Saturday Scribes August 23, 2008 - Fragility

Fragility



I hadn’t talked with him in a year or two. Ward and I were like that. He’d get busy. I’d get busy. Mandarin took most of my time - learning Mandarin. It wasn’t a task for the faint-hearted. I was always doing warm-ups, reviewing the basic characters, never seeming to get to the nitty-gritty conversational side of the language. If I continued to learn this slowly, then I wouldn’t be prepared for my upcoming trip to China.

Ward was busy also. He was a freelance writer and claimed that he could write a $40 article in an hour. Ward worked eight or more hours a day. He could make a living on it, he said. He was disciplined, hard-working and full of brilliant ideas.

We hadn’t seen each other in a long time, but the friendship was always there. I knew that I could always phone Ward up, mention that I was in town, and he and Stacey would whip up a great meal. Usually fish, rice, salad and white wine. Those visits were wonderful. Stacey would put the kids to bed, and we’d all relax. Stacey would bring out the desserts, a delicious home-made cake or some wonderfully decadent treat.

It was March. I needed a break from my Mandarin studies, and decided to phone Ward. I planned to be in town next week and felt that I could use the warm companionship, the evening chats, and the desserts. I phoned and got the answering machine. “Hi, Ward and Stacey, Dylan and John are out right now, but feel free to leave a message.” It was Stacey’s voice, welcoming, cheerful, and I did leave a message, explaining that I was coming to town and would love to see them.

Strangely, there was a delay. Ward usually got back to me right away. Within a day, I would receive a call back. But I wasn’t worried. It was only Monday, and I wasn’t planning to visit till Friday. I could wait. Likely Ward was working under a deadline. I understood what his life must be like. If he didn’t work his eight hours, he wouldn’t make any money. I wondered briefly what it must be like to work independently, like Ward. There would be a lot of pressure to discipline yourself, to force yourself to sit at your computer and work for so many hours a day. But Ward could handle anything. He had drive and could create within himself a sense of urgency for projects.

Another day passed, and still no word. This was strange. Maybe my message got lost. It was Tuesday now, and I wanted to know whether it was worth the trip to Phoenix. I didn’t have any other real reason for going. After some deliberation, I decided to wait till Wednesday. If there were still no word, then I would phone on Wednesday evening.

I spent Wednesday avoiding my Mandarin study. My teacher had given me hundreds of characters to memorize and I was tired of trying to think of memory tricks to keep them all in my head. Part of me began to worry if I was capable of learning this near-impossible language. Of course Chinese children learned to speak Mandarin. It was their mother tongue. But for a Western the process was like an arduous ordeal. I felt that the Herculean task was beyond me.

And Ward didn’t get back. It was 8.00 Wednesday night. I wanted to know, make my plans, enjoy the conversation and good friendship I could only get from Ward and Stacey. At 8.30 I phoned again. This time, Stacey picked up.


“Hi Stacey! How are you doing?”

Stacey recognized my voice. “Oh, I’m so sorry we didn’t get back.”

“That’s all right. I was just wondering about Friday. I was thinking about driving into Phoenix...”

“I know. We got your message.”

Stacey didn’t sound like herself. Her voice hesitated. I felt that something strange was going on.

“Is everything okay? Can I speak to Ward?”

“Ward’s not hear right now. I’ll get him to call you. Okay?”

“Fine.” I felt like asking her again. ‘Are you okay? What’s going on?’. But I didn’t. I let her be. I liked Stacey too much to grill here when she was feeling uncomfortable. Ward would get back to me soon enough.

It turned out to be sooner rather than later. An hour later, Ward pulled up in his little blue Pontiac. I couldn’t be more surprised. Ward had never visited me before, never driven out of Phoenix without Stacey.

I ran out to the car to greet him and saw that Ward looked nothing like his usual self. Normally Ward, a bit of a control type, was clean as clean could be, in informal but immaculate clothing, scrubbed red face, neatly ironed shirt under a well-fitted sweater and well-fitting pants. But here he came out of the car looking positively scruffy. He hadn’t shaved in a few days. His glasses looked like they hadn’t been cleaned in days. His shirt was wrinkly and even dirty looking.

“Ward. What’s going on, man?” I grabbed him and gave him a big hug. He looked like he wanted only to climb into this shell, like a snail that was tired of viewing the world and only wanted to retreat and possibly die.

I made Ward some tea. Normally he drank hot coffee. It helped his writing. But today, he wanted tea, and I brewed up a strong pot. Waiting for the tea, Ward sat uncomfortably on my sofa, like he was afraid of dirtying it.

“You want to take a shower?” I asked. But Ward didn’t even take my words in. When I gave him the hot cup of tea, he just stared into the distance. The only time I remembered staring blanking out like that was when my mother died. I was so shaken up that I spent many, many lonely hours by the river of my old hometown, looking out at the river, mindlessly - unconsolable.

Finally Ward spit it out. “We’re finished.” He whispered it out as if the words were physically painful to say. “Stacey and I. It’s all over.”


I suddenly felt lost. I was reeling. Stacey and Ward. Wine and desserts. Put the kids to bed. What could possibly have happened? They were the perfect couple, the perfect family. They seemed so stable.

But looking at Ward, unhappy, broken, barely able to choke his tea down, I wondered what I meant when I said the word stable.