Chapter Twenty Eight An Opera in Three Acts But with Five Parts
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| still hears it.
But it certainly means definite things to me, the mother who is no mother and, if anything like a mother, then The Invisible Mother. One of the no – rights I, the DEhuman parent, have is any sort of a say – so in where my babies end up. Some noncustodial parents have a right to stop another from physically moving too, too far away –––– especially the fathers of all echelons and levels in class status and of any residency, race, ethnicity, religious creed or from other sperm – exalting formats; these dudes seem to have this right. Not just the pillared, noncustodial ones but all of the noncustodial fathers seem to have this … everywhere they are and all of the time –––– and I am referring here to the United States family courts’ decrees! Even for fathers presently residing inside any form of the United States penal system! Even for fathers who have, for chris’sake, killed these children’s mothers! That is, the children out of whose now – dead mothers they were grown with the imprisoned men’s haploid sperm cells! Hell, these men have judges who have not only ordered the men to have visits with the children borne out of uteri belonging to women whom they have murdered; but the same mother – fucking judicial system, these male judges, order that the dead mama’s family, that is her mama, her sisters, her aunts, her grandmother, her sisters – in – law, the people who loved her … they, themselves … are ordered to have to make the drive of their grandchildren or of their nieces and nephews or of their great – grandchildren to the prisons for the express purpose of these killers having granted to them their court – ordered visits with these children. So – even murderers of their own children’s mothers get to have her kiddos brought to the slammer for visits with the dead woman’s babies and brought there by way of the murdered woman’s loved ones! “What measure of ultimate insult is this?” I ask myself. And I answer me back, “The Standard Measure, Dr. True. The androcentric Standard Measure, Woman.” Of course, elsewhere in the World, too, this is true; but in all 50 states of the US as well it also so is. Noncustodial fathers, in every state, can stop a mother wanting to move away, say, the moveaway for the purpose of her taking a very good, career – enhancing job post, –– just by opening their orifices and, through their mouthpiece employees who their own attorneys are or by way of their solo, pro se visits with daJudge, even such men’s male – identified next cunts as daddees’ puppet – jaws to ‘the Court’, render the mother immobilized –– and I mean like just yesterday! She is fucking stopped in her and the kiddos’ tracks like now! But no such luck at even parting one’s lips, let alone, the territory! if the noncustodial parent is a mother fucked who has lost her parental rights. If the alleged father has, over her, all power and all control, why then, she can kiss her babies goodbye without even ‘being allowed’ the chance to … kiss them goodbye. “You have a telephone call. I think it’d be okay for you to step down and away. It’s over there in the corner booth, ya’ know, the only phone out here on the floor for you workers,” that was my production supervisor, Ms. Phillipa Chance, a woman my age, mid – 40s, speaking. She meant that I would have to shut down my machine, leaving my colleague without a co – worker and, therefore, more or less stranded without piecemeal work with which to rack up both of our end totals for the shift. Obviously, workers took very, very few personal telephone calls in order to avoid these costly shutdowns. The person on the telephone was from Ames, a woman also my age named Dr. Agnes Flunk who did not work outside her home. She and her spouse, Dr. P.M. Flunk, a decade and more her senior, had been mere acquaintances of mine for approximately four years and considered themselves Quaker elders –– although Quakerism is not supposed to have “elders” since all people are allegedly equal in the Light’s eyes. Much like an old Quaker joke, “We don’t have any elders, and we all know who they are” which Agnes and P.M. each found particularly amusing every time anyone delivered that one – liner in their presence. Smirking in an “all – knowing” kind of way, a smirk not unlike Herry’s, particularly out of P.M.’s lip