out the information, the detailed lengths she had gone to in order to verify the numbers, identify the phone’s owner, and how she had painstakingly copied, word for word, the numerous texts that went back and forth between Al’s cell and this new number. The amount of communication exchanged was startling not just in quantity but in the sentiment/ “sexting” that had been transmitted. This latest revelation felt like a strong kick to the stomach, but it also helped me to begin making more sense of the drama-filled summer we had endured, and provided greater insight into Al’s, even more than usual, mercurial moods. I was shattered. The wound and scar that this information would leave wasn’t about to fade away anytime soon. Ready or not, though, the information Emily shared with me was a reality that I would have to confront. I rose slowly from the bed, steadying myself by gripping the nightstand, and reached for Emily who I hugged tightly. I steered her towards the door, unlocked it, and we quietly walked down the hall together to her small wing at the end. Hugging her again, I tried to comfort and reassure her while she cried, saying she was sorry to have told me. I insisted she had done the right thing, and urged her to get some sleep, telling her I would take care of everything in the morning, and she wasn’t to worry. As I left Emily’s room and started back down the hallway to the master again, my head was spinning; I had NO clue how I was to handle this? In a panic and flooded with emotion, I rushed to my closet, put on a nightgown and climbed into my side of our King bed, which felt waaaay too small right about then. I took two Aleve PM, finished my glass of wine and prayed that I’d fall asleep before Al turned off whatever sports channel was currently holding his attention and might start this direction. It sounds cowardly I know, but I just had no idea what I might say or do, if confronted right then; I felt so miserably small, naïve and even stupid. Everything that had happened over the summer (the listing of Freehaven, the purchase of Kentucky Road, the ambush by K. Ass and MP), in addition to the above average animosity, moodiness and each unpredictable move Al had made, was all of a sudden coming into focus!
September 3, 2007
I woke up extra early, knowing the kids would sleep longer than usual, as it was Labor Day and there was no school. Al was still asleep too, so I got up quietly and headed out to the kitchen to make coffee. Some part of me hoped a fairy Godmother would appear, wave a wand above my head and magically bless me with an instant solution for how to deal with Al and the information Emily had entrusted to me last night? When I first awakened, my head felt a little foggy (hello…two Aleve PM and a large glass of wine) but it only took all of five, maybe six seconds to snap out of it. The weight of Al’s cheating and yet another surprising, dramatic situation was back in our lives and placed squarely on my shoulders. I felt slightly robotic, almost “out of my body” as I filled the coffee maker’s water reservoir and heaped the scoops of dark French Roast grind into the filter of the machine. The brewing was not quite finished when I quickly swapped my mug in place of the glass carafe; I couldn’t wait one more minute to taste that warm, strong and reassuring jolt. It couldn’t have been five sips or two minutes later when Al appeared in the kitchen doorway; his expression was stony, and I knew he sensed something was amiss. On any other morning, I would have already been on my way back towards the master to deliver Al’s first cup of coffee to him in bed; a little ritual we had developed over the years, and one I particularly enjoyed in Cottage 64, as our master suite, with its wall of windows faced directly out onto the Atlantic ocean, and I was very content to enjoy that first cup of coffee in bed staring out at whatever colors the sky chose to paint that day. Today, I hadn’t even taken a second mug down from the cupboard, much less entertained the notion of taking a cup to him in bed…my pathetic attempt at being mean, I guess? I rallied every bit of strength I could muster, tried my best to remain calm, and focused on speaking clearly; no one knew better than me how Al reacted when I (or others) got overly emotional. I grasped the tile countertop of the large kitchen island to strengthen myself and told him that I knew he was having an affair, I knew who she was, and that it was absolutely unacceptable. I got that succession of phrases out solidly, even with a hint of ferocity, but I could feel my steeliness wavering, as he stared right through me and said I was “crazy and wrong.” His voice was rising as he demanded to know what I was talking about, and who had I been talking to? Again, I harnessed all of the self-confidence I had left…saying simply, “I know it’s true, and you need to get out before Emily and PJ wake up!” I was actually as surprised as I was relieved, when he silently turned and walked back towards the other end of the house. Al returned maybe 5-7 minutes later, having changed from his sweat pants and t-shirt, and was now dressed in one of his, usual, two-three “uniforms;” this specific version featured a navy blue Peter Millar polo shirt, jeans, Cole Haan tasseled loafers, and a woven brown-leather belt. I don’t think he bothered to brush either his hair or teeth, and as he looked back while exiting that much-used side entryway, he only said, “you’re wrong, and this is no way to handle the situation,” before slamming the door behind him. My head was spinning, as I thought about all that had happened over the past summer, our 18 years together, and balanced those considerations against the overwhelming relief I felt at the moment, even amidst this new turmoil?
