Watching men watch Talia was often amusing. Of course they knew she
was young but they really had no idea. Nothing about her spoke nine,
not her five foot one stature, not her hip length blonde hair, not
her smoothly rounded hips, absolutely nothing. One of my greatest
delights was observing their reactions when breaking this news to
them. Some of them stuttered, most of them blushed, and nearly all
squirmed. Only an occasional few contested the furtiveness of their
glance and it was only those few who unnerved me. The others were
just being men.
Talia you see is my daughter. Her father … ‘what was his name
again?’ … disappeared before her first birthday. While he was a
big good looking guy, it was no great loss. We’d never married.
Hell, we’d hardly dated. He’d been a casual friend of my deadbeat
cousin who thought he’d do me this big favor by referring my first
divorce client. As it turned out, my ‘just having passed the bar’
inexperience was of far less consequence to him than my affordability.
In a way, his near insolvency was a blessing in disguise. Even if
I messed up the whole thing, he had nothing to lose. Actually, all I
got out of the case was a deposit which ironically turned out to be
Talia.
Talia in many ways is far more than just my daughter. She is also
pretty much my life partner as well as my best friend. I’ve never
cared particularly for children and she’s never particularly cared to
be one. It is a most fortunate relationship for both of us. It’s
not for everyone however. If you live in debbi-land (Debbie Reynolds,
Debbie Fields, Debbie Gibson, debutantes, yadda, yadda, yadda), you
may well find our candor putoff-ish. Proceed with due caution.
It is my belief that the badge of single mom is often solicitous bait
for comfort and sympathy. I don’t look at it that way at all. I’ll
take one dedicated parent over two distracted ones any day of the
week. I was raised by a single mom and have always been made to feel
special. There was no convoluted parental entanglements to digest
and frankly, it’s the only model I know. Besides, I’m far luckier
than my mom was. Talia and I have her as wonderful support. Mom and
I had nobody.
Talia’s earliest playpen was the space beneath my desk. Until the
time that she was two, she came to the office with me daily. There
were times when she’d get irritable and fuss but almost never when a
client was there or a meeting was under way. It was as if she knew
the rules. For the most part, the privacy of my office allowed for
nursing and playfulness no less intimate than that enjoyed by a stay-
at-home mother. And with people always in and out of the office, the
situation demanded that Talia develop socialization skills at an
unusually early age. While mommy was still her first word,
conference and litigation weren’t far behind.
One Saturday afternoon, when Talia was just past two, the phone rang
and it was my mom calling from Charleston. The department store
where she’d been a women’s wear buyer ever since I was a child was
being closed. Even through her obvious hurt and disappointment, her
toughness showed through. She grabbed this as an opportunity to spend
some time with her granddaughter before looking for a new job and, to
my delight, suggested a month long visit. I could hardly wait.
With my practice beginning to thrive, I had already toyed with the
idea of inviting her to join us in Atlanta on either a temporary or
permanent basis, but had felt reluctant to do so what with her
commitment to her job. With that bond now broken, I actively
entertained the possibility that a three person household might
become a long-term reality. Mom arrived the next Tuesday for what
she called a temporary visit and eight years later she’s still with
us. Without a mention of job hunting in the past five years, you
could say it’s beginning to look permanent. Besides, there is no way
we could live without her. Every working woman needs a wife.
While I had never thought of myself as particularly encumbered by
Talia, mom’s presence really freed me up. Traveling assignments
which I’d been reluctant to take in the past I now accepted. Talia
and mom were quite complete without me which thrilled me no end.
Really! New neighbors took them to be mother and daughter and me
maybe a visiting aunt. This will tell you much about the shape that
mom kept herself in as she flirted with fifty.
The first few months, mom incessantly talked about needing to find a
job but what with her caring for Talia and dinner on the table every
evening I wasn’t about to encourage her. Our evenings, particularly
those during the onset of the warm weather, were becoming something
very special. I’d get home just after six and she’d already have a
pitcher of chilled Margaritas or mint juleps waiting on the verandah.
Three year old Talia would, of course, enjoy the Shirley Temple
equivalent but even then would share the same glassware. Over
mellowing drinks and a few relaxing cigarettes, we’d share our day
and Talia, even then, was more likely to sit quietly and listen to us
than to go off and play on her own.
Talia’s ability to follow our conversations, as well as a curiosity
that led her to often interrupt with unusually astute questions,
turned our thoughts early to home schooling. Mom was as anxious to
do so as I was which was good because no small amount of the burden
would fall upon her shoulders. There was no question in my mind that
we would do a vastly superior job than our ever deteriorating public
school system.