commissures. Sometime – Anthropologist Agnes on the other hand, although she almost always entitled herself after her signature as an ‘independent scholar’ as in “Agnes Flunk, PhD, Independent Scholar,” liked to play dumb. “Huh, O me? An elder? O, my! Well, I guess so. O, I mean no! Of course, no! We don’t have elders!” is likely a quip she would deploy between feigned forehead furls –– were someone to query how long or how much Agnes Flunk had been involved with Quakerism and was she familiar with it to any extent. I had been, formally and officially, a Quaker longer than either Flunk; and I, for one, knew for certain that they did not consider me to be any such elder. In Truth, I knew for a fact that these two thought me in the plainness of Quakerism to plainly suck at being a Quaker. And … at being a mother, let alone, at being a DEhuman. The holiday easter Sunday before, just eight months earlier on 31 March 1991, Professor P.M. Flunk himself had actually laid his two hands upon me in order to stop me from doing something. To put an end to my intended act before he’d have had to summon up all of his Quaker elderliness and oblige me to back the fuck off with even more force than what he was already applying. His Quakerly right fist at the end of its rigidly outstretched arm sunk itself into my torso’s sternum, and mathematics faculty member and ‘pacifist’ elder P.M. Flunk himself sicced me immediately off of … my very own child, Mirzah Truemaier. I was stunned to see him, Mirzah –– and his two brothers, Zane and Jesse. Commonly Herry would bait me, set me up for disappointment or heartbreak or just whatever plain pain he figured the set – up may inflict upon me; and as he did so much with Mehitable so, too, he particularly chose the Quakers and singularly there the Flunks. More than once, I would learn something about the Boys and be so thrilled to know it –– only to find out some Quakers and always the Flunks already knew what it was that I hadn’t known. From the Truemaier Boys’ dental visits to the soccer goals which any one of them had made. This information had smirkingly been withheld from me. The Flunks, like Mehitable, particularly enjoyed the part where I found out –– but only after it had become abundantly clear to the two Flunks that … I finally knew only after … these “Quakers” had had the information –– first! Overall, Snide Edinsmaier in his pillaredness manipulated the Flunks to organize and execute some of his dirtiness deals for him. It wasn’t at all difficult to do. Herry must’ve sensed that Agnes and P.M. were most impressed by persons of class, stature, title and education as they, indeed, quite are –– and used that Flunk feature to his advantage to wreak havoc upon ‘only mostly flawed’ – me … according to the Good and Wonderful Doctor’s highest – ranking whimsy. This particular easter 1991 deed of Legion – DEhumanization came on the heels of the Margaret Sagely ashes – one but just by a few days, in fact. Adam, who resides over in the town of the Storm County Courthouse and that junk mail factory of Ms. Phillipa Chance’s and mine, that is, about nine or ten miles east of Ames, received a telephone call from Herry. And Adam thinking Herry genuine, a condition of which Quakers are soooo, so silly about doing too, too much, well, … Adam was hooked by the Good Doctor’s bait. As is the fondness annually on this particular First Day, the Ames Friends traditionally go for an early morning walk on the wild side, well, … into the woods at least … a – conjurin’ up some springtime there and back out anyhow, then on over to the Meetinghouse for midmorning brunch and, lastly, finish off the custom with an hour or so’s worth of meditation and silence together. Herry, because of a one – time mawwiage to me, long, long well knew of this lovely, plain and simple spring exercise of the Ames Friends Meeting. In the days leading up to 1991’s, Conniving Herod had phoned Adam ‘to invite’ him to come pick up the nature – loving Truemaier Boys in Urbandale, a 130 – minute roundtrip for Adam just to get the Boys to the woods! And … at 5 fucking in the a.m. –– to start! Because our stroll into the forest near Ames commenced at 7! All of this Adam gladly did agree to do. So typical, too: Aprovechar Herry doing all of the talk, talk, talking –– and others doing all of the work, work, working! It wasn’t Herry doing the driving so that the Truemaier Boys could participate; it was Adam, fortunately himself quite the morning person any day anyhow, who did all of that early roundtripping and not, of course, the Daddee – Herry Edinsmaier at all!