September 4, 2007
How the kids and I got through the rest of that previous, and very long, Labor Day, with little mention or questioning of Al’s whereabouts was surely some kind of beautiful gift God and the universe had decided to grant me; PJ didn’t seem remotely concerned or cognizant that something was “off,” and Emily and I had done our level best to behave as though nothing was amiss. I’m certain that PJ had no idea of the many hushed and emotional discussions that transpired between Emily and I throughout that day; I’m also just as sure he didn’t know that I had called the number on the paper Emily gave me the night before, nor did he know that his Father had been carrying on what seemed (from what I could tell) a pretty serious affair with a woman named Candy, who was apparently a real estate agent back home in Santa Ynez. I would find out MUCH more about her over the next few months, but for the time being all I knew was that she worked for Sothebys, was blond, and her name was disguised in Al’s cell by some kind of code. A reasonable person could probably draw the assumption she was aware Al was married, but didn’t mind. Why would I assume that? Call me crazy (you wouldn’t be the first), but I’m pretty sure no one texts in code names unless they have something to hide? If I’m wrong, I’d love to hear another plausible explanation…no, seriously? Regardless of everything and the added drama, I drove the kids to school as usual. I dropped Emily first and then circled back to PJ’s makeshift “homeschool” back on Sea Island next to Al’s temporary office and the always moving, construction site location. We drove across the tiny, two-lane causeway, between St. Simon’s and Sea Island, proceeded through the resident’s entrance of the imposing and guarded Sea Island Gate House, and then continued to PJ’s suite of classrooms.
Wow…as I wrote that last sentence, I thought about the reality of the circumstances behind the origin and construction of that gated, guarded, and secure entrance building which leads to Sea Island. I’ll bet I drove through that gate several thousand times after its creation, but was never struck by the severity or irony of the impact that I felt just now? What its physical presence symbolized then, versus what it does now is slightly different, but each hugely representative of a metaphor heralding the efforts and lengths, both seen and unseen, that “we” undertake to protect ourselves. It’s also pretty likely that this one brief paragraph will result in a crossover blog entry someday; something that will address the pain, deception, and betrayal that happened within my family of origin initially and was then transferred into the family of four living in Cottage 64 all those years ago. I promise the subject is absolutely more than a little worthy of further exploration and a post of its own someday…maybe just not today?
For now, I’ll finish the Guard House thought, and the tragic events that precipitated that gated-entry’s arrival! We had just recently purchased Cottage 64, with its oceanfront location on Tabby Lane (12th Street), and had lived there for not quite two weeks, when on one fateful Saturday morning, September 4th 2004, Al and I were sitting in the Master enjoying our early morning coffee when we noticed several men running through the brush and sand dunes that not only traversed the entire length of the island, but which was also directly in front of our Master Bedroom’s expansive picture window, and we were both surprised and taken aback. To see men darting through the sea grass lining Sea Island’s eastern shore wasn’t a normal sight, at least not something I’d ever seen, not even before we lived on Tabby Lane, but I still used to walk the beach ALL the time. It felt hugely suspicious and disconcerting too. When we learned later that day where those men had been, and what they were running from, I was horrified. I had no idea then, nor could I have imagined the coincidence of what Labor Day weekends would someday come to symbolize? The gruesome details of the horrible incident from which those three men were fleeing, the brutality that their victims had endured, or that that one single event was responsible for Sea Island’s construction of the enormous guard gate which boldly remains today, are difficult realities to wrap one’s mind around? That the ugly and violent scene occurred just four short blocks down from Tabby Lane at the corner of 16th Street and Sea Island Drive would serve as another reminder to remain grateful for my many blessings. We had never been big on locking doors or any other security measures previously, but when Al had a security system installed later the same week, the fear from this horrific event was validated! Somewhere, in one of my (gazillion) file boxes, I have a copy of the Sea Island Homeowner’s directory from that year. I believe it was the last year the subject couple’s names appeared on those pages; who would ever want to return to that house and those memories?
