LITTLE ROCK — Several years after her former husband died, a friend became concerned by how he was being remembered. It seemed the youngest children of his second marriage were rewriting family history to transform their father into something he hadn’t been.
“It’s just weird,” she said, shaking her head slowly. “I don’t get it. They know what he did to their mother.”
“And to you,” I added, watching her carefully. What he’d done was old news, but I wasn’t sure what emotional residue she might have. To my relief she responded calmly, seeming focused on the puzzling way in which her former husband was being held up as an example to his grandchildren.
“And to me,” she agreed, matter-of-factly.
What had he done? Well into his later years, this man was a severe alcoholic with a vicious temper. During his first and second marriages he beat, humiliated and terrorized his wives.
The five children of his second marriage were grown and married before he changed. Then, in the last years of his life, a health problem scared him sober. By all accounts, he became a new man.
Not long before he died, the two families got together. Forgiveness and fresh beginnings set the tone for a remarkable family reunion. My friend was instrumental in this, and I admired her ability to forgive so that her children could know their half-siblings. During the reunion, astonishing moments occurred when incidents of this man’s violent temper were openly discussed by those present. Both his former wife and current wife shared that they’d been beaten, and the conversation built a bond between them that meant something to both women.
When the man died, it came as no surprise that a family dealing with such pain might grieve in unusual ways. But for some, the grief went to odd extremes. His clothes were not to be given away. His belongings should stay where he liked to find them. His words were recorded and recounted. Now a new story emerged, a strange, rewritten history of the best dad anyone ever had. Now he was larger than life, wonderful in every way, a man of such stature that his shoes could never be filled. At least to some.
Over the course of a year, a new rift reappeared in the family. On one side were the widow and several of her children and their families, who insisted on mythologizing this man. On the other side was everyone else. My friend, who felt she’d done the right thing by putting those times behind her for the sake of all the children and grandchildren, felt caught in the middle as she watched adults and grandchildren stop speaking to each other.
“I forgave him,” she told me one day. “But I can’t pretend he was something he wasn’t.”
“You don’t have to,” I replied. “Even he didn’t deny what he’d done.”
And that’s when she mentioned the heart-shaped pillow she’d been given by one of his daughters. It was sewn from her ex-husband’s favorite shirts and embellished with a fabric photo of him in his later years. Since neither of her children wanted it, she’d put it away in an upstairs room. Now it was starting to bother her, she said.
“Why do you keep it?” I asked.
To my complete amazement, this remarkable woman looked at me as if that question had never occurred to her.
“I guess … I thought I had to,” she replied slowly. “But I don’t, do I?”
I shook my head firmly.
“Isn’t that funny,” she continued, in an amazed voice. “After all these years, I still feel like I have to do what I’m told. You know what? I think I’ll go home and throw that thing away.”
Write to Jennifer Hansen at Arkansas Democrat-Gazette, P.O. Box 7, Springdale, Ark. 72765. Email her at:
jhansen@arkansasonline.com
Family, Pages 34 on 07/25/2012