I was soooo excited. And Mirzah, the first to get out of Adam’s car, likewise ran over to hug me, too! Except that ... … Except that Professor P.M. Flunk, Quaker elder, got up in both our faces. And right now! I mean the man appeared outta nowhere. Not even had he been in my peripheral vision; and even if Flunk had been there, I wouldn’t’ve, at that stage, thought him capable of what it was he then proceeded to do. The doctor of mathematics’ philosophy dashed in between the two of us and faced me, his back to Mirzah, now forced dead in his little – boy tracks. Slowing, I turned to go around Flunk, my eyeballs still affixed on Mirzah, only to feel this incredible force about my neck and upper chest; it was shoving me hard backwards. P.M. Flunk actually had his outstretched arm and balled mitt solidly lodged on my breastbone. I was halted. “No! No! That is not allowed!” “O o o o!” I think to myself now, “what a woman – loathing shitload of fuckful patriarchal phraseology.” “What?!” is only, instead, then and a bit breathless and rather high – pitched, what came out of my mouth. “Hi, Mom!” Mirzah came around to my side but did not touch me either. P.M. Flunk removed his hand from its placement but not his wedged and blocking body from its. “Heeey, Baby, this is toooo cooool! I didn’t know you were coming! O, I’m so happy to see you and Zane and Jesse,” who were both by now also standing right next to us three. “This is so great! How long can you stay? How was your walk?! I can take you back to 69th Street then! There’s a bunch of great food. When do we have to be leaving?” “No! No! That is not allowed!” In front of his god (anyhow), Mirzah, Zane and Jesse and all of the other Quakers gathering, not to mention … in front of me … this Quaker elder, aaaah, androcentric asshole, by the name of P.M. Flunk and now flanked by spouse Agnes Flunk, PhD, Independent Scholar, claimed as his own King Herod’s patriarchal power of authority and control over me in the matter … of me … and … of my very own children. This, too, any freedom – loving independent (– scholar or not! –) can imagine, I have never forgotten! As much as I’d considered Mi Sprision O’Revinnoco, M.D.’s inaction parentally and medically unconscionable, the Doctors Flunks’ action was, likewise, not only hardly at all Quakerly or anything, like say, spirit – led, … it was as well in no way conscionable. I have never forgotten it, and I have never returned to a man’s easter sunday anywhere, certainly not there either. Pre – arrangements had included Adam and P.M. and Agnes Flunk –– and, specifically, not me … It had been the likewise folie – à – deuxing Flunk Intellectuals who chauffeured my Truemaier Boys back their afternoon’s 130 minutes’ haul to Herry’s at 1 p.m. and then themselves returning here to Ames, and none of these preparatory negotiations had included me in any way, except to especially keep me fully and ‘quite clearly’ … in the dark. The Flunks’ role was merely that of lackey – gofers in Herry’s inflictive fuck of bait and switch so as to the Boys to keep Dr. Legion True in hers: that of Invisible Mother. Herry played them. Herry Edinsmaier played P.M. and Agnes Flunk like the bobbleheaded marionettes they were, so dodderingly gaga were these two idiots over Herry’s impressive doctor title, his status in the community as a pillar and his elitist education as a physician. And …. likewise thusly, so oppositely repulsed by my judicial state as a nonmother … and apparently by everything else about me as well. And they, the Flunks? They let him. They knew the opprobrious Truth about Herry, but they also knew how much … more … they themselves, as did rurally Midwest Mehitable, enjoyed and reveled in their own religion –– the one based upon their credo of aristocratic appearances and image management. So the cultured Flunks simply let the Good and Erudite Dr. Edinsmaier play them. Full – well functioning that –– and, as regards me, many a –– First Day in the astringently punishing scholarship that: while knowledge is power, the withholding of knowledge is … even more power! Just four weeks earlier Margaret Sagely died on the 02nd day of March 1991, while on a personal mission of medical mercy to China for her belovéd