Hidden Messages
    by Lucy Greenburg

We were downtown the other day and ran into our friend, Ray. He and Barb are having a baby so we wished him congratulations. Ray's shoulders sagged. He snorted a little and said, "Thanks." Then shaking his head and rolling his eyes, he added, "What was Barb thinking?" He spoke jokingly but with worry and resentment seeping through.

My husband, who hasn't much radar for undercurrents, chuckled companionably. But as our friend turned to go I stared after him. 

What was Barb thinking? It's short, cryptic, seemingly casual remarks like this that drive me crazy. If I were braver I'd have said, "Hold it! Stop the action! Roll this one back! Alright, Ray, what exactly do you mean? Are you saying that tell-it-like-it-is, shoot-from-the-hip, straight-talkin' Barb - our Barbara - knowingly deceived you, her husband? That she led you to believe that all systems were go, that she was one big safety zone? While secretly scheming and watching the calendar and just at her ripest, most fertile moment she enticed you, seduced you with a twinkle in her eye and...

Is that what you mean? 

"Just now, when you all getting by on your unemployment checks and a few coaching jobs?

"And not to mention a little word like trust, Ray. How, in God's name, will you be able to trust her again? This is your wife we're talking about."

But I will never know what iceberg Ray's sparse words were the tip of. I'll never know on what incident after incident of married life Ray's casual remark perched. 

It seems to me that people are often dropping these moments of truth, and I'm always expecting earth-shattering crashes or loud, decisive thuds that never happen. Instead when a revelation is hinted at, or partially revealed, the conversation quickly veers elsewhere, perhaps to gossip, movies, or the dearth of reliable babysitters. I'm not graceful with those leaps. Instead, I'm left feeling like someone just heaved me a medicine ball and ran off. 

Early on when Jake and I were dating I knew that I had fallen for him. One evening he told me he was applying for jobs in Boston. I lived in New York City. My heart took a free fall and crashed like an elevator with its cables cut. But carefully I said, as if it only mattered a little, "I'll be sorry when you go." Jake woke up then. "Oh, I would never stop seeing you! I'd come back every weekend, even if I had to take a helicopter!" That's how I learned Jake loved me. No flowers or trumpets. Just a remark made to correct a misimpression. 

Last summer at our local swimming pool, I saw a man I knew who was well-known in our small community. He often came to the pool accompanied by his son and, once in a while, by his wife. But on the day I'm speaking of, he came through the entry gate followed by a young woman. He took the woman's hand and held it tightly. The two walked halfway around the pool, the man nodding solemnly to the people he knew. It was a deliberate and courageous thing to do - even though they looked to me like a couple of children at a funeral. Hand-in-hand they made their way halfway around the pool until they found two empty deck chairs. They arranged the chairs so that the arms touched. Then they sat down side-by-side. 

No matter what people were thinking or feeling - no matter if they were shocked or saddened or even gloating - on the surface no one missed a beat. There wasn't a pause in the conversation, not a drop of sunblock was spilled, the swimmer on the diving board didn't lose his footing. A visiting stranger could never have suspected the public announcement that had just been made to the rest of us. 

Here's one last incident and I swear it's true. When Jake and I decided to get married we carefully planned how to tell his parents. We cleaned the house, prepared a dinner of coq au vin and wild rice, and put on Vivaldi, Jake's father's favorite. When his parents arrived we let them settle in. Then when the moment seemed right Jake and I joined hands and broke the news - touchingly, I thought - about our plans to marry. Here's where things broke down. Instead of joyful hugs and fatherly slaps on the back for Jake, there was silence and looks of disbelief. "I have to put a dime in the parking meter," said Jake's mother and she scooted out the door. 

Here's what I imagine happened next. First, she probably did put a dime in the meter in case any of us were watching out the window. And then she took a moment all to herself and silently raked me over as the evil interloper intent on stealing away her innocent, perfect, beloved son. Maybe those uncensored moments, free from scrutiny, did her good, and maybe then she gave herself a stern talking to - all about gaining daughters instead of losing sons, which made her think of a little Jake, Jr. to spoil and brag about. At any rate, when she returned to our little party she smiled almost gaily and hugged us almost warmly, and the rest of the evening went off fine. 

Looking back, I think how much easier and more comfortable it would have been for Jake's mother if we had been able to slip her the news quietly rather than breaking it to her in such grand fashion. And this, no doubt, is the real reason why big truths come out so often in such inconspicuous, offhand ways. 

So now Jake and I know not to clodhop around Barb and Ray with hardy congratulations and exclamations. We can try to be the kind of friends they need, who accept the blacks, whites, and grays of expecting a baby and can sympathize with wanting and not wanting a child all at one time. As for Ray's remark, "What was Barb thinking?" - perhaps he hadn't tossed it off casually. Maybe it was his quiet way of telling us a truth about his and Barb's life together. Perhaps he was saying, "This is who we are. Take it or leave it. It's up to you."

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                              ©Lucy A. Greenburg 2023
                        Publ. by The Daily Hampshire Gazette  Mar 14, 2014