There also seemed to be absolutely no reason for us to wait until
Talia reached five or six to begin. She’d never be more ready than
this moment. Over the remainder of that summer, mom undertook
researching the requirements and intricacies of home schooling. Even
though they wouldn’t directly apply until Talia reached school age,
we wanted to proceed impeccably. In September, yet two years too
young for Kindergarten, Talia’s formal education began.
The first year core curriculum was essentially reading intensive with
occasional sojourns into simple arithmetic. We augmented the
academics with some more conventionally pleasurable activities like
finger paints, clay, and nature walks. Interestingly, it was we who
enjoyed the diversions and Talia who concentrated most passionately
on mastering the reading basics. That spring, just shy of her fourth
birthday, she was enthusiastically reading Dr. Zuess to us. Yes, we
were quite amazed.
By the fall two years later when her peers were entering first grade,
Talia was deeply into studying the fallen native cultures of the
Americas and was learning to deal with fractions. She was no
stranger to the library where Willa Cather was fast becoming her
favorite author. And at the Science Museum, looking so mature and
professional in her standard but undersized uniform, she was the
youngest docent by fifteen years for the Indian artifacts exhibit.
Only in the realm of sports did she languish and admittedly no more
so than mom and I. One remnant of southern posterity selectively
preserved was our antipathy for exhaustive physical activity. Any
rationale for avoiding perspiration was appropriate rationale.
That fall and winter much of the educational burden fell upon mom.
In that we both thought of it mostly as a privilege, I seriously
missed my participation. I was working on a case in Dallas and what
with discovery and all, much of my time needed to be spent there.
I’d get home only on weekends and seeing Talia from that more
infrequent vantage point, her progress was even more apparent.
The most serious problem that my absence created was that Talia was
already testing mom’s math and science limits. I did what I could
over the phone for an hour each night but it just wasn’t the same. I
began finding myself cursing my bloody travel schedule but figured
that it would be necessary for yet another year or two. And then the
phone call came. Directly from DC. “Would I be interested in
joining the administration’s private litigation team?” the recruiter
asked.
Our arrival was amid the last of the lingering cherry blossoms. The
Atlanta market had been good to me, our home appreciating
sufficiently for a modest Chevy Chase residence to not be out of the
question. Our new house wasn’t a carbon copy of the one we’d left
but on the other hand there’s no question that it was kin. Our new
verandah however was the biggest plus. It’s view from just a block
off the lake significantly outclassed the ocean of peach trees we’d
overlooked before. Watching from a distance the early season sailors
every evening, I even gave thought to taking lessons. One day
however, when we walked down to the lake and I was able to take a
good hard look at the actual exertion required, its physical demands
brought me back to my good senses. It didn’t dampen my enthusiasm
for the sailors though.
Fortunately, this new verandah was entirely enclosed. Unlike Atlanta,
it otherwise would have been unusable well into May. Somewhat
surprisingly, as promised, my White House assignment actually
returned my schedule to sanity and this near idyllic setting could be
enjoyed almost every evening. Sitting well above the street, we
could unobtrusively watch passerbys when lake activity didn’t capture
our attention. All and all, a great nightly hangout for the three of
us.
One night a few weeks after we’d settle in, probably late May, I’d
taken off from work a bit early and we’d gone out for a quick bite at
a little seafood restaurant. Mom needed an occasional break from the
kitchen after all. Like so many other places over the past few years,
the city council had recently passed a no-smoking ordinance for all
public places. Those most affected, the business owners association,
of course had little voice in the matter but many averted the problem
at least for the season with outdoor seating. All else being equal,
as the thermometer cuddled ninety, I would have opted for the more
gentile air conditioned indoors but with the ordinance, all things
were not equal. We cheerfully endured this unusually early summer
heat by reasoning that at least we were still without the
accompanying mugginess.
Home still well before sunset, I looked very much forward to some
extended verandah time chatting with mom and reviewing Talia’s
lessons. For us, there was no clear demarcation between work and
play. Everything was approached with equal enthusiasm. Talia and
I staked claim to two of the wrought iron rockers and spread her work
out all over the table. Meanwhile mom served as mixologist.
With routine promptness, we had already corrected her elementary
algebra problems by the time mom returned. Tonight’s seasonal fare
was Strawberry Daiquiris and which I mouthwateringly ogled. Pouring
ours from the large pitcher and Talia’s from a smaller one, we
toasted each other, our new home, and this marvelous evening. Though
seldom maudlin by nature, I will admit to a rush of sincere
gratefulness and even a touch of emotion. Mom’s mistiness was less
well camouflaged. We felt very wonderfully blessed.