people there. No proselytizing. None ever when Nurse Margaret went to China. Just gracious and helpful and scientific however she could be. Massive stroke. Seventy – two years young. Dead. Immediately. Cremated. Ashes back to the States. Another “other mother” of mine –– gone. Ashes like Frieda Chicken Guthrie. Ashes and gone. A memorial service was scheduled at a larger sanctuary in downtown Ames than the Meetinghouse’s front room so that her many, many friends who wanted to say goodbye to her could, three of whom … my Truemaier Boys. Herry had then, too, enticed Agnes and P.M., apparently contacting one or both of them to let them know that he, Ms. Fannie Issicran McLive and the Boys would all join the Flunks in one of that particular church’s pews –– which they so did do. Again, I had had no prior heads – up until I glanced over my right shoulder and there, subtly nodding and smiling back at me but not too widely the service being a sobering memorial for Margaret who now was basically a carton of carbon inside her simple, mahogany wooden urn up at the altar and all, … were Jesse, Mirzah and Zane. On his way out the narthex’s massive doorway afterward, Mirzah managed to maneuver himself so as to brush beside me and high – fived my right hand that I held close in and low down by my thigh whilst, poker – faced, he stared straight ahead of himself and exited to the street. No words exchanged. And then, yet again, my three Boys … were gone.
by our house and that you are permitted to come there tonight at 6:30 p.m. for 15 minutes,” came the official announcement back to me of exactly that premonition over which Jesse had soooo been agonizing just the Friday night before. Anxious and sad? Now I knew at least a little something about why his sense. The weekend over, and lo and behold on Monday afternoon, 28 October 1991, less than 72 hours after hugging Jesse inside our dark, cold Ol’ Black parked on an Urbandale sidestreet and wanting to weep over the dread voiced in Jesse’s fears and sorrow at leaving me and Iowa and never returning to us as a kid again, Dr. True was indeed right now being dictated to by a person whom I do not trust and by the type of woman whom I so loathe that I, my Boys’ own mama, would be “permitted” one last chance to see them all before they left for where? “See them all before they left for where, Agnes?!” “Well, now that isn’t information I have. And if I did have it, I wouldn’t be permitted to give it out, now would I? You already know that though, Legion, don’t you?” There are four – and five – letter names for women like Agnes Flunk, names not at all like “scholar,” but she isn’t worth expending any more effort nor expounding upon with any more time or descriptive words, let alone, worrying about folks like her. Nor is P.M. either –– except for the itty bitty bit part in which P.M. was yet to be seen acting later on that evening. Ms. Phillipa Chance I hardly knew and then only as an overseer of my factory labor. I needed to leave work; but I, right then, just couldn’t think of how to explain in a short, short byte … why. My jobs changed soon after this 1991’s October –– both because the orders were decreasing and its temporary positions at the factory were being eliminated and because I needed more hours than those which had been available there anyhow so I have never gotten an opportunity to know this person. Recently I read in a wee local newsy rag where this woman was working alone one night at the county’s favorite BBQ take – out outfit and that Ms. Phillipa Chance had managed to salvage some of its equipment and to save herself before the tiny joint, like torched Twyla’s Salon and Barbering had in Urbandale, burned completely down. Still I don’t know her personally and, then as now, if the woman’s ever had a child or kids of her own or not. I truly only knew of her from that mid afternoon of my beseeching her for allowance to leave work. As I remember acts of atrocity, I also remember actions of the opposite kind, and Ms. Phillipa Chance has always remained in my memory for the fact that her nature with me so fit her name, Chance. I exited the phone booth apparently as white as this sheet. My supervisor, Ms. Phillipa Chance, heard above all of that din, “My babies. He’s taking my babies away,” as I walked up to her small workspace countertop in the midst of the warehouse, not dazed as much as seething. And, as noticeably