Back again…
September 4th 2007
As I steered the G-Wagon onto Sea Island and made the fairly quick, right turn where the old “admin” building and Cloister Collection store were originally located, but now led, instead, to PJ’s “classroom,” I was keenly aware of the silence that filled the car and I quickly tried to initiate a little light “chit chat” while simultaneously wondering what the day might have in store? As we approached the abandoned hotel building, now the site of PJ’s interim school as well as the office space for Al, his team of architects, designers, engineers, construction foreman and support staff, I breathed a sigh of relief, (to myself) recognizing that Al’s Porsche was nowhere in sight on the very rough patch of asphalt and ground separating us from the building that was playing temporary host to the variety of livelihoods I just rattled off. I walked PJ in to greet Miss D., the “lead” of PJ’s team of three teachers, who also happened to be my personal favorite and a bit of a Guardian Angel/Hero in my eyes, but as soon as PJ and Miss D. were settled, I couldn’t get back to the car and Cottage 64 quickly enough. Taking advantage of an opportunity to digest and process all that had transpired in the past 36 hours was all I could think of. I guided the car almost completely out of the construction zone driveway, when, damn, Al’s Porsche appeared out of nowhere and pulled directly in front of the G-Wagon; he was out of the car and standing beside my door within seconds. I opened the car door and got out to face, yet again, a different man than the one I had asked to leave our house just 24 hours before. “This Al” was the carefully measured man, who could easily present a sane, calm and warm façade, when presented with enough compelling and consequential motivation. He asked me how the kids and I were doing, as if nothing had happened at all? His tone and demeanor was similar to any of the thousands of interactions we had exchanged in the past, as if he was returning from another random business trip, or even a long day of work. Surreal, bizarre and compartmentalized are a few adjectives that come to mind, if I had been on the phone talking to James and he asked me to describe Al’s behavior just then. My inability to duplicate his cool detachment revealed itself immediately, and I could feel myself looking at him as though he was some freak in a circus with three heads? Undeterred, Al continued with another round of questions about the kid’s after-school schedules, activities and such, when I interrupted. I couldn’t help myself and stopped him cold; “what in the world is going on in your mind, and why are you behaving as though YOU and yet another one of your huge, surprise incidents hasn’t just rocked our collective lives and future?” He answered, again coolly, and said, “none of what I accused him of was true; he loved me and would be happy to sit down and explain everything, given the chance? He would EVEN be willing to go to counseling, if that would do the trick and help put my mind at ease?” My frustration was escalating, and I proclaimed abruptly, “I’m not crazy…I know what you’ve done; your calm dismissal and attempt to placate me won’t erase the truth. I can’t just ‘unsee’ the evidence of your affair, because you say so, or because it would be convenient?” I went on explaining I had seen the text messages between he and this woman; I saw the message stating his feelings for her, and there was simply no way to ignore that reality? Al’s expression was slowly changing and the usual, predictable touch of steeliness when confronted was creeping back into his tone and deportment.
He was looking at me with equal measure of irritation and frustration, when he burst out… asking, “what do you want me to do, and how are we going to get past this?”
