Out of the Drink

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I remember the time my second husband, Michael, rang our house during a dark night of the soul, while trying to come off drink. I was away in Ireland, so Ray had to handle it. 'Michael,' he said, 'you know I'd fly to Boston tonight if I thought I was the only one on the planet who could help you, but you can get help there.' I believe Ray's talking to Michael that night gave him a leg up. Ultimately he would go to AA twice a day and get sober.

Ray discovered so many ways to fill the time he'd formerly spent with his elbow on a bar, darkly commiserating with some fellow drinker. We would wake up at Sky House, my writing cabin on the Strait of Juan de Fuca, near the Canadian border, and I'd say, 'Let's have breakfast on the beach!' and Ray would say, 'Great! Let's do it, babe!' I'd cook us up something portable and fill the coffee thermos. Down we'd go to sit on a log and breakfast with the waves. Other times we'd take walks along the river and watch for birds. We'd feed chickadees and varied thrushes at the house. We'd go salmon fishing in the strait or fly to Alaska and fish off Prince of Wales Island in a 16-foot skiff. We'd also cozy up in bed and read poems aloud to each other just about every night, especially during rainstorms.

We traveled a lot: to Brazil, Argentina, England, France, and Ireland. In Belfast, a poet friend loaned us his apartment. Ray didn't want to chance going to a pub, so my Irish musician friends came over to play for him. But when one of them got too far into the drink (they'd brought their own), Ray said, loud enough for all to hear, 'Come on to bed, sweetheart,' and disappeared up the stairs like smoke. I quickly shuffled my baffled friends out the door, and they found themselves on the stoop, unceremoniously ejected.

Ray didn't like to be around people when they'd had more than one drink. The ambience changed, and he felt the evening slipping away into that place he never wanted to go again. He wouldn't let anyone or anything get in the way of his new life. This included his mother, his ex-wife, his son, and his daughter. He dealt with them at a remove, and that distance enabled him to protect himself from 'old demon' territory.

My Daughter and Apple Pie

She serves me a piece of it a few minutes
out of the oven. A little steam rises
from the slits on top. Sugar and spice-
cinnamon-burned into the crust.
But she's wearing these dark glasses
in the kitchen at ten o'clock
in the morning-everything nice-
as she watches me break off
a piece, bring it to my mouth,
and blow on it. My daughter's kitchen,
in winter. I fork the pie in
and tell myself to stay out of it.
She says she loves him. No way
could it be worse.

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