DEhuman, ... powerless. No asking me “What?!” No asking me “Why are you talking to yourself and not back at your machine working?!” No questions at all as a matter of fact, and I never repeated myself. She looked at me squarely, no hedge, and replied, “Get outta here, Woman. Go! You are gone. We’ll just see ya’ tomorrow, okay?!” After the rare times as I run into such people, almost exclusively DEhumans too they are, I wonder how it is that they know, how they already know what was coursing through my heart and my soul after news like I’d just received. Had she lost a child herself? Had a besieged sister of hers needed to wage war and lost babies? Ms. Chance wasn’t old enough I didn’t think to be a grandmother, as was Grand Mehitable, who may have been mom to a tormented daughter and grandchildren embattled in ‘the court’ system –– with all of its functionaries there with whom the family, including Ms. Chance perhaps, may have had to deal, to engage, to clash, to fight, to come to legal blows –– from its judges to the attorneys to the family and child psychologists to those custody evaluators and guardians ad litem to the state’s family services’ division personnel to the cops and the drug rehabilitators and the alcohol abuse counselors to the battered women’s shelter workers to who knows who next. How had Ms. Phillipa Chance, with instantaneousness and urgency not to mention with nearly proven clairvoyance, known where I stood after that telephone call and how had she known with precision clarity, knife – like, what the cut of “He’s taking my babies away” meant? For all their PhDnesses and all of their assumed scholarship and theoretical Quakerliness, the elder Dr. Agnes Flunk along with her spicily mucked – up spouse, Dr. P.M. Flunk, parents themselves of two grown – and – gone sons, could certainly have both stood several lessons and to pass prelim examinations on Substance and Depth in Understanding and Compassion at Grace’s Listening College –– both of them tutored there then by one mighty brainy and … kind … Ms. Phillipa Chance, junk mail factory boss – lady. I knocked promptly at 6:30 p.m. on the front door of the bungalow. Dr. P.M. Flunk opened it to an empty living room in which stood Agnes, gawping in judgment at me without so much as a weak smile. I knew there’d been a reason why I hadn’t sought to be present any earlier; she and that countenance of hers was it. No Truemaier Boys anywhere in sight. And no conversation occurring either –– which was just fine with me. Deaf as I am, I am never discomfited as are other persons by silence in such threesomes; and because of the particular and peculiar other two in our specific axiso’three, I was most contented to remain shut up … waiting. Waiting for the Truemaier Boys in the silence of the front room of the Flunk household. I had a helluva lot to think on anyhow so, doing that, I just stared at its floor, “What in the hell was Herry up to? Taking the Boys where? For how long? No wonder Jesse’d said what he’d said last Friday night! Yeah, something’d been goin’ down, all right, but what? What?!” Around 6:50 finally a knock and in strode Community Pillar Herod Edinsmaier demanding to see Legion True, “Where’s Jesse?! Where’ve ya’ hidden Jesse?!” He was enraged behind such a carefully controlled to – the – Flunks’ mask. After all, Herry couldn’t very well call me Cunt or Bitch or Twat in front of them or Mirzah and Zane … now the two of them old enough to quite remember such Edinsmaier endearments for their mother. With only my youngest and my eldest coming inside and over to me on the loveseat, I instantly knew then that Jesse had run, that he had jumped ship, that Dr. Herod Edinsmaier hadn’t the foggiest fuck of an idea as to where my middle child for whom he, alone, was custodially liable was, and that Hideous Herry totally intended to pin onto me the full whammy of all that this meant –– right down to, “ … if Jesse is hurt, You Cunt, why I’ll … ” in so many sidewise glares and smirkfaced squints. The brassy fact that we were all in someone else’s home, a situation for which then I ordinarily would take under great advisement to be courteous and rather respectful, I gave not two hoots for here at the Flunks. I couldn’t have given a flying, fuckable shit that Herry Edinsmaier, two Truemaiers and one True frenetically seeking any news of the whereabouts of her third baby had completely taken over a space