I was reeling…not just from the bombshell Emily shared with me, as well as the memory of our recent altercations over much of the summer, but also because I was dumbfounded by Al’s apparent inability to see the enormity of what his infidelity meant to me. It had been 18+ years since the last time he had been caught, red-handed, cheating, which was brought to my attention at the time thanks to my younger sister, Dorothy. I wasn’t prepared to deal with that same set of circumstances and the resulting feelings again. Plus, now we had two children together, a factor which wasn’t a consideration the first time I learned of, dealt with, and ended up overlooking his infidelity. I composed myself and with every ounce of courage I could muster, looked at him and said “you should stay at the Blackbanks house for now; I don’t know what I’m going to do yet.” That said, I got in my car and drove down “the drive” to Tabby Lane and Cottage 64’s refuge.
The rest of the day progressed pretty normally, and I tried to focus on holding myself together while I repeatedly poured over the notes, numbers and the visual image Emily had found from the Sotheby’s website of the “bimbo” that had inserted herself into my husband’s phone and life. She wasn’t unattractive; in fact, she actually seemed to fit the mold of all the other women that I knew to be a part of Al’s past, far better than I did. I think I was the only brunette that I remember Al ever becoming involved with? Most of Al’s ex’s were blonds, although I don’t recall ever hearing the color of Lorraine’s hair, the girlfriend who committed suicide in the garage of Al’s Long Island waterfront estate ‘The Cliff’s,” but not before blaming Al in the note she left behind, along with her asphyxiated corpse. {One of my first blog posts back in April of last year, “Lights, Red Flags and Shadows” recalls the story of that tragic event.} The weird assortment of thoughts that kept popping into my brain was hard to control; what possible difference would hair color have to do with Al’s predilection for deceit and infidelity? More importantly, what was I going to do about the current scenario? How long was it going to take for the fury that I felt inside to ease, and when would my feelings subside long enough to consider a possible resolution? So many questions that I wasn’t able to answer. Other than Emily, who discovered and disclosed the news to me in the first place, I hadn’t yet discussed Al’s affair with anyone. It was getting harder and harder though, to keep all this drama bottled up inside, and I felt enormously drained. Finally, I picked up the phone and called my Mom; it was now a decent hour in California, and I so desperately needed to hear a familiar and supportive voice with whom I could safely “vent.” Plus there were questions and feelings I had that wouldn’t have been right to share with my teenage daughter, no matter how mature, thoughtful and caring she appeared. Some adult subjects need to be shared with other adults, and Al’s betrayal and indiscretion absolutely fit into that category. I didn’t end up speaking only to Mom, as my sister Lilith happened to be at Mom’s house too; they lived just a couple doors down from one another, and were back and forth quite a bit. It was a huge and welcome release, and resulted in an almost hour-long “bitch session.” I was beyond grateful for an opportunity to express my hurt and anger without having to measure my words. I hung up the phone feeling a bit bolstered, and listened to the string of voicemails that were collecting on our land line. There were a couple messages regarding the upcoming Annual Cancer Gala launch party, which Al and I had been asked to host before we left for our summer break, as well as a call from Jewell to talk about resuming our Friday lunches. I wasn’t really ready yet to speak with Jewell, but I knew I’d have to soon. She was so dear to me, and I wanted to neither burden nor worry her with this ugly matter. Jewell and Mac had been more like family than friends over the past decade since we’d become so enmeshed with Sea Island and this southern culture. It was Mac who originally introduced Al to the James family during their last generational change in leadership of the family-held and operated company in the mid ‘90s, and which subsequently led to the development of so many new projects, as well as the complete redesign and building of the storied resort that calls that little sliver of the southern East Coast its home. “It” was also hugely a result of Al’s design, planning and implementation over the past twelve years. I was both awed and inspired knowing the tremendous “force” that Mac was…not just at Sea Island or the surrounding regions, but as the past President of Mead Paper, an innovator, a noted contributor to dozens of vital and world renown organizations, companies, charities, serving on “Boards of Directors” all across the country, the subject and standard bearer of compelling reads like, “Up Another Notch,” a