Chapter 1: Meet The Norwegian
Feel Sorry for this Man…He’s About to Go Under the bus
Secrets are not my strong point. I have no shame and will do anything short of stripping for income. And the stripping thing isn’t out of some moral issue, righteousness or disdain for that type of work. It’s simply that I gave birth to three ten-pound children. I guarantee nobody wants to see this business. Patrons would gasp aloud, shield their eyes and hurl boilermakers and pork rinds. I am stuck with the only thing I’ve known to do since childhood; write it down.
There is the Norwegian. He’s the one who’s dead. He was, is, the love of my life and I lived like a princess at his hands, except when he pissed me off. I’m a little high strung. He was calm. Turtle calm. Rock calm. Playing possum calm. Let’s just say The Norwegian was a little mellow. Whatever the fates, or God or whatever brings magical couples together joined us for that reason. I am a lunatic and he worked in the mental ward of my mind. The man talked me off every ledge I ever mounted, carried me through imaginary hell with his only comment being, “Wow, its pretty dark in here isn’t it,” pointing to the side of my head. Dark does not begin to cover it.
So last year he died. Suddenly. Tragically.
The Norwegian, all our lives, great provider, dies without life insurance. We’re screwed. I have three kids, a lifestyle that is already cut to the bone due to the economy and my job at a non-profit. Not only do I get to be a widow, I get to be a poor one at 50 years old. Yippee Skippy.
The man would roll in his grave, except there isn’t one as he’s cremated. He’s in the living room on a shelf, desperate to get out of that box and shut my mouth. Some things never change doll! Had he left us with insurance I would carry the story to my own box but I’m left with no choice.
He’d say, “Bitch, I can’t believe you’re telling everybody everything about me,” except not quite like that ’cuz he never called me bitch and didn’t speak gangster. It’d be more like, “Linny, really? You are not actually going to humble yourself like this are you? You’ll embarrass our whole family.” In Norwegian circles, people in your business or having knowledge of your humanity is tantamount to treason. So treason I’m committing. I would tell him, if I could, “Hey, buddy, if you left me with the million dollars in insurance we had for twenty-six years, I wouldn’t be writing dick. I’d be in the South of France toasting our love and eating great bread. Instead, I’m working three jobs, declaring bankruptcy and just fielded a call from the people buying our house in short sale that the sale may not go through because the house is up for auction tomorrow morning.” Now I’m the gangster.
It’s not just a story. It’s a how-to. It’s a textbook for navigating through widowhood, laughing on your journey. There actually is a way to walk through hell and smile when you want to punch someone in the face. You’ll acquire new skills like dealing with bankruptcy attorneys, accountants, the IRS (the fuckers are not human); insensitive remarks which actually are the least of your problems and how to somehow carve out a life for yourself without sex and someone to take to the movies. Perhaps it doesn’t have anything to do with widowhood and we could all use a lesson in navigation.
While our family used to move about like a hand, all five fingers pointing in their own directions but connected and coming together to enjoy the safety of the mother ship; now all the fingers are drawn in and move in a clump, a clump of loss clinging to together for strength and guidance and need and sorrow. Every once in a while a single finger pokes out and ventures forth, but then there is a sting, some harshness given by the world and the finger retreats back to the safety that is the clump. That is where we are at this moment, striving for clarity that does not come, hoping for peace that is not in sight and praying that precious memories never escape our minds.
I sit in a home I will shortly lose; one filled to bursting with our family memories. The walls are chock full of markings of a happy family. Nothing to be done except make a cocktail. I pray the elixir turns off my mind enough that he is not in my dreams, that I do not wake sobbing, reaching for him.
My friend vodka does his job. What was it Scarlet said, “Tomorrow is another day?” Yes it is. Tomorrow is another and it’s got to be better than today. My husband was Lloyd Dobler. Think hard, girlfriend, you recognize the name. Every woman our age recognizes the name. He is boom box holding guy from ’Say Anything.” He is her savior, her warrior, her protector and her lover. The Norwegian is Lloyd Dobler and I’m about to spill every secret he ever held dear.
He would shield me from glass in the parking lot of Seven Eleven, brushing it aside so I would not step in it. He would have, if I needed, stood beneath my window wearing a great trench, holding a boom box above his head blaring In My Eyes. The difference between Diane and me is that not only would I have gone to the window, I may have jumped out it and into his arms. But that’s just me.
“Nobody thought we’d do this,” someone says. And Lloyd says, “You just described everybody’s success story.” That is the Norwegian.
Lloyd tells Diane’s father, “What I want to do for a living is be with your daughter. I’m good at it.” Whaaaa? That is The Norwegian.
Who I am now is Lloyd Dobler standing alone, fabulous coat draped about me, boom box over my head blaring In Your Eyes, but there is no one there to hear. That is being a widow.
Lloyd tells his best friend, “The rain on my car is a baptism.” I pray for that rain. I pray for the baptism that will lead me through the darkness to the other side. I pray for the rain that is cleansing and pure and holy. Enough to make me feel whole again, clean again, happy again.”