which none of us owned, let alone, found familiar or, for that matter, particularly Friendly! “We’re leaving Iowa, Mom. Tomorrow. We’re leaving tomorrow,” Zane exhaled softly. Mirzah, at his side and now mine, too, was just nodding. “I want her house searched! I’m heading over there right now! Come’n, Zane, Mirzah! Now!” Herry headed for the door and without so much as addressing me with any full first name or a surname even as, of course, is Herry’s usual shaming shunning of me anyhow, ex – Husband Herod hadn’t yet directly looked at the obviously indiscernible and, therefore, ... invisible … thing in that Flunk room which was … me. “They’re welcome to stay here, Herry,” it was Agnes Flunk, PhD, Independent Scholar, of course. “Sure. Okay. Good. Thanks,” and Herry turned to go. “No! No! He isn’t there! Jesse isn’t there! Where is he?! Where could he have gone to?!” I was frantic and becoming so, too, were also both Zane and Mirzah now –– who, I rather suspected, knew all along that Jesse, was indeed, gone most missing and they just didn’t know what to do. Herry, for chris’sake, had done nothing to allay any of these two brothers’ fears and, now arriving in Ames and seeing me, Mirzah and Zane were altogether certain that Jesse was nowhere at all close by to us. “I’m calling the police and László.” “That is not necessary. He’s at your house,” Herry finally glowered straight at me, that Stupid – Ass Heifer in the Flunks’ living room, although he still would not speak my name. “No! I told you, he isn’t! I’m calling the police, and they’ll search my house to convince you. Then maybe we can get the true search for Jesse started. Don’t tell me. Do not tell me that you haven’t even called the Urbandale police yet, Herry?!” my voice was shaking I was so livid. Herry had not. Herry Edinsmaier had driven out of two major metropolitan areas, Urbandale and Des Moines; 65 precious minutes he had traveled out of town and onto major thoroughfares and interstates and over 45 to 50 miles northerly and into another metropolitan area, Ames, in the cold and now also the darkness –– without even calling their local police first. Not only that, the Good and Wonderful Dr. Edinsmaier had driven out of the probable vicinity of Jesse’s disappearance two more of my children displacing them even further away than they already had been from their missing brother –– and all of this evil just to be able … to come after me. I turned to go to the telephone which appeared in a nook past the grand piano, black of course, itself alone constituting most of what were the living room furnishings besides our carcasses. Seeing this direction of mine, again P.M. Flunk darted over to the corner as well and stuck his fakey, little power façade – like veneer between the telephone and me, lifting up its receiver himself. He swung it and the coil wide away from the cradle, frowned and pursed his lips at me because, assuming he was going to, I asked, “O, are you calling the police then, P.M.? I know the number,” which, of course, I did –– “239.5133.” Any mother does; we memorize the doctor’s, the emergency room’s, the cops’, the fire department’s. What can I say? I knew it stone – cold so I dictated it to him. He turned around, his dialing finger halted at pressing the digits; he soooo did not want to, I could tell. “If you don’t, P.M., then I shall. Call them and tell them to send someone over to 6143 Havencourt and to do it right now.” P.M.’s nonverbal demeanor even Mirzah and Zane couldn’t miss. I thought, “Fuck him.” Before heading to Havencourt, I motioned Zane aside and whispered to him, “Do you know where he’s taking all of you?” “Ah, no, we don’t know. We just found out today when he came to the school. I think Jesse’s bolted, Mom. I haven’t seen him since this morning. Herry came to the school at noon. Jesse must’ve seen him coming down the hall or something.” Dr. Edinsmaier insisted, from the immediate moments of all of their birthings, that all three Boys only ever call him Herry –– never Daddy, Dad, Pa, Poppy, Pops or even the formal Father. Never. He taught them well; all three of the Boys only ever did call him Herry, too. Herry, their arrested 17 – year – old, older Joy Toy Boy ‘brother’ who, through his violence of passive – aggression and abusive collusion with ‘the courts,’ lied and bullied just whenever the frickin’ hell he felt like it and was, now with the help of these same two Quaker “elders,” gutting the goddamn bitch –– again. Mirzah finished, “Only thing we know, Mom, is that it’s tomorrow morning. We leave tomorrow morning.”