husband, father, grandfather, great-grandfather, uncle, dear friend and role model to countless human beings. Lastly and notably, Mac might have been the only ONE person I ever knew who, unequivocally, commanded and held Al’s respect… even reverence. Obviously a unique and significant man, Mac was blessed too with one of the kindest, most genuine, strong ladies and as devoted a wife as I had ever met. Jewell, who was now too a treasured friend of mine, was not just my friend, but a tremendous example and role model. Our age difference mattered little; Jewell and I shared a bond, and a deep, if somewhat unconventional, friendship, along with an unspoken understanding of our roles as the wives of dynamic and driven men like Mac and Al. Mac’s longtime association with, and tie to Sea Island, the James Family, and his place as trusted advisor, Board Member and the additional status as a pillar within the community was an integral part of the credibility that had earned Al’s “seat at the table,” so to speak. Al’s own talent held the seat in place, but it wasn’t always an easy position, and I felt almost as responsible as he was for his success. I supported him, smoothed the waters, made friends, entertained his colleagues, volunteered in the community, chaired fundraisers, and most importantly kept his home cared for and our children loved. Al had “world experience” that few people in that small island community understood, but he also had a temper when questioned or challenged that accompanied his special skill set. That was often a difficult equation to balance in that land of Southern hospitality, with its well-established mores of conduct. Mac was Al’s “champion” as Jewell was mine. Al and I were proffered opportunities and entrées into a reserved and somewhat exclusive society, and I thought we each understood and appreciated the benefit that status afforded our family.
Blessings!
That specific day, however, on September 4, 2007, I was also concerned about the ramifications that Al’s infidelity would have not just on our family and future, but on our friendships and close connections, like Mac and Jewell, and the community in general. With that in mind, I picked up the phone, called Jewell and set up our Friday luncheon plan. I decided not to share my “secret” and was committed to keeping a low profile until I had a better understanding of how my feelings about my husband, our marriage and the course I chose to pursue became clearer to me. For the time being, I could talk to James, my Mom and sisters as an outlet, while I sorted through all the considerations that were circling my mind. Thank heavens I had my children. I took my internal struggles and tried to channel them into a positive energy that was directed, devoted, and focused towards them. Al was oddly in and out of the picture for the whole week; he alternated between calling in a rage, or being solicitous, even humble, almost vulnerable, combined with retreating in silence. A couple mornings that week, when I dropped PJ at school in the morning, I saw Al’s car, but not him. He visited PJ’s classroom twice, which PJ was quick to report upon pick-up, but that was the extent of any interaction until the following Monday.
September 10, 2007
I wasn’t terribly computer savvy (if at all) back then and so when Emily came to me early that Monday evening to tell me the internet at Cottage 64 wasn’t working, I wasn’t entirely sure what to do. The answer surfaced about 20 minutes later. The kids were doing homework and I was on the phone in the master, when I heard a commotion. It turned out to be aggressive knocking (pounding) on our side entrance French doors; in an instant Jerrico was barking and headed towards the kitchen, followed by the addition of a, now, barking Grace and Charlotte too. I got off the phone and was going towards the direction of the noise when the barking stopped. All three dogs were already at the side door, staring at Al, who was standing just outside. I knew as soon as I saw his face, before I reached to open the locked door, that he was fuming; I was afraid to hear what had provoked him this time, but knew there was no choice. Stepping into the house, he spoke sharply and asked where Emily was? His tone of voice spoke volumes, so before he said even one substantive word, I was on edge! As I got to the kid’s hallway, I heard PJ’s TV but rather than correct him for watching and redirect him back to homework, I let it go, not wanting him to get caught in the crosshairs of Al’s lazer-like intensity and anger. I got Emily from her room and we walked together back out to the kitchen. The minute Al looked at Emily, he lost it; his face turned beet red, and his voice raised to decibels high enough that within minutes, PJ was out of his room and in the kitchen with us. PJ was telling his Dad to get out and stop yelling at Emily; Emily was in Al’s face and despite her obvious emotion, was not backing down. I grabbed for PJ, and reassured him it was all going to be ok; he was obviously mad, upset and