The academic concentration momentarily broken, I watched mom light a
cigarette then pavlovianly reached for my purse to get mine. Years
ago, when I first began smoking, I would have just taken one of her
Salems. I guess that goes without saying since taking her Salems is
exactly how I started smoking. Somewhere along the line however, I’d
lost my taste for menthols.
I pulled out my Marlboro 100’s and fished what was unexpectedly the
last cigarette out of the softpack. Quickly flicking my lighter, I
took a series of puffs while wadding up the empty pack with my one
hand and perusing my purse for a fresh pack with my other. Cleanly
sinking the wadded pack into the waste paper basket from about ten
feet away … my single most outstanding athletic talent … I
eventually removed my dangling cigarette with my right hand, taking
yet another lung soothing drag, while still rummaging fruitlessly
through my purse with my left.
My annoyance was superficial but for some reason sufficient for Talia
to take notice. She looked at me with some concern and said very
reassuringly “Don’t worry mom, I’m sure you’ve got more in the
cupboard. You always do … or even if you don’t, I’m sure grandma
won’t mind giving you one, would you grandma?” And then rising, she
finished with “Here, I’ll go check for you.” With that, she was gone.
In just moments she returned, handing me a pack of my Marlboro’s
which she had already begun to strip open for me.
Until that moment it had never occurred to me what a non-topic
smoking had been in our household. I smoked, grandma smoked, and not
much was ever said. Unpolluted by classroom moralism, Talia had
never been programmed with what a bad thing smoking was. She’d
simply accepted it without comment. This was the first time that
she’d ever so much as even indicated that she recognized our
individual brands and her adroitness at opening up my pack was also
quite a surprise. More testimony to her powers of observation I
concluded. None-the-less, questions I presumed were certain to be
soon percolating. And it didn’t take long.
“Mom why do you and grandma smoke different brands?” she inquired
almost immediately as I rapped a cigarette out of the pack. “Are
they different flavors or something? I think grandma’s package is a
lot nicer than yours and her cigarettes aren’t nearly as smelly as
yours either. I think I’ll probably smoke her brand when I grow up.”
And before I could respond she continued “How old do I have to be
before I can start anyway? How old were you when you started?”
This was a conversation that I neither welcomed nor dreaded. I
simply was caught off guard. I just didn’t expect it from a seven
year old. Rather than having her continue to pellet me with more
questions though, I grabbed for the reins. Looking for a good place
to start, “I was at least ten or eleven before I started asking such
questions, wasn’t I?” I muttered in mom’s general direction and she
nodded agreement with a mischievous smile.
“Yes dear” she responded. “You were about eleven as I recall when
you first started asking me questions about smoking and why I did it,
but you maligned me for it at a much earlier age. The PC police got
to you early on and you did your best to lecture me. That was about
the time that television advertising ended and all those horrible
anti-smoking spots were being aired. I never fought back. I just
smiled and said let’s talk again when you’re a little older. And we
did.” she reiterated never foregoing that cheshire grin.
Only infrequently did we edit a conversation that we were having in
front of Talia but for a moment I considered doing so. It was
obvious that my smoking initiation was about to be on the table and I
was struggling with the appropriateness of that. My first thought
was “Would it send the wrong message?” but that was quickly pre-
empted by the recognition that my real reservation was the
possibility of suffering some personal embarrassment. With that
flimsiness, my hesitation evaporated along with thoughts of tabling
the topic.
“Those are some tough questions, Tally”, I finally responded. “I’ll
give you the best answers I can and maybe grandma can chime in too.
Much of what I’m about to tell you are the same things she said to me
nearly twenty years ago. The right answer as to when will you be old
enough to start smoking is never. It smells, it puts off many people,
and it’s pretty certain to damage your health. And what’s more,
when you start you won’t even care for it much. You won’t like the
taste. So there’s the right answer. Just say no.” She just
continued to stare at me expectantly. She recognized a half answer
when she heard one.
And she was right. Incapable of ending with a Nancy Reagan platitude,
I continued “If, on the other hand, you at some time decide that you
do want to smoke, this is what you have to look forward to. Even
though you won’t realize what’s happening, you’ll probably get hooked
in a matter of weeks. I know I did. Then smoking will begin to rule
your life. It will have a lot to say about the places that you go
and the people that you hang with. Two hours at a movie will seem
uncomfortable without a cigarette and a five hour flight, a living
hell. You’ll be perpetually short of breath and will hate yourself
when you have a head cold and still smoke anyway. You’ll frequently
suggest that you’re about to quit but you’ll only be fooling yourself.
There will always be a reason to postpone that decision. Ten extra
pounds. A crisis at work. Something. Anything.” I added with
inflection.
Talia retorted with “Are you saying that you couldn’t quit smoking
right now if you wanted to or that you don’t want to quit? I’m
confused.”
“That’s your toughest question yet. I can’t really answer it. Every
time I think about quitting I get very upset. I always tell myself
that I’m not ready to quit but honestly I’m not sure whether that
means that I really don’t want to quit or that I’m afraid I won’t be
able to and I’m embarrassed to admit it … even to myself. Right
here, tonight, quitting is the furthest thing from my mind. Sitting
out on the verandah, especially with another smoker, I really do
enjoy smoking. If I had to sit here and watch grandma smoke, I’m
certain that I’d miss it. I don’t even know if I could handle it.
How about you mom? Can you answer her questions?”
“No better than you did” she replied. “I’m sure all smokers go
through those varying feelings. The worst I think is to be really
upset with your smoking and at the same time feel like there’s
nothing that you can do about it. I resolved a long time ago that
whether it’s pleasure or whether it’s habit, I’m not interested in
quitting. Therefore I simply don’t spend much time beating myself up
about it.” And in typical mom fashion, exclamatorily she
theatrically lit a fresh cigarette.
“Talia” I said “were you asking me how I started? Is that what you
want to know?”
“Sorta. Ya, I guess I’d like to know.” she replied. “It’s difficult
for me to understand how you can tell me that smoking would be so bad
for me when you both sit here and have one cigarette after another
all night long. And you guys aren’t sick or dying. I don’t quite
get it. Maybe knowing how you started might help me understand.
What do you think?”
Noticing that little smile crawling back onto mom’s face, I continued.
“Okay. It’s a fair request. Here goes. As you just heard I was
about eleven when I started becoming curious about smoking. A few
girls that I knew were now smoking sometimes and when they did it, it
didn’t seem nearly as nasty and offensive as grandma’s smoking.
Actually it looked kind of cool. Looking back, I guess the simple
fact that I was beginning to ask questions probably indicated some
serious interest on my part.
I tried to maintain my earlier negativity with grandma so that she
wouldn’t suspect that my attitude was changing. And almost
immediately after I began asking her about her smoking, I began to
experiment. She always worked late on Mondays and Wednesdays so I
began lifting a cigarette from her pack on the previous evenings.
There was always at least one open pack sitting around the house
somewhere. I’d get home from school that spring, the last few months
of sixth grade to be specific, about three o’clock so there was lots
of time to air out the house before mom got home. With her a smoker
that actually wasn’t a very big problem.
For the first several weeks I didn’t do a lot more than light the
cigarette and pose in front of the mirror. I’d take a few puffs but
the taste didn’t thrill me and I looked pretty stupid trying to blow
out the smoke. Every once in a while I’d suck a little smoke down
into my lungs … sometimes intentionally, more often by accident …
and more than likely then start to cough. When I was with mom I
began to watch her smoke more carefully and it was evident that she
sucked in a whole lot of smoke, did so without choking at all, and
then exhaled out arrows just like your breath on a cold winter day.
I found that wondrous and it set a clear objective for me.
So then a few weeks have pass and I’m still dashing home to my tiny
stash twice a week. Still in front of the mirror, having gone to
school on mom, I begin to consciously try to inhale. I surmised
correctly that very small puffs are the way to start and quickly I’m
rewarded. Not only do I now actually inhale a little smoke, I can
now do it without choking very much. Even more impressive is that my
exhales are no longer shapeless. The spurty clouds are being
replaced with firm little cream darts. And within a couple more
weeks, no longer even so little. I was smoking solely because it was
fun. I honestly have no idea whether I was beginning to enjoy the
taste or even thought about it.
This is all so exciting that the twice a week regimen is now way too
infrequent. There was absolutely no problem hiding a couple now for
mom’s late nights and maybe one for each other day as well. She
smoked maybe a pack and a half a day (a fact that she’d recently
shared with me) so a couple a day would never be missed. And timing
was no problem. Even on her early days mom didn’t get home until
around six and that was plenty of cushion if I was home by three.
Maybe three months after my first puff, I’d already become a daily,
tea time smoker. And what was best was that nobody else knew. In
good time they would but for the moment this was my own private
little time and afternoon secret.
I must have turned twelve about that time because school had just let
out. Mom had agreed for the first time to let me stay at home by
myself that summer and I was pretty hyped. I had a bunch of
activities planned and friends to hang out with but now I had even
one more reason to celebrate my emancipation. Early on I determined
that even at her pack and a half a day rate, anything more than two
or maybe three cigarettes at a time might be detectable so that
became my daily fix.
Gearing my day to hers, each morning I would get up early to have
breakfast with her. Her ritual included a cup of coffee and a
cigarette and I began finding a morning cup of coffee enjoyable as
well but not nearly so enjoyable as my second one. As soon as I
could be sure that she was safely out of the house, I would pour
another cup of coffee and head for the bathroom to have my first
cigarette of the day. I’d bring in a chair and place a board over
the sink to create my own little table. The other one or two
cigarettes I would smoke at least three hours before her return
without nearly so much fanfare.
This pattern worked superbly with but a single problem. Some days
she didn’t work. While at first it didn’t upset me to just skip
those days, that became progressively more bothersome. By late
summer I was routinely manufacturing little walks for relief. In
these instances of some need, for the first time, I was finding
myself more smoking than playing with the cigarette. I didn’t think
of it as a habit or an addiction. The way I looked at it, I was just
getting to more and more enjoy smoking and I just really wanted to
have a cigarette. Now the taste was something I looked forward to.
Little did I understand that the cravings were just beginning to own
me.
Seventh grade offered the perfect opportunity to come out of the
closet but I chose not to. Mostly I didn’t because I wasn’t
particularly interested in the kids who openly smoked and I was
somewhat concerned about what my close friends would say. Smoking
however did remain my number one after school activity. My friends
found it kind of weird that suddenly getting home was so important
but I always credited it to a lot of homework. Only on those days
that mom worked late would I hang out with them because I knew I
still had ample opportunity to smoke provided I wasn’t too late. And
of course I never was.
With mom continuing to be my sole albeit unwitting (I thought)
supplier, my smoking was tightly controlled. There was many an
afternoon when I’d only stashed one or two where I would have been
very grateful for a couple more but I always made due. Shortly after
Christmas though, on a day following an evening where mom had
actually had the audacity to run out of cigarettes right at bedtime
leaving me empty handed, need overpowered caution and I sought out my
own supply.
Not far from school there was a little hamburger joint which,
ditching my friends, I made a bee line for. Adjacent to the
restrooms were a couple of phones and a cigarette machine. I was
neither the first nor the last to figure out that by feigning a phone
call and quietly dropping in four quarters, you could snatch a pack
of cigarettes unnoticed. In a rush and nervous as all hell, I pulled
out the lever of the first green pack I saw and stuffed a pack of
what proved to be Benson and Hedges snugly down the front of my jeans.
Calmly returning to the counter, I chugged down my Coke and made a
quick exit, the smooth cellophane locked caressingly against my skin.
Breathless, I arrived home. This was the first pack of my very own
and I stared at them in awe. It was minutes before I even opened
them and I did that also in a very reverential way. Now back in my
accustom bathroom setting I struck a match, lit up, and inhaled, a
three step process that was rapidly becoming a single motion. And
for the first time I suddenly realized that smoke actually had a
distinct taste associated with it because these tasted very different
than mom’s Salem Lights. Not better. Not worse. Probably stronger.
But certainly different.
Now possessing what seemed like an infinite supply and several more
hours until mom’s return, I settled in for a more extended stay than
usual. I chained smoked three cigarettes in maybe half an hour.
With each puff, I began to decide that maybe I preferred these to
mom’s. I’m sure the fact that they were mine didn’t enter into it at
all. By the time mom arrived home, I’d upped the ante to five
cigarettes and was feeling just a tiny bit queasy. This was most
nicotine than my body had ever experienced in a day and I could feel
the effect.
Over the next six months I suppose I averaged about one trip a week
to one cigarette machine or another and I never got caught. Along
with a couple a day from mom, I guess five cigarettes a day was now
more like the average than an exception. Weekends were no longer a
matter of choice. I needed to find cause to leave the house two or
three times a day. While I had a very private place to hide out, it
increasingly seemed like a pain and I really hated being sneaky. I
decided that it was about time to tell mom the truth and face the
music. She wasn’t going to like it on the other hand I didn’t think
that she was likely to toss me out or anything either. While not
exactly sure how I would do it, I resolved to talk to her the first
thing next month right after school would be out.
My birthday fell on Memorial day weekend that year and mom and I had
planned our usual getaway. While I’d always looked forward to our
little trips in the past, smoking threatened to complicate this one.
Not wanting to risk the possibility that she might go postal though,
I was reluctant to tell her now and ruin the weekend. I decided to
just be uncomfortable if that’s what it took and break it to her the
next weekend. I kept telling myself that going cold turkey for three
days wouldn’t be any problem. I must have known better.”