THE LAST OF THE DEMINGS

 Thanks again Jamie Black, OT, for showing me two ways of POSTING a note. ONE is to RIGHT CLICK on the HIGHLIGHTED TEXT, and select COPY, and the other way is to do CONTROL C, and then CONTROL V to paste.

THE LAST OF THE DEMINGS

As I was falling asleep last night, a sad thought crossed my mind. My CPAP machine was pumping away - it's supposed to keep my brain in tip-top shape - but I could have sworn that tears were dripping out. 

 

I had married a good man, Mike Deming, after knowing him a full three months. A Texan, he was so different than me. Too different. The man himself was brilliant. The son of a polyester-wearing farm girl who put herself through grad school, with silver teeth who had married - and divorced - a brilliant drunk who ended up drinking himself to death. 

 

But this has nothing to do with the man himself. He came into the resort town of New Hope on the Delaware River and before our marriage we toured around in his three-speed green Falcon, both of us learning the beauties of this area. And, Mike taught me how to drive a three-speed. Since I had no interest in Dale Earnhardt or other racing drivers, I did it all for love. 

 

We would lie beneath vast blue skies - where did they end? - and free-associate. "Feelings" or "emotions" were off-limits, though once I learned that when he was a paper-boy he nearly killed a cat when aiming the Houston paper the cat's way.

 

Jeez! My husband actually had feelings.

 

In the five years of our marriage, I met nearly every person in his family, including his father. I had never met a drunkard before, but had only seen them in the movies.

 

When he visited us, Mr. Joseph Deming - the son of a man who wrote "the" textbook" on "water" - stayed in our spare bedroom. He lined up cases of beer bottles against the wall and drank from morning until night.

 

How fascinating! But he would sing silly songs. And visit Romeo's bar during the day and drive across the Delaware River to visit his former wife, Betty, who would not let him in.

 

Mike Deming, my former husband, became an embarrassment. Wherever we visited, all he would do was talk about himself. A narcissist, I supposed. I was now studying psychology at Temple University in downtown Philadelphia. And was meeting nice, normal people. 

 

We had zero money, so I divorced him through "Legal Aid." But you can believe I have never forgotten the man. Pictures? Piercing blue eyes. And our children? Two beauties. I don't think it was Mike's fault he was a misogynist - little Sarah recognized this when she got older - though young Daniel always liked his dad.

 

Rather quickly, Dad remarried. A woman named "Donna" he met at the office. Dad, or Mike, had become a city planner, and had a very responsible job he never shirked. He was instrumental in designing a memorial to the Unibomber, who went through a long terrorist killing spree.

 

Why had I been left out of the will? 

 

Mike gained weight and could barely stand up straight. Who would think this would be the death of him?

 

His new wife Donna was shattered. She was as sweet as a southern magnolia. I actually attended the funeral in Ardmore, Oklahoma. When I bent over his taffefta-lined coffin, Millard spoke to me. In whispers. What he said I can no longer remember.

 

We made peace with one another, and I rarely think about the man.

 

Donna Deming, whom I liked very much, got cancer. She had stayed here in my house when Mike had come up for a conference. 

 

He left her in his will, along with his son Dan and his daughter Sarah. He named his dog "Danny."

 

Don't tell me that truth is stranger than fiction. I aim to live a long time. At 78 now, I tell my neighbor, Nancy, across the street, that I intend on living until 98, a nice round number. Nancy, herself, took a terrible fall but is served by aides from Holy Redeemer Hospital. 

 

If my husband were still alive, he could tell me if my "78" is a prime number or anything extraordinary. 

 

I did find out that his password was "5807," the tail end of our phone number. 

 

His wife died childless. 

 

I of course have two children and two grandchildren. 

 

Could life be any better? 

 

Yes. I have lost my meaning in life.