frantic to protect his sister. I stepped in, telling PJ to go back to his room, which he did…but begrudgingly. Next, I got in the middle of Al and Emily and demanded he stop his yelling. “What is wrong with you; stop treating your daughter this way and try to be the adult in this conversation!” The situation did not “de-escalate” instantly, but within 20 minutes or so, the bottom line was exposed. Apparently, Emily had gone a little further than just “researching” Candy; she had actually gone on Candy’s real estate office’s website, and wrote a “fairly pointed critique,” (that’s the cleaned-up version) of the woman who had answered the call Emily placed to the “unknown” number in her Father’s cell phone, following her discovery of a succession of “texts” proclaiming their mutual love for one another. Al was FURIOUS, vowing that he would not pay for any wifi, TV, phone or other service at Cottage 64 until Emily agreed to print a retraction. Turning towards me, he asked “don’t you get it?” “She’s threatening to sue you, and us, for the damage done to her reputation from that little internet prank!” Knowing that I would talk to Emily later when we were alone, and with a little bit of larceny, not customarily a trait of mine, I couldn’t pass up the opportunity to direct a cheap shot at Al, and said “What damage? From the little I’ve gathered, she HAS no business, unless it’s YOURS!” My comment didn’t go over very well, and Al was insistent he wouldn’t leave until Emily wrote a retraction.” I confess to getting “down in the weeds,” as my daughter so aptly describes my tendency, and family of origin earned, habit for being “slightly” passive-aggressive in the way I phrase particular topics. I spoke back to Al, saying “well, how do you expect her to do that with no internet…since you’ve disconnected it?” Not one of my more mature moments for sure.
To make a long story short…wait, what the heck did I just say? I’ve never made a long story short. Regardless, Emily finally did agree to write the retraction, which I said I would facilitate by taking her to Al’s office before school the next morning so he could monitor the words that were chosen. That wasn’t good enough for Al, and he demanded Emily go with him to his office that very minute to write and print the retraction. Finally, after some more “heated,” back and forth exchange, that’s what happened. I was standing in the kitchen waiting when they returned about 35 minutes later. Emily was obviously shaken; she wouldn’t even look at Al when he attempted to say goodbye, and I can’t say I blamed her. He looked at me and said “thank you, Mizz, that was the right thing to do. I don’t know what’s gotten into Emily?” I spoke quickly, not knowing how long I’d be able to sustain my stern demeanor; “you have no idea what you’ve just done to our daughter? You sold her out to appease your “whore”…shame on you!” I walked to the doorway, where Al was standing and motioned for him to leave. It was a little while longer, after tears, lots of talking, and more “salty” language, before I got both PJ and Emily settled down. We said good night, and I went to sit in my bed, sipping my glass of Pinot Grigio, staring out Cottage 64’s master bedroom’s picture window into the dark night, listening to the soft sound of waves rolling in, and wondering what “hit” was going to strike next?
September 11, 2007
Not entirely out of the norm, we were a “teensy” bit late leaving the house the next morning, but nonetheless climbed into the G-Wagon and backed out of the gravel driveway for our daily school run! Emily was very quiet, as we pulled into the back driveway leading to Franklin’s High School building; as soon as the car was stopped, I reached over to hug her before she got out of the car, and told her to call if she needed ANYTHING! That was the easy part of drop off. When we got to PJ’s classroom building, there was Al, standing outside his Porsche and waiting. I got out of the car and walked with PJ to the door of his classroom; he did not acknowledge Al nor his greeting of good morning. I walked the short distance back to the car, and Al was still there. I looked at him and searched his face, trying to gauge what might come next. After his behavior the night before, I had no idea what to expect? He looked at me, and spoke but with a more vulnerable tone than the Al from last evening… “How much longer are you going to punish me Mizz? We HAVE to fix this; it can’t go on?” All I could do was look at Al and say, “It’s been a week, seven days, since I learned about this affair; our children are hurting, I am hurting, and I don’t know what to do? I don’t have an answer for you right now; I can’t erase what happened and make it all better for you this time! I’m not sure what you expected to hear, but I suggest you do what you need to do, because I’m not ready to make any decisions just yet!” As soon as the words were spoken, I climbed back in my car…once again heading for Tabby Lane, Cottage 64 and the little bit of peace it held.
September 14, 2007
It was finally Friday, and the morning school run was finished. Al had been mysteriously absent for the past couple days; I hadn’t seen his car, and he hadn’t attempted to contact either the kids or me since Tuesday morning. I was relieved, but still not ready to “pull the trigger” on any decision that could forever change our entire family’s lives? Even if I chose to forgive Al and tried to patch things up, I knew I’d never feel the same about him. I had already, once before, learned to “re-trust” him 18 years ago. Could I do that again, and how would I explain it all to our children. They knew he had been unfaithful, and the range of questions I was fielding daily over the past week weren’t easy ones. This infidelity wasn’t just about me. Al had betrayed our family, our combined efforts, with all the Georgia to California back and forth over the past 8-10 years, the sacrifice our children felt, their perceived loss of stability and their individual preference to be in California; everything risked at Al’s whim. None of these were easy subjects, and I felt justified in taking time to make such a weighty decision. It didn’t seem unreasonable to require more time than a week and a half to potentially decide the fate of our collective futures? I dialed Jewell’s number as I pulled onto “the drive” and drove towards Tabby Lane. We were chatting lightheartedly, as I was still being abundantly cautious about divulging anything to anyone, and confirming our lunch time, when I pulled into the driveway of Cottage 64. I noticed a man in a green polo shirt and khaki pants off to the side of the property, but I figured it was simply one of Sea Island’s landscape crew, as that was their mandated uniform. Maybe a second or two later, as I was wrapping up my conversation with Jewell, I heard a knock on the window of my driver’s side of the G-Wagon; I asked Jewell to hold on a moment and rolled my window down. “Can I help you,” I asked? The man in the green shirt, who I now gathered was NOT a member of Sea Island landscape crew spoke, saying “what’s your name?” “Who are you?... I countered. “Are you Mary Capone” he asked? “Yes,” I answered, and BOOM… he responded by tossing a manila envelope through the car window at me while stating, “You’ve been served!”
I could hardly breathe, but realized Jewell had probably heard a good bit of the exchange, as she was still on the other end of the line. I felt paralyzed, while hearing my name being called. It actually wasn’t my name, it was Jewell’s voice saying “Darlin…what’s happening, are you alright?” I lifted the cell phone to my ear, and blurted out… “We can’t go to lunch; Al’s just served me with divorce papers!” “Hold on darlin’ I’m getting Mac!” I could hear her calling Mac’s name, but I was numb. It felt like forever before I heard Mac’s voice on the other end asking me to recount what had happened. Somehow I spoke, and like a child, did exactly what Mac asked, explaining what had happened over the past couple weeks. True to form, and being the straight shooter he was, stern, strong and oddly comforting, Mac started speaking, “Mother and I love you all, and we will be checking on you and the children, but right now, there’s just one thing you have to do, and you go do it immediately. “You go take care of business, and find yourself the best damn lawyer you can!”
Following the delivery of Al’s “gift” five days later, I drove the hideous and huge bouquet of roses down the drive, walked calmly into Al’s office and deposited the whole damn mess on Al’s drawing board. “L. Bill Miller,” one of Al’s assistants, was in the office and greeted me as sweetly as always, asking if it was Al’s birthday when he saw the roses? I answered quickly and said, “no, this is a horrible joke, that Al has played!” Not 20 minutes later, Al’s number appeared on my cell, and when I answered, he said, “I’m in California, but did you get the roses?” I said yes and asked “what the hell is going on? It was you that just served me with divorce papers five days ago, right?” What Al said next are words I’ll never forget; he answered saying, “yes, I did, and I haven’t called yet because I was going to let you have a few days to cool down and think things through. The divorce service was meant to be a ‘REALITY CHECK’…. you’ve gotten way too far out of line, and needed a reminder about the way things work!”
Before clicking my cell phone closed, I answered Al and said briefly but sharply…“You are a sick and cruel individual; this is NOT a game, and you can’t just play with people’s lives like this; our children are not pawns, and neither am I.”