Then Again - Diane Keaton [41]
I brought a pot roast, but all she did was complain about that too. Iowa is the only place with tender beef. And as for food in Los Angeles. Forget it. Only cafeteria style tastes any good at all. Then she started in on Randy and his poems. “What do his poems mean anyway; who ever heard of writing about celery? It ain’t a poem you can understand, like Roses are Red. I don’t know what he’s talking about. I don’t get it.” And then as if to torture me she kept going on, “What exactly does Robin do besides take care of people who are dying?” And, “Does Dorrie like that Peter guy? What nationality is he anyway?” And, “What about that Diane, flying all the way back to N.Y. before Easter? Doesn’t she want to be at home? I guess she hates flying, huh? Touch of Jack showing there. Oh well, it’s a weird old world.” And … And … And. All I thought was, What happened? We used to do family things on Easter. I’d make brand-new outfits for all the kids. We’d go to church. I’d cook. We’d all be together, Dorrie, Randy, Robin, and Diane … all of us together. So many things have changed. When I think back on my four children, I remember each little warm body meant something to me I could never put into words; never.
When we got home Dorrie called to say she wasn’t coming down. I tried to read, but couldn’t get Dorrie out of my thoughts. Why doesn’t she come see ME? I tried to rub the thoughts out. I started to think of actions I wanted to take, but rationalized I shouldn’t. I kept thinking if I’m so miserably maladjusted to this life, my absence would only be felt for a short time. And anyway, my responsibilities with the family are over. They no longer look to me for guidance. It’s more like I’m the one they’re stuck being responsible for. My company isn’t sought after. Whatever I have allowed to happen has also brought on this horrible lack of confidence. I’m intimidated. I have no one to tell my concerns to, NO ONE. I’ve let myself come to a very sad state, not only sad, but stagnant. I try to talk to Jack but I can’t. He doesn’t care. He doesn’t want to LISTEN.
I have a secret longing to set out alone & do what I want to do. Why don’t I? It would be better than driving with Jack to the foreclosure auction, like I did last week. The radio kept blaring out the awful news of Idi Amin executing dissenters in Uganda. I asked Jack where the dial on the AM radio was—he kept pointing to the switch button. “Dial, Dorothy, DIAL.” “Don’t shout at me!” I said. “I’m NOT shouting at you.” Then silence.
We drove past South Coast Plaza Shopping Mall, where the new I. Magnin’s is going up near Bullock’s. We were silent as we drove past Long Beach, past Downey, past the City of Commerce, and on to Torrance. I saw an overturned truck when we reached the Magnolia off ramp. It didn’t register because there was so much anger in me, all I could think about was the fact that I can’t live according to Jack’s list of rules anymore. I’m sick of being smothered by all the talk of real estate, and taxes, and how to buy, and Money, Money, Money. We passed a Motel 6 sign next to a Lutheran church, next to a Jewish temple, next to a used-car sales lot, where I saw Toyotas, Ford Torino wagons, Chevy Vegas, Pintos and Datsuns, and still we were silent. We passed a man in the driver’s seat teasing his hair into a stand-up position. A plane landed at LAX. It was hot. The auction started at 10. I wanted out.
I’ve created this solitude. I’m drowning in the worst depression I can remember. I’ve always