O, m’god! O, m’god!” “Uh – uh,” it was Mirzah, only a month past 12 years of age, just searching my face with his. “Okay. Okay. I’m thinking here. I’m thinking. I’m going over to Havencourt and do that thing, the obligatory search thing over there. With the Ames cops. Obliged to. Got to. László’ll meet me there. I’ll tell ya’ all why later. Then, … then I’m telephoning the Urbandale police myself if Herry won’t. I know their number, too. I’ll call them from there, from Havencourt. I won’t be back. O, m’god! This is it then. I won’t see you two again. O, m’god! Do you think Washington State or not? West or east? South to where was it you thought he once went off to down there? Ya’ know, one time to go work somewhere down there, Biloxi? No, not Biloxi. Where the heck was that?! O, m’god.” We were hugging and hugging and hugging. I completely ignored the two others, the Flunks. Herry was already gone anyhow. “I’ll find you. I will find you. I. Will. Find. You. I love you, Mirzah.. I love you, Zane. O, m’god. And I’ll find Jesse, too. Tell him I love him.” Kiss. Kiss. Arms undone. I was gone. Herry’s manner in and management of his public rage appeared similar to Dr. Lionel Portia’s everyday face, the one Grace’s spouse used for all of Lionel’s feelings, anger or joy, … pretty much deadpan. As much as Herry loathed true work, he truly worked very carefully at concealing from the general populace and, in particular, its upper crust … the Edinsmaier rage. Often, even most often, he buried it, appearing placid and unruffled for months that sometimes lasted a year or longer; but when the rage was just beneath the surface as it was this evening, Herry took extra charge and effort to put on the outward countenance of calm and correctness and the presentation of “the one who is not only in the know but since he is, since he does know, then he is the one, therefore, next doing the correct and right thing.” This fairly much describes passive aggression in a folie à deux, this immediate folie then –– Highfalutin Herry with the high – flown Flunks. The phrase also fits what Herod Edinsmaier provokes in rational people. His actions as a passive aggressor are provocation, and he so manipulated them, as did Mehitable, to whatever resultant outcome he desired. But a reasonable response from ordinary folks to the consequential upshots of passive aggression is one of frustration or disgust often to the point of us others expressing, in no calm way whatsoever, our aversion, our disgust, our anger and our disappointment. Hell, Herry’s aggression costs us others time, money, work, lots and lots and lots of extra, initially unneeded work that now becomes necessary, pain, huge disappointments, huge, often separation and incredible isolation as was to be the end result of the news this evening that all of my Boys, not just Jesse, would so very soon go completely missing from me. It is no wonder at all that the rest of us, dealt this shit and forced this fuck, act after its display and implementation from persons such as Dr. Edinsmaier the way that we do. Only one gargantuan problem there is with us recipients and our reactions: we others are the ones who outwardly look to the cops, to the SpaChezResort Hotel Six Floor health care providers, to the judges, to the sheriffs, to the attorneys, to the child psychologists, to the custody evaluators, to the social workers, to the children’s services’ counselors, we others look like the aggressor because we do get angry. And we show it! Herry’s calculated violence in his application of passive aggression was, however, of historic proportions. And when coupled with the vacuous, wooden demeanor on his face to the outside onlooker, nearly impossible to read if an untrained observer. I, on the other hand? I had lived this. With Herry I had lived this mother – fucking every single day for the 12½ years of legalized mawwiage to the thug and, ever more escalatingly, all of the days since the divorce decree became official midweek on 24 May 1989! Herry was so predictable to me by now. I didn’t need to read his face; I just knew what he would probably, most likely try to get away with next. Hence, why the very real need for me to not only be present at the search of my very own home, one done |