21 - eunuchs

In his dreams he had been warned against this change, seen the dear face, and heard the unspoken words, 'Stay where we were so long alone together, my shade will comfort you.' Could he not now turn back, acknowledge his error and return to where they were once so long alone together? Alone together so much shared. No.

      —Samuel Beckett, Ohio Impromptu

~~~

Thanksgiving week. The holiday I’ve always revered and taken great pleasure in. No historical/cultural associations, no meanings ascribed to or felt outside of the simple memories of a young boy charmed by a day where the adults were more contemplative, more attuned to one another than at other times. No raucous arguments or boisterous disagreements on this day, as if all understood it was different, as if they were called to transcend the usual and crazed habits of togetherness.

The long table covered in white linen, candles burning, mother in the kitchen moving serenely, joyously, father and aunties sharing stories, we kids enrapt and unusually attentive, the smells, the wintry warmth,…

November 25, 2010. Camille and I decided to forego being with our families. Her Aunt Andrea always has a Baton Rouge feast, pork roast along with turkey, Louisiana oyster stuffing along with turkey dressing casserole, wild rice along with mashed potatoes, sweet potato soufflé along with cauliflower hollandaise, and all manner of baked breads, whole wheat and sourdough. Her remembrances made me pine away, a desire to nestle into the embrace of the clan, but alas, awkward it would be. This cancer man/eunuch on the arm of the lovely and serene Ms. D would be more than unsettling given Martin had attended with her the two previous years; their break up fresh and oh so recent. We talked about what to do, where to go, how to make it special. Made reservations for two at Il Fornaio in Del Mar.

In the run up to Turkey Day I called her, wanting to touch base and ask about her schedule for the week. She said it looked good, definitely four days off, then without skipping a beat, ever so forthrightly, she said she and Martin had met for coffee. He was at his best, and pleading. He wanted to give it another go. She warmed to him, wanted to be honest and caring, and with tears in her eyes admitted that he had been right, that my presence contributed to her want of ending it. She had not been an infidel, had not crossed over physically until after they broke; and what she expected might happen didn’t. He did not freak; he was composed, sad and in an odd way, supportive. He still loves her. She’s so on to it, so fearless, she left it with him the way she views her patients; it’s life, you never know, the unknown ever present, you just have to live it, find the joy, struggle through, live it all, distill every moment, trust.

And as she relayed to me this most intimate detail, the sadness of the two once so in love, elemental and connected, now apart, I couldn’t help but think of Maya, of nearly two decades together, not so fresh in my mind, a year and a half since we broke, but still, so much shared.

I admitted that some of the joy, some of the warm and loving scenes had begun to find their way back to me. For so long all I could remember were the cruelties, the ugliness, the haranguing, the frustrations and unhappiness, and all of it bound up with the initial cancer struggles and therapies. Now sweet moments beginning to flash in, the kind of moments that keep relationships alive and compelling, keep you engaged and present. I admitted that the flashes had been unsettling….

On Thursday Camille came by the studio in the early afternoon and we drove up Torrey Pines to Camino Del Mar and found parking right in front. We settled into an ocean view table, ordered their special Thanksgiving feast, a bottle of a 2007 Avalon Cabernet, and had yet another magnificent meal together. She spoke at length about Andrea, her mom’s older sister. Said she missed her, that Andrea had counseled Juliette to leave her father, to get out of New Orleans and come to the capital. Her mom had found a new way in Baton Rouge, had reinvented herself.

We finished the meal sipping on espresso and sharing a piece of pumpkin pie. The ongoing conversation dovetailed into a stroll along Camino Del Mar, then down to Seagrove Park and the beach. Along the water’s edge we’re walking hand in hand, another sunset on the SoCal coast, and she's lost in thought, but squeezing my hand hard, and the stroll is a saunter and we're in the deep down, ecstatic and serene, no past, no future, and a row of pelicans stream by, about a dozen, up and down they go, turning toward the horizon, and then back towards the cliffs, always in formation, so sublime, so stirring,... and more, so much more, the soothing silence of the gentle waves, rolling up, slowly, flattening out, receding, and then as if imbued, struck by the scene, she speaks to herself, in a kind of whisper:

"… slush and sand of the beach tireless till daylight wending,
Steadily, slowly, through hoarse roar never remitting,
Along the midnight edge by those milk-white combs careering,
A group of dim, weird forms, struggling, the night confronting…"

She was transfixed, looking toward the disappearing pelicans, beyond the horizon, and I interrupted her, “That’s Whitman, isn’t it? The word ‘wending,’… I remember.” I stopped, pulled her close, “I want to read your poetry.” Blithely, in a humble and wry smile, she said nothing.

“I do, I want to read you,” and I let go of her hand, feeling like a kid again, and I began to run, shouting at the top of my lungs, "THIS IS CAMILLE DURAND! AND SHE’S A POET, AND I THINK, I THINK I'M IN… and she's running right behind, and dives, tackling me, full-on, she's just an inch shorter at 5' 9" and she's strong, and I go down hard, and we're there, giggling, side by side, and waves creeping up, tide’s coming in, catching our breath, more giggling, and I groaned, “Oh shit, I think I cracked some ribs,… laughing to myself, “Oh shit.”

Grinning, she asks, "Are all eunuchs like you?”... then she begins to shout, “EUNUCHS…" and I struggle to cover her mouth, muffling her words,… laughter, more laughter,… and there we were, wrestling on the beach, on a Thursday, in November.

~~~

Dear readers, do you remember the film Hannah and Her Sisters, the glorious romance from Woody Allen? I try to watch it every Thanksgiving. Asked Camille if she’d seen it. She hadn’t. “I’ve got the DVD.”

“Let’s do it.”

And as we climbed back up to the park, back toward the car, I got to thinking about the film, and I couldn't help but smile as I listened to Harry James playing You Made Me Love You.

We headed to the studio, and on the way home she talked of taking a train, of having a picnic en route, to Santa Barbara, of spending a weekend there, “What do you think?”